A Garden Story Part 2 of 8

     They walked on in silence for some time to a place in the garden that Adam had never seen.  It was a spectacular place.  The grass was short and plush like a manor lawn.  There were paths of natural stone, bordered by rows of beautiful blossoms.   A slight rise with a fountain shaped rock formation bubbled cool artesian water that cascaded down the surface to a small pool.  Next to the pool were two magnificent trees, one on each side.  Each was covered in succulent leaves and huge colorful blossoms.  Each displayed the most beautiful fruit that Adam had ever seen, and he had seen much fruit in many varieties.  He looked under the tree as he always did with fruit trees because he had learned that the most perfectly ripened, best tasting fruit was that which had most recently fallen from the tree.  If none was there or none looked fresh enough, a gentle tug on a low hanging branch was usually enough to provide a delicious feast.  As they drew nearer to the trees, he noticed that no fruit had fallen even though it appeared to be perfectly ripe.  As he stepped forward to grasp a branch, the old man reached out to stop him.

     “Listen to me carefully, Adam.  I know that sometimes when I speak you can get distracted and miss some of what I say so I want you to pay close attention now.  This is very important!  I have prepared this garden for you and for Eve so that you will always have a safe place to live with plenty to eat.  I have given it all to you, except for these two trees.  These are my special trees.  Their seeds must never be planted anywhere else so I must tell you that you cannot eat the fruit from these trees.  If you eat it, you will die.  Do you understand this?”

     “Yes, I understand.  I will not eat from these trees.”

     “Good.  Do you understand what will happen if you eat from this tree?”

     “Yes, I will die.”

     Do you understand what will happen if Eve eats from this tree?”

     “Yes, she will die.  I will not let her eat from the tree.  I don’t want her to die.  We should go back to her now.  She does not know about the animals.  She might be afraid.”

     “I think she will be fine for the time being, but we can start back now as long as you understand that neither of you can ever eat from this tree.”

     “Yes, I understand.  I will explain it to Eve.  We will never eat from these trees.  These are your trees.”

     “Very good, Adam.  We can start back now.”

     Adam was very jovial on the way back.  He frolicked with some raccoons that were digging up clams along the stream bed.  He challenged the old man to a foot race and was surprised at how swiftly the old fellow could run.  He was quite amused when he pulled the old man’s extended finger which seemed to release a loud fart.  That was a good one all right.  He couldn’t wait to pull it on Eve.  She was always in his thoughts and the thrill of seeing her when she came into view nearly took his breath away.  But what was she doing?  She was sitting under a tree looking up and it looked like she was talking to someone.  Had another come while they were away and stolen her heart?  Panic overwhelmed him at the thought and he ran to her as fast as he could, leaving the old man far behind.

     When he approached, he could see a creature in the tree, some kind of serpent.  He was smooth skinned and quite colorful, not too large as serpents go, but surprisingly pleasant to look at, handsome by all standards.  But the most amazing thing was that he was talking.  As far as he knew, Adam had encountered every creature in the garden and he had never encountered one that could talk.  Yet here he was, an incredibly handsome creature not only talking, but talking to the woman that Adam loved.  A sense of inadequacy swept over him.  Eve must love this creature better than me, how will I ever compete.  The paralyzing combination of jealousy and dejection swept over him like a tsunami of despair.  Eve stood up and turned toward him as he approached.  He slowed, then stopped in front of her not quite knowing what to expect.  His expression gave her pause for just a moment.  “Adam, what is wrong?” she cried as she sprang forward into his arms, wrapping hers around his neck and pulling him close to inspect his troubled face.  “Are you all right?” she breathed turning her head slightly to the side to lock her lips upon the tight set line of his mouth.

     His arms instinctively wrapped around her waist as he pulled her close, lifting her off of her feet.  The tension of jealousy that had built up released in a rush as he eagerly returned her vigorous kiss, squeezing her so tight that she had to labor for breath.  “I missed you so much.” He said as he relaxed the tension of his arms.  The tightness of his face melted into in his normally pleasant smile as she pulled her head back to observe his handsome features.  “I’m fine now”, he said a little sheepishly, embarrassed by the reaction that had given him a glimpse of how horrible things could be and how vulnerable his feeling for her had made him. 

     Satisfied that the look of horror she had encountered on his face was probably a misinterpretation and at any rate, had passed, she refocused on the matter at hand.  “Oh,” she said taking is hand and pulling him closer to the tree, “I want you to meet my new friend Slick,” then added, “He’s a serpent.”  Adam looked up curiously.  He would indeed like to meet this talking serpent.  He wondered what matter Eve would have been discussing with such a creature.  The thought of her talking to anyone but him brought back that choking feeling of jealousy but he fought his way through it knowing that he could not keep her locked in a clam shell all of her life.  But when they looked up, Slick was nowhere to be seen.  “Oh,” she sighed disappointedly.  “I wanted you to meet him.  He is so funny.  And he knows so much about the garden.  I’m sure you would have liked him a lot.  I wonder where he went.”

