My Daughter Is Gonna Kill Me. Eventually.

My daughter didn't do so well in school this year. In fact, she did crapola. Coincidentally, she started that whole becoming a woman thing.

I read her the riot act about her schoolwork, then read it again, then screamed it, then placed a looped recording of my frothing rant under her bed, then branded her backside with a transcript of the lecture.

Then I grounded her for six weeks.

Then I bought some workbooks, some books to read, and drafted a lesson plan for the summer, complete with daily assigments in math, reading, and various other subjects, plus two five page book reports. I gave her one week's break for vacation with Mom to visit grandparents in California.

Yessir, I was one bad-assed, mother-fucking, pissed-off, don't-mess-with-me Dad.

She came back from vacation this week, and I checked her assignments. She hadn't done several before she left. I felt the heat rising in my face. I composed a stern countenance, ready to deliver the flaming tongue lashing of Bow Before Your Father and asked why it hadn't been done. Her response?

"Because I wan't feeling well and it was really hot and I had a fever and Mom bought me some pain reliever and I had bad headaches and we were getting ready to visit Grandma and I couldn't figure out the computer and I started my period and it lasted SIX DAYS!"

Thirteen years old, and she had already learned to play the monthly female trump card with a scowl and tone and stance that made everything with a Y chromosome go limp, hide shivering under the blankets, and beg forgiveness for something that wasn't his fault.

And my response? As don't take no crap head of household alpha male absolute ruler lord and master I said

"Uh . . . . . . . . . . . okay."

Keeper Of The Water Gems

My three brothers and I were at the near end of two weeks at Crystal Falls. We did not have a car, but we did have the mountainside. We did not have a telephone, but we did have the neighbors. We did not have a television, but we did have the birds, the raccoons, the squirrels. We did not have money, at least none of which I was aware (perhaps our mother had a few dollars.) What we did have was a larder of groceries, a shelf full of board games, a loft of mattresses and blankets, ample opportunity for mischief, four skulls full of imagination, and each other. It was vacation! Frogs and forts and Blind Man's Bluff! Ping pong and hot dogs and tree swings! Crayons and cards and slingshots! Rocks and sticks and polliwogs! Dirt and scabs and mosquito bites! Wandering poking yelling falling quarreling pretending!

Yet I and my experience was a little different from the others. As the eldest of the four, I was at the age between telling bedtime stories and regular shaving, wanting both and desiring neither. The time was pleasant and beautiful and free, but it chafed. For good or no, this one summer would change everything. I remember ghostly snippets of music, an awareness of storied lessons I did not yet understand, and above all, a sense of arrival. Arrival of what, I did not know.

Or, perhaps, I did.

* * * * *

Laughter bounced here, then there, then fell quietly in the forest litter. From someplace unseen, a wraith of music chased its tail around the incense cedars and ponderosa pines: McCartney & Wings, Three Dog Night, The Guess Who. The tattletale chatter of the Steller's jay, the crinkling chuckle of the creek upon logs, the feel of Earth's breath on the skin, the whissh of the breeze through needle and leaf; the air vibrated with sound and life and joy. Summer had sneaked and hinted and teased, playing hide and seek. Now it made a gleeful and triumphant appearance. On this one perfect day, I felt it in my skin and bones and organs, in my self. By unplanned and lucky happenstance, I shared it with a conclave of teen friends on the coarse sand beach of a mountain lake. We enjoyed the treasures of a lazy, silly, youthful afternoon; splashing into the cold waters from a tree-rope, juggling stones and floating sticks, playing, clowning, laughing.

To the east the Sierras shoved icemelt over unnamed stony places, feeding the the small lake. To the west the lake emptied via a spillway to Sullivan's Creek, riffling and plunging through Gold Country, meeting the Sacramento River, courting the Golden Gate, marrying the Pacific. I stood a little apart from the others, knee deep in the cool embrace of last winter's tears, feeling the water live between my fingers. Without thought, I scooped handfuls of the pristine liquid and tossed it toward the sun.

