Memory
I've long maintained it's not the storage, it's the retrieval. Things we prioritize for one reason or another may not have the same level of importance for others. Sherlock Holmes told a startled Dr. Watson that he didn't care whether the sun revolved around the Earth or vice versa as it helped not one whit in his work. See, Holmes believed we only have so much space in our brains for storage: if you commit to memory the name of a new acquaintance, out goes the quadratic equation. I believe though that it's all there, but the librarian in charge of pulling those files gets older and the file room gets cluttered. Sometimes the memory comes floating up later, sometimes the file is lost altogether.

I asked my Dad at lunch the other day if he remembered us flying a kite together in my grandmother's yard. I let go of the string. For some reason, there was a man (I remember as a fireman) who was across the small residential street. He jumped and caught the string and saved my kite. My Dad didn't remember--no doubt it was of little significance to him. I wonder why it has remained so prominent in my mind. There are more I could and should write about some day--conversations from long ago which remain in the front file drawer of my mind for reasons only known to the gatekeeper there.

I also wonder what moments my daughter will carry with her.

Colors
Who says we don't have color changes here in the South? I took this Sunday morning on the lot next to the house. The sun was breaking through gloomy clouds and creating this diffuse light that seemed to ignite the Virginia Creeper, Parthenocissus quinquefolia.

Several years ago, I bought both lots on either side of the house, creating the acre kingdom that is inhabited by turtles, coons, snakes and the occasional bird of prey. We've left those lots wild, venturing in to clear downed trees and generally just look around. They offer protection from the wind and privacy not found in suburban neighborhoods. It was such a big decision at the time; now I look back and am so glad no one can build right next to us. It was a smart move--no matter how expensive the land seemed at the time, it's worth more now.

The Balloon
The booglet, her mother, me, Chester and Belly took "the walk" today. The sun freshly set and the wind coming in over the bay. Cloudy and still wet from a drenching rain that was apparently snow across the country for people at higher latitudes. Anyway, the booglet is carrying her balloon we got Sunday at supper. She's gnawing on it.

"Sweetheart, don't do that or it will pop."

We keep walking. A few seconds later--POP! Wait for it...wait for it...okay, now, cue the crying.

So I go back to her, pick her up, take the remains of the balloon in my hand. She says the funniest thing--kids are like that and you really have to refrain from laughing at these zingers they unload.

She sniffles, "I need a band-aid!"

Oh sweetheart. Your timing is beautiful--your delivery perfect. Daddy's so proud.

Later, on the porch after she's gone to bed, my wife slips out. She says, "Did you smell her face?"

"No, why?"

"She smelled like a balloon."

Oh man, we both cracked up. Sorry, darling, this is our entertaiment. You'll get to laugh at us in the nursing home one day...

Of Tryptophan, Gator fan, and Childrearin'
Hope everyone had a wonderful feast. I finally figured out why the establishment embraces Thanksgiving. First, feed the masses. Then, after they are rested and well-fed, send them to the mall. This was first observed in Squanto, who, after eating his share of wild turkey and maze, wondered aloud, "Where are the sales?"

Yeah, so for those of you outside the sunshine state, which by the way lived up to its name yesterday and today as we enjoyed the zoo. The otters, they are such silly billies. The lion said 'hello' to us. As he passed, the big male made a move toward the fence, actually bouncing off it and giving a deep growl that raised primordial fears in all around. My daughter looked at me and starting her lower lip curling up. I ran to her, offered a sippy cup and picked her up. She said to me, "Daddy, I need to go pee-pee." Sweet darlin', half the people already did...and they're not wearin' pull-ups.

But inside this crazy state, inventor of hanging chads and last resort of corporate and criminal defendants, there was a game this afternoon. Gators: 34; FSU: 7. So it's done. See ya next year

That's my weekend. It's not baby-sitting when the child is yours. There was another moment: I grabbed her after putting on our shoes and pulled her onto my tummy. We sat there, looking at each other.

"Whiskers?" She said running her soft little hand over my chin.

Yeah sweetheart, Daddy's been off work. And haven't we had fun...

The Dead Patch
It's cold outside. I'm grilling, watching Chester stalk the coon. I notice the dead patch of grass in the still green but fading lawn. It warms me to see it.

