Recklessspinner

Portrait of an Artist on his Birthday

2010-11-12T07:51:00.000-08:00

I guess we should have known that The Great Chet (aka Birthday Boy) would be involved in some artistic endeavor; from the age of three he was curiously investigating things and drawing them. And I remember the first photograph he took - I think he was about 7 years old - we were walking around looking at some shops when he asked to use the camera for a picture he needed to take. His dad hung the heavy camera around Chet’s neck and we watched as he took a shot of an old, beat up tennis shoe lying in the gutter – even then he had an eye for the unique.
Chet also spent hours creating unusual things from wood, wire, batteries, pieces of concrete, food items, etc, etc – nothing was off limits when it came to his vision. He made heads from latex, monster makeup, fake blood, even a movie starring his friend, Chris, (who, being naturally artistic himself allowed Chet to stuff watery cream of rice cereal into his mouth) as Chet filmed the sequence between bouts of hysterical laughter. Chet was never lacking in the sense of humor department. I remember the time he walked in, started a conversation with us and once he had our full attention he turned sideways, revealing that half of his head was shaved – causing his dad to yelp in shock which was the hilarious reaction Chet was looking for. Which reminds me of the other painter in the family, Chet’s dad, Jim. Chet and his brother, Jack, always delighted in Jim’s painting skills as well as his personal quirks. If the boys knew Jim was going to pick up food from the Drive-Thru they’d gather up the neighborhood kids and sit on the porch awaiting his return. When Jim would show up without the food (which he did nearly ever time) they’d casually ask, “Where’s the food?” then laugh themselves silly as Jim ran back to the car and took off with a roar.
Speaking of Jim, I’m putting my blog on hold so that I can work with Jim on his blog (www.zarsart.blogspot.com) it seems that I can only handle one important job at a time (could it be that years of exposure to all this creative zaniness has caused a disconnect in my smart cells?)
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHET - we love you!

WEE BAG MAKINGS

2010-08-30T10:55:00.001-07:00

Sometime during the night the tiny bag I’d found (dropped by Miss Ebha when she ran from me) was retrieved and evidently returned to her. In its place in the garden was a little pile of interesting odds and ends: some hand spun wool of a bumpy nature, ribbons, and beads. Beneath the handmade paper was a note left by Liam McSpinagain.
“Dear Artisan,” it said, “Miss Ebha will be glad to have her dear bag back. ‘But I’ll not thank her,’ she said, ‘for returnin’ to me what was mine to begin with!!’ She’s a tough cookie, our Miss Ebha is.”
“But she did ask me to leave you these few things – yarn, beads and such. ‘If she wants an evening bag so blasted bad,’ Miss Ebha told me, ‘let her be makin’ her own!’
“So I’m leavin’ you the makings of a nice, wee bag for yer very own. And as I told ye we’ll never again speak of the terrible thievin’” - Liam McSpinagain.
Since it seems unlikely I’d ever be able to convince them that I’m not a thief I think the best thing to do is forget the entire matter and focus on trying my best to duplicate Miss Ebha’s evening bag.

THE BAG

2010-08-29T11:25:00.000-07:00

I’m so embarrassed! This morning I found a note in my garden and this is what it said: Dear Artisan – It is with great trepidation that I broach this subject, but seeing as me position dictates, I fear I must. You have been accused of thievery – I know it can’t be, but our Miss Ebha has filed a complaint against ya…she says you have stolen her precious evenin’ bag, the one with the beads and the rest of the miscellaneous trifles. Oh, and a found feather, found plain and simple on the forest floor (we wouldn’t be caught dead killin’ another; we’re not that kind!). Now Artisan, I know Miss Ebha tells the tale many a time (in fact Ebha in the ancient tongue means provider of life, but to her back we call her provider of lies, she’s that big a fibber) and I know she had no business on yer estate but she’s our official strawberry wine taster and a good wine taster she is, too. And it seems that she got carried away with the wine tipplin’, turned herself ‘round and instead of taken’ to her bed in the wee hours she landed in yer garden. So if you’ll just be returnin’ the darlin’ wee bag, Miss Ebha can get back to supervision’ the strawberry stompin’ and we’ll not speak of this matter again..and that’s a promise. Liam McSpinagain.
Surely, he doesn’t think that I stole it! Surely he doesn’t. Needless to say I immediately put the little bag back in the garden.

EBHA

2010-08-27T17:12:00.000-07:00

The neighbor’s dog got loose this morning, before the sun was even up. I had just gotten out of bed and was on my way to the kitchen for my coffee when I heard loud barking coming from my backyard (I always leave the side gate open so the raccoons and friends can get to the water we leave out for them…and so the wildlife coming the opposite direction can get through to the front where they hang out together and watch the coming and goings of the night owls – the human ones, that is).
I grabbed my robe and hurried out the kitchen door, concern that the dog had cornered one of the feral cats - but to my surprise what the neighbor’s dog was barking at wasn’t a cat or a critter at all…it was teeny, tiny woman! And she wasn’t cornered, but instead she was staggering around the yard in dizzying circles mumbling to herself.
“Now Ebha, sweet lass that ya are, you got here by some entrance, sure that ya did and you can leave by same…if only you can find the blamed place!” she cried.
The neighbor’s dog had stopped barking and had parked himself on the lawn and with head cocked to one side was listening as if the little woman was speaking to him.
I stayed motionless, certain that once the little woman moved a smidge to the left she’d see the opening in the fence and from there the trip back to the forest was all downhill – literally. But after watching her bump into an especially large kale and fall over backwards, I knew something had to be done before the little thing suffered a grievous injury, so I coughed softly and pointed toward the opening in the fence. Poor thing! When she turned and saw me, she scrambled to her feet, dashed in, out and around the carrot tops and streaked out of the yard.
I watched her as she tumbled down the embankment spewing words in a language I couldn’t understand (which was probably just as well) and finally disappear among the trees.
When I started back to the house I saw that she had dropped her purse, a rustic, hand spun, woolen bag. Afraid that the neighbor’s dog would drag it off I brought it inside. And here it sits.

NOISES FROM THE FOREST

2010-08-25T10:05:00.001-07:00

I’m worried about the beings living in the forest. I feel sure they’re getting ready for their Strawberry Wine Festival but I’m afraid their boisterous preparations are going to bring the authorities down on them. As along as my neighbors don’t complain about the noise there shouldn’t be a problem but if things get much louder somebody will complain, for sure. And of course a call to the sheriff might not be a call of complaint, but rather a call of concern; the noises echoing out of the forest and up the embankment are bizarre indeed. Last night we were awakened by the sound of drumming as well as a tinkling noise as if made by tiny bells or miniature cymbals, the rhythm quickly followed by clapping and raucous giggling. I know they’re just having fun but I am concerned about their welfare – although maybe I shouldn’t worry, I can’t imagine a full sized person actually catching one of them. And if they did, where would they lock them up? In a shoe box?

FANG

2010-08-23T08:44:00.000-07:00

Fang (as a teenager) moved in with us about two years ago. He’s an unusual looking cat; white with a tan spot on his head and a tan and white striped tail. And then there are his teeth: teensy, tiny, baby teeth that prevent him from eating dry cat food and two long, protruding fangs that would make a vampire jealous.
On one hand he’s sweet and affectionate – resting his head against your cheek when you hold him. On the other, he’s a vicious tyrant, attacking anything and anybody - including me: trying to suddenly bite me when only seconds before he loved being petted. Taking savage swipes at me when I walk past. And the feral cats? He’s gone after their jugular on more than one occasion.
Maybe it’s those huge fangs that have given him the idea that he can get away with being such a bully. Then again, maybe it’s his baby teeth that prevent him from chewing properly that have made him so angry. Whatever it is, he’s a pill!
One day I looked down the embankment and caught him entering the forest. I tried to call him back, but of course he ignored me. Within seconds he came tearing out of the trees, ears flat, tail fluffed to the size of a feather duster. Close behind him I saw a flash of purple. It seems that one of Liam McSpinagain’s rainbow sheep have finally put Fang in his place – but who knows how long that will last (as the two cats in above picture can verify, you must remain ever vigilant when Fang is around).

LUCKY STREAK

2010-08-20T11:54:00.001-07:00

It seems we’re having a run of luck…a lucky streak, in other words…not good luck mind you, but luck just the same.
First there was the egg recall and then during our terrible heat wave we’ve lost our electricity two days in a row: no fans, cooler, refrigerator, cooked food…no anything…including no lights to do anything. Pretty boring. And the only info from the electric company was that they didn’t know what was wrong and they didn’t know when it would be repaired, they only knew that there was a problem.
At least when we lived in Taos and the electricity went out it was because of an electrical storm. And even when it was pitch black we could entertain ourselves by watching the lightening flashes through the canyon miles away. It was like watching a war where people were seldom injured and homes were seldom harmed – now that’s a war I could live with.

ROBO CALL

2010-08-18T09:25:00.000-07:00

My phone rang at 5:10 last night. It was a female robot. She was letting me know about an egg recall. I was told that if I felt sick I was to go to the hospital immediately…oh swell. Actually I didn’t feel ill, I felt just fine…until I heard the message! She reminded me that I’d bought the eggs at Ralphs and then she told me how to find the product number on the carton.
“If the product number is 1026, 1413, or 1946 DO NOT EAT THE EGGS!” she warned, “take them back to the store!”
I got the egg cartons out (one from the recycling bin – it was empty, and one from the frig – it had two eggs in it) and sure enough both cartons had the product number 1413. I tried calling the number the robot had given me, so I could find out what symptoms to watch for, but her office had closed at 5 p.m.
Ironically, I had used several of the eggs to make two dozen health muffins full of oat bran, flax seed, honey…the works. I had also made a double batch of pancakes with some of the eggs – healthy pancakes of course made with buttermilk, whole wheat flour, etc. And hubby had boiled quite a few of the eggs and eaten only the whites (no cholesterol for him!). In other words, while maintaining a healthy diet we had consumed twenty-two poison eggs.
I don’t know which is more disconcerting, the fact that I might have been poisoned, or the fact that Ralphs knows every detail about every item I buy and is keeping track of my whereabouts! I believe this comes under the heading of “double edged sword”.

FIREWORKS

2010-08-17T09:38:00.001-07:00

Last night was not a night for sleeping, what with the loud giggling and yipping going on. The voices sounded unfamiliar (rather than yipping our neighbors do a lot of late night guffawing). Of course hubby and I got up to see what was going on and what was going on were midget fireworks: bright yellow, red and blue exploding lights that barely left the ground! This display was taking place down the embankment just this side of the forest. Although we couldn’t make out the individual attendees we were able to discern their actions. As one, the group would move forward, a small but colorful explosion would take place, then a popping sound and after loud squealing from the group they would run for cover in among the trees. It was an unusual sight. I’m not certain if they were enjoying the fireworks, or enjoying scaring themselves.
This morning I found a note of apology: Dear Artisan; I told the wee ones to keep it quiet. “For the love of God, keep yer voices down!” I begged. But all they did was yell in a lower octave …sometimes it seems the devil gets to ‘em and it’s nothin’ can be done about it. But please accept me apology and rest in peace tonight knowin’ there’ll not be another celebration for at least two weeks. That’s when we celebrate the strawberry wine festival – which could be a little more rowdy than last night’s gatherin’…but I’m hopin’ not…for yer sake.

To purchase the yarn “FIREWORKS” go to www.recklessspinner.etsy.com

FINALLY!

2010-08-16T10:27:00.001-07:00

Well, it isn’t a photograph – it’s better! I could hardly believe my eyes when I went out to water my tomato plants this morning and found this painting. It was propped against the fence and set up on two bricks to keep the dirt off.
Although I’d pretty much decided the figure in the painting was Liam McSpinagain I eagerly unfolded the handmade paper and read: To the Artisan – I don’t have a camera. In fact I’m not sure what a camera is. And since I don’t have any pictures of meself I was at a terrible loss. But then Dala (which means brilliant light in the ancient tongue) me.. I mean…my…favorite lemon yellow goat …told me that Leonardo di Perspectolio had made a painting of me standing next to her…I should have known! For many times I sensed a friendly presence nearby but when I peered around there was nothin’ there a’tall, a’tall – yet one time I did come upon a sharpened stick as is used for writing, and a snippet of finely made paper, both tossed aside into a pile of leaves as if in a great hurry. I retrieved the implements as they are precious to our people and even though I figgered they belonged to di Perspectolio I put them in a drawer at my home. You see artists (as is tradition) are amongst the shyest of all and I didn’t want to intrude on his quiet life. But when Dala went on me behalf and returned his writing things, she asked in me stead for the painting and he freely gave it…although he did warn her that Mick would probably fight her for it once he found that he was also portrayed in the painting. “Even though he’s-a only a mouse-a,” di Perspectolioe told her, “he’s-a Irish and you know-a how they love a good-a fight-a.” Meself I’d take offense but since di Perspectolio lives the quiet life I figger he just doesn’t know much about other folks…or mice. Enjoy the painting Artisan (even though it doesn’t look a’tall like me – I’m much handsomer…and taller…and more virile). Signed Liam McSpinagain.
And now I’m anxiously awaiting Liam McSpinagain’s next delivery!
To see some of the lamb tails left by Liam, go to www.recklessspinner.etsy.com

RASTAFARI

2010-08-13T09:27:00.000-07:00

As I sit out in my backyard, wondering if I’ll get a photo of McSpinagain’s sheep, the weather we’re experiencing reminds me of the changing seasons – specifically of fall. It was fall when we moved back here.
We had scheduled a Taos moving company to pick up our stuff - even though we didn't have an actual place for the delivery of our belongings and had to give our destination simply as the city where we planned to live. The movers were supposed to be out at 9 a.m. They finally arrived after dark (but I'll give them this, it was the same day). And even though they had come in advance and seen how much stuff we had they came in a truck the size of a small U-haul. When questioned about this puzzling choice they explained that their big truck was broken.
They loaded up the little truck, and then decided it was getting so late maybe they'd just come back in the morning and move the remaining six rooms of our belongings at that time. I told them they had to move it that night, that the final walk-through was scheduled for 9 a.m. the next day and we still had a 3,000 sq. ft. house to clean. After agreeing half-heartedly they went out to their truck and drove away.
Since we had made motel reservations for that afternoon and since it was already nearing 9 p.m., I called the motel and told them we wouldn't arrive for several more hours but that we were definitely coming. The woman didn’t sound like she especially cared when she replied, "Okay," before hanging up.
Two and a half hours later, as we sat on the floor listening to our stomachs growl (we’d gotten rid of all our food, that morning), we heard a loud engine, looked out the window and saw a big truck all lit up like a Christmas tree. We watched as it pulled up to the house and were happy to see that the movers had come back after all. They'd decided that since it was so late (and whose fault was that?!) that 120 more trips to town in a tiny truck was somewhat inefficient so they got the big truck started and drove out. The only problem was that if they shut off the engine the truck wouldn't start again. So through the noise and exhaust fumes they got all of our things loaded.
Needless to say we were too tired to do any cleaning, during what was left of the night, so we started out for the motel in town after agreeing to get up really early and do the cleaning in the morning. Since we'd gotten rid of our car my oldest son loaned us the old car he’d purchased the day before, to be used as his work car. It was a tiny, beat up, red car with cracked windows. In black, bold letters across the front windshield it said, RASTAFARI. It’s my understanding that Rastafarians are people of a certain religious belief (a belief that was started in Ethiopia or Jamaica), who listen to Bob Marley, and wear their hair in dreadlocks (which is supposed to look like clumps of marijuana - a plant that the Rastafarians like very much). But don't take my word on this, this could be one of the very few times I am wrong about something.
Although the engine of the Rastafari car did a lot of smoking (no pun intended) it did run and in fact got us to our motel which was closed and locked up tighter than Alcatraz (we found out later that the place had a night bell and had we been crawling through the shrubbery we might have spotted it). By this time it was well past midnight and so we spent our last night in the Land of Enchantment driving up and down the main street in the Rastafari car looking for a motel that was still open. I have no idea what time it was when we finally got to bed I just remember that it was very close to the time to get up and start cleaning the house for the walk-through. Good times, eh?
To see some of my spinning (as well as Liam McSpinagain's) go to www.recklessspinner.etsy.com

GREED

2010-08-12T09:06:00.000-07:00

I guess I’m getting greedy; after retrieving the baby skein of Laralaine’s fleece I became obsessed with seeing one of the colored sheep or goats belonging to McSpinagain.
After much thought I decided to write a note myself, asking Liam if he had a camera and if he did would he leave a photo of one of his animals. I’m not very hopeful about my request – after all someone so shy (and from all accounts very, very small in stature) wouldn’t be about to show up in the mall to purchase a camera. But I’m keeping my fingers crossed that perhaps he, at some time, found a camera…dropped by a curious tourist…someone brave enough (and naive enough) to enter the dark, over grown forest… and then startled by wild creatures living three dropped the camera as he/she ran for safety. It’s possible!
But while the waiting game continues I have more spinning to do.

