Thinking About Children.

I woke up a little before 5:00 this morning remembering a joke from my childhood. Being really bad at remembering jokes and given that this was a very bad joke, I lay awake for a while pondering why this joke, and why now. That thinking led me to some other childhood memories with some curious connections and some thoughts about how we interact with children. When I rose, I sat down and began writing.

Jimmy was three or four when, on a visit to his grandmother’s for Christmas, his uncle called him “Jim.” Confused, he replied “my name is ‘Jimmy.’” Many years later, when Jimmy decided he would rather go by “Jim,” his mom asked about the change. He explained that he had for years preferred “Jim” but figured he would wait until after high school when presumably he would be leaving behind old friends and making new ones. “But when your Uncle Mike called you that when you were little, you were so adamantly opposed to it. I’ve been telling people your whole life not to call you that name because you don’t like it.” Jim remembered well the conversation he had had with his uncle and explained to his mom that, never having been called by the shortened version of his nickname, he simply didn’t understand why his uncle would call him that. To him, calling him Jim was no different than calling him Ted or David, or Peter, when his name, as he understood it, was “Jimmy.”

When Chris was in grammar school, he heard a joke about a rude customer at a fast food joint. He immediately began spreading the joke to friends, most of whom didn’t seem to get it. The punch line, which was sung to mimic a long string of requests from an obnoxious customer, was a request that a customer kiss the employee (where the sun doesn’t shine). Chris was nine or ten years old at the time, and told the joke because he got to sing the rather graphic and disgusting punch line. At his age, the potty nature of the humor made the joke was funny. He did not understand why the response was made or the inappropriateness that led to it. Eventually one of his cousins told his aunt and Chris got in trouble for his “potty mouth”.

Several sixth grade boys were in the classroom playing around with the first computer they had ever seen. With no agenda other than to entertain themselves with this new technology, they were taking turns hunting and pecking out a word or two—usually their names or the names of favorite bands, songs, or girls they thought were cute. One of the boys typed in the words “dildo head” because he thought it sounded funny. When the other boys laughed, the teacher came over, looked at the screen, pulled the perceived rogue typist aside, and asked him if he knew what his words meant. Once he assured her that he did, she sent him back to his friends with instructions “not to use that word.”
Three or four years later he finally found out what the word meant.

Children say a lot of curious things that adults would never say. Sometimes the curiosity or innocence of children comes out in wonderful ways, but other times children are responding with great intelligence to things they simply haven’t the knowledge or maturity to understand. How do we, how should we respond to them? It is easy to dismiss them as somehow “less than” and there is some merit to that. They are obviously, as I already suggested, less educated and experienced, but intelligence has little to do with education and experience. How many times have you half listened to a child’s thoughts or questions, and dismissed them with something like “when you get older you’ll understand” or simply not answered or engaged them? I certainly have, and in doing so, I have failed them by not trying to understand what they were trying to say or by missing opportunities to teach them.

Of course it was an uncomfortable position for a teacher to discuss dildos with a sixth grader and I think few would argue that she should have, but she must have been able to tell that the little boy didn’t know the meaning of that word and some eye-to-eye engagement on the issue: “Where did you learn that word?” or “What does that mean?” might have led to a great educational opportunity without ever having to address the actual meaning. Instead of leaving the boy unaware and feeling guilty, he could have learned not to use words he doesn’t understand. Instead, his teacher took the easy way out.

If Chris’ aunt had sat him down and asked why he told that joke or why he thought it was so funny, they could have had a dialog and he could have learned, not only why it was so inappropriate, but why it was funny, and how disrespectful it was.

If either my uncle or my mom had been paying close attention that Christmas, they might have seen the look of confusion on my face and could have started a conversation about my name and opened up a whole new world to me. What a delight for a three year old to realize he has choices! It is unfortunately way too easy to mistake a child’s lack of learning or exposure for a lack of intelligence, but if we look them in the eye and engage them like little people instead of immature people, we might have an opportunity to teach them something and learn something from them.

I remember a substitute teacher in the fifth grade who walked in thee room, looked at the class and in her best singsong romper room voice said “good morning boys and girls.” In that moment, thirty children turned off and at least one of them has never forgotten that moment. Imagine the day that woman could have given us with just a little respect!

What do you see?

There was once a young monk who ran across his master on a meditative walk. As he approached trying to be respectful and quiet, he saw the master spit on a statue of the Buddha. Seeing the student’s alarm, the master turned to him and said, “it is only a statue,” and walked on.

A week later, they met again on the same trail. This time, the master was bowing down in front of the same statue. Upon standing, he saw the monk’s confused look, and said, “Some see a statue, others see the Buddha.” The monk walked on.