     Adam was almost sure that he would not have liked him and right now couldn’t care less where he went.  He was glad that he was gone.  Now all he had to do was to get rid of the old man, who had finally caught up and was just now approaching, so he could be alone with beautiful Eve.  She would be so happy to have a name that their time together would be even more awesome than before if that was even possible.  His problem was solved when the old man announced, “I’m going to leave you two alone now and go take a nap.  I’ll be back for the teaching later.”  With that he departed and they were alone at last.  The teaching always occurred in the evening when the sun had gone behind the trees and the breeze died down.  It was barely midday now, so he knew they had a lot of time to spend together.  He knew exactly how he wanted to spend it and even spent part of the time on the walk back analyzing what had happened between them earlier.  He tried to remember each delicious detail of what he had touched and how she reacted.  He could hear her moans and gasps in his mind and began to think of things that he may have omitted new things that might give her even more pleasure and to his amazement he began feeling the same sensation in his groin that he had felt when he sank to the grass in her embrace.  He could feel his penis start to swell and stiffen even as he followed the old man along the now narrow path, but in this context it was not enjoyable.  It was uncomfortable and he was forced to abandon his thoughts of her sensual beauty.  He concentrated on the path at his feet trying to step in the exact same footsteps that the old man was laying down in front of him.  By so doing he was soon relieved of his discomfort but retained a new arsenal of pleasure stones to hurl in their next love making encounter.

To be Continued ...

A Garden Story: Part 1 of 8

Forward: My last attempt at fiction was well received so I thought I might try it again. This story will be in serial form continued over several days. You have probably read the story before. I know you have heard it. I read between the lines.