To view soft, curly mohair yarn (as well as other items) go to: www.recklessspinner.etsy.com

LARALAINE

2010-08-11T12:31:00.001-07:00

Although I still haven’t clearly seen any of the visitors to my garden, I did spot a flash of color as something (or someone) dashed past my fennel plants. This surprise appearance and the baby skein of tweedy looking yarn left lying nearby, served to reinforce my belief that there is something (maybe an entire civilization) living beyond the embankment.
It wasn’t until much later in the day that I caught sight of a piece of paper fluttering in among the string beans. Trained up garden wire that is stretched between metal stakes, the plants are nearly spent now and the handmade paper was easily seen from my patio swing. After carefully detaching the fragile sheet I took it back to my swing and read the spider scrawl: Happily provided by Laralaine, daughter of Lara. A young snip of a lamb, Laralaine’s colors are not as yet set in their ways, hence the wee sections of both black and white along with the tan and turquoise. I gathered up as much of what I call “lamb tails” as I could but seeing as how she’s yet a wisp of a girl she didn’t shed much a’tall, a’tall. But it is soft and pretty by my standards. Signed, Liam McSpinagain.
Laralaine’s wee bit of yarn can be purchased at: www.recklessspinner.etsy.com

2010-08-09T09:02:00.000-07:00

Since Liam McSpinagain’s last communication, I’ve begun to keep a very close watch out my kitchen window – but so far there’s been no sign of him or his rainbow goats and sheep. It wasn’t so long ago that the idea of yellow, green and purple animals (while fantastically exciting), would have seemed ridiculously incredible…but after the skeins of yarn left in my garden as well as the whispered stories of life forms in the trees beyond the embankment, my mind is aflame with curiosity. Although, after hours of useless staring out the window I decided to set up my spinning in the patio, hoping that the singing of the wheel would draw McSpinagain to my yard. It did draw a neighbor with some plump, heirloom tomatoes from her garden. It attracted two young, brown and green iridescent humming birds who stopped in mid-air and watched my brightly colored mohair twist into yarn. And it coaxed a feral tortoise shell cat who wouldn’t let me touch her, but sat a mere foot away as if taking lessons. As for Liam McSpinagain? There wasn’t a sign of him.

Walk Along The Ocean

2010-08-06T08:43:00.000-07:00

After hours of useless staring out my kitchen window (in hopes of catching a glimpse of McSpinagain – or one of his cohorts), I decided that today I’d leave the house and take a walk – as they say, a watched pot never boils.
Although it was damp and foggy, Hubby and I made our way across town to walk along the ocean. The tide was out. Dark rocks covered with growth the color of moss, loomed up through the mist. The sight always has a calming effect on the soul. And as we peacefully made our way along the sidewalk an old car stopped next to a trash can in front of us and a wreck of a woman (probably in her forties) got out and began to dig through the trash in search of cans. It was a pathetic sight for sure. Hubby and I both wished we had brought some cash with us.
Further on down the street we saw a man also digging through the trash in search of cans, while his three young children entertained themselves by crawling around on a picnic table. Along the curb sat their old van with the side door open. As we approached we saw that the back of the van was full of clothes and old blankets, and another person was far in the back. Sleeping in the front seat was a young woman and in arms she held a new born baby. This family was obviously living in their car…it was heartbreaking. If only we’d had a hundred dollar bill to silently drop into her lap…but we didn’t.
With our spirits now at rock bottom we started back, but as if our powerful need to regain some peace of mind and a positive attitude was obvious, we were soon entertained by some of the antics of other walkers: an older man jogging while bouncing a huge ball – it might have been do-able if he’d been a basketball player…or at least coordinated – he was neither. But the crowning glory were the three stout women who were very, very slowly making their way toward us by doing lunges (in unison). I figure that even if they only live half a block away it’s going to take them two days to get home.
I’m back at my kitchen window now and after this morning’s experience I’m trying to remind myself that all the world’s a stage and we’re all just actors on it. And as I continue my watch for Liam McSpinagain…or at lest one of his rainbow flock, I focus on sending feelings of peace and hope to those struggling and in poverty – it seems the best I can do at the moment.

A NOTE FOUND IN MY GARDEN

2010-08-04T13:16:00.000-07:00

From yours most truly, Liam McSpinagain

This yarn comes to you compliments of Maeve. Maeve is one of my old girls…but I wouldn’t say that to her face. And it’s a darling girl she is, too… but I wouldn’t say that to her face, either. She’s a bit touchy now she’s in her advanced years, but I’m thinkin’ she has earned the right to be as grouchy as she wants, and I say that even when I’m the one getting grouched. Shuffled from one end of God’s green earth to the other since she was only a kid she was most likely middle aged when we met up…and it was admiration at first sight…well it was on my part anyway: the darlin’ bouncin’ curls, eyes a lovely shade of green that reminds me so of the Emerald Isles (the land of me…I mean…my… ancestors). She’s heaven come in a small bundle. The old girl has only one bad habit, does Maeve, it’s her voracious appetite. She could eat a ream of paper in two ticks of a tock! I must forever keep a close watch on the darlin’ or my Sunday newspaper (which, due to my habitat makes it very hard to come by) disappears faster than a flea can dance the rumba. But on the odd Sunday she does manage to partake of the Arts & Leisure section before I can get me a cup o’ the creature and climb into me…my hammock. But I forever forgive her, darlin’ that she is. Because I know she can’t help herself…’tis a mild addiction that has its paws on the old girl. But on the other side of her sweet personality is her helpfulness. She learned from Ebna (the blitherin’ old gossip!) that I was sharin’ the lamb tails with another artisan and Maeve immediately trimmed her locks and left them just outside the barn door for me so I could spin them up for you.
Yes, Maeve is a real dear…well actually she’s a goat, but then you knew that all along, didn’t you now?
MAEVE is available for purchase at: www.recklessspinner.etsy.com

Liam McSpinagain

2010-07-25T12:19:00.000-07:00

Out past the garden where the green cabbages grow, beyond the embankment where the tall grasses blow, is a wooded area, a sanctuary to many animals that live just so.
Some say that aside from seeing the masked faces of the raccoons, the possum snoozing upside down, the silky feral cats and a red fox or two, they’ve also seen the muted shades of green (worn by the wee people) flitting from a mountain of black berry brambles to duck behind a maple tree with star shaped leaves.
I never believed such stories, although I thought it would be wonderful if it were true, until one morning when I looked out my kitchen window and saw something hanging from a wooden stake that was propping up a lush green tomato plant. As I swung open the little, white gate to my garden, I could see soft gold tones, pale pinks and lovely blues that matched the cloudless sky. I never would have guessed how this beautiful hand spun came to be in my garden if it hadn’t been for the handwritten note attached to it. In a spidery scrawl that looked like it had been written using a sharpened stick, the note read: From one artisan to another; I have a small flock of rainbow colored sheep and goats that leave wee bits of fleece shaped like little lamb tails, stuck to the brambles. Please accept this small gift of hand spun “lamb tails” and share it with other like-minded folk.” The note was signed: Liam McSpinagain. I’m still in shock and can only hope this little person will be back!

THE DAY THE COMPUTERS TOOK OVER

2010-06-18T11:20:00.000-07:00

It’s said that things happen in threes…but maybe the saying is only meant to be used regarding celebrities dying, yet the formula works beautifully in this instance: three days – three computers run amuck.
DAY 1: Government computer programmed for surveillance begins to make up and follow its own rules.
Sound familiar? Probably…it’s a movie. But just the same I watched said video on Day 1.
DAY 2: Hospital computer goes berserk!
I was sent back to the hospital for more physical therapy and was warmly greeted by my therapist whose wrist was in a temporary cast. She told the story of her department taking their annual CPR refresher course. I don’t know if the entire course is given by a computer or if a real instructor gets involved at some point, but I do know the chest-pressing-hold-the-nose-breathe-into-the-mouth thing is tested by the computer. And this is when the problem began. My therapist admits there is a lot of peer pressure involved when taking this test, what with all the personnel watching the monitor to see how well you’re doing. And from the very beginning the computer kept telling her she wasn’t pushing down hard enough, even though she was giving it her all. By the time she finally got to the point where the computer was satisfied with her performance she was experiencing pain in her wrist. That’s when the computer started to complain that she wasn’t pushing down fast enough. So she started going faster…and harder…and faster…and harder… and fasterandharder and fasterandharder until finally someone in the crowd mumbled, “There must be something wrong with the computer, ” but by this time my therapist was in such pain she had to leave and go to a doctor! Hence the temporary cast on her arm.
DAY 3: COMPUTER MALICIOUSLY DESTROYS OWNER’S MIND.
As soon as the sun came up, I grabbed my camera, the yarn I’d spun, the sweaters I’d knitted, as well as some props, and busily clicked away until I had twenty decent photos of the items I wanted to list on my Etsy shop. I downloaded the pictures into my computer and performed the steps to safely remove the hardware (AKA: camera). I unplugged the camera and set it on a table in the other room and prepared to crop, rotate, resize, sharpen, etc, etc, etc. when I noticed that one of the pictures of a baby's jacket I'd taken was too blurry to fix (probably because I sneezed as I snapped the photo). I decided to get rid of that one right away so I put the cursor on the picture and clicked delete. Like magic the picture disappeared…along with all nineteen of its companions. I was horrified! I stared in stunned silence for several minutes, until numerous calming breaths later, I realized I could download the photos again and try the whole thing over. I retrieved the camera and plugged it back into the computer but when I tried to redo the download, I found that somehow my computer had also erased the photos from my camera. How is that possible?! My camera was clear in the other room!!! I’m really creeped out!
To visit my shop go to: www.recklessspinner.etsy.com

CREATIVITY

2010-06-17T10:27:00.000-07:00

I believe the key to creativity lies in being certain that whatever you’re creating comes from your personal inner desire. Whether you’re writing, spinning, knitting, painting, sculpting, etc. if it comes from your inspiration and is done because it’s what you want to do (underline “want”), it’ll be a success in the purest sense of the word. If it’s done in the hopes it’ll please someone else so that they’ll admire it (or you), or purchase it, it’s pretty much doomed; it may come out “okay” but rarely will it be the kind of fantastic that you had in mind. In fact there’s a good chance it’ll never even get finished.
And if the idea is innovative and you try to create it with some faceless person lurking in the shadows, holding a fist full of money, you’re in for a nightmarish experience: is the idea any good? Will anybody like it? Is it too weird? Am I too weird?!..and on and on.
I did a battle of sorts after spinning a batt I received from COOLLIGHT on Etsy. The yarn decided it wanted to be a baby sweater. Every time I looked at it all I could see was a baby sweater. I had a limited amount of the colorful hand spun but was certain I had enough for some little sleeves. And what about the body? There were lots of colors in the batt to choose from and I knew I didn’t want to use any commercial yarn. That’s when I realized how much fun it would be to make it my own design by dyeing and spinning some of my super soft mohair to complete it.
During the process I had to keep reminding myself that I wouldn’t think about what I’d do with the end product (all the babies in our family are big people now) but instead would just enjoy my project each step of the way – which I did.
In the end I listed the sweater in my Etsy shop - even though it’s a complete departure from what I’ve been selling.
To visit my shop go to: www.recklessspinner.etsy.com

THE MANY COLORS OF LEAVES

2010-05-11T09:30:00.000-07:00

We try to walk at some point each morning (we being Hubby and I). And our favorite place is a big park about three blocks from us. Although they (they being the park personnel) keep blocking off sections of it with removable chain link fence (for some reason that nobody can figure out – not even the park workers) there is still plenty of paths to take. Paths bordered by low stone walls that are crumbling with age in some places and covered with moss in others.
Before long it’ll probably be too hot to walk through the park, even at six a.m., but right now the weather is perfect and the place is gorgeous with the early morning sun working in concert with the many trees to create ever changing cathedrals of dark and light. Although there aren’t any flowers the place is full of hedges and trees that are spread out over huge areas of lush, green grass.
While I can’t really duplicate nature’s colors when I dye, I love to use her combinations of colors when I spin – shades of blue and a little white like the ocean. Pink and green like a eucalyptus tree in bloom. And of course the many colors of leaves.
To visit my shop go to: www.recklessspinner.etsy.com

THE GIRL AND THE STICK

2010-05-08T08:05:00.000-07:00

The neighbors across the way have a darling two year old daughter named Jordan. When she was about eighteen months old, her mom was taking her for a walk in her stroller, saw me out sweeping the walkway, and stopped to chat for a minute. One of my cats, Sugar, heard us and came out to the porch to investigate (Sugar is a little snoop who has to be in on everything anyone is doing). As Sugar stood on the porch staring at us, Jordan, from her stroller, pointed at Sugar and said, “Sit”.
Jordan is a sweet little thing who is interested in everything around her. So the other day it occurred to me to take some of my fluffy, undyed mohair and let her hang it from the bushes for the birds to take for their nests. Jordan listened quietly while I explained to her that the birds would carry the fleece home and use it to make their nests warm and comfy. Then we placed it strategically in the hedge so that Jordan could watch for the birds from her living room window. When she was finished carefully placing her pieces on the leaves, I said my “good-byes” but before I could leave, Jordan ran across the grass and found me a lovely, little stick to keep. How sweet is that?!
My Etsy shop is: www.recklessspinner.etsy.com

THE WEIRD 40-SOMETHINGS

2010-05-07T07:58:00.000-07:00

The other day I realized something that I find very weird. My address and the addresses of my children (in other words all 4 of us) have the numbers 40-something in them. My youngest son’s address has 41 in it, my daughter has 42 in her’s, mine has 43 in it, and my oldest son’s has 44 in his. I don’t know which is weirder, that we all have 40-somethings in our addresses or that the realization popped into my head out of the clear blue!
Still caught in the wonder of that phenomenon, it just dawned on me that the 4 of us also have the 40-somethings in our home phone numbers! My youngest son has the number 40 in his, my middle two children have 44 in theirs and I have 47 in mine. AND! We all have 40-somethings in our cell phone numbers, too! (two 44’s, a 41 and a 48!) What’s going on here?! This is kinda freakin’ me out!
I tried to find out what 40 represents but didn’t have much luck with that. My favorite number is three so there’s no relevance there. I tried playing the lottery with the 40’s numbers but didn’t win.
What’s it all about? I’d love to know; I’m sure it means something because it’s just too weird!
My Etsy shop is: www.recklessspinner.etsy.com

A LUXURIOUSLY SOFT, MOHAIR BED

2010-05-05T14:44:00.000-07:00

It all started several years ago during a time of very warm weather, so warm in fact, that by the time the sun was up it was comfortable enough to do my spinning in the backyard. I was using mostly mohair and when a sudden breeze came up, a bit of the fluffy stuff blew onto the lawn. Before I could retrieve it a sparrow swooped down and carted it off - reminds me of the time a mocking bird chased me all the way home trying to get some of my hair for her nest...but that's a whole different story.
It was mid-morning when I finished spinning (I can get a lot done if I start at five a.m.). I’d used an old sheet to spread the dyed fleece out next to me. There were quite a few small mohair curls and tufts of fleece left but concerned about the dye on it and the health of the birds, I took some natural mohair fleece and tossed it onto the lawn to see if the sparrow would come back for more. To my surprise, within minutes the sparrow along with his mate (who stood look-out from the fence) as well as several finches all took part in the giveaway.
The other day my neighbor called to tell me that a wild wind we’d experienced the previous night had blown a little, empty nest from her tree. She said she had put the nest back on a low branch hoping that its parts would be of use to some bird.
“I couldn’t put it in the trash,” she explained, “it was so pretty, full of the pink and blue fluffy stuff that you spin.”
My Etsy shop is: www.recklessspinner.etsy.com

NEVER GIVE A BALL OF YARN TO SOMEBODY HEAVILY SEDATED

2010-05-04T13:23:00.000-07:00

Hubby and I volunteered to help someone get an endoscopy yesterday. Endoscopies seem to be “in” right now; the office was jam packed and this is the third person I know of who has recently had one. Because there were so many people the procedures were running an hour late…let’s see…12:30 in the afternoon and no food or water since midnight the previous night, an extra hour to sit and wonder how the procedure would go and what they might find – it was torture for the patient!
I, of course, had brought my knitting with me. I’m using balls of cotton and leftover balls of my handspun wool to knit up patterned squares that will eventually end up an afghan. Needless to say in the four hours sitting in the waiting room, I got a lot done.
When we were finally allowed to retrieve the patient she kept asking, “Now what did they do to me?” The nurse whispered to me that she would probably ask the question several times – no kidding! That question had been asked and answered (by me) seven times in the past five minutes.
Although her speech was fine and she looked normal she was a little wobbly. Hubby took one side of her and I took the other while juggling my knitting bag, her purse, jacket and keys. We walked her to the car, as I explained for the twenty-fifth time what they’d done to her.
We got her into the back seat and buckled up. As we took off she asked, “Now what did they do to me?”
I was halfway through my repeated response when she asked for her purse. As I passed it back to her my ball of yarn fell from my bag, rolled into the back and onto the floor.
“It’s okay, I’ll get it when we get home,” I said.
But she had already picked it up and somehow got it wound around the handles of her purse.
I leaned between the seats to try and help unwind the mess but I guess I was unwinding one way and she was unwinding the other because before I knew it the yarn was tightly wrapped around one handle in some places, and both handles in others.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Hubby shaking in silent laughter as most the twenty minute trip home was spent with me twisted backwards between seats trying to wind up the yarn as fast as our patient unwound it.
By the time we pulled into our driveway I had my yarn back (with only a few rows missing) and our patient had her purse back.
As I unbuckled her to get her into the house she looked me in the eye and asked, “Now what did they do to me?”

