RAMBLINGS - 13
January 11, 2004
Howdy my friends,
It's been quite wintery of late
here in Seattle. We usually get a few mild rainy months and have no
choice but to call them winter - even though fall and spring brings in
the exact same weather. But this year we have actually had a couple of
snows and some lengthy freezes for a change. I enjoy that kind of
weather and make it a point to put on my Sorrel Pacs, heavy fleece-wear,
and big Russian fake-fur hat even when I take the garbage out. I used to
rub bear grease all over myself but too many dogs got to mauling me. (I
love dogs and don't like to see 'em lungin' at my neck with great
fervor) When we get even a dusting of snow I put my fourteen year-old
truck in four wheel drive just 'cause I have an excuse to. Whee! I carry
around several lengths of chain so I can tug people out of snow banks
and up hills. I don't even ask 'em first - I'm that kind of samaritan.
If I see a car that looks like it wants to go somewhere, I just get out,
hook 'er up, and start towing like a madman. People give me the most
alarmed looks when they find themselves bouncing up a hill with their
car still in Park and their emergency brake on. (That's why I recommend
always keeping your transmission in Neutral just in case a fellow like
me stops by to help) Quite a few of the more ungrateful types roll down
the window to holler nasty things at me, but I just smile and keep on
towin' 'cause that's my purpose in life. If they didn't want to go where
I pull them, well the thing is, they're saving gas! So hey.
One of my all-time favorite of
my songs came from that beautiful winter landscape. It was late November
and we'd had only a couple of light dustings. All of us living at the
broken-down, rustic old cabin resort called Kamp Karefree, were
depending on the ski mountain to open so we could get to work and make a
living. The dirth of snowfall was making us edgy. concerned that we
might run out of oatmeal and beer. People who work at ski resorts are
not known for having large nest eggs to fall back on. I'd spent most of
mine buying a pair of premium Sorrel Pac boots one day after I'd
listened to stories at the Palace Bar all afternoon about local people
who'd lost toes and even feet to frostbite. As soon as my buddy Ron and
I left the bar we went to a sporting goods store and I shelled out half
of my remaining money for boots. I might starve to death but there was
no way I was leaving Montana in the spring with a peg-leg.
Once I knew all the
things that I wanted in love
When I write certain songs - as
true all these years later as it was back then - I get lost in the mood,
in the yearning of melody and voice and guitar chords. If any of my
songs moves you, you can be certain that at some point, they moved me at
least as deeply. When I wrote that song I had no idea it would someday
be a song that people in every city I visit would ask me to sing. I
would say that after all these years it's still the song I can most
count on hearing someone shout from the darkness as I stand onstage. I
don't always play it, only because I have lots of songs and cannot fit
them all in, but I play it at far more concerts than I do not. Whenever
I sing it, I go back to that magical winter in Whitefish, Montana. To
the friends and adventures, the laughter, the mountains, the long days
in a lift shack on the slopes of Big Mountain, and especially to that
little group of cabins clustered on the shores of frozen Lake Whitefish.
After all this reminiscing, I guess the least I can do is leave you with
the lyrics. Thanks for visiting me. I'll be playing concerts in several
parts of the country this year and will be sure and send you notice. I
wish you a loving and peaceful year.
February 9, 2004
Howdy my friends, I must apologize for missing Ground Hog Day - I mean for not having a new greeting up on my website for that holiest of holidays. Truth is, I was out buying my first digital camera, going from Office Depot to Samples to Costco to Office Max - raising a ruckus in every store I visited because it kept me from having to reveal that I don't know shit about digital cameras. If you feign disgust over the high cost, then you can generally cover up your own ignorance. I finally settled on a camera at 7-11. 7-11 actually sells a very nice hotdog-shaped camera for six bucks. I didn't realize until I'd gotten it home though, that you can only take pictures of things that are extremely still - and even then you must hold the camera down with a heavy rock. If you try to take a picture of something moving rapidly, like say, a person napping and breathing at the same time, the photo blurs like a shot of a race car in the rain. So now I have this really neat hotdog camera that requires a hand much steadier than mine. Actually, as I get older and more leathery, this "accidental" blurring may come in handy for self photos. The reason I wanted a digital camera in the first place was so that I could occasionally have new photos to put up on my website, in my newsletter and on CDs without always having to track down one of my friends to do it for me. I thought to myself, "You know, I've got a perfectly fluffy little white dawg that don't do much of nothin', short of eat and make me chuckle a lot. What if I was to train her to snap off a photo of me now and then on the rare day when I'm looking particularly good?" (you know what I mean, you have these days that suddenly your face takes on a new shape and you wish somebody would hurry up and take a photo before your flesh slips back into it's normal position.)