A Garden Story: Part 1

He woke up hurting. His side felt like somebody had opened him up and ripped out one of his ribs. He tried to remember, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember anything past yesterday and he couldn’t remember anything from yesterday that would make his ribs hurt so. He was still under the tree where he had fallen asleep. He could remember studying the creatures around him and even naming some of them much to the delight of the old man who was with him. He wondered where the old man was now and where he had spent the night. He heard something stir close by. Turning to look he was astounded at the sight of another just waking up a few feet away. The other was like him, yet different. He could sense that there was kinship about them, that they shared a likeness yet were separate. He had expressed sadness to the old man last night at the teaching. He became sad when he realized that all the animals he had seen yesterday had others like them for company. He told the old man about the monkeys, how some were one way and some another but they played and rolled together and enjoyed each other’s company. When he saw the other animals each with a mate of its own he had wondered if there would ever be a mate for him. Could it be? Could this be his mate? Yes that was it, a female, quite pleasing to the senses but quite frail looking by comparison to his own stout frame. She was rising to her feet shakily staring at him agape. She reeled slightly and he moved forward to steady her but she was afraid and pulled back. Stumbling she thumped back down to the ground on her backside. He reached out his hand slowly to help her back to her feet but she was still reluctant to reach for it. He smiled and held his stand steady and after a few seconds she timidly reached and clasped it. She was steadier this time as she pulled herself to her feet. She immediately released his hand and stepped back a step to insure she was just out of reach. The feel of her hand lingered on his and he wanted the touch of her to continue but he could see that she was alarmed and defensive.
“Who are you?” he asked. “Where did you come from?” The sound of his voice seemed to calm her and she was not so afraid anymore.
“I don’t know,” she replied, then echoed, “Who are you? Where did you come from?”
“I have always been here,” he said authoritatively. He was trying to remember the name the old man had called him. He really didn’t take note of it since he could see no purpose for a name in a place where you were all alone. But just now he felt the need to have his own unique identity with its own unique label. Finally it came to him. “Adam. I am Adam. That is what the old man calls me. Have you seen him?”
“I haven’t seen anyone but you, Adam” she replied saying his name as though having it somehow commanded respect, the very reaction that he had hoped for. “I don’t think I have a name”, she added sheepishly, hoping that it would not make him like her less.
“Where did you come from?” he repeated. “You were not here yesterday.”
“Yesterday? I don’t know about yesterday. I just woke up and you were here. I don’t know about anything else.”
She doesn’t know much, but she sure is nice to look at, he thought. He looked her over from head to foot. His gaze lingered on the beautiful round pouches on her chest, in the same place where the thick chest muscles were on him. If those are muscles, he thought, she might be stronger than me in spite of her otherwise frail appearance. She was examining him as well. “What is that under your belly?” she asked. “I don’t have that.” She said, bending slightly forward to get a better viewing angle on her own crotch. “You are different.”
He bristled at being called different. He could see that there was an obvious difference in their anatomies so she really hadn’t told him anything new. Yet the idea that he was different implied that she was the standard and he was somehow substandard. This other was trickey and he needed to be careful or she might take over his garden. He retorted, “I was here first and I am the same, so you must be the one that is different. “
She had only been aware for a few minutes and was enthralled by the wonders of discovery. She had neither knowledge nor memories nor inclination toward power or ambition. For the moment, she was the perfect woman for whom submissiveness was not a choice but simply the only course of action available. She was engaged by an other who had been here much longer and so had much knowledge by comparison. He had a name and was aware of an other he called the old man. He was physically stronger than her and yet she sensed a gentleness about him. He had helped her to stand up and not harmed her in any way and she could certainly tell that he felt like he was in charge. His argument made sense to her in that he had been here longer but all she meant was that she had noticed a difference in their appearance. She wondered why he was so sensitive. “I did not mean anything except that we are not the same down there. Let’s not let this come between us”, she said apologetically.
He realized that perhaps his voice had carried the wrong tone. Speaking to others seemed to be a skill that would require some mastery. He continued, in a gentler way, “I don’t have these”, he said stepping forward to cup one of the curious mounds in each big hand. This time she did not pull back but moved slightly forward and began tracing the lines of his bulging pectorals with her gentle fingertips. He could tell instantly that these supple mounds were not muscles and the touch of them was even more glorious than the touch of her hand. He knew that she would not try to overpower him physically, but he felt an overpowering allurement emanating from her as she did from him. In their closeness their lips brushed then locked. Neither understood the desire flooding over them but in the grip of a sudden craving for fulfillment they each became aware of the other’s need and of their own need to respond to it.
They sank slowly together to the plush grass. As instinct overpowered reason, each demanded and responded and so together learned of the carnal pleasures that occur when a man and a woman become one. They were both spent, gasping, whispering, fondling, giggling joyfully when the old man approached. “Well, I see you two have met and seem to be getting on nicely”, he commented loudly from a further than comfortable speaking distance. This was to give them a warning of his approach so as not to startle them and cause a flight reaction. Yet that was the woman’s first thought as she saw the splendid figure of the old man approaching. “Do not be afraid,” Adam said quietly directly into her ear. “This is the old man. He is my friend.” To the old man, who was closer now, he said, “This other has come. We have done what I have seen the monkeys do.”
“Ah yes, the monkeys,” the old man sighed. “You should not take too much from the monkeys, Adam. You should do the things you want to do and let the monkeys do what they do.”
“Yes, I know,” said Adam. “But I wanted to and the other wanted to as well.”
“Why don’t you let the other bathe and cool off in the stream?” the old man asked. “Come, walk with me. I want to show you some special trees over this way.”
Reluctantly Adam let go of the other’s hand and headed off with the old man. He kept looking back with every other step as long as she was in sight and each time she would smile broadly while lifting a hand from her side to wiggle the fingers in a small, inconspicuous wave.
As they walked, the old man said, “What do you call the other? What do you call her kind? You have named all the other animals. Don’t you think you should give her kind a name?”
“I will call her wonderful man because she is like me but she is wonderful.” He knew from yesterday that the old man expected him to come up with names so he would do so quickly without too much thought because too much thought made it too hard to decide and he did not want to think about her name, only her beauty and the pleasures that they shared and would share again if he had anything to say about it.
“Wonderful man”, the old man repeated. “That seems a like a lot to say. Maybe you could shorten it some so it would be easier.”
Adam mouthed the words over and over, trying different combinations of sounds. “Wonderful man, wonder man, won man, wo man, yes, that’s it. Woman. I will call her kind woman.”
The old man saw this as good. He had tried to decide if she should be strong to protect herself and her children if necessary or if she should be gentle and so alluring to the man that he would regard her as a most cherished asset and so protect and defend her even at the risk of his own life. He had decided on the latter and so far it appeared as though that choice was correct. “And what about her? How do you feel about her? What if the monkeys wanted to take her away from you?”
“I would kill the monkeys,” Adam replied. The old man was surprised that he understood the concept of death, let alone causing the death of another creature. Perhaps he had been given more than intended.
“And what if the great king of the beasts, the lion wanted her for his dinner?”
“I would kill the lion,” Adam replied.
“But the lion is big and strong. He has sharp teeth and claws. He might kill you.”
“Then I would give up my life to save her. I do not want to live without her now that I know her. She is my woman, my life, my w…ife. She is my wife! And no one can take her from me.”
The old man was a little startled by his willfulness, but knew now that the woman would be treated well and protected. “Since she seems to be everything to you, you could call her Eve. That would be short for everything. That could be her name.”
“Yes,” Adam agreed. “Eve. That is a good name. A pretty name, like her. I shall call her Eve. I shall be with her forever.”

The old man knew that this was good.

To be continued...

Writing Done Against A Deadline

“Like all writing done against a daily deadline, some of the telegrams in this book are good, some bad, some indifferent, as Will Rogers well knew.  Most were written, just as General Doolittle described, right up against the deadline.”    This is an excerpt from the Preface to a book, Will Roger’s Daily Telegrams, Vol. 1.  The book is a collection of Will’s daily newspaper articles.  This volume deals with those written in 1926. The entire works span a 16 year period right up until Will’s untimely death.   Much more can be found at http://www.willrogers.com/   The Preface was written by Will Rogers Jr. in 1977 and General Doolittle’s description was an anecdote he included that told how the General had to wait as Will pecked out one of his daily posts, just in time to get it to the telegraph office to be sent to the New York Post and other syndicate subscribers of the day.  It was an early day version of a blog and apparently Will felt the pressure as much as I do.  Probably more, as he had $10,000 a month, his cut of the syndication fees, riding on it.  I don’t get nearly that much for writing this, but as I implied, the pressure is still on. 