My Etsy shop is located at: www.recklessspinner.etsy.com

2010-05-02T09:45:00.000-07:00

DYEING MOHAIR – PART II
My brother-in-law, John, has agreed to help me light the camp stove so I can steam my dyed fleece; I’d ask hubby’s help but he hates anything more complicated than turning on a light switch…and admits that even that baffles him on especially dark nights.
I knew I couldn’t light the camp stove using a book of matches, and I knew I wanted something longer than a wooden kitchen match. I also knew that a fireplace match wouldn’t keep me far enough from harm’s way. Nor would it light the propane fast enough for me to hightail it to the house once the thing was lit. I needed something bigger and better than a match. I needed…the Olympic torch…but I knew that was out of the question so I headed back to the hardware store.
Either it was my lucky day, or the manager had just come back from his break because, although some of the sales people were hiding down less popular aisles so they could talk to each other on their walkie-talkies, there were several of them offering help to every customer they could find. My helper caught me before the automatic door slid shut behind me.
“I have to light a propane stove so I need something better than a match to do it,” I said to him.
“We don’t got nothin’ like that,” he replied.
“I think I’ll look in the patio section and see what you do have,” I told him.
Evidently curious to see what I’d find there, he went with me. Before even entering the patio section I saw, hanging on an end rack, a barbecue lighter shaped like a gun with a very long nose.
“Maybe this will work,” I mumbled to myself.
“Nuh uh,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re gonna light a propane tank you need somethin’ bigger than that,” he stated.
“I’m not going to light the tank,” I tried to explain, but he cut me off, and whipping out a walkie-talkie he pressed the talk button.
“Caroline! Caroline! You there?!” he shouted into the unit.
“Yeah,” Caroline shouted back through the static.
“Caroline,” you got anything long, real, real long, you can use to light things with, over there?”
I wanted to tell him that I didn’t plan to light the camp stove from the neighbor’s yard, but I doubt he would have listened anyway.
“No,” she yelled back. “Nothing like that over here.”
I started to reach over and take one of the barbecue lighters from a peg, but my helper put his hand out and stopped me.
“Caroline,” he said, once again into the walkie-talkie, “haven’t you got something?...like a long stick or somethin’?”
“A stick won’t work,” I told him, inundated with visions of me lighting the stove, then running for the house with a flaming stick in my hand.
Again he stopped me before I could get my hands on one of the barbecue lighters.
“No. Nothing like that over here,” Caroline repeated.
“Then how about a long pole? Something she can tape a match to? This lady needs somethin’ to light her propane tank with!”
“I’m not lighting the tank!” I snarled, nearly as frustrated as him. “I want to light…” But before I could add, “…a camp stove” a man walked up and asked my helper where the nuts and bolts were. Now I could have told the man, having spent most of the previous day in that aisle buying unnecessary items, but instead I took the opportunity while my helper was distracted, to grab a barbecue lighter from the rack.
“Thanks for your help,” I called over my shoulder as I ran for the check-out stand.
My etsy shop is at: www.recklessspinner.etsy.com

DYEING MOHAIR LOCKS

2010-04-30T11:18:00.000-07:00

I was watching a cooking program on TV when lo and behold I saw just what I needed to assist me with dyeing my mohair fleece.
Having been raised by a mother who, as a kid was struck by lightning, I am deeply entrenched in the “fear of God’ when it comes to electricity, gas, fire and anything that could possibly be poisonous. So it was only natural that breathing the fumes from the freshly dyed steaming fleece vapors concerned me no end. But with the little camping stove I’d seen on TV I would be able to steam the fleece in the yard while I stayed safely behind locked doors. The solution was perfect! I ordered the stove the same day.
A few days later it arrived already assembled (thank heavens!) along with a propane hose, a little vent shield thing, a spring and a fifteen page manual filled mainly with the Do’s and Don’ts and what would happen to you if you did the Don’ts and didn’t do the Do’s. Overly cautious to begin with I vowed I’d be extra careful when I got to the propane part of the agenda (how could I have ignored that part when I bought the thing?!). But after giving myself a severe talking to and then chanting affirmations about my courage and abilities I was once more psyched up about using the camping stove. So when I saw that the little vent shield thing used to regulate the air flow to the burner was missing the screw to attach it!...well…I was nearly beside myself. Should I return the whole thing: stove, propane hose, little vent shield thing and spring, along with a nasty letter? I was tempted. But then visions of noxious fumes wafting through my home set my heart pounding and I decided to simply go to the hardware store and buy a screw to fit.
Since I didn’t trust my measurement of the hole (third line over, on the tape measure) I decided I’d better take the stove with me. I invited hubby to go along and carry it.
When we got to the store and saw the array of nuts, bolts and screws and how messed up they were in the bins our hearts sank (well my heart sank, anyway). And after ten minutes of trying to find something that would screw in all the way and not just three turns, we tracked down a salesperson who found us a metric bolt. It still didn’t screw in all the way, but we were determined (well, I was determined) that we could FORCE it in once we got it home.
Unfortunately I hadn’t thought to bring the spring that was part of the set-up (actually I thought the spring had been accidentally put in the box instead of the needed bolt). So when we got home and put the spring in place, then added the little vent shield thing, and screwed on the new metric bolt we were dismayed (I was dismayed, anyway) to see that, try as we might, the metric bolt wouldn’t go in far enough to bolt down the vent – instead, the vent dangled off the bolt like a condemned man hanging from the gallows.
It took me a good twenty minutes of staring at the problem to come up with the brilliant idea of making the whole thing tighter by attaching a nut…or two…or three!
So back to the hardware store we went (as I bragged shamelessly about my superior brain). And this time we brought along the camping stove, the metric bolt, the spring, and the little vent shield thing.
This time we didn’t fool around; we walked in and immediately asked for help.
The man who assisted us found us a metric nut to go with the metric bolt. It still wasn’t a tight fit but we took it anyway – we were tired and hungry (at least I was).
It wasn’t until we were pulling up to the house that I realized that with my newly purchased metric nut and my newly purchased metric bolt I had managed to successfully plug up the hole where the propane hose (already complete from the factory with all necessary screws) needed to be screwed in!
Oh well, I’m sure I’ll find a use for the perfectly good metric nut and bold. I might even find a use for it on the next thing I purchase.
My etsy shop is at: www.recklessspinner.etsy.com

BUSY, BUSY, BUSY

2010-04-19T09:07:00.000-07:00

I've been very busy (and who isn't you ask), but I say this as a reason/excuse/point- of-fact as to why I've been away from my blog for so long. It's because I've been spinning, dying and setting up an Etsy shop (note the photo of my avatar - painted by the one and only Hubby: James Zar).

If you'd like to see some of my handiwork, you can go to www.recklessspinner.etsy.com
Hope to see you there!

DOUBLE TROUBLE

2009-12-18T09:19:00.000-08:00

With my energy level back to par, I’ve started spinning again for a woman who sells yarn to yarn shops – hence my delay in getting any blogs done. But it won’t be long before I get organized, I’m sure; and I am enjoying working with the wonderful colors this woman comes up with.
It was last year during the Santa Ana winds, when the early morning sun had stained the sky the color of crushed raspberries that I decided to work out in the backyard on my latest handwork adventure (one of way too many undertakings, I’m afraid). This particular piece is being knitted for the Dulaan Project (www.fireprojects.org – it amazes me that by doing something easy and fun, I might be making someone’s life a little better). The item I’m working on is a child’s turquoise and lavender, knit-from-the-neck-down sweater.
With my bag of knitting gear and my soft wool, I settled onto the swing next to my garden and was immediately greeted by the drifting scent of Rosemary (the perfumed air provided by our cat Skittles as he snooped through the low lying branches of the plant – it seems that cats are always on the lookout for new adventures – too bad their paws are not made to hold knitting needles).
Although my garden takes up a very small area it suits me fine and is easy to care for. Situated at the top of a gully the garden is fairly quiet, considering it’s in a congested neighborhood. And being organic it’s full of bees, ladybugs, butterflies and birds (that is, once I’ve taken our two kitties into the house).
I’ve promised myself that one night I’ll stay awake and find out what leaves tiny, muddy prints around the huge bowl water I leave out for the thirsty creatures who visit the garden during the wee hours. But so far I’ve been too lazy to stay awake beyond my regular bedtime which is early, even by my standards. I suspect the prints are being left by a raccoon; I doubt that the feral cats would leave tracks all over the place (cats being much too proper to tramp through mud). One of the feral cats is a beautiful, slender feline with a very unusual, gray spotted coat and one clipped ear (a sign that some good Samaritan did the responsible thing and had her/him spayed/neutered). And while he (Hubby calls it a she, I refer to it as “he” – consequently it’s called he/she interchangeably by either/both of us) is getting friendlier, there have been days when it seemed terrified to be caught in the yard with Hubby even though Hubby is loaded down with bowls of cat food. For some time Hubby had been complaining that he was spending more time feeding the feral cat than painting and in fact the feral cat was eating as much as Skittles and Sugar (our black and white female) combined. We were both amazed at the amount of cat food that the little guy/gal was packing away until one day when I glanced outside and saw that there were two he/she’s – twins of all things! A perfectly matched pair of beautifully dressed felines – who may/may not be (but probably are) preparing their share of double trouble for our household.

MONEY ISN'T EVERYTHING

2009-12-02T13:32:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago my granddaughter accidentally left her purse (containing her cell phone and wallet) in a taxi. Not only did the driver deliver her purse to her house and leave her belongings on the front porch, but inside her purse he’d left her a note. The note said, “I lost my wallet one time and when I got it back it was empty. I didn’t want that to happen to you,” – folded inside the note was a hundred dollar bill!
Wanting to do something nice in return, my granddaughter tracked down the taxi driver but all he wanted was for her to pass on a kindness to someone else.
Her experience reminded me of an incident that took place several years ago when my older sister (not older than the hills – just older than me), a family friend, my mom (who’d be the first to say she is older than the hills – age 92 to be exact) went out to lunch. The car we were in was low to the ground and my sister and I were having a heck of a time getting mom out. As we tugged and pushed on her we started to laugh and the laughing only got worse when my mother starting scolding, “Don’t you girls get me started laughing!” We finally extricated the poor woman (without the use of the Jaws of Life) and went in to lunch.
During the meal I noticed that a man at a table across from us kept glancing in our direction (not that I blamed him – we were still chuckling over mom being stuck in the back of the car). The man was well dressed: black slacks and black silk shirt. But the reason I noticed him was because before he sat down I saw that he had something similar to the receiver of an old fashioned phone hanging from his belt by a long black cord, and I wondered what that was all about. Was he in the restaurant on his lunch break? If so what kind of job required that he carry half a phone dangling from his person?
The man left as we were finishing our meal and when the waitress came to see if we wanted dessert, my sister asked for the check.
“Your check has been taken care of,” the waitress said. Pointing at the table that the man had recently vacated, she added, “The man that was sitting at that table paid for your lunches and said to tell you to have a nice day.”
The four of us were stunned into silence (finally).
“Who is he?” one of us asked.
“I don’t know,” the waitress answered, “he comes in every once in a while,
chooses someone and pays for their meal. And he leaves before anyone can thank him.”
That guy made our day! And not because we got a free meal, but because it’s so
great to be reminded that there are some really nice people sharing our space on the planet.

THE KING LIVES

2009-11-28T10:28:00.000-08:00

On a shopping trip a few years ago, I met The King. No, not that King - I was nowhere near Graceland. This King was in his early twenties, and lacking the formality that usually accompanies royalty, he casually introduced himself simply as "The King". He showed no shyness in admitting his concern for the welfare of those visiting his Kingdom, and without complaint explained that he kept a careful watch, five days a week, over his domain that started at the pencil aisle and ended at the packing supplies. A man of integrity, he took his responsibilities seriously and quickly helped me locate all the items on my shopping list before being summoned over the speaker system. As he walked away he said that if I needed further help, to call him. I'd barely gotten out the words, "Ohhh Kiiing," when he was back at my side - it was almost a pleasure spending more money than I'd intended.
After leaving all my cash at the check stand, I called for the manager - who slowly slunk from his office.
"I'm the manager," he choked, as if fearing that if he heard one more complaint he’d be compelled to run his head through the paper shredder. His demeanor left me unsure of his sense of humor so without calling The King, “King”, I simply pointed at the young man and said to the manager, "That guy is a great salesman and I wanted to let you know."
Like magic the manager's attitude changed lickey-split and happily he stated, "I'll make a note of it in his employee file."
I always take the time to tell store managers when their employees are really good and I would have loved to compliment another guy that helped me at the hardware store.
The store had just opened on a Sunday morning, and I'd begun to scour the shelves for a light fixture when a nicely dressed fellow started down the aisle. With an eye toward tidiness, he was straightening the area by realigning all the merchandise.
After some searching I found a floor sample of the item I wanted, but there were none in boxes on the shelves. So as the young man worked his way toward me I called out to him, told him what I was looking for and asked if he'd help me find one. He agreed in a gentlemanly manner.
Together we'd pulled down, and put back, every box on the messy shelves before he said apologetically, "I guess there aren't any more." When he saw my disappointment he added quickly, "But maybe there are some in the back." My frustration mounting, I asked brusquely, "Well, would you mind looking?!" "Oh, okay, sure," he replied with some embarrassment.
Ten minutes later, as I was about to walk out of the store in disgust, the young man reappeared. His tie was askew, the front of his black slacks and white shirt were smudged with dust, but in his hands was a large box. "It's not the same one, but it's close," he said with a smile.
Happily I took the box to the check stand and when the item wouldn’t come up on the cash register I was asked the price. I stated that I didn't know and explained that the man who works in the lighting department, or (from the way he was dressed) perhaps it was the store manager, had gotten the light fixture from the back room. The cashier called for the two men to come to her register. When they appeared, both the manager and the man working in the lighting department were dressed in jeans and brightly colored T-shirts sporting the store's logo.
The young man who'd helped me certainly deserved to have my stamp of approval placed in his employee file - if only he'd been an employee.