So for nearly a week now I've been carrying
my new camera around everywhere I go. I've got two photos to show for it
- both of my little dawg Bungee, growling at me to git her a treat and
make it snappy. Neither of those photos is going to make a decent CD
cover. See, my problem is that I haven't read the little instruction
manual. For the most part, I am not a reader of manuals. "You can read
about life or you can live it" is what I always say. Which just means
that I'd rather stare into the abyss for an hour than take ten minutes
to read a manual. I haven't even bought a case for my high tech little
hotdog camera. I've been keeping it in a purple hiking sock that
actually cost more than the camera. I figure if anybody mugs me, they'll
pass right over the purple sock, thinking it's just a nasty ol' sock,
and all they'll get is my wallet, credit cards and driver's license
(with a warning stamped across it - MAY NOT DRIVE MILITARY VEHICLES -
but that's another story I'll get to sometime).
I slipped on my brand new, very thick,
purple hiking socks and barely was able to get my boots on over them.
Hmm. Oh well, it's just a hike of a couple of hours or so. Then I
stepped out onto the street, strode across to the lift and walked under
it and began my climb up the mountain. Almost immediately, I found that
the slope was much steeper than I'd calculated. I could actually reach
straight out with one hand in many places and touch the ground in front
of me. There was a winding, hairpin dirt road that I saw some people
hiking, but that would have taken forever to follow. Hiking up in a
straight line was probably a third the distance. It was just after noon
and I wanted to be certain that I reached the summit in time to take the
last tram down at 4:00pm. It would suck to have to come back down such a
steep route on foot. I was sweating like a Texan in spelling bee but
kept taking one big stride after another, straight up the mountain.
Above me, to my left was the occasional tram, filled with weak-willed
folks who'd rather get their exercise in a gift shop than out there in
the great outdoors. I was certain they were impressed with my prowess on
the mountainside - which made it confusing that a coke can hit me on the
Three times I was greatly disturbed to top a
long-sought after ridge and find that the tram just kept going skyward,
up to another unattainable summit. I was beat by now and quite worried
about the time. The air was not actually cold. I was in shorts and short
sleeved shirt. If I was later than 4:00pm in reaching the top, I'd have
to turn around and climb back down. As weak as my legs were getting I
was afraid it would be more of an uncontrolled, screaming tumble than a
descent. For once, I wished that I wore a watch. I increased my pace and
pushed harder, determined to make that last tram. When I made my final
ridge, I was ecstatic to see the the bullwheel where the tram sat. It
had just started hailing and I ran the last few yards and climbed up
onto the boardwalk and stepped inside the snack house where there were
twenty or thirty folks there awaiting the ride down. The clock on the
wall said 3:55. I couldn't believe my timing. As it turned out, that
last tram didn't go down for over an hour. The operators feared the
lightning which was striking distant slopes and the hail storm had grown
so fierce that the ground was completely covered in white within a few
minutes. I didn't care how long we had to wait, I was just grateful that
I wasn't out there hiking in the hail storm. How stupid of me to have
taken off up there without a nice hardhat on.
March 25, 2004
Howdy my friends,
I usually prefer to do my website ramblings
from beneath the boughs of a big ol' maple tree, or perhaps from the
cozy confines of a corner table in some Seattle coffee shop. But this
time it looks like I'm going to have to make do with bland Gate B-36 of
DFW Airport, which is where I'm stranded for the day. (they ran me
through Security six times and were going for a seventh when I finally
remembered that I'd recently swallowed my pewter pocket watch - I'd
dropped it in my oatmeal and just assumed it was a big, under-cooked
lump) Anyway, I reached my departing gate only to be told that I had
been bumped to the next flight, six hours later. Having just been
prodded, poked, scanned and felt-up by a matronly female security agent,
I decided not to protest too loudly. I'm not the hell-raiser I once was
and I just smiled, said "thankee kindly" and walked quickly away to
express my outrage elsewhere. It didn't take me long to find a place; I
went to a magazine store and spotted one of those little $49.95
disposable laptops you can buy (if you're a complete idiot). So I stole
that sumbitch! Yessirree, I hid it in my USA Today along with a Mr.
