Night Shift @ the Air B & B

Beliefs...

Believing something is not an accomplishment. Set beliefs are really nothing more than opinions one refuses to reconsider. Early childhood indoctrination locks us into beliefs that mirror the family and culture we're born into. Most of us never grow beyond that most basic, unquestioned, programming.

In this country, many people are born into a Christian family and culture. They take that on without question. If we were born in Japan, we would be Shinto. Both groups believe they are "right." Most wars are fought over this stuff.

Beliefs are easy. The stronger your beliefs are, the less open you become to growth and wisdom. “Strength of belief” is only the intensity with which you resist questioning yourself. It's very gratifying to believe something and be done with it. As soon as you are proud of a belief, as soon as you think it adds something to who you are; you’ve made it a part of your ego. Listen to any “die-hard” conservative or liberal talk about their deepest beliefs and you are listening to somebody who will never hear alternate opinions on any matter that they care deeply about— unless you express the same opinions. 

When someone waves a Bible or Koran in the air to demonstrate the depth of their fervor, they are in essence saying: "Here is my handbook for life. This is what I believe. All the answers I need are right here and I don't need to question beyond these pages." With that mindset, they absolve themselves from the hard work, privilege and even the responsibility, of independent thought.

It is gratifying to speak forcefully, from a perceived position of stregnth when we have the backing of our political party or bible of choice. Church service or political rally, we seek out the like minded to solidify our resolve. 

Wherever there is a belief that doesn't come with the disclaimer: "This is what I believe right now but I'm open to change if presented with more compelling evidence"...there is a closed door. 

Embrace the beliefs that stand up to your most honest, humble scrutiny and that make sense to you right now, but always be open to change. Hopefully, we evolve. Try as we may, it is impossible to remain static.


Change is the one absolute truth that unquestioningly presides over everything that ever was or ever will be.  


Float with it peacefully as it takes you somewhere you've never been before.

Hopefully, we do the stretching exercises necessary throughout life. We challenge the person in the mirror to more readily question and adapt along the way. Nothing is set in stone.

Things turn out best for those who make the best of the way things turn out.

Let change be more like river than rock.



  

Homeless Santa and his Elf...

The bright color of Santa’s scarlet coat and his snowy beard stood out from the hazy blur of the distant buildings on Christmas morning, coming into sharp focus by the time I stopped at the traffic light.

My thoughts were with the freshly brined turkey sitting on the floor of the passenger side in what would become its roasting pan.

But there he was. Santa and his elf, both sitting cross-legged on the concrete, leaning up against the abandoned building that had once been a very active Blockbuster store. They were warming themselves, soaking up the bright sunshine as I passed.

Turning off at the next entrance, I circled the store, parked on one side, and approached the pair on foot.

They were lost in conversation, only looking up when I intentionally scraped my feet against the rough cement to announce my presence. Obviously homeless, the elf surreptitiously hiding something behind his back when he spotted me heading their way.

“Good morning guys, you look so comfortable there in the sunshine, I just wanted to stop and say Merry Christmas!”

We shook hands, did the introductions. Phil and Blondie, both veterans with multiple health issues that the VA won’t cover. Blondie was the talker, open, friendly. Phil was quiet, stoic in his silence, wary of my presence.

Blondies hands and face were covered with open blisters. “Ichthyosis” he explained, waving his damaged hands in my direction, inviting inspection. “It’s caused by sunlight. I have to stay in the shade.” he said as he sat there in the hot sun and boasted of his sun bleached hair from all the surfing he does. I doubted he could stand without support, much less surf.

We spoke of common experiences while in service. They claimed to have been Green Berets and Navy SEALS. I assumed they tell the same stories over and over among themselves, their fellow homeless and the passing crowd. I wondered if they believed their own stories after years of repetition.

Both guys had been in town a long time. When I asked him directly, Phil murmured, head down staring at his feet. “I’ve lived here all my life.” I think he resented my questions, resented me being there, resented all of “straight” society that so rarely treats him as an equal.

Blondie was bubbling and ready to talk all day.

I asked them for their opinion about gift bags that many groups hand out to the homeless.

“What should people put in them, toothpaste? soap? a poncho? antibacterial cream? Cans of tuna with crackers?”

“Nah, you can get that shit anywhere.” Goldie responded with an expansive sweep of his blistered hands.”

“OK, so people should just give money?”

Goldie was on a roll, eager to talk. “Nah, you know what 99% of homeless are going to do with that? Go right over to that store there and buy beer.” He said, pointing to the Gas-N-Go across the street. “Not us, but 99% are like that!”

He reeked of booze and I could hear the bottle he had tucked behind him scrape the concrete as he shifted his weight.

Knowing that I had to wrap it up and get home to put the turkey in the oven, I said “Well, I’ve got a present for you anyway.”

Before I had gotten out of my truck, I removed the folded $100. bill I keep in my wallet for emergencies.

When I first spotted the guys, I knew they were my Christmas Morning emergency.

Pulling the bill from my pocket, I carefully ripped it in half, one half for Goldie, one for Phil.