JIMMY SQUIRREL

2009-11-22T13:38:00.000-08:00

After one of my treatments last month, we went to the park to see the ducks. Unfortunately the ducks were on furlough (while their ponds were being refurbished) and in their place was a woman who set her parrot on a big rock for me to photograph him (unfortunately she chose a rock that was in the shade – but you can still see him). And there were also oodles of chubby, gray squirrels.
We watched as a young mother held out a nut to one of the fluffy tailed critters. The squirrel was cautions on its approach, but then sat up on its hind legs, took the nut and ate it right there in front of the woman. Of course her son (a toddler) reached out to touch the little guy and beside me, Hubby gasped, “What if the squirrel thinks the baby is holding a peanut and accidentally bites his finger!” I have to admit, I was getting nervous, too. But the mom, being on her toes, had everything under control and easily slipped in between her son and the squirrel.
My sister was telling me that years ago the park near her house was full of gray squirrels. She and my brother-in-law used to take their son (a toddler at the time) and go visit them. Their son loved the squirrels and called them all Jimmy Squirrel – nobody knew why, that was just what he called them (like his cousin who stubbornly called his dad, Bill – not dad, not even his real name….just Bill). My sister said her son desperately wanted to feed the squirrels (while in his mind he probably also had visions of catching a few) and in his excitement he’d run up to one holding out a peanut – which of course caused the squirrel to take off in terror. He’d chase after Jimmy Squirrel for a ways, eventually throwing the peanut in the direction of the departing animal. But before long he’d turn and moving as fast as a toddler is able, he’d hurry back toward his parents – and right behind him would by a horde of hungry Jimmy Squirrels.

WOEBEGONES

2009-11-20T09:42:00.000-08:00

I saw a street person walk past my house yesterday, which is an unusual sight. It’s not as if we don’t have unusual sights along our street: a woman in pj’s and hiking boots walking a tiny dog down the middle of the road, two very large, very drunk old men who took turns running up every driveway to yell the name Bertie into each backyard before scampering off (that was before the police arrived), a fellow dressed in black (black shoes, black pants, black shirt, black bowler) who quacks (through some kind of portable amplifying system) every so many yards as he jogs along, a guy who roams the area at three a.m. calling for Skippy – but seldom do we see street people. I suppose the man spends his nights in the park (beautiful surroundings, but not a safe place to have to sleep). His hair was a matted mess, his clothes were in tatters and he was filthy (which was obvious clear from inside my house).
There are some that believe a derelict gets what he/she deserves. That they are simply shiftless and too lazy to work – which is undoubtedly true in some cases. But that kind of thinking makes it all too easy to sidestep compassion, a commodity that is sorely lacking.
I have a friend who swears that my way of thinking draws those down on their luck to me. She constantly refers to the time I was on the other side of the U.S., standing with a large group of people waiting for a taxi when a homeless man, riding an imaginary motorcycle, pulled up to me and screeched on his imaginary brakes. As a group, those around me took a giant step backwards.
“Hi,” the motorcyclist said to me.
“Hi,” I replied.
“My friend, Charlie, wants to meet you,” he stated.
Oh boy.
Before I could respond, the man pulled out a plant from a spare shirt he had tucked under his arm (an action, I’m sure, meant to keep him from driving in a reckless manner). The roots of the creeping Charlie, void of dirt, dangled freely yet the leaves looked fresh and healthy (leaving me to believe that it had been very recently ripped from its home to go on this little trip).
“Hi, Charlie,” I said softly, hoping the crowd wouldn’t notice that I was conversing with vegetation.
The man smiled at me revealing toothless gums before revving up his bike and taking off with a loud varoom, varoom.
Aside from the homeless down on their luck, there are those with mental problems living on the street. One in particular was a middle aged man who spent much of each day wandering along the same thoroughfare. His disheveled appearance and loud ranting made him a frightening figure. One day Hubby could no longer stand the man’s tortured out bursts and approached him as the man screamed at an unseen partner. Hubby handed the man some money and over the raving, shouted, “Go get some breakfast.” The words seemed to jolt the man back to reality, at least for a moment.
“Okay,” he replied meekly.
Too bad the problems of the homeless can’t be solved as easily as that.

SNAKES CAN BE DANGEROUS

2009-11-15T09:46:00.000-08:00

It has been suggested to me that I come clean and stop putting in “Fact or fib” - okay, so the stories are true…except for little portions like: I don’t live in a house the size of a crawl space – it’s more the size of a bread box…and I don’t really call the sweetie I’m married to “Hubby”. Now that we’ve got that straight, let me blather on about the new walking spot Hubby and I found. It’s a quiet, secluded area that feels like it’s out in the country, even though it’s nestled in among the homes of a heavily populated area. In fact, when I was in elementary school all of us neighborhood kids would drag cardboard boxes up to this spot and slide down the hillsides – that was before there were any buildings there, of course – we were good at cardboard tobogganing but not so good we could steer around fences and houses at 20 mph.
I wonder if our parents realized where we were going, since the area was notorious for rattlesnakes. In fact, yesterday, during the walk through this lovely spot, I stayed very alert. Even though Hubby always reminds me that snakes are shy creatures I wouldn’t care to run into one – but that’s just me, I guess; the park workers don’t seem to have that worry. Although the park is full of warning signs about rattlesnakes, I noticed that the door to every building in the place was propped open: the offices, the gymnasium, the restrooms, the utility sheds – are these people a bunch of wackos?! Don’t they know that on a warm day a snake will take refuge in a cool building?!!!!!
I suppose I’m a little overly anxious when it comes to snake encounters. And even though I’ve touched them before, the thought of them touching me sends me into a panic – like the time out on my sister’s property (also rattlesnake country). We had taken her van, containing a huge barrel of water (strapped down where the backseats used to be) to water her trees which were planted out in the brush. Keeping a sharp look-out for snakes, I probably had snakes on the brain.
My sister had just scooped a bucket of water from the barrel when the van began to roll backwards. When she yelled, “Hit the brake!” I could have SWORN she yelled “It’s a snake!” and literally trampled her on my way out. Now logically I know that even if a snake was tall enough to reach the door handle, it probably wouldn’t know how to open the door – but then a fear-crazed mind will believe anything.
But doesn’t that experience substantiate my theory that snakes can be dangerous? – even when they aren’t around. I’m sure my sister would agree.

A VERY SPECIAL DAY

2009-11-12T09:52:00.000-08:00

Not only did all of my test results come back great, but I woke up at four
this morning remembering that on this very date, many moons ago a unique character was welcomed into the world. From day one he was great company – as a little guy, when we’d pass the Kentucky Fried Chicken place, he’d point and in his deep, gravely voice he’d say, “I like that Tucky Turkey” – that was before he became a vegetarian.
He had long eyelashes that always caught peoples’ attention which was a great embarrassment to him (wearing a “tiger skin” beret, wasn’t. Compliments were). As he got a little older, when someone would stop us to compliment him on his long lashes he’d copy his hero (Spider Man). He’d point his wrists at the culprit in hopes of covering the unsuspecting person with webs.
A healthy baby he never had so much as a cold for the first two years of his life. Maybe it was his robust health that caused him to be so active as a toddler (climbing out of windows when no one was looking, for one thing – climbing onto the bathroom counter in preparation for shaving, for another).
As he matured to kindergarten age so did his interest in taking things apart (if you’ve ever tried to wind a heavy-duty metal tape measure back into its case, you know it’s an impossible task). And while in elementary school he disassembled his two wheeler (all of it - every single part that wasn’t welded together). His bike sat in a big pile in front of the fireplace for some time (better there than to have bits and pieces scattered and lost in the yard – and there were lots and lots of bits and pieces). Then one day I came home from work to find his bike restored to its original state. When I asked who put it back together (what I probably should have asked, two weeks before, was why did you take the whole thing apart – but really, I knew why: 1. because he could and 2. to see how it worked). He said, “I put it back together, myself. I couldn’t before because I couldn’t figure out how the brakes worked, but on the walk home from school today I knew what to do.”
From the time he was little, he was always thoughtful (he had an unchanging philosophy of “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you”) consequently for Hubby’s birthday gift, the little guy shouted Happy Birthday and opening his shirt allowed a newly found cat to jump free, and land on Hubby’s dinner plate where it began to devour his pork chop – that was before Hubby became a vegetarian. The next year’s gift came under the same heading of “Do unto others” but at least the cymbal clapping monkey wasn’t a live monkey – we were happy about that. But from then on, Hubby’s birthday gifts took an upswing, like the painting of Dangerous Dan.
There were many adventures of lost snakes in the house, detached hands crawling across the floor during breakfast, and entering a semi-dark room to find a head with wild hair and startling blue eyes staring back ominously. What a time was had by all!
So Happy Birthday to the painter of monsters (one of the sweetest souls imaginable) – we love you, Chet!

2009-11-11T08:26:00.000-08:00

A TALE OF TWO CATS
What would life be without pets? Sure, mine sometimes drive me nuts with their demands. I guess the ones at my house are spoiled and it’s our fault (well, mainly Hubby’s fault) but to a one they are gentle creatures who insist on comforting either of us if they think we’re under the weather or down in the dumps. Of course the rubbing and ten toed massages they give aren’t always convenient, like when I’m trying to polish my nails, or drink a hot cup of coffee. But they mean well and in my book that counts for a lot.
Then there is that other side of them which is a different matter entirely: throwing themselves at the bedroom door if someone is napping and they suddenly decide the bed is really their property, sitting on the checkbook as I’m trying to quickly get a balance so I can write a check for a delivery person waiting at the door, cleaning a person’s plate when they aren’t looking, drinking from my glass of water that I keep next to the bed at night (when the slurping noise woke me I had to wonder how many years we’d been sharing the same glass – ahhhh!) And they’ve even been known to try and trip a person if they want to get a point across. Undisciplined? I’m afraid so. And worst of all is the new addition, Fang who bullies everyone else. Once he’s let out in the morning he tramps around the yard checking things out and you can almost hear him saying, “Fe Fi Fo Fum…Someone stepped in my yard and boy was that dumb!”
If only ours had the manners displayed by a little Chihuahua I saw. He was sitting with his owner who was wheelchair bound. The chair had been rigged so that a board formed a small platform between the man’s feet. Dressed in a straw sombrero (the dog, not the man) with danglies hanging down and tiny, tiny sunglasses the Chihuahua proudly shared his owner’s pleasure in watching the traffic go by.
But I have to admit our pets are not as spoiled or outlandish as some. At least they don’t rip things up if Hubby and I have to leave the house (well at least they don’t any more). Nor do our cats use the toilet as a litter box (which sounds like it should be a good thing, right?). I know of two cats that do that – unfortunately neither knows how to flush, and one only uses it when company arrives – the cat’s owner admits it’s imperative she stay sharp in order to check out the facilities before her guests have need of them.
It’s true that ours will only eat what they want to eat (which changes from day to day and is kept a secret from us until the last minute and then only revealed after numerous brands and flavors have been dished up). Still, when they’re sleeping they look so sweet! – even though the place they’re taking up is the exact spot you’ve vacated only seconds before to reach across the coffee table for a magazine.
Perhaps, like children, a pet’s main job is to keep the people they own on their toes.

RUN IN WITH THE COPS

2009-11-09T13:31:00.000-08:00

A RUN-IN WITH THE COPS
My first encounter occurred many years ago. I’d locked my keys in the car (the one and only time I did that) across the street from the post office and in front of a rough and tumble kind of park (full of rough and tough kind of folks). Having heard that it was possible to pop up the door lock with a coat hanger, I ran to the post office and begged one off of the man behind the counter. Evidently I wasn’t the first postal visitor to lock their keys in because the hanger was already prepared for its new job.
Unaware that I had an audience, I tried to get the straightened hanger beyond the closed window and into the car. On about the third attempt I heard a man loudly moan, “You’re going to rip the gasket!”
I looked behind me as a tall, dark man appeared at my shoulder.
“Give me that!” he demanded, ripping the coat hanger from my hand.
It was miraculous; in less than five seconds he had the door open!
But before I could thank him he dropped the hanger to the sidewalk and took off like a Jack rabbit with his tail on fire. For anyone who has read my novel, SCREAM ONCE FOR HELP, yes, this scenario was included (sort of).
I watched in amazement as the good Samaritan (with lightening speed) disappeared down a hillside. Stunned by his quick departure I was staring like a goofus at the empty hill when I heard my name being broadcast. I turned back toward my car and saw that a patrol car had pulled up, and a patrolman was climbing out.
Upon approaching me he demanded, “Do you know that guy?”
“No, I locked my keys inside and he was helping me get in,” I stuttered nervously.
Glaring ominously, he snarled, “He’s a convicted car thief!”
Like that’s my fault?
“Show me some identification,” he ordered.
The patrolman was obviously angry, but I was getting a little hot under the collar, too. It was bad enough that I’d locked my keys in, now I was being treated like I’d broken the law!
My hands shaking, I handed over my driver’s license.
“See how nervous you’ve made me!” I blurted out.
But honestly? I don’t think he cared.
The latest encounter occurred more recently when I received a call from a police sergeant asking if he could use my backyard for a stake-out. I agreed (contrary to the patrolman’s opinion, I am a law abiding citizen – besides who wants a ring of potential thieves working in the area).
The sergeant arrived that afternoon and upon scoping things out decided that the best place to see what was going on was behind my yard in a small plot being used as a vegetable garden by one of the neighbors. I showed him how to access the garden by squeezing past a brick wall, and then I got a chair for him.
I watched (which he probably loved!) as he set up headquarters (binoculars, walkie-talkie, movie camera and bottled water) behind a row of very tall broccoli. When I heard my phone ringing I ran in and grabbed it.
“What were you doing?” my sister wanted to know, since I normally answer by the third ring.
“I was taking a chair out to a policeman,” I answered breathlessly.
“What?”
“There’s a policeman doing a stake-out behind the neighbor’s broccoli and I was giving him a chair so he wouldn’t have to squat in the dirt,” I explained.
“Figures,” she replied before stating the reason she was calling.
Unlike the patrolman that had me a nervous wreck, all of the officers on stake-out were polite and friendly except for one who had a somewhat sour disposition. The first time he arrived he knocked on the front door to introduce himself and show me his badge (which they all did). I accompanied him to the back wall, showed him how to get into the garden and explained that the other officers had used the broccoli as a blind. After staring down the long row of tall plants he grumbled, “I hate broccoli!”
Ahhh, sir, I wasn’t suggesting you eat them, only that you use them to hide behind.
It was a little over a week before the sergeant and his men got what they wanted…or at least I guess they did; it’s been several years now and none of them have been back.

