Ye Olde Philosopher

Get Ready

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 14:14:00 +0000

In a way I hope the protestors get cold and tired and
quit. I don't think so, not this time. The outrage runs deep. It's taken
a while as we have been incredibly patient trusting our leaders to lead
and to make things right. Hoping all the while that status quo - where
we are most comfortable - will be maintained. But they haven't and it
hasn't. Greed has reached a crescendo in our financial/political system.
They seem to be blinded by it - unable to see the worldwide suffering
they created or indifferent to it.

In Rome it got out of hand. In cities around the world police line up
and create barriers emphasizing the gulf between the growing majority of
have-nots and the increasingly small minority who have it all. The
governments all over the world are reacting in the most predictable
ways. Tear gas, riot gear, bully sticks, barricades and shields are all
symbols of their fear and their determination to hold on at any cost.

We can expect, I think, more sophisticated attacks as the movement
grows. Once the placard-waving phase is complete there could be
interruptions of essential services, attacks on banking locations could
result in shut-downs. Transportation and utilities could also be
targeted. Anything is possible. These are young, sophisticated people
who know how to use the internet. I expect there could be interruptions
in internet traffic some created by the protestors and some created by
governments as they try to cut them off from communications.

So, what do we who are passive observers do? Think of preparing for a
big storm. Food, water, fuel, cash, essential medicines and extra
batteries maybe some candles are a good idea, I think. If you don't need
them immediately, they will be available for next time.

Stock your shelves with food to last a month or two. I bought a little
extra flour, sugar, yeast, and salt so I can bake my bread. I have
emergency butane canisters for my portable one-burner stove and a coffee
maker that doesn't require electricity. I have an extra can of coffee. I
have beans, potatoes, and all my home canned fruits and veggies from my
garden. I'll buy my animal feeds in larger quantities both to save money
and to be ready to ride out a stoppage. I have some cans of fuel for the
generator so I can keep my freezers going. They will soon be full of
chickens and turkeys from our fall harvest. There will be eggs and
chicken at almost all times enough for me and many of my neighbors. I
think a stockpile of cash is a good idea. Credit cards could get
vandalized as protestors hack banks and banks have to shut down
temporarily to protect themselves. Have some books and maybe some games
to play. The internet might go down and what would we do for
entertainment? Make sure you have your prescriptions filled and extras
on the shelf.

My biggest vulnerability is that my income is electronically banked and
I still have accounts with Chase. That could become a problem. I have
been switching to using cash instead of my bank card over the last year
or so. It's not really a problem. Many merchants prefer it due to the
high fees they pay to credit card and bank card providers.

Who knows where this will all lead? These are indeed interesting times.

Glee

NaNoWriMo Looms

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 14:54:00 +0000

I signed up for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). I'm hoping to finish the second leg on my CodeWord Haven trilogy. I'm half way through it. Big George is stuck on a mountain, Mrs. O'Callahan is dealing with an uprising in New City and . . . hmm can't think of a third thing. I usually write three things in my series type sentences. That's a bummer.

Today I want to pencil out a plot outline for each of the 30 days so I have a writing "assignment"

when my fingers hit the keyboard. I have a vague idea about plot line, but my characters are fond of making left turns across traffic and against the red lights, so you never know where it all will lead. That's the fun for me of writing. When I am writing about Big George, Mrs. O'Callahan sneaks into my thoughts and vice versa- when I'm writing about Mrs. O'Callahan, Big George sneaks in. They are trying to catch a peek to find out when will they get together and when/how will Tommy the grandson claim his birthright and join the New City crowd? Maybe never. Maybe Big George will meet an untimely end. Maybe an insurrection will bring New City down. Maybe the government
will swoop in and demolish everything the O'Callahans and their friends have built. Life is a scary place. Just to unsettle everything, DragonSpell comes to life and is begging me to write another "chapter" in the saga about GlaeWitch and Princess Penelope. That simply cannot happen, sorry. Although the Dragon of Darkness and Chaos is coming back to life. That would be a great Halloween story. Hmmmm. I wonder if I could get that written by midnight on Holloween? It would be good
practice for NaNo, but what if I tire out the muse and my fingers get sore? It would make a marathon dash more difficult. One doesn't want to pull a muscle just when the big game is on.

Now I know how those big league managers feel. What about those Cardinals? That was one super series. Some of the best baseball I ever saw not counting the Detroit Tigers winning the Central Division and then losing to the Rangers. I would need CPR if the Tigers were in the World Series. Maybe next year.

I hope you all don't get bored with my ramblings about all this. Please
understand I might seem a little distracted for a while. I'll be back,
though.

Time for breakfast. I'll fry up the left-over mashed potatoes with a
little butter, and also scramble a couple of fresh eggs. I have a busy
day ahead.

Frost is Late This Year

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 14:49:00 +0000

This morning for the first time this year, the trees and grass are white with frost. It's pretty but it's a harbinger that winter will soon be here. The horses are getting fuzzy with their winter coats, and I hear the honking of ducks and geese flying overhead. Their "V" formations pointing south. I wish I was going with them. Winter could hold off for a few months and then go right into spring as far as I am concerned. Winters are brutal here on the farm. It's not just the ice and snow and freezing water buckets and so on, it's the lack of sunshine that gets me. I always feel down during the winter. It's the SADD syndrome, and it sucks. Here in SE Michigan the official frost dates are Sept 15 for early frost and Sept 30 for the late date. Last night, October 27, was our first frost. It's a month late. I hope that means spring will be a month early as well.

I've been getting ready. At the local produce stand, I bought 50 pounds of potatoes for only 30 cents a pound. I also bought a large sack of onions, and a beautiful purple cabbage that were half the regular price at the supermarket. We had sweet and sour cabbage with Murphy's smoked ribs and smashed potatoes (skins on of course) with a tiny bit of onion in them . The market closes on Holloween. I hope to get some of their un-sold pumpkins and squash for our chickens. I canned the last of the tomatoes - almost the last. I still have a five gallon pail of green ones. I hope to make them into picallilly if I get time before they all ripen. Either way they will get used. Murphy pulled the pole bean plants with some very big beans still attached and fed them to the chickens roots and all . They had a field day with them. I'm also cleaning out the freezers to make room for the 50 meat chickens we will process in a few weeks, and turkeys, too. It's amazing how many containers of mystery stuff there is in there. What makes me think I will remember every morsel? I need to be pro-active here and mark everything. There are some old chunks of mystery meat, too. They have been in the bottom of the freezer so long that I no longer trust their viability as food. Out they go. The summer glider is taken down and ready for storage as soon as I clear a spot in the green building. Luckily I brought the pots from the deck inside last week - geraniums, spikes, chives, parsley, tarragon, and rosemary. I also planted my garlic. It needs to be mulched before the ground freezes. I'll use the soiled hay that lines the chicken nests. They need to be re-bedded. I cleaned the coop and put down fresh bedding last week. The cleanings are in one of the boxes that yeilded two crops of green beans and some potatoes last summer. It needs replenishing. I need to cover the lavender, too . . . and so on.
Well, I'm off to deliver some eggs and then come back to make bread - sourdough this time - and clean up the kitchen. Never a dull moment around here - though I think most people would find my life rather dull.

Keep warm.
glee

Spring update (well, almost spring) St. Patrick's Day is Here

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 15:42:00 +0000

St. Patrick's day is tomorrow. It marks the end of winter as far as I am concerned, and that means spring activities are on my mind. It's very muddy out there. In the country after the snow goes away, you have mud to deal with until the April rains stop. It's impossible to do anything in the garden yet.

Chickens and eggs are on my mind. The chickens are producing lots of eggs - every day. For a while now I have managed to sell them all. However, for some reason, customers have dried up and I have 12 dozen eggs in my refrigerator - and there is another dozen coming later this morning. Did I mention the hens are laying every day? Once in a while one takes a day off. Only one. I still have a dozen eggs since I have 13 hens and one rooster. My egg hatching experiment ended badly. I wasn't able to regulate the temperature adequately. It's for the best. I don't need more chickens - or eggs - for a while yet.

Garlic is on my mind, too. I didn't get all the garlic bulbs planted last fall. My back acted up and well, all that bending over was out of the question, so I have extra garlic bulbs in a net bag I saved from the grocery store. I like to re-use stuff. I noticed the last bulb I used when I made spaghetti sauce had a green core and the first signs of a sprout poking out the top. Now, I believe seeds know when it's the right time for them to come out, so I assume that other garlic planted outside is getting ready to sprout, too. I read that garlic planted in the spring doesn't get as large as that planted in fall, so now I am worried that my garlic crop will be less than I wanted. I think that if I get the bulbs into some soil early enough I can ameleorate the situation. That is, I can make up for the garlic failure of last fall. I have the last three bulbs - some 20 cloves - sitting on a wet paper towel. I'll get a flat from outside later today and plant those bulbs in it and leave it outside near the garden. The soil in the garden is sodden and too muddy to work. This way, the garlic can be getting ready along with its pals for a nice spring emergence.

Then, there is the potato situation. You know, I always want to add an 'e' at the end of potato - like this "potatoe". It seems right to me.(When it's plural you add the 'e', but not when it's singular. I looked it up.) I planted them for the first time last year, and had great success. You can't beleive how much better potatoes that have come straight from the ground taste. I planted some potatoes that had sprouted - just some Michigan cobblers - and they did better than the purchased sets of Yukon Golds. Those were tasty, but they didn't yeild enough in my opinion to win a spot in my garden this year. So, I bought a larger bag of Michigan potatoes than usual, and put the ones with the most eyes in a basket to sprout. I am going to skip buying any sets. Any way I can economize in these times is good. Also, I have lots of seeds left over from last year. Usually I toss them and order new ones, but I am going to use these - just pre-sprout them to be sure they are still viable.

Tulips are on my mind, too. I noticed the new ones are already up. That's something I could do outside. I could put some bonemeal around them to increase blooms. I could also clean up the debris from winter, and clean out the firepit. The ashes are good for the compost heap - which is way too big, by the way. When you have horses, you get lots of compost.

Also, there is the corned beef controversy. Being of Irish extraction and so on, I hear a lot about St. Patrick's day celebrations. In my house, and in most real Irish houses, it's not such a big thing. Devout Christians probably go to church an extra day in recognition, but all that partying and green stuff isn't really Irish - it's American. Corned beef is really a Kosher thing. This time of year is also a traditional Jewish feast - what is it called? I don't know. I am not religious. Having said all that, I bought a corned beef and some cabbage. I also bought a box of potato pancake mix from the Kosher display. I love those things. Ethnicity has nothing to do with it. So, we will recognize St Patrick's day with corned beef and cabbage - a Jewish and Polish sort of dish - along with perhaps a glass of Guinness or a little Tewlimore Dew (not sure of that spelling) which are definitely Irish. Dessert will be a fresh ginger cake, which is, I believe, from a Scandinavian recipe.

It's all mixed up - like my hanging bridge walk in Costa Rica where we had a Spanish speaking guide, and me, and some French Canadians from Montreal who spoke French and a little English. I speak better French than Spanish, so I sort of mediated between the Spanish-English speaking guide and the French-English speaking Canadians. When it was over, I didn't know what language I spoke anymore. I called it Franglish. The scenery was spectacular. I cried when it was time to come home. Costa Rica is a magical place.

Chickentainment

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 15:50:00 +0000

In my neighborhood - the greater Ann Arbor area, keeping chickens has become popular. There is an active group of people who are promoting sustainable living. The new ordinance in town regarding chickens is one result. Several neighboring towns have passed ordinances allowing people to keep chickens in their backyards, too. The idea is that you can raise healthy organic protein right at home and reduce your carbon footprint. You can't keep a rooster because of the noise it makes, and you can't slaughter a chicken either. I always could because I am outside the city limits, but I never did before this. If you want to eat one, you have to take it live to a meat processor and he charges you to dispatch and clean it and put it in a package suitable for freezing. Personally, I would find it difficult to kill one and then eat it. I think I could if I was starving, but absent that motivation, I won'tdo it.

Don't get me wrong - I am not making pets of these chickens. Being an animal lover, I can't help but spend time getting acquainted with them. I've never had chickens or been around them before, so everything is new and entertaining. The things I learned raising horses, dogs and cats seems to apply to chickens, too. If you establish a feeding time and religiously show up with treats, they will all come running every time they see you. They crowd around, and the rooster struts by making a sort of growling sound. I don't know if that's a warning or some sort of greeting. I do notice that when he hears my voice out on my deck, he will crow and crow. He almost never crows when I am in the barn. The hens usually spot me first, and they crowd around, clucking. They literally come flying, running and squawking as they hurry to get to the treats first like Chicken Little in the cartoon. The rooster strolls up to me, head erect. I think he is beautiful. He struts. He is, after all, cock of the walk. I kept the most docile rooster the other four are in the freezer. I have thirteen hens. One is an escape artist. She usually greets me at the door. Now, seven of the hens have figured out that they can fly over the top of their horse stall which is their "coop", and land in the hay pile. I haven't invested in all the chicken wire and posts it takes to build a proper chicken yard. I am still deciding if I want to have chickens this winter or just kill them all and start over next spring. Then there are the eggs. Six or seven of the hens are already laying eggs. They are ahead of the curve. They aren't supposed to start laying for another month it says here in the book. I guess they didn't read the book. I now have four dozen eggs in the refrigerator. I am looking for people to give or sell them to. I already sold two dozen to one of Murphy's friends, and gave a dozen to my son. If I keep the chickens I will need to find customers for all the eggs. I am looking for recipes for custards and such. I saw a recipe for a cheese soufflé in Bon Appetite that looked delicious. I wonder if I can find it again. I bought some ramekins for it.

So far, the chickens have been somewhat of an expense. My son bought them for me for Mother's Day, so start-up costs are somewhat defrayed. Murphy made me a feeder out of a plastic tub and a flower pot tray. We made nests out of milk crates stuffed with straw, and a roost out of a section of old steps from a deck that was replaced long ago. It's been sitting around in the weeds out behind the barn. It found a new purpose in the chicken coop. Murphy put up an electric wire across the doorways to the barn. I let the chickens roam around in there picking at the straw, the manure, the haypile, stray horse feed and catching bugs. Recently, they found out that they can just hop over the white tape and it can't "bite" them. They devastated my bush beans and my Roma tomatoes. I went out there with the horse whip and tried to herd chickens out of the garden and back into the barn. I gave the rooster, the leader of the raiding party, a big smack with the whip and it sent him running for the safety of the barn. The hens eventually followed. Herding chickens isn't easy, but once you figure it out, it goes relativelywell. They like to be together in a flock. When you contain the rooster and most of the hens, the stragglers will follow. They were grounded for two days while I let my temper subside. Lately they have been respecting the white tape barrier that marks their boundaries. I put all snacks and feed in their stall. I make their time outside, with the help of Billy, the dog, uncomfortable. It's the same way I trained the horses to respect the electric tape around their pasture. They have plenty of food and water inside the fence and outside is lots of yelling, running around and getting spanked by Mom's whip. They decide to stay inside. It's a gentleman's agreement we have. Everything is wonderful as long as you stay inside. Go outside, and you will get no rest. It's an easy decision on their part. It's been good for me, too. I am getting lots of exercise and fresh eggs and chicken-tainment.

