Lest not ye be judged...

Yesterday I was at the local laundromat. This because the Carenen Cottage is undergoing construction for an addition, which rendered our old laundry room nonexistent and the new laundry room not ready yet. It's a nice, clean, efficient laundromat with good machines that work. It costs around $15 to do our laundry. That's 60 quarters, enough to make me happy someone invented belts a few years ago. But I digress.

 

There was a frail, skinny, old man trying to do his laundry. He wore a baseball cap on his knobby head perched on a scrawny neck. His long-sleeved, faded shirt had a tear in the back exposing saggy skin. His pants were baggy and he wore scuffed, ratty shoes barely held together. He shuffled. I think he got there just before I did. He was fumbling with how the washing machines worked. I looked up and saw a lady come his way and I immediately went into my judgmental role. She was in her 30's, overweight, and spoke like a redneck and I judged her. There, it's out.

 

Then she pleasantly and kindly went about helping the man get his laundry done. Once the machines were going, she sat with him and struck up a conversation. I overheard him say that he was 90 years old, his wife had passed on, he was a World War II veteran, and he lived alone here in Travelers Rest. The two of them had a conversation while I read my James Lee Burke novel.

 

Time passed and the old man's laundry was washed and ready for the dryer. The lady kept helping, not doing, but helping. The old man was not incompetent. He was just very old, and the lady helped. I did nothing but watch and feel ashamed for not helping first, for letting someone else lead while I watched. Finally, the lady had to go, and an opportunity opened. When his clothes dried, I held two pillowcases open and we stuffed his clothes in. Finished, I put the two fat pillowcases in the back seat of his car and watched as the old man climbed behind the wheel of his rusty old gas guzzler and slowly drove away.

 

Then I went back to my book about the bayous, less ashamed than I had been, grateful for the guilt-driven opportunity to knock my self-centeredness back a notch or two. Appreciative for learning there's more to people than the way they look or talk. Uneasy about the next time something like that happens when I hope I can become more of a man.

Wildlife Warriors

I took a short stroll one recent morning to check the early-morning mail. Near the mailbox, I saw what I thought was an owl on the ground near the lane. It was not an owl. It was a hawk, and it appeared to be in some discomfort. My steel-trap mind seized on that assumption because the bird not only allowed me to approach closely, but it also showed no indication of flight.

What to do, what to do? First, let me say it was a beautiful bird with piercing talons, piercing beak, and piercing eyes that helped me realize it was a hawk, not an owl. Also, it was of good size and presented a somewhat intimidating appearance. Finally, I was at a loss as to how I should proceed. I couldn't leave it damaged and defenseless on the ground for some four-legged predator to take.

After some thought, which I try to avoid on a daily basis, it occurred to me that there might be a local wildlife organization that could intervene, so I went to Google and found "Wildlife Rehab" and gave them a call. I was put in touch with a nice lady who said she and her husband would come and get the bird if we could capture it, suggesting we throw a sheet or towel over it because that calms them down. Those approaches seldom calm me down, but when my LSW expertly tossed a white sheet, the bird stayed put. After that, an upside down laundry basket and a chunk of concrete secured the capture.

An hour later the couple from Wildlife Rehab showed up. The man simply picked up the bird by the talons and examined it without any concern for damage the raptor might inflict with that beak or claws. A close examination revealed a wound, maybe a gunshot or damage from being hit by a car, in the bird's underside that had become infected.There were flies and necrotized tissue. The woman identified the bird as a juvenile red-tailed hawk. When they left, there was optimism that the bird could be rehabilitated and released back into the wild.

Lisa and I named him, guessing on gender, "Raymond the Red-Tailed Raptor." Seemed dignified, somehow, for a predator of his lofty demeanor and appearance.

Yesterday morning, as we were enjoying our cappuccino/coffee morning beverage, I saw from my sitting position in the living room, a turtle making its way across our driveway that leads up an incline to the mailbox. Springing to my feet lest the beast sprint away, I capture a young box turtle, took him in for Lisa to admire, then released him into the wild near our woodpile, the direction he was heading. A male, we have named him "Bernard the Box Turtle."