BABY NEEDS A NEW PAIR OF SHOES

2009-11-08T11:14:00.001-08:00

I have a pair of English walking shoes that I really like. They’re clogs with black leather tops in a crisscross design and leather piping that runs around the edge where the top is connected to the bottom. Most importantly they’re very comfortable.
One day as I was slipping them on I saw that the piping had a slit in it and beneath the slit the top of the shoe was coming off the bottom. Since I had just noticed a new shoe repair shop, I immediately dropped off my beloved broken shoe.
The following week when the shoe was due to be released Hubby offered to pick it up for me, which he did…after a short argument with the repair man who insisted that a man’s brown dress shoe was mine. Hubby finally went behind the counter, dug through a big pile of shoes and came up with my walking shoe and brought it home. When I saw my wonderful shoe, I was devastated! The repair man had scrunched everything together and slapped on a dab of glue (and told hubby that was all that could be done with it). Sadly I stuck the shoe in the back of the closet wondering if I ever dared wear it again.
Day before yesterday my neighbors invited me over to celebrate the 2nd birthday of their little girl. The mom knew I was still low on energy, so she understood when I said I’d love to come long enough to watch the baby open her gifts – the mom agreed to call me when the party got to that stage.
When I got to the house it was full of people, mostly adults. I was introduced to scads of friends and family and then I took a seat to watch the birthday girl open her presents.
Once the baby had opened everything, I got up to leave and found that my neighbor had packed up huge plates of food and cake for me to take home. She slipped the plates into a paper bag, which had to be carried flat. I balanced the bag on the palms of my hands and as I took a step, I felt my English walking shoe break.
“Oh, goodness,” my neighbor exclaimed, “your shoe is broken.”
Everyone turned and looked at my feet where the side of my foot was sticking out of the side of my shoe.
“I’ll get my husband to carry the food across the street,” she offered.
Embarrassed to be wearing a shoe that looked like something a hobo would wear, I quickly said, “Oh no, I can get it.”
I tried to hurry out of the room and found that the only way I could walk was by stepping with the good shoe and dragging the bad…step with the good, drag the bad.
I tried a gallant smile on my way out, but I don’t think anyone noticed – they were all staring at my feet.
I made it out of the house, and balancing the food on one palm, I managed to remove and pick up my broken shoe. I had gotten as far as the curb when my good shoe (which up to this point had absolutely nothing wrong with it) suddenly fell apart!
Still balancing the food, I very slowly squatted down and gathered up the pieces, then tip toeing ever so lightly (so I wouldn’t ruin my embroidered socks on the rough blacktop) I hurried across the street. When I got to my driveway I looked back to make sure I hadn’t left a trail of broken shoe parts littering the neighbor’s yard and to my horror I saw that all the guests were gathered at the big bay window, waving.
Fact or fib – you be the judge.

THE BAG LADY AND THE BOOK BAG

2009-11-01T09:28:00.000-08:00

When a person is young and has a family it seems that the children (if paid attention to) add the necessary ingredient for a well rounded life. And once the children are grown and gone there aren’t many other things to fill that gap other than pets and certain friends.
We had some of these friends over the other day. We had a great time remembering funny stories, telling jokes and discussing future aspirations. It was a very pleasing day.
And then there are those friends that are off the wall funny and very creative as well. On a visit to the home of one such friend, I got to her porch and through the screen door I could see her laying on the couch. She was reading and using a pair of salad tongs to hold her paperback far enough away so she could see the words – that was years ago, she has since turned to using drug store cheaters.
I feel very lucky to count family as friends. If you have numerous relatives (which I do) who enjoy the same type of humor that you enjoy, you’re very fortunate…now that I think about it, I believe that all of my family members share the same brand of humor, some to a bigger degree than others but still it’s the same – and believe me the things we laugh at can be pretty bizarre. Case in point: there was the time one family member decided the kids’ bedrooms needed a good cleaning: fresh start and all that stuff. The children helped her box up old toys and clothes that no longer fit and in parade fashion marched the bags and boxes down to the alley where it was a certainty that those in need would find them and haul the stuff off.
The cleaning job had taken all morning and the mom had just sat down to recuperate when her teenaged daughter began to yell.
“Hey! Where are my books for school? My books are gone,” she wailed.
The mom ran to the window and looked down to the alley. Sure enough an older, rather small, bag lady was dragging off one of the big trash bags. Slung over her arm was the familiar backpack bulging with the daughter’s school books.
Followed by her brood, the mother rushed down to the alley.
“Just a minute,” she called out, and the bag lady picked up speed. But being beyond her running years she didn’t get very far before the mother caught up.
“You can keep all of the other stuff,” the mom explained, “but I need the backpack; it has my daughter’s books in it.”
The bag lady waved her off and pretending she didn’t speak English, tried to hurry away.
“Wait!” the mother exclaimed, easily stepping in front of the little woman. Pointing at the backpack she said very distinctly, “I need this back. It was put out by mistake. My daughter’s school books are in there.”
With the trash bag slung over one shoulder, and the backpack hanging off the other, the bag lady once again tried to escape.
“Stop,” the mother shouted and grabbed the strap of the backpack.
“That’s mine!” the bag lady yelled (minus even the hint of an accent).
Being younger, the mom’s reaction time was much better and she pulled the backpack away and started back down the alley with it.
The kids, who’d been silent observers, started to yell and point behind her.
Before the mother had a chance to turn around the bag lady jumped on her back.
Afraid of hurting the older woman by trying to push her off, the mother did the only thing she could think of: she began to rotate (going only as fast as is possible when an adult is riding piggy back). She whirled one way and then the other but the bag lady was stuck like glue. Even with the children cheering her on, the mom couldn’t dislodge the bag lady or win the battle for the backpack…until a police car showed up (summoned by a neighbor, who, from an apartment window, had been watching the entire event, and called 911).
Upon hearing the burp of the siren, the mother came to a dizzy standstill and the bag lady slowly slid off, popping several buttons from the mom’s blouse, which in turn displayed her bra for all to see, causing the teenage daughter to yell with embarrassment, “Mom!” before rushing upstairs and locking herself in the house.
With the police in attendance the squabble was quickly straightened out; the mom got the backpack, the bag lady got the bag of discards (which left her grumbling that she should have gotten the backpack, too).
Oh gosh, did we laugh about that one – and in fact we still do!
FACT OR FIB – you be the judge.

EARLY TO RISE

2009-10-26T13:43:00.000-07:00

I’m an early riser but after a day of several appointments I decided to sleep in this morning. It’s now 6:30 a.m. and the neighbor’s lawn mower has me wide awake. As I sip my coffee I wait for the bizarre procedure to end: mow the lawn, water the lawn, mow the lawn again (yes, again), edge the lawn with a gasoline powered edger, and finally, FINALLY, use the loudest blower known to man – and this routine takes place sometimes twice a week!
I wouldn’t complain so much about the noise, if the blower operator would at least blow all the clippings, leaves and debris into a pile, then pick everything up and get rid of it (preferably by recycling). But that’s not what most people do. They use their blowers to disperse the mess they’ve made to their neighbors’ yards and gutters. Thanks, but no thanks, if I wanted a carpet of grass and crap covering my sidewalk I have six hundred square feet of yard that could easily supply my needs.
I can’t figure it out. A blower isn’t like a ray gun; it can’t make junk disintegrate – it’s gotta go someplace! And if the idea of yard work is to make things look nice and tidy, where does a gutter full of litter fit into the picture?
It must be true; beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
FACT OR FIB – you be the judge.

CHECK IN WITH THE CHECKER

2009-10-01T12:37:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up if someone had mentioned the word supermarket, people would have said, “Huh?” What we had were corner stores. Ours was owned and run by three men: Jimmy, Carmine, and Whispering Johnny. These guys knew everybody, as well as their shopping preferences. If a kid was sent to the store (which was usually the case) the men made sure the child bought the correct brand for that particular household. And all three guys were friendly with everyone.
Although for the most part the checkers in the supermarkets are friendly, it’s not exactly the same kind of friendly. Or it wasn’t until Babs (I’m calling her Babs for anonymity sake because I think she got fired) came on the scene. Babs was in her forties with contacts a startling shade of blue, and a friendly personality in the extreme. Once you dealt with her you couldn’t help but like her – and of course she liked you back. From that time on, if you were smart, you’d check in with Babs as soon as you entered the store. Otherwise a surprise greeting was eminent. The second Babs spotted a friend she’d come flying down the aisle to throw her arms around the person and give them a big smack on the cheek. And this welcoming would take place even if it meant leaving startled customers stranded in the midst of a transaction – I’m afraid that was Babs’ downfall.
Her friendliness was an asset to the store so I think the manager put up with a lot for a while: snacking on items as she stocked shelves, walking off and leaving a long time of people (“Break time,” she’d call over her shoulder, “be back in ten.”) and hiding out if she didn’t feel like working. Once we spent a good five minutes searching her out because we had an important question. After going up and down the aisles in vain, we ended up near the glassed-in enclosure where the video rentals were displayed. A movie was playing on one of the TV’s inside the room and the music caught my attention. I glanced over, and above the stacks of movies were two hands swaying high in the air. Hubby went to the door and peeked in.
“There you are,” he said, as someone grabbed him and pulled him inside. By the time I got to the door, both him and Babs were dancing up a storm.
We haven’t seen Babs in a long time, but the memories of those shopping days are as vivid as the days, long ago, when Whispering Johnny would carefully help me select the correct brand of peas.
When was the last time grocery shopping was a memorable event for you? Stay vigilant, it might be today.
FACT OR FIB – you be the judge.

CAT FOOD OR CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM?

2009-09-28T12:37:00.000-07:00

I love cool weather! Cloudy days? Wonderful. Fog? Even better!! – because along with the gloom comes the quiet.
The hot weather seems to be gone now (thank heavens) and with it went the flies as well as most other flying/crawling things. But not the ants. We had more than our fair share sharing our house this year – and like some animals I can think of the ants seem to like the accommodations well enough to extend their vacation. It’s not as if they aren’t living in a hostile environment but I guess in their tiny brains they’ve somehow come to terms with being booted out one door or another. Their thought process must run along the same lines as our cats who tolerate the neighbor’s dog. The shepherd (animal, not human) spends every waking second with his head shoved through the bars of the wrought iron fence and with glistening teeth, watches for one of the cats to appear. And somehow the cats seem to know that he can’t squeeze through more than his head. Nor can he jump the fence. Still, the thought of sunning in the backyard, next door to a killer that is bent on murdering you, would be a bone chilling prospect to me.
Right now there’s an ant after my coffee. The little guy (or gal) is persistent! He/she repeatedly sprints for the cup but the heat emanating from it forces him/her to back off. If the goal were ever to be achieved, it would be really disappointing – there’s nothing in the cup but plain, old black coffee. And what’s an ant doing in the bedroom anyway? There’s no food in here! But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, the ants are everywhere – sometimes I sit on the couch and watch them as they slowly trudge across the carpet on their way to…nowhere?
In the past I’ve been able to discourage the mobs of ants by making sure that nothing attractive to them gets left out. We carefully wipe down every surface and hide anything sweet in the refrigerator (since resealable bags, and closed jars are no deterrent). So I wasn’t surprised this morning when I saw a group of early risers breakfasting on the edge of the kitchen sink where a teensy, tiny drop of chocolate ice cream had dripped. I turned to get a paper towel and saw that another band of them were attacking a bowl containing a few crumbs of cat food. Cat food over chocolate ice cream?! I can only assume that when the scout showed up with the good news that the people were back to being sloppy again, several ants, in their excitement, took a wrong turn.
Ants can be such aggravating critters, especially when they use you as a bridge to get from one end of the couch to the other. But it could be worse. Things can ALWAYS be worse! So I guess I’ll stop complaining. At least we aren’t under attack from hordes of locust. Wait a minute! What was that thing that just flew past me?!
FACT OR FIB – you be the judge.

THE JOKER

2009-09-26T09:48:00.000-07:00

At one time I had the pleasure of working in a grocery store where I was the computer inputter person. I say pleasure because it was a fun job, thanks to everyone who worked there.
My space (you couldn’t really call it an office) was in the back of the store. The area was small, maybe eight feet long by four feet wide. Because it was so narrow everything was lined up against one wall. Starting at the back corner was a filing cabinet, a few boxes of supplies, then my desk with the computer, and a couple of feet away was the doorway, minus a door. Partitioned off from the warehouse, it was kind of dark back there and during the hours I worked, very quiet. Creepy would be a good way to describe it.
While all the employees were pleasant, friendly people, it was the ones working in the deli section that were over-the-top fun. And one of them, Mike, was more than just boisterously happy; he was also a practical joker. One of Mike’s favorite things was to wait until I’d been working a while so that I was totally engrossed in my job, then he’d tip toe to the open doorway, pop into the entrance and yell, “Boo!” This joke never failed to work its magic on me. His loud voice, cutting through the silence, would cause me to jump to such a degree that my chair would shoot backwards and bounce off the wall behind me. Then, laughing like a fool, Mike would return to the deli.
One day during his mission of madness, Mike failed to see the owner enter my workspace. When Mike jumped into the entrance and saw the boss standing at the file cabinet, he tried to cut off the “Boo” part of the joke but it was too late. He was forced to settle for a slightly strangled version of the word before scurrying back to the deli. Of course the weird sound caught the owner’s attention and when he saw Mike hot footing it away he merely shook his head and returned to his search through the drawer. It was the one and only time I neither yipped nor shot across the room, so I pretended to be oblivious of the entire bizarre scene.
Before the owner left my “office” he asked, “Does he do that often?”
“Not really,” I lied.
Early the following morning the owner called me to his domain. He had never called me upstairs before so I went to see him with much trepidation. I was afraid Mike was in trouble and also afraid I’d have to come up with more creative lies than, “Not really.”
When I walked into the owner’s office I saw that a padded blanket (the kind used in moving vans) was folded on one of the chairs. The owner nodded at the other chair and I sat down.
“I hear that Mike is quite a practical joker,” he said.
“Oh?” I replied noncommittally.
“I like a good practical joke myself,” he admitted.
Not sure if this was a ploy to trip me up so I’d admit to some of Mike’s more outlandish behavior, I simply smiled.
“So,” he continued, “if you’d like to be a part of it I came up with something pretty good last night.”
I agreed, not only because it would be funny to see Mike finally “get his” but also because it was the boss’ suggestion and …well, he was the boss.
That day, when Mike went on his morning break (which he always took outside the store so he could smoke) the owner let me into the walk-in freezer where I schooched down in the corner with the padded blanket covering me. I was told later by the remaining deli crew (who watched with bug eyed horror) that the owner sent for Mike’s immediate return. As soon as Mike appeared, the owner began to reprimand him for forgetting about the special lunch (bogus, of course) to be held at one of the local elementary schools. Having never seen the owner so much as criticize anyone before, Mike was too shocked to try and defend himself and so he just stood there speechless. The owner sent Mike into the freezer to bring out a big box of frozen hot dogs so they could supposedly start thawing.
As soon as I heard the freezer door close, I peeked out from a crack at the side of the blanket and watched Mike frantically search the shelf for the non-existent box of hot dogs. I could tell by his actions that he was starting to get really shook up, so before he got hysterical I jumped up and with the blanket still in place, yelled, “Aaaaaaah!” (Boo just seemed too mild to fit the situation).
I don’t know if Mike even looked in my direction before he took off. But I did hear him bang into the freezer door a couple of times before he got it open. It just goes to show what attention to detail will do.
I’d like to say that the nearly heart stopping experience convinced Mike to stop scaring the bejeesus out of me – unfortunately it didn’t. But then, I’ve never heard of a reformed practical joker.

2009-09-24T11:06:00.001-07:00

POSTAL RULES
Rule #1. Just because mail ends up at your house doesn’t mean you get to keep it.
My sister and I ordered some diet cookies – actually, lots of them! We decided to have them delivered to her house, she’d divide up the different flavors and I’d pick up my share from her. I called in the order. After giving her name as the recipient, I accidentally gave the wrong address – which we were unaware of until the night of the scheduled delivery. Already in her jammies, my sister sent my brother-in-law out to look for our cookies. He returned to tell her that the house number I had given didn’t exist. But he reported that he’d seen a huge box on the porch of a neighbor at the other end of the block.
Maybe the delivery person got tired of searching for an address conjured up by a diet crazed woman and left the package at the first door he came to?
My sister sent her husband out once again, this time with instructions to check out the box and see if her name was on it. When he came back, he reported that the box had been removed, and even though he saw a light on in the house and he could hear noises inside, no one would respond to his loud banging on the doors.
Upon this news, my sister immediately sat down and wrote a letter to the neighbor. She explained that although her sister (namely me) had gotten my sister’s name on the package, her sister (namely me again), had for some unknown reason given a fictitious house address. But, she wrote, the box was meant for her, and if the neighbor would check the label they would see that this was so. After numerous paragraphs of detailed explanations, my sister signed the two page document and convinced my brother-in-law to take it, and some tape, and stick it on the neighbor’s door. Then afraid that the bizarre actions of the neighbor might suggest that our cookies were being held for ransom, my sister called me to see what the cookies were worth.
“They’re going to make me loose weight; they’re priceless!” I bellowed.
This time when my brother-in-law returned home he reported that the house was now completely dark, but the package was back on the porch and sure enough my sister’s name was on it. He had carried the big box home and that’s when they saw that it had been opened. Did the neighbor just rip open the strange package without even looking at the label? Or had the neighbor also ordered thirty pounds of diet cookies? I’m afraid I think it’s because the neighbor didn’t like any of the flavors we’d chosen. But maybe I’m just jaded…which isn’t surprising after coming into contact with several Postal Rule Breakers – not that all of the encounters were bad, of course, nor was everyone a Rule Breaker. The people way up the street have good postal manners. When a huge, heavy package meant for us was delivered to them they loaded it in their car and drove it down here. Unfortunately not everyone is as sharp as they are.
One day as I was out watering the lawn a neighbor approached me.
“Your gas bill is higher than mine,” she gloated.
“Huh?”
“It came to my house,” she explained, as she handed me the open envelope.
And you’re reading my mail because you have a secret desire to pay my bills?
I would have reminded her that she was breaking the law by tampering with the United States mail, but I know it would have been pointless, since the confrontation over her last invasion obviously had no impact on her – that was the time she opened an unexpected, $400.00 check meant for us (but delivered to her) and left it languishing at her house - for two years!
FACT OR FIB – you be the judge. I’ll give you a hint: it’s fact.

