Choirboy...

My grandfather bought this statue on one of the many junkets he and Grandma took to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. He said it reminded him of me. I had grown up singing in a prominent Episcopal choir of men and boys that emulated that English tradition. Ten years, from age 7 to 17, three nights a week and Sunday services. I paid my dues. Grandpa liked that.

The problem, for me, was that when I was 18, I looked 15. Skinny, blond, and pink cheeked. I hated the whole choirboy image. In sixth grade, while casting for a play, I wanted to be John Raitt, Bonnie’s dad, as he had been in the Broadway production of Carousel. He was barker Billy Bigelow, a tough guy who always wore a tight black turtleneck that showed off his muscles. My own turtleneck only held a scrawny little blond kid who couldn’t scare a Chihuahua.

So when Grandpa gave me this statue, it represented everything I was trying my best to outgrow, even though as a present from him, it was huge.

I immediately stashed it in my parents’ house for about ten years. 

Then, softening to the image, I replaced the cross with a sword and made space for it in my bachelor pad. This guy stood on a wooden table beneath the undulating orange parachute that draped down and across the ceiling of my bedroom. Holding his sword at the ready, the choirboy became my own wooden Indian and hat rack, subjected to the humiliations of inappropriate head wear, eye-wear and even the underwear of a cute guest or two if I got lucky.

Sometimes he would lay down his sword and hold a perfectly rolled joint. A good boy gone bad.

Perfect, we were starting to make some headway.

Yesterday I was looking at him, just the two of us alone in the room. We talked, reminiscing about how we met over 50 years ago, his childhood in San Miguel and what a long strange trip it’s been.

No one thinks I look younger than my age anymore. He is unchanged, that bastard. These days I have no problem with being reminded of my choirboy years, nor with being compared to this guy. We’re buddies now.

Sometimes we really do change the way we feel about things.

Everything changes, Well, almost everything.

Memories of the way my mother made eggplant casserole back in the day is set in stone though. It would still be every bit as disgusting today as it was way back then.

Home...

Escaping the labyrinth, looming monoliths of steel and glass, thousands jockey for position in a crowded pack, all horses blowing with monoxide flatulence. Windows closed tight, the sound of fans recycling canned air, unheard over megawatt sound systems inside the bubble. Commuters flee the city, girded tight in battle garb. A colorful noose hanging loose, my exit finally loomed ahead like freedom calling, inviting me down the  last paved road home.

Sharp right turn off worn asphalt onto a narrow dirt lane, mostly hidden by a late summer explosion of uncut green and brown. Eager wheels kicking loose stones, a tree-high cloud of dust rolling and tumbling in my rear view, Mark Knopfler and I, both cranked up, singing/shouting about MTV and color TVs.

Finally, just ahead, a rural mailbox, peeking out above tall weeds, marking the serpentine driveway that ends in my front yard. A private oasis. Turning in slowly, a sports car not designed for that rutted path, sweat soaked horses heading back to the barn. Cutting the engine, ears begin to quickly acclimate to remote woods, only the popping sounds of the cooling engine to remind me of our race to the finish.

Ruth knew when I was only moments away, Ohio the Wonder dog told her. In our country setting, that good dog barked out a profile of any vehicle coming down the road, her pitch dictating friend or foe. God help the UPS man and the meter reader. Ruthie expected me to pull in when I did, and had started running from the door of the old frame house. For some reason, I thought of the label in her cheap blue jacket that promised “As Warm as a Collie’s Fur”. An odd boast, it seemed. Lowering the front windows, a dust cloud kicked up by my sudden stop holding its shape, shifted ghost-like into the trees, hiding from sight behind the ruins of the old barn.

Like a pearl diver breaking the surface, I sucked in large gulps of air, a cedar scented breath of freedom flowing in through open windows. Ruth’s blue coat, an approaching blur, long blond hair flapping horizontal in the wind behind her. Cool Fall breezes flushed out the stale, recirculated air, as she ran up to the passenger side, jabbering with excitement.

Leaning in, her attention turned briefly to a caterpillar, scraped unscathed from the lowering window, now feeling its way along the rubber track, unaware of the staring eyes of a little girl, a giant just inches away.

It’s OK, I thought, Ruth wouldn’t hurt a fly, or you. You can live here, Mr. Caterpillar.

Planting one brown laced wingtip on the ground, Ruth scurried around the car and jumped up into my arms, jabbering again. Ohio sniffed and danced at my feet. Emmylou was singing inside the century old wood house as crickets found their voice again, singing along with their courtship songs that had been so rudely interrupted by my arrival.

Carrying precious cargo, her blond hair fanning the side of my face, everything that mattered to me was inside that old frame house we were about to enter.

Home.

Christmas Stories!

Carla and I don’t do Christmas anymore, haven’t in many years. Not since the kids went off to go off on their own paths. We never did all that much in the way of commercial gift giving anyway, mostly treating the holiday as we do Thanksgiving, lots of good food. One family tradition demanded that I find a big lobster for us to share. After carefully removing the meat from the largest claw, I mounted bright red claws on the wall, just below the ceiling in our cabin house. A gift that kept on giving.

Some years we didn’t have a lot of money, but it never mattered. We knew that the stores full of stuff held little of value. Sure, we got the girls dolls and such, but mostly it was about the seasonal music, lots of special treats to eat, and a decorated tree that filled the house with the fresh evergreen scent that is the essence of Christmas.

The thing I miss the most though, was a handwritten story from Ruth. From the time she was first able to do so, I asked her to write me a story, about anything at all, just write. That's what I wanted. She thought she was getting away with something because she didn't have to buy me anything, all she had to do was write me a story. I still have most of them, stained and wrinkled pieces of lined and unlined paper, filled with color and imagination, starting out with a child’s scrawl...and ending here. I think this was the last one.

All of them were the best presents a Dad could get.st

Geezer MMA

Fight fan? Most of my closer friends know that I’m a huge MMA fan. I’ve never missed a big UFC event since that promotion first started in the early 1990’s. In general, the fighters, men and now women too, range in age from 20 to 40. Twenty is pretty young to be any good and forty is old for your body to be able to take it. But I want to bring a new element to the sport, something as big or bigger than when women became regular fighters, not just a novelty. I want to start MMA for seniors over 60. Hell, I’m 68, still work out pretty regularly, know and love MMA, and I should be able to fight some other old codger if I want to. People love to see old guys fight, right? There’s huge potential here for an entirely new division…geriatric grapplers, belligerent, cantankerous, and easily exhausted.