A week later, the monk discovered his master early in the morning along the trail huddled by a fire like a traveller. As he approached, the master reached behind him, picked up a small wooden statue of the Buddha in one hand, took a hatchet in the other hand, split the statue in two and placed the pieces on the fire. Once again, seeing the monk’s distress, the master spoke. “Look at the ground and tell me what you see.” When the monk responded that he saw pebbles and dirt, the master directed him to look closer. The monk bent over to get a better look. Each time the monk described what he saw, he was instructed to “looker closer still” until finally he was on his knees with his nose in the dirt. “From here, I can see nothing,” he said.

The master walked behind the monk, laughed, kicked him in the ass, and walked on.

The young monk got up, brushed off the dirt and sat down by the fire. Eventually, he too found himself laughing.

Good Dogs

I have a reputation in my neighborhood. I am good with dogs. I love them. They love me. So when my many dog-owning friends (most of whom are also artists and travel a lot) are on the road, I end up with dog duty. Recently I had the pleasure of caring for two dogs at the same time—companions of next-door-neighbors, and dogs who are the very best of friends, and a pleasure to spend time with…most of the time.

The first morning of my dual doggy duty, I showed up at the house where I had left them the night before. After good morning pleasantries expressed through tails, tongues and paws, I leashed them and we—the three of us—headed out for our morning walk. We headed east, over by the new construction. I like it there, because I don’t have to feel bad about the dogs doing their business in yards. Don’t get me wrong, I always pick it up…unless it’s along the railroad tracks…or the ally…or that big lot that is so perfect for running dogs in—the one that sits empty, always freshly mowed, with signs all around it screaming private this and keep out that…I never pick up their poop when they go there, but pretty much everywhere else I do a diligent job of bagging it and taking it with us.

As we neared the end of the block, Lita (the bitch) stopped to do her business while Rem (the stud) stood patiently and obediently by.  She finished her task and I knealt down, plastic bag cum crap glove in hand. I gingerly picked up the poop—all five soft, warm, rank pieces which Lita had strung out over a fifteen-inch path. Things were going well and I was feeling pretty good about being on the last fecal nugget, not having had to go back for any stragglers. All the pieces were forming together nicely, neither too hard nor too soft to clump. I was adding that last little ball to the mass and thinking about how if I were a dung beetle artist, this would be exactly the type of scat I would want to work with because so much of art, you know, is about finding the right raw materials, and these materials however repugnant were perfect for the inspired beetle… when the cat appeared. It had been there all along, in the tall grass between the new houses, but it had stayed low, out of sight, waiting.

You have to understand, now, that I like cats. I’m allergic to them, so a deep relationship with one would never work out of course, but I like them from afar as long as they stay indoors and are fixed. Needless to say, the cat in the tall grass between the houses was not indoors, and based on the number of kittens in the playground across the street, was probably not fixed either.

So, as I was saying, just as I squished the last of the deposit into the ever-growing lump in my bag, this cat jumped up from the tall grass and ran. And the dogs, pre-programmed to chase small furry running things, bolted after it. Seeing all this happen, I recognized the need to quickly react, but because I was collecting the sample from the grass with my right hand, and holding both of the retractable leashes in my left hand, I was completely unprepared. Like spuds from potato cannons, the two dogs blasted across the open lot after the taunting feline and before I could firm up my grip, both lines tightened, and one of the leashes popped from my grasp.

In a desperate, diving attempt I let go of the offense and dove after the offender, hoping to grab the escaping leash before it got out of reach, but the blasting bitch’s binding was out of reach and she was headed for the corner around which the cat had just turned. In the instant that all this happened, my right knee came down squarely on the bag I had dropped in front of me. Fortunately, the bag had landed in such a way that all the detriment was contained inside and although I could feel the soft warmth beneath, my knee came down on plastic. Unfortunately, the plastic on which my knee landed was the very bottom end of the bag where the dung-of-perfect-consistency was nicely packed, causing an immediate and quite remarkable piston-like action of the feces up the bag and out the other end with rifle-like velocity. The slip of the dung bullet from beneath my knee momentarily distracted me from the bolting bitch causing me to ponder the potential of such a weapon as I continued to sprawl forward in a slow motion induced by the recognition of impending trauma, mayhem and complete discord. Fearing I would never be able to repeat such a feat and therefore wanting to see the exact placement of knee, angle of bag and size and shape of the projectile, I tucked my chin and looked back towards the weapon just as the mushrooming ball exploded out of its casing and as I committed the exact scene to my photographic memory bank, time, which had only nanoseconds before been slowed, quickly caught up with the moment and as fast as my momentum carried me towards the ground, the bomb moved faster, catching up with me and impacting  squarely on the half of my face containing the most direct portals to my olfactory sensors an instant before my forward motion was acted upon by the outside force of planet Mother Earth. Metaphor became reality as the world suddenly smelled and tasted like shit and the bitch disappeared around the corner towards the vacant, concrete weed lot along the railroad tracks.