In a brief electric moment, water gems were suspended in air, born of my hands, but cut and polished and perfected by the day, magic made real, time suspended, life crystallized. I saw the summer-curved girls in their bathing suits. I heard the husky happy voices of the broad-shouldered boys showing off in the sun. I smelled feathers and blood and love and granite. I tasted pastpresentfuture, the metallic tang of everything sought, grasped, lost. I felt eternity distilled in that one moment, given to me for no reason other than that I was alive.

In that moment I knew. I knew how to catch a fish. I knew where the indian paintbrushes grew. I knew how to tickle a girl. I knew what color twilight would be. I knew stars didn't need names. I knew laughing was more important than looks. I knew how to tell a joke. I knew how to kiss under a tree. I knew that everything I thought was open to revision, that everything I was taught was probably, but not necessarily, wrong. I knew I would always make mistakes. I knew that nonsense and boys and girls and the open sky were perfect, and damn anyone who said different, or imposed anything on that perfection.

I was a god, young and strong and beautiful. I was stuff made life, creator and viewer of the universe. I was independent of and inextricably intertwined with all else that exists. I occupied that moment, that place, that feeling. That which can and cannot be explained was me. I knew it would not, could not, should not, last. I knew that life would never be as much fun, or as perfect, ever again. That was the arrival.

The Arrival hangs in the Universe's closet, never to be recalled, never to be relived, never to return, forever lost yet deathless. For one shining flashing glinting piece of infinity, for one experience no one else will ever know, for one eternal gifted snapshot, the cosmos belonged to me, and me alone.

I was Keeper of the Water Gems.

Daddaw

His name was Daddaw. He wanted to be called Grandpa, but his eldest grandson was too verbally impaired to pronounce it correctly, so it came out Daddaw. The name stuck for the following three grandsons and several great grandchildren.

He was married to Pi. She received her moniker from the same dumb tot that murdered Daddaw's name. On a visit, she greeted her first grandson with "Good morning, sweetie pie!" After a day or two, dumb grandson said "Hi Pi!" The name stuck for the following three grandsons and several great grandchildren.

I am that dumb eldest grandson.

When not much more than a toddler, I found a piece of metal. Daddaw, being a carpenter and a handyman of all trades, made it inevitable that I would find just such a castoff. In my wee mind it looked like a camera. So I followed Daddaw around when he took pictures, making sure to line up the scene with my found metal "camera," imitating his every move. I remember a chuckle, an obvious approval of my advanced and keen ability to grasp composition and mastery of the environment.

As a little older, my brother and I were throwing rocks. We got bored throwing them at a fence, at a post, at another rock. We knew better than to throw them at birds or other creatures, so what better than each other? Whiz! went my rock past brother's head. Whiz! went brother's rock past mine. Until Daddaw's kindly voice, low and quiet like a seismic wave, intoned "Stop that. Or I'll string you up by your thumbs." So we stopped. Because we knew that if we didn't, we would soon be twisting in the wind, dried up skeletons long since picked by crows, a lesson to all boys, hanging by our dead opposable digits.

A summer later and I was on vacation. It was a treat to spend it with the grandparents, and we four brothers each took our turn, watching Daddaw make sawdust in his workshop. We learned how to water tomatoes, the best time to pick kumquats, and how to trim raspberry canes. As a voracious reader, I brought a book from the library. I don't remember much about it, other than it involved a young Chinese boy and his grandfather and the Asian hobby of keeping crickets in cages. At my broad hints and without complaint, Daddaw made me a cricket cage. He also caught the inhabitant, because I was afraid of bugs. When it didn't sing like was described in the book, I lost interest. Daddaw never said a word.

One summer, Daddaw took me swimming at the pool in the mobile home park where he and Pi lived. It was luxurious. It had a diving board, lounge chairs, and a changing room. Daddaw actually changed into his bathing suit with me on the redwood bench, proof that I was a growing up. As I paddled, peddled, and puddled in the pool, Daddaw sat in the sun. No book, no music, no swimming, no nothing. Decades later I found out he was afraid of water.