Goodbar and some 'Nilla Wafers. So for the 50 cents I paid for the worst
newspaper in the world, I can now do a little ramblin' on a stolen
keyboard whilst I wait - and munch on contraband candy at the same time.
Man! Do we live in magical times or what?!!
I've been gone ten days now, playing several
events at the massive Mile Hi Church in Denver, then a concert in
Evergreen and finally, visiting my sweet mom in Tyler, Texas. A radio
station in Tyler has recently begun playing my music and, when they
found out I was visiting, invited me in to do a mini-concert on the air.
So yesterday morning I tuned mom's radio to the precise spot on the dial
where I would soon appear ~ almost-like-as-if-by magic! ~ then I drove
over to that little smooth jazz radio station and sang every jazzy song
I could think of. Ran out of them and was just on the verge of having to
sing a folksong when the dj muted my opening chord with his muddy
Hushpuppy and asked me what folks are like in the gool ol' Pacific
Northwest. What could I do? I had to tell him the truth:
I often think of my travels in terms of which animals I meet along the way. In Evergreen I was staying with my longtime friend, Barbi Ellen, and her husband and son. But really, I was there to commune with her dog, Dodger, and her cat, Margaret. We speak the same language - in that we all get to breathing hard when someone says "want to go outside?" Dodger and I took a hike of several miles along the trail at the foothills of the Rockies just outside Evergreen. There was still snow on the trail in places, though it was melting in the sun, and when Dodger was starting to look tuckered out ( I'm hard on dogs, tying a rope from the beasts to myself so I don't have to carry all my own formidable weight by myself) I'd hammer my boot heel into the snow and let the dent fill with snowmelt so he could have a sip of nature's elixer - and if he didn't fall over dead, I'd have one too. (actually, I can go days without water as long as I have a pony keg of Pabst Blue Ribbon in the car) Anyway, it was one of the most beautiful spring days I've ever seen, the tall broom grass was golden and waving ever so softly in the breeze - up to my chin and a deep, golden-brown. After a few miles we found a haphazard stack of boulders tilting in the sun and laid out in the mountain sunshine for half an hour. Dodger likes a good even tan, so I had to wait while he turned over.
Then I went to Tyler to see my mom. We had a lovely time just
talking, running errands, drinking iced tea on the front porch and
watching cardinals at the feeder. Since my father passed on a year and a
half ago, I go see her every few months. A sweet friendship has
developed between us that I never would have dreamed would be possible.
Sometimes there is just so much pain and wounding and misunderstanding
in families that it seems unlikely we'll ever be able to bridge the
chasm. But some grace of consciousness blossomed between us and the
healing began and now I really look forward to being around my mom. Then
of course, there is her dog, Molly. Once again, I'm a sucker for any dog
that likes me, so about half my time in Texas is spent on the ground
wrestling with Molly or taking her for long walks where she sticks her
sniffing nose in a pile of leaves and I call to her a dozen times before
we can move a few feet further.
May 5, 2004
Howdy my friends,
You know a man is definitely low on
gingko biloba when you observe him whiling away his entire
Saturday afternoon looking backwards through a pair of
biniculars at the wondrous, tiny world around him. Anticipating
this kind of harsh judgement from those-who-do-not-understand,
I'd sequestered myself into the deep, shadowy recesses of my
backyard, where no judgmental neighbors could see me. I'm well
aware that time is valuable and that I could have been using
mine to, oh, I don't know - maybe invent a better jelly jar or
something, but let me explain. I'd just finished mowing the
lawn, which is something I do only when I cannot see my feet
anymore and the grass blades start to tickle my knee caps. What
a satisfying feeling it can be to plow down a deep rain forest
of dandelions in a matter of minutes, mower engine revved and
stressed to the max, exhaust fumes funneling out into my face
like a dark facial steam.
After bribing my little dawg, Bungee, with a handful of treats to get back on her good side, I sat in my historically accurate (plastic) Adirondack chair and leaned back to gaze up at the Seattle sky. The clouds were towering, billowing one out of the other, a brilliant, sparkling white on top and a heavy somber slate drooping below. They seemed weighty with spring showers and in search, I suspected, of a wedding party or picnic somewhere to dump their load upon.