I tried ignoring the deadline (my last blog was July 13) for a full week, and you know what?  It was awful.  Every day I would tell myself, “You have got to post a blog today!”  Yes, with an exclamation point because that is the way I talk to myself.  But my stupid self is just like everyone else around here, couldn’t care less about what I say, exclamation point or not.  Myself replied, “You know, it’s been almost a week and no one has texted or emailed to ask where is the next issue, so who cares?  Your salary has not been cut, and besides, it’s a weekly or better yet a monthly blog now.”  Well, you can’t imagine how badly I wanted to slap that self silly, but I’m just not that kind of person.

Will Junior’s comments help  me to keep it in perspective though.  I’m sure you’ve noticed that in the past I’ve always insisted on perfection.  I never had room for the bad or the indifferent.  But now, well if the greatest humorist of all times is looked upon as having produced even one bad or indifferent article, then who am I to insist upon only the good.  I think the occasional indifferent or even, God forbid, bad blog might become acceptable in the future.  Don’t worry though.  You may not be able to actually detect any difference but it helps me to ratchet the pressure down a couple of notches.      

Another pressure factor is the length.  My first installment was only a couple of paragraphs.  My last one, well, I fell asleep counting the pages so that means it was probably longer than that.  But nobody said it had to be.  So how short can it be?  I think one sentence is too short.  That’s probably more like a “Thought for the Day”.  And I personally feel that there are already too many of those floating around.  It seems like everybody is posting a thought for the day these days.  They’re all optimistic little bits about how to be happy and successful.  I read so many thoughts for the day today, that I’m almost giddy and feel like I can do anything.  Or maybe it was the bottle of wine I drank for lunch.  Anyway, this length looks about right.

Okay, here it is.  Good, bad or indifferent it’s done, and this is the last time I’m going to whine about something I volunteered for.  Confidentially though, I apologize for taking so long, and I’m glad I didn’t have to settle for indifferent or bad this time.

A Day in the Life

My daughter, the Certified Paralegal, was dismayed about the outcome of a certain recent murder trial and posted as much on Facebook.  My sister, the poet, added a comment wondering what the defendant’s life will be like now with everyone seeming to hate her so.  Those thoughts inspired me to seize the opportunity to dabble in a little fiction and employ my interpretation of the crime novel genre in portraying what life might be like if everyone hates you.   What follows, even though it is ripped from the headlines, is purely fictional and not intended to portray any real people or events.

A Day in the Life

She noticed a little movement out of the corner of her eye as she turned from checking the front door to make sure it had locked. The small movement near the fence pillar at the front corner of the lawn did not register as something of concern as she had many important thoughts on her mind this morning.  She moved easily toward the steps to the driveway, her small frame gliding effortlessly across the wide expanse of the porch stoop.  She flowed smoothly down the four stately steps, conscious of the soothing caress of warmth as she stepped into the sunlight.  “This is so good”, she thought to herself.  It had been a long time since she had had the opportunity to feel the sunshine on her face, the soothing, healing sunshine, so she allowed herself to bask in the pleasure of it as she stepped around the front of her car to reach the driver’s door.  She heard the metallic click of the lock as she pressed the remote entry button.  As she reached for the car door handle, the bullet hit her in the center of her chest.  She felt herself driven backwards so hard that her feet couldn’t keep up and she knew she was falling.  She heard the deep thump of the weapon’s discharge now and instantly her mind sorted out all of the confusing stimuli of the last micro second.  But it was an instant playing in slow motion as she realized, “My God, I’ve been shot.  Shot in the chest.  It has to be bad. Fatal? Am I dying?”  The thought was interrupted by the jolt of her buttocks slamming down on the smooth cement of the drive way.  Then her shoulders and head hit hard. Hard enough to feel the stab of pain in her head as her brain slammed against the cranium wall, but not hard enough to knock her unconscious.  She heard a car door slam, an engine rev, tires squeal and the retreating roar of an engine as the shooter sped from the scene. 

As the last perceptible sound of the getaway drifted from her ears, she realized that she was still alive, and still conscious.  She felt some pain in her chest but somehow did not feel like she was dying.  Her right hand was already covering the wound so she raised it in front of her face expecting it to be dripping blood but was surprised and a little bewildered to find it clean.  Once again her mind started putting the pieces together.  Suddenly she was very grateful to the police woman who had escorted her home last night.  The woman who had strongly recommended, no, insisted that she wear a bullet-proof vest for a few days and went through hell and high water to get the department supply room to lend her one.  That woman’s concern was prophetic and now it had saved her life and she was very appreciative and ecstatically happy to be alive and so charged with adrenaline and relief that she almost felt giddy.  She ran her hands over her rib cage and determined no were broken as they sometimes were in the TV scenarios she had seen when policemen get shot while wearing bullet-proof vests.  When she sat up she realized that she would be sore for a few days but otherwise no major damage, except for some smudges on the seat of her pants.  Her first reaction was to call 911 and report being shot, but as she thought about it, she realized that she already had too much contact with the police in her life.  The shooter was gone and probably left no trace so the only thing she would accomplish by calling the police would be wasted time and perhaps renewed suspicion or her own re-incarceration.  She pulled herself into her Escalade and locked the doors.  She entered her destination address into the navigation system and backed out of the driveway. 