APPOINTMENTS & DISAPPOINTMENTS

2009-09-22T10:32:00.001-07:00

I bet, since the beginning of the year, I’ve easily had over a hundred appointments – and I’ve never been late to one of them. I’m a punctual person; I take pride in the fact that my brain can work out a simple schedule starting from the end goal and working backwards (the appointment is for two-fifteen, the drive there takes half an hour, it takes so many minutes to dress, fix hair and makeup, so many minutes to shower. Conclusion: start getting ready at such and such a time. P.S. have clothes ready well in advance of that ). Simple. And any Simpleton can do it. But do they? Uh-uh. Now I’m not calling doctors Simpletons – and thank heavens they’re not, but with the smarts it takes to become a doctor doesn’t it seem logical that they could figure out how to be on time?! To paraphrase U.S. Anderson: the most perishable of all things is time. Dealing with death as well as life, as most doctors do, don’t you think they’d know that? – and time spent waiting in a crowded doctor’s office is not time well spent!
My daughter has been known to walk out if she has to wait more than half and hour past her appointment time (but then she isn’t hamstrung by having to have a prescription refilled). I, myself, have been tempted to do the same when a patient who shows up late is taken before me – me who is not only on time, but early! And the reasons I’m taken late besides that?: the doctor is on the other side of the waiting room having snapshots taken with a group of foreign patients, doctor is having a marital spat (one that’s audible clear out to the waiting room) over a credit card bill, doctor is busily showing vacation photos to the office personnel, doctor and staff are fifty minutes late returning from lunch! And then I’m asked why my blood pressure is up? I’ve sat in the examining room (forty minutes past my appointment time) and watched, while across the hall doctor is trying out a new hair style.
Come to think of it, in the last hundred appointments, involving many, many doctors, I’ve never been taken on time. Wait, that’s not true. I was taken on time once. It was for the removal of a cyst. Two weeks later, when the bump was still there, I found out I’d have to go back and have the procedure done over – so even though I was taken on time, that appointment was really a disappointment.
FACT OR FIB? – you be the judge.

KEEP UP THE GOOD WORKS

2009-09-19T10:17:00.000-07:00

I’ve been engrossed in knitting toys to be handed out to children that might need them. Even though some of them that are supposed to look like bears come out looking like mice, it’s okay because they’re really cute. For the older kids (the ones that know better than to ingest their playthings) I’ve made clothes to go along with the toys: sweaters with boats embroidered on them, dresses embellished with beads and ribbons. But suddenly I’m having trouble. It isn’t lack of supplies; I have tons of yarn – yarn in every color imaginable (thanks to my sisters and friends). It isn’t lack of ideas or patterns. I have plenty of both. The problem is a big arm!
My arm was a little swollen so the therapist decided to wrap it and my fingers – cotton wadding, foam rubber pads and six Ace-type bandages. It’s now the size of a tree trunk. On the way down the hall and out of the building, I was afraid to move it for fear I’d send hospital personnel sprawling and patients in wheel chairs flying into walls. All my life I’ve had very little upper body strength. I now have an arm that’s a lethal weapon, one swipe could send even a Sumo wrestler to the emergency room – I can’t bear to think what could happen if any of the elderly got in the way.
I’m supposed to use my arm and not treat it as if I’m wearing a cast. The movement is supposed to make it more flexible. If by moving it she meant bending it, the only way that’s going to happen is if I were to miraculously turn into Superman! I feel like I have a wooden arm! Made from one block of wood and without any hinges! Get food to my mouth with that hand? Out of the question! Pick up a glass of water? Impossible – my hand is even fatter than my arm, except for the very tips of my fingers. Typing? Barely and only if it’s very slooooow.
I’m afraid knitting is out until this latest fiasco in over (which I assume it will be one day). In the meantime I’m hoping to figure out how to knit with my toes – until somebody finds something wrong with them!
FACT OR FIB ? – you be the judge.

PEACE AND QUIET

2009-09-16T14:12:00.000-07:00

Hoping for a refreshing respite from the daily grind, the love of my life and I got some coffee (decaf for me), along with two buttermilk donuts and headed for the park. We pulled into a spot shaded by pine trees where a slight breeze rattled aspen leaves before floating through the open car windows. The fog having lifted, it was a beautiful day, so clear that ships passing through the breakwater were clearly visible. And below us the town was spread out in quiet surrender.
Rather than sit on a bench, we stayed in the car where the view was better (and we didn’t have to worry about those pesky rattlesnakes that we were being warned of on big metal signs placed every ten feet).
The coffee was hot, the donuts were sweet and we were enjoying the peaceful environment when out of the blue an elderly man and a tall skinny youth appeared carrying a large, hard plastic pad thing. The man attached the pad to a tree in front of us (even though there were plenty of trees elsewhere to choose from) and the kid began to throw punches at an imaginary opponent. Although visually distracting at least they were quiet…until the “fighter” began to punch and kick the plastic pad which gave off a loud thumping noise.
As my sweetie and I stared at each other with an “Oh boy!” kind of look, a small black car pulled up. Ignoring the thirteen empty spaces beyond us, the guy pulled in right beside us and the next thing we knew the music (and I use the term loosely) from his car radio drowned out the commotion being made by the up and coming kick boxer.
“He won’t stay long,” the man of my dreams shouted over the music. “People who can’t stand silence can’t sit still for very long.” But before the man’s adrenaline got him moving a group of about seven or eight mothers with toddlers in strollers headed toward us from down the parking lot.
Now we get as big a kick from children as we do from animals so the little bit of childish chatter, heard above the car radio and the “fighter,” was pleasant. But then one of the mothers stated yelling about something. She got several children crying which in turn drowned out the “music” and the thump, thump, thumping of the “boxer’s” blows.
I believe the rattlesnake signs can now safely be removed. I’m sure the vibrations from the three “nature lovers” has sent the snakes slithering clear into the next state – I know the racket sent us on our way.
FACT OR FIB? – you be the judge.

CANTANKEROUS

2009-09-12T08:53:00.000-07:00

Cantankerous (a great word) = bad-tempered; quarrelsome; perverse.
Yes, that pretty much sums up a friend of mine.
BAD-TEMPERED = - not always. In fact much of the time she has a great sense of humor and keeps me in stitches. Like the time we vacationed together. We were staying in a grand old hotel that looked like something straight out of the movies: louvered doors, great ceiling fans that ran day and night, rattan furniture, and silence (even though the place was full of guests). And every morning my friend would sneak out of her room, gather up all the trays of dishes left out from the previous night for room service pick-up, and pile them up in front of my door. That was her good tempered side.
The other side runs toward the paranoid. Hearing of the slightest injustice she’ll immediately glom (I like that word, too) onto it as if she were the next victim, the next to be maligned, or somehow mistreated. “They’d better not try to do that to me!” she’ll rant, working herself into a red faced lather.
“I don’t think you need to worry about it,” I remind her. “You don’t live in the Brazilian jungle and that type of behavior is not common in our culture, anyway.” But once started, she isn’t easily contained.
QUARRELSOME = There are some days she just seems to need to pick a fight with somebody. “I’m on your side!” you may remind her. “Why are you arguing with me?”
“I’m not arguing,” she’ll argue.
One day during a phone conversation on a subject we both agreed on, she began to add a negative to every comment I made. Finally growing out of sorts I confronted her.
“Why do you always have to have the last word?” I asked.
“I don’t!” she replied and quickly slammed down the phone.
PERVERSE = Obviously, her perverse side comes into play when she catches people off guard with her bad-tempered, quarrelsome side.
FACT OR FIB? – you be the judge.

MISGUIDED SENTIMENTS

2009-09-09T13:38:00.000-07:00

Even though the sentiment is well intentioned there are some things that are better left unsaid…or at least said differently when speaking to a cancer patient.
As I did my part of staying positive and maintaining my focus on health I was constantly amazed at some of the comments from personal friends as well as healthcare professionals – one of which was a nurse.
I had been admitted to the hospital because of an infection. And as was my determined intention I was staying upbeat (which included being appreciative of my life, as well as the staff looking out for me). I was getting along very well with one nurse in particular (laughing and joking around) when out of the nurse’s mouth came, “I guess it’s true, the good do die first.” Hey now! That’s not how the saying goes! And who the heck said I was dying?! Certainly not me – and to prove my point, the convoluted compliment occurred eight months ago and I’m still here.
In closing it’s my opinion that comments like: “Is it fatal?” or, “I hope when they do the surgery they get it all!” are really very inappropriate. It’s best to remember that just because a thought pops into your head, doesn’t mean you have to say it out loud.
And one last thing. Don’t send a cancer patient quotations made by someone upon learning that they have terminal cancer! Jeeze!
FACT OR FIB? – you be the judge (you gotta know this one is FACT).

Sept. 7, 2009

2009-09-07T10:58:00.000-07:00

I had no life. And then I was diagnosed with cancer.
At the time I was in a frustrating job (which I worked at from home), my car had so completely broken down it was beyond repair (which made me prisoner of a house so small it was referred to as “the crawl space”) and without any chance of a diversion from “chores” (feeding animals, washing pet bowls, letting animals in and animals out…and animals in and animals out, and in and out, and inandout and inandout) there seemed never enough time for doing the things that brought me pleasure. Then suddenly, against my will, I was consumed by doctor appointments and procedures; it wasn’t glamorous, it wasn’t even high drama. It just was.
Cancer and the resulting activities weren’t anything I would have chosen for myself (although personally, I believe I did for some good reason – which I may never understand while on this plane of existence). But at least the experience has been “do-able”. And sometimes interesting. And at times humbling. And even humorous.
One day as I sat knitting in a waiting room, a man was wheeled in by a caregiver and accompanied by his wife. Even though the patient could only say, “Dabba do,” his wife seemed to understand him perfectly. He’d say, “Dabba do,” she’d say, “You want the door closed?” He’d say, “Dabbadodabbado,” and she’d get up and close the door. He’d tell her “Dabba do,” and she’d pull out a bottle of water from her purse and hand it to him – to which he’d tell her “Dabbadodabbado.”
Numerous hospital personnel passing by stopped to greet him (“You look so good!” they’d say – “Dabbadodabbado,” he’d say – “Such improvement!” they’d exclaim – “Dabbadodabbado,” he’d tell them. “You’re talking so well!” – “Dabbadodabbado” It was obvious he was well liked as he was showered with warm greetings and hugs of affection, all of which was answered with a, “Dabbadodabbado.”
After a period of time things quieted down and I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that he was watching me knit. I looked up and he said, to me “Dabba do.” Before returning to my knitting, I said, “Fine, thank you.”
As we waited our turns to see the healthcare professional that was going to help us regain our lives (and hence our sanity) the man continued to stare at me as I worked. When my name was finally called, I glanced up and he said, “Dabba do.”
“The sleeve to a sweater,” I replied as I packed up my knitting bag.
FACT OR FIB? – you be the judge.

SCREAM ONCE FOR HELP

2008-12-11T11:41:00.000-08:00

Excerpt:
For the next five hours Hank divided his time in the emergency room, between manic pacing and practicing art.
When Betty finally came out of the examining rooms, Hank looked at the stick figures he'd been drawing in the margins of a discarded newspaper and began to see Tony's point. Although he could draw a straight line, as long as it was really short, all of the lines went at odd angles.

FIONA FLOWER-FAERIE (Enviro-mental)

2008-12-06T11:11:00.000-08:00

Ani-mentals & Enviro-mentals aid the planet by their good attitudes.

Although she lived in a hot house on a grand estate, Fiona was very unhappy. She never felt well and when the hot house became steamy she became congested and her nose became stuffy. Her friends were full of helpful suggestions: “Fiona, rub one of your leaves against Rosemary she’s medicinal, maybe she’ll clear up your sinuses,” or “Try a petal of Mandarin orange’s blossoms, according to him he’s loaded with vitamin C, that should get rid of those aggravating symptoms.” And Fiona, being exceedingly polite, did try every idea that came her way, even though she had little hope that any of them would work. But neither she nor her friends could come up with any steps to take when the gardener (a big burly man) passed through spraying everything in sight with a very bad smelling mist. The only thing any of the plants could do was hold their breaths and hope that by the time they had to breathe again some of the fumes would have floated out the door. Silently, Fiona vowed that one day she’d figure out a way to put an end to the use of insecticides and other chemicals - which she did, but that’s another story.
Fiona had once heard the owner of the estate tell the gardener of the estate that Fiona was the youngest of a society of rare blossoms (Fiona decided that perhaps that was why she felt so out of place). So it was a huge surprise when the big, burly gardener came tromping through the greenhouse (with a stranger – a thin woman with gray hair) and roughly grabbed Fiona, pot and all.
“Don’t need to worry about this one, Rianna, she’s a gonner,” the gardener said to the woman.
“Maybe she just needs water or more light,” Rianna, suggested helpfully.
“Nah,” the gardener stated as he started toward the door with Fiona and her pot dangling helplessly, “spent too much time on her already.”
The air had a very cool nip to it, a chill that Fiona wasn’t used to and so she began to shiver.
“Sorry, darlin’,” the gardener said to her as he flung her onto the compost heap.
In a state of shock Fiona landed with a thump, but when she felt the heat generating from the pile she snuggled down into it, breathed deeply of the fresh air, and spent the rest of the day watching the clouds float past.
By late afternoon she was feeling much better. Better than she could remember, actually. But it was nothing compared to the way she felt as a fast moving shower washed her leaves clean.
From her position Fiona could see the door of the greenhouse where Rianna was staring at the compost pile as she waited for the shower to pass. And once it did, Rianna, dressed in rubber boots and other rain gear, hurried to Fiona. Gently lifting Fiona up, Rianna stuck Fiona, pot and all, under her rain coat as she whispered, “I’m taking you home with me!”
It was Fiona’s first ride in an automobile and her first visit to a cottage, a cottage bursting with potted plants. Some were in bloom; some were resting while they stored up energy. Some Fiona recognized, but most were foreign and Fiona was certain they had come from foreign places.
And to her great surprised and pleasure, when Rianna carried her across the room and set her down on a cloth covered shelf, Fiona recognized that the leaves of the plant she was next to were exactly like her own.
By the time the sun arose the next morning Fiona had learned from her new neighbor that they were of the same species of plant: a beautiful flowering plant that had originated in Tibet and whose life giving seeds had been hand carried to the new country by a very kind monk.
And to this day Fiona’s offspring grow and flourish for the benefit of all.

STEALER OF WISHES

2008-11-29T09:52:00.000-08:00

Excerpt:
Picking up a watering can, the gardener began to douse some potted geraniums.
"An airline ticket? Where was she getting married?" Al asked.
"Danged if I know. It was all hush-hush. She made me promise I wouldn't tell a soul..."
Before John could finish his sentence, a loud scream cut him off. More animal than human, it pierced the air like a poison tipped dart finding its mark in Al. While the scream still echoed in his ears, it was followed by another sound, a high pitched wail that seemed to go on forever. And before John could speak again, Al had set off toward a wooden structure nearly obscured by pine trees. His long legs pumping, he sprinted further into the property.