Chickentainment

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 14:51:00 +0000

Last night I was watching the movie 'Commitments' about some Irish kids in Dublin that started up a band whose motto was "saving soul". It was a pretty good movie with excellent music. I think I will look up the soundtrack and order it. I enjoyed the off-stage shenanigans of the band members. In one scene the women were all fighting because they had all slept with one of the band members. Two of them squared off nose to nose, yelling and screaming at the top of their lungs. I remarked to Murphy that they looked and sounded just like the hens when two of them get into a fight. They get beak to beak and jump up and down, screaming chicken screams and they fluff out their feathers. it's really funny to watch. Usually the rooster rushes over and breaks them up. He chases the loser off and gives her a good pinch with his beak. Murphy remarked that I am getting a lot of enjoyment from watching my chickens. He thinks I should write up a diary about them and all their ways. I will think about it.

Farm Report

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 15:01:00 +0000

I’m experimenting with being self-sufficient food-wise. I’ve always loved to garden, and I love to make my own bread. The cost of a balanced diet has been rising, so I embarked on a plan to have the best garden ever this year. It’s coming along, but it all needs work. The war of the weeds is intense. I think they are winning, but I have some weapons – a shovel and hoe and lots of deep mulch. I am holding my own. Also, the chickens are growing. I have hopes for them.

Mid-July is a busy time here. The garden is in full swing. I plant in small plots four feet by four feet. It’s about the amount of ground I can turn and tend. I can reach across the plot and can walk all around it. I mulch a circle around the plot with old hay and horse bedding. It keeps the weeds down. The garden looks like a crazy patchwork quilt. I don’t plant in rows. I noticed my neighbor (the cranky one) staring at the chaos with a frown on her face. I’m sure she disapproves, but results speak loudest. I bring baskets of food out of my garden. It works for me. Every day I weed something, plant something and harvest something. I also spend at least a half hour with a pitchfork keeping the manure pile turned so it will become compost. I am getting pretty fit. I can wear my jeans! I have pots of fall vegetables started that need planting – beans and some squash and pumpkins. I need to fight the mosquitoes and get their plot ready. Mosquitoes are a plague this year. The spinach is finished and in the freezer as are the peas. Their spot is ready for me to plant some beets for greens. The chard is coming along. The tomatoes look awesome, but the peppers are just sitting there sulking. They are so temperamental. Today I will dig a few potatoes. I have never grown them before, so I don’t know what to expect. The plants look vigorous. Onions are looking good. I pulled some for stew. They are sweet and strong. My garlic is all pulled and dried. I braided it, but the braid looks awkward. I’m sure there’s a trick to it that I don’t know. There is at least a six month supply there – maybe more. I pulled some of the smaller cabbages that were planted too close together. They are waiting in the kitchen for me to make cabbage rolls and freezer slaw. I will eat maybe one or two cabbage rolls and Murphy will eat maybe one or two and the rest will go into the freezer. The lilies are blooming spectacularly. I need to weed the flower beds again. The iris never bloomed even though it has grown knee-high and looks strong. I can’t figure out why.

Every day there is what I call “chicken-tainment”. The chickens are a hoot. This is the first time I have ever had first-hand experience with them. It’s been fun watching them grow. I still have them in an empty horse stall in the barn. The chicken coop hasn’t materialized yet. They seem content where they are. I made a small pen in the grass behind the barn and put two of them out there as an experiment. I used whatever materials I could scrounge. It is the most hill-billy contraption you ever saw with old pallets, pieces of plywood and some wire all cobbled together. It took me all day and Murphy helped, too. Obviously, my coop-building skills need some improving. The chickens both escaped almost immediately. There is one red hen, the smallest of the lot, which is an escape artist. She runs around squawking for a while and then tries to get back into the stall with the others. Billy gets all excited and tries to herd her. Eventually she lets me catch her and sometimes I pet her and carry her around for a little while. I am surprised at how soft they are. I always thought chickens would be prickly. I plan to keep a few of the hens and one rooster. The rest will go into the freezer. They get all the kitchen refuse except meat. Billy gets that. I have picked out the rooster that will be the coop-master. The reason for the rooster is so there will be more of them next year for the freezer and I won’t have to buy them. He was the first to grow a comb, the first to “crow” (that’s really funny to watch) and he has a harem of hens that surround him all the time. He is protective of them. If Billy approaches, he runs at him. There is one other rooster that has two hens that follow him everywhere, and the other three roosters are just tolerated. They are going into the freezer. It’s a shame. They are all handsome fellows - all white with black necklaces and black pin-stripes on their wings with bright red combs that stand upright. The hens range from dark red to a paler pink and white on their body and darker red on their heads. I am told this variety is good both for broilers and for eggs. They will lay jumbo brown eggs. Of course, they are being fed all organic foods so there will be no antibiotics. I wanted to let them out to free-range, but I have a cranky neighbor. To let them out I will need a good chicken fence and that isn’t in my budget. I am saving my egg cartons. If six hens each lay about four eggs a week, then I will have – um – calculating . . .24 eggs a week.

I think that if one has a garden thirty by thirty and six hens and one rooster, then one can eat well most of the year.

Happiness

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Wed, 26 Dec 2007 18:27:00 +0000

In America, we have institutionalized the pursuit of happiness by making it part of our constitution. Many think – I know I did - that we are entitled to be happy, and that if things were a little closer to perfect, we would be happy. I saw the fallacy of that meme long ago. My first awareness that things are not close to perfect out there in the big world, in fact they aren’t even perfect in here in my little world, came early. I observed that I felt happy at times and not happy at other times. I tried to understand why this was. What exactly was it that made me happy? Since the answer was different in different contexts, it wasn’t easy to discover. After trying lots of different things, I began to believe that happiness was like a butterfly that lands in your garden for no reason and then moves on drifting on the wind, ephemeral and elusive.

I read the philosophers and poets, novels, ancient tomes and all the popular media articles I could find. I even consulted psychiatrists who make it their living to study the human mind. I read many of their studies. I decided that they aren’t very interested in happiness. They are interested in why people are not happy. They concentrated on sicknesses of the mind. Their assumption was that the natural state of the mind should be happiness, so if happiness doesn’t exist, then it must be due to sickness – some sort of malfunction. The more I pursued happiness the farther away it seemed to fly. I began to think that happiness wasn’t even as solid as a butterfly drifting on the wind. I began to think it was a myth. Finally, I gave up looking for it. I thought I was doomed to always feel unsatisfied, and unhappy. Other people seemed to be happy – why couldn’t I? I sat back and waited for the times when happiness would fly into my life. I became extremely bored and began to look around for things to distract my mind.

I decided to do things that interested me, and do things that brought me peace and comfort. I planted a big garden. I spent time there. I planted flowers known to attract butterflies, and eventually, butterflies came. I watched them in the morning sun and thought about happiness flying into my life. I thought – I wasn’t sure – but I thought that maybe this was a happy place. I visited my garden a lot. I decided that if I couldn’t be happy myself, then I would create a place where butterflies would come and I could watch them being happy. I decided one day that eating solitary meals didn’t mean that they had to be boring meals, so I hauled out the cookbooks and watched the food channel and began to cook myself wonderful meals – things I love to eat. I had a lot of leftovers, so I began to invite people to eat with me. I picked people that seemed hungry, people that seemed lonely and people who wouldn’t get a regular home cooked meal very often. Soon, there were people in my home, and I wasn’t lonely any more. I watched them eating and enjoying the food. I watched them looking happy. I always spent a lot of time with my horses. They are my psychiatrists. I talk to them and they listen and do not judge me. I invited people who couldn’t own a horse of their own to come to work with me, and with my horses. I watched them as they lived a dream. I watched them being happy. I so wanted a special friend – someone to replace my lost soul-mate, someone to share my life with, but, no matter how I looked, I didn’t find anyone, so, I bought a golden retriever puppy. I played with him and threw the ball and watched him being happy. I let him sleep on the foot of my bed when he cried at night. We cried together.

I continued to read about happiness. One day I discovered “A Course in Miracles” I decided to read it carefully and follow what it said – just as an exercise to keep my mind busy. I wasn’t looking for God. I was looking for the answer to the question why wasn’t I happy? I don’t recommend this book to everyone. You need to have a certain mind-set to appreciate what it teaches. I noticed that I felt less unhappy. I wouldn’t say I was happy, but there were moments. I tried to understand those moments. What made me happy? I finally decided that happiness isn’t ‘out there’ to be found. It lives inside me. Then, I discovered Doctor Marty Seligman’s book “Authentic Happiness”. It seemed to be the final piece – until I found Level-3, and Richard Brodie’s book “Getting Past OK”. Now, I understand that happiness is my own creation. I create my happiness. It doesn’t come to me like a butterfly in my garden. It comes to me because I plant flowers that attract butterflies.

Love.
Glee

Anyone Home?

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Sat, 08 Sep 2007 13:31:00 +0000

September 8, 2007

Hi, folks – Yep, I’m home – busy canning tomatoes. Today is tomato sauce day. Tomorrow will be salsa, then marinara sauce. The tomatoes are beautiful this year. Next week is sauerkraut. The cabbages are cheaper now as the harvest is underway. Murphy makes it and I process it when it’s done fermenting. It is wonderful. I had trouble finding canning lids for some reason. The shelves were almost empty of them. I bought the last five boxes at Martins Hardware and I’ll go see if South Lyon Lumber has more today. I froze several gallon size bags of green beans last month. We ate all the peas. I can’t seem to plant enough peas - also asparagus. We ate almost all of it. I froze a little, but I prefer the fresh. The leeks are huge! I need an armed guard to go into the garden with me to pull them. One is enough for a big pot of stew. I found three big pumpkins on the old manure pile. I picked off all the blooms on the plants so they will concentrate on just one pumpkin. I think I may get a pretty big one. Summer squash are coming in every day. I love them fried with a little olive oil and garlic. The zucchini is recovering. It got stepped on by the neighbor’s horses that day when they all got loose. Why is it they are drawn to the garden? There is only one plant left. There is almost never a shortage of zucchini, but this year there is. The peppers crashed, the carrots and beets got taken over during the rainy time by weeds. There may be a few in there, but I doubt it. There are no pears at all. The pear tree was in bloom when we had that late freeze. The buds were all killed off. The apple tree was felled by the same storm. It was over 200 years old and rotten in the center. I knew it would fall one day, but it was still a sad day. I may go pick some raspberries to make sauce for ice cream and smoothies. Later after the frost, I will get some apples and can them. I like to have jars of home canned foods on the shelf. Also, there will be no additives . . .

I smell tomatoes cooking. I better check to be sure the sauce doesn’t scorch . . . OK I’m back. It’s doing fine. Another hour or so and it will be ready to cool so I can press it through the sieve. The seeds make it bitter.

We (my son and I) put up hay last week. My barn is stuffed and he sold what little there was extra to the neighbors. People were driving up the driveway looking for hay. We could have sold several hundred more bales if there had been any to sell. The harvest is meager because we had a drought for almost the entire month of July. It wasn’t very tall, but it is beautiful. My horses love it. The front pasture is nearly all grazed over. I need to move the horses onto the winter pasture about 2 months early. That means there will be a shortage of forage for them about November. By then the grass will not be growing. I will have to pull them off of the fields early so that means that we will feed more hay than usual this year. Watch beef prices. There was a drought in the mid-west and the cattle men will be making those same decisions about their cattle - what to keep and what to sell. Fuel prices have pushed the cost of feed up. Everything will have to be trucked in. They will have to decide whether to profit from the higher prices which will not mean more money to them because of higher costs, or to cull their herds down to the best ones. I think there will be a sell-off which could bring prices down for a very brief period before they climb even higher.

I need to stay near the kitchen as my sauce thickens, so – I’ll be back later . . . hmm it seems to me I have rattled on a bit. I have been off work for one week. I think I may have a chat deficiency.

Glee

What Does This Mean?

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Tue, 27 Mar 2007 16:19:00 +0000

I was taught long ago that you never start a letter with the pronoun "I". You should write at least three sentences first in which "I" does not appear, the pronoun "you" being the preferred opener. Obviously the lesson didn't take. I try to start out "It was good to hear from you . ." or "You have been in my thoughts lately . . ." something like that. Not this time. This email is about me, my favorite subject, so I thought it was OK to start out with "I". That way anyone not interested can hit the delete key and move on in their life.

I have this brain that I call "my Great Brain". I picked that term up from a character in a series of short stories about a mischievous boy who was the leader of a back-yard gang of kids. I wish I could remember the name of it. I am accustomed to giving it - my own Great Brain -an instruction and in a little while it always comes up with a solution - an answer to my dilemma.

I say to my Great Brain "Great Brain I have this problem . . . how am I going to deal with it?" Then I turn off the light roll over in my bed and go to sleep confident that in the morning all will be clear. It never fails - almost never. What does it mean when, in the morning, I check in with my "Great Brain" and there is nothing there? It's a blank. No reply at all. It's like looking into the magic eight ball, shaking it hard, and no answer even an inappropriate one floats to the surface. What does this mean?

Sigh! It's such a hard thing to make an important decision without that feeling
of certainty that always comes when My Great Brain has given me "the" answer.

Perhaps the answer is - do nothing, so "nothing" is what comes up ? ?? ?

I'm going to have to sleep on this.

What Do Cats Know About Love?

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Sun, 04 Feb 2007 14:55:00 +0000

This is a tiny chapter in my memoirs. You can comment on it if you would like to. I am particularly interested to hear if it makes any sense to you at all. Do I lose you in this convoluted musing about love?

What Do Cats Know About love?
By
Glee Bohanon

I wished for kittens, and they came to me. In my universe whenever I wish for a thing, it comes to me. I live in the expectant state that whatever I need is on its way, as in the Native American spirit dance “Horses are coming”. This time, it was kittens. All horse barns should have some cats – you know – for rodent control. The last of my cats was blind in one eye, rail thin, and spent sunshiny days staring at dark spots in the lawn. She was about 16 or 17 years old. I figured she deserved a warm spot by the fire at this stage of her life. She chose the neighbor’s hearth instead of mine; me who had cared for her and fed her all these years was rejected. I felt betrayed by an old cat suffering with dementia so bad she didn’t remember where she lived anymore. My neighbor took in that old, demented cat who wasn’t even hers. She bought soft food for her. She let her choose a warm place to sleep. She worried about her, and petted her when the cat allowed it. I was a little jealous of my neighbor who had a cat and I didn’t, and a lover, and I didn’t.

I hadn’t seen Kitty Kat for a day or two. Mary and I met in the driveway we share and I casually said “Have you seen Kitty Kat lately”?

Mary’s eyebrows pinched together “No, I haven’t. I hope she’s alright.”

“Me, too” I said.