We’ll need a few new rules though. Like no punching to the head. That gives me headaches. No punches to the stomach either, I’ve got a hernia. No grappling on the ground, just getting down there and then back up is a bitch, not so easy without a chair or something to lean on. I mean, I swear a blue streak and need pain meds just to put on socks and shoes, so the idea of wrestling and going for submission holds that any decent ground game requires, just sounds too painful to deal with. Naturally we’ll need to change the time for each round just a bit. Instead of three, 5 minute rounds, I’m thinking we need to go to three rounds at 1.5 minutes each with ten minutes in between rounds and a built in pee break. Oxygen and funeral services should be available as needed.

Also, no jumping, or kicking. That shit causes serious spine problems. I would have to take a permanent room in my Chiropractor’s office.

But that pretty much covers it. You must be over 60 and ready to fight like a crazy man. But no kicking, jumping, strikes to the head or body, and no wrestling or ground work. OK?

This is going to be huge. I’m eager for my first fight, more like a caged tiger than just a man. My friends (trainers) and I strategize every morning at our gym, on the couch, next to the coffee machine. Collectively, we’re a frightening killing machine, and I’m their champion.

I just hope to get this fight over before my scheduled hip replacement in February.

Reading and Life Lessons in a Tabloid Gauntlet...

I was thinking about the clutter of cheap magazines and Hollywood tabloids that scream for attention when we stand in the checkout line of almost any grocery store, Walgreen's or Walmart. A wild gauntlet of absurdities.

I happened to be standing in such a line. Did you know that Al Gore is actually a woman?

Apparently Hillary Clinton is an alien, and every Hollywood star over the age of 50 is dying a horrible death. Each rag has the exclusive pictures. Although the publications themselves come and go, they take me back some 30 years when I was standing in that same line with a little blonde girl who was just learning how to read.

Carla home schooled Ruth, with my blessing, as long as an emphasis was put on reading and writing. To me, that's the key to anything else someone may want to do in this world. While Ruth was just starting to learn, she read the billboards, traffic signs, the names of businesses, anything and everything. She would sound them out bit by bit until the whole word popped out, accompanied by a joyful recognition and awe at her own growing ability.

But the checkout line was special for us. That's where we could pick up a National Enquirer, The Weekly World News, or whatever the trash magazines were that I no longer remember. “Dad, can we get the one about Bigfoot?” One of the tabloids always made it to the belt, a special treat. On the drive home, we both looked forward to the time that we would spend together after the groceries were put away...nesting in a big chair, or maybe soaking up the sunshine out on the lawn with Ohio the Wonder Dog rolling on her back nearby. Ruth would read to me from the National Enquirer, pausing as I helped to clarify words and meanings. Asking lots of questions in that funny, unfiltered dialect of a very young child. All those alien adventures, the Kangaroo that gave birth to a human baby, the people that were discovered living 1000 miles below the surface of the earth. We laughed and talked about the stories, her eyes wide with joy at her own discovery of what was and wasn’t real. She loved to bust the stories, like finding treasure, explaining to me why they were fiction and why they made no sense. 

Ruth learned a healthy skepticism early in life, to question everything and to decide for herself. The very same lesson my father had taught me 30 years prior when I was shocked to discover that an article in our local paper wasn’t the truth. Ruth learned that lesson well and she also learned to read.

For me? I knew then and remember clearly now, that there was no better way for me to spend my time on this earth, than cuddled up in a big overstuffed chair, reading, pointing, and laughing... with a little blonde girl who had a purple tongue and breath that smelled of Gummy Worms and Skittles...

Hitchhiker

Blazing blacktop road to the horizon, melting in the unapologetic sun, Flanked by soggy fields sprayed with chemicals for too many generations, all banned now and leeched into the local groundwater. Heading West on that burning sauna of a Florida afternoon, radio says it's 101 in the shade, although there is none of that in sight... just open fields of anemic cabbages raised too long sucking on a Monsanto teat, slowly killing the earth and themselves

Heat snakes undulate skyward, blurring the horizon, dancing in mirage pools that evaporate into the searing oven with my approach.

A shape on the side of the road ahead, at first fuzzy, unfocused, sharpens in flashes until I see him clearly. Dirty, stooped, dragging a piece of cheap airline luggage like an errant child, jumping and bucking, resisting with a broken wheel. His back to oncoming traffic, his left thumb turned slightly outward with my approach, barely visible. An appeal destined to fail, a question already answered by his hunched, defeated shuffle. He was heading the right way, walking hand in hand with a thousand miles of hopelessness, going toward a little farm town that no longer had anything left to offer, as sick and toxic as the water that ran through its veins.

Dustdevils nipped at his heels, pushing him to continue his shuffle down the road to nowhere.

Carla was 21, I was 30. We met at The Reston Times newspaper. She did the classifieds, I handled circulation. In about the time it takes to say “I do”, we did, in the living room of a local JP. We immediately moved to a funky little cabin deep in some very remote Ohio woods. Grad school was the justification but “getting to know you” was more like it. After a year without running water or indoor plumbing, we not so reluctantly left the outhouse behind and moved back to Reston, VA, our old stomping grounds. I needed to get busy, find work or lose my mind. Carla pushed me to interview with an air courier company that was moving its headquarters to Reston. That proved to be a crazy ride, ten years, from graveyard shift customer service, to VP and GM of a spin off in DC and one in NYC. 

Eastern shuttle back and forth.

But back to the couch. Ruth didn’t come along for five years, so four of those years were spent, just the two of us, in a one bedroom, ground floor apartment within walking distance of scenic Lake Anne and the place where we first met. 

Full circle. 1978 Sweet times for us.

As children do though, Ruth changed everything. All for the better. Carla discovered her reason for being and never looked back. It was her passion for Ruth, and then Hannah five years later, that was the impetus for her to quit her job, embrace those girls, and hold on tight 24-7 until they both went off on their own. Carla got rid of the TV and home schooled them, unschooled really. 

Countless hours were spent at the library, in a corner nook at the local Goodwill store and in a sticky red vinyl booth at Friendly’s Ice Cream Parlor. Ruth always ordered a big sundae that she didn’t eat while all three read to each other from a huge pile of books that they lugged from here to there.

I may have been the breadwinner in those days, but Carla was the real star. 

She showed those girls how to be the smart, strong, successful, independent women that they are today, just like Mom.

Octopus!

I realized that I was making approving grunts, like sex noises, as I ate this grilled octopus, alone. Carla is at work so it's just me and the dogs.