And that's my report from Lisa and me, conservatores of the natural environment.

Wait! Is that crying sound from deep in the woods behind the Carenen Cottage a rattlesnake needing rescue? I don't think so. Maybe something soft and fuzzy; a bear cub that needs cuddling. Maybe I could pick it up and bring it back to the cottage and nurse it back to health. Stay tuned. I'm going to jog out and take a look. Be right back.

Contented Carenens

Friday evening at the Travelers Rest outdoor amphitheater with the Blue Ridge in the distance, we settled in after joining friends who saved us a place to hear the talented and exuberant Jacob Johnson offer up a free concert. Soft summer breezes stirred the hair of Southern girls of all ages playing and flirting and leaning on boyfriends and husbands, citrusy perfumes wafting lightly in the air. Children rolled down the hill like living logs, and bigger boys tossed a football back and forth.

 

And I wondered how life could get much better on a June twilight with my bride at my side and Jacob on the stage; poet, singer, songwriter, and guitar virtuoso beyond anything I've ever heard or seen before. He loves to perform, and we love to be his audience. His enthusiasm and talent defined the evening as a very good one.

 

Later, when the show was over, we packed up our folding chairs and walked back to the car and drove home where a big glass of wine and a joyful puppy awaited us. Strolling up to the Carenen Cottage in the dark, we heard tree frogs and crickets providing background music, and a big bullfrog down by the pond sang solo, his bellows cracking through the darkness, making us smile.

 

Such a blessing to be content.

My Writing Process

This week, I'm participating in a blog tour for writers.  Each writer answers four questions about their writing and tags a few more authors to do the same next week.  I'd like to thank Barbara V. Evers of  http://aneclecticmuse.blogspot.com who tagged me for this week.  Barbara writes epic fantasy and I can't wait get my hands on a copy of The Watchers of Moniah.

Now, on to the questions!

What am I working on?  

Right now I'm working on the third book in the Thomas O'Shea series. Book one, Signs of Struggle, was a success, and book two, A Far Gone Night is coming out on September 9th. I'm eight chapters into book three and looking forward to completing a first draft by the summer's end. I'm also trying to be faithful to my blog, "CurlyLarryandMe."

 

How does my book differ from others of its genre? 

Good question, because my books don't really fit any specific genre. They're just stories with the same protagonist and supporting cast of characters with weird names (Lunatic Mooning, Bunza Steele, Harmon Payne) in an obscure setting - a small town in northeastern Iowa. My books are different in that the protagonist is not a P.I., a retired cop, or any other standard protagonist. He's just a middle-aged guy who's lost his wife and two daughters in an automobile accident a couple years back and is trying to work out his approach to God, alcohol, violence, and relationships with the opposite sex while maintaining a kind of "tough guy" code.

 

Why do I write what I do? 

It all started with the Stephen King approach of, "What if?" I then thought about what would be the worst thing that could happen to me, and that would be losing my family in an automobile accident. What would I do? So I took that idea and applied it to Thomas O'Shea and came up with Signs of Struggle. To me, the story is everything, and writing from a first person point of view makes the story more intimate.

 

How does my writing process work? 

Of course, I'm always writing in my head and making notes here and there, but I'm pretty disciplined, writing when I can during the school year (I'm an English prof) and, when summer comes, sitting down from 8-12 and working. It's fun, especially in the summer because I know I'll have the time to really dig in and let 'er fly. I also have more time to do research, which I enjoy. I try to write a first draft in the summer (keeping in mind Hemingway's observation that all first drafts are "vomit") and then polish and shape after that during the year. Also, we host at our cottage, twice a month, an eclectic group of writers in a group we call "The Write Minds" which is useful for critique, suggestions, and insights. They're a little crazy, but talented and astute. They find my blind spots. That's about it on process.