Eventually, I grew into the bones and muscles that would mark me as a man. Daddaw came to our garage one summer, and he and I made a workbench. It was hot, and his hands bruised easily, but we constructed it together. He used an old candle to wax the 5" screws I used to laboriously hand-crank the table top to the legs. When I asked where he learned this, he said simply "It's an old trick my Grandpappy taught me." Even though I had never heard of, much less seen a picture of Grandpappy, I knew some immeasurably valuable piece of family wisdom had just been given to me.

A year or so later we, my father, my brothers, Daddaw, and I, went on a fishing trip to Lake Insertname. Of course, as the teen-aged eldest brother and self-appointed heir to all things wonderful, the trophy of Mother Nature's annointed favorite would fall to me. After a day in a boat, sunburned and disillusioned, all of us, especially my puffed-up self, were left with nothing. On the way back to the dock, one fish was caught. By Daddaw. One single, perfect green and pink rainbow trout. Each scale was a shining nail into my ego, each speckled flash in the setting sun a reminder of Who Was King. Releasing the trout, Daddaw was splashed with pea-green water and the smell of mud, rot and life most real. "How did you catch it?" we asked. "I don't know," Daddaw said, washing his scarred hands in the lake water. "Just lucky, I guess." Chastised, we knew better.

He had always loved travel. Pi and Daddaw (they were invariably named together) had been everywhere, and he had the Kodachrome slides to prove it. On special occasions, Daddaw would pop "the corn," set up the screen, and carefully arrange the slide carousels. (We knew, and he knew we knew, that the carousels were collated with painstaking detail in advance, but none of us would acknowledge the secret.) Where we sat was up to us. Pi, by default, always got the most comfortable seat. The rest of us unfolded card table chairs, crowded the couch, or stretched on the floor. For the next few hours we were transported to Alaska, or Utah, or Israel, all narrated by Daddaw's soft monotone. We could recite the words. The "eskimo gal" he thought was the cat's pajamas, the uncoordinated farce of Pi riding a camel on her birthday, the 1960's theories of geologic strata creating the colors of mesas near Mexican Hat. In those slide shows I learned how much his heart loved the desert.

Daddaw was a quiet man, so the first great-grandson, my first child, came with few words from him. The event didn't need any, for Daddaw's eyes said more than any orator could. And for the first time, I read words he had written.

The second great-grandson bore Daddaw's name. Still few words, but his smile said more than Mona Lisa's.

The third great grandchild, a girl, brought misty eyes and no words at all, just quiet emotion. The memories of his first daughter, my children's grandmother, were written in every line of his face.

Others followed, but that is a story for another father to tell.

Pi slipped into senility. After 70 years of marriage, and for some reason we never understood, she talked about her beaus before she and Daddaw married. One of them, she said, had died recently. I smirked "Hey, Daddaw! Now you can make your move!" The silence that followed made me uncomfortable, but the low rumbling hawhawhaw let me know I had finally earned my place as a man.

Then Pi died.

In the visits that followed, Daddaw talked to me. Not as a grandson. Not as his daughter's child. He talked to me as one good man talks to another. We would be quiet, standing together, watching the geese and trees and pond at my mother's farm where he spent some of his last days. One day, without preamble, he said his favorite bird was the mourning dove. When I asked why, he said because he had always liked the sad song they sang at twilight. More, he did not say, but I knew there was more. I didn't ask, but stood by his side.

The last time I saw Daddaw he was in his bed. I had never, in my entire life, seen him other than upright, defying age and gravity and inconvenience and pain. When he spoke, it wasn't to me, but the window of his small bedroom. He was, simultaneously, bewildered and focused. He said he loved me. I hugged him and said take care old man i love you too. He chuckled and fell asleep. I knew he would die soon, but I wasn't sad. He was old. He had lived better than I could hope to. He had loved. Loved his wife, his family, his work, his world.

The quiet strong soul that was Daddaw slipped away shortly thereafter.

On a sunny weekend morning a few months ago, I was touring our little backyard gardens with my wife and visiting sister-in-law. We admired the spring flowers, the windchimes, the hummingbird feeders, the cacti.