“You guys have to work together to buy what you need today. But let me ask you this. If cash isn’t the answer, and you don’t want personal care stuff like toothpaste, what do you want?”

Phil looked up for the first time and glared, hot-red into my eyes. “It’s not about what we want. It’s about what we need.” he said contemptuously.

“OK, so what do you need?” I asked
.
“A place to go.” answered Phil.

“Yes! A place to go!” Goldie exclaimed dramatically.

I had no answer for that. It’s a complex problem that most towns try to ignore with hopes that it will just go away. The cops chase them off but it’s like the stoned kids that communities hire to blow leaves off of their sidewalks, the leaves scatter one way and then simply blow right back with the next gust of wind. It’s no solution at all.

“Well, I hope that money can help to make your day a little better, although sitting here in this sunshine is pretty damn nice right now.”

“It sure is!” Goldie agreed enthusiastically.

Phil emitted a low growl.

We said our goodbyes as I headed back to my truck.

Leaving the empty Blockbuster parking lot and turning onto the main road again, I passed the guys, honking my horn as Goldie waved both hands wildly at me.

Phil sat motionless, looking down.

I knew that $100. was like giving a cookie to a starving child. The problems are way too big to be solved with just one cookie.

I wish it were that simple.

Lighthouse Park

The lights were out in Lighthouse Park last night.

 Dogs and children chased each other in the dark, circling and dodging randomly under the windswept cedar canopy, like leaves in gusty winds.

Parents walked slowly, with intent, lost in conversation. Kids we watched grow into fine adults, now with children of their own.

Overhead the Fresnel lens of Florida’s first lighthouse circled methodically over trees and houses like a Star Wars Ogre, dutifully wielding his light saber, as he has done for 145 years. 

I remembered when we lived under that light, racing my three wheeled recumbent under those same trees, exploding with laughter as exhilaration pushed me too fast and too close in those tight spaces, circling and dodging randomly, like leaves blown in gusty winds.

That was a long time ago.

Be The Change...

 

 

It’s a marvelous thing, when the student becomes the teacher. As parents, we learn from our kids every day, but when they are grown and walking their own path in this world and we watch them metamorphose over time into something much better than the sum of both parents, it’s gratifying as hell.

The first time I ever heard the phrase “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” Was from my daughter. It really made me stop and think. But this isn’t about her, it’s about all of us. About you, about me. I’m the worst when it comes to bitching about Trump or our lack of compassion as a country. It’s easy to complain. Every time I do it, I become less as a person. Bitter doses that pollute the stream.

So I remind myself that I need to shut out the static, focus inward more, embrace politics and the flood of negative that is the stock and trade of the media, less.

I need to ask the man in the mirror: “What can I do?”

Reading Ruth’s posts helps me have a better idea how to do that.
________________________________________________

Ruth posted:

Today I attended parent-teacher conferences for some of the kids I tutor. There are issues, but they are trying so, so hard.

Every single teacher highlighted that.

From there I swung by my Syrian friends new house. They just moved into a real house with a front and back yard and no paper-thin shared walls (a huge upgrade), a garage to put their bikes in so they don’t keep getting stolen. A place to call their own. The kids are thriving, the parents have jobs, and they showed me around with a quiet pride, speaking of plans for gardens and swing sets.

Afterwards, I picked up my foster kid, more a young woman, less a kid. To be honest I was trepidatious in taking on an older kid, but she’s blown me away. Charming, smart, open and loving, we ate Cinnabons as she asked me for advice on everything from school to her new boyfriend. In and out of foster care since the age of 10, no one checks on her but a social worker, but she’s making it. She’s incredible. Kids are incredible. I am humbled and forever grateful to share time with them. We are so bombarded with all the bad news of the world, but there’s also so much good. ❤️

Dichotomy...

Christine Denise‎

  A dichotomy as transient as the race of man. Structures built by human hands, beautiful even in decay, unable to escape their own impermanence. Immersed in the natural order of the universe, sand and sea, earth and sky, always changing, always the same. 

Forever perfect. 

Bascule Dreaming...

Gusting winds made 44 degrees at the beach feel a lot colder this morning, but it kept everyone else away. I like that, even if it means that I have to wear a hat and jacket to breathe deeply of such vibrant solitude.

Nalu chased a stick, in and out of the wind-whipped surf. Chica ran crazy speeds at a few Sandpipers until they took to the air, pulling a “U” turn and circling her back North. Nine feet above the intersection of water and sand, three fliers, one sprinter below, looking up, a black shadow.  17 pounds of rabid determination.

Rufus poked around up by the dunes, smelling and lifting his leg to anoint every trash can. Obviously the scent of the can itself made no difference. Guess he just wanted to know who he was about to pee on.

A mile South, a great little park offered distant views of Fort Matanzas, the 1740 Spanish fort & monument nestled in about 100 acres of salt marsh and barrier islands along the Matanzas River. A trail there was perfect for the dogs to explore freely, and a warm windbreak for us as we rambled along a sun-mottled path, flanked by walls of thick Florida scrub.