Still in awe of the events of the moment, but realizing I had no time to calculate the exact physics I had just witnessed, I leapt to my feet. The little stud—clearly amazed by the fowl evil deed perpetrated on me by the bitch and as curious as I was that for the first time ever, I smelled and tasted worse than he did—led the way as we took off in hot pursuit, wiping unmentionable from my face with shirtsleeve as we sprinted across the street without looking both ways headed for the empty lot. That was when the sound of the unthinkable caused my heart to sink. A train was coming!

The cat was out of sight, but I could see Lita’s tail disappearing into the tangle on the far side of the lot and was pretty certain that if there was a fence in the thicket it was old and filled with escape holes. My heart raced as I tried to suppress the horrific thoughts that for a moment overrode the taste and smell to which I was inextricably linked. What would I tell her owners? How would I explain my lack of dependability? Would there be a way to make this up to them? Damn I smelled awful!

I opened my mouth for the first time since the impact to shout at Lita. Unfortunately, I had to inhale first and god only knows what manner of filth made it to my lungs in that breath, but these were desperate times. I flexed my diaphragm, and shouted her name. “L-I-I-I-T-T-T-A!!!” I felt like Rocky, blinded by his own blood, calling to his beloved Adrian after losing the fight of his life. I felt alone and desperate. “L-I-I-I-T-T-T-A!!!”

Rem and I entered the lot, the deafening rumble of the train combining with the olfactory distress to create an uncomfortable doom-portending numbness. Knowing I would never be able to face my friends and neighbors after such a lapse in responsibility, certain that in my present state no respectable human or canine could abide me, and unwilling to live the only life of which I now felt worthy—the drifting, homeless dung beetle damned like Sisyphus to push my burden eternally up the hill and up again—I held out hope that enough train, however slow, might be left for me to hurl my now worthless and offensive self beneath in a final act of penance. I hung my head and slowed down as tears mingled with feces—salty shit streams dripping from my chin in the sweltering, Tennessee heat. Hoping to find a moment of companionship and mercy in Rem before releasing him home and facing my sentence alone as it should be with any capital offender, I looked down to find that even he, the only one who could testify, at least to my intent, had moved on and was tugging at the leash in an obvious attempt to distance himself from the accused (and who could blame him). I allowed my gaze to wander the length of the lead to the little boy at the end. I felt horrible that I had exposed him in the innocence of his youth to such an atrocity, robbed him of his playmate, and not wanting him to witness the application of my self-imposed sentence. I knew the end of the train would be there soon and must make my goodbyes, so I made my way to silver stud. As I would have expected, he was facing away. I planned on making a quick release rather than force him to engage, but as I reached for his collar, my eyes fell ahead on the target of his attention: Lita.

There she sat, silent as could be, at the edge of the brush, the train rumbling by beyond, the cat nowhere to be seen. She must have heard my desperate cries, I thought. Somehow she had understood the danger, or at least tuned in to the passion of my calls and sensed the need to stop and wait, to reign in her primordial urges and trust in the wisdom of her charge. Together, Rem and I approached the beautiful little hound. I wrapped my arms around her but she sniffed and pulled away. I found where her leash attached to her collar and reached down for the plastic handle she had moments ago yanked from my grip, but the small, nylon lead was stretched tight, back into the thicket, towards the train that had now passed. I gave the cord a tug but it did not move. Unable to penetrate the underbrush to follow the path of the leash, I stood up and walked back to where I had seen Lita, lifetimes ago, follow the scent and sight of the house cat. Through a narrow tunnel in the brush, I could see the end of the leash hanging from an old, rusty and twisted barbed wire fence and it became clear. Lita was no Adrian. She had not heeded my desperate, loving call and waited for me. She had simply met the end of her rope—something we all face at one time or another. I implored Rem to sit and stay, set down his lead and crawled into the wood, following the path of cat, dog, and lead. I untangled the cord from the barbs and carefully retracted my way back to sweet little Lita. Back in the sun, I picked up Rem’s leash and the three of us walked to the house. Along the way, I stopped for the excrement, but all that was left was a remarkably empty plastic bag which I picked up and tossed into a construction dumpster. Back at home, I fed the dogs, washed my face, and said goodbye. The two dogs didn’t even look up from their breakfast as I opened the door and made my exit. They knew I would be back in the evening, and we would do it all over again. After all, I have a reputation to keep.