The tinted glass of the Escalade afforded some protection as she drove toward her destination.  No one would recognize her and since it was a rented vehicle, it would be quite difficult to trace the tag to her so she felt secure for the time being.  She knew that she was going to have to up her game to make it through this.  Recounting the events of the last few minutes, she realized that she had noticed something, that small movement as she turned from the door, but just didn’t pay attention to it.  Well, from now on things would be different.  She would call upon and be attentive to all of her senses and intuitions.  No more distractions or walking with her head down.  Her very survival depended upon it.

The delays of the morning had consumed the extra few minutes that she usually allowed to find and arrive propitiously to a meeting.  The fact was that she was a little late but as she parked the car she reminded herself that she was alone in a jungle that required the utmost of concentration to navigate so she couldn’t afford to rush.  She quickly, but thoroughly surveyed the route she must take from her car to the old row house that had been converted into office space.  Her publisher, more correctly, her soon-to-be publisher, she hoped, occupied an office on the second floor.  This would be their initial meeting to discuss a book about her recent ordeal.  She checked the surroundings and noted those locations that might conceal a sniper and those obstacles that might conceal an explosive device.  Her instincts surprised even herself and she wondered where she had learned these kinds of skills.  Maybe we are all just born with them and they stay suppressed until we have to call upon them she thought.  Maybe I learned more from watching those TV dramas than I realized.  As she mentally planned her passage from the car to the building she took out some hand cream to apply to her hands.  You can’t shake hands with your publisher with hands like a cactus she reasoned more to reassure herself that there would be a deal than anything else.  After massaging the smooth liquid in, she picked up the bottle and exited the vehicle.

She moved quickly and decisively toward the narrow front steps.  She was conscious of the man behind her but he seemed to pose no threat until she raised her foot to mount the first step.  Suddenly he grabbed her left wrist and with a mighty jerk dragged her backwards from the step.  As she turned to confront him, a heavy earthenware flower pot crashed on the landing at the top of the stairs.  My God, that could have killed me, she thought as she relaxed her struggle with the stranger for a moment.  He seemed to relax too and they both looked up to see a woman waving from the third floor window.  “Sorry, that was an accident,” she said.  “Is everybody alright?”

She couldn’t really speak just then but managed a weak wave.  As she caught her breath she finally managed to exclaim, “You saved my life!” to the stranger.

 “Accident Hell,” he retorted, “She dropped that purposely.  I saw her open the window when you were leaving your car.”

“Well, thank you so much, you saved me.”

“Hey wait a minute,” he said, “I know you.  You’re…”  Suddenly his grip on her wrist tightened again and he began dragging her toward the curb.  As she looked up the street she saw a city bus moving toward them swiftly just inches from the curb.  My God, she thought, he’s going to throw me in front of that bus.  Suddenly she remembered the hand cream in her right hand.  She placed the bottle by his thumb on her left wrist and gave a squeeze.  As the oily lotion flowed onto her wrist she gave a mighty push followed by a jerk back.  The lotion worked under his thumb and her wrist became too slick to hold.  The momentum of trying to propel her toward the curb overcame his balance as he fell backward directly into the path of the bus.  The driver had no opportunity to slow as the bus made a thumping sound when the front tire ran directly over the man.  She was glad that she had moved back to the steps when the dual back wheels squeezed him like a greasy spoon ketchup dispenser.

“That was an accident”, she screamed at the horrified couple who had been passing by but now stood aghast in the pool of gore.  “It was an accident”, she screamed again.  “It was an accident”, she repeated as she turned and glancing up to avoid any plummeting objects, retreated into the building.  She hurled herself into her publisher’s office sobbing uncontrollably.  “Everyone is trying to kill me out there!” she wailed.

“Don’t worry, dear, you’re safe here,” the publisher replied.  Her words were reassuring, her manner confident.  She had earned a black belt in Tai Kwon Do before her twelfth birthday and over the years had advanced it to the nth degree.  She was a savvy business woman with a legal background and had the ability to maim and cripple with her bare hands if ever an occasion called for that.  She longed for the day that it would.  Early in her career as a paralegal, she realized that her salary, handsome as it was, would not pay off her education loans and afford her the luxurious life style that she could command in the publishing industry.  Her rise was as meteoric as it was bountiful.  In a few years she was at the top of the publishing food chain wielding wealth and power as she turned the stories of tragic lives, mayhem and deceit into mountains of gold.

“Promise me you won’t try to kill me, please, please”, the sobbing client implored.

“Kill you, dear?  I’m going to make a killing on you, not kill you.  You are perfectly safe here,” she said soothingly.  “At least for the time being,” she added, with an almost imperceptible laugh.