Lost for a time in my peaceful gaze, I caught glimpse of two dark dots against a lighter pillow of cloud and thought I might be seeing a pair of far-off eagles soaring. I ran into my house and brought my binoculars out. It took me a couple of minutes to find the dots again but when I did I felt absolutely silly. They were not eagles at all, but only a child's lost balloons. They were so high that I wondered whether, if one were up there hanging onto their trailing strings, they could see over the Olympic Mountains and out to the Pacific Ocean. (this is still undetermined but I'd wrassle to the death that they could) I watched them rise and float away on cool currents until they disappeared above the trees behind me. That's when I heard the dreaded clicking sound. No, not a neighbor cocking a shotgun because he assumed I was ogling his wife, but that terrible, dry cracking sound that happens somewhere at the back of the neck when vertebrae twist and contort in ways men my age cannot tolerate. As whimsical as it was watching those pretty balloons, I regretted cranking my neck into that odd position - because now I'd be crippled for a week, forced to walk backwards everywhere or - if I could drive at all - to do so with one leg sticking out the passenger window and my chin strapped to the dash. It's actually doable, I once drove all the way back from Santa Fe back to Seattle like this, and even entertained passengers along the way. I did notice though, that nobody drifted off to sleep the whole trip, they were wide-eyed the entire trip.
Anyway, like I mentioned, I was deeply engaged in looking through my binoculars. I glanced around for things other than balloons to observe and had a marvelous idea but all of my neighbors had their curtains closed. (it's weird the way they snap shut every time I take my binoculars outside) For some reason it occurred to me to check out what things might look like if I turned my field glasses around and looked through the wrong end. Whoa! I'm not shittin' you one bit when I say that I began to channel Alice in Wonderland. (Alex, I mean) Suddenly my backyard stretched to the size of a city park and the little dawg in my lap appeared twenty feet away. (insolent and still irritable from there, even) And what amazingly long legs I have! The daydreams began immediately...
"What size pants will you be requiring sir?" asks the exotic salesgirl in the see-through sarong.
"Oh, probably a 24-inch waist and a 17- foot inseam ought to do me!" I holler from up near the ceiling somewhere. (I'm generally uninclined towards braggadocio but let me tell you, I'm one tall, slim sumbitch through those lenses!) "Oh, and leave me a fair amount of extra material in that left thigh, will you, honey?" I raised my eyebrows and grinned knowingly, as if it was a secret between just the two of us. She reached for the wall to steady herself, nearly passing out at the mere idea.
I reluctantly wrenched myself back from my daydream and sat there in my backyard for another half-hour, my head jutting at an unnatural angle, and continued to peer out my backwards binoculars at my vast domain. I was in no hurry at all to go back inside - and not just because my back door was now half-a-mile away, but because it reminded me so much of the wonder of being a kid. Remember what it was like to play on the ground, turn on the water hose and make rivers and lakes in the dirt, then funnel your little-kid consciousness onto the small/vast world created in a clump of grass? That's what it felt like - and then something happened that changed my life - for the next two months at least.
As I've mentioned numerous times, I feed daily the horde of raccoons, opossums, squirrels, feral cats, crows, jays and birdies of all types that visit my back yard. I figure I owe them this for all the asphalt we've poured over what used to be the Great Pacific Northwest. None of these animals get overly close to me - even after eating my food for five years - yet I don't take it too personally. The thing is, every time I open the back door, Bungee chases every living thing she can see. She flings her little fuzzy-tornado-self upon the natural world with great vigor. She means no harm, and in fact, makes friends with all kinds of creatures, (her best friend is a bee) but she just cannot resist this wonderful startling effect her hurtling body has upon all living things. If you were seven pounds and a ball of fluffy-white fur, you too would dig causing larger animals to fall all over themselves getting away from you.
On this particular day one of the cats meowed at me. Now, that may not seem like a big deal to you, but feral cats, wild that is, do not meow. They hiss now and then if I get too close, and they howl up a storm when they're fighting or mating, but they don't meow. This cat meowed and walked up to me. Clearly, she was a domestic cat, lost, abandoned, a runaway, I don't know. I pet her for a bit and she allowed this. Wow! The first backyard cat in five years to let me pet her.