 

Make sure to follow the tour next week (June 30) with the following authors:

 

Warren Moore

 Dr. Moore received his B.A. in English from Excelsior College, his M.A. in English from the University of Kentucky, and his Ph.D. in British, American and World Literature from Ball State University. His Ph.D. work focused on representations of evil in literature, with particular attention to medieval literature, and a dissertation on the Seven Deadly Sins in pre-Shakespearean English drama. He was named Newberry’s Professor of the Year in 2006 by the College’s Student Government Association, and was named a South Carolina Governor’s Distinguished Professor in 2008.

Prior to joining the faculty at Newberry College in 2003, Dr. Moore worked in jobs ranging from magazine editor and freelance journalist to stand-up comic. He is a regular contributor to the New Chaucer Society’s annual bibliography, and to The American Culture, an online magazine. Moore's first novel, Broken Glass Waltzes, was published by Snubnose Press in 2013.

Blog: http://profmondo.wordpress.com
E-mail: prof.mondo.blog@gmail.com
Twitter: @profmondo

Dave Newell

Dave Newell was born and raised in the Midlands of South Carolina. After graduating in 2007 with a bachelor's degree in Broadcast Journalism, he moved to Greenville, South Carolina where he currently lives with his family.

Red Lory his first novel, was published in 2013 and the film version is currently in production.

Blog: www.davenewell.net
FB: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Dave-Newell/252369344883063

Twitter: @davenewell
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Dave-Newell/e/B00A13EFG6/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1403526770&sr=1-2-ent

Carnage at the Carenen Cottage

And so it begins. The systematic renovation to the Carenen Cottage has launched with serious purpose. I took off the back deck, then the grader did his thing, footers were poured, cinderblock secured, temporary electrical hookup installed. This morning three men showed up to rip off the back of the cottage and prepare to do framing for the new. That meant we had to get everything out of the old laundry room and pantry this morning, something we thought would not be necessary for a couple of weeks.

 

But we are nothing if not flexible. I'm glad they're going at it. The additional space will be luxurious, at least to us, and the flexibility in hospitality will be wonderful. So the hammering, the ripping, the tearing, and the demolishing is going on, perfect background for my writing.

 

Oh, and the workers have deposited an orange port-a-potty out front, by the blueberry bushes. We're going to tell our friends that it's the second bathroom we always wanted. Beats the woods. Stay tuned for a brief report on how our two cats and puppy (Lily the Wonder Dog) are adapting. This might get ugly.

 

Bug Back Boogey

Recently, my LSW (long-suffering wife) and I spent four days visiting her sister and brother-in-law at a state park in eastern North Carolina. In an RV. This was no skanky RV, dear reader. It had an upstairs, a downstairs, and a basement. Suffice it to say, we did not suffer. In addition, one afternoon there was free entertainment at the campsite across the road from us. A young woman was laying out food and utensils on a picnic table, obviously preparing lunch for her husband and child. She was a redhead. She wore a summer shift. Everything was pleasant and peaceful, and then a bug went down her back, inside the confines of the shift.

What followed was a wildly-gyrating interpretive dance that had to be seen to be believed. In an attempt to dislodge the insect, this lady engaged a variety of moves that would have made Michael Jackson appear to be a catatonic. It was either a fertility dance or an ode to Satan, but in either case, it was energetic enough to free her from the intruder that had slipped inside her shift. Mission accomplished, undeterred, she continued with her work at the picnic table.

I finished my chilled glass of domestic chablis, entertained random thoughts of youth and energy, and nodded off into the comfort of a nice nap.

Saluda Take Me Away

My long-suffering wife, Lisa, and I rarely take real vacations. Oh, we went to the Bahamas for a few days once, and a trip to New England when our daughters were still at home. But, generally, we don't vacation. But last weekend we did have a getaway to celebrate the last day of students for Lisa where she teaches 9th graders all day. If anyone deserves a getaway, it is she.