All I Know

Like Will Rogers, all I know is what I read in the newspaper.  And also like Will, the newspaper that I read is the Claremore Progress.  And mostly what you learn about in the Claremore Progress is, well, Claremore.  I can’t help but think that Will learned a lot more than I did by reading the Claremore Progress.  For example, there was a little scandal that brewed up a few months ago.  And while I tried my best to get the gist of it from the articles in the paper, I’ll have to admit that I am still somewhat in the dark.  But here is what I do know.  The mayor and several city council members claimed that several other city council members did something unethical.  There was a nearly full front page article about it every day for a week or more, and while names were named and accusations were flying, the actual nature of the ethics violation was not mentioned.  The writers were especially masterful at keeping that crucial bit of information hush-hush.  That’s as specific as I can get because as I said, all I know is what I read in the paper and the paper just did not say.  We all hoped to find out when it was scheduled to be discussed at an open council meeting.  But then someone actually found a procedure that had been established to deal with accusations of ethics violations whereby a pre-appointed ethics committee would investigate the allegations and make recommendations to the council as to what action to take based on its findings.  I think the fact that ethics violations were anticipated and a committee pre-appointed says a lot in itself, but that has to be considered information derived from “reading between the lines” and I can’t really give the paper credit for it.  We were all dismayed though when it was announced that none of that would be open to the public.  But at least we were all confident that it would be dealt with fairly and ethically, given the impeccable credentials of the members of the ethics committee.  It was not like Congress where the same foxes guarding the hen house also served on the ethics committee.  This was a committee of honest citizens ready and willing to pursue this matter with integrity.

But it never got to that point.  Before the committee could meet to hear the allegations, the members that were accused began resigning.  Not because they had done anything unethical but because, in their opinion, the allegations were so ridiculous that they did not merit a defense.  The noble thing to do was to resign for the good of the city so the time and money spent investigating could be saved and the distraction of it all to the conduct of city business would be avoided.  All very honorably and meticulously reported and carefully swept away without the allegations ever really being divulged.  Then a few of the accusers also resigned followed by the city manager and most of his staff.  All of that was right around election time so we held one of them also.   Now we have a new city council, a new mayor, a new city manager and staff and as far as I can learn from the newspaper, everything is going great again even though many of us (I hope I’m not the only one) never found out what the problems were in the first place.

In fact it seems to me that things might be going too good.  Instead of just bickering among themselves the new city government has taken to trying to solve some problems.  The only trouble I can see in that is that they are trying to solve problems we’ve never even had.  One thing that wasn’t broke that got fixed was the garage sale ordinance.  According to the paper there has been a problem for many years.  Many people have a weekend garage sale once in a while. They put out signs and sell stuff in their driveways and the neighbors are inconvenienced for a couple of days by the traffic but that is just the nature of the garage sale and everybody can live with it.  A few people have garage sales every weekend and all week in between and never pick up their signs so their neighbors are inconvenienced all the time and the city has to pick up the signs from street corners and people just can’t live with that.  Now the police say that when they are called to the site of a “perpetual” garage sale it is hard for them to do anything because there is no record of how many garage sales have been held at the residence or how long one has been going on.  There is just no way for the police to curb this insidious practice.  I guess, in spite of all the fancy computers we’ve bought for them, that nobody ever thought of writing down and filing that complaint to check on the next time.  So that’s when the City Council jumped in to save the day.  The only way, they could figure, to keep a record is if everybody who has a garage sale has to buy a five dollar permit from the city to do it.  That way, the police won’t have to do too much fancy police work.  You either have a permit that you’ve paid for with your first hour’s profit, or you get fined two hundred bucks, the whole day’s profit.  They also claim that the five bucks is merely to offset the cost of maintaining the permit system and since most people who have a garage sale put an ad in the paper, the most convenient place for citizens to get fleeced by the city is at the Claremore Progress office where the permits can be purchased.  If you just have to have a dose of dealing with a city employee, you can also buy them at city hall.

Now if this isn’t an example of getting all the government that you pay for, I don’t know what is.  We finally have a city government progressive enough to enact an unnecessary permit yet compassionate enough to make it convenient for citizens to purchase it.  And they did all of this without accusing each other of anything.

 Will was right.  You can learn a lot from reading the Claremore Progress.  And now, you can even conduct some of your city business right there at the newspaper office.  I think they should deputize all the Claremore Progress carriers.  That way they could check on those garage sale permits while they’re delivering the news and save the police that much more work.  If we could keep the costs down, I guess the cost of the permit could come down.  But I don’t think I’ll count on that.

Privacy, Who Needs It? Who Has It?