To purchase one of my novels go to: www.jameszar.com and click on PURCHASE

BECAN GROUND HUGGING BUG - FAERIE (Ani-mental)

2008-11-29T09:49:00.000-08:00

Ani-mentals & Enviro-mentals helping the planet by their good attitudes

Orphaned at birth, Becan spent the first few years in an orphanage before attending a boarding school. And all through his days at Chapel in the Dirt Religious School (founded by Mater/Pater Praying Mantis) Becan was the brunt of the other student’s jokes. It wasn’t that the centipedes, the aphids and the earthworms were mean, it was more that Becan seemed to ask for it. You see, Becan was an earthbound bug who was determined to fly. All day long the other students would see him climb up rocks, and as he’d jump off he’d flap his arms with great gusto. Of course he was only airborne from the time his feet left the rock until his feet (or his face) touched the ground - which was only about a second. But he was a stubborn little fellow and never gave up trying.
Maybe the other students wouldn’t have noticed his antics if he hadn’t yelled, “Whee!” each time he jumped (but even that little bit of airtime gave him such a thrill he just couldn’t help himself).
Then one day a new student arrived from a neighboring village. Her name was Lavena and she had a beautiful black face and shiny red wings decorated with black polka dots. And even if Becan hadn’t seen her graceful flight, he would have fallen in love with her: she was that gorgeous. He wished he could introduce himself but he was too shy and so he tried to ignore her presence and continued to practice flying.
It was after his third jump, while he was lying flat on his face in the dirt, that he was approached by a group of earwigs who in an attempt to be helpful told him he was the laughing stock of Chapel in the Dirt.
Eghan the leader stepped forward, pulled Becan to his feet and said in a deep baritone, “You are a no account, no wing, lowly dirt lovin’ bug, man! You can’t fly now and you never will fly, so suck it up and stop makin’ a fool of yourself.”
Becan heard one of the group say to Eghan, “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”
Eghan turned to his friend and exclaim, “The dude has been fallin’ off rocks for twelve years!” Turning his attention back to Becan he stated, “Do yourself a favor, guy, get a hobby.”
As Becan watched the earwigs march away, Lavena flew down and landed on the newly vacated rock.
“You must be Becan,” she said, “My name is Lavena.”
So smitten he couldn’t speak, Becan simply nodded his head.
“I come from the same village as your mother,” she continued.
“You knew my mother?” Becan exclaimed.
“I didn’t know her personally, but I’ve heard many stories about her, about how beautiful she was and how much she loved to fly. She could fly higher and stay up longer than any of her people. And even now she holds the longest time in flight for the entire country.”
“Wow,” Becan said in awe. “That must be why I’ve always wanted to fly,” he added in amazement as a lifelong question was finally answered. Sadly he sighed, “But I didn’t get my mother’s wings.”
“Maybe that’s because you were meant for something else, a job that would have meant the world to your mother.”
“A job?”
“Our village needs help from someone very strong. Strong like you.”
“My help?”
Lavena nodded gravely.
“I can fly you to my village,” she said, “if you’ll help us by carrying our precious store of magic lady bug seeds out of the path of melting snow, to a safe spot. It’s only several feet away,” she explained hastily. “You see, we ourselves can fly to safety but there are too many seeds for us to carry and the rose blossom pouch is too heavy for us to move whether we’re flying or trying to pull it on the ground. But our leader, Llyr says that a ground hugging bug such as yourself is strong enough to move it. Will you help?”
“Take me to your leader,” Becan replied.
Lavena flew off and when she returned a minute later she was holding a small piece of vine in her hand.
“Take one end and hold on tight,” she said.
Becan did as he was told, and although being up in the air was something he’d always wanted, he was so nervous he kept his eyes squeezed shut the entire trip.
It turned out that Llyr was right, it took Becan, a lowly ground bug, most of the afternoon to drag the seed filled rose blossom pouch to high ground but the important thing was that he did it. He was so proud of his accomplishment that as Lavena flew him over the tree tops toward Chapel in the Dirt, he simply held on tight and took in the sights from his new perspective. And from then on anytime he felt the urge to fly he asked his sweetie, Lavena, who was only too happy to oblige.

COMMAND PERFORMANCE

2008-11-27T10:52:00.000-08:00

COMMAND PERFORMANCE
Laura was aware of her sweating palms and the rising heat in her cheeks, her blood now racing in an attempt to somehow help her escape the danger. But there was nowhere to go and she was frozen in horror, unable to even moan her fear.
When she finally pulled her gaze up to Mac’s face she saw his vulnerability. On display for the first time it revealed itself through a mask of gray skin, shiny with perspiration. And for a brief moment Laura felt no fear, only mild curiosity.

To purchase one of my novels go to: www.jameszar.com and click on purchase

Brielle Butterfly-Faerie

2008-11-25T14:45:00.000-08:00

Enviro-mental & Ani-mentals: aiding the planet through good attitudes.

BRIELLE BUTTERFLY-Faerie (Ani-mental)
It was a dream. Or was it? Brielle couldn’t tell, even though she could feel herself scaling the stem of a brightly colored, beautifully scented flower. Struggling upward it seemed that the stem went on forever and trying to reach the top was beginning to fatigue her.
She remembered a similar stalk (or perhaps it was the same one) from several days ago, only then the climb was easy. But of course that was the same day she had felt so energetic and free. Maybe this was a dream.
Suddenly she felt something touch her, and when she looked she saw that a parade of ants were coursing past her in the opposite direction, and as one had veered off track it had nudged her. She wanted to ask them where they were going but the question seemed to be stuck in her head. She decided it was just as well; ants were usually in too big a hurry to waste their time being polite to strangers. Brielle was glad she’d been raised to have better manners.
Looking down the stalk to the ground below she saw several roly-poly bugs frolicking in the dirt, and she remembered making her way to the beautifully colored flower across that same patch of earth. Only for her the trip was difficult, not fun like the kind the roly-polly’s were enjoying.
As she focused once again on her goal of reaching the top she saw, from the corner of her eye, movement several yards away. Remaining still she watched the green and yellow striped worm as it munched its way along (devouring a tomato plant that was long ago depleted) clearing the path for the next generation of tomato plants to sprout up.
When Brielle saw that the tomato worm was so engrossed in its job that it didn’t even know she was there, she once again took up her ascent.
Above her, and above the top leaves of the plant, the sun was breaking through a fine mist of fog; it looked like it would be a fine spring day and the thought of it seemed to lighten her heart. Finally she reached a large leaf and out of fatigue she fastened herself underneath.
Only dimly aware of a faint voice in her mind, she suddenly realized it was repeating, “Be still. Be quiet”. Brielle surrendered to the voice and fell into a motionless state of pure attention. Hours, day, or years might have passed, she didn’t know until finally an innermost desire of love urged to her to awaken and out of her journey of isolation and confinement, light and color filled her soul.
When she looked into a pearl of dew, her reflection was one of magnified beauty. With great joy she took flight, adding her radiance to the world around her; knowing she was the glory of life itself.

TWO KINDS OF MIRACLES

2008-11-22T07:52:00.000-08:00

EXCERPT

It was a five hour drive to the prison and as the miles clicked past Linda grew more apprehensive, at times even forgetting why she was going.
She tried to focus on the pools of lavender iris in the open, green fields. They reminded her of her mother’s garden and she wondered how Anna was. But she felt certain Anna wouldn’t want to hear from her any more than she wanted to talk to Anna. A yearly birthday card to her mother was as close as Linda wanted to get.
When she arrived at the prison she had to wait her turn with the other visitors, a sad, angry group, and she wondered if Doctor Carr was right and that underneath it they were all frightened people.

To purchase one of my novels go to: www.jameszar.com and click on "purchase"

ART TO DIE FOR

2008-11-20T13:36:00.000-08:00

Excerpt:
The small space was crammed with the pieces from the display room. Carelessly stacked they formed a jumble of glass, canvas and bronze. Quickly Marjorie shut the door on the mess; if Nathan saw the way his work was being treated he’d probably commit suicide on the spot.
“It’s okay,” she called out gaily, as she walked back to the main part of the gallery. “They’re safe and sound in the back.”
“In the back? What are they doing back there?”
Thinking quickly Marjorie said, “We’re supposed to get in some new sculptures; I’m sure Mr. Thatcher put them in the back so they’d be safe.”
“But he does remember that my exhibition is tomorrow night, right? I mean everything will be up in time, won’t it?” Nathan asked anxiously.
“Hasn’t it always been?” Marjorie said jokingly.
“No! Last year Sid canceled my exhibit two days before it was supposed to start because he said he had to play in a golf tournament in Arizona. He said my exhibit slipped his mind.”

To Purchase my novels go to www.jameszar.com and click on purchase

MADDOX MOUSE-FAERIE (Ani-mental)

2008-11-15T13:36:00.000-08:00

Maddox was a nervous little mouse. And like most mice he stayed in his hidey-hole during the day and only came out to eat at night when no one was around and all was quiet; so it was very unusual that he found himself awake at noon one brilliantly sunny day.
He had been sound asleep, snuggled beneath his multi-colored, tiny comforter, in his tiny bed with the tiny, white pillow when a shaft of sunlight shinning through the door of his hidey-hole awoke him and he realized his tiny tummy was rumbling from hunger.
After roaming his little house without finding so much as a teensy crumb of cheese, not so much as a cracker crumb, not even a single grain of sugar he poked his head out of his hidey-hole to see if perhaps he’d dropped a dab of cream from the cat’s bowl on his way home the previous night. But as usual the floor was shiny, and clean as a whistle.
Maddox looked left, then right, then all round the huge kitchen, ready to dash back into his hidey-hole if he saw movement. But the immaculate room was quiet; as quiet as Maddox himself, in fact. And Maddox was a very quiet guy despite his rather large feet, feet so large he’d never found a pair of shoes or slippers that fit him. In fact he had never come across a pair of socks that fit him either. But having lived with big feet his entire life he knew how to be…well…as quiet as a mouse. And so, on his big tippy-toes he headed for the breakfast nook across the room, hoping to find a drop of jam or some toast crumbs on the floor beneath it.
He was almost to his destination when he heard a sound and saw a shadow in the hall as it moved toward the kitchen entryway. As quick as…well…a frightened mouse he scurried up the corner of the cabinet next to the stove, up a light cord, and in his excitement he kept on going until he suddenly found himself atop a huge display of hanging pans that began to gently swing under his tiny weight.
Once he got his heart to stop its wild thumping he leaned over the edge of a copper bottomed soup pot to see if the intruder was the fearsome Siamese that shared the house, but the large toes on Maddox’s large feet were much to big to grip the pot and he began a quick slide down the pot’s shiny side where he landed smack on top of the softest, furriest something Maddox had ever felt. He knew right away that is was not the Siamese (not only because of the undignified yelp the creature had emitted, but also because the thing he’d landed on was much to small and much to fluffy). As soon as the animal turned its head to see what was sitting on its back, Maddox recognized the little fellow as some kind of a curly haired, white puppy.
“Beg your pardon,” Maddox said politely. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“But zees ees very strange,” the puppy said with a French accent. “But where you haf come from, I don’t know.”
“Up there,” Maddox said pointing at the pan rack. “I thought you were the Siamese.”
“Oui, and I think zee same thing about you. Zat Siamese, she scares me to death, I think. And she ees always sneaking around, til I become zee nervous wreck.”
“That’s my problem, too,” Maddox exclaimed, climbing down from the little dog’s back.
“Already I’m here one hours and zee Siamese has slapped me twice…for no cause.”
“Well she’d do worse than that if she got her paws on me,” Maddox explained, “and all I ever do is take the teensiest, tiniest bits of food for my meals. You’d think she’d be willing to share just a little!”
“My name ees Gascon and my friend I will share my food with you…eeef you can think of a way to geet it without geeting caught. Maybe I can do zee one bark when I see zee Siamese head for zee kitchen.”
“Hmmm,.” Maddox mumbled as his tiny brain began to turn out an idea.
“Wait right here,” he said suddenly.
As he darted back toward his hidey-hole Gascon called after him, “But monsieur what ees zee name I call you?”
Oh,” Maddox said, stopping long enough to reply, “My name is Maddox and it means: beneficent.”
“Zees ees very good. I like it a lot,” Gascon said, as he watched Maddox duck into his hidey-hole.
A second later Maddox reappeared and hanging from his neck was tiny bell. The bell was silent as Maddox darted across the kitchen floor, but upon approaching Gascon, Maddox stood up on his very large feet and when he shook his head the little bell quietly tinkled.
“You can hear that okay, can’t you?” Maddox asked.
“Oh oui, my friend, I have very good ears.”
“Good, then I can help you, too. When you want to move through the house in safety just let me know. I’ll go first and once I spot the Siamese I’ll find a safe spot and keep her occupied by ringing my bell. And that’ll also be a signal to let you know where she is.”
“My little friend, you have Coeur; zat mean “heart” in my native tongue and I salute you.”
Maddox took a little bow.
“And,” Gascon continued, “I weel do my part and guard zee kitchen door during your mealtimes.”
And so an unusual alliance was formed of necessity and worked wonderfully until the Siamese finally grew weary of being subverted and gave up. But even then, Maddox and Gascon remained good friends.

TEVA TREE-HUGGER FAERIE (ENVIRO-MENTAL)

2008-11-13T14:48:00.000-08:00

Enviro-mentals & Ani-mentals: aiding the planet by their good attitudes.

TEVA TREE-HUGGER FAERIE
It was a fine, spring morning when Teva was left hidden in the needles of a giant fir tree. And it was the same fine morning that the youngster was discovered by a young doe. Encouraged to walk at a much earlier age than is normal for tree-hugger faeries, Teva stumbled after the doe to a small clearing surrounded by shimmering aspens.
“Rest now, child,” the doe said, “while I look for something to feed you.”
Teva snuggled down into the fallen leaves of the whispering trees and immediately fell into a deep sleep.
In slumber her dream carried her back to a time long past where she was shown generations of tree-faeries placing their young at the base of trees. And as the young quickly matured Teva saw that a symbiotic relationship had formed; the tree-hugger faeries, wrapping their arms around the tree trunks breathed their magical breaths onto the trees’ roots while the trees imparted their quiet strength to the faeries through their falling leaves.
Teva awoke with a start. How was she to fulfill her life’s work now that she’d been led far from the big fir?
By her side Teva saw that a small pile of berries, leaves and mushrooms had been placed. A few feet away the doe was watching her anxiously.
“Don’t be frightened, little one, the doe said. “My name is Daere and I mean you no harm.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” Teva exclaimed, surprised that she could speak. Then she remembered a gentle voice that had said to her, “Lie still and stay quiet, dear one. You will grow quickly for all the sustenance you need will be lavished on you in this state of quiet surrender,” and Teva realized that a speaking voice was as common among tree-hugger faeries as were three toes.
Teva had spoken the truth when she’d said she wasn’t afraid of Daere because it was obvious that such a beautiful, silken creature as Daere would never bring harm to anyone.
With soft, dark eyes, Daere glanced in the direction of the food she’d gathered.
“Eat now,” she encouraged with a nod.
Teva took one of the green leaves and found the new, fresh taste to be exquisite, and before she realized it she had eaten nearly everything set before her.
Her stomach full she would have liked nothing better than to pull the bright aspen leaves up close and fallen back to sleep but concern over her situation haunted her.
“Daere,” she pleaded, “you must lead me back to the fir tree. That is where
my destiny lies.”
Daere was quiet for sometime before she somberly replied, “There are those about who do not as yet realize their own potential and in their sleeplike state would try to stunt your growth with poison ideas. They could bring great harm to you through their ignorance. But once your full growth is attained they will be like minnows to you, their actions laughably harmless. Stay with me, Teva, for I believe all that happens is for a reason and that you and I were meant to meet.”
Feeling the truth of Daere’s words, Teva formed a soft pillow of leaves and fell fast asleep.
The next morning as rays of the new sun filtered through the nearly bare branches, Teva awoke. Instinctively she moved into the shade and as she did she stumbled over a garment make of fine, green yarn. Picking up the piece of clothing she saw that it was a pinafore made to her size. As she began to slip it on she heard a tiny squeal and saw a lady bug scurry across the bodice in search of a hiding place.
Teva studied the lady bug for a moment and then sensing its fear, said, “Don’t be afraid, little one, I mean you no harm,” just as Daere had once said to her. “I’m sure we’ve met for a reason.”
Clinging to the crocheted edging of the pinafore, the lady bug gave Teva a warm smile and replied in an accent suddenly familiar to Teva, “It’s glad I am that you see it that way, darlin’. Tis sure that I agree with me whole heart. You see, twas the bright green color that spoke me name, and bein’ a gal who lives by her instincts I came to investeegate. And by the by me name, according to me, is LB and that garment was special made for you by Sian one of the spider clan.”
Careful not to dislodge the lady bug, Teva pulled on the pinafore.
“Glad to make your acquaintance,” Teva said. And my name is….” For a moment Teva was at a loss but then suddenly, deep from within, a name bubbled to the surface. “And according to me, my name is Teva.”
“I figgered it ta be somethin’ like that,” LB stated.
“It’s a little cool here in the shade,” Teva explained, pulling the skirt of the pinafore down around her knees.
“Aye,” LB agreed, “but the warmth of friendship can dispel even the coldest chill.”
Throughout that day and into the next month, Teva was regaled by the stories of old, told in an ancient accent by LB. And nurtured by Daere’s kindness, it wasn’t long before Teva had absorbed all she needed to know to fulfill her mission.
It was a day of great celebration when Daere gave birth to twin fawns that like their mother were as beautiful within as without. It was also a day of great joy when Teva Tree-hugger Faerie left the haven of the clearing to spread light and strength to all in need. And perched on her pinafore, riding high and in great comfort, LB went along to help.