This cephalopod was on the agenda. He came cleaned and frozen from Hulls Seafood in Ormond Beach. They're just South of us by 45 miles, a spectacular drive, evocative of another time. Get off of 95 South at Old Dixie Highway. That takes you through Tomoka State Park, twenty miles of Florida jungle, palms, waterways, mangroves. The road is a tree tunnel through old oaks that reach across the road in an embrace, draped heavily with Spanish Moss, all hung by nature and the Gods. A shaded hollow through the trees with sunlight blasting through intermittently, stinging eyes as it breaks through the canopy. A million light bulbs flashing in your face as you drive. Then, quickly, you're out in coastal suburbia. Go to the light take a right. Hulls is on the right. They have a restaurant and a seafood market side by side. It's a family thing. They've been doing it for years, they catch it on their own boats and fix it for you in the restaurant or sell it in the store. All fresh and local, as it should be.

This octopus was five pounds, a frozen ball that cooks down to less than half that size. Caught live, immediately dispatched to octopus nirvana, cleaned and flash frozen. Six dollars. Great deal. I thaw it in the refrigerator for a day, rinse and cover with brine and herbs in a large pot. Let it rest for another day or two. Take it out, dry it off, slather it with olive oil and throw it on a hot grill for a few minutes, just to get the grill marks. By itself with only a sprinkle of salt & pepper or maybe sliced up on top of a fresh Greek Salad, it’s hard to beat.

It’s so damn delicious, easy and affordable…one of the many reasons we love living here in St Augustine…

George Madison Maverick

My Grandfather, George Madison Maverick, was born in 1893. That’s him on the bottom right, with the big ears. This picture was taken at Sunshine Ranch in San Antonio. No shirt, no shoes, no problem. Grandpa was one of 13. That’s his dad, seated on the left. He was the son of the more famous Samuel Augustus Maverick, who was an accomplished surveyor and attorney. Sam played a leading role in gaining Texas independence from Mexico and was a signer of the Texas Declaration of Independence.

Samuel Augustus Maverick was once paid a debt in cattle. Not being a rancher, he didn't brand them, so the local, unbranded cows that ran free became known as "Mavericks". That coined the term meaning "unconventional" or out-of-the-box".

The Mavericks have pretty much stuck with that behavior ever since.

His grandson, my Grandfather, outgrew his humble beginnings on the ranch, earning a doctorate in chemistry from MIT and becoming a VP in the Standard Oil company. By the time I knew him, Grandpa had retired from Standard Oil and was a professor in the school of business at the University of Virginia, living just outside Charlottesville on 325 acres of land that traced back some 200 years to our family roots there.

To me, Grandpa was funny and loving, often acting gruff to hide the strong emotion he felt for his family or for any underdog who needed a helping hand, including dogs themselves. His word was his bond and much like another George, that guy who became our first president, I don’t believe Grandpa George ever told a lie. A smart, balanced, accomplished, man, Grandpa, like Grandma, knew he wasn’t better than anyone else in this world, but he damn sure was just as good.

From around 1955 through 1970, I spent a lot of time at their place, “Shepherds Hill Farm”, in Charlottesville, Va. If Grandpa wasn’t in his den reading the Wall Street Journal, he was probably in his shop, working on one of the many chests, tables, and benches he produced toward the end of his life.

I own the large chest he carved for Grandma Ruth, to celebrate their Golden wedding anniversary. He was so happy when the shipment of that huge mahogany board arrived from South America, and worked on that chest incessantly throughout the  summer of 1971 while I was staying there. The high whine of his router ebbed and flowed in tandem with a million cicadas while he carved patterns into the wood. Dust Devils of smoke and sawdust swirled in spurts from his open shop doors. Stopping by several times a day, I prodded him: “What’s that going to be, Grandpa? What are you making?” With false intolerance for the familiar question, he would say: “You don’t ask Picasso what he’s painting, do you?” Finally, one afternoon when Grandma had taken the yellow Nash Rambler wagon into town to do some grocery shopping at the Safeway Store, Grandpa changed his answer to: “It’s my casket, dammit! I’ll be buried in it!” Apparently he had been telling Grandma the same thing. She always shut such talk down with: “Oh George, stop!” But now, with her taillights just a red speck down the road, Grandpa saw a photo opportunity. He had me help carry that big mahogany chest out into the sunlight and promptly stepped inside and sat down. Adjusting his straw Fedora, Grandpa he barked: “OK, take a picture. We’ll call it OLD MAN IN HIS BOX. But we have to hurry up before Grandma comes back.”

Now, almost fifty years later, that picture I took stares out at me from the open lid of Grandma’s box. It was her anniversary present after all, not his coffin.

The day before he died, the EMT guys wheeled him out to a waiting ambulance. Grandpa was wearing his straw Fedora and holding a neatly folded Wall Street Journal to his chest. The next day, I was alone with him in the mortuary, saying my last goodbyes. I wished him well on his journey, assured him that we would take good care of Grandma, and slipped a copy of the Wall Street Journal under his folded hands. I should have asked where the hell his Fedora was, but I didn’t. I guess it doesn’t matter. If Grandpa had been able to, he would have joked that the straw hat would burn up immediately where he was going anyway.

Although I don't believe in such things, if there is a place where the good guys go when they die, Grandpa will be front and center...shoe-less perhaps but definitely holding the Wall Street Journal and sporting a worn straw Fedora.

Heroes?

 

In our knee-jerk reaction to emotional incidents throughout our lives, perspective can easily be swept to one side. This seems to be especially true with police officers. A friend recently posted this meme, that labels Sargent Paul Tuozzolo a “hero”.  Sgt Tuozzolo was shot and killed in the line of duty by a bad guy in Bronx, New York on Friday. Certainly I feel terrible for his family, but this "hero" label is used pretty loosely, much the same way we call too many musicians and actors “superstars”.  Unlike a lot of people in the military, Sgt Tuozzolo wasn't drafted. He applied for the job and was well aware that it involved risks. High risks. It's the 15th most dangerous job in the USA, but Is anyone who dies on a job that they knew was dangerous a hero? Did he jump in front of a friend and take a bullet for them? Did he intentionally sacrifice his own life to save others?  Did he do something above and beyond the job he was hired to do? If so, yes, he is a hero. Otherwise, he is a sad casualty of a highly risky profession, a profession which he chose to be his life’s work.  

When a police officer gets killed in the line of duty, whole communities stop and pay their respects, as they should, often referring to the death as a “tragedy”. But aren’t all unintentional deaths a tragedy? Cops are #15 on the list of “Most Dangerous Jobs in the USA”. What about trash collectors in the #5 spot? When a trash man gets run over in the street, does the whole community mourn? Do they support a funeral procession of 100 garbage trucks, lights on and all intersections opened by police so there is a continuous flow of traffic to the cemetery? After all, the trash guy was serving the community in his job too.