Leaving Crescent Beach, the 206 bridge opened its maw, allowing a tall mast to cut across our path, floating over the tops of cars stopped in front of us. A red herring of sorts that I was happy to follow until movement of the bascule put me back in my car, to continue our ride back home.

Chasing the Sun...

Hannah came over for coffee early Wednesday morning, just back from her sunrise run with Nalu.

 “It’s really cold out there, we were freezing at the beach!” 

Our temperatures had dipped to 42 degrees.

She and Pablo are wintering here in St Auggie right now. They’re the first renters to live in the new efficiency Mason built behind his and Amy’s house in lighthouse Park. Those guys have all been friends since they were young. That little house is just a few blocks from our old house, where she grew up. It’s all very familiar territory that she hasn’t seen in over 13 years.  Now she’s back, able to visit with another old friend too: that intense beam of light that sweeps over the oak canopy each night like a laser sword.

A warm weather girl, Hannah said that maybe she, Pablo and Nalu would make a run South for a bit. The next day I got these pictures. Looks like they made it.

Her first stop would have been our first stop too. Once we were full of delicious stuff, the “Southernmost Point” would have been second.

 Great priorities; we raised that girl right…

Reflections...

Reflections ripple across the lake in a watercolor swirl of black, white, and pink as a procession of Wood storks fly low and lazy over the water, punctuated by the occasional Roseate Spoonbill in their midst. A clear, perfect Fall morning. First sun angles sharply through a canopy of leaves quivering with excitement, sunspots dancing random patterns on the grass below.

Simple things are the most rewarding.

If there were nothing else, this would be more than enough.

No Lions or Tigers, but Bears? Oh My!

Bruce and I were two of the four housemates who lived together in a four story townhouse on a large lake in a bedroom community of Washington, D.C. All of us were bachelors, each guy having their own floor and private balcony. Delightfully chaotic insanity hung ten atop a four-year tsunami of music, girls, beer and ganja... a bachelor paradise.

It was with that kind of mentality that Bruce and I decided it would be a good idea for us to go camping in the Blue Ridge Mountains, about an hour from our place. Although both of us were in our mid-twenties, we had zero camping experience between us, but we knew the Blue Ridge mountains were reputed to be quite tame. No big deal. Real mountains, like the Rockies, were a different story. And after all, ours was to be little more than an excuse for an overnight drink-a-thon out in the woods. At least that was the plan.

Bruce worked at The United States Geological Survey, giving him access to wonderful topographic maps many years before the internet provided such things with a few clicks of a mouse. So with the best maps available anywhere, we plotted out a route from a parking space in the woods, just off of the Blue Ridge Parkway, to what looked like a perfect clearing next to a stream only a few miles away…as the crow flies.

I bought a new backpack, tent, and sleeping bag. Bruce already had those things.

The night before we left, I made Chicken Cordon Bleu, carefully pounding breasts out flat while drinking wine, rolling them up to stuff into backpacks with the other supplies. We had gourmet cheeses, home-made trail mix, beer, and two one-gallon bottles of Gallo Hearty Burgundy. For some reason, my Grandfather’s passion for Burgundy had gotten me on a wine kick that summer. Oh, and I also rolled twenty joints for the road.

Early the next morning, maps and supplies packed efficiently into our backpacks, we took off for the Blue Ridge. It was a beautiful, breezy day, perfect for a short, refreshing hike.

We started walking with the map in hand, disgusted with the little people who weren’t smart enough to get their hands on such maps and plot their course. Superior beings, savvy and resourceful…for at least ten minutes anyway. That’s when both of us realized that people hike on marked, cleared trails for a reason. We had drawn a straight line on our map, with no consideration for steep hillsides, almost impenetrable valley undergrowth or impassible drop-offs. We hit them all. Two absolute idiots, blindly following a line on a map that made zero sense. Crawling up one steep incline, skinning hands and knees, then skidding almost out of control down the other side. Another rocket scientist move on my part: lugging two gallons of Gallo Hearty Burgundy in glass bottles and a 12 pack of beer. Every time exhaustion forced us to pause, we lightened the load of those bottles of Burgundy, by transferring wine from the bottle to stomachs. Naturally we needed a smoke with that too.

Had we taken the recommended trail, the hike would have been about a half hour walk. Instead, we fought through an up and down nightmare of tangled thorns and brush for more than three hours before we got to our campsite, bloodied, and stumbling.

But even as tired and hungry as we were, at least we were finally there. The ordeal was over. Quickly setting up our two tents, opening to opening, we started in on the beer while we shared a joint, delighted to not have to walk another step. The wine and smoke made hiking through that jungle hell twice as difficult as it should have been.

Sundown afforded us just enough light to carefully lay out the chicken, salad ingredients, several ripe avocados, a small plastic bottle of dressing, and a bunch of brownies I had made. Yes, that kind of brownies. I knew we would sleep well that night.