Murphy, who always says he doesn’t like quadrupeds, was on his way back from the mail box. He said “I saw her prowling in the pasture. Here’s your mail.” He handed me some envelopes as he walked past us. He disappeared around the corner. A moment later, I heard the door to his apartment slam shut. Mary hurried off, and I was left there in the middle of the driveway, kitten-less.

One day the blacksmith came, and I mentioned to him that I wanted some kittens. I have had a crush on my blacksmith from the first day I met him about 30 years ago. He was married then, and so was I. We never mentioned this attraction, it wouldn’t be a good thing, but I think we both felt it. His wife died about five years before my Ed did. I still find Ron attractive, and I think he and I are friends. That’s all it will ever be, me, a client, and him, the blacksmith. He moved on in his life. He has a live-in girlfriend. Priscilla is a horse trainer. They have a big barn full of horses, Jack Russell terriers, and cats. There are so many cats there because Priscilla either can’t afford to get them neutered, or doesn’t want to. I think it’s the latter. I think she loves the perpetual batches of kittens. I think they are replacements for all the children she never had. She worries over them like she does over everything under her care. They get a warm box in the tack room when the mother cat doesn’t hide them where no-one can find them. They get food, and lots of petting, but that’s it. There is no money for medicine or shots. The kittens often don’t survive the rough environment of a commercial stable filled with more than thirty horses.

Ron said “Come on over and pick some out. We always have some extras.” We both laughed.

I said I would but I never found the time to go.

About six weeks later, it was time for the horses to get new shoes so I called Ron as I have been doing for thirty years, and left the message on his answering machine. I didn’t mention anything about kittens, just the usual thing about shoes for horses. He came on Saturday morning. I looked out my window and there his truck was out by the barn. I hurried out, and caught him up a horse. I put it in the cross-ties and he bent over to pick up a hoof. It was then that I noticed the wire chicken cage. There were three kittens in it huddled together in a corner, a grey one, a yellow one, and a white and orange one. Their eyes were too large for their heads. Their hair stood straight out. They didn’t weigh as much as my empty coffee mug and weren’t any bigger than that, either.

Ron said “I didn’t know which one you would like, so I brought you three to choose from. They’re all from the same litter.” There was a laugh hidden in his voice, and his bright blues eyes sparkled. When he left, I had three kittens. “Three little kittens, they lost their mittens” was all that I could think of. Ron brought me three little kittens. I thought it was a small token of love, three mewing balls of fur needing care and attention.

When Murphy saw the kittens he grumbled “Just what we need.” It sounded cynical and sarcastic.

I was a little miffed about his surly attitude. I said “would you get me the big dog cage from the basement? I want to set them up out here in the barn. They are barn cats. This will be their home. They’ll grow up and hunt mice and rats and such and keep rodents out of the barn.”

He allowed that perhaps they would have a practical use. He reminded me that he doesn’t like quadrupeds. He thought Billy, the golden retriever, was at least somewhat intelligent, but cats, well don’t expect him to care about cats. I said I didn’t care what he thought about cats. They were my cats not his. He brought the cage. I put it in an empty horse stall where it would be out of the way. I could shut the stall door, and the dogs wouldn’t be able to terrorize the kittens. I wanted them to grow up brave and bold. You raise bold kittens by never letting them feel fearful. I put some water, an old dish pan filled with sawdust and a pile of old towels in the cage.

I said to Murphy “I need to go shopping and get litter and proper kitten food. I wasn’t expecting kittens today.”

“Suit yourself.” He said - or something. I couldn’t quite make it out. He grumbled it as he stalked out of the barn.

Over the next few days it became evident that the kittens were much younger than Ron thought they were. They could barely eat the dry food I had bought them. They were so light I thought that a good wind would carry them away like dandelion seeds. They wobbled when they tried to walk. They were infested with fleas and their ears had some ugly gunk in them. One of them had a nasty case of diarrhea and his bottom was raw. Murphy said he would take them out and drown them for me. I was horrified. I took them all to the cat vet. An hour later, I brought them back armed with ear medicine, worming solution and antibiotics. The orange and yellow one had a parasite that eats the lining of its intestine. It was doubtful he would survive. I had to catch each feral kitten three times a day and clean their ears and give them their medicines. I had to medicate all of them since the parasite is very contagious. The kittens did not appreciate my efforts. I tried several things, but I could not hold the squirming kitten and get the medicine down his throat. I asked Murphy to come out to the barn to help me catch them and to hold them while I gave them their medicine. They hissed and spat using their razor sharp claws and teeth as if in the fight of their lives. Murphy was better at catching them than I was. He stalked each one deftly – since they had learned how to squirm out of the cage, and hid all over the barn. He caught each one, wrapped it in a towel and cradled it in his arms. He complained the whole time and the kitten struggled to escape while I cleaned its ears and gave it medicine with a syringe.

The whole time Murphy grumbled “I don’t like quadrupeds. I don’t know why any one would want a cat, never mind three of them.”

I said “My barn feels empty without some cats in it, and besides, they catch rodents.”

When we were finished he stalked away to his apartment and slammed the door.

Each morning and night without fail he fed the horses and brought them carrots. He took my dog for walks and threw the ball for him, and he came downstairs unbidden when it was time to give the kittens their medicine.

Murphy said he did not love me and never would. I looked at his face as he ministered to my pets - pets he said he didn’t like, and I knew. Love comes in many shapes and sizes. Sometimes it’s three little kittens in a chicken cage, or a golden Retriever, or a drunken Irish poet who holds your kittens with tender hands even when he says he doesn’t like them.

Eulogy for My Mother

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Sun, 06 Aug 2006 12:01:00 +0000

On the day before Mom died, she asked me what Mike and I decided about her funeral. I told her we were going to do everything the same as we did for Dad. She was to be buried next to him, the only love of her life, and that we were going to have the wake at my house. Murphy volunteered to cater the food. She said "Bless his heart". We talked a little while longer about inconsequential mother and daughter things. I sat with her through the night and just before dawn it was all over. She didn't have a church affiliation. We are spiritual people, but not religious. So, I decided that my brother and I would give a service for those who attended. He said, as I call them, the "official words" from the bible and I spoke about her life.

Here is the eulogy I prepared for her funeral.

Jesus spoke of his death as he comforted his disciples by saying words like - I go to prepare a place for you. - He spoke to them as a father speaks to his children. In the same way our parents prepare the way for us. They show us the path as they precede us by their steps and mis-steps. She has shown us the way with her courage and dignity. As I watched my mother take her last steps along her path, she was illuminated by the light that guided her. I could see my father at her side and behind them Heavenly Father. As we wish the best for our children, so He wishes the best for us and we wish the best for our children. When I speak to my own son as he watches my steps and mis-steps along my path I am often speaking in my Mother’s words which often were - “While I may not always approve of your every action, I will always love you.” Though I often erred, her love for me and for Mike never wavered.

She was prepared for this final step, and left among her things little markers for me and Mike to find. In her address book, tucked in along with little notes next to names she found important Carlys, her daughter-in law, found this account hand written on coffee stained sheets of the same note paper she used to write her grocery lists. I assume this account was for some sort of weaving or spinning newsletter. I quote verbatum from that note . . .

“Here are some news clippings, photos, etc. that you may or (may not) want to include in your history. I joined T&C [Town & Country Hand Weavers] in 1967 at the invitation of Bessie Lowry. I bought an antique spinning wheel in Indiana while on a trip celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary and then began to seek out someone to teach me how to use it. I found Bessie Lowrey’s Phone # in the Yellow Pages and called her. She didn’t know of anyone but suggested that I learn to weave while searching. Thus began for me a whole new highway to travel. I went full speed ahead on that road. I joined the T&C (Town and Country) guild and served as secretary, treasurer and president. I also joined the Detroit Hand Weavers Guild and then the Michigan League of Hand Weavers. I helped organize the first conferences held by the MLH. I became a charter member of the Michigan Hand Spinners Guild. I helped with the first Spin Around which was inspired by the Ontario Hand Spinners Guild and the Thistledown Hand Spinners Guild of Norwalk, N.Y. I cannot remember the exact dates, but all of this activity occurred in the early 70’s.

My husband, Dick, decided that he could build a spinning wheel better than the antique I was using.

[Note: there is one here today lovingly restored by her grandson, Frank. The flax on the spindle is the flax she tied and the thread on the bobbin was spun by her. The lily is there to represent her.]

This launched him into the formation of Tromp ‘n Treadle and the manufacturing of spinning wheels that worked.

[Note: For a while, my brother, Mike, worked with Dad, but his life moved on as the responsibilities of fatherhood required his time. My son, her grandson, Frank, using Dad’s tools still makes wheels from his patterns.]

While working as the crafts interpreter at Greenfield Village I had the opportunity to work with flax and the spinning of linen thread. This led to some research and ultimately became my specialty.

Town and Country participated in several guild exhibits at the MLH (Michigan League of Hand Spinners) conferences . . . one was an exhibit of kitchen stuff – I did the curtains. The other one I remember was an artist’s pallet. Dick made it and we each wove three scarves to place on the pallet. I attended the Thistledown Hand spinner’s conference in Norwalk, N.Y. and the Ontario Hand spinners conferences. I became involved in the formation of the Michigan Hand spinners Guild and promoted a state-wide conference of hand spinners . . .”

The note trails off here. I don’t know what became of this or whether she prepared it for this day, but it seems appropriate.

Sorting Out

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Sun, 06 Aug 2006 11:59:00 +0000

The hardest part about the sorting out at Mom's condo is all the
decisions. It takes so long to go through everything. I have to decide
four things for each item: keep, throw away, give away or sell. Like the
letter opener that is a Samurai sword in miniature in a garish red and
formerly gold wooden scabbard. It was made in Japan. I suppose it is a
trinket from some tourist shop. It's not worth anything but it was my
grandmother's and has been around forever. It's been in "the desk" all
these years. I kept it after some agonizing over it. No problem deciding
about the fur coats. I don't like the fur of dead animals no matter how
luxurious. I would never wear any of the coats. Those I'll sell. They
will bring maybe $50 apiece, maybe not. I gave Mom's everyday dishes and
most of the kitchen utensils to Melissa, my granddaughter, who remembers
lots of holiday dinners with those plates. She's setting up housekeeping
in December when she graduates from college. All of the spinning and
weaving things go to my son for his new shop "Tromp 'N Treadle". The
quilt making things are more difficult. Some of Mom's projects are half
finished. There are boxes of scraps all arranged and cut into shapes for
a quilt. I have always wanted to try that. Should I keep them? I have no
idea what the project was or how to do it. The knitting stuff I kept as
well as the embroidery and crochet. The basket weaving things are
untouched in a box. I suppose I'll donate them to the white elephant
sale at St. Pats. My extra bedroom is bursting at the seams with all the
sewing notions and one magnificent Bernina sewing machine with matching
sewing table. There are pictures, pictures, pictures. Slides, 8 mm film,
negatives, old Polaroid's, aging brown pictures of ancestors, wrinkled
snapshots carried lovingly in wallets - you name it. I have all the
collection of three generations in boxes all over the place. I'll be
sorting those out for months - maybe years. I see some scrap booking and
photo scanning coming up this winter. I think I will have to retire. I
have so much to do and no time for working and other trivia like that
LOL !!!

Today is boxing up stuff to donate to Purple Heart. In the process I
will generate more sale items, keepers, throw-aways and
give-to-some-ones for another sorting out day. Always there are things
that I haul home only to decide I don't want them after all and I haul
them back or throw them out. I am honing my skills. The day will soon
come when I have to do all this over again at my own house. I am not
going to leave all this "stuff" for someone else to do. I want to see
the pleasure on the face of a loved one when I give them some treasure.

It's sometimes a pleasant chore and sometimes I cry. After all, it isn't
just my mother's life I am reviewing - it's my own as well.

Beverly Doolittle

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Sat, 22 Apr 2006 13:50:00 +0000

There is a big change coming here at MichiGlee. Murphy has a job – one that pays. He will be the Executive Chef at a nursing home in a neighboring town. Good news, Murphy has a job, bad news, he has to go to work (oh no!). I’ll be taking over more of the chores. He will be too exhausted to do them, and I only work about 20 hours a week where he will be working over 45-50. It will be quite an adjustment for both of us – but in a good way. He has big plans for all the money some of which will come my way as re-payment for all those months of no rent. The infusion of cash will be much appreciated.

As part of my new schedule, I will be responsible for the morning feedings and letting horses out. This means I have to get dressed twice – once to go out to the barn and then again to go to work. I also will have to get started about an hour earlier and early is not my thing. These are all small things, but big in my world. I went out this morning early (about 8:00 LOL!) to do the feeding. White horses stood in the lush green pasture against a backdrop of mock orange trees in full bloom backed up by midnight green pines. The sky was so blue and the sun was so orange that it looked like a painting. High overhead a hawk was circling. It was beautiful – like a Bev Doolittle painting.

I have a calendar that displays some of her paintings, but not the one that introduced me to her art. It was many years ago when I was younger and Pan Am was still alive – my chestnut trail horse. He was a great horse, and we had many adventures together. I was working downtown in Ann Arbor, and spent my lunch hour walking around looking in the art store and bookstore windows. Along Liberty Street up towards campus there was a small store and a painting in the window took my eye. It was an Indian warrior astride a chestnut horse with markings exactly like Pan Am’s paused at the edge of a pool of water with tall pines, birch trees and rocks forming the framework. High above soared a hawk. The Indian, the horse, the blue sky and the hawk were reflected in the pool of water. It is so typical of her work showing the interconnectedness of all things – man and horse and nature all part of the same fabric. She weaves images among trees and rocks and intertwines man and beast and plant and sky and water and rocks as if they are but elements of each other. The forms take place simply as an expression of shades or density of color. A stand of birch trees becomes the hides of painted horses and men. I love her work. Someday when I am rich I will collect it.

That day I stood transfixed in the window for a long time. That painting sent chills down my spine – not a common occurrence for me. I went inside to ask about the price and the name of the painter. It was only $35.00. Beverly Doolitle was unknown then. I didn’t have that much, so I promised to come back next week when I got paid. I should have placed a deposit on it and taken it off the shelf – but I didn’t. The next week when I returned it was gone. It is probably worth many times the purchase price by now. Someday I will see that painting again, and when I do, I will buy it.

Drama ! Drama ! Drama !

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Thu, 30 Mar 2006 13:59:00 +0000

When it’s over is the toughest time. When it’s going on, you are immersed in it. You live and breathe it. You yearn for release from it, but you dread that same release. Maybe the hardest part is when your father is dying and you know it. You watch him draw within and you know that when the lights are on at night over there it’s because he has sundowners syndrome – the fear of going to sleep that the dying experience when they know their time is near. He is awake all night prowling the hallway and watching late-night TV as if staying awake will stave off the inevitable. Then the wrenching pain beyond anything yet experienced on the last day – the time of parting forever. There’s hope that when it’s your turn, you will meet again, but no-one knows that for sure. The thought of the abyss waiting for you is terrifying. Then there is the ceremony of the burial and business and his things to dispose of and relatives to notify. The business of the dead takes time, and you immerse yourself in it to stave off that terrible unknown time - the grieving. You think you escape it, but you don’t and the crying and fear and loss and then a long empty time of missing him and realizing that he will never be here with you again, and the anger about the universe being so cruel and the terrible down times. You cry and wail at the moon. You run far and fast trying to escape it. You will do anything to stop the pain, but it never stops.