A Visit to the Not-So-Local Outfitter

I always forget something. This time it was my water bottle. (You’d think that as many as I own, I would remember at least one of them, but no.) No sweat, though. Fortunately, there is an approximately 658 to 1 ratio of art galleries to outfitters in Santa Fe, meaning three or four gear shops. The first one I ran across was the local branch of the national chain outfitter known by three initials. To protect the innocent and guilty alike, we’ll call it Undeniably Gear Here, or U.G.H.
Once beyond the stuccoed exterior, I found myself in the kind of familiar setting that takes away all excitement from otherwise interesting gear, or at least gear that allows one to do interesting things in relative comfort and, more importantly, style.
The water bottle section was near the front of the store along with most of the items having purely utilitarian purpose proving that the big guys still haven’t learned the milk-in-the-back-of-the-convenience store philosophy that forces customers to walk past aisles of over-priced junk food to get to the two staples they carry—beer and milk.
I found my item quickly and easily and made my way to the counter where a man was picking up a ringing phone.
“Ugh. May I help you?”
A woman at the other end of the counter motioned me her way.
“Are you an U.G.H. member?”
“It’s been years and years since I’ve bought much from y’all, I doubt I’m in the system any more. It doesn’t really matter.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re still here. U.G.H. never deletes even the most inactive members. What was your phone number the last time you made a purchase?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well then, let’s do this another way.”
I watched as the perky thirty-five-year-old backed out of the transaction she had started, opened a new page in her computer system then, with a smile, asked “You haven’t changed your name since you last made a purchase at U.G.H., have you?”
“No ma’am…my ex-wife has changed hers a couple times since then, but…”
The woman did not respond to my feeble attempt at humor as she carefully placed her fingers in proper typing position on her keyboard and looked at my lips as she asked me to spell my last name.
“P, as in Paul,” I started. “F, as in Frank…”
“There’s three pages in here for your last name, what’s your first initial?”I told her “J,” which she said narrowed the list to a single page, and then she asked what state I lived in.
“I don’t know. Probably Illinois, but it could have been California, Arizona, Ohio, Wyoming, Tennessee.”
“Well, here’s one in Chicago, Illinois.”
“Great. That’s probably me.”
“What was your phone number when you lived in Chicago?”
“I don’t know. I had several. I haven’t kept track.”
“Well, I have to have more information. What street did you live on?”
“I lived on several streets—six or eight different ones, I guess.”
“I don’t even remember them all.”
“Well…did you ever live on Carmen?”
“I did. That’s me. Great.”
“Not so fast. What was your address on Carmen?”
“I don’t remember. What address do you have?”
“Oh, I can’t tell ya that, now. What if it isn’t you? Then I’d be giving you somebody else’s information. We can’t have that.”
With every singsong, perky response, she was sounding more and more like Sarah Palin and I was less and less interested in attaching my twenty-dollar purchase with the eighty-cent dividend to my name.
“When did you last make a purchase with U.G.H.?”
I thought back over the past few years. I had no idea what ore how many purchases I had made.
“Could have been at the Niles store in 2004, maybe…”
“No, I have one here in Northbrook in 2008.”
“That must be it. I had work in the Chicago area in the spring of that year.”
“Sir, 2008 is not years and years ago. You said yourself that you haven’t shopped with us in years and years. Now which is it, years and years or 2008?”
“I’m sure it must have been 2008. I had some work up there that spring.”
“Do you remember what you bought?”
“No ma’am… it’s really okay. I’m not going to remember any of the information you need, so let’s just let this one go.”
“Well you can always call our headquarters in Seattle and they can figure it out. Then you can get your money.”
“It’s really not worth it.”
“You know, sir, I’m just trying to give you money, but you have to help me help you.”
Her tone had changed dramatically, as if I was making unreasonable demands of her, and I bit my tongue to avoid telling her to “show me the money” in a second attempt at humor.
“I appreciate your efforts, but I’ve moved around a lot and I don’t remember my old street numbers or phone numbers. I’d love to help you, but… you know, I think I first joined U.G.H. when I lived in Arizona, can you use that?”
“Sir, you said yourself that you changed your address many times. What could I ever do with old information?”
“But you’ve been asking for old information…”
“Sir, you are going to have to take this up with headquarters. That will be twenty-one fifty-six with tax.”
I handed her three tens for which she quickly made change.
“Thank you. I really appreciate all your efforts.”
“I was only trying to help, you know.”
“Yes ma’am. I know.”
“Thank you for visiting U.G.H.”
“You’re welcome…Ugh!”

Seeing Rock City.

Throughout this month, I will be doing 34 storytelling shows at Rock City, high atop Lookout Mountain, just outside of my home town–Chattanooga, TN. Along with S.O.A.R. (Save Our American Raptors) I will celebrating Earth Day all month. The folks from S.O.A.R. will be doing live bird of prey shows and in between their shows, I will be telling a true story about a bald eagle I had the pleasure of coming to know a few years ago. Along with the story, I  will be guiding my audience in an attempt at building a nest just like bald eagles do.