Bruce took all the other food, including eggs, a fat cylinder of Taylor's Pork Roll, coffee, and sticky buns for breakfast, and put them in a canvas bag along with half of our Tootsie Roll Pops for the hike back. Then he strung the bag up high in a tree where bears and varmints couldn’t get to any of it.

Done! Let’s party!

Both of us were only wearing shorts and shoes, letting the sweat from our hike dry off in the welcome breeze. Passing the last of our joint back and forth, we heard a loud grunt immediately behind us.

There he was, a huge black bear, waddling in like he owned the place. Fearless. We stumbled backward and retreated about 30 feet as he casually strolled over to the chicken, salad, and two open beers, and started eating. He just sat back on his fat ass and went through one item after another, oblivious to us as we jumped and yelled from the sidelines.

He thought we were dinner cheerleaders.

Bruce and I assured each other that he was a semi-tame park bear, used to raiding campsites. We told ourselves that he would be easy to run off.

So we puffed ourselves up, got all manly, and approached him menacingly, yelling profanities about his mother, his family, and his obvious lack of character. I picked up a rock and threw it at him. No reaction as it fell short. I picked up another baseball-sized piece of granite, smooth from the stream-bed, and wound up with a pitcher’s stance, hitting that bear squarely between the eyes. That ought to do it!

He was instantly startled, forced to pay attention to us, probably hurting a bit, and mad as hell to have his dinner interrupted. He did that thing I had seen on the Davy Crockett show where the bear stands on his hind legs and growls with an open mouth just to show off his denture work. You know, right before he charges, pins you to the ground, and mauls you.

I thought he was way too fat to be able to run with any speed, but I was very wrong. Seven feet tall, 400 pounds, and he could run like Jesse Owens. Bruce and I levitated backward, turning toward the stream and flying across it on adrenaline fueled wings. We scrambled up onto a boulder on the other side of the water and the bear stopped on the camp side. He immediately lost interest in us. Turning back toward the camp, he knew there was a lot more picnicking to be done.

In our rush to exit the campsite, Bruce had managed to grab one of the gallon bottles of wine and I had a couple of joints in my pocket. So at least there was that. The later and darker it got though, the colder it became. We both started to shiver uncontrollably. Shirtless, exhausted, and now half freezing to death, we could see the bear in the flickering light of our Coleman lantern sitting next to our dinner as the he slowly ate everything we had sitting out. Our light provided the perfect ambiance for his dining pleasure.

Buy 2AM, the wine was gone, teeth chattering, we decided that we had to risk a tip-toe back into camp with a plan to slip unobserved into our tents and the warmth of our sleeping bags. If the bear saw what we were doing, he didn’t care. He had found the Tootsie Roll Pops and was delicately eating each one while making a neat little pile of the sticks and wrappers to one side. He knew his way around a Tootsie Roll Pop.

I didn’t care anymore. The warmth of my sleeping bag was everything and I immediately fell into a coma sometime around 2:30.

In my dream, someone was trying to wake me up with a ripping sound. It was the back wall of my new tent, torn open with a huge black bear head coming through the tear. He was looking for more food, his nose twitching like a pig’s snout, hovering over my knees. I yelled to Bruce as I shot out the front and ran. Bruce did to. Back to our rock on the other side of the stream. Cold, shivering.

The bear occupation lasted for another hour.

Then, without fanfare, he wandered off unceremoniously, just as the sun started to light the sky.

Cold and tired, Bruce and I went back into camp and quickly found shirts and jackets to slip into. Hungry as hell, we thought the big breakfast we had planned would be our life saver.

No such luck. The bear had climbed our supplies tree, retrieved the bag from the bear-proof place we had strung it up, and eaten or destroyed everything in it. Eggs, Taylor ham, sticky buns, coffee…he was a non-discriminatory eater. The few things that he didn’t eat, he tasted. The avocados were dripping with bear slobber and puncture marks. Even our water was gone, stored in plastic canteens, the bear had punctured them. What water hadn’t drained out was frothy with bear saliva.

No food, no water, my new tent destroyed… there was nothing to do but leave.

So we packed everything up and put it all in what was left of the bear-proof bag. While we were packing, three adult deer wandered into our campsite. We just stood and looked at each other. It was as if they had heard there was food to be had and some incredibly stupid campers to take it from. I was incredulous that they were fearless, ten feet away, as my concerns grew that they were some undiscovered breed of killer deer.

We did not want to go back to our rock.

We got the hell out of there. Jogging down the well-marked path, back to our car.

Driving home, neither of us had any cash in those pre-credit card days, so we couldn’t even stop at the diner we had passed on the way in. Shit!

All of this was made worse in the weeks to follow when the one picture that Bruce took of our bear didn’t turn out. It seems Bruce had snapped a quick shot when we had gone back into camp to get some sleep. No one believed our bear story or how damn big that guy was. “Black bears don’t get very big.” They said. “They’re basically harmless.” They told us. Everyone thought brown bears were cuddly and friendly and that Bruce and I were pussy's. We were, but that wasn't the point.

It had been too dark for Bruce’s camera to capture the shot we needed to back up our story.