"Oh, look!" said sister-in-law.

Perched on an iron hook, from which suspended a feeder of sunflower seed, was one perfect, sleek, beautiful mourning dove, eyeing us with no fear, fluffing his feathers, the golden morning sun glinting off his cheek patches.

This backyard, the province of a dumb eldest grandson, lives in the middle of the desert.

In this backyard are rocks thrown by my sons, for which I have yelled at them to stop. In this backyard crickets sing on warm summer nights. In this backyard is an above ground pool where my children have honed their swimming skills. In this backyard my wife and children and I have planned and built and painted projects of wood and brick and dirt. In this backyard are tomatoes that have grown green and red and sticky and warm and delicious.

In this backyard Daddaw says Hello.

Where's My Damn Moon House?

I was reading a story in Asimov's Science Fiction this month, You Will Go to the Moon. It reminded me of one of my favorite childhood books of the same title. I hadn't thought about it in a long time. It inspired me to look it up online, whereupon I came upon this rare gem of a website documenting the best of 20th century spaceflight optimism. I found many books I recall from my boyhood, especially this beaut of an illustration from You Will Go to the Moon:

I remember turning the pages of this book with my first grade playground pals, oohing and aahing over the sheer coolness of it all, certain that one day we would be the grownup in the picture, proudly showing our fidgeting and impatient son the grandeur of our lunar ranch. Of course it was going to happen. After all, the book didn't say "Maybe we'll get there" or "Tommy dreams about space." No, it emphatically declared you will go to the moon!

Let's turn back the clock to a time somewhere between Sputnik and Neil Armstrong, to a time of infinite and attainable possibilities, to a time when promises were made to a wide-eyed man-child named Kingfisher.

Now, that's the stuff. No girls allowed. Space hiking with your buds. Tool belts with a gravity drill and solar windlass. Toss me a vacuum packed KoolAid, Joe! Stupid girls.

None of that sissy diplomacy for us, Boys! No Sir! Space is there to conquer! With bulldozers! And mechanical spiders!

As a member of Space Patrol, you don't just get a spacesuit. You get an Official Space Suit. As an added bonus, the lack of gravity causes your moon unit to swell and stretch the crotch!

No subways or station wagons for us. We get to buzz through the stratosphere on the way to work in our brand new Chevrolet XT-2100 Super Blaster!

Time for hard working spaceman's lunch. What? How am I going to get that baloney sandwich through the faceplate? Spaceman worries not about such trivial things! Puny Earthling.

Back to work. A reminder: It's MAN in space. You girls stay in Houston to take messages and make baloney sandwiches.

No job is too difficult if you've got your human to mosquito conversion suit.

It's not all work and no play. We've got Moon Tonka Trucks!

And a Galactic Hi-Fi Close'n'Play that launches bottle rockets!

Finally, it's back to Home Sweet Habitrail. If it's good enough for hamsters, it's good enough for Spaceman Steve!

* * * * *

Where are we today? Mars global surveyor is giving us glimpses of our planetary twin that are almost as good as Mapquest. Cassini-Huygens is sending back spectacular pictures from the Saturnian system, complete with icy seas, volcanoes, frozen deserts, and enigmas by the truckload. There's even the New Horizons project recently launched to Pluto. Older Voyager craft have already slipped away from Sol's warm embrace, destined for the infinite mystery and wonder of True Outer Space. Exciting stuff, to be sure, but where probes go, humans are supposed to follow. Instead, creaky shuttles are delivering Evian, freeze-dried ice cream, and $7,000 screwdrivers to the International Space Station. No jetpacks, no zap guns, no history-buff day trips to Mare Tranquillitatis.

By now I was supposed to live on the moon, work on Mars, and vacation on Triton, all with unbelievably cool spaceships and gee-whiz gadgets. (Although now I will gladly admit that space would be even more fun with girls along for the adventure.) Promises were made, dammit, and someone's gonna pay if they aren't kept soon. So listen up, NASA or Mitsubishi or whoever. BUILD ME MY DAMN MOON HOUSE.