Don’t get me wrong. In no way am I “anti-cop”, hey, I’m glad they are out there and my hat is off to them. No way would I want to do what they do, but then I don’t want to be a trash collector either. Both chose their respective professions. The electrical power-line workers who restored our service after Hurricane Matthew a few weeks ago are #9 on the list. They pulled long hours to get us going again. Are they heroes or were they just doing a job that they know is dangerous and may occasionally demand very long hours to get power restored after a natural disaster?

Ours is a coastal town with many locals who work in fishing related industries. That’s listed as the #2 most dangerous job. When does the accidental death of a local fisherman get anything more than the standard obituary on page 5?

If cops are heroes for doing their jobs, so is the trash guy and so is the fisherman. Right?  

All of these deaths are tragedies, all are heroes, no one any more than another, but that’s not how we treat them in our communities.

Why is that?

Most Dangerous Jobs of 2014
2014 RANK OCCUPATION FATAL INJURIES PER 100,000 PEOPLE TOTAL DEATHS
1 Logging workers 110.9 78
2 Fishers and related fishing workers 80.8 22
3 Aircraft pilots and flight engineers 64 82
4 Roofers 47.4 83
5 Refuse and recyclable material collectors 35.8 27
6 Farmers, ranchers, and other agricultural managers 26.7 270
7 Structural iron and steel workers 25.2 15
8 Driver/sales workers and truck drivers 24.7 880
9 Electrical power-line installers and repairers 19.2 25
10 Taxi drivers and chauffeurs 18 68
11 First-line supervisors of construction trades and extraction workers 17.9 130
12 Construction laborers 16.9 208
13 First-line supervisors of landscaping, lawn service, and grounds keeping workers 16.4 33
14 Maintenance and repairs workers, general 14.4 68
15 Police and sheriff's patrol officers 13.5 97
16 Grounds maintenance workers 13.1 158
17 First-line supervisors of mechanics, installers, and repairers 12.3 38
18 Painters, construction and maintenance 10.8 46
19 Electricians 10.4 79
20 Telecommunications line installers and repairers 10 19

Instagram Starz...

Hannah’s Instagram account just passed 161,000 followers, 60,000 of those are new this month. She and Pablo are experiencing remarkable growth; advertisers and sponsors are beginning to beat a path to their door.

“Social media is the intersection of tech and culture. Instagram happens to be the fastest growing social media site at the moment with over 400 million users.”

Now to put that into perspective, the most followed human on earth right now is Selena Gomez. Gomez is followed by 69.7 million people, which is more than the entire population of France. Right after her are people like Taylor Swift, Beyonce, Ariana Grande, and yes, Kim Kardashian.

Other pop stars, rappers, and famous athletes make the “top 100” list as do all the rest of the Jenner’s and Kardashians. Certainly that tells us something about our culture and who we admire, at least the young people anyway. But if you’re looking for a little more depth, more substance, take comfort in knowing that National Geographic’s Instagram account weighs in at #10.

Cara Devlinge and Zendaya are in the top 26 but I have no idea who they are.

So maybe having 161,000 followers isn’t exactly earth shattering when you look at it that way, but I can’t help being proud of the fact that there are so many people who want to follow a positive example of health, fitness, and balance. Over 200 newbies every hour of the day, 24-7.

High five to Hannah and Pablo. They kick ass.

Hannah always has.

https://www.instagram.com/gypsyon__/

Put a Lid on It...

I’ve done this before, asked my Facebook peeps for your hat preferences, but feedback last time was minimal. I think I offered too many choices…or maybe, people just didn’t give a shit and kept scrolling down, looking for something more interesting. I understand, that’s what I did when I first saw my own post.

Let’s keep it simple. This time there are only two hat choices: A or B? Which one should I try to wear out in public before I rip it off and throw it into a closet for another year? One year from now just I’ll repost my query when Facebook pushes me with their “One Year Ago” prompt
.
But if the vote is clear this time, I won’t post this again. It’s no big corundum, simply pick hat A or B. What say you?

You see, the real problem here, is that I don’t wear hats. Ever. Truth is, I hate hats. But I’m hating baldness even more these days. I feel self-conscious about strutting around sporting a head that looks like a penis with a face.

So maybe I’ll break down and put on a hat, even if doing so causes me extreme hat rage, which it does.  I start to scream inside, doing my best to suppress the urge to cut someone with a sharp object and lap their blood dispassionately like a bored domestic cat. Hats do that to me. But this bald thing? Now that really pisses me off and I think maybe it would be best for everyone if I learn how to put a lid on it.

What’s your pick, A or B?

(BTW, that thing I'm doing with my mouth? That's a warm smile.)  

Where Do Bumblebees Sleep?

Stop worrying yourself silly. Biting your cuticles bloody and missing sleep at night is no way to live. You look like a cast member of “The Living Dead” clutching your morning coffee. It's not healthy for you to spend all your time worrying about where bumblebees sleep!

So I’ll tell you right now and we’ll put an end to this thing.

Most of them sleep in nests. Small nests that can be anywhere: an abandoned birds nest, in the woodpile next to the back stairs, maybe under the wet couch out on the porch next to that rusted old Pepsi cooler you've been planning  to renovate for over three years. 

But not these guys. There are rogues out there.Those are the manly bumblebees. They live outside the nest, often falling asleep right at dinner when the sun starts to go down and cooler air causes their wing muscles to slow. In late summer, they’ll sleep on the last flower they landed on the night before, much like my old roommate in college.

As the sun comes back up again, still groggy from drinking too much nectar, they may stumble around a bit and wonder what the hell happened to them last night.  Pet them if you want, they almost never sting. Soon enough though, after a few good shoulder shrugs and push-ups, they are ready to do it all over again.

Lifting slowly from their brightly colored launch pads, they resemble heavy dirigibles more than real flying machines. Then a light breeze helps to lift them and off they go, already thinking about another party tonight, and a belly full of nectar.

Hurricane Matthew, Gone But Not forgotten...

 

Now that Matthew is no longer huffing, puffing and trying to blow our doors down, we’ve returned to sunny tranquility.

Cool and breezy with a welcome nip. 

As is often the case with insensitive thugs, Matthew left a mess behind. Too many houses fill the street with their water-damaged first floor possessions thrown unceremoniously into piles, ready for a ride to the dump. Long serpentine piles of reeds and trash mark high water flood lines. Beaches are littered with large clumps of vegetation, wave smashed tumbleweeds held together with fishing line, clutching bits of broken Styrofoam.

We were lucky, just a bit of roof damage, now marked 24/7 by two blowers drying the damp ceiling plywood while a refrigerator sized dehumidifier sucks water from the air and sends it down a clear hose that runs out the doggie door and into the yard.