But Bruce’s USGS connection pulled through. Apparently they had a special lab that could work miracles with film and Bruce had a buddy with access.

I was home in our kitchen about a week later when Bruce came home from work smiling like the Cheshire Cat. “Guess what I’ve got?” he asked as he opened a large manila envelope.

That’s when Bruce pulled out a crystal clear 8X10 photograph of a huge black bear, standing upright and grinning with menacing delight at two fools who had served him a very memorable dinner.

Two fools who never, ever, went camping again.

Chopping Garlic @ 1:40 AM

It absolutely delights me to be chopping garlic at 1:40 AM. 

Cowboy Junkies and John Prine on Pandora.

Honey Garlic Heritage pork chops coming up.

What Are Heritage Breeds?

Heritage breeds are traditional livestock breeds that were raised by our forefathers. These are the breeds of a bygone era, before industrial agriculture became a mainstream practice. These breeds were carefully selected and bred over time to develop traits that made them well-adapted to the local environment and they thrived under farming practices and cultural conditions that are very different from those found in modern agriculture.

I hear: (No steroids, no antibiotics, none of that.)

Traditional, historic breeds retain essential attributes for survival and self-sufficiency – fertility, foraging ability, longevity, maternal instincts, ability to mate naturally, and resistance to diseases and parasites.

I hear: (They aren’t tortured before being harvested. They live natural lives.)

Heritage animals once roamed the pastures of America’s pastoral landscape, but today these breeds are in danger of extinction. Modern agriculture has changed, causing many of these breeds to fall out of favor. Heritage breeds store a wealth of genetic resources that are important for our future and the future of our agricultural food system.

I hear: (Be leery of genetic manipulation.)

Yes, they’re delicious. Finishing them under the broiler caramelizes and crisps the edges.

Carla is in the other room, feet up, comforter encased, on the new adjustable couch, typing away lost in one crusade or another.

Alison Krauss enters the kitchen, a welcome angel.

Thanksgiving Guests

Three of our dinner guests arrived yesterday afternoon and spent the night. They insisted on sleeping in a waxed box under a cold wet towel. Seems weird to me but who am I to judge?

I peeked in on them this morning, all three still sleeping soundly,

It’s good of these guys to travel such a long way to help us celebrate a Haller Thanksgiving tradition. We’re stoked that Hannah is in town this year too, but we’ll miss Ruth.

I remember Hannah squatting up on top of the dining room table itself when she was only two, holding one of these guests by the hand. It was so sweet.

Last night when one of the guests asked: “What’s for dinner tomorrow?” I handed them a mirror to share.

They thought I was being a good host, letting them primp and clean up after their travels, and I was.

Six of us will sit at the table, but I understand only three plan to leave. It reminds me of what Ben said to Poor Richard: “Fish and visitors stink after three days.”

We’re just talking about this afternoon though, so I don’t expect that to be a problem.

Thanks Donald!

We all know the deal. If you can’t say something nice about somebody, don’t say anything at all.

But I pride myself on finding the good in all people. Nobody is all bad, right?

So I thought about the Great Orange One in the white House.

Always up for a tough challenge, I thought and thought. He had pretty much covered all bases though, when a reporter asked him last week: “Mr. President, what are YOU most thankful for this Thanksgiving?”

“Me” was his immediate answer. Trump is thankful for himself because he has made such a tremendous difference in this country and around the world.

Not a single reporter asked: “A good difference or bad?” and Trump didn’t elaborate. He was too busy ignoring the ex-stripper and current baby momma sitting next to him.

So he kind of stole my thunder, but I knew that if I thought long and hard enough I could come up with something nice to say.

And there it was, sitting on the table right in front of me: Chocolate/banana pancakes with real Maple syrup and a side of crispy corned beef. Very black Colombian coffee. All of it made in my kitchen, today, during the Trump administration!

Thank you Donald Trump!

The Savage Bitch and Her Attorney…

A dappled dachshund lives across the street from the model home where I work. She’s a little sweetheart, pulling and jumping on her leash whenever she sees me outside, she knows that I carry dog biscuits in my pocket. She’s eager to play the “guess which hand” game with me, pushing her wet nose into each rounded fist, snooting for treasure. She’s a good girl.

But that’s not enough to erase the memories of the Tasmanian Devils I grew up with. Although billed as dachshunds, I’m still unconvinced. Our first one, “Weenie” was always the smartest mammal in the room. She taught me how to fetch, rolling her ball under the couch or dropping it into the toilet. Stepping back, delighted with herself and wagging furiously, waiting for me to reach in and retrieve her smelly wet, tennis ball. “Fool” she was thinking. I mistakenly thought she was my bitch but every day she proved it was the other way around.

“This guy is MY bitch!” she wagged with glee.

I guess I was. But at least I was family. Weenie was friendly and protective with family. It was just every other human and all dogs on the planet that she took issue with. A Kamikaze dachshund, there was no fence, glass door or leash that could prevent her eventual escape and attack. She was a problem.