And while you're at it, get cracking on my spiffy chaufferbot copterocket car.

Real Love And Small Things

As is my sorta weekly habit, I was writing on my laptop at the local sports bar and watching whatever Saturday noontime game piqued my interest. It was the end of a bad week, and the e-mails I received heaped despair on misery. So I packed up the laptop, downed the beer, and went home earlier than usual. Before turning off the cell phone, I called my oldest son with instructions that his young man weekend was mine, and he would take care of things. Then I called Her.

"Can you come home?"

"Okay. I'll be there in a few minutes." I had interrupted her sorta weekly habit, but she knew I was upset by recent events. Goddess bless her. She walked into the bedroom about ten minutes later.

"You've got five minutes," I said. "Pack what you need. Me, I've got what's on my back and in my pockets. That's all." To my amazement, she threw a change of underwear in her bag and said "Let's go."

We hit the road.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said. "We could be in Laughlin or Kingman pretty quick. You choose." A moment's silence, and she said:

"Laughlin. But the river run is there this weekend."

We arrived an hour and a half later, thousands of Harleys BAROOOOOM-ing along the main drag of the small town overlooking the Colorado River. At my inquiry, she pointed at the Edgewater Hotel and Casino. With the serendipity of a trip unplanned, we found a parking space, acquired the last room they had, and within twenty minutes were strolling along the river with a Corona in our hands.

Neither one of us is much of a Harley fan. But we saw 20,547.3 million motorcycles. We saw a woman bare her tits and ass from the bow of a speedboat on the river, while everyone on shore hooted, hollered, and cracked up. I dropped a bottle of beer that sprayed and made me smell like a brewery becuase I didn't bring a change of clothes. We threw food pellets to carp the size of Volkswagens. We ate at a crappy buffet. We ambled among the tents of vendors catering to the motorcycle crowd. I bought, and reveled in smoking, a big aromatic cigar. She laughed at the bikini babe contest. She bought her father a motorcycle babe calendar. We saw a vendor attracting customers with bikini-clad pole dancers. She lost $60 on slot machines. We sat and watched the bikers strut their hogs along the main drag. We drove and toured the (original, no kidding) London Bridge at Lake Havasu. We had lunch in the sun with the slowest waitress this side of Jupiter. We watched ducks dive and cliff swallows flitting about their nests. We got drunk and screwed.

The time was ours. The memory is ours. The experience was another brick in the house we continually build together, adding, changing, demolishing, creating.

I will never tire of you laughing.

I will never tire of your hugs.

I will never tire of the marvel of watching you put on your bra.

I will never tire of buying you flowers for no reason.

I will never tire of our good-natured jokes and banter.

I will never tire of your warm woman wife smell.

Happy Anniversay, Sweets, the most golden and perfect heart I will ever know.

I love you.

Good Ol' George

This is George. Good Ol' George.

We know he was born to be a racer; the ear notches and the chest scars of kennel fights are proof. We also know because the registration tattoo inside his ear tells us so. The other inside-ear tattoo tells us he was the first pup of his litter, born sometime in January, 1994. We adopted him in 1998, so he had been in training or actual racing from his puppyhood until about four years old. At four years, he was too old, and put up for adoption.

His first adopter chained him in the sun to a doghouse too small for him. As with most dogs, he turned and turned and turned before settling down to sleep, but the doghouse was so small it rubbed the fur off his hips, shoulders, and forehead. He was left with no companionship, possibly for the first time in his life, in the heat of the desert. The greyhound rescue organization took him back. The rescuer knew us from a prior adoption (his “sister” Blaze), and gave him to us.

Poor George was washed up, unloved, skinny, and beautiful.

All greyhounds have two names: their racing name, which is similar to fancy racehorse names, and a simple kennel name used so the dog knows when s/he is being called or disciplined. In this case, his fancy name was "AY's Carry On." His kennel name was simply "George." There was no doubt when we adopted him that he was a George. Just a George. He looked at us with big soft, happy, pleading brown eyes that said: "Um. Hello. Um. Please love me. My name is George." So George it remained.