Click on the Project Eagle’s Nest Tab at the top of the page to read more and to see daily pictures of our progress!

A Late Winter Lunch

It’s funny how perspectives change. In August, the thought of late February, conjures of images of darkness, bare trees, a chance of snow, and mostly cold—a climate I have long associated with Russia, not the balmy southeastern United States in which I live. But today, the twenty-seventh day of February, all my thoughts are on spring—not three weeks from now when the equinox marks half day/half night and the calendar proclaims the changing of the seasons, but spring now.

My new tulip poplar, planted over the winter, is showing buds, as is the dogwood; the sourwood is showing off an inch or two of bright red new growth at the ends of her limbs, and the birds have been pairing up for a week or two now and are collecting feathers for nest-lining from the site of a recent coopers hawk kill near the feeder. This morning I retrieved two hummingbird feeders from the closet and filled them with nectar for the first time since storing them away last fall, then spent my afternoon tying flies for a trip to the Hiawassee River this weekend.

But it isn’t spring yet. The garden is not yet planted, though I am inventorying seeds and marking off a couple new beds for annual flowers and herbs and I opened my last jar of frozen pesto from last year’s bumper basil crop. I will run out of that perfect food before the new crop is ready for harvest. I have stretched last summer this far, but all things must end, I suppose.

Aside from my frozen pesto and mason jars filled with tomatoes, I resort to a more protein-rich winter diet—more red meat and pork, few vegetables. Produce from the store just can’t compete with the CSA share I work for or the modest return from my own yard. Winter is a time for hearty meals and deep sleep.

After cleaning the breakfast dishes this morning, I thought about lunch. The inch-thick pork chops in the refrigerator were fully thawed and ready for cooking, so I put on some rice and opened the spice cabinet to ponder how to prepare my meat. When nothing grabbed me, I went to the refrigerator. There was the pesto.

I removed the vacuum-sealed packaging from one of the pork chops, rinsed the meat, placed it in a bowl, drizzled it with olive oil and pressed a couple large cloves of garlic on top. Then I spooned enough pesto into the bowl to cover both sides of the pork with a quarter-inch layer.

After letting it sit for an hour or so, I put a small cast iron skillet on medium high heat and filled the bottom of the skillet with sunflower oil.

As the oil heated up, I covered a plate with cornmeal, added a pinch or two of salt, then carefully lifted the chop from its bowl, making sure the pesto layer stayed intact. I breaded the pestoed pork chop thoroughly with the cornmeal, then when the oil was good and hot, I put my chop in the skillet. I didn’t time how long it cooked before I turned it, but I made sure the cornmeal was good and crispy so I only had to flip it once. While it cooked, I turned the oven on to 350 degrees and oiled the bottom of a Pyrex baking dish. Forty-five minutes later, it was cooked all the way through and I had the perfect pork chop. A side of rice completed my lunch.

The farmer who provides my pork chops packages them in pairs so I guess I’ll have to do the same tomorrow. Next time I’ll invite a friend, but that might not be until next winter. The pesto will be gone in another week and once the gardens begin producing, I won’t include nearly as much meat in my diet anyway.

In the mean time, I have work to do—preparing beds, starting seeds and transferring plants, deciding where to put the rest of the hummingbird feeders. And this August, when I think of February, I’ll make a little extra pesto for the freezer and look forward to next winter’s pork chops!

What Jim Needs… Four Days Later

Four days have passed since I posted my “what Jim needs” list on my blog and I thought I would try the experiment again. There were a few of the same pages, but a curious surprise came in at number 9.

1. Jim Needs to Google “Jim Needs.”
2. Jim Needs a Kidney
3. Jim Needs a Laundry Delivery Service
4. Jim Needs a New Grinder
5. Jim Needs Tommy Guns
6. Jim Needs help with a Daweena 2008
7. JIM NEEDS PRAYER RIGHT NOW.
8. Jim Needs a profile on Classmates.com.
9. Jim Needs…My Jim Needs my list at jimpfitzer.wordpress.com
10. Jim Needs your help!

So this has become circular. Jim Needs to know that Jim knows what Jim Needs… Hmm…

I’ll try it again in a week. Stay tuned.

What Jim needs…

I really enjoy telling people that I don’t have Internet access at home. I think the only thing I enjoy sharing more than that is the absence of a television in my house. I don’t have a home phone, either. In fact, there are no communication lines coming into my house.

What joy!

You’d think I had just delivered my first born or hit a hole-in-one or something, to hear the pride in my voice when I make these claims.