This last summer we got a little blow up pool for the booglet. She would slide down the little elephant slide and her mother and I would sit in the cool corners, splashing and watching. Some late verdant afternoons found us all piled into it, splashing the passing dog and each other, Mommy dipping her head under the water feed from the garden hose through the hippo's mouth.

Those warm afternoons when it was still light after work, I'd come home and find them both in there, laughing. Daddy would go upstairs, take off his scratchy starched shirt, and pull on the swimsuit. Down to the yard I'd return where everyone was splashing and playing in the pool, and sit in the water. The day's troubles would wash away. Afterward, we'd go inside for dinner or go for our bike ride with the pup.

The Surfer from Arkansas
My first summer of grad school was spent lifegaurding for the National Park Service along the Gulf Coast. I was on a beach that would later become famous for where a young boy from Mississippi got his arm bitten off by a shark and then his uncle pulled the shark from the water. I. Shit. You. Not. In case anyone ever doubted our national response to invasions by bull sharks,Carcharhinus leucas, several rounds were fired into him while he lay gasping on the beach. This was a bad shark.

I worked with a much younger guy who had come down from Arkansas in the hopes of finding a lifeguard job on the beach. Having done his share of YMCA pools at home, he wanted the seashore. He just blindly trusted that something would turn up. He wasn't the fastest or strongest swimmer, but his enthusiasm was contagious. He was a good kid, clean cut and respectful, honest and hardworking. I'm glad I got to meet him because he's dead now.

Kevon came to town trained as a lifeguard, but he aspired to be more, EMS, even hoped one day to become an ER nurse. The possibilities are endless when you're that young. He had drive, sincerity and that southern gift of easy conversation. During the afternoons, with a southern cool breeze stirring, we perched in the lifeguard stand watching the water. Kevon would recreate countless episodes of The Simpsons, almost verbatim, dream of the seafood nachos at the beach restaurant, and generally enjoy being on the beach. He had trained for SCUBA certification in a turbid lake in Arkansas; he really enjoyed the clear emerald waters. He had a utility belt, with flashlight, scissors, and radio. We called him the surfin' Arkansian.

As the summer wore on, punctuated by the ebb and flow of people on Memorial Day, Fourth of July, and the weekends, we talked about the water, the girls, and what everyone would do at the end of the summer. Mostly we enjoyed our stretch of beach: driving the four-wheeler in the early morning on turtle patrol; swimming out to our "artificial reef", several concrete blocks out in about twelve feet of water; and the daily swims. I've never had a better job.

Sometime around August, with the heat coming on oppressive and the wind becoming unsteady, I left for grad school. The other guys held on a few more weeks until the season ended, retreating to school or some job to get through the winter. Kevon enrolled in the local junior college, and eventually, after the second summer, got work as a paramedic.

A few years past. I got see the guys over the next few years while living at the park. Kevon did one more summer and then took a full time EMS job. Time passed, I was out of touch with the guys, being older and starting my job. It came like a body punch to hear he was in the hospital. When I saw him he couldn't eat anymore, but the tube feeding him was hidden and throughout my visits he was upbeat and still possessed of the charm that made him unforgettable. His funeral was the largest I've ever been to, with a cross section of ages and professions. The most common sentiment was how unfair it was for one who was happiest when looking out for others, was struck down so young.

I spoke with one of the doctors he worked with several months after his death. I asked about the cancer. I remember his response, "That was a bad cancer."

Seen a shooting star tonight
Slip Away.
Tomorrow will be another day.
Guess it's too late to say the things to you
That you needed to hear me say.
Seen a shooting star tonight
Slip away.
Bob Dylan

Words
One year of crying and the words creep up inside,
Creep into your mind yeah.
So much to say, so much to say, so much to say, so much to say…
Dave Matthews

A conversation with my daughter on the way to “school”* the other day:

“What doing Daddy?”

“Driving you to school,” I answer, looking in the rearview mirror at her.

Thirty seconds later.

“What doing Daddy?”

“I’m driving you to school.”

She points to my jacket hanging on the hook in the back seat.

“Daddy wear it inside?”

“Daddy did wear it inside to church last week didn’t he?” I answer, knowing she’s thinking about the last time she saw me in the jacket.