For a few weeks I'd watch for her and about every couple of days she'd sneak up on me, meowing and telling me all about how hard it was to be a domestic cat abandoned in the wild with all these fierce jungle creatures. About three weeks ago I reached to pet her and realized that she was pregnant. Uh oh, this was not good. In five years I've only seen one feral cat have kittens, I don't know where she lived but when the kitties were old enough to travel she'd bring them to my backyard feeding station. It was because of that mama and four kittens that I'd bought a larger feeder and started buying unreal amounts of dry cat food - considering that I'm a man who doesn't own any cats. Surely the people at Costco thought I was either running a kitty mill or paving my driveway with it.
This little domestic mama cat had me troubled. I didn't particularly want to be a cat owner, I have one little dawg that I can take practically everywhere and that is just about right for me. My life would be considerably more difficult if I had also a cat to consider before I could go on tour. And I rent a house where I'm not really allowed a cat. Yet, I just couldn't abandon this sweet cat to give birth out there on the street somewhere. I began to buy a little wet food to mix with the dry I normally buy and coaxed her to my front porch. She'd follow me, meowing all the way, and devour the food I gave her. Wow. Eating for a whole litter is impressive to watch. After a week of this I made a little towel bed on the porch and found her sleeping there one day. Okay, something was starting to happen. On warm days I left the door propped open and gradually, she started coming slightly into the living room. Bungee loves cats and wanted to get immediately into licking her face and playing chase but this seems to be something that pregnant cats do not practice. (I only have the one to go on)
I began calling her Gracie. For a man who values his free-roaming, unencumbered ways, this may have been a mistake.
I talked with my friend, Laurie, last week, who has more than a score of varied animals on her farm a couple of hours south of Seattle. She told me something deeply disturbing: that tom cats often kill the kittens so that the female will go back into heat sooner. Damn. There went my idea of her having the kittens on my front porch. Even to the end a man will drag his feet about commitment, doesn't he? I'd been clinging to the idea that she might have them on my porch, I'd feed them, and then they'd all go on their merry way. This was perhaps not going to work, now that I knew the kittens would be in danger.
I needed to offer her a place inside my house or garage, yet Gracie wasn't used anymore to living in a house. I had no idea how long she'd been roaming free, but I suspected a year or so. From that night forward I began to coax her into my garage, where I'd leave her a bed, food and water for the night and then let her out in the morning to roam as she was used to. When I went to check on her a couple of days ago, I heard a sound high up in the loft above my car. Oh no, she'd climbed up into the rafters and over the top plate of the wall frame. She was stuck in a little cavity out over the soffit and couldn't get back into the garage. I climbed up into the rafters and tried to help her, wondering if she'd claw me to pieces. She didn't though. She knew I was there to help her. Unfortunately, I couldn't get her out. Her belly was just too big. Pulling her back into the garage was like getting a watermelon into a fruit jar. I went down and got some food and came up again and this caused her to renew her attempt with greater determination. I reached behind her and pulled towards me, hoping we weren't hurting the kittens in her womb. Finally, her big ol' belly plopped over the board and she was safe again. It was a bonding experience, I'll tell you. Of course, I plugged that hole to the soffit immediately. If she'd have been even one day more pregnant, I'd have had to take a saw to the wall frame.
The days were warm so I continued to leave my front and back doors propped open. I wanted her to have every opportunity to be inside if she chose. She began coming and going more often, staying on the living room floor for naps and exploring my house. I knew she was looking for her special place. I still didn't know where I was going to coax her to have her litter - or if I even could - but I decided to pay attention, feed her, pet her and see what I could do when the time came. I ended up making three different places for her to give birth; in a closet, in the garage, on the porch. The cat had options. She chose none of them. Yesterday morning as I was reading on the couch, she crawled underneath and had her litter of five. After all my efforts, she'd chosen a place about a foot from my body. Isn't that amazing? I feel like I've learned so much from animals in my lifetime and a great deal this springtime in particular, watching birds and raccoons, squirrels, etc. But that she felt so safe as to give birth directly under the spot I was sitting is quite an honor - I think.
I checked on Gracie, off and on for several hours, allowing her space and privacy, checking back as each kitten was born, to see that she was okay. Bungee was in the room and all seemed peaceful between them. She did moan when I'd get too close. And when I eased some water and food near her she ate and moaned at the same time, ravenous for nourishment but tormented to have to be two feet from her babies.