It’s business as usual for us again. An omelet stuffed with fresh spinach and sharp American with a cup of very black Colombian coffee was on the breakfast menu for me. Chica and Rufus got bits of cheap hot dog, torn off and lobbed in high arcs, testing their catching and sitting skills.

We all took a walk, spotting a Great Blue Heron as he caught his breakfast sashimi in the lake shallows. A pair of Anhingas swam undetected beneath the dark surface of the lake, heads and necks breaching suddenly like snakes looking for heaven to save them from electrified waters. Apparently my favorite Garden spider weathered the storm. She was back this morning for the first time, perched in the center of a new web, anchored among the Cattails, also enjoying breakfast in the sun, rhythmically sucking the life-juice from a fat web-encased fly, that certainly should have chosen the road not taken.

Edged Weapons...

Edged Weapons. Even the name captivates me. My fascination has been primal and organic for as long as I can remember. It was my junior year in high school when my parents went to Europe on a cruise with friends and asked what I wanted them to bring back as a present for being a good boy in their absence and staying out of jail. My only request was for an Italian switch blade knife. You’ve seen them a thousand times in cheesy gangster movies, all shiny pointed blades that jump out of their frames with the push of a button. They’re crappy knives, cheap as hell, but they were the gold standard for “sinister” back in the day. “No way” was my mother’s first reaction to my request, but my irritating promotion of the idea teamed up with her considerable guilt at not taking me along, got me what I wanted. 

Of course, Mom was afraid, despite my constant reassurances that I would lock it away and never even look at it, someone would get stabbed. She was right. I was that someone. My dear older brother, Kenny, borrowed my switchblade and stuffed it down his back pocket just prior to deciding to see for the 1,000th time if there was any way in hell that I could out-wrestle him. I never initiated those matches, simply doing my best to survive. He always won, but that particular time it was by stabbing me. Unintentionally, yes, but the blade buried itself about two inches into my right thigh when the push button got pressed during my desperate contortions, sad attempts to get the fuck out of some kind of sleeper hold.

Mom found out and smashed that particular knife on the garage floor with a sledgehammer the next afternoon. Thanks, Kenny. You penis head.

These days, it’s all about utility for me. Jeweled knives with gold inlays that are more works of the jeweler’s art than down and dirty fighters, leave me cold. From spears to fixed blades, long knives or close fighters, I look for great steel, heat treated and cryogenically processed, with embraceable, practical designs. Tactical folders are my favorites, with automatics at the top of the list.  

Thirty years ago when I first started a serious collection, custom knives were kings. “Production” or “manufactured” knives were still too crude and old-school to stand out. They were stuck in a time warp, doing the same things that they always had done with little innovation. That stagnancy gave rise to the custom makers who did everything themselves from design to assembly. Tolerances were tight, scales fit frames with the closest precision, blades deployed with the quality of the opening and closing of the door on a Ferrari 458.

As with cars themselves, manufacturing techniques evolved. Now, with laser cut blades and frames, carbon fiber and other sophisticated materials, manufactured knives offer the same great quality as custom, at a quarter of the price. See that knife on the far left? It’s new. Designed by my favorite custom maker, Alan Elishewitz, but produced in a collaboration with a high-end manufacturer, Hogue Knives. A 5" folder with a black finish G-Mascus red lava G10 frame, perfectly fitted to a 154CM Stainless Steel upswept blade that has been Cryogenically treated and bathed in an extremely durable, non-reflective, black Certakote. It’s a total thing of beauty, flawless and sharp as hell, that would cost every bit of $1,200. from Alan himself but is less than a quarter of that from Hogue Knives.

I know I said that automatics are my favorites, but now I’m thinking about one-handed openers, and some sweet neck and ankle knives I have. Oh well, they can wait until the next “show and tell”. The bottom line is that as is true with so many things that evolve, personal use tactical knives have come a long way, baby.

Hannah Time

We all love our kids, why wouldn’t we? Hopefully, they represent the best we had to offer as parents. We can claim a bit of ownership to wash down with our dose of pride.

Hannah is visiting right now. I used to say that spending time with her was like being sealed in a jar with a beautiful hornet. Colorful and scary. But, to my surprise, she has changed a bit, focused her energy. She brought Pablo, I was eager to meet him. When I had asked Ruth about this guy that Hannah was making good sounds about, for the first time in her life, Ruth told me that he was” “kind of quiet, very smart, and sweet” That sounded good to me, and I was just glad that apparently Hannah hadn’t done a Black Widow thing and eaten his head after mating.

There is a phone call I particularly remember Hannah taking when she was about 14 or so. Some unwitting, innocent boy called to ask her out to a concert or an event of some kind. All I got was her side of the conversation, of course, but it didn’t allow for much feedback from the other end of the line. She said: “If I want to go to that fucking concert, or any fucking concert, I certainly don’t need anyone to “take me” anywhere. I can take myself.” Then she promptly hung up on the poor guy. For years she seemed to think that men are pond scum, and I couldn’t really disagree. I kind of thought: “So what’s your point?” Now, at age 29, she loves nesting, being back in the States for the first time in 8 years, living in San Diego, and having a great friend, lover, and base who is happy to take instructions from a bossy flier. 

As in their relationship, Pablo is her “base” in their Acroyoga practice, Hannah is the “bossy flier” and I wouldn’t expect anything less. Credentialed in many different forms of yoga, and Acroyoga which is a combination of yoga and acrobatics Hannah is passionate about her practice, spending many hours with it every day.   On Instagram., she offers insightful tips and lifestyle choices, along with, videos, and stills. Some 150,000 followers currently help her build her brand, but that number is growing by some 10,000/month. Savvy companies promote their products, in this case yoga and health stuff, by giving their products to Instagram personalities with a substantial following. All her yoga gear and most of her clothing is free, sent to her with the hope that she will plug it if she likes it. Hannah has started to push the numbers, recognizing the fact that higher numbers mean bigger rewards. Three days ago one of her videos went viral in Russia of all palaces, enhanced with Russian subtitles and racking up at last count, well over a million views.

I’m impressed, but you know what? I all of us that are parents or grandparents, are impressed by the kids, that’s just the way it works. Oh, and when they are grown and come for a visit, we shut out almost everything else in our world and focus on them with an intensity and clarity that very likely escaped us when they were young.

I’m so happy to have some Hannah time. I know you understand.

Innocence Lost

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The experience of my first orgasm was quite similar to the first time I got addictively high. Both were magical, special beyond words, private new secret treasures that caused me to immediately realize that new doors had not only been opened, but they led to places that I would eagerly seek out and embrace for the rest of my life. At least with chasing the orgasms anyway. Both experiences were something that I knew existed but had no idea that they could be so damn good.