“I can always go to the coffeehouse down the street if I need to check my email or do some research,” I say. “I don’t need the Internet. Not me. Life is too short to spend online. I’d rather go for a walk, read a book, work in the yard, and besides, I have NPR for news.”

It must be nauseating to my friends.

Often, I detect my self-righteousness and try to temper it with, “Of course, the real reason I don’t have Internet or television is because I know I can’t trust myself to stay off either of them…”

Ooh, that’s a good one…and mostly true!

What I sometimes fail to mention are the eight wireless signals I can get from my from porch—three of them lacking password protection and two strong enough to pick up from my dining room table most of the time.

So, while I don’t pay for Internet at home, I do get Internet at home. Even without the internet at my fingertips, when I’m trying to work at home, I get distracted by everything from the piano to the dishes, from watching the birds at the feeder to doing the laundry, from carving a spoon to playing a solo game of Scrabble.

This morning, thanks to the free signal, it’s Face Book that has my attention. Yesterday, I created my first Face Book Event. I invited a hundred people. Almost immediately someone confirmed plans to attend. Then four people declined. Seven more said “Maybe.” One more promised to come. It’s amazing how, suddenly, I needed to know who’s coming, who isn’t, how many haven’t responded or said “maybe.” I checked, rechecked, checked again. Oh yeah, I thought, this is why I shouldn’t have television or Internet. Recognizing the masturbatory folly of my attention, I tried to refocus on my work. Then I heard that familiar tone—I got an email.

I have to check it. It’s from my Face Book page. While I’m here, I should check that event again. Someone might have responded to my invitation. Oh, while I’m here, I’d better check online for those canoe parts. I need to get them ordered this month so I can get them on the March delivery. I wonder if it’s my turn on that online Scrabble game… Oh look, there’s a gold finch at the feeder. What was that game Ginnie posted on Face Book… Ah yes, “Ginnie needs…” That’s a good one. I have to try that. Let’s see…I just type into Google “jim needs…” 

1. Jim needs to Google “Jim needs”
2. Jim needs a kidney.
3. Jim needs a Laundry Delivery.
4. Jim needs a new Grinder.
5. Jim needs Tommy Guns.
6. Jim needs help with a little fact checking.
7. Jim needs his profile on Classmates.com.
8. Jim needs Salvation.
9. Jim needs a Mac.
10. Jim needs your help!

Yep, I was right, there’s no mention in the top ten for Internet access or television. There’s that tone again. Better check it… Hmm… Helen in Ireland can’t make it to the event. That’s too bad, but I understand… I need to re-fill the feeder. Those pesky house sparrows are voracious! I wonder if I could net them and re-locate them somewhere in Georgia… What was I writing about? Oh, another email. Is it time for lunch yet? Good thing I don’t have Internet access at home. Otherwise, I’d never get anything done. Is it time for lunch yet? I need another cup of coffee. I wonder if the new episode of House is on Hulu yet…

Earlier This Week

            “California, huh?”

            “Yeah. To see my aunt.”

            “What part?”

            “Los Angeles area.”

            “Oh, yeah? Say ‘hi’ to all the famous folks out there.”

            “Well. I don’t know all of them, but I will be having breakfast with Julie Andrews.”

            “Yeah, right.”

            “No. Really. I know her.”

            “You do not.”

            “I do. My Aunt was a Broadway singer. She knows a lot of famous people. Well, mostly ex-wives of famous people, but she’s good friends with Julie Andrews.”

            “No way! I can’t believe you never told me this. All the time we’ve known each other and you’ve been holding out on me. I love Julie Andrews.”
            “Really?”
            “Are you kidding? Raindrops on roses? The hills are alive with the sound of music? Red paper kittens tied up with string! Julie Andrews rocks!”

            “ I never would have thought…wait, did you say, red paper kittens?”

            “Yeah. Tied up with strings. You know…these are a few of my favorite things.”

            “Yeah, I know, Jim, but it’s not red paper…”

            “Look Christie, you have to ask Julie Andrews a question for me! Besides…you owe me one.”

            “O-o-okay.”

            She knew I was right. She did owe me one. I could hear the curiosity-bordering-on-fear in her voice as she wondered what I could possibly want her to ask Julie Andrews. “I don’t know her that well…” she started. “It’s no big deal,” I said. “She’ll get a kick out of it, and it will make my week.” I was insistent, unwilling to accept anything but an unqualified “yes,” and she knew it.

            “Alright. I’ll ask her.”

            Six days later I got an e-mail: “Cuban cigars, horseshoe crabs, soft pretzels you buy from the guys at a New York intersection, dirty martinis with a twist of lemon, men named “Cyril”, free lollipops at the bank, matching tweed suit and hat sets, spooning, extra butter on the movie popcorn, the smell of freshly cut grass…”

            Be still, my heart!