When it’s over is the toughest time. When it’s going on, you are immersed in it. You live and breathe it. You yearn for release from it, but you dread that same release. Maybe the hardest part is when your husband is dying and you know it. He knows it, too, and you sit together holding hands and ponder the unknowable. How will it be? Does it hurt or is it the real end or is it the beginning of something else – another iteration of you in another dimension – somewhere unknown. Then the wrenching pain beyond anything yet experienced on the last day – the time of parting forever. There’s hope that when it’s your turn, you will meet again, but no-one knows that for sure. The thought of the abyss waiting for you is terrifying. Then there is the ceremony of the burial and business and his things to dispose of and relatives to notify. The business of the dead takes time, and you immerse yourself in it to stave off that terrible unknown time - the grieving. You think you escape it, but you don’t and the crying and fear and loss and then a long empty time of missing him and realizing that he will never be here with you again, and the anger about the universe being so cruel and the terrible down times.

You cry and wail at the moon. You run far and fast trying to escape it. You will do anything to stop the pain, but it never stops. The silence in the house is unbearable. At night you remember when you laid awake touching him afraid that this next breath will be his last, and when he pauses in his sleep and misses one breath, time is suspended as you wait for it to begin again and when it does you breathe again, too. After work, if you make it to work, you dread going home to that empty sad place. You want company because when you are among friends, you can put the pain aside knowing they don’t want to see it. Maybe a little drink will help you loosen up and go among the strangers- they think you’re aloof, but really, you’re shy – afraid of them and the pain they can so easily and thoughtlessly inflict. You know they can’t ever feel the way you do. You know they never “get it”. They simply don’t want to see it – the experience of death. Later, when you think about it, you realize they are there escaping the pain of their own grief.

When it’s over is the toughest time. When it’s going on, you are immersed in it. You live and breathe it. You yearn for release from it, but you dread that same release. You know this lover, this man who was supposed to be your savior is cheating with another woman. You know it, but you try not to. Then later, you try to be very sophisticated and tell yourself it doesn’t matter, but it does. He comes to you and the night is filled with joy. In the morning light you know with a certainty that it cannot continue. You decide it’s time and you break it off. You think you will escape the grief. After all, it’s your decision this time. You think you escape it, but you don’t and the crying and fear and loss and then a long empty time of missing him and realizing that he will never be here with you again, and the anger about the universe being so cruel and the terrible down times.

Finally, when acceptance comes, you realize that your mind is clear for the first time in forever. You wake up and find that you are yourself. Will the real Glee please stand up? She does, but there is no applause because the audience has long ago gone away. This day there is no drama. It’s an odd feeling to realize that you slept through the whole night. You want to tell someone - “Hey, guess what? I slept all night! I didn’t wake up even once! Isn’t that great?” It’s been years since you didn’t wake up wondering if he was still breathing this man you love as life itself, your best friend, your lover, your partner, your soul mate who is dying and you are afraid it will happen while you are sleeping and if you wake up in time you can stop it from happening. The middle of the night visits to the emergency room and then the next day returning to normal life, and going in to work as if nothing happened because it hasn’t - not yet.

All that drama is gone. It’s just a spring day and the birds are singing and the sun is threatening to shine. Time stretches out and you wonder what you should do today.

Lilly Lebowski

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Tue, 14 Mar 2006 16:53:00 +0000

Once in an episode of Crossing Jordan, the boss, Macy, upbraided Lilly for trying to nurture him when he was having a difficult time. He claimed he didn't want or need her nurturing because that's who he is. She said "I can't help it. That's who I am." I did not like Macy very much because of that. Lilly deserves better. Lilly loved him, and he rejected her. He is a fool. The Lillies of the world have a tough road to travel. Nurturing, empathy, sensitivity, these are things that this world of ours tends to run rough-shod over. I often say that a lot of people confuse gentleness with weakness. I applaud the show for making Lilly such a strong representation of a very much under-appreciated personality.

I think nurturing people are strong because they can remain gentle in the face of adversity. They are resillient because they remain gentle even when they are treated harshly. They are able to cope with adversity because their focus is not on trying to get the upper hand, but on the task at hand which is to alleviate pain in others. Later, when it's all over, they may cry. They dry their tears and go on being gentle and nurturing.

I think they deserve our respect. They are to be treasured.

Glee

MEN

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Wed, 23 Nov 2005 15:04:00 +0000

This was originally written because a particular guy became a problematic person in my life. He's still around. I changed the names to protect the guilty. I don't know why I'm posting it, either. Here goes me quoting me:

OK, just for a minute, let’s talk about men. They are a problem, don’t we agree? - I mean unless you are one. Are you a problem to yourself, men? They seem so simple, and yet so illusive. When I was younger it was always the wrong guy that followed me home. They would be all mooney-eyed and totally repulsive to me. It still is that way, but it happens less often. The ones I wanted were cool. They didn’t lose their heads. They had a plan and they lived their lives on their own terms. I guess that’s what I admire most about men. They seem to have a grasp on that living their life on their own terms thing. Maybe it is just that they are accustomed to appearing invulnerable for their peers – other men, and that is what so attracts me. Maybe- I am not so sure about that. It’s a sort of devil-may-care attitude, a personal assurance that they are so right so strong so in control of the world. I guess that’s it. A man sets the standard, and us women have to live up to it or flunk out. If you aren’t blond enough or thin enough or sexy enough, then you are generally out of the running for the cool guys. They have established what is cool for a female and reject anything that doesn’t measure up.

I never measure up. I am short for one thing. It seems long Julia Roberts legs are the most desirable. Mine are short because I’m short, and they are sturdy. I have defined muscling. I can’t help it. I build muscle easily when I exercise. I am fairly active – though not as active as I used to be or as active as I should be. I can’t run very fast. I can’t jump high. I guess they want to think about those long legs wrapped around their waists. I don’t know that, but men seem to be mostly oriented around sex when it comes to their relationships with women. One guy I met talked about his rotten luck with women. He had three wives, all of them the same sort of money-grubbing sex kittens who left him after a while. He said he never had a woman who was a friend. I asked why not. He mumbled stuff about feeling attracted and scared and I said "Oh, it’s the sex monster. You can’t think of a woman as a friend AND a sexual partner." He agreed. Friendship is reserved for other men. Sex is reserved for women. I think the guy is a victim of immaturity. I think when it comes to relationships with women lots of guys feel that way. To me, the ideal partner would be a man who is my best friend and my lover.

Another reason I can’t get the cool guys is that I am smart. Cool guys always want their women to be dumber than they are. Sometimes this is a real reach. Guys are not all uniformly intelligent. I try to hide my intelligence, but I am a know-it-all by nature, and it leaks out whenever I get comfortable. Maybe guys feel like I pulled a trick on them. If I am smart, then what other plots they can’t even think of am I hatching? I am also not humble. I think I’m pretty cool, and I don’t care if they know it. Maybe they don’t like arrogance in their women. Maybe they want smiling demure little sex kittens without a thought in their heads. Just look at the women some of these powerful men pick. They are not real people, they are accessories.
I want my guy to be my pal. I want him to know he can count on me to be there on the other end of the 2X4 holding up my end - metaphorically speaking, or even literally. I want to know he will be there for me, as well. I like hanging out with the guys and doing stuff they like to do. I don’t care about fingernail polish, jewelry and hairdos. Well, that last part is wrong. I have beautiful hair and I love it. I especially like it long and I like to arrange it different ways to reflect my mood. My hair is tri-colored naturally. When I was young, it was black mixed with a deep maroon and streaked with a bright rust-red that bleached out in the sun. I spent a lot of time in the sun. My hair looked like an expensive dye job, but it is natural all the way. Also, it is poker straight. I hate frizzing it all up with permanents and curling irons and such.

Nowadays the maroon is still there. The black is snow white, and the red is blond. It’s still tri-colored. I don’t dye it to cover up the gray. I guess that’s a problem. The perception of women who have grey hair is not a positive one. People tend to make assumptions about you that are not true, but the fact that they believe it makes it true for them. It is very difficult to get past that prejudice. It is very difficult for a woman my age to find a quality lover. You have to take the drunks and the rejects. Yeck! I’ll remain celibate, I guess, but it sucks – big time. It’s the second worst thing about getting older.

The first is aches and pains: joints that hurt, muscles that strain more easily. Before exercising, I have to remind myself all the time that I have to warm up more slowly and do gentle stretching before I do anything. Then, I feel like I have used up all my exercise time and go off to do something else – like take a nap or just sit down with my feet up. Also, when I over-do it a bit, I don’t recuperate as quickly as I used to. In the past, a ten minute breather would do it. Now, I may poop out for the day. If I lift too much or strain something it takes days and days to get over it. I used to take a hot shower, get a good night’s sleep, and be fine in the morning. No more. I gave up endurance riding, which at one time I loved. It got too painful to be enjoyable. I don’t even ride much because I am afraid of falling and breaking something. My bones are not brittle that I know of. I think probably they are just fine. I still am afraid of falling. After riding all these years, I know that a fall now and then is inevitable. It is a stopper. My horses are all spirited. I like them that way. That means, though that sudden moves can unseat me.
Another thing that turns off the cool guys is my weight. This society frowns on overweight people. A mature female form is almost never seen in the movies except in a derogatory way. Cool guys don’t want to be seen with a "fat girl". It is a put-down to their sexual prowess. Cool guys need cool women. That means tall, thin – very thin – and mostly blonde, although long brown hair is OK if all the other things are there.

I love to cook. I like to eat. I also have a very economical metabolism. I don’t need many calories to maintain myself. After all, if you are 110 pounds, (I wish) you don’t need 2,000 calories a day. You need about 1200 or less. That isn’t very much food. I love beef. I use real butter. I love potatoes and pasta, too. My favorite meal is a steak and a spinach salad. I love desserts especially ice cream. French vanilla is my favorite. I can’t keep a half-gallon of ice cream in my house. I will eat it all in a matter of a couple of days. I can’t resist chocolate, either. I can be fine for quite a while, and then I will go on a feeding frenzy and eat everything in the house. I have tried every diet I have come across. The one that works best is Weight Watchers. When I was weighing out portions on the diabetic exchange system I lost weight, too. I also need to exercise EVERY DAY.

My exercise routine goes like this:

AM: stretching and calisthenics working every muscle in the body without weights

Noon: walk 1 mile

PM: Go to the gym, do stretching, walk 1 mile, work out on exercise machines with maximum weights I can handle without pain for 30 minutes, walk ½ mile slowly to cool down.

This takes a lot of time and a lot of self-discipline. I can’t do some of the weight machines that I used to because of my hip. I dislocated it and it has never been right. If I move wrong, it "pops", and it hurts a lot. I have avoided the pain of exercising and so I have gained a lot of weight. It is all tied up with my frustration over no lover, too. I eat because it is a pleasure that I can still enjoy. Lately, heart burn is taking that pleasure away, too. I think that if I put on my walking shoes, and take Billy for a walk every day for at least an hour, it will help a lot, and maybe add some stretching and a few light calisthenics to keep things fluid. Yeah, I’ll get on my walking shoes, put on a jacket and take Billy for a walk right after I finish writing for the day. Yeah, right.

The cool woman is in touch with what her culture sees as current style. Cool women dress a certain way. Cool guys look for that. She doesn’t go way nuts. Cool guys want their women to be attractive to other guys. They want to be able to display her among their peers and get nods of approval. Nice ass, nice legs, enough mammary glands, a regular face with "pretty" eyes and lipstick. Good teeth, clear skin, shiny hair. She has to look healthy and ready to breed.
I gave up on cool guys a long time ago. I look for the diamond in the rough. I look for the guys with substance. I look for brains and a little brawn. I usually steer clear of pretty boys, powerful men and the extra rich. I don’t think that I fit the mold for their tastes, and I have had enough rejection from these types to last me a long time. I also have found that I am no good at approaching men. They almost always shy away from me if I approach them. It is far better if they make the first move. This almost eliminates shy guys unless they suck it up and make the first move. I find that when I just relax, go out for a reason other than to meet men, and just be me, dress as I like: clean, smelling nice, and with my hair combed, I can sit with the guys and chat and they will be glad to see me. They will relax, too and I will have a nice time. Unfortunately, I will always come home alone – the same way I arrived. I think perhaps I am too independent. You see, I don’t really need a man in my life. I can just be friends and it’s OK. I support myself. I am resourceful and I can do what I need to do to survive. I don’t want some man coming into my life and re-arranging things his way. I like being captain of my own ship. I sail where I want to. I am no man’s girl-friend. I am just Glee.