In the cool, drape-shaded quiet of the ground floor guest room at my Grandparents country house, I stripped off my wet bathing suit. After having been wrapped in that chafing dampness all afternoon down by the pond, it was an exhilarating and overdue liberation, to kick that wet fabric loose. Fishing, boating, swimming off the dock, I wallowed for hours in heaven for a twelve-year-old boy. Grandma had gone into town to shop at the Safeway store, Grandpa was out in his shop using his router on a big slab of mahogany he’d had shipped in from somewhere in South America. Mandy was in the furnace room, sulking.

That guest room had its own bathroom complete with a large linen closet. The shelves were stuffed with a lot of Grandpa’s shaving stuff and overflow from his main bathroom upstairs off their master bedroom. Of course I had gone through everything, examining all the items an older man may collect along the way. Suppositories, electric shaver lotion, clippers, razors, extra soaps, shampoos and toilet paper. Three shelves stuffed with towels.  I had discovered that the heavy black cardboard box held a vibrator though, a “scalp massager” the enclosed pamphlet called it. I had no reason to think differently. But when I visualized that closet, my mind’s eye focused on that black box.

On that particular afternoon, I stood looking at my skinny twelve-year-old body in the full length mirror as I massaged my shriveled, hairless dick. It just felt good and the eroticism wasn’t lost on me. Curious how that scalp massager would feel when pressed into the service of my scrawny nakedness, I brought out the black box, placing it gently on the double bed, lifting the lid carefully as I did.  Plugging it in and going back to the mirror, my vibrating hand immediately went to that little turtle head that had never really had a life of its own. Almost immediately, the damn thing started to swell and stand straight up, one horizontal eye pointing back at me in the mirror as it defiantly declared its own independence. “Look at me! I’m stiff with pride and won’t take no for an answer!” OK, fine with me, I thought. Let’s see where this goes.

That vibrator was as demanding as the mouth of a seasoned old prostitute looking for a quick twenty bucks. The tingling started in my legs, a mild electrical charge that ran from toes to navel, making concentric circles that pulsed and narrowed as they intensified. Waves of pleasure arched my back and pushed my new best friend forward with an unfamiliar urgency that would only be satisfied one way. It was one of those things where you don’t consciously know what’s happening but when it is that spectacular, you just enjoy the ride without the clutter of thought. Orgasm hit me as if the hand of god had grabbed me, revealing himself with an epiphany that excited and rattled every molecule of my being.

Much like the first time I freebased cocaine thirteen years later, all I wanted was more. Unlike that coke though, this orgasm stuff was legal, forced me to wait in between doses, didn’t empty my bank account, and didn’t cause the heart of a good friend to suddenly stop working while sitting around our poker table, and refuse to ever beat again.

Hurricane!

Excitement is in the air here in North Florida. You can cut it with a knife. The Fall hurricane hysteria is one of our favorite times of the year. It’s like the buildup to a big game day. Everyone is buzzing. At the gas stations, serpentine lines of thirsty cars and trucks circle parking lots and block the entrance to all stores in the area that we need to get into. Grocery and home improvement stores are doing a record business in bottled water, batteries, food, candles, all the necessary supplies. And liquor stores (so I’m told) are emptying their shelves. People can’t “stock” enough alcohol. It’s what we do, not that we drink all that, but we need it on hand in case of emergency. Like in the old westerns when a guy gets gut shot, the Doc can dig the bullet out but will need plenty of hot water and some whisky to pour on the wound. We become desperate for booze when a hurricane is looming down on us. The traffic at the Shores Discount Liquors store, shares a common urgency, as if it was just announced that prohibition will be the law of the land again starting this Friday. Put down those plywood window panels and run to the liquor store! Heck, enough adult beverages and people won’t care if half of the house blows into the neighbor’s yard anyway.

The local weather man has his sleeves rolled up on camera, sending a clear message that he’s serious about this thing and has been working hard throughout the night to help keep us safe. He’s so beyond ecstatic about all of this that he has to bite his lip bloody just to appear somber, grinning like a fool wouldn’t be appropriate. That small drop of blood at the corner of his mouth is a dead giveaway. This is his Christmas week countdown. He couldn’t be more delighted. It’s a win-win for him. If the hurricane passes us by, he gets a pat on the back for keeping us in the loop, if it hits hard, he gets the same for warning us to be prepared. Like a fireman, everybody loves him, and he’s elated to get some serious air time too.

Right now, people are throwing prayers all over the place. Prayers are flying around like hurricane debris. That stuff works, right? Maybe it would be more effective to remind folks to put their trash cans away, or fill the gas tank, but that wouldn’t carry the same degree of resigned (all hope is lost unless God suspends the laws of nature and intervenes on our behalf) desperation. Certainly we’ll get lots of “thoughts and prayers” from friends up North, just like we sent to them when snowstorms shut everything down last winter. Thoughts and prayers say you care without having to actually lift a finger, much easier to send than a card, or one of those edible fruit bouquets. Probably safer than that fruit thing actually, it may look delicious but it was assembled by two very pleasant minimum wage workers who both have bad colds.

In the last twenty-five years of living in North Florida, the only trouble we’ve had personally was losing electricity when high winds blew a tree branch down over the electric lines to our house. We checked into a local motel that is across the street from our favorite shrimp place. That was fun. The dogs stayed home with the run of the house and yard, doggie door flapping constantly with their excited ins and outs. We stopped by every afternoon to feed them whatever was thawing out in the freezer. They lived on creamy chicken with noodles, beef burgundy, a few steaks, some crock pot dishes I had portioned out and frozen. It was dog heaven.

Our dogs pretty much have the same “all the rules are out the window” hurricane mentality as we do. Its barely raining but Chicca took it as a sign to go ahead and drop a mini turd pile on the oriental carpet in the great room, I can smell it, but that intricate pattern hides the location of her gifts perfectly. I guess I’ll go get my flashlight and put my head down on the floor as I shine the beam back and forth, lighthouse style, looking for a turd ship on the horizon. That’s the only way I can spot them.

But first? Some hurricane coffee. There’s nothing special about it, but we’re in a 48-hour window which demands that everything be preceded by the word “hurricane”. Maybe after my hot cup of hurricane coffee I’ll drop a few hurricane turds on the oriental rug myself. Like I said, all the rules are out the taped-up windows.

I better go check on the safety of my reserve of hurricane vodka though. Above all else, family pictures and valuables, it must be protected. Who knows when I may need to pour alcohol on a gaping wound… or into my last glass of hurricane ice?