“Yes,” she answers with a confident nod of her head. “And then go to Sonny’s”

It’s her favorite. After church we usually go to eat somewhere. My daughter is surrounded by her cousins, big girls and boys all, as they eat and we visit.

Thirty seconds later.

“What doing Daddy?”

“I’m driving you to school. And after lunch Daddy will come get you and--”

“Then go home,” she finishes.

“That’s right.”

She’s such a homebody. Garrison Keillor was right when he said children are all little conservatives. They like the comfort of routine.

“Bob Diddle?” She wants me to play the CD with Bob Dylan doing Subterranean Homesick Blues. That CD is in my wife’s car. I sing a few bars, “Johnny’s in the basement mixing up the medicine. I’m on the pavement, thinkin’ ‘bout the government.”

She eats some Cheerios, munching thoughtfully. She is no doubt going through her mind the busy day ahead, what color Playdough to use, whether she’ll play with Noah or Beckett or Lucy at the playground, what songs they’ll sing at circle time. Time passes.

“What doing Daddy?”
____________________________
*The booglet goes to Montessori twice a week now. She gets to do her “work” and mingle with the other little germ factories. On Wednesday there’s pizza. It’s all good.

Money
Money doesn’t talk it swears.
Bob Dylan

One of my favorite exchanges in It’s A Wonderful Life is when George Bailey and Clarence the angel are warming up in the bridge-keeper’s shed and Clarence is trying to explain to the ever sardonic Bailey that he was sent to help him.

“You wouldn’t happen to have three thousand dollars on you, would ya?” asks Bailey.

“Oh no, there’s no need for money in heaven,” replies Clarence.

“Yeah, well it comes in pretty handy down here Bub,” retorts Bailey.

It does. Money is a necessary evil. It allows you to move in this world, either easily or in fits and starts of desperation. It is essentially a tool. But just like fire, which can either comfort you or burn your house down, it must be managed. My father has a saying (which I will attribute to him although I’m sure someone probably said it way before he did); either manage money or money will manage you.

This is not a post lamenting those who have money. Like Melville said, what are the greatest riches of a wicked man but a fast fish? There are people who make six figure salaries who don’t have the proverbial pot to piss in and there are people making far less who can do just about whatever they please. The difference is the latter group manages their money. Remember, if you make $500,000.00 a year but spend $600,000.00, you’ve got a problem.

Managing your money also allows you to employ it to do good works, donating to the poor, helping you fellow man or community. I give money to the public radio station here in town, my church, and political candidates—but fill in your own causes. How good is it to know you have the means to fund those efforts? If you don’t, who will?

So how do you manage money? I read a great book several years ago(recommended by my father) called The Richest Man in Babylon, by George S. Clason. I highly recommend it to anyone interested in taking charge of their financial well-being. It’s entertaining and funny while delivering sound financial advice that has been true since money was employed. Here are some points it made.

Pay Yourself First. I can hear you now, I don’t have enough money to pay my bills; I can’t be saving any of it. Yes you can; and it’s easier now than ever. Get direct deposit. Instruct your bank to take part of your paycheck and put it into a savings account. Start with five percent—start with ten dollars, but start with something. You can live off what remains. As a matter of fact, you’ll quickly become used to it and your savings will grow in spite of you. This advice also applies to a modern invention: the 401k. If you’re not at least contributing to your company’s match, you’re leaving money on the table*. There are tax breaks too to contributing to a retirement savings plan. No 401k? Open a Roth IRA. In any event, set aside regularly a portion of your pay for yourself. Do it first! If you wait until the end of the month and try to put into savings whatever is left, you will always spend it rather than save it. Direct deposit and defined contribution plans make you save.

Recognize the time value of money. Compound interest is a marvelous thing. The book, The Richest Man in Babylon, describes it as your golden soldiers working for you. But the soldiers need time. You can earn more money but you can never earn more time. Start early.

Diversify. Risk is a necessary part of investing. Diversification has been consistently shown to account for approximately 60% of a portfolio’s performance. Mutual funds can do part of this for you but they must be chosen well. In other words, a mutual fund that concentrated on technology stocks in March 2000 may have seemed diversified until the entire sector went south. Index funds are ideal diversification tools and they don’t have management costs. They simply buy enough stocks to mimic the broader index’s performance. The risk is spread around. Consider also bonds and foreign investments. A good, diversified portfolio keeps your golden soldiers marching and growing stronger.