I just contradicted myself. On the one hand, I want a man to love who loves me back, and on the other hand, I like my independence. How can I resolve that? I have everything my way in my house. How can I make room for a man here? In many ways, it would ideal for me having him with his own space. I wonder if I had a lover if he would be comfortable with his own living quarters. Would he leave when I needed my space? Would he resent that?
Glee

The Fifth of July, 2005

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Thu, 07 Jul 2005 16:51:00 +0000

Did you ever notice that men are mesmerized by a hole in the ground? When you pass a construction site, and there is a hole in the ground, there will be men gathered around it leaning on shovels, and talking to one-another while never taking their eyes off that hole. It doesn’t have the same attraction to women. A woman will walk by a hole, glance inside, and say, "There’s nothing in there.", and keep on walking. A man will stop, and soon other men will gather, and they will stand all around that hole and stare into it and talk. They don’t look at one-another, they stare into the hole. Sometimes they will pick up a rock or a clod of dirt and throw it into the hole. Sometimes they take a stick or a shovel and poke it into the hole. Even a small hole like a post hole will attract them. I looked out the back door the other day, and there was the neighbor from across the street standing next to my son. Frank had dug the hole to put a fence post in. There he stood, leaning on his shovel, and the neighbor man stood next to him, and they both stared down into that hole as they talked as if that hole was the most significant thing in the universe.
I imagine the conversation, which I never get to hear, because they quit talking as soon as a female approaches.
"There’s a hole in the ground."
"Yep, I dug that hole."
"It’s a good hole."
"I’m going to put a fence post in there."
‘It’s just the right size - could be a little deeper."
"Yeah, but it’ll do for that fence post."
"Yep."
In the back yard is a 30 acre hayfield. Right in the middle is a big hole. A contractor dug it a few years back when he had some hair-brained scheme that involved me giving him some acres and him getting rich while I would get a deed to some swamp land in Nevada. He came over to my house so many times, I finally I agreed to let him dig some holes to see if the soil would "perk" which, if it did, then he could dig some other kind of holes and put in septic tanks and build condominiums. I knew he would not find the right kind of soil, but that’s another story. Suffice it to say, that he was determined, and the hole got rather large before he realized I was right, there wasn’t the right kind of soil all the way down to China. After he and his men had their obligatory gathering around the hole, they stomped off, and never filled it back in. That was a few years ago.
That hole has some attraction to my son that I cannot fathom. Instead of filling the hole in like I wanted him to, he has invented things the hole can be good for. The pile of dirt next to it is great for propping up paper plates, milk jugs, tomatoes, watermelons and tin cans. Then, under the guise of "sighting in the gun" or perhaps "testing the load in some new ammunition", he and my grandson will fire away. If I look out there during the pauses, they will be standing together looking down into the hole. I think it might be some sort of male bonding ritual. I should have remembered this before I agreed to the bonfire.
That hole is a great place to throw anything that is organic in the name of landfill, and a good place to burn fallen trees and brush. It has become known as "the burn pile". We have always had one. It’s a useful thing. We burned the old corn crib and some other buildings, and ruined hay and broken furniture as well. There was a huge pile of such flammables about a story high. My son said he wanted the mother of all bonfires on his birthday. July fifth is his day. For years he thought the fireworks on the 4th were for him. I let him think so. His birthday is often a difficult day for him. I wonder if it’s because he knows that the fireworks aren’t for him or if it’s because he’s an only child. It seemed like a good time to invite the kids over, and have a birthday dinner, and light the fire. I went to the fire department to get a burn permit. Here, in Northfield Township, now that the people from the city are moving in and ruining everything, you need to get a permit to have a fire. I told the lady there at the township hall that it would be visible from the road, and we were going for a world record bonfire. She wrote that down and faxed it over to the fire station while I watched so they wouldn’t come over on a false alarm and I wouldn’t get a fine. Everything seemed just fine.
Dinner was great. Frank said the only way to be sure you weren’t disappointed in your birthday dinner was to do it yourself. That was his excuse to drag out one of his favorite toys - his smoker. He bought four chickens and a duck, and beer cans (we don’t’ drink beer) and special spice rubs and Boone Farm Orange wine to baste the duck, and cans of peas and dill pickles and cheddar cheese for his favorite pea salad. We all shared a sip of the Boone Farm Orange Wine and agreed it was perfectly horrible. It tasted just like Orange Crush. We thought it would be a good marinade for the duck. He happily mixed up sauces and "mops" and things all afternoon. I went to get the boys, and they spent the afternoon with their Dad throwing things into the big hole for the burn pile. This involved tractors, pick-up trucks and chain saws. Frank and Frank (his first son is named Frank) spent a lot of time looking into that hole, too. Frank was in heaven. I made a lemon meringue pie and roasted potatoes and broccoli cheese casserole. My grandson, John, isn’t into the male bonding thing, yet. He prefers to hang out with Grandma in the kitchen near the food. I taught him how to make a real cheese sauce from béchamel and grated cheddar cheese. It came out pretty good. Melissa came and brought along her current beau. He’s a beefy kid, a mechanic, with a big appetite, a beard, and an earring in his left ear.
After dinner, we all grabbed whatever we were drinking and piled into the pick up truck. Frank brought along a shovel. We drove out back to the burn pile. The dogs trotted along, too, and at the very tail end, just as we were getting the can of gas out of the bed of the truck, along came Pinky WashChowsky, the yellow cat with his tail straight up. He loves a good party. The sun was just setting. It was red in the west and we all chanted "Red sun at night sailor’s delight" and other wise sayings. There was a discussion about the right way to throw several gallons of gasoline on a burn pile without catching yourself on fire. Frank poured it all over the hay. I tried to tell him gasoline wasn’t necessary, but he insisted we needed to get rid of "spoiled gas" and so, he went ahead and poured a whole can on the pile, and saved a little to make a trail on the ground. He has had experience in these matters. He didn’t want to loose his eyebrows again. Of course, gasoline is invisible when it sinks into the ground. Frank hopped in the air a little when he dropped the match and the flames went "whoosh!" right under his feet, but nothing important got singed. The fire was good. It wasn’t a world record, but it was satisfying anyway. We stayed to watch until Melissa, her boyfriend, Mary and Pinky the cat all left. It was a good thing. I wouldn’t have wanted them upset. The fireflies came out. It was real pretty watching them twinkle like little sparks all over the hayfield. We had to stand back. The heat was pretty intense, but the ground was wet from rain and there was no danger of the field catching on fire. Then it began to rain again. John, Frank, Frank, and Billy, the Golden Retriever all piled into the truck and watched the fire from inside like being at the drive-inn.
I noticed a car stop for a long time on North Territorial Road. Its lights changed from white to red and back to white. I could tell that it turned around. Then another car drove up beside it, and they sat there one facing East and the other West side by side like people do when they stop on a country road to talk out the driver’s window. I said it was a fool thing to do on a busy road like that in the rain after dark. Someone might come along and run into them. Lots of some ones did show up. Pretty soon there was a traffic jam out there. Then I noticed the fire trucks and heard the sirens. I thought there was an accident. Then the trucks began to pull off the road, and point their headlights into our hayfield. It wasn’t long until we were surrounded by every piece of fire equipment in Northfield Township, and dozens of volunteers in pickup trucks.
"Oh, no, here they come!" said Little Frank. He’s not little we just call him that because big Frank didn’t want his son being called Junior. I stayed in the truck. Soon, all the firemen were out there in the rain talking to Big Frank. We were surrounded. The bright lights from the fire trucks and spotlights and such lit the place up. Along with the light from the fire it looked just like a movie. The whole town shows up because aliens have landed in the Bohanon’s hayfield. Stand back people, we have this under control. Go back to your homes and shut the doors, and pull the drapes so you’ll be safe. They stood and looked down into the hole. They leaned on shovels and talked not looking at one another. I should have remembered about how a hole in the ground attracts men.
Big Frank said" Let me guess – a yuppie with a cell phone."
The fireman was decked out in his fire suit and yellow hat. His boots looked too big for him. "Yeah, lots of yuppies with cell phones called. You can see the orange glow from this fire for miles." Then he laughed. "We had to come there were so many calls. Those people all moved out here from the city, and ruined everything."
The firemen circled the fire and stared down into the hole where it was. They lingered until they got a call about a traffic accident out in front of the fire station – no injuries, the voice on the radio said. They all smiled at each other. One of them brought a clipboard and wanted to see my fire permit.
"It’s up at the house on the kitchen table. You want me to go get it?"
By this time it was pouring rain. Water dripped off his hat and onto his clipboard making it hard to write down my name and address – like as if he didn’t know who I was and where he was. These were the same guys that were there the day Ed died. This man had tried to resuscitate him, and had carried his body out my door. He had rested his hand on my shoulder that day.
He shook his head "Naw, it’s raining. Let me see your driver’s license."
I thought," Oh no, I don’t have it with me or my glasses either. Was I going to get arrested right here in my own backyard because some yuppies with cell phones got to minding everyone else’s business? Had the world changed so much?"
I said to him. "No, I’m not on the road." He shook his head with an expression on his face that made me think he thought that was a stupid thing for him to ask me there in my own backyard.
"Naw, it’s raining."
After they left, we sat a long time re-telling each other what had happened.
Little Frank said "This is the best thing that’s happened all summer." Both boys laughed so hard they were jumping up and down in the back seat from the effort of it.
Then, they went and stood next to their Dad in the rain and looked down into that hole.

Searching with My Eyes by Glee Bohanon

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Sat, 14 May 2005 20:02:00 +0000

Searching with my eyes looking for all things missing:
Love, playful and sweet, lost

Searching with my eyes for all love's being:
With me, for me and beside me.

Searching with my eyes I find wary removed mocking.
Watchful, you stay within.

Searching with my eyes I find no look that starts with joyful knowing
No tender touch, no heat warms me through the night.

Again I am disappointed, bereft of love and loving I end.
I sink within to that place where neither pleasure nor pain can find me.

May 14, 2005

Glee: aka GlaeWitch and Copyright Statement

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Sun, 20 Feb 2005 22:20:00 +0000

Glee aka GlaeWitch

************************ Copyright Notice **************************
The material in this entire Blog Site is copyrighted (c) by Glee Bohanon
who retains all rights. Duplication of this material is forbidden without
the premission of the author.
********************************************************************

CodeWord Haven - Chapter One

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Sun, 20 Feb 2005 18:20:00 +0000

Sir Michael O’Callahan chose a spot underneath a concrete overpass scarred black by an explosion. There were chunks of concrete, broken glass, a piece of a bumper and some shredded remains of tires in the street all detritus from confrontations between the Zoners and the Police.

“Park here, James. I’ll walk from here.”

“But, Mr. O’ Callahan, this is too far.”

“It’s OK, James. I have my ID.”

“At least let me go with you.”

“No! He won’t approach me if anyone is around. You know that.”

“Yes, that’s true. Be careful,” he said.

The door to the car closed with a heavy thud, and Sir Michael was soon
engulfed in the darkness of the deserted street. He thought that James would
be safe there. The car was substantial. No street urchin could do more than
scuff its tough surface. The windows were bullet proof. The license protected
it from the Police. They would recognize the emblem of a high council member.
Mr. O’Callahan knew it wasn’t wise for a wealthy man to walk around in this
area. People were starving. They would attack you for a crust of bread or a
single credit. A high council member would be a juicy target for these
freedom fighters. Sir Michael paused a few times and looked around before
continuing. This was the buffer zone between the so-called “free” area, and
the “permit” area. Permits belonged to the Government. They served the
Homeland. If you were a freedom fighter you had no permit. You could not
leave the Zone, or hold a job. You could not speak to a member of The
Government or be seen with more than two of your friends at one time or you
could be killed. Still, Sir Michael was aware that many times Freedom
Fighters did leave the zone, and he was on the alert for trouble.

“Father?”

Mr. O’Callahan turned, and recognized the gaunt figure of his step-son Thomas
O’Callahan, the leader of the Freedom Fighters. Tom’s blue eyes burned through the night with a fire that was clearly visible even in the dim light of one streetlight that by some miracle still worked. The two men embraced, and thudded each other’s backs.

“It’s good to see you, Son.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Dad.”

“Tom, you’re so thin.” Mr. O’Callahan held Tom’s shoulders at arm’s length, and
squeezed with strong hands.

“Food is scarce in the FreeZone, Dad. I give what I can to Jenny and the
baby.”

“How are they?”

“Jenny has a bad cough. The baby is fine.”

“Let me take her to my doctor. He can be very discreet. He should be I pay
him enough.”

“No, she wouldn’t hear of it. She wouldn’t touch any of your money or
anything it could buy. It would be selling out.”

Mr. O'Callahan nodded. "That sounds like our Jenny."

They walked side by side in silence with arms linked and Tom led Mr.
O’Callahan to a hole in the fence alongside the road. They entered the FreeZone and walked a few blocks to a small squat building with one dirty window. A wan pool of light shone on the sidewalk. When Tom opened the door, a cloud of smoke rolled out and enveloped them. A massive man with dark curly hair and a sinister look about him stood barring their way. He recognized Tom and stood aside just enough to let them through the
door eyeing Mr. O'Callahan with a cold eye as he brushed past.

“Evening, Tom.”

“Evening, George. How’s it going?”

“It’s quiet tonight. The Police are all over to the East Side. There’s a
rumor there'll be a gathering.” He smiled.

Tom smiled. “Imagine that.” He said.

The room was dark, and the air was filled with smoke. Men and women sat about
at tables or at the bar along one side of the narrow room. The tinkle of
glasses and the sound of talk and laughter were pleasant. The aroma in the
air might be tobacco, or maybe something else. No one looked up when Mr.
O’Callahan followed Tom to the rear of the room. Tom chose the seat with his back to the wall. George looked their way and then resumed his vigil at the
front door.

Tom spoke first. “You look much older than you did at our last meeting. When
was that – only 10 months ago? ”

Mr. O’Callahan took a deep breath before he replied. “I remember that
meeting, too. I beg you. It’s my grandson. Let me at least feed them. You can’t
possibly win against the Police. Even with all my connections and my wealth I
am not immune to their power. Here in the Zone, I can’t protect them. At the
Sanctuary, they would be safe.”

“I tried to talk to Jenny about it, Dad. When I told her about the meeting tonight she got mad. Winter will soon be here. If something happens to me, who will care for the baby? I don’t know what I’ll do. Nothing I could say would make her change her mind. She is so weak she can barely lift her head. I don’t want to leave them alone for long. I wrapped her and the baby in a blanket, put extra wood near to her hand, and filled the stove. Then I came here to meet you.”

They waited silently as a waitress brought them battered mugs filled with dark
beer. Sir Michael nodded his thanks, took a sip, and smacked his lips.

“This is good,” he said, and raised his mug to Tom who raised his glass as
well, and they drank for a moment. Sir Michael wiped some foam from his lips
before speaking

“Your mother sends her love. She would like to see the baby.” When
Tom began to shake his head, Sir Michael held up his hand. “Will you deny her this? She has a right as his grandmother to at least see him.”

Tom’s shoulders sagged. “I’ve tried, but Jenny won’t do it. You know how
she feels about money and power. You are linked with the Police. She will
never . . .”

Sir Michael interrupted. “Tom, listen! Please – just try it. If she doesn’t like it there, I will see that you and Jenny are returned to the Zone. No-one needs to know. I have friends here. They will help.”

Tom’s forehead wrinkled and he pursed his lips... “I will ask her, but I think it’s useless. She has her mind made up.”

Sir Michael glanced around. People sat about with drinks in their hands. The bartender polished a glass. George stood at the door peering outside through the small dingy window into the night. Sir Michael hunched his shoulders, and leaned forward, his eyes intent on Tom’s face. He spoke in a low voice.

“No-one can know of my plans. To reveal them pre-maturely would be a disaster both for World Motors and for your mother.”

Sir Michael shifted his position in his seat so he could look around the room again. He turned back and focused his eyes on Tom before he continued. Tom leaned forward and nodded.

“I plan to step down from my position on the High Council next week. It has been widely publicized that my health is not good. It will not be unexpected. I also plan very soon afterwards to appoint your mother as sole administrator of World Motors”

Tom sucked in his breath audibly. “Won’t the board challenge her authority
and just vote in the guy they want? The Police have people even within your
organization, I’m sure. “

“Yes, they do, but I have a plan that will effectively neutralize them. You
see, I have evidence that the man they all think will be my successor, has
been embezzling from the company and selling proprietary information to our
competition. The evidence is provided by an impeccable source. When that news
breaks, I will demand that the board remove him. With my opposition
neutralized, I will force the rest of them to vote to sell all their stock to a private foundation I have founded to run World Motors. Your mother will be its administrator. I will then announce my retirement. There will never be another public board to deal with. I will hand the company over to your mother. “

“How can you do that and keep your hands off of it? It’s been your company
from day one. You founded it. You hold all the patents. You have lived your
whole life for that company.”