Anthony Weiner and no one.   Hey, this isn’t one of those riddle emails where the answers are at the bottom.  So when did privacy become such a big issue?  It didn’t used to be, or at least I didn’t perceive it to be a big deal if it ever was.  It seems like private things were well, private and other things were shared openly without fear of exploitation.  Now there are so many ways that people who are so inclined can hurt you that most folks feel everything with the possible exception of their genitals and sex life has to be kept on the down low.  That’s just the opposite of how things used to be.  We used to share everything except pictures of our genitals.  It wasn’t until the Polaroid Camera was invented that pictures of genitals were even possible.  The drug store was the only place in town to take film to be developed.  If you took a film with any kind of lurid pictures there you could pretty much rest assured that most everybody in town would see them before you did because there were no privacy laws.  That’s what kept us honest.  People tout the internet as the fastest means of mass communication available.  Well those folks didn’t grow up in a small town.  There wasn’t much difference between the gossip net and the electronic version.  No one really understood how it worked or how things got started on it but the speed at which a juicy item would travel was immeasurable.  And by juicy item I’m not referring to anything as attention grabbing as a picture of genitals.   Things like so and so bought a new car, or farmer Brown’s cow had a calf with two tails were things of wonder in those days.  Pictures of your genitals, why that could get you labeled as a pervert at best or perhaps probation or jail time at worst.  But nobody worried about it because nobody did it.

     So when did privacy become such a big issue?  It seems it was about the time that the Congress started passing laws about it.  I guess you could look at it like a “chicken and egg” situation.  Did Congress attempt to regulate privacy because it became an issue, or did privacy become an issue because Congress attempted to regulate it?  I guess the life of a politician, the huge sums of campaign money that have to raised and distributed, the aphrodisiacal nature of the power of the office, long periods of time spent away from home can present a lot of temptations to sample forbidden fruit.  Politicians probably need a larger rug of privacy than the rest of us because they have more dirt to sweep under it.  So I think that privacy became an issue in Washington long before it was an issue anywhere else. 

     But the laws that were passed don’t really seem to deal with the problems from my point of view.  I’m glad that it is illegal to sell my credit and account information, but that law wasn’t passed for my benefit.  It was passed to protect the credit industry, the foundation of capitalism.  Without secure credit, the whole system would collapse.  The history of my purchases, banking records or browser history is not going to reveal a love child, show anything illegal or perverted (unless you consider blogging), or reveal anything about me that will sell a newspaper or light up a web page.  In fact it is going to be so boring that you won’t be able to get anyone to review it, so you will have to write a program to allow a computer to add me to the statistical flow so you will know what junk mail to send me or what pop-up to blast onto my computer screen or what spam to email.  Privacy laws aren’t stopping that.  

     It seems like almost every day I get a copy of some outfit’s privacy policy.  They are mandated by privacy legislation to send out a copy of their policy regarding the information they collect about me.  I try to read it but mostly it is so boring and vague that I really can’t get my head around it.  What I do understand is that they can give or sell most of my information to about anybody or anything as long as they have a “business relationship” with that entity.  Besides, I don’t believe them anyway.  These are creditors charging usury interest rates and willing to raise it at the drop of a hat.  I got a letter from my credit card enabler right before the new laws went into effect that actually said that they were raising my rate to the maximum for my own benefit.  I’ll bet you already know how much I appreciated that kind of consideration which is a good thing because I don’t think my heart could tolerate the blood pressure rise I would experience trying to explain it.  The point is I don’t like them.  I don’t trust them.  And I don’t need another copy of their stupid privacy policies.  Even if they are trustworthy they’re going to get hacked some day and lose control of all my data anyway.  Where’s the law that says I’m not responsible for the financial disaster that might accompany that?

     Privacy laws are like prohibition, they’re just not going to work or protect the common man.  Will Rogers said, “It’s a good thing we ain’t getting all the government that we’re paying for.”  In this case though, I’d say we’re getting plenty. But for every law there’s a loophole and a leaker or at least someone willing to take advantage.  The only way you will ever get any privacy is to be dead, and even then there will be people sifting through your online data looking for something to sell to you or some cause that might attract your donation.  And of course, I’ll still be blogging trying to attract your interest.  But if there really is Heaven after this life, you won’t have to read it.

The Day After

“Ok, you guys get out there and pick up all that fireworks mess from last night!  And don’t forget the parachutes in the neighbors’ yards.  Put some water on that burned spot and maybe the grass will grow back.  Take all the stuff that wasn’t damaged out of the storage shed and put a tarp over it.  Load the burned stuff in the pick-up and we’ll drop it off at the dump on the way to the lumber yard.  I’ll go look for the dog.  When I get back we’ll start putting a new roof on the shed.”

Aah, the rituals continue.  The post Fourth of July rituals are not unlike cleaning up the battlefield must have been after the chaos of battle had ebbed and the outcome had been decided.  One notable exception we can hope for these days is a lack of blood and no wounded crying for help or corpses needing burial although that thought did occur when my neighbor was actually lighting the ordinance.  The young ones were squealing with delight as the fuse finally surrendered to the glowing punk and began hissing and sparking on its way to its cataclysmic finale’.  Senses dulled by alcohol,  he barely had time to put his lighter in his pocket, whirl and stumble into a heap before the deafening explosion.   Fortunately, the burns were minor and the paramedic thought the pain in his left eye was from bumping it when he fell rather than from shrapnel from the blast, so no permanent damage was done.  A few more beers and he won’t even remember until tomorrow afternoon when he wakes up.  I love having neighbors over for the Fourth.