The few adoption awareness events we took him to were always fun. George never met a human he couldn't charm. If you didn't acknowledge him, he would just stand in your way until you patted his head, and he anointed you with doggy breath. He was his breed's best ambassador. A common phrase around our family and friends was "Everybody loves George!" It was true. And George loved Everybody back.

He tucked his head under your arm, the greyhound equivalent of a hug, then withdrew with a drippy nose to SSMIIIILE at you, the biggest thank you the world has ever seen. He wolfed down his dinner (because that’s what you do if you don’t want your race mates to steal it), then barf it up and eat it again at his leisure. He tolerated cats walking over him as he dozed. He loved going bye-bye in the car. He loved his vet. He ran like the wind itself, pointed in the direction of his flight, shoulders leaping before his forepaws, haunches gleaming like gold, his long nose an arrow, speed made flesh, the poetry and awe of Celtic Kings, the delight of Pharaohs, the equal of Goddess Diana.

He knew he was the fastest and most beautiful sprinter of all Olympians, legendary, rare, precious. As befitted his stature, he usurped the couch. Or the bed. Or the easy chair. Or the pillows. Or the beach towel. Or the carpet remnant. Or any soft thing he might want to lie on. Because he had worked, dammit. Because he was king among canines. Because his history was the royalty of ancient Egypt. Because he was beautiful and humble. Because he deserved it.

He deserved it because he was Good Ol’ George.

Good Ol’ Sweet Big Hearted George.

George died today.

My wife and I were with him at the end. The last thing he saw. Him, with his deep brown eyes of goodness. Us, eyes blurred with tears before the doctor George loved administered the compassionate dose of calming sleep.

The beginning of his end might have been a stroke, kidney failure, cancer, or any of a number of things. It doesn't matter.

I think Ol’ George’s giant heart just gave out, because it had given so much to so many, and it had nothing left to give.

Run, George.

And thanks for letting us know that the race isn’t how you finish, but the time you spend laughing in it.

* * * Please Help George’s Friends! * * *

Each year, hundreds, if not thousands, of greyhounds are abandoned, abused, or killed when their racing days are over. In an infamous case, dozens of greyhound carcasses were found in a shallow pit in the Arizona desert, their ears cut off so the tattoo marks couldn't be traced back to the owner(s).

Greyhounds make wonderful companions. If you want a dog that will do tricks, or guard your house, or make points with snobs, a greyhound is not for you. If you want a dog with an ancient, rich, and diverse history, a quirky personality that makes you scratch your head and chuckle, or a really good bed warmer on cold winter nights, consider a greyhound. They do have some special, but not burdensome, needs. Stairs? Never seen 'em. Glass doors? Never seen 'em. Extreme heat or cold? They have no insulating body fat, so aren't the most durable of animals. A little research and questioning your adoption consultant will make all the difference. What you invest will be repaid a millionfold.

For more information on how you can make a difference, PLEASE visit any of the links below, or simply do a Google search for "greyhound adoption." Your local humane society or animal shelter can also provide information on smaller greyhound adoption agencies specializing in placement in your area.

For a minor fraction of the price of any pure-bred dog, you can have a beautiful sweet-natured companion, complete with pedigree, shots, veterinary check-up, spay/neuter, leash training, house-breaking, and a heart as big as Ol’ George's.

Waiting to be YOUR best friend.

The Greyhound Project

Greyhound Pets of America

The Greyhound Gang

Deep Donkey

You may have read about my mother and her gentle-lady farm. And on this farm she had an ass, E-I-E-I-O. Actually we referred to him as a donkey (sometimes a burro), and his name was Jose.