A few weeks ago I booked a weekend at a bed and breakfast in Saluda, North Carolina, not far from where we live in Greenville County, near the North Carolina line. Saluda is an artsy village situated well up in the Blue Ridge mountains. There's a winding road up the mountainside and then you're on Main Street with a string of shops, restaurants, and an array of art dealers. The village is right out of a Norman Rockwell painting with a wide variety of local characters, outstanding and varied art and antique shops, and mountains all around.

We chose well when we booked at The Oaks Bed & Breakfast. The house is a restored Victorian mansion built in the late 1800's with all the charm and distinctive features of the period. The owners, Dale and Donna Potruski have created an elegant place to stay, surrounded by enormous oak trees. The wraparound front porch is an excellent place to have morning coffee, read a book, or have a conversation with other guests. Breakfast is a gourmet delight served with flair and flavor under a chandelier. There is privacy, peace and quiet, and several lovely places to relax outdoors.

Donna was at a family event in Florida, so we did not get to meet her. But Dale is a sincere, delightful, witty, and charming host who does everything he can to make you feel at home. He knows the village and people of Saluda, and he can direct you to a wide variety of places and events close by.

I don't often recommend much. I do remember recommending that people should vote for Alf Landon for President, come to think of it. But I can highly recommend, without reservation, Dale and Donna Potruski and The Oaks Bed & Breakfast. So, if you're in western North Carolina or the Upstate of South Carolina, you'd be wise to drop in for a day or a few at The Oaks in Saluda. Give their website a look, then book. You can find them at The Oaks Bed and Breakfast (www.theoaksbedandbreakfast.com).

By the way, I did not get paid for this blog. Dale doesn't even know I'm doing it. Also, I can assure you that Lisa and I will return to Saluda, and if we're staying overnight or longer, we'll return to The Oaks.

Bruised and Broken (deck)

I am proud to report that I have finished completely tearing down our 2,564 square foot back deck. At least it seemed to be about that size. It took me a week or so, maybe it was a month, I get mixed up. Anyway, it's done, the deconstruction slowed by a couple of rainy days that just broke my heart and allowed me to recover flat on my back with a handful of Advil and a cold beer. But it's gone now, a memory fading about as slowly as the multiple bruises I incurred in the process that was done solo.

 

I'm a very delicate guy, so I am used to having bruises show up and not know how I got them. Lisa will say, "Jeez, John, how did you get that awful bruise?" And I'll have to say I have no idea. Most of the time. But the ones from the deck-clearing can all be traced to, well, the deck-clearing. Hard to say where they all came from, but the one on my left shoulder was a direct result of my experience with gravity when one of the railings I was leaning on decided to give way. Fortunately, a 2 x 8 anchored in concrete broke my fall.

 

It's important to be able to say I took down the deck with my little hammer. Partly true. In addition to my little hammer, I used a  claw hammer, a pinch bar, a 4-lb. sledge hammer, a 10-lb. sledge, a five-foot crowbar, several vivid Anglo-Saxon expletives, and a banana (just kidding about the banana). I also used a hand towel to wipe down the wet stuff that accumulated on my skin while working in the 90-degree sun. Whatever that was. Slimy. Ick. Never felt that before. Creepy.

 

Now that the back is cleared of deck, the contractors will be showing up on the 1st. I believe I'll enjoy watching them work. Might be worth writing about.

Deckwrecker Man

Years ago I wrote a column for Reader's Digest recounting my experience as "Jackhammer Man!," when I rented a jackhammer to dig out some concrete around our home in Roanoke, Virginia. As a little kid in my home town of Clinton, Iowa, I had watched a bunch of jackhammer men tear up the street in front of our house. They struck me as the ultimate in manhood and I always wanted to see what it was like to run a jackhammer. So I got my wish that summer day in Virginia. It took me about a week before my hands worked normally again. Now I have taken on a new role - "Deckwrecker Man!" In preparation for an addition being added on to the back of the Carenen Cottage, our extensive rear deck needed to be removed. I volunteered to do it to save money. A knowledgeable friend helped out with several tools unique to the task. The most prominent was five feet long with two prongs at the end, the width between them perfect for accommodating a joist. The idea was to insert the prongs under the deck planks and, with the base situated on the joist, leverage the planks up so they could be removed. The tool was called a "Deckwrecker," and it worked, along with other, smaller tools that, altogether, reminded me of my dentist.