“That’s true, but I won’t be around to interfere.”

Sir Michael Paused. He watched Tom’s face. It took a moment for Tom to move
from disbelief to realization of what he had said. Tom reached forward and
touched Sir Michael’s hand. He looked at him intently.

“I noticed how pale you are.” He rubbed lightly at a brown spot on his hand.

Sir Michael continued.

“I will be gone by spring. I just hope that I can get World Motors squared
away and provide a sanctuary for your mother and the people who have been loyal to me all these years. I want her to live among people she loves and who love her. Tom, please. Join her. Bring Jenny and the baby and come live at the sanctuary. I can get you out of here. I can get all three of you away from here now, while I still have some power.”

Tom shook his head. “I am the leader. Everyone looks to me for strength. I
can't leave them. Besides, Jenny won’t leave her people.”

“What about the baby? What chance does he have? At the Sanctuary, he will be
warm and loved and well-fed. He will have a chance for an education. He won’t
have to scrounge for food in the streets and hide from the Police every time
they do a sweep.”

Sir Michael fell silent when he realized that Tom wasn’t listening. He waited.
Tom swallowed hard before he spoke.

“You are the only father I have ever known. I can’t get my mind around it. I knew about the infection. I thought it wasn’t natural. I suspected the hand of the Police in this. Your plan will effectively neutralize them for a time. But, World Motors is a fat plumb. It won’t be long before the wolves will sweep in and take it away from Mom.”

Sir Michael made one last appeal. “Remember how we used to take walks out in the woods? Remember how you used to pretend you were an Indian guide? Remember the hunts and the fishing? Let your son know these things, too. Let him grow up in clean air with enough food and lots of room to run and play.”

“I remember. Those were the happiest days of my life. If it wasn’t for Jenny, I would chuck all this and come home, but I love her, Dad. I can’t leave her and she wouldn’t come with me.” He looked at Sir Michael intently. His blue eyes still blazed, but he looked weary. His mouth was set in a firm expression.

Sir Michael stood, and Tom slowly rose as well.

“I may never see you again.” said Tom. They embraced and clung together and
allowed the tears to wash down their cheeks unchecked for long moments.

Mr. O’Callahan gently pulled away, took an envelope from his pocket and
handed it to Tom. “Keep this safe. It could mean a lot to your son some day.”
With one last, brief hug, he turned and strode past George out into the night.

Tom stood there for a few minutes unmoving. His face worked and he brushed away his tears with the back of his hand. He shoved the envelope into his inside coat pocket without glancing at it. Like a sleep-walker, he moved towards the front door. He brushed past George and out the door. George tried to grab Tom’s coat, but Tom shrugged him off. The sound of rapid fire ripped the night apart.

The people in the bar streamed out the door and headed towards Tom O’Callahan, leader of the FreedomZone fighters and step-son to one of the wealthiest men on the planet as he lay there in the street in a pool of blood. He wasn’t moving.

“Oh, my God, Oh my God!” They said.

George was the first to get to the figure in the street, and knelt down
beside him. He hovered over Tom and hid his motions as he removed the
envelope and hid it in his own coat pocket. He looked around, but there was
no sign of the shooter.

“Jesus,” he said.

Mr. O’Callahan was nearly a block away when heard the shots. He stopped, and his body jerked as if he had been struck, then, head down, he ran towards the hole in the fence, ducked through and headed up the street towards the waiting car. His legs churned as fast as they could. His breath came in short bursts that burned his chest. He saw James running towards him, gun in hand.

“James, get back to the car!” he gasped.

They ran the short distance, and James helped Sir Michael into the backseat, slammed the door, and leaped into the front seat behind the wheel. In seconds the tires of the car screamed as they sped away.

“Where to, Sir?”

“Take me to the Sanctuary. Hurry, James.”

“Yes, Sir. Are you OK?”

“Yes, I’m just tired. Get us there the fastest way possible.”

“Do you want me to take you to the heliport? The ‘copter is there and I charged the power-pak. We could be there in an hour or so.”

No, I don’t want anyone to know where I have gone. The ‘copter is too easy to spot. In the car, we are just one of thousands. Besides, World Motors Headquarters is one of the most observed places in the city.” He met James’ gaze in the rearview mirror, and saw his brief nod of agreement.

Sir Michael sank back into the leather cushions of his limousine for a second. He picked up his phone from the console and dialed a number, and held it to his ear while he tapped one finger against the soft leather of the seat with his other hand. After a moment, his head moved towards the phone.

“Are you alone?” He changed the phone to his other hand and pressed it to his other ear. “Good. There were shots fired in the Zone just a few minutes ago near the Pub on the south side. Do you know the one?” He paused just long enough to hear the answer.
“Find out what happened. I’m concerned about Tom.”

He pressed the button and laid the phone on his lap. Within seconds, it rang. He grabbed it and jabbed at the button, and held it to his ear. He held his breath. Sir Michael’s face paled to the point of grayness, and his hand shook so hard he nearly dropped the phone, but his voice remained steady and strong.

“Get the copter over there and airlift him to the Sanctuary! Take the medics with you. Hurry!”

He jabbed the phone with one index finger, and dialed another number. When he heard the voice on the other end he leaned forward in his seat. “Get Mary over to the hospital and prepare for emergency surgery. Tom has been shot. The copter will be there as soon as possible. . . I know it is, but I can’t risk having him in a Government facility. He will be much safer at the Sanctuary. The medics will be on board and the copter is well equipped for emergencies. No time right now. I have to call Mrs. O’Callahan.” He clicked off, and dialed the number in Paris. He waited a long time with the phone at his ear, and then slowly pushed the button. He squeezed his eyes shut until the wrinkles around them spread out over his whole face.

It would be at least a couple of hours before they arrived. He looked out the window into the night for a long time. He rested his head against the smooth leather. He caught a whiff of cigarette smoke from the front compartment. It was somehow comforting. He trusted in James. He would know exactly what to do without being told.

He awoke when he became aware that the motion of the car had changed. He looked outside to see trees and fields and small farmhouses whizzing by. He knew they had left the interstate and were on one of the many country roads that would eventually take them to the sanctuary. He straightened up in the seat, rubbed his eyes, and reached for the phone. He tried the Paris number again, but no-one answered.

“James, do you know the number on board the jet?”

“Yes, I do.”

James called out the number to him from memory and Sir Michael dialed. His face changed when he heard her voice, the voice of Mrs. O’Callahan once Shannon Fitzgerald. He dropped his eyes and his voice softened. He looked down at his knees and his free hand reached inside his coat and rested over his heart.
+++

Mrs. O’Callahan needed to stay in Paris one more day to finish the arrangements for the opening of the Paris office of the new World Motors Foundation European branch. But, something was wrong. She kept hearing Tom’s voice calling her.

“Mom,” he called, “Mom.”

It was not the voice of the man Tom had become, it was the voice of the eight-year old boy, the one she held in her heart. She staggered a little, and nearly tripped over her assistant. He had to stoop to put his arm around her shoulders. She was barely five feet tall, but had the presence of someone much taller. She waved his arm away as he tried to steady her.

“Are you all right?”

“Something is wrong.”

She placed her palm over her temple and moved her head back and forth. Her mind had gone somewhere else leaving this empty shell to deal with the practicalities. For some reason she smelled marigolds where there were none. Her stomach churned, and her chest hurt. Something was wrong with Tom.

“I need to go home right now.”

Without further explanation, she gave her assistant his instructions for the following day’s tasks. She didn’t even go back to the hotel for her clothes. She got the Mercedes and drove directly to the small inn near the private airport just outside of Paris and pounded on the door to the room until the pilot opened it. His black hair was tousled, and he wore only his shorts. His eyes opened wide when he saw her.

“No time for explanations. Get dressed, and get that plane airborne. Take me home.”

In a few minutes the pilot and co-pilot hurried to her waiting car, pulling on their jackets as they ran. At the airport, they ran across the tarmac to the plane. They helped Mrs. O’Callahan up the stairs, pulled the door shut and were air born in record time. The jet had only gotten as far as the coastline when the phone rang. She sat upright in her seat. It was as if her body had taken on the task of flying home on its own.

“Hello, Darling.” She let the sounds bounce off her eardrums, but her mind refused to listen to them. She nodded forgetting that he could not see her nod, and then silently replaced the phone in its holder.

She raised her voice so the pilot could hear.

“How long before we can be at the Sanctuary?”

“About six hours.”

She sat back in her seat and stared out into the night. It would be too late.

Mr. O’Callahan slowly set the phone back on the console, and leaned forward.

“Hey, James, put on some music, will you? Maybe a little Mozart.”

James reached forward to make the selection. Even though Sir Michael had his own control panel in the rear seat, he had never taken the time to figure out how to operate it. The soothing tones of the Piano Concerto No. 15 in B-flat Major wafted through the speakers. Sir Michael leaned back and was soon asleep again. The next time he awoke, the car was bumping along a narrow lane with trees close on either side. James looked in the rear view mirror when Sir Michael straightened himself and stretched.

“We should be there in a few minutes, sir.”

“Good. What time is it?”

“About four o’clock.”

“Should be dawn soon. It would be good to see the sunrise. James, do you know where Mrs. O’Callahan is?”

“Last time I checked, the jet was somewhere over the East Coast. They should be here in about an hour.”

“Did the copter get there OK?”

“Yes, it’s there.”

Mr. O’Callahan paused while he absorbed the tone of this response.

“And Tom – how is Tom?”

James turned in the seat and placed one arm across the back seat and looked at Mr. O’Callahan before he replied softly.

“He didn’t make it, sir.”

Mr. O’Callahan collapsed against the backseat and sobbed out one heart-wrenching cry.

“Dammit all to hell!”

After a glance at his old friend, James turned his attention to the road. He drove slowly over the rough road. There was no hurry to get there now.

They rode in silence for awhile. Then, Mr. O’Callahan pulled himself up, and smoothed his hair with one hand. The sky was getting a dark blue as it became neither night nor day.

“Elizabeth will be . . .”

He couldn’t think of the right word. What would she be? Would she be angry? Would she be grief stricken and despondent? Would she rant and rave or would she get hysterical? He doubted it. She was a strong woman. He thought she would do just as he had always done – whatever needed doing and grieve in private. He cleared his throat.

“Has your wife moved to the Sanctuary yet, James?”

“No sir. There has been some trouble getting my boy out of school. She won’t leave without him. Besides, the house isn’t finished yet.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No, we think we have it handled. There will be a break at Thanksgiving and the boy will come home for the holiday. We’ll have the house all ready and all our things here by then.”

Mr. O’Callahan could think of nothing else to say. His own wife would never see her son in this life again. He would never see his son, he always thought of Tom as his, even though he was almost seven years old when he and Elizabeth first met. He remembered the two of them – both with that special shade of dark red almost black hair they had. But, Tom had blue eyes, while Elizabeth’s were a deep rich brown. That blue was probably a legacy from the dead father, or perhaps some ancestor. Tom’s hair would never lay down obediently no matter how you combed it or wet it somehow it always managed to get unruly within minutes. For some reason, this memory made him feel like laughing even though it was perhaps the saddest day of his life. Maybe the feeling was because it recalled to him the happiest day- the day he realized that he loved her and wanted her – them - always in his life. Now part of them was gone.

“James, did anyone try to find Jenny? Do we know where she and the baby are?”

“I called headquarters and asked them to look as carefully as I could. This phone is not safe. I couldn’t call any of our operatives without blowing their cover. It would be fatal.”

“Yes, of course. As soon as we get there, pull up to the communications building. I need to get a search for them going.”

James nodded.

When the car turned off the lonely country road, there was a small featureless graveled parking lot. On the other side, tall ornate iron gates set into two stone towers connected by a massive stone archway barred their way. A high stone wall topped with ornate iron spikes stretched in both directions as far as one could see. There were carved wooden doors built into the pillars on either side of the gates. A small window on either side revealed a room encased in stone and equipped with remote cameras and microphones and speakers. James pulled the car to a stop under the arches formed by the stone towers, and spoke into a microphone. The cameras scanned the car from all sides. A complete circle of light scanned the car front to back and above and beneath, and a brief flash of neon green light touched his face. After a pause, Paul’s voice came over the speaker.

“Hi, James.”

“Hi, Paul.”

“Who’s in the backseat?”

Sir Michael said “It’s me, Paul.” The green light scanned the interior of the car and flashed briefly into Sir Michael’s eyes through the side window, and then the heavy iron gates swung slowly open. James drove into the Sanctuary.

The light from the headlights showed a fork in the road through dense woods. The way to the left disappeared into the darkness. The way to the right opened into a large graveled parking lot. At the far end was the communications building, a windowless concrete building with a tower atop it festooned with antennae. On one side of the communications building was a hangar with its large doors open, and on the other was a large warehouse. A helicopter sat just outside the hangar. Beyond that the area opened into an airstrip. The landing lights were all lit. Mrs. O’Callaghan’s plane would be arriving soon. There were several vehicles parked near the buildings. There was an ambulance, a jeep, a tow-truck, and a fire truck as well as a couple of pick-up trucks, and a semi trailer and truck. A single light shone above the door to the communications building. A very large black man stood in the pool of light watching their approach. James pulled up next to him, and he leaned down to open the door for Sir Michael. He wore a heavy leather belt with a gun in a holster. His leather jacket shone in the light. His teeth flashed very white against his smooth black face as he smiled in welcome. It was cool and there was a slight mist in the air. It had rained earlier as evidenced by pools of water on the ground. Now, the air was so moist, one could almost see it.

No-one spoke. What could they say? Thomas was dead, and it would be a sad homecoming for Mrs. O’Callahan. James and Paul stood outside near the car. Sir Michael went inside. He took off his long rain coat and draped it over the back of an empty chair in front of the communications console. At the other chair sat a young man with long dark curly hair that seemed to never have seen a comb or brush. He looked up from his monitor and pushed his glasses back onto his nose with one long index finger inquiringly.

“Take a walk, Billy.”

“Yes sir.” Billy stood up. It seemed to take a long time for him to unfold, and his rumpled clothes bagged over his frame.

When the door closed behind him, Sir Michael began to type on the keyboard. His fingers flew over the keys for several long minutes, and then he hit the “send” key. He sat back, lost in thought, going over every word and detail. Had he forgotten anything? He was tired. It wasn’t just the long day, and the anguish of Thomas’s death. The exhaustion went deep into his core. He knew his time was running short. There was so much to do. He thought of Elizabeth, and his heart lurched. It was going to be very hard to tell her that her son was dead. He sat slouched in his chair with his hand over his eyes for what seemed a very long time. Then the computer chimed as an email arrived in his inbox. He straightened, touched the keyboard, and read it.

It came from an obscure source known only as “CodeWord Haven”.

“All is in order.” was all it said.

Satisfied, he typed in a few words, and wiped all record of every keystroke using his own program. When he was finished, he powered the computer down, and restarted it, wiping everything from its memory. Paul opened the door.

“Sir, the plane is here.”