Watch Your Credit. Pay off your credit cards. Don’t carry a balance in revolving accounts, you just get killed with the interest charges and wither the ranks from which your golden soldiers must be recruited. Do you know what credit card companies call people who pay their balances off every month? Deadbeats. That’s how perverse our consumer society has become, the responsible act of handling your credit and retiring your debt is degraded because the credit card company isn’t making any money off you. In fact, if you pay your balance off every month, you’re stickin’ it to the man! You get an interest-free thirty day float of money. Every dollar you pay in interest is a dollar you could be putting to use for you, adding to you golden army. This applies to installment loans too. If you can, pay a little extra on your mortgage, your school loans, or your car loan. This extra attack on the principal reduces the interest you pay (lost soldiers) and hastens the retirement of the loan.

As our society completes its shift from defined benefit plans to defined contribution plans, saving becomes even more crucial. It used to be you worked for a company for forty years and retired with a pension. It was the company’s responsibility to take a portion of your wages and invest it to create the wealth which would later be used to pay your pension. SOme companies have failed in that responsibility and turned to the business friendly Congress to bail them out, ensuring higher deficits to cover a private sector responsibility.** In short, we the taxpayers are going to be funding the private retirement plans of Delta, American Airlines, and other companies that squandered sums of capital which should have been set aside to pay the employees of those companies.

Now, with defined contribution plans (like SEP and 401k plans) you become responsible for those investments and your own retirement funding. Our President even wanted to extend that to Social Security but the collective country told him to stay away from the last real defined benefit plan for the majority of Americans. Such is the desire of those who advocate an “ownership society.” Incidentally, one of the last remaining (and most generous) pensions plans? Congress’. Go figure.

Wealth is not a zero sum game. Just because I accumulate wealth doesn't mean my neighbor suffers. Especially in a global marketplace, our saving habits can bring prosperity to others. The money invested by frugal savers represents capital for aspiring entrepenuers to develop businesses, products and other inventions which in turn improve our lives and our society. It also ensures that the government is funded through its citizens and not the governments of other countries. Right now, many economists are lamenting this country's deficit and the financing--namely through purchases of Treasuries by countries like China and Japan. This indebtedness leaves us politically vulnerable to the agendas of other countries. This administration, for all its bluster about security, is ignoring the finacial security of the country by spending irresponsibly. And again, having wealth also creates the wherewithal to affect your community through donations.

Throughout the blogosphere there is great wailing and gnashing of teeth over money issues. I believe we as a country are uneducated regarding how to manage our financial affairs. Oddly, at the same time, we are bombarded by media messages emploring us to spend every available (and sometimes unavailable) dime on merchandise to keep up with the Jones' or imitate famous lifestyles. Yet, as we continue to go further into hock to foreign interests, is anyone still claiming that possession of worldy goods brings happiness? I for one take greater pleasure in assuring my child's college education is paid for before she even takes an SAT.I'm not a rich man, but I won't have to worry about whether a check from Uncle Sam will make my retirement possible or not. That Social Security will be cut back in one form or another is a given for just about everyone who reads this--it's a mathematical problem that no amount of political doubletalk can cover. Make sure you have your own plans.
___________________
*A sizable minority of eligible workers - 30 percent - do not participate in company plans, 401(k) specialists note. NY Times, November 15, 2005.

**The Senate passed a bill yesterday aimed at strengthening the nation's troubled system of company pension plans. NY Times, November 17, 2005

The Holdie-Outie
This is my word for the ubiquitous picture--one or two people staring into a camera with the hint of an arm directing the lens back at them. I believe the shot is a fairly modern manifestation--an indication of our growing narcissism. Look through you family photo album; do you see your parents taking "holdie-outies"?

Has the evolution of cameras contributed to this phenomenon? Has the focal length modernization allowed this shot when before people's arms weren't long enough? Or are we just so alone now that we can't find someone to take a shot for us.

The Tale of Chester and the Coon
There's bad blood between my dawg Chester and the Coon that is on the dole around our house, eating the corn and birdseed my big-hearted wife puts out for him. Unlike Eddie the Raccoon, this guy is for real. Anyone who has ever been close to a raccoon knows they can be very ferocious if agitated. And quick.