It wasn't fast work, but it was steady, especially after I bought a 4-pound sledge hammer to assist in removing certain stubborn pieces not suitable for the Deckwrecker. Anyway, I got all the planks off last week despite losing time due to rain. Starting today, I'm going after the multiple 2x8 joists and other underpinnings. Problem is, there is no special tool, outside of explosives, to remove those significant elements. I also lack a strategy for taking on the big pieces.

Maybe I'll call my dentist. Stay tuned.

The Best Dog

This is a sad and lonely morning in the Carenen Cottage. We had to put our dog to sleep. Degenerative bone disease had rendered her a cripple in pain, and she was getting worse fast. I can tell you this about her. She was intelligent, playful, obedient, sweet-natured (never bit anything but her food), and a good snorer. She had a large vocabulary that included the usual "squirrel,' and many others. She knew "eat," "dog," "out," "come," "sit," "stay" and "pterodactyl." She also knew "night-night" and "bath," but she pretended she didn't know "bath," but I know she did because when I said it, she tried to disappear. Not easy for a 79-pound Zimbabwean Cattle Retriever - Crested (actually, she was a blend of Golden Retriever, German Shepherd, and several other breeds, including "Mushpot").

She was always good and generally happy, her tail wagging all the time, even when the vet was giving her the injections.

She was our friend and companion, greeter, and confidant. We miss her already.

Her name was "Roxie."

Dream a little dream....

This academic year at my college will be over after Commencement on Saturday, May 3rd. I'll put on my Zorro outfit and the rest of my regalia, line up with my colleagues, and march over to the venue for the ceremony. Once there, and outside, we professors split into two lines and applaud the graduates-to-be as they march into the building. Although some of them should be whipped with birch branches as they pass by, almost all have worked hard to get where they are. I'm not a sentimental person (I'm a guy from Iowa, after all), but it is cool to see some of my students that I enjoyed in several classes over the years stroll by, sheepish grins on their faces, heads held high, enjoying the salutations and applause of the faculty. To me, that is the high point, other than mingling with my graduates and meeting their parents after the ordeal is over.

In between those highlights, I suffer through speeches read by guest speakers and think of Mark Twain's observation about one book as "formaldehyde in print." Then a seemingly-endless line of students march forward to receive their degrees, matched up with verbal outbursts of misplaced pride from their loud, rude, and ignorant guests who act as if they have no sense of decorum. Which they don't.

When it's all over, I saunter back to my office, remove my regalia, lock up, and head home, another year in the books, a summer of writing and a little bit of travel awaiting me.

And you know what? I am honestly looking forward already to next Fall Semester. Call me a dreamer. I don't mind.

Sonrise Service

 

I don't usually write about religion and politics. However, I just wanted to share with you, dear readers, my experience on Easter Sunday. My wife, younger daughter, and I attended the 242nd Easter Sunrise Service in Winston-Salem, held where Salem College and the Moravian Church are joined at the hip. People began gathering well before the 6 AM beginning, young and old, male and female, black and white, sweatshirts and suits. All of us standing.

 

When the service began with a traditional liturgy, the crowd stretched from the parking lots and side streets, down the main street of the college and church, to "God's Acre," a Moravian Cemetary where every grave has identical, recumbent headstones with only the deceased's name, birth date, and death date. This represents that in death we are all the same. Humbling. Good for one's perspective.

 

As we moved along the cobblestone street, small brass bands played, urging us forward, and echoing from behind. In the clear, crisp morning air, and as the sun was appearing in the east, we strode slowly to "God's Acre."

 

Once at the cemetary, we stood, heard the word of God, and sang hymns as the sun rose higher in the sky, shedding light on a gathering of congregants with one thing in common, our love for Christ and one another.