            I called my brother and left a message. “Hey Jeff. Listen to this.” After reading the email, I said, “Think about it, then call me.”

            An hour later I answered the phone.

            “Hey Jeff.”
            “Hey Jim.”

            “Well?”

            “Well it could only be one thing.”

            “Exactly.”

            “Julie Andrews’ favorite things.”

            “Exactly.”

            “So…what is it really?”

            “Julie Andrew’s favorite things.”

            “No, really.”

            “Really. It’s Julie Andrews’ answer to my question, ‘what are your favorite things?’”

            I read the remainder of the e-mail to him: “Oh, and she also said that brown paper packages tied up with string still hit the spot every time.”

            “You’re serious?”

            I went on to explain the story about Christie, her aunt, the famous ex-wives and Julie Andrews. Jeff seemed to be equally surprised that I was able to get that question answered and that he guessed it right. I was definitely more surprised by the latter.

            A couple days later, Christie was back home and gave me a call.

“I still can’t believe you got Julie Andrews to answer that for me. Was that exactly what she said?”

            “Word for word.”

            “This is so cool. You know I’m gonna have to work it into a story.”

            “A story?”

            “Of course.”

            “Well…”

            “Well what?”

            “Well…Jim…”

            “Christie?”

            “J-i-i-m…”

            “You made it up!”

            “Sorry.”

            “Christie! I’ve been bragging.”

            “How could you think that was the truth?”

            “How could you lie to me like that?

            “What did you expect?

            “What will I tell my brother? He is such a big fan that he actually keeps red paper kittens tied up with string in the glove box of his car.”

            “Jim, there are no red paper kitten.”

            “You haven’t looked in my brother’s glove box.”

            “Well…don’t tell him.”

            “You owe me one.”

            “What do you want?”

            “Put me in touch with Julie Andrews. This story isn’t finished yet.”

            “Jim!”

 

 

 

Squirrel Hunting

The man on his way out of the store did not hold the door for me. This was in spite of the fact that a one second hesitation in his step or a even a polite stretch back before letting go would have allowed me to catch the handle. Perhaps he was still starry-eyed over his purchase of a new quiver for his compound bow and oblivious or maybe he was too focused on repositioning the wad of tobacco in his jaw in preparation for releasing the gallon or so of spit that had accumulated in his mouth during his forty minutes of shopping.

I imagined a buzz cut, pimply-faced clerk in the camouflage t-shirt showing this shopper product after product:

“This one has a built-in reel for those fishing arrows you bought last season.”

“Hmm…”

“This one has the latest in silent, quick-release technology. Bow Hunter Magazine tested it in their laboratory tree stands and said that even the most sensitive bucks couldn’t hear it.”

Nod.

“How about this one here? The broad head guard over the top has a built in fox urine dispenser for masking your scent. Pretty cool, huh?”

Nod with thoughtful squint.

“This is the one I use. Just came out. The camo pattern comes from the military and that mounting bracket is carbon fiber. You ain’t gonna hurt it when you throw it in the back of the truck.

“Hmm…”

“Of course, this one here was designed by Fred Bear hisself. My granddaddy’s got one just like it. Been using it his whole life. It’s old school…”

Inside the store I found myself under the watchful glass eyes of scores of once-majestic animals—elk, bear, bobcats, bighorn sheep, antelope, and white-tailed deer—lots of white-tailed deer. In the back left corner of this fifteen-thousand-square-foot Mecca for those given to their primal urge (and Biblical command) to subdue and conquer the most beautiful of earth’s creatures was the department I sought: firearms.

This trip was one I had never thought I would make. I haven’t hunted since high school, haven’t handled a gun since I was in the Army and a week ago I couldn’t stomach the thought of anything but live traps for the eleven-or-so squirrels hell bent on the systematic destruction of the trees and shrubs with which I had so lovingly landscaped my yard this spring.

In the first day of my little rodent war, I easily trapped three squirrels which I quickly moved a couple miles away and released on the far bank of Chattanooga Creek in what I thought to be a cute, little, fuzzy rodent paradise of tangled honeysuckle, privet and riparian trees of all sorts. What I found myself unable to determine the following day was whether I had trapped the only three squirrels dumb enough to wander into my trap or the only three squirrels smart enough to figure out how to get to the peanut butter-laced corn cob in the end of the wire mesh box. Either way, in the ten days since, I had caught no more squirrels and one more tree had been attacked—severed just below the ground and left to die. They weren’t even eating their prey.