Weenie died under the double wheels of the garbage man’s truck, running backward, biting and attacking in retreat. Not fast enough, a bravado fueled miscalculation, with one quick misstep, she was two inches thick and three feet wide. Poor Weenie.

Before her untimely exit from the stage though, Weenie had a litter of pups and we kept the smallest girl to replace her. Lucy ramped it up like a rabid Doberman on steroids, one with very stumpy legs. Great with family, a nightmare streak of black fur and shark teeth to everyone else.

Lucy specialized in protecting our front door. Simply ringing it once set her off like a cherry bomb under her pillow on the overstuffed chair she believed she owned. That chair sat on the far end of our living room where she could keep an eye on the floor to ceiling picture window looking out to the mailbox. It was built with single panes of glass, 6 across, 6 high. In front of it on the inside was a pathway of tile that led from the front door to the kitchen.

If anyone made the foolish mistake of coming up our stairs to the front door, Lucy exploded from her chair, flying up into the air above like the Roadrunner after Coyote planted TNT under her. Landing hard on the wall-to-wall, feet a blur, she sped down the rug toward the picture window, ready to throw herself onto any interloper. Especially if the interloper was the mailman. She knew in her heart that he was up to no good. Her mother had taught her about mailmen and garbage men. Not so much about their trucks though.

It was on a particularly idyllic day in the neighborhood, around noon or so, when a temporary mailman who didn’t know that it was best to tiptoe up our stairs and make no sound, came whistling cheerfully up to our mailbox. Lucy was sleeping hard in her chair; he was channeling Mr. Rogers in his sweater and striped mailman pants.

Startled awake by his whistling call to battle, Lucy awakened as if he had thrown cold water on her. She levitated, landed, got traction on the rug, and sped straight at Mr. Rogers as he stuffed our mailbox with what must have been explosives and death threats.

Lucy knew that shit had to stop. If that mailman was left alone, he would probably want to mark his territory and pee all over our front door.

Speeding out of control, Lucy hit the tile path in front of the picture window, put on the breaks too late, smashed completely through the glass window, and bit the mailman on one foot, then the other.

Fortunately, the hip Mr. Rogers wore tough Chukka Boots that effectively prevented multiple ankle wounds. He was OK, Mom apologized and we never saw him again.

Lucy didn’t have a scratch. We kept the picture window curtains closed from then on.

None of it involved attorneys.

Dad was an attorney but I never really knew what that meant other than a daily train ride into New York City and back. Mom took me to visit him in his law firm one time. I saw a nice picture of him on the wall and his cherished, law library stuffed with fat books with leather bindings. The whole place was scary quiet and even more boring than the public library down by Mindowaskin Park. After we left, I still had no idea what attorneys do. I assumed they play a lot of solitaire, smoke Kent cigarettes, drink Cokes, and eat cheddar cheese on Wonder Bread, just like Dad did at home.

It wasn’t until the night that the wall-paneling salesman came to speak with Mom and Dad about Mom’s plans for the basement, that I began to understand. Dad wanted estimates, the cost to put brown paneling on all the walls down there. He could care less about brown wood paneling, but he very much knew it was in his best interest to please Mom. That paneling was the epitome of home fashion back in the day. Add a couple of tinny pole lamps and a semi-circular sectional sofa and Boom! Movin on up!

But all Dad wanted was to please Mom by looking like he cared, and to get an estimate. An estimate that would be the first of many.

The sales guy showed up after dinner, black sample case in hand. Lucy was picked-up, restrained, whispered to, cautiously introduced, and put back down while the adults talked. No problem.

Everyone was making nice while Lucy and I listened on one side. Mr. Salesman made his pitch and bragged about the many colors and styles of basement paneling available.

“Let me show you a few.” He offered.

He didn’t see Lucy doing her best Ninja imitation to blend in with that black sample suitcase on the rug. Waiting in ambush as he reached down, she jumped up like a black barracuda all teeth and crazy eyes. Kill that devil hand!

Chaos, blood and excitement ensued. It was great. Lucy was proud that she could finally prove her real worth but went into my bedroom and hid under my bed just in case Mom and Dad didn’t agree. Under the guise of “Let’s go into the kitchen and patch you up” Mom quickly ushered the bleeding salesman into the kitchen to prevent him from bleeding on her wall-to-wall in the living room.

A two minor puncture wounds that needed a rinse and some Bactine Spray. Mom knew that it was the “Maximum strength antiseptic that kills 99% of germs”. It wouldn’t do squat for dog saliva contamination or rabies, but it was handy. I watched the salesman’s blood circle the drain in our kitchen sink as he cried and whimpered.

“I faint at the sight of blood!” he said as his knees started to give away. Mom and I ushered him over into a kitchen chair as he examined the two puncture wounds in his right hand. It had looked worse than it was and he whined as if we had forcibly shoved his hand down the disposal.

As Mom tried to talk him off the ledge, I wondered where Dad had gone. He was always the first one to take control in any sketchy situation. He could handle any emergency.