There was a time period in the early spring when the coon first set up his routine. He'd wait for the house to quiet down and bust his move to the birdfeeder. Chester would wander out onto the porch and realize THERE'S A COON IN THE YARD! I'd stumble out and get the dog away from the birdfeeder where the coon was delicately balancing. It worked well; Chester got to "tree" the coon on top of the feeder, the coon got some birdseed, and everything was good...until.

All went as rehearsed many times before. Dog corners coon on the birdfeeder. Mexican standoff--the coon's not going to move and Chester's not going to abandon his prize until I pull him away. Everyone saves face, like a diplomatic haiku. But this must have been a scab coon, not familiar with the drill. As I leaned in to pull Chester back by the scruff, the coon apparently decided he would make a run for it. And in the words of Curious George "Oh what happened!"

As soon as the coon hit the ground, Chester was on him. Too soon. Given no retreat, the coon latched on to Chester's nose. This created a sound I've never heard from him, either before or since. It was a high-pitched squealing alarm, which, being reinforced by the sight of him spinning around in a circle (with the coon flailing all arms and legs holding on for dear life to his nose) made me back up two steps. This encounter technically was between three animals but I quickly employed the only advantage I had in the scrap (a bigger brain) and moved back. Eventually Chester threw the toothy coon off his nose and chased him up the nearest tree. By then I was laughing--the sight of the coon spinning around on my dog's nose was too....damn...funny. It was like a coon-dog tilt-a-whirl.

Chester returned to me looking like "Daddy, did you see what that coon just did?" I stifled my laughter, looked at the tiny blood spot on his nose, and told him to come inside.

Oh--it's been on every since then...

Now Where Was I?
Quick break in the action to get down and meet the new Ms. JLA, Dude, we're puttin' the band back together! A good time had by all, probably even including Scooter. My fingers are still sore.

The ride back home drifted inward with only the cadence of the highway and my own thoughts to keep me company. I see everyone (including myself) setting up families and having less and less time for these kinds of occasions. It's natural and part of life--but I still miss the times--probably because they are a reflection of a simpler era.

All that said though, there's no going back. And none of us would even if given the chance. So, like John Hiatt said:

Grab your Aqualung,
The loading has begun...

Good to see you, my old friend. And always interesting to see the reflections too.

Pain
Oh my dear little one, I know it hurts. I can’t stand it any better than you but I can’t lie to you either, even at this age. Sometimes you are going to hurt. Tomorrow it will feel better.

I wish it were different. I wish there was no pain: for you, me and the rest of the world. This is hard for your little head to get around, I know. All I can promise is I will hold you and read you a story. Mommy’s the comforter: Daddy’s the clown. But let me and I can comfort you, just like I have for your Mommy…

The trade-off is to my advantage, my sweet little one. I get to rock you and rub your back while you are this little forming person. You will have to see me deteriorate and fade from the strong superman Daddy you know now into an old man, weary and feeble. When that time comes, just remember who held you up by your feet for “tick-tock the clock” and spun you around effortlessly. Remember me that way when my time is gone, for I will always remember you this way, small and soft in my arms with your head buried into my shoulder.

I’m thinking all this while you lay in the bed next to me, snuggling with your favorite blankie while Daddy rubs your back. You look at me and say, “My ear hurts.”

“I know it does,” is all I can say. “It will feel better tomorrow.” It breaks my heart to see you hurt.

One day you will know. You will endure more pain in your life. You might even go through the pain of childbirth, which I can’t speak to but only note that your Mommy about crawled up my arm while she was having contractions from you trying to get out from your cozy nine-month nest into this world that inflicts pain at every turn. If that happens, then you will know pain like you’ve never thought possible, the pain of your heart walking around outside of you in the form of a perfect little one.

Let’s take some medicine, read a story, and let Daddy just hold you for a little while as your crying subsides into the baby hiccups and then finally into smooth breathing as the medicine takes effect. Now we say our prayers and go to sleep. A kiss on the forehead, tucking in, and you are on your way through the passage of night into tomorrow.

I sneak back in twenty minutes later to find you sleeping well and breathing easy. I cover you again with your blankets kicked off and walk quietly out of your room.