Sir Michael nodded, and rose slowly. When he stepped outside, the plane had taxied into position, and Paul and James were pushing the steps up to its side. First to step out was the co-pilot who held a hand out for Mrs. O’Callahan. She wore a long cream colored coat over the black business suit she had worn in Paris. Her red hair seemed almost black in the darkness, and flew around her in the wind. Her long legs flashed white as she stepped carefully in her high heels down the staircase behind the co-pilot. Sir Michael met her at the bottom, and she stepped into his arms. He was always surprised at how short she was. She always seemed to be six feet tall until you stood next to her. The top of her head barely came up to his shoulder. She stood back and looked into his eyes. He kept his hands on her shoulders as he shook his head. She sagged and he wound his arm around her waist. They leaned together as they stumbled to the car. James stood with the door open. In the car, she sobbed against his shoulder, and he clung to her with all his strength.

As the car’s headlights shone up the pathway to the main house, Elizabeth and Sir Michael were oblivious to anything around them. When the car came to a halt, Sir Michael pulled a clean linen handkerchief from his inside coat pocket and handed it to Elizabeth. She wiped her nose and sniffed loudly as she choked back her sobs. Sir Michael wiped his tears away with the back of his hand, and swallowed hard. When James swung the car door open, they ducked their heads, and hurried up the stone steps into the main house. Sir Michael kept one arm protectively across her shoulders. They disappeared into the ornate elevator and whooshed silently up to their third floor penthouse.

DragonSpell - Chapter One

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Sun, 23 Jan 2005 16:42:00 +0000

David Finds a Solution

The day started off calmly enough. David and Marlini spent the morning bent over the crystal ball upstairs in the laboratory. Marlini was wont to tipple a little more than was wise for a wizard ever since David’s mother died. David could smell the sweet aroma of tobacco and brandy. He bore watching, but this seemed a harmless pursuit.

Marlini paused to drink from his chalice, and looked at it disgusted. “Empty,” he said.

David said “I’ll get some more,” and left the room.

He was only gone a few minutes, but when he returned Poof, the dragon of the moat, had stuck his head in the window, and Marlini was doing an incantation. He was at the part about

“. . . marshalling all the ethers of the willow” but he said with a slight slur to his voice “. . . marshmallow all the withers . . .”

David yelled “No!” but it was too late. Marlini struck Poof on the nose.

David took Marlini by the arm and locked him in his chamber. Poof now spewed Marshmallow crème instead of fire every time someone approached the castle.

“Oh, dis is just wunnerful. Cad I hab by code back?” said Poof through the marshmallow crème clinging to his snout.

Preparations for a victory dinner brought many wagons laden with beer, food, wine, musicians, and other sundries. Every time one approached, the dragon couldn’t help himself. He breathed out marshmallow crème. By afternoon, the moat was covered with a sticky white substance.

“Oh, boy, just wait until Princess Penelope gets home” thought David.

He dreaded what she might do. He scooped up a beaker of the stuff and took it up to his turret and put it on the table. He would think of something. He had to. He was Princess Penelope’s Prime Minister. It was his job to see that things ran smoothly. He paced the floor far into the night, but could not think of a solution. David heard the call of the stallion, Solarius, ring out across the meadow. The drawbridge was down, and the torches were lit. He heard the horse’s hooves thunder across the bridge and he ran to the courtyard. Princess Penelope in her armor, her helmet topped with a white plume sat there astride the golden stallion. David reached out to help her dismount. His hands trembled as they encircled her waist.

James, the groom, appeared. “Princess, it’s good to see you home. David was worried.”

He led the stallion away. Penelope removed her helmet and shook out her long, dark hair. Then she headed for the main hall. David stood still for a second, and then he followed matching strides with her. He put his arm across her shoulders.

“Penny, “He whispered into her ear. ‘I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you, too, David. I can’t wait to get out of these smelly clothes. All I want to do is take a nice hot bath. I'm starved. Do you suppose the cook has anything left in the kitchen? Those legionnaires will be home tomorrow. You had better tell Chef Murphy to roast a few beasts."

“It’s all under control” he said, feeling anything but under control.

He did not want to tell her about Marlini, but he knew if she found out on her own, it would be very bad, very bad, indeed.

“Penelope. . .”

She looked at him. “Yes?”

“Well . . .” He paused to take a breath. “Well, as you know, Poof has had a cold. He was having some difficulty getting his fire started, and was breathing out some very sulphurous smoke, stunk up the place pretty bad. So, Marlini. . . “

“He didn’t!” The Princess moaned.

“Yes, well I was out of the room and Poof stuck his head in Marlini’s window, and Marlini tried to do one of his spells, but he substituted marshmallow for marshal, and it seems Poof is now breathing great gobs of marshmallow crème every time anyone approaches the castle. The moat is - well, pretty sticky right now. I thought I would tell you before . . .”

The Princess pulled her sword from its scabbard and stomped towards the stairs to Marlini’s turret. David grasped her arm. “Really, Penelope, you’re tired. Maybe you should rest before you tackle Marlini.”

Princess Penelope shook off his arm, and continued up the staircase towards the turret, her sword in one hand, her steel helmet in the crook of the other. The white plume flounced behind her with every step. He couldn’t help but look at her rear end thus framed. David hurried after her.

"I've about had enough of this mindless wizard. I think I'll lop off his head." She swung her sword as she spoke. David ducked to avoid being smote.

"For heavens sake, Penelope, he can't help it. He's an old man."

"Well, that old man has caused enough havoc in Sunshine Castle."

"But, but . . ."

Penelope paused on the staircase, and turned towards David. "Look.” She pointed the sword at his chest. He backed down the steps to avoid being impaled. Penelope advanced jabbing at his chest which was fortunately clad in a thick leather vest, punctuating each sentence with its tip.

"I just rode a hundred miles to get home from a war. I spent the last month with one hundred and fifty legionnaires and General Bluenose. You’re right. I’m too tired for this”

She put her sword in its scabbard, pushed David aside, and marched past him down the stairs.

"Tell Hildy I want a bath." She said over her shoulder.

David followed. He knocked on the door next to Penelope’s room.

“Hildy, wake up. The Princess is home.”

Hildy opened the door. Her blonde hair flew in all directions. Through her nightgown her bosom, and more were plain to see but she seemed oblivious to David’s look.

“No need to wake the entire castle. I heard the horses screaming in the meadow. I figured it was her. I’ll be right there.”

She slammed the door in his face. She re-emerged a moment later wrapped in a robe. He helped her carry water to fill Penelope’s tub. He left when the two women began to talk. He hummed to himself as he walked down the hall to the kitchen. He returned carrying a tray with cold chicken and fruit, a mug of warm grog, and a bottle of wine, and Hildy left. Penelope was wrapped in a blue silk robe, her dark hair cascading down her back. He set the tray on the white bear rug in front of the fire and they sat there together their heads inches apart. Penelope told him of her travels.

“. . . and so the war went well. I and the legionnaires drove the Earl of Hermitville and all his troops out of the Land of Sunshine.” After a pause she said “what will we do about Marlini?”

David held her to his chest and stroked her hair. “I don’t know” he said.

After he tucked her into bed and kissed her forehead, he headed straight for his private turret. Immediately he checked the beaker. The marshmallow crème had dried and formed a crust. Underneath was a golden liquid. Also, the marshmallow was reduced to half its former volume. He removed the skin and was greeted with an alcohol aroma. He took a small sip of the brew. He raised his eyebrows. Potent, he realized. Of course, this must be full of sugars. That would make for some very strong drink, he thought. He took a larger drink and smacked his lips.
He grabbed a bucket, and went down to the draw bridge. By now, the morning sun gleamed off the sticky white foam on the moat. As he lowered the bucket into it, he heard the dragon groan.

“Poof. How are you, my friend?”

“Ohhhhh, my head hurts.” Poof was covered in marshmallow crème. His pink scales were plastered against his sides. His long slender neck sagged in the middle, and he carried his head very low. “How will I ever get this stuff off if the moat is polluted? The fishes and crabs and crocodiles are suffering. They have all gathered on the other side near the dam. I fear it will not be long until the marshmallow suffocates them all. The ducks have flown to the lake.”

David said “I’ve got an idea. We’ll open the dam so they can escape into the lake, and then close it fast. If I do it right, it should work. Poof, can you tell them? I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”

He put one finger on his chin. “Let’s see, one hundred fifty legionnaires . . . they will be thirsty. How long would it take them to drink all the marshmallow liquor in the moat?”
Poof shook his head and oozed off to the other side of the moat.

Going Out

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Sat, 22 Jan 2005 21:11:00 +0000

Last night for the first time in weeks, I went out. I’ve been laid low by a nasty virus. I have been dragging myself each day to work, and home back to bed. (It’s not contagious.) I was tired of staying home and in need of some laughter. I decided to check out the new kitchen at the local watering hole which was closed for a very long time in bankruptcy due to incompetent management. The kitchen was opened last Thursday for the first time, and I wanted to sample the eats. Recently, some people from the neighborhood formed a consortium, bought the place, renovated it, rebuilt the defunct kitchen and hired many of the old staff members. It’s a bluesy sort of neighborhood bistro (The Northfield Roadhouse) with overtones of Cajun influences compliments of Chef Chris and the Nairobi Trio as well as the Witch Doctors, Mango pie, and several other local bands who play muted blues. The volume is deliberately turned down on their amplifiers so we can do what we came there for - to talk. The manager was wearing a black fedora, as were several other staff members. They looked so cool in their black shirts – like gangsters from the twenties with a modern flair. The main host, St. Pauli Tom (named after his favorite beer) is a 60’s kind of guy who has a perpetual grin on his face as if he has just played the most hilarious joke on life (which he has). Tom is famous for his parties, and the goal was to re-create the old place with new flavors. I think they have accomplished their goal. It is starting to be a “happening” place.

Murphy drove, and I was sitting next to him at the bar, sipping some gumbo when Murphy’s friend came in. I moved out of the way, and let him sit next to Murphy. I heard him say he was waiting for a long-haired blonde. Funny, I figured him for that kind of guy from the stories Murphy tells me of their drinking and womanizing together. He’s a confirmed bachelor, a gambler, a womanizer, and definitely not my sort of guy. The friend mumbled something about hating it when they’re late, and then grinned because, he obviously was going to wait. The games people play, I muttered back. The blond finally showed up. She’s a former friend of one of my good buddies, so I know about her a little. My good buddy is a very strong, funny, beautiful, smart woman married to a guy that I adore, and would immediately go for if he wasn’t already committed. The friend’s choice of women confirmed my impression of him. Murphy says the blond isn’t too bright, which suits his friend just fine. I already knew that about her, and the friend fell a few more notches on my respect-o-meter. Murphy wandered off.

Musicians from all over the area drop in to play. One came to sit next to me. He played some blues on his harmonica for a while. An interesting man, he’s about my age, but he’s pretty down at the heels. He’s a database designer who programs the old mainframes, and the work is drying up. He has to drive all the way to Cleveland to work, and comes home on week-ends. Perhaps I’ll see him again, perhaps not. I think you have to keep current, keep learning or else, you will get obsolete. Other friends came to fill Murphy’s empty stool one–by-one until I was surrounded. Rumors about a favorite bartender’s return next week were flying.

One of my favorite men came to sit with me and we talked about my writing. He’s one of my fans, and we think a lot alike. I’m plotting a book that has been lurking for a while that is based on the concept of time as spirals, not a flat line, and it plays with reality big-time. My character exists in the present and the past simultaneously since she is evolving into a shaman who exists in all times and places at once. In the transition, there is, of course, a love interest in his own spiral, and he is having trouble connecting with her. In their past spirals they are intertwined, but in the present one, their spirals only intersect tangentially. It’s complicated, and has a lot of imagery in it. I know where I want to go, but the danger is to fly too far too fast, and leave my readers behind. So, I welcomed a chance to talk about it with a mind that is as sharp as or sharper than mine, who could follow where I wanted to go without getting freaked out.

My lady friend, his wife, as always, wonders why a woman like me is alone, and I tell her, all the good men are taken after all, she has him. I tell her to take good care of him. I have eaten some Cajun gumbo, and some crab stuffed mushrooms, drank my two drinks – one before dinner, and one after. I am getting tired, and I want to go home. I go to look for Murphy who is being treated to a free beer by two cops who are winding down from their day, and who love Murphy because he has fixed them so many breakfasts, and told them so many bad jokes. It takes me a while to work my way across the room, because people along the way are friends, and each one has to hug me and ask me where have I been, and how I am and tell me their story. Murphy introduces me to the cops, one of whom was there the day Eddie died. Murphy goes out to warm up his car, comes back in, finishes his beer, and then we leave. It was a pleasant evening.

The only thing that nags a little at me is that the dumb blonde didn’t go home alone, and I did. I would not have chosen Murphy’s friend to go home with. I would have chosen a man like my friend’s husband, a man like my Eddie was who has loyalty, commitment, caring, tenderness, a smart man who would choose a strong, smart woman for his mate. I don’t know where to meet such men who aren’t already committed to someone. They are a prize, and their wives tend to hang on to them.

The Snow Globe trilogy

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Thu, 09 Dec 2004 03:30:00 +0000

The Snow Globe Trilogy
By
Glee Bohanon

Copyright December 14, 1999 by Glee Bohanon. All rights reserved. This story is my gift to you. You may quote it, copy it, or give it away as long as you credit the words to me.

Acknowledgements

The inspiration for this story came as the result of a collaboration with the Cyber-Hacks writing group. I want to thank Bob Faw, its leader, a friend and mentor to me, for providing such a wonderful place for everyone who visits there.

I also want to thank Jean Vann, a dear in every sense of the word, who wrote the opening lines. I use them with her permission, and have re-written them only a little so that the story stands on its own.

I especially want to thank you who are reading my story.

With Love

Glee

The more I live the more I believe that even though it may sometimes seem that
we do everything right and everything is still wrong, ultimately, we get what we give.

"In the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make” - Beatles song.

* * *

T he snow globe
had traveled many miles hidden away in a bale of straw in a horse trailer. It stopped at rodeos and horse shows around the country and it got moved from trailer to trailer and ended up in Boss’s barn. Lately he had not felt like “Boss” at all. In fact his owner had not really seemed herself. He lay in the stable and eyed with lethargy the straw that she had just forked into his stall. He watched her as she came in to arrange it, her face flat and tired. She moved the straw around and saw the globe. She picked it up, and the movement caused the snow inside to swirl. The carousel inside the globe began to move and her face lit up. She laughed as the energy of a thousand carousels, turning in joy and the excited laughter of children filled the quiet stable.

“A Christmas gift for us Boss! I wonder how it got here.”

The stable was filled with light and it was as if the years rolled away. There was joy, laughter, and love. The horse did not kneel like the old carol said, but he stood and his legs were strong. He neighed and she shouted with joy. As the whirling lights in the snow globe lit up the stable, Glee thought of another stable in the long ago and far away. One she had never seen except in her imagination.