 

After the benediction, the crowd broke up and headed out and away down more cobblestone streets, by the oldest women's college in the nation, back to our separate lives and hopes and dreams, united briefly during that Easter morning service, united eternally in our faith.

A Meeting of the Minds

Last Saturday morning a local writers group, The Write Minds, met at the Carenen Cottage, as they do on the first Saturday of each month, and the third Wednesday evening. There were ten of us there with a broad spectrum of ages, two of the three sexes, and a variety of genres. Represented that morning were published and unpublished novelists, published and unpublished poets, a man writing a book on personal finance, and a lady who writes haiku. What a group! But I'm writing this just to say that it was a terrific morning, aided somewhat by not only the congenial atmosphere, but Dunkin Doughnuts, coffee (with Bailey's Irish Creme available to improve the beverage), and a variety of teas. So we all sat around and took turns sharing what we wrote, receiving constructive feedback taking into account excellent work and work that isn't excellent just yet. In short, we helped each other

We enjoyed ourselves from 9:30 until shortly after 12 Noon, and the time just whisper-jetted away. It was beautiful outside and inside. And I loved it. We were enjoying ourselves and looking forward already to the next gathering.

A fine morning, indeed. That's all I wanted to share, dear reader - that is, a good thing that made every one of us happy. A simple thing. A gift.

Manly Mucus

I was brought up to believe that spitting, even if I called it “expectorating," was vile. I was led to believe that spitters were corrupt, nasty, icky, disgusting, and had communistic tendencies. So I didn’t spit. I took on the unified and consistent teachings of my parents and elementary school teachers. Since I’ve lived in the South a long time now, and never learned to spit, I feel as if my manhood has somehow been eroded. Even though, in my dark and sordid past, I hunted and fished and even played golf, I don’t do those things any more. I don’t have a pickup truck. I don’t hang around WalMart in a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off revealing my barbed wire tattooed biceps. All because I never learned to spit.

It wasn’t that I didn’t try. I did. I failed. The best I could do was blow out a kind of spray with no direction, power, or concentrated warhead. I could expectorate a watermelon seed a little ways, controlling its direction, but that’s not the same as spitting, um, well, you know - SPIT. I have given up, which is a sign of a failure.

Someone suggested I get a little dab of Chattanooga Chew and practice spittin’ brown juice. I drew a line on that one. I do not want to emulate grasshoppers.

Still, somehow, men in the South just know how. As I look out my office window I see college students spitting, demonstrating that spitters can’t be profiled only as illiterate rednecks from deep in the piney forests, although I have had a few freshmen that were those things. The art of spitting spreads across generations, races, ethnic groups, and just about any religious belief. And so, to me, the evidence is clear that if I’m to be a real man, I need to learn how to spit.

On the other hand, I just remembered that I have a chainsaw and know how to wield it. Without spitting. There. My voice is getting deeper already.

Techno Battle

I am normally a pretty laid-back guy. I can only think of one time I raised my voice during the 41 years of marriage, and that was a long time ago. (I don’t count my increased decibel level while watching the Hawkeyes and the Red Sox.) But I do get frustrated, and that frustration is almost always technology-related. That’s because technology knows when it’s me and decides to mess with my mind. Recently, I had a variety of frustrating moments with my email carrier. It wouldn’t let me open emails. It wouldn’t let me send emails. Finally, it told me why. Due to “unusual activity” with my emails, they decided to put a lock on my emails. This resulted in my having to come up with a new password, which I did. Now it doesn’t allow me to do any of those things again. With the new password. Which they approved.

So earlier this week I spent hours fighting the good fight and growing more and more frustrated. I ate a handful of TUMS as if they were M & M’s. I finally got through thanks to help from my long-suffering wife. I stomped away from the computer and decided to run some errands. One of my errands was to get cash from the automatic teller at our bank. I did get the cash, but some of the bills were upside-down. I am not a control looney, but this was annoying. How difficult can it be for a freaking BANK! to simply have all the bills facing the same way and right side up? On top of that, their serial numbers were not consecutive. I drove away, jaw set, teeth grinding.