Dad, Don't be Jealous of my Miracle Mantle!

My Dad and I weren’t close when I was little, he wasn’t built to handle kids. He lived for Mom, and we were her charge.

An intellectual, Dad was a polite, reserved man, more interested in a New York Times crossword puzzle than any kind of kid stuff. We held common ground though, in that pleasing Mom was the key for both for us to be able to have a happy life. But he was no pussy. Although I never once heard him raise his voice, I knew that I didn’t want to

We did share a love for the TV faith healers and preachers though. We found them to be very entertaining, both of us in awe that people actually believed, that the con wasn’t obvious to all. Kathryn Kuhlman was one of the early ones, wrapped up in very sheer fabrics, flowing around her like wispy clouds, she looked like the bride of Frankenstein to me, but I guess for her, she was the bride of Jesus. Totally bat-shit crazy, Kathryn was one of the first born-again Christian, healing TV evangelists that Dad and I just howled over. She would spout gibberish wave her arm by way of introduction: “And now…Dino on the Piano!” Dino looked like he had been up all night tickling the ivories in some third rate Howard Johnson's Motel, doomed to a bad ending, out on the main drag. Something of a queen, he may have been the main drag himself.

There have been so many special ones, Robert Schuler and his Crystal Cathedral, Dad called him “Ole Smiley”. Jerry Lee Lewis’s cousin, Jimmy Swaggart, was the best at playing the piano and sobbing, even better after he got caught in a motel room, masturbating while a hooker stripped for him. Of course Jim and Tammy were among the greats, her with pounds of dark Clarabelle eye shadow dripping down her cheeks, wet from the inevitable waterworks she was so good at turning on and off, to nail down the sincerity factor. Apparently God encourages that, lots of crying…certainly it's a major part of the scam, anyway. These days, post Tammy, Jim sells “Real Estate in heaven” buy your mansion now, he’ll arrange it. I’m serious.

Dad missed out on Benny Hinn. Dapper and cutting edge Nehru jackets along with the uncanny ability to make large tumors disappear, as long as they were internal.\, he was good. A pimple on the nose? Not so much.

I know that Dad would have loved to hear Robert Tilton speak in tongues. “mahte row baka, koda basnda andanda de bosoto ke sodoebo”, but I doubt that he would have sent the requested “seed” money.

That’s what they all want, for their poor followers to “plant a seed” with the promise that God will reward the faithful. Your rent is due and you only have that $600. to your name? Send it to Prophet Peter Popoff, he’ll be sure to get it to God, and God will send you a financial windfall,But only if you have enough faith. Didn’t work? Guess you must have fallen short in the faith department. No worries, just try again.

These days, the ministries of Joyce Myers and Joel Osteen are huge. More mainstream and palatable, they preach a message of self-help, you know, “if it’s to be, it’s up to me”. Kind of like Anthony Robbins on Jesus. Osteen is estimated to be worth $40 million and lives in a 17,000 sq. ft. house. Joyce is at $25 million or so, but sexism exists in the church, as well as mainstream society. Equal pay for the same job is still in the future. I have to look at them and wonder about the big bumper sticker question though, WWJD?

Ultimately I believe that religion is crowd control and church is business. I know Dad did too but he never spoke with me about it directly. Mom may not have liked that. The church set itself up to to be the great arbitrator of guilt and forgiveness in order to better separate the masses from their money.
Few do it better than my personal hero, Prophet Peter Popoff. “a German-born American televangelist, fraudulent faith healer, and self-proclaimed prophet” Dad would have loved this guy.

“He initially rose to prominence in the 1980s, conducting revival meetings and hosting a nationally-televised program, during which he performed seemingly miraculous cures on audience members. After an electronics expert demonstrated in 1986 that his "divine" revelations were being fed to him by his wife via a wireless radio transmitter, Popoff declared bankruptcy the following year. He has since resumed his faith healing sessions "in a manner identical to his method prior to his exposure as a fraud", despite being exposed once again in 2007”

Other TV profiteers pull a Trump and divert attention by pointing to Popoff and saying "He's fundamentally evil, because he knows he's a con man." Of course, they’re not.

Anyway, I think of Dad when I interact with the Prophet. Early last year, I contacted his “ministry” online. Within a week, the letters started, graduated in their appeal for “seed money” to let God cure my ills, he and his marketing team were relentless. I admire the shit out of the structure. Along with the regular solicitations for seed money, I got holy water packaged in a fast food condiment sized clear plastic container. I wondered at the time if I put it on tender places, as I did with coke in the old daze, if it would have the same effect. (It didn’t.)

The man is a prince, and he’s never failed to be there for me, even after I ignored him for months. Always faithful (that’s the point, right?) he sent letters.

Here’s my latest. Peter (may I call you Peter now that we’ve been close for a few years?)

I got an uplifting letter, WITH BLUE INK, FROM PETER HIMSELF, HIGHLIGHTING AND CIRCLING IMPORTANT PASSAGES. I got a “Miracle Restoration Footprint” where Peter wants me to print the “seven things you want God to restore” I love that, he makes it so user friendly!

Best of all? I got a “Miracle Mantle” along with the admonition: “Do nothing with this MIRACLE MANTLE until you read my entire letter! Follow the divine instructions for a DOUBLE PORTION HEALTH & WEALTH ANOINTING” 

By now, Dad and I would be in full-swing retort mode, laughing our asses off. My mantle warns: “Failure to obey God could cause difficulties, failures, and a lack of GOD’S BLESSINGS in your life!”

Now THAT got my attention! I don't want to fuck with that stuff. Who knows, right? Maybe Peter has something to seriously think about in that last line on his napkin, er I mean, "Miracle Mantle".

Dad, I wanted to send you a picture of my Miracle Mantle and see what you think. OK, stop laughing and tell me. You ask: “Exactly what is the Miracle Mantle? Well, it’s a napkin. A napkin printed with a lot of Peter Popoff Cool Aid for the thinking challenged… Dad, you would love this shit…

This picture is for you, Daddio. BTW, got any seed money you could loan me right now?

Wolf Spiders!

Lying in the dark with my ears on full alert, I could hear them scurrying across the garish orange nylon of the parachute that hung from the ceiling above us. That bedroom could have doubled as a wedding chapel for skydivers.  By day, it conjured images of a bright sky, stiff winds providing buoyancy, hair blowing into squinting eyes. But in the humid night, as black as the caves we used to explore in Limestone County, those damn wolf spiders ran all over the canopy like they owned it. They had ruled over that remote, rustic cabin, had it all to themselves before we moved in the week prior.  I could hear their feet as they scurried around in seemingly random directions , alien hordes, erratic and empowered by the damp night, bent on some kind of hellish crusade. But to be fair, we were never bitten, crawled on, yes, just after sleep made us still and unguarded, but never bitten.