The Fourth is exhilarating as it should be.  A holiday born in defiance, then tempered by the conflict and carnage of war sanctified by victory and finally memorialized by the birth of the greatest nation ever founded on this earth.  Who could not be moved to self-sacrifice and patriotic rededication.  But the Fifth of July, the great let-down, or should I say wind down, is more peaceful, perhaps like the day of rest after one of the epic battles that actually won our independence.  A day to reflect on what has actually taken place, clean up the spent ordinance, (“Didn’t I tell you to pick up those parachutes?  Yes, officer, I do have a permit and I’ll pick that stuff up right now and apologize to Mrs. Johnson right away.  I don’t think there is any reason to write a citation.”),  and of course, replace the roof that burned off of the storage shed.   Stupid bottle rockets should be banned.  I wonder, with a recession in full swing and unemployment so high, why do people spend so much on something that is so temporary.  One could say a flash in the pan. (“That reminds me, how did the bottom of the dog’s water dish get so rounded that it won’t stand up any more?  A cherry bomb? Thirty feet in the air? We used to use tin cans.”)  Why did I spend so much?  As I drive the final screw into the new roofing on the storage shed, the ultimate Fifth of July question pops into my mind, “Will the dog ever come home?”

Stupid phone, “Hello, Animal Control?  Oh you found him? Thank God.  Yes, he has had rabies shots.  Ok, I’ll bring the certificate right down.  A hundred and ten dollars?  I’ll have to stop by the ATM.  I’ll be there to pick him up soon.”

The battle is over.  The ordinance is cleaned up.  The damage has been repaired.  The hostages ransomed and the wounded?  Well, it looks like they’re just now waking up.

Subliminal Truth

The truth is there are many bloggers and other internet users who don’t know what the truth is.  There’s some controversy about a quote that Walter Mondale attributed to Will Rogers during the presidential debates back in, uh, whatever year it was that Walter Mondale participated in the presidential debates that went, “It ain’t what you don’t know that bothers me, it’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”  Will had a certain kindness even toward those who didn’t always tell the truth, and that was what the controversy was about. The director of the Will Rogers Museum, here in Claremore, said he could not confirm that Will ever said that for the very reason that it sounded too mean spirited for something that Will would have said.  Regardless of whether Will said it or not, we all have ambivalent feelings about the truth.  We all want to hear the truth all the time, but we don’t always want to tell the truth. We have even developed a rating system for truth to justify some of our dishonest ways.  There are harmless fibs, little white lies, bald faced lies, my favorite since I wear a full beard, bold and/or brazen lies.  There is the partial truth, the naked truth, the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth, the cross my heart and hope to die truth and even the honest to God truth.  The problem is there is no way to distinguish one from the other.  Of course, if someone says "That's the truth, I cross my heart and hope to die," and then keels over dead, I suppose one could make some assumptions.  Or in the case of the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth, there is usually a judge and a couple of lawyers present to insure that it is what we say it is, which is a whole other blog in itself.  You might suspect a grammatical error in a sentence that contains is 4 times but since my style is conversational, I certainly don’t mind setting grammar aside, and I hope (don’t care if) you don’t either.

     I have been accused of exaggeration, which is another level of untruthfulness, less serious than the fib I should think and therefore relatively harmless but still not the truth in the purest sense.  I also believe that “what goes around comes around” and since like most people, I want to hear the truth, I also know that each time I speak or write an untruth, I stand a better chance of hearing one.  Not that I ever listen to myself or read what I’ve written, but because of the goes around comes around thing.  But, because the truth is mostly boring, hence the invention of fiction, and needs embellishment, especially to invoke humor, I have come up with a technique which I cleverly introduced at the end of the last paragraph and cleverly named Subliminal Truth.  As you might expect, since I came up with it, it is utterly simple (brilliant) and involves nothing more than placing the truth in parenthesis any time something is embellished or abased to imply humility as in this last case.  This allows me to play fast and loose with the truth, not for malicious deception but for humor, while maintaining my holier-than-thou integrity regarding the truth. See, you can have it both ways.  If you find this annoying, remember the word subliminal means “inadequate to produce a sensation or a perception” so I can only assume that there is something wrong with you for even noticing.   But that’s ok.  You can blame it on me.  I can take it.  I have one reader that complained that she only had time to read half of my blog. She wanted a synopsis at the top so she could get the jist of it instead of wasting (investing) the whole 5 minutes or less that it might take to read it.  I truly appreciate (ignore) those kinds of suggestions and will begin (forget) including the Cliff’s Notes version right after the title, starting with this very issue.

 So now that you know how this subliminal truth thing works, it’s best if you try to forget about it.  After all, it’s supposed to be subliminal.  If you’re conscious of it, it just won’t work.  To paraphrase what Will might or might not have said, “It’s not so much what I wrote that bothers me.  It’s what you thought I wrote that just ain’t there.”  Wink, Wink.