By afternoon she came out from under the couch when I came close and allowed me to pet her, she seemed desperate for loving and affection after having expended so much energy and affection herself. I babied her and sweet talked her and rubbed her belly. It took me some time to coax her to go outside but I knew I needed her out of the room in order to move the kittens to a place better than the dusty carpet under my couch. I had already taken a large, foot-deep Rubbermaid container and enfolded it in layers of soft, dark cloth. I'd made a cave of it and put it in the garage. While Gracie was outside I crawled back behind the couch and carefully lifted two new-born kittens at a time and transferred them to their new dwelling. When I had them all moved I let Gracie back in. Let me just say that I'm most fortunate to be physically able to type this for you. She might well have shredded me beyond recognition - and I thought she was going to. I showed her their home in the garage - where she'd been perfectly happy the last few nights. But she instantly started carrying them one at a time back under my couch. It was impressive really, the determination she exhibited. But I outweigh her and insisted on the garage. Gracie is house broken and uses a litter box, I'd found out because I'd seen her using my wild flower garden and had scooped some dirt from it in a box and put it in the garage. So that wasn't why I wanted her in the garage, I wanted her there because I'm afraid for Bungee's life until the kittens get older. A mama cat is a fierce creature and Bungee has no concept of any being wishing her harm.
So I'm telling you this tale for a couple of reasons: 1) It's kind of a sweet story to share. 2) I'm hoping that someone will want these kittens when they are old enough to wean and leave their mama. And oh, actually, three reasons: 3) Gracie will need a home, too. As I mentioned, I am not allowed to have a cat where I live and my traveling creates additional problems. Would anyone out there like to have this adorable cat? She is honestly the most loving cat I've ever seen, not finicky about being petted, in fact, she insists upon it. And before she gave birth she never was aggressive - it's only natural that she's overly protective of her young litter.
She gave birth on May 3. I won't be able to give her or the kittens away for about 6-8 weeks - that is, if I can keep track of them. UPDATE: It's May 11 and I just spent an hour looking all over the yard and house for where Gracie moved them to. Finally found them under the driver's seat of my Malibu convertible in the garage. If it had been a sunny day, I might have been fifty miles from here discovering that I had five kittens in desperate need of milk and not a dang thing I could do about it but to hurry back home and find Gracie. A couple of the little critters are spoken for, but if you'd like one, particularly if you live in the NW where you can easily come and get one, I'd love to hear from you.
This is probably my longest-winded website rambling so far. I hope you held in there. I just want to finish with a great big thanks to you for listening to my music, for sharing it with friends, and for checking in on me now and then. I hope this is an uplifting, heart-opening springtime for you. Don't forget to take some deep breaths now and then.
Yer ol' fren,
May 28, 2004
Howdy my friends, There is something about sitting next to a chilly, rain-splattered window as the furious downfall pounds the ground outside that just about takes away all my ability to think. I've just spent half an hour driving back roads and neighborhood streets across Seattle, avoiding the traffic-clogged, rain-blinded freeways, in order to reach my favorite coffee shop. It's across from Green Lake and I've come here to work on my book. Only, now that I'm here I cannot focus on any such thing. I mean, this ain't some regular Seattle springtime mist coming down, this is real rain, more like Texas rain, Florida rain, Brazilian Rain Forest rain. (Continued . . . )
The rippling rainwater is rushing down the gutter like a river, taking with it the last of the cherry blossoms - and my attention as well. My memory and imagination are swept up in the current and drifting away quicker than I can say "ah, them good ol' days of yore." (I swear, I never thought I'd reach an age where I could get away with a phrase like that, but if we've both had a couple of beers it sounds like I practically invented the phrase) Before I realize it I am typing out my reverie instead of working on the damn chapter of my book that I've been stuck on for three months. But wait, maybe this is not a delay tactic. Let's call it spontaneity, okay? A willingness to see the world through the eyes of a child. Can you work with me here? If you'll go along and allow me the occasional sip of my hot tea and a long, unfocused glance out the window, I'll repay you with another of my little rambling tales that leaves you wondering just how much is true - if any - and what is not. Let me put it this way: just like they say about five o'clock; it's bound to be true somewhere. ~
I was riding in the back seat of a taxi from
Miami to Key West. You might think that would be an expensive fare - and
you'd be right - but I wasn't paying a dime. At least I hoped I wasn't.