Then I took a huge risk. After Mapquesting Blockbuster to see where their nearest site was (two we’ve used in the past are now a pet shop and an auto parts store, I got the address and drove to the location. Empty. Nothing there. So I went ahead and headed for a nearby Red Box. Previous experiences with Red Box had been frustrating, to say the least, especially for someone like me hated by technology. I decided to try once again. And it worked! I was ecstatic, euphoric, and pleased! I selected the second movie in the Hunger Games series and went home with my prize. My long-suffering wife was impressed and, even though the movie was about an hour too long and frequently defied logic, we enjoyed it.

When I took it back, it was rejected. The Red Box told me I put it in the slot wrong.

Goin' Gray

I suffer from "Gray Automobile Confusion Syndrome," or GACS. There, I said it. My long-suffering wife and I own two gray automobiles; actually, just one is gray, the other is what they euphemistically call "silver." It's gray. My problem is that I return to my car left in a parking lot and ultimately discover it is not my car. It belongs to someone else. It looks like my car. It is not. So I stand there pushing the little "unlock" button on my car thingy and nothing happens. The parking lights don't flash, there is no sound of doors unlocking. Nothing.

Then it dawns on me. It's the wrong gray car in a monochromatic parking lot filled with other gray cars like mine. I look for something inside that would clue me in to the fact that it is, actually, my car. Workout gloves, book I'm reading, an item of clothing distinctively mine.

Another person approaches. A woman. She is getting closer. The parking lights flash, the door unlocks, I edge away. Successfully offer up a confused, pathetic, brainless look. A weak smile. She does not smile back. I turn and begin wandering through the parking lot, pushing the little "unlock" button on my car thingy. My gray cars says, "I'm over here. Stupid."

I slink up to the gray car and get in, slouching behind the wheel, pressing the ignition button. I wait until the woman gets in her car and leaves. I wait a long time after she has gone. She thinks I'm a creep, a stalker; worse, a dweeb. She's right.

I drive home in my gray car.

Just what do you think you're doing, John?

I have conversations with my chair. You need to understand this is not an ordinary chair. This is a new chair that my long-suffering wife, Lisa, bought for me on the sly, assembled herself, and set it before my computer. It is a beauty, and it knows it. Sort of like Lisa's self-absorbed cat, Bernadette.

Anyway, it is a wonderful chair and it invites me to sit in it and write.

"I am comfortable, John. Here, come sit and write."

"I know you're comfortable, but I'm busy procrastinating right now," I say.

"I am adjustable up and down."

"I know."

"I can go round and round, spinning like a top. It's fun!"

"I know that, too," I say.

"I can rock."

"I agree, you definitely rock, being comfortable, adjustable, and spinning-capable," I admit.

Most days, this new chair does not need to entice me. Most days I am motivated enough that I go there willingly, without conversation. Like today, as I write this, and prepare to send it on to my book concierge, Rowe Copeland.

But now it is time to get up and attend to some chores, yet I hesitate, afraid to hurt its feelings. You see, the chair has taught me to say, "I appreciate you" whenever I get up and go away for a while. And after I say that, it responds with, "You're welcome, John. See you again. Soon." This reality makes me nervous. Makes me think of Hal, the computer, in Stanley Kubrick's epic film, "2001, A Space Odyssey."

The voices are similar, soft, mellifluous, easy on the ears. Hypnotic.

Maybe I'll stick around and write something more. Another blog, a letter to my congressman, a note to an old friend. Surely I can come up with something to keep me in the chair. I mustn't make it angry, it is so comfortable. One could get lost in its lovely contours. Maybe I'll just rest my eyes for a moment, maybe doze off, perchance to dream, to dream, to . . .

Southern Snow Storm

As most of you are aware, I am from Iowa. I grew up there. I know about cold weather. I know about blizzards. I live in the South, now, Upstate South Carolina in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. In fact, we have a mountain right up against the back of our property. We are in the midst of a terrific snowstorm, but it is important to understand that "Southern Snow" is fundamentally different from "Northern Snow." You can look it up.