I loved Jose, and I think he loved me. When I visited the fence, he always trotted up. When I scratched his leathery ears, his lower lip quivered and went limp. When I joined him in his pen, we played the Push Game: shoulder to shoulder, lean in with all your strength, see who moves first. Jose always won. We played the Ignore Game: look away and pretend the other isn't there, see who gives in first and nudges the other. Jose always won that, too. When the day was particularly lovely, he would nose my spine, or I would slap his coarse mane, and we would meander the field that was Jose's domain, me stooping to peek at meadow flowers, Jose bending his head to sniff and/or eat them. I was the only person who could ride Jose. It lasted for twelve seconds before he shrugged his massive shoulders, flicked his Evinrude ears, and half-bucked to get rid of me, but it was enough to acknowledge our respect for each other.

Yes, I truly believe it was a mutual brotherly love. Kindred spirits are not always the same species.

But perhaps the most impressive of Jose’s talents was his prodigious output of crap.

It was a heap, a mound, a great sweetly stinking hill. Sparrows would visit it for the undigested seeds of various plants. Flies vacationed in the resorts of its peaks and valleys. Dogs acres away sniffed and fervently wished for a roll in its fragrant goodness. Oaks bent their branches lovingly, quietly whispering “Yes, my little acorns, soon this will all be yours.” It was the stuff of myth and legend.

Except for my mother and her husband. She didn’t know what to do with the stuff, and he had to shovel it. (We always thought he was good at shoveling it, but that’s a story for another time.) They came up with the only possible solution: fence off a piece of the property, pile Jose’s exhaust in it, and grow a garden.

And what a garden it was.

* * * * *

My daughter was at the age where she could rip off her clothes, run around naked, and all the adults would watch because it was cute. Little butt flashing in the morning sun, brown hair streaming behind her, arms outstretched, a smile as wide as the Milky Way, innocence and wonder bursting forth. With a jealous laugh, we went into the kitchen to refill our coffee mugs. When we went back outside, Daughter was nowhere to be found. But Son I said he had last seen her going into the garden. The family issued a collective gasp.

We mounted the search, supplied with canteens of water and walkie-talkies. I started by the zucchini, walking under the leafy green parasols of the rough plants, avoiding the knee-high ants who were creating apartment houses in the huge vegetables. After a mile or so, the walkie-talkie quiirped.

“Dad,” said Son I, “can we stop now?”

“Where are you?”

“By the sunflowers.” In the background I heard Son II yell “And the monkeys are throwing poo at us from way up there!”

“Any sign of your sister?”

“No. But it’s hard to see behind every sunflower tree.”

“Alright. Find your way back to the gate and check the sweet peas and string beans. Did you use the bread crumbs?

“Yes.” Son I shut off. I continued my hunt. The squash gave way to nasturtiums. Their large platform leaves were the site of numerous eagles’ nests. The pond was near by, so they had a steady supply of fish, the remains of which sustained the flowers in conjunction with Jose’s droppings. I hiked down the throat of each open orange blossom, but Daughter was not to be found. I started at a jog to get away from the nasturtiums, and into the area dominated by great windmills of cosmos.

!quiirp! “Kingfisher, you there?” It was Mom’s Husband. “No sign of Daughter in the corn. Good thing, too, ‘cause it’s crawling with rhinos.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yup. A close call with an anaconda that dropped from the corn silk about forty feet up, but otherwise nothing much. I’m heading over to the poppies now. Should be there in about a half hour.” !unquiirp!

The place where I now walked was brighter, cosmos stems being thinner than the other plants and allowing more sunshine, not much bigger in diameter than a sugar pine. The ground was tinted pink and red by the petals overhead, where great bumblebee blimps droned among the clouds. I hefted the walkie-talkie again.

“Wife, can you hear me? Any sign?”

“Nothing yet, Kingfisher. Took about twenty minutes to walk around the first pumpkin. The rest are smaller. Should be done before sundown.”

“Any problems?”

“Just an earthworm stampede. Climbed up a vine and threw rocks. Oh, that and a couple of grizzly bears. I can see the cosmos over the horizon.”

“I’m there now. I’ll try to hook up with you in about two hours.”

We were interrupted by a loud clanging echo. Gentle-Lady Farmer had rung the old school bell located by the house, a sign we all knew to heed. After some preliminary walkie-talkie conversations, we met at the garden gate. To everyone’s surprise, Son I was holding a large goose.