Then came the idea. I received, via email, a forwarded article from the online news source www.chattanoogan.com, which read: “City Attorney Randy Nelson said the city has not had an ordinance against firing a gun inside the city limits since the late 1970s or early 1980s.” He went on to say that “the Tennessee Wildlife Resource Agency has the authority to grant hunting licenses within the city.” Nelson went onto say that, “Nothing precludes a person from shooting a gun within the city limits. Just be sure you know what you are shooting at and aim carefully.”

I had made the decision to escalate the war. I would end the destruction. I would aim carefully.

Before visiting the firearm department I stopped at the information desk.

“Hey, Buddy. What can I do for you?”

“I need a copy of the Tennessee hunting regulations.”

“Sorry, they ain’t out yet.”

“Do you have a copy of last year’s?”

The young man searched through several file cabinets, detouring after each drawer to spit in a trashcan under the time clock (which was obviously dedicated to such action as every other clerk behind the counter did the same after each customer.) He then disappeared for several minutes to check in a back office, returned with an extra large spit and announced that they were all out but, he added, “Come back in July, Buddy. We’ll have one for ya then.”

I thanked him and headed back to the gun department. A long counter set six feet from the wall protected customers from yards of shotguns, rifles and pistols—bolt action, single action, lever action, single barrel, double barrel, over-under, side-by-side, rim fire, center fire, wood grain, camouflage, stainless, blue, automatic and semi-, designed for targets, clays, birds, mammals, collections and self-defense. In the middle of the counter, three salesmen were gathered with a middle-aged customer examining the custom stock on a double barrel twenty gauge which they all agreed was the perfect first shotgun for a twelve-year-old.

“He’ll remember this birthday for the rest of his life.”

Spit.

“I’ll never forget my first one. Still have it. The day I got that gun was the only time ever seen my old man cry—tears and all.”

Spit. Spit.

“I’ll take it.”

“You’re a good father.”

Spit.

“He’ll keep that thing forever.”

“Gimme a box of shells, too…and a cleaning kit.”

“Do you want it gift-wrapped?”

“Could you…”

The men behind the counter laughed and spit and laughed some more. The proud father joined in.

“You got me with that one.”

One of the younger salesmen peeled away from the group, spit in the can behind him, and turned to me.

“Can I help you, Buddy?”

“I need a pellet gun.”

The salesman (I guessed him to be seventeen) came out from behind the counter and led me down an aisle. Along the way I explained my need, having to convince him that I really didn’t need a .22 or a .410 and that no, I wouldn’t be better served by something I could also bird hunt with.

At the end of the aisle was a dizzying array of pellet and bb guns ranging from 450 to 1200 feet per second (fps). Some came in kits with targets, shooting glasses and ammo. Others touted greater velocity than a .22 short. I was drawn to the classic Daisy Red Rider but the salesman convinced me that at 450 fps I would only “piss off the squirrels, and wasn’t accurate enough to hit them, anyway.”

He recommended pellets over bbs and showed me hollow points for greatest damage and gold-plated ones guaranteed to “increase my velocity by up to 350 fps.” I finally settled on a simple Daisy gun that boasted a respectable 750 fps and a box of the least expensive pellets offered. As the salesman hurried back to the spittoon, I made my way toward the checkout lines at the front of the store.

Pausing at the knife counter to look at sharpening stones for the kitchen, I set the gun and ammo down on a nearby bench facing the women’s hunting apparel department. As I perused the sharpeners, I pictured myself taking a bead on one of those squirrels and squeezing the trigger. I remembered the salesman’s words: this one will have plenty of punch to stop it in it’s tracks as long as you hit it in the head. Of course, a good body shot will eventually kill it, but it might take a while…

Looking back at the gun on the bench, I struggled with the image of a suffering squirrel, gasping for breath as it feebly climbs the hackberry to die in its nest. And what if I did make a head shot? What then? Do I bury it in the yard? Do I eat it? I knew I couldn’t bear to clean it. I took a look around the room at all those animals on the wall then glanced back at the gun on the bench. I surveyed the customers around me—fathers and sons testing tree stands, teens with confederate flags on their shirts dreaming of ten point bucks and ten pound bass, men in black boots wondering how fast they could empty and replace a fifteen round magazine.

Heavy hearted, I walked to the front of the store empty-handed. I paused to hold the door for a thirty-something sporting a mullet and a Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt. A few feet outside the door, I felt a splash on my sandaled foot and looked down to discover I had stepped in a dark brown puddle. I wiped my foot with the handkerchief in my pocket and got in the car.

Someone once said that, “the best offense is a good defense.” I don’t who that was but I’m guessing it probably wasn’t somebody wearing camouflage and looking for a place to spit.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I found myself behind a truck with a bumper sticker that read: “Gun Control is Being Able to Hit Your Target.” There must be a better way, I thought. On the trip home, I stopped at the store and bought some peanut butter.