Boss shook himself as if awakening from a bad dream, nuzzled her hair with his velvety muzzle, blew soft air against her cheek, and began to nibble at the fresh hay she brought him. She watched in wonder as he seemed to transform into his former self before her eyes. His coat shone in the light from the carousel. His neck once again arched proudly as he tossed his head at her. Tears of gladness began to streak their way down her cheeks.

“Oh Boss, It’s a wonderful Christmas present.”

She had no idea how the globe got where it was. The only person other than the veterinarian to enter her barn for many months was Murphy. He had been wearing a big coat with voluminous pockets. Perhaps he dropped it, she thought. She recalled how Murphy had been delighted with the horses. He recounted times past when he was a boy. His face shone with pleasure when they nuzzled him and blew their breath in his face as a way of greeting and accepting him into the herd. He had held Boss’s head in his arms and fed him handfuls of grain, which Boss nibbled at dispiritedly.

Murphy said, “I believe he’s on the mend.”

But Glee didn’t see it.

Later, they sat together in her kitchen, two lonely people, and remembered lost love. They would speak a while, and then sit silently together, sipping their drinks. After a long silence, Murphy told her of the girl he loved.

“The prettiest girl I ever had.”

He spoke of the fun times they had together, their lovemaking, the day they parted. She had not permitted herself to cry, not then, though her heart ached for him. She thought he was still in love with Annie.

As she gazed into the globe, she thought the man looked remarkably like Murphy, and the lady was indeed young and very beautiful.

“This must be Murphy’s” she thought.
As she gazed into the globe, she wished that Murphy would find Annie again. She carried the globe into the house and put it on a shelf in the kitchen. For the next several days, the globe sat there forgotten. Then, one day when she was cleaning off the shelf in the kitchen, she saw the globe there, and decided she should return it to its rightful owner. She drove by his apartment. He wasn’t home so she left the globe on his doorstep with a note that said:

“You must have dropped this when you were over the other night. Hope all is well with you. Love, Glee.”

As she drove away, she didn’t notice how the globe began to glow with a warm light and the carousel began to whirl.

It was many weeks later when she was sitting with friends on her favorite barstool that Murphy came in. On his arm was the prettiest girl she had ever seen.

“This is Annie.” he beamed.

From his pocket, Murphy pulled out the globe and handed it to her.

“This isn’t mine” he said. “I want you to have it back.”

As he handed it to her, it began to glow softly and the carousel slowly began to whirl. Murphy looked deep in her eyes and said in almost a whisper:

“May love find its way to you, my friend.”

After Murphy left, Glee sat a while. Then almost as an afterthought, she scooped up the globe, dropped it into her bag, and crossed the parking lot to her truck. The wind was blowing and a snowstorm was blasting in from the North. Time to head home, she thought, though not with much pleasure. A tear trickled down her cheek as she recalled his last words to her, for she was sure she would never see him again. She was happy for Murphy.

* * *
A s she pulled her pickup out onto the slippery road, her headlights caught a figure struggling with a bicycle in the already deepening snow alongside the road. There was a slight hill here, and the figure was struggling to push the bike along through the slush. Hers was the only car along this lonely stretch of road. She recognized Walter. He was a well-known street person. Everything he owned in the world was affixed to that bicycle. It was a sturdy Schwinn, a vestige of happier days. There were balloons, now limp in the cold air and colorful plastic bags and streamers made of yellow construction tape. His basket held some returnable bottles and cans gleaned from the leavings alongside the road. The deposit from them would be all he had to buy a meal. From the looks of it, she thought, he would be hungry and cold tonight. He was far from the place he called his home, a wooden crate lined with pieces of Styrofoam in an alley behind the Box Bar and Grill in Plymouth. It was perhaps 10 or 12 miles away. As cold as it was and as thinly clad as Walter was, she was not sure he would make it there. Walter knew her by sight. They had sometimes chatted on a summer evening when she walked alone at night because she couldn’t sleep.

She pulled over and asked Walter if he’d like a ride home. At first, he shrank back, and then recognizing her voice, he smiled wanly and said,

“Yes, I believe so.”

He insisted on placing the bicycle in the back of the truck himself, even though Glee could see his strength was nearly gone. She was alarmed at the pale face that settled wearily into her front seat. As the heater began to warm him, her nose was assaulted with the ripe smell of a long unwashed body, and smells from the dumpsters where he gleaned his meals.

“Walter, have you eaten today” she asked?

“No, I don’t believe so” he said flatly.

“Would you like to come home and get something to eat? I have a huge pot of chicken and dumplings in the refrigerator. You could get a warm bath and I could wash your clothes. I think I have an old coat of Ed’s you can have, too.”

After a long pause, he said “That would be most kind of you, but I don’t want to put you out.”

“No bother, Walter, I would be glad of some company. My house is so silent now that Ed is gone.”

He nodded absently, and began his litany about the ills of society, which she had heard word-for-word many times.

“Procreation is the sin. It will end civilization as we know it…”

He went on and on almost without breathing. His voice was pitched high and he spoke in a singsong staccato rhythm. He rocked forward and back as he spoke. Glee was afraid he would hit his head on the windshield, but he just managed to avoid it.

When they pulled up the lane to her farm, he began to worry about leaving his bicycle out in the weather. She assured him that it could spend the night in her barn out of the wind. This seemed to satisfy him, and she helped him put it in the barn. It took the two of them struggling to get the huge sliding door shut. Walter was winded from the effort and began to cough as they climbed the steps of the porch. By the time she got him inside, he was almost unable to stand. She took his arm to steady him and helped him sit down in a chair at the kitchen table. He coughed and rested while she fixed him some hot chocolate. She ran a warm bath and got him some clothes from the closet where Ed’s things still hung. He seemed somewhat recovered after drinking the warm liquid.

“Don’t you have any whiskey?”

“Sure. You can have some right after you get a bath.”

This seemed to appease him, and he went placidly off to the bathroom on wobbly legs.

She busied herself in the kitchen warming the chicken and dumplings and putting out bread and butter and a tumbler filled with Jack Daniels. This was to have been her meals for the week, but she figured she could always make more, and Walter needed a hot meal.

He came out of the bathroom wearing Ed’s jeans and a flannel shirt. The jeans were too short, and way too big around the waist, but they were clean and Walter didn’t seem to notice. He handed her his clothes, mostly rags. She put them in the washing machine, and it hummed away in the laundry room. Walter ate with both hands a spoon in one, a fork in the other. When the food was gone he mopped up every last drop of gravy with a wad of bread, and gulped the whiskey down in one long swallow. She poured him another, and he drank this one more slowly, his eyes fixed on something far away and long ago.

His eye spotted the globe which Glee had placed back on the kitchen shelf. As he looked at it, it began to glow and the carousel began to ever so slowly turn. He began to tell her of his mother who had died. He had been sitting with her when she went. He spoke in simple terms, his mind barely able to grasp the concepts and make them into words.

“I wish I could go where she is.” He said simply. “I miss her.”

He seemed transfixed by the globe, and Glee asked him if he wanted it.

His face momentarily lit up, “Oh, yes.” He whispered. “She looks just like Mom, you know. The man, that’s my Dad. They would be so ashamed to see me now, a crazy bum, something to be found dead in a snow bank next to the road. I don’t want to die all alone. ”

She fixed the bed in the extra bedroom and led him there. He grasped the globe in one hand like a priceless jewel. Carefully she placed it on the bed stand next to the bed, and watched his face in its glow as he watched it turn. She sat in the old rocker across the room as he fell asleep. His breath was coming in harsh rasps. Sometime during the night after she had dozed off to sleep, Walter got his wish.

* * *
A fter the emergency crews left taking Walter’s inert form with them, Glee cleaned the small bedroom. When she was done, she picked up the globe and placed it on the kitchen shelf. She was lost in thought about Murphy and about Walter, and failed to notice how it began to glow faintly when she touched it. Later that night, she sat at the kitchen table, alone, toying with the food on her plate, not really hungry. She hated eating alone and cooking just for herself. She gazed at the globe on the shelf, and wondered who it belonged to and how it got here. As she looked, the snow began to whirl and the carousel began to turn. She thought the two figures were smiling, and she bent closer to see if it could be so. The globe glowed brightly and sparkles of light danced about the room.

As she looked intently, she thought the figure of the woman looked like her! She picked up the globe and was looking at it intently, noticing the man wore a big mustache and had twinkling blue eyes.

“Oh, I wish someone like that would come up my driveway,” she thought.

Just then, there was a knock. It was cold outside, and when she opened the door, snow whirled inside and seemed to dance about the entire room, as if the kitchen had become a snow-globe itself. There stood a man in a faded denim jacket. His jeans were frayed at the hem and his boots were well worn. His face was weathered and creased. He put his hand up to tip his cowboy hat as he said

“Ma’am, I hate to bother you, but my truck slid into the ditch. I wonder if I could use your phone to call my son.”

As she looked into his bright blue eyes, it seemed she already knew him somehow. It didn’t register in her mind that he had a big bushy mustache.

“Sure, come on in.” She never thought for a minute that this might not be a wise thing to do.

He called, but the son was not at home and the wrecker was going to cost a lot.

“I’m embarrassed to say that I don’t have much money. I just moved here from Montana and haven’t got a job yet.”

“I’ll get my coat. Maybe the tractor will start and I can pull you out of the ditch.”

For some reason, she put the globe into her coat pocket and together they trudged out to the barn. He looked about and saw the broken door to the shed, the fence poorly patched, and the tractor sitting to one side with a flat tire.

“Looks like you need some help around here.”

She just looked at him, not knowing what to say.

“There’s an air compressor here in the barn,” she said.

As they pushed the door to the barn open, the horses called out cheerful greetings.

“It’s their dinner-time,” she said.

He spied Walter’s bike still leaning where they had left it.

“Is this your bike?”

“Oh, no, it belongs – belonged - to Walter.”

As she explained about Walter and how the bike got where it was, a tear tracked its way down her cheek. He turned away without saying a word. He moved about looking at each horse. He stroked Boss’s sleek hide and said,

“Nice bunch you’ve got here.”

Later, as they bent to the task of pulling the old truck out of the ditch, she didn’t notice when the snow-globe fell out of her pocket and rolled to the side of the road. When the truck sat idling in the driveway, he got out and took her hand in his.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. I’m staying with my son, and he doesn’t live far from here. I’ll get that shed door put back up and see what I can do about the tractor tire.” After a pause, he said “You’ve got the prettiest brown eyes.” He winked, got into his truck and drove away.

Glee smiled to herself as she walked slowly up the lane. She stopped and scooped up some snow and made it into a snowball. She threw it as hard as she could and it soared over the house.

S he didn’t see the old car stop. A young man with tousled hair and a troubled look scooped up the snow globe and the car zoomed away into the night.
∞ ∞ ∞

I Believe

noreply@blogger.com (Glee) — Sun, 26 Sep 2004 14:41:00 +0000

I will preface what follows with this qualifier. I am not lost, nor do I need to be "saved". I live my life according to my beliefs. They have worked very well for me through out my life. I stand ready to revise them if somehow they prove to be inadequate or take me in a direction I don't want to go. I haven't always followed the correct path. Sometimes I have wandered, sometimes I have deliberately violated a principle to see if it works or not. Every time, I have been unhappy and have suffered bad consequences. I also have no desire to convert anyone to my system. I discovered it myself and I believe that is the best way for someone to have a belief - by discovering it for themselves. That process is painful, and takes a lot of effort. But, I think that no belief is meaningful if it isn't "yours" If you don't "own" - it if it hasn't come from within yourself and become part of you.

I will start with the simplistic view of a child. When I was about eight, I decided that I was special. Why I thought this, is still a mystery to me. My parents certainly didn't think so, and neither did most of the world. From that dichotomy - my belief in myself and others lack of belief in me began a search for the source of this belief. What made me think I was special? Why was I alive? Was there a purpose to my life?

Because I was a difficult child, and my home was an unhappy place for me, I spent a great deal of time alone outside as far away from people as I could get. My only companion was my father's hunting dog. We had a bond that goes beyond words. He was my confidant, my companion, my friend, my playmate, and my spirit brother. One fall, he was killed. I was so devastated that I could not eat or go to school. My dog appeared to me in dreams. I thought I saw him on the porch, but no-one was there. When I was forced to return to school, a teacher that had never spoken to me before took me aside and re-assured me that he understood my pain. He made it a point to talk to me every day after that. The compassion he displayed was a healing force for me. I began to interact in school and learn to associate with people. The death of my dog pushed me into life. Before that I was headed for a life of isolation and introspection and perhaps even insanity. (Maybe after reading this you will decide I am insane.)

I decided that something - some force had pushed this man towards me - that he was - in the eyes of a child - a guardian angel. Many, many times in my life since then similar things have happened. At the time most needed, the exact thing or person I need will come to me. It has never failed.

For many years I searched religions, and discarded them all, and read philosophers and decided they have some, but not all of the wisdom, and studied Psychologists and decided they don't have it, either. After searching what was available to me for a better way, I formed this opinion for myself.

I believe that this life-force is like an organism of which I am one part. I believe you are, and so is my dog and so are the pine trees that sit outside my window, and the birds and the air and the sea and the earth and the sun and the moon and the stars. The molecules of air I breathe are the same ones that Galileo, and Socrates and Hitler and Attila the Hun breathed. Their dust whirls about the earth and is ingested and secreted. Only a very minute fraction of the earth has ever actually left here - a few satellites that fell into the sun, and some that whirled out past Pluto and disappeared from our view. In the same way, I believe the spirit that makes us live that is "you" and "me" is an entity of itself. It takes a body for reasons we don't clearly understand, and then leaves that body to go elsewhere, but, like the molecules of dust that whirl about the earth, it never leaves. I am one such spirit in a less evolved state. My task here in this life is to experience everything life has to offer to learn from it, to help others when they need it, to love them when they need it, to feed them when they are hungry, and to be a guide if asked, and to find my own path and follow it as best I can, and finally, as part of the life-force to be a part of it and serve it as it serves me.

I think that these words are inadequate to the task of describing this "life-force". The use of the word "spirit" for example is imprecise since it bears a connotation of ghosts or other-world creatures or something equally silly. Still, I have no other word to describe it. Perhaps that is why ancient men needed to name this force something. Perhaps that's why they invented the concept of "God" to represent the life-force, and "soul" to represent the spirit that dwells within each of us.

But, the danger of naming a thing that is bigger than we are is our need to control it, and our need to establish rules by which it operates, and other rules by which we can bend it to our will. Thus, the perversions of religion which is a man-made convention, are an attempt to super-impose the will of man over a timeless and all-powerful force. This force exists beyond language. It operates in dimensions we can't perceive on a time-scale that is past, present and future all running in spirals, not in the linear way that we, as humans can understand.

I call myself a pagan because I reject the man-made religion of Christianity. But, I am not a Pagan, either. They believe in gods of this and that, and I only believe in one life-force, and in the spirit that dwells within me and every living thing. It's not merely a concept - it is my belief, and as such it is sacred - to me.

glee