My plan was to jump out at a red light as soon as we hit the heart of
Key West, but I was trying to work out how I was going to carry my
guitar case and bag and still outrun the driver. Actually, I knew the
driver. And if I was gentlemanly and serenaded her adequately on the
highway, there seemed to be an excellent chance that she would charge me
nothing. Melanie was only woman I'd ever known who owned an authentic
Checker Cab. It was a doozey, too. You never think how big those old
cabs are until you ride in one with a friend. It's like a city bus, you
don't think all that much about how big they are but if a friend of
yours owned one, you'd be plenty impressed.
What I found out upon entering her cab, to
my great pleasure, was that the back seat is large enough to play guitar
in. I found this out because when I opened the door to get in the front
passenger seat, Melanie let me know right quick that this was off-limits
and kicked me in the butt, sending me sprawling into the back
floorboard. What a joker that girl was. She'd have never gotten away
with it if she wasn't so danged beautiful, I'm telling you. Otherwise,
I'd have stood my ground like a man. Still, as I mentioned, in that back
floorboard I discovered a great venue for rehearsing. You'd think you
could play guitar in almost any back seat but I'm here to tell you,
unless you have one arm about a foot long and another one about four
feet long, (which is rare these days) you just can't manage it. I once
did actually manage to play most of a song lying on my back in a locked
trunk, but the faster the car-jackers went, the more the exhaust was
drawn in and I nearly died of fumes by the time the third chorus came
around. I think they let me out 'cause I couldn't play disco.
Whomever was the idiot (or most likely,
group of tax-payer subsidized idiots) who decided to build a road
connecting all of the Florida Keys to the mainland, should have been
given a lobotomy for their trouble. I mean, what is there about an
island that makes it so special? Duh. It's all alone out there in the
water! The beauty of it is that you can't just drive on over and
have a taco anytime you want. 'Cause, for all you engineers who just
love the old, worn-out Man-Against-Nature style of engineering, once
there's a highway running across the island and connecting it to every
other chunk of land in the hemisphere, it's no longer an island!
Does this make sense to anyone? Hell, Mt. Rainier is too damned high for
my tastes. I cannot easily get to the summit gift shop for a key ring.
So let's chop it down! Not all the way down, leave it swellin' a little
bit over the surrounding area, but let's trim a few thousand feet off
the summit and call it Mound Rainier!
We had a lovely time wandering the musty
streets of Old Key West, peeking in the windows of Hemingway's rundown
winter home, stopping in the doorways of patio bars to hear singer after
singer give their nearly identical renditions of "Margaritaville." Down
the street from Baby's Coffee, a Jamaican man approached us with a
machete and a bag of coconuts and asked if we'd like a true tropical
drink, and for a buck he whacked open a couple of coconuts and inserted
straws for us to sip through. I can count on one hand the number of men
who've ever approached me with a machete and I can't tell you how
relieved I was to find that he wasn't a psychopath. I never told
Melanie, but I was on the verge of screaming and running when I realized
the bag was full of coconuts and not heads, as I'd logically assumed.
About them dang kittens:
I'll explain for those who may not have read my last rambling. As you
may recall, I feed all living things in my neighborhood. You would not
believe the raccoons and opossums that show up in full daylight in my
backyard, looking for a drink of water or a snack. Because I put out so
much food for all creatures, there is almost never any fighting. A few
months ago I walked out at 11pm with a flashlight to see if there was
enough food at the feeding station. Gathered around the trough were four
raccoons and only a few feet away were five cats awaiting their turn.
Now, that's neighborly courtesy.
I heard from a friend that it is common for tom cats to kill the kittens so that the female will go back into heat sooner. I couldn't let that happen, so they now have a home in my house and garage. It's been quite a circus around here. I allow Gracie, as I named her, to go anywhere she wants. I've offered her countless places to nest with her litter of five but she keeps changing her mind. Several times I've found them under the seat of my convertible, which, at this time of year, I begin to drive fairly often. So over and over again, I take them out and she puts them back in. I finally put up the top and raised the windows. Now she finds other obscure, out-of-reach places to put them and I end up crawling around in the dark looking for the mysterious spot where I hear all the tiny whining coming from. This morning, to my shock and dismay, I found them in a loft above the garage. I had to climb up there and dig through boxes and stacks of items until I could feel the first soft bundle of fur. She hissed at me viciously and I tossed it off as no big deal, though I was actually nervous that she might leap to my face with all four paws and begin shredding.
When I left the house a few hours ago they were all safely back in the
little cave I'd made them. But who knows? When I return tonight, they
could be in my boots. I just don't know.