It is wetter. It is slippier. It is less expected. It can kill because its unique characteristics surprise and blindside people. It is a liar, it is deceptive, it lures people to their deaths. It looks lovely and unique, but it hates people, cars, trucks, children who just want to play.

That's why, when the grizzled weatherman on the local TV station says, "Stay inside" and the slightly-pudgy Highway Patrol Lance Corporal says, "Stay inside," we do. I have walked to school in -20 weather (we didn't have "wind chill" readings back then; couldn't afford thelm), and I have had to go out windows to get to the front door and remove the snow so we could go outside, and I have had conversations freeze outside so that we had to wait for Spring to know what we said. But that was "Northern Snow."

"Southern Snow" is different. Ignore that fact at your own peril. It wants to kill you, even if you are from Vermont or Michigan or South Dakota. Or Iowa. It doesn't care. It is humorless. Beware.

Not my kind of suds...

After decades of dormancy, it emerged again, fangs and claws ripping into my memory, long dormant. "It" is shampoo.What's scary about shampoo? Here's the history.

A while back, when our daughters were teenagers, I was sent to the supermarket to pick up a few things, one of which was shampoo. Fine. But once I got to the supermarket, and sauntered down the aisle marked "SHAMPOO," panic began to well up in me. My girls had not told me what kind of shampoo they wanted, and I didn't have a cell phone to find out. So, up and down I went, learning about shampoo. There was beer shampoo, wheat shampoo, honey shampoo and wheat germ shampoo. I had never before thought of shampoo as food.

Finally I just stood there, staring, a bit of spittle beginning to slide down my chin. After about an hour, maybe two, I took a deep breath and made a choice. I mean, shampoo is shampoo, right? How could I go wrong?

Back home, I presented the shampoo to the girls. "You got us Flintstones Shampoo!" they wailed in unison, that followed by a long, drawn-out "Daaaaaaad!"

Since then, I have always asked for specifics when I do the shopping. What kind of flour? How many eggs? How many baking potatoes? But three days ago I grabbed the grocery list without checking with Lisa, and off I went. I picked up the things I needed, methodically checking items off the list. Milk, almonds in the little round can with the red plastic lid, marshmallows for Roxie the Wonder Dog, frozen pizza, and vegetable broth. And then I came to the one word that sent chilled earthworms through my innards. "Shampoo."

I quickly recovered from the shock, selected a very expensive shampoo, and took it home. Lisa was pleased. If she had said, "But I prefer Flintstones," a discussion might have ensued.

World's Most Wonderful Wife

I heard about a Big Remodeling & Additions Expo being held in the convention center downtown. Lisa didn't know about, but I did, and then I told her and asked if she wanted to go, even though I hate shopping. H-A-T-E. I was confident that my sacrifice would put me in the running for Husband of the Year. The Expo wasn't a hard sell, kind of like offering bratwurst to a weakened vegan. I made several observations. The first was that approximately 37% of all the displays were for hot tubs. I am not a fan of hot tubs. They look great but, from my experience, they are nothing more than expensive disappointments. You get in. You get wet. You get warm. You drink wine. I can get warm and drink wine in front of the fireplace at the cottage, and save money, too, although we both kind of liked the one that appeared to be carved out of stone. Classy. Even had two glasses of wine nearby.

Another observation was this: half the men and a third of the women were morbidly obese, especially the ones selling dietary supplements and hair care products. I am not making this up. What do those things have to do with Remodeling? Or Additions? That's what I thought.

We lingered at a display specializing in showers. Our expansion plan includes a second bathroom. I told Lisa we already had the woods for a backup. She always gives me a tolerant, long-suffering look when I mention that. "Maybe for you," she says. But it was good information. We did not commit to buying a shower. Lisa asked questions and picked up a business card and two brochures. And measurements.

Even though a hot dog stand was highly appealing, we left without buying anything. I think that vaults Lisa into the lead for Wife of the Year. In my book, she's already there.