“Where did you get that?” I asked.

“You told us to look by the string beans, Dad,” said Son I, “so we climbed up and I found this goose."

"And I found these!” Son II held up two golden eggs.

“FE-FI-FO-FUM!” The heavens ripped apart, and a giant of a man tumbled through the sky, splashed into the pond with a mighty tsunami, and disappeared beneath the frothing waves.

“Cool! We get to keep her!” Sons I and II danced a jig and patted the goose.

“I found Daughter,” said Gentle-Lady Farmer Mother. “She was lying with the dog in a patch of sun on the patio. She’s fine.”

And that ended our family adventure. Mother closed the garden gate, Sons put the goose in with the chickens, Wife put Daughter’s clothes back on, Mother’s Husband put the golden eggs in a basket for sale at the end of the driveway, and I cracked a beer open, ruminating on the day’s events.

* * * * *

Which brings me back to El Rey Jose, who, with his Majestic Manure Mountain of Magic Meadow Manna, reinforced my life philosophy:

“When Life Gives You Shit, Live Bigger”

Lifeline

I spent part of my weekend in the hospital. No need to elaborate other than that it involved blood, pain, and that demon spawn abomination of human invention, needles.

The universe works in strange and wonderful ways to teach those with eyes to see. My most recent lesson came in two parts.

Part The First

Wating in the doctor's office, a movement caught my eye. Across the waiting room was a little boy of three or four. He had on chaps, cowboy boots, a holster, vest and a kerchief. In the chair next to his mother were the tools of his trade: a six-shooter, a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, and a picture book. He took a long draw of milk from his water bottle (every cowpoke west o' the Pecos knows how dry the desert is) just before the nurse called his mother's name. Like a good cowboy, he holstered his six-gun, pulled his hat rakishly over his eyes, cradled his picture book with two hands, and sauntered after his mother with all the confidence of a well-seasoned ranch hand.

Which, of course, as anyone should plainly see, he was.

Part The Second

"This is worrisome," the doctor said. "I'll call the emergency room. Go now." Within twenty minutes, I was in the gown, lying on a gurney with too few blankets, plugged into an IV drip. Beyond the curtain separating me from the next patient, I heard words like Alzheimers and incontinence and kidney failure. I tried to empty my mind of the sounds and smells of the hospital and concentrate on my book. It didn't work. I asked directions to the bathroom. On the way back I saw that the curtains of my sick neighbor were drawn back. On her gurney lay an elderly woman, thin hair slicked back with sweat. Even under several blankets it was plain how thin and frail she was. What haunted me were her eyes. They were wide and sunken. In them could be seen anger, fatigue, bewilderment.

And fear.

Denouement

Two ends of the thread of life curved, met, and made the circle while I observed.

One person was at the beginning of his life, looking forward with courage and curiosity.

One person was nearing the end of her life, looking inward with questions and surrender.

And I, reckoning that a few years less than my grandfather's lifespan is a pretty good run, realized that I was exactly in the middle.

Caged Curiosity

"What are they doing, Momma?"

"They're touching faces, son."

"Why?"

"You know how Rosie and Pete touch noses sometimes?"

"Yeah, like Uncle Bruce and Stevie?"

"Um, well sort of. We'll talk about your uncle when you're older. But remember after all the nose touching, Rosie had your cub-cousin Rolly?"

"Yes."

"The dumbthings face-touching is like that."

"Are they going to have a cub-cousin? Can I watch?"

"Yes. No. I mean, you can't watch, and they already have one. See that rolling thing with the screaming pink thing in it?"

"Yes, Momma."

"That's the cub."

"THAT? It looks stupid."

"Yes it does. It wouldn't last a day on the ice."

"Tell me about the ice again, Momma."

"It's cold and it feels good. Not like here. And there are good things to find and eat."

"Things to eat like the pink cub?"

"No, things that are quiet and smell good. That taste like fat and blood."

"I'm hungry, Momma."

"I know. So am I. Let's go leave our markings, and hope they bring a walrus."

"What's a 'walrus'?"

"Never mind, son."