As the salesman continued to whimper like a baby with a skinned knee and make increasingly hostile sounds, Dad walked into the room. He was holding a lined sheet of paper torn, from the three-ring binder that I used in school. Picking up the hand in question from the clean kitchen towel where it sat on display while the Bactine dried, Dad examined the offending raised dots on the man’s palm and said: “No real damage here, I only see two small spots. You’ll be fine. I’ve decided to buy your basement paneling though without getting any additional estimates. Just sign and date this document.”

And it was done.

The salesman got a sweet order for paneling, and Dad got a signed & dated legal document stating that the salesman gave up “all potential legal proceedings against (a person or institution), typically for redress”. AKA, he couldn’t sue Dad, even if his wound turned gangrenous and he lost the entire right half of his body. 

The bottom line? Mom got her paneling, the salesman got a sweet commission, Dad couldn’t be sued, and Lucy was largely overlooked, falling into a deep sleep under my bed, knowing in her heart that she had saved the entire family from some kind of murderous death.

What did I get out of it? When Mom smiled and said: “Aren’t you glad that Daddy’s a lawyer?”

I had, by then, gotten a pretty good idea of what lawyers do.

Feed Me! (Or Not)

Three cheese grilled tomato, garlic beans, crispy Yukon potatoes, fresh grouper cheeks.

Carla is working 6:30 to 11 and I need to keep busy. May as well cook something good. She wouldn’t eat this anyway, happier with a half-gallon of Blue Bell vanilla chocolate chip ice cream and a bowl of my clam chowder with super-green Rotini noodles.

I know her addictions, she knows mine.

If I’m awake, I’ll fix the food for her, if not, I’ll get up. My favorite thing is to feed her the food she wants.

I play my music, she stays out of the kitchen, that’s the deal. I serve her, look for approval, and clean up efficiently afterward.

All of this stuff pleases me way more than it does her.

If I wasn’t home or didn’t get up, she would eat cheese sticks and be done with it.

The Last S̶u̶p̶p̶e̶r̶ Lunch

Pablo left for the airport this afternoon, flying back to Austin to see his Mom for a bit. We all wanted one last meal together before he left though. The man likes to eat, that’s for sure, but growing up in Texas left him with an adult seafood deficit that he’s been doing his best to fill ever since he and Hannah got together.

There are many things I’m proud of with my two daughters but none less than their ability to field strip a crab, oyster, clam, or lobster in record time. Blindfolded.

So Hannah has been teaching Pablo about the transcendent epiphany that can accompany very fresh, local, seafood, when properly cooked. He’s become something of a seafood snob. Not what you expect from a guy who only wears shoes when he has to and looks a bit like he may live under a bridge.

“It’s Pablo’s last lunch here, where should we go?” we asked each other.

He remembered hearing Carla brag about Osteen’s famous shrimp and their excellent down-home sides. Real sweet tea and hush-puppies that crack on the outside and steam on the inside. Perfect. I always agree the food there is delicious, but point out that Carla had to pull me in the first time. That was some 30 years ago after I heard there were no booths or beer. Pablo doesn’t drink though and the only person who thinks he needs a booth, is me. I have to have my back to a wall just in case Ninjas come at me with sharp blades. I need to be ready.

But knowing the assassins would have to go through Pablo, Hannah and Carla first, I was good with it.

The oysters, flounder, and shrimp were all fried perfectly with a very light coating that is more like tempura than traditional batter. They must change the oil in the fryer all the time. It’s never bitter. That’s a big red flag for me if a place gets too cheap to change the oil. Osteen’s never has. Sides of green beans cooked forever with some fatback or ham, yellow squash, sweet and tangy pickled cucumber or pickled beets, and yes, real sweet tea made with real sugar. No syrups allowed.

It’s that kind of attention to detail, and pride in serving a simple, delicious meal, that has made Osteen’s one of the most popular, perhaps the most popular, restaurant in St Augustine, for more than 50 years.

Ask anyone: “Where should we go for shrimp?” Locals and tourists alike will all answer the same way: Osteen’s!

Pablo, the seafood snob, agreed. He never noticed there were no booths. He just kept making appreciative sounds as he ate.

Immediately after lunch, he had to leave for the airport. He was holding the remainder of his fried shrimp close, like a newborn baby wrapped in Styrofoam, and wearing the silly grin that some of us get after we’ve encountered food perfection.

I understand. Now, Carla and I have to go back very soon.

Ninjas be damned.

6,387 Steps...

6,387 steps around the lake, back gate to and from, two black dogs leading the way.

Wild Iris demand attention, spawning frequent pockets of brilliant fire. I know to never pick them; they wilt to nothing in a vase, reminding me to appreciate their beauty without trying to own it.

We headed down to the spot where Rufus apparently has a commode, hidden deep in brush where only he can go. He burrows in, stops rustling, and comes back out wagging his tail, feeling lighter and more eager to go.

Walking down the path briskly, Ibis ran safely ahead, Chica pulling to catch up.

Pausing at the old Cedar, sun bleached silver white, unchanged since our first introduction, we  listened carefully for the jabber of two daughters who dangled like simian acrobats from those branches 25 years ago.