Leila Lizard-Faerie

2008-11-13T13:20:00.000-08:00

Ani-mentals and Enviro-mentals: aiding the planet by their good attitudes.
LEILA LIZARD FAERIE (ANI-MENTAL)
It was a rainy day; a day Leila Lizard chose to spend snuggled up inside her cozy house, rather than outside basking on top of the village’s large, white rock (an activity enjoyed not only by Leila but also by every lizard on the block).
While waiting for the sun to break through and chase the dark clouds back home to the north where they belonged, Leila began to daydream. First she dreamed of all the beauty in her world: the trees, the flowers, the sky and the rocks. The next picture to appear was of the little girl with braces on her legs who lived in the stone house a short distance from Lizard Glen. Of course the little girl in her daydream, like the little girl in real life, was attired in a lovely frilly dress made of a shiny fabric. And while the real little girl quietly played alone, never having the companionship of other children, she seemed content to converse with her dolls or watch the butterflies flit from flower to flower and the birds noisily splash in the gray bird bath. Leila thought about the little girl often and always anticipated her appearance on the brick patio of the stone house, anxious to see what beautiful outfit the child would wear next.
By the time the sun finally made an appearance it was mid-afternoon and having missed both breakfast and lunch, Leila was famished. But not so hungry she threw caution to the wind. Slowly she crept out from her home and looked around. Confident that the big, fluffy tabby was shut inside the stone house, Leila made her way to the garden in search of a meal. Seeing movement near the leaves of a young cabbage she was about to make her way to the vegetable when the door to the stone house banged open. Leila slipped in beside a large rosemary plant and watched as a girl with red cheeks and bouncing, brown curls ran out onto the patio. In her hand was a woven basket. Behind her the little girl who lived in the stone house broke free from her mother’s grasp and tried to catch up.
“Wait for me, Helen,” the little girl called as she stumbled after Helen.
When the little girl and her mother finally caught up with Helen they saw that Helen had dumped the basket on its side, spilling out two small dolls and an array of doll clothes.
The mother looked a perturbed by their guest’s wild behavior but instead of
scolding Helen she warned, “No rough housing; remember that Melinda was very sick.”
“I know,” Helen mumbled as she began folding the doll clothes.
“I’m fine, Mother,” Melinda insisted in an embarrassed whisper.
After a moment’s hesitation and a smile at her daughter, the mother returned to the house.
Leila, as still as the concrete statue decorating the bird bath, watched as the girls played dolls until suddenly Helen yelled, “I’m bored!” and scooping both hands full of doll clothes, she tossed them into the air.
Afraid of being discovered if she moved, Leila felt rather than saw something settle onto her back. And it wasn’t until the wind lifted one corner of the white object that she was aware that both girls, the basket, dolls and doll clothes were gone.
Now alone, Leila took the opportunity to inspect the thing covering her and realized that it was a white, knitted sun dress belonging to one of the dolls. Without a thought, Leila slipped the sun dress on and found that it was a perfect fit. She was so deliriously happy with the beautiful sun dress that she nearly forgot to eat. And as soon as she had eaten her fill, she climbed up the bird bath to look at her reflection. What she saw was so wonderful! So lovely! She felt like yelling with joy. Her entire life she’d known that since she couldn’t change her coloring like her neighbor Cary Chameleon,
she was surely meant to have beautiful clothes. It only seemed natural what with her love of beauty and the fact that she’d been born with beautiful green stripes (stripes that caused some of her neighbors to belittle her because she was different). But suddenly here she was, dressed like a princess.
Scampering down the pedestal of the bird bath she was careful not to snag her new sun dress. And on the way to her house she was careful to keep the hem up off the muddy ground. She was nearly home when a shrill whistle stopped her. Looking around she saw Gonwin. A pudgy lizard, Gonwin had long been the bully of the glen.
“Hey! Lizard girl!” Gonwin yelled. “Who are you supposed to be, wearing those fancy duds in this neighborhood?! Woo hoo! Wait ‘til I tell the rest of the glen about how silly you look!”
Suddenly embarrassed by her beautiful dress, Leila began to walk faster and didn’t stop again until she was safely locked inside her house.
“How foolish I’ve been,” she muttered to herself. “Why did I think I could be any different than the rest of my neighbors?”
Leila quickly slipped out of the sun dress and after carefully folding it she put it on a high shelf, out of sight.
That night Leila had a very bad dream. She dreamed that her beautiful stripes had disappeared and her skin was as common as those who had chastised her for not looking exactly like them. She dreamed that just as those same lizards began to treat her well, now that she did look more like them, her beautiful mane of hair suddenly turned blue and once again she became an outcast. It was a great relief when she awoke the next morning, dispelling the depressing dream.
Leila was still shaky from the nightmare but she managed to straighten her little house before going out for breakfast.
Upon entering the garden Leila heard crying and as she moved toward the sound she saw that Melinda, with tears streaming down her face, was sitting on her mother’s lap.
“Please let me go play at Helen’s house,” she sobbed.
“Melinda, darling, you’re a delicate child and I worry about you,” her mother said.
“But I’m well now and I never get to have any fun,” Melinda insisted.
Leila saw movement behind the open patio door and then Melinda’s father stepped onto the bricks. Gently he put his hand on his wife’s shoulder and gently he said to her, “Melinda is right, dear. It was a long time ago that Melinda was sick. Let the child be a child now. Let her do some of the things she wants. Let her have fun.”
Melinda’s mother was quiet for a moment and then she hugged Melinda and said to her, “I’ll go call Helen’s mother and tell her you can go to their house and play.”
Leila, with a smile on her face, watched as Melinda began clapping her hands with joy.
All the way home Leila thought about Melinda. And it wasn’t until she passed the white rock, and Gonwin called to her, that she remembered her own situation and the depressing dream. But this time, instead of hurrying home, Leila stopped and confronted the pudgy lizard.
“Don’t be making fun of others, Gonwin, or they might start making fun of you!” she declared.
“Oh yeah, smarty pants?! Or should I say, smarty dress? And what can you say about me?”
Although Leila had never spoken a bad word about or to anyone, she heard herself say, “I can warn you that if you don’t watch it with the knife and fork you’ll soon be mistaken for a komodo dragon instead of a lizard!”
“Wha…?” Gonwin began to bluster. “Hey! You can’t talk to me like that!”
“I can and I will if you don’t stop being so mean to everyone. It isn’t pleasant when people pick on you, is it? And if you don’t stop being a bully, soon everyone will start talking to you like that. So grow up, Gonwin!””
Leila left Gonwin with a shocked look on his face.
After facing up to the fear of ridicule, Leila experienced a new sense of herself that gave her the courage to do something that she really wanted to do.
Once inside her house she removed the sun dress from the shelf, slipped it on, combed her hair and hurried out the blueberry bush where she rubbed her hair onto the ripe berries until she was certain her hair was as blue as in her dream. Then, majestically she took a leisurely stroll through the glen, smiling and waving to all of her neighbors who, although somewhat shocked, smiled and waved back.
And so it was that the little girl who wanted to be like other little girls, and the lizard who wanted to be different, each got their way just because that’s what they wanted.
Whatever your heart desires, life will find a way to fulfill it.
Ani-mentals: they help the planet through their good attitudes.

BRINA BEE FAERIE

2008-11-11T08:28:00.000-08:00

Ani-mentals & Enviro-mentals: aiding the planet by their good attitudes.
BRINA BEE-FAERIE(Ani-mental)
Outside the little village of Spanglewood, hanging from the branches of a forty foot maple tree, was the home of Brina Bee.
The smallest creature imaginable at birth, Brina was one of many inhabitants of a very large hive. But due to a mist of fine, blue curls covering her head, and because of her diminutive size (a size she maintained even while others her age filled out and grew tall) Brina was deemed useless and unworthy to be a member in good standing of the bee clan.
Taunted by neighbors and relatives alike – some who went so far as to point their stingers at her in a menacing manner - Brina spent most of every day perched on a high limb, away from those who shunned her. It wasn’t that she was afraid of the swarm; after all they were her own kind. But her desire to distance herself came from the aching of a pain-filled heart.
Both of her parents tried very hard to console her, explaining that it was her differences that the rest of the hive couldn’t understand. But it was also her differences that made her special.
“Look at your father and I,” her mother said, “and your cousins and the neighbors. We’re all the same size and weight. Our coloring is an exact match to one another. Why I can barely tell your father from your uncle Aengus and Aengus is at least as old as dirt,” she joked. “But you, sweet Brina are petite, with shining soft locks. And one day you and everyone else will appreciate your inner beauty and goodness.”
“But it might be better,” her father added in an attempt to be helpful, “if you learn to sing as the rest of us do and forget all those high notes you stick in. Like this,” he said, a low buzz suddenly emanating from his chest.
“Yes, Father. Thank you,” Brina said politely as she hurried from the hive before her parents could see the tears forming.
Settling onto one of the lower branches of the forty foot tree, Brina watched as a shiny black carriage passed along the dirt road leading from the village. She watched as a shaggy, white dog trotted up and began sniffing the base of the tree, only to be chased away by her cousin Cadan, who returning from work tried to sting the pup on the nose.
Brina was appalled by cousin Cadan’s unkind act. But then remembering that he was one of those who would point his stinger at her when she attempted to fly with the group, she wasn’t surprised that he’d try to torture an innocent dog. And when she heard loud bickering coming from the hive, as one neighbor tried to outdo another by proclaiming he was responsible for providing more honey than anyone on his block (a wild exaggeration to say the least), Brina could tolerate her clan’s bad behavior no longer. Buzzing the tree as she got up to speed to take flight, she noticed several acres of wild flowers on the horizon. Brina made a beeline for the acreage and once there landed on the bright yellow blossom of a tomato plant.
As Wind rocked the blossom, the gentle movement calmed Brina and she began to sing one of her made-up songs about blue skies, white clouds and kindness for all. Lost in a musical world of her own making she was suddenly jolted back to earth when the tomato blossom said, “Hey, girl, that’s some snappy tune. But if you want to spread kindness like your song says, why don’t you help a feller out?”
Somewhat shaken, Brina answered quietly, “Okay, what can I do?”
“That’s the attitude, Toots; I like it when someone can make snap decisions,” Tomato Blossom said. “Well for starters, see that gangly mountain of green?”
Tomato Blossom tipped his petals toward an area strewn with rocks and overgrown with brambles.
“The tall red flower?” Brina asked.
“No, Dolly!”
Tomato Blossom tipped even further forcing Brina to dig her toes in or fall off.
“The big guy, the other tomato plant!” Tomato Blossom shouted.
“Oh, sure, I see him,” Brina said, finally locating the huge, green plant.
“Well, my friend has only a few blossoms, those brambles probably kept out too much water. Why he’d choose that crummy place to sprout is beyond me,” he muttered. “But I digress. I doubt the poor guy’s got much going for him under the circumstances and so far Wind has been in one heck of a rush to go south and hasn’t even touched my friend’s leaves. Now I’ve got me plenty of pollen which I will gladly share but it’s gonna take a third party to work the deal, know what I’m talkin’ about, here, Honeybunny?”
“I’ll help if I can,” Brina stated.
“Okay, here’s what you do, Chickie, you know how to dance, right?”
“Not really,” Brina confessed shyly.
“Well just start singin’ that song of yours and let your feet do the rest. But make sure your dance has plenty of snap to it and that you stamp your feet hard enough so that pollen comes loose and sticks to those…” Tomato Blossom looked her up and down, then said, “…dinky,…but cute, little legs of yours. Think you can do that?”
Brina blushed at the rare (but unusual) compliment.
Although never allowed to participate in hive activities, Brina had seen the dances performed by her relatives and neighbors when they mapped out the directions to blossoming gardens and flowering trees.
“I can do it easily,” Brina said proudly.
Singing and dancing her way around Tomato Blossom’s many blossoms, Brina gathered pollen until her legs felt like cement posts.
“Now,” Tomato Blossom said “fly over to my friend, land on one of the blossoms and boogie with all your might.”
The little bee did as she was told amid the giggles of the big tomato plant who screamed, “Stop it, kid, you’re tickling me!”
“Party hearty,” Tomato Blossom yelled at the top of his lungs.
Brina spent the rest of the day (under the direction of Tomato Blossom) spreading pollen from flower to flower and berry bush to berry bush. By late afternoon she was exhausted.
When she saw that Sun had traveled to Mountain and was about to slide down her bumpy back, Brina said breathlessly, “I have to go! My parents will be worried!”
“Sure, Sweetie Pie, but make sure you take some pollen to share with your hive,” Tomato Blossom said.
Brina traveled in tight circles around several blossoms until her legs were bright yellow with pollen.
“Think you can come back tomorrow?” a velvety, pink cosmo asked. “There’s lots of work to be done here, and you’re the only one that seems interested in doing it.”
“I’ll be back,” Brina promised with a smile.
As she flew back toward the forty foot tree, Tomato Blossom yelled after her, “Anybody ever tell you you’re cute as the dickens?”
Brina tipped her wings in appreciation of yet her second compliment of the day.
When Brina entered the hive she found her mother pacing the shiny wax corridor of their home.
“Brina, I’m so glad you’re okay! Your father and I were just about to come looking for you. We’ve spent the day in turmoil: something very bad has happened and it affects us all!”
“What is it? What’s wrong Mother?”
“It’s the human with the field of alfalfa. He has mowed down the whole lot early. Our supply is gone before we’ve had time to locate another. Without immediate nectar and pollen our hive is at serious risk.”
“But Mother, “ Brina said, “only a short distance from here there are acres of flowers, berries and blossoming plants and they could use us as much as we need them.”
“My dear Brina,” her mother sighed with relief, “you may have saved us all.”
And it was true, the tiny bee with the blue curls did save the hive; she guided them to the wild garden the next morning as Sun climbed up Mountain. This time the hive welcomed her help as well as her made-up songs, and within a week Brina’s queen had christened her the world’s first Bee Faerie.

Scream Once for Help

2008-11-10T12:33:00.000-08:00

Scream Once for Help - book excerpt:

“Betty!” she exclaimed, “I’m so glad you’re all right!”

“We’ve been worried sick!” Patience chimed in, and pulled herself up by her walker.

“Of course I’m all right! Where is that throw rug?” Betty demanded.

“I put it back by your bed,” Florence replied meekly.

“Why did you do that?! I wanted Hank to see that it was right in front of the door!”

Then, as if realizing the mere fact of the rug being in front of the door didn’t prove that someone else had put it there, Betty’s eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, Betty,” Florence sighed sympathetically, and hurried into the bedroom. She returned with the throw rug and tossed it into a pile by the front door. “Is that better?” she asked.