Here’s an exercise in control for you. I walked the dirt path to our well with two five-gallon plastic buckets liberated from some construction site. We had no indoor plumbing so I had to hand pump the ten gallons of Sulphur water to bring back inside and heat in a large pot on the propane stove. After I wrestled a huge galvanized tub in from outside, Carla’s wash tub was in the kitchen, which was also the living room of that rectangular cabin. It was worth the trouble, I liked to watch her bathe, it all felt so natural.

  

The parachute bedroom was upstairs on the tiny second floor. I think the wolf spiders liked the damp breeze that swept stale attic air from one eve window through the other, as much as we did. They would run and pause, listening to and salivating over the banquet of Cicadas and tree frogs singing frenzied love songs just outside. A crush of Times Square revelers, immersed in their own summertime Rumspringa, and exuding a New Year’s Eve desperation, a delirious abandon, programmed to somehow know that tonight is the night, because for them, everything changes tomorrow.

One hundred yards from the house, next to the well, there was a coffin-like, concrete bunker, poured into the ground next to the hand pump and covered with a wooden roof. Someday it would hold an electric pump. Sitting my empty buckets to one side, I lifted the lid slowly to get a peek and see if it held any standing water, as was often the case when debris seeped in and stopped up the drain. It was about a quarter full. Propping the roof up with a nearby stick like some cheesy animal trap you’ve seen in cartoons, I slowly bent over and slid down into the water, crouching down to sweep the drain clear of rotting muck. At that moment, when I bent over, too close to that seven inches of fetid water, the roof support stick buckled and the top slammed shut. Suddenly plunged into total darkness, something rained down on me from above. Hundreds of somethings, actually. Wolf Spiders.  Apparently they had set up colonies on the dark underside of that subterranean pump-less pump house roof.  I squatted, frozen in place, as they scampered through my hair and over my face, trying their best to go down the collar of my T-shirt, exploring behind my ears and the space between my fingers, all in a frenzy over their abrupt and violent awaking. Like hundreds of electrified mouse skeletons, undead and crazed on spider Methamphetamine, they were searching for the enemy. 

I didn't want them to point an accusing finger at me.

Having studied entomology as a kid, the few things I knew about Wolf Spiders flashed through my mind as I forced myself to freeze. Unlike web builders, Wolf Spiders are hunters, and very fast, able to cover two feet per second over short distances as they chase down their prey. Using their strong pincers to crush their victims, they can easily inflict sharp stinging bites on humans. Although they have a good vision, they cannot discriminate between a finger and an insect, and can grow to a size of up to 1.2 inches. That is the body size only - if the legs are included the total length of a Wolf Spider can be almost four inches. But I remembered that they are rarely found in groups, so as they bolted unpredictably from my eyelids to neck, scampering around my lips and nostrils, pushing to get inside of both, all I could think was that apparently they had never gotten the memo about no gang activity. 

Of course, I wanted out, immediately, but knew it wouldn’t be smart to move quickly. The arachnid hordes would know that I wasn’t just an inert object, that they had found the enemy. They wouldn’t be happy about that, or maybe they would. Moving in almost imperceptible slow motion, I reached over my head and put the fingers of both hands very gently on the underside of the roof above me. As I started to straighten my legs, pushing upward, light and fresh air flooded in and gave me hope that I might live another day. At the half way point, the roof fell backward and slammed up against the pump, bouncing aggravated wolfies into the air and causing them to reach a whole new level of crazy. Fanatic, eight-legged zealots darted around the inverted roof, me, and were now swimming in the water at my feet. They quickly found my legs and started to climb out of the water and up my pants. Knowing that slow movements would no longer serve a purpose, I vaulted out of the pump house, jumping into a violent scarecrow dance as my feet hit the ground. \

I immediately began slapping and smashing my hands against my legs, chest, everywhere that spiders had gotten under my shirt and pant legs. I knew I had to really pulverize them, or they would bite me in their death throes, so I tensed each body part while pinching, crushing and mashing each moving lump under the fabric. Stripping down as quickly as I had jumped out of that spider coffin, I jumped up and down repeatedly on top of my pants and T-shirt, both of them now sprinkled liberally with chewing gum sized pockets of Wolf Spider goo.

Carla thought that I was simply out getting water, so when I walked back in through the door of the cabin, nude, water-less, with red welts and mashed bits of hairy exoskeletons dripping from my chest and legs, she didn’t know what to think. I looked like someone who had just been through, exactly what I had just been through.

After cleaning up with water from our drinking water container and putting on fresh jeans and shirt, we decided to drive into Chauncy and get a steak at Abdella’s Bar. Mainly, I needed a drink, lots of drinks, actually.

That remote cabin was a perfect hideaway for our first year of marriage, but it sure was nice to move back to civilization the following Springtime and have a real bathroom with faucets that spit out hot or cold water on demand. All you have to do is turn a knob or two, and no wolf spiders waited in ambush when the lights went out.

Pretty damn sweet!

Serpentine Candles...

This snake was born in an Indian metal shop more than 100 years ago. Silver on bronze, a candlestick. 

My Grandfather worked for Standard Oil back then.  Stationed in India, late teens, early 1920’s. Apparently, when the time came, it made the cruse back to the States with him. I was excited to find it, buried in a pile of once useful stuff, relegated to several silverfish ravaged cardboard boxes languishing unloved in a dark corner bay of Grandpa’s garage five stall garage.  Broken into two pieces, it intertwined, snake like, around other things that needed some kind TLC to breathe life back into them again.

You know, the stuff that you can’t use but just can’t bring yourself to throw out. That was around 1975 or so.

After having the candlestick repaired, welded into one piece, it has been with me ever since. Back in the daze, when hallucinogenics were often a dietary staple, it would come alive and slither up the wall and across the ceiling, pausing to spit and posture. Never taking it seriously, I simply lay back and enjoyed the show.

When we first moved to St. Augustine, in the early 1990’s, I was surprised to see his siblings in the local “Ripley’s Believe It or Not” museum here in town. Two of them flank a fireplace mantel made from human bones.

So it's not one of a kind. Maybe one of two of a kind? Probably one of thousands across India. I have no clue.

These days, this guy adorns a wall near my kitchen, guarding the door between the main house and the great room. He hasn’t slithered in a long time and is probably expecting to eventually be buried in a pile of once useful stuff, relegated to several silverfish ravaged cardboard boxes in some dark corner of my garage.