We passed by the dog swimming beach as we cut through the park behind our house. I couldn’t help but remember how Sasha loved to dive in after a stick or ball. Her vision was poor so one time she thought a small alligator was her stick. Those two did a circle dance for ten minutes, she looking for her stick to resurface as the gator dodged the crazy canine, before she finally complied with my shouts to come back in.

Meanwhile, Kira bathed slowly, regal and above the chaos of mere dogs. They never failed to disgust her.I miss that good girl so much.

These days, Rufus wades like a hippo, dancing along the shoreline, appreciating the flotation her extra weight affords. Chica swims in the same frantic circles she makes on the oriental rug at home, while trying to catch her own tail.

Life is a bit like that too, so I understand.

Our Beach

Ours is normally the only car parked in the 7-space lot nestled among the scrub next to stairs that lead over the dunes to the beach. Three tiers climb up over the tightly packed barrier of green, three down. 

Once we get to the open sand we can only see other people as a very distant specks, North or South, no more than a handful.

We own the beach and the ocean there. All of it belongs to us. Carla, Rufus and I splash along as the surf runs over our feet. The three of us simpatico with the sea.

Chica is busy with the Sandpipers though. She's in charge, making sure they keep moving, no loitering allowed.

Another half mile down A1A on the West side, is our second stop. A mini-park.  Nobody there either. Expansive views out over the marsh, and a well maintained trail looping through the scrub. The dogs scout ahead to clear the path of danger. This time it was a little brown rabbit. He looked like he could do some real damage if he wanted to, but luckily for us, apparently he had an appointment and had to run.

There Once Was A Girl from Morehead...

My sister coaches an old lady’s cheer-leading group. They're all in their 70's. I’m sure it’s great exercise and a lot of fun for them, but as a younger brother I have a sacred obligation to irritate my sister. Here are a few limericks I sent to her a few years ago, hoping they would do the trick…

A cheer-leading team was so old,
when they wore skimpy clothes, they'd catch cold!
And to no one’s surprise, when they flashed those white thighs
It was a frightening sight to behold!

A girl from old Morehead town,
Led a group to great fame and renown
For throughout the state
It was known as their fate
To win all their contests...hands down!

A pretty young gal from the beach
felt she needed a nice juicy peach
so she climbed up a tree
and quickly did see
there was no peach in that son of a beech!

A group of nice ladies would cheer
for their guys who would watch, and drink beer
when the beer flowed like wine
the girls would decline
the obnoxious demand for "more rear"!

A wrinkled old broad joined a group
it was a famous cheer-leading troop
it was her goal to stay fit
but she couldn't commit
so her parts all continued to droop

An old gal from Morehead believed,
If her boyfriend would dump her she'd grieve,
So she found great joy,
With a much younger boy,
With stamina hard to conceive!

I'm told Carteret is the place
Where the men try to keep a straight face
When the Grannies shout cheers
And show off their rears
It’s a Carteret county disgrace

The Carteret girls know the score
At the game, or on the dance floor
They know how to move
And get into the groove
They leave all the guys wanting more

The Carteret girls have no equal
At getting the crowd to their feet
They jump and do splits
Fueled on hominy grits
And they charm every man on the street

OK Sue, I'll give it a rest,
The limericks are trying, at best,
The rhymes make me crazy,
And my vision get hazy,
I'm becoming too limerick possessed!

Geese in Distress...

My dear daughters, Hannah and Ruth,

Love to make nasty sounds, quite uncouth.

With their butts in the air,

This flatulent pair,

Pass for geese in distress… That’s the truth!

Food Porn...

Chris Isaac is singing a love song, just off the kitchen. He seems to know how I feel about these caramelized Vidalia's. Chopped garlic, tomato paste, Rosemary from the garden, Thyme, and even white wine and water, all jumped into the pool with them. That’s when big Chuck did a slow cannonball. No splashing, please! He was already fried brown, massaged with salt and pepper.

Everything organic. *

Demanding cover, these guys just wanted to play some jazz together, unmolested.

Three hours later, their harmonies had blended perfectly & they are ready to wow the audience.

But first I’ve got to mash up some red potatoes and hit them with butter and a touch of sour cream. Wilted spinach will be there, pushed around with some EVOO, garlic, and a big squeeze of juice from a lemon I just picked off the tree that leans over the back deck.

All of that can hang out on the stove for a while though. I’ve got to get back to a UFC fight I put on hold. But I’m sure that if I’m a good boy in this life and wind up going to heaven, I’ll know I’ve arrived because it will smell just like my house does right now.

(*If you don’t already, please consider buying only organic beef, poultry, and chicken. Humanely raised, pastured and open sourced if you care to look. No growth hormones or additives. Beef raised and finished with grass. Chickens that run around outside and eat bugs. Porkers that live in an open field with tails that aren’t docked, still wagging.
Pita’s efforts are misdirected when they beat the drum of going meatless. Most of the world isn’t listening. But to campaign in support of organic and humane meat production is the right thing to do for many reasons. Everyone benefits.)