My Grandfather
My father's father. Another man I know little about; more so these days after the death of my grandmother. This is where the family tree was grafted--my grandmother was the direct descendant of the Creek Indian lineage, and the Indian flavorer of my genes. My grandfather comes from this English-Irish coalition of antebellum landowners.

My grandfather died young; my father was 18. It's always I think confounded my father, sailing in waters uncharted by several generations--the relationship of a father to a son. My feelings were ambivalent towards my grandfather: until I came across the pictures after my grandmother's death.


The South Seas, China in the 1930's, Panama, Alaska, my grandfather saw them all. He enlisted in the Navy in about 1929, there's a picture of him, scrawny and posed, with his parents in hard scrabble surroundings at the beginning of the great Depression. After that, there are a number of pictures in more exotic surroundings. He apparently had a proclivity for photography, which is saying something for back then. The sheer number of pictures stands as testament to his dedication. Most are also carefully dated.

Just before World War II, my grandfather qualified for a unique program, to become a Mustang. He was admitted into the naval flight program as an enlisted man. This resulted in an officer's commission. Oddly, it was a perceived step backwards. Understand, he went from a Master Chief--the unwritten bosses of the Navy, to an Ensign. But he got his wings.

He flew DC-3s, PBY's and the Ford Tri-motor. He might have flown other planes that I don't even know about. He fought in World War II, flying anti-sub patrols out of the Aleutian Islands. After the war, he was stationed in Hawaii, where my young father picked up spent shell cases remaining from the Pearl Harbor Attack. He was in Cuba (during the rule of Fulgencio Batista--pre-Castro) and posed for a picture at the bar of Sloppy Joe's.

He retired as a Commander, not bad for the skinny kid who had nothing but his own wits and skill to guide him.

My gliding instructor said I had a real feel for flying. I'd like to think it was inherited.

bado's 9th Economic Daydream
Anger smiles red,
While the greenbacks come down,
Jealousy walks unhindered though stained glass shatters,
And the snickers come from tight-lipped mouths,
King Baritone leers and climbs high mountains of gold,
Just to stumble into the chasm of brilliance.
Weeping willows by pristine river streams,
Watch unchecked while ravenous beasts stalk fair maidens,
Hiding far below the hidden levels of consciousness,
"No!" Screams the timid ambassador while armed dogs run rampant,
Stealing pastries from the minds of proletariats,
Waging war in the private sector battleground...

Of Hugs, Bugs, and A Day at the Farm
Last night I had a dream. In the dream, I met an old friend and she gave me a warm hug. She commented I looked to have gained weight and that it suited me. I forgot all about it until I was having morning coffee and watching the clouds play hide and seek with the sleepy rising sun. Then, the memory rushed over me like a warm wave. I don't know the friend's name, and can't remember whether it was ever revealed in the dream. I don't think it was. The memory left me with a profound sense of peace. Perhaps it was a lingering soul from All Soul's Day.

As I was pondering these things, a jellow jacket, Vespula maculifrous fell from the wisps of midnight jasmine, Jassamine officinale growing up the rainspout on the corner of the house. My first inclination was to step on it. But instead, I backed away and admired his beautiful jellow and black markings. It somehow felt wrong to kill something so miraculous, even if it can sting. If we were only judged by our capacity to inflict pain, there would be trouble...
Today, Mommy and the Booglet are going to an old farm. I'm going to meet them for lunch and find out about all the little piggies and moo cows she saw.

Focus
"How you gonna make your way in the world,
when you weren't cut out for workin?
And you just can't concentrate?"
Warren Zevon

I'm on the phone. It's an important call--they all are, for one reason or another. I'm talking and taking notes when I notice, in the harbor behind me, movement on the water. It's out of the corner of my eye, ripples on the otherwise smooth water, gun metal blue this time in the afternoon.

The talking continues but I'm looking now and seeing a dragonfly struggle in the water, sending out ever-widening circles of distress from its fluttering, complex, and apparently non-working wings. It's movement is better than any lure I've ever used: sputtering like a child's windup toy. It is the perfect advertisement for a hungry fish. I don't know who to root for, the dragonfly to free himself from the watery clutches, or a fish to get an insect meal. I decide to stay neutral and just watch. I'll be Switzerland in this life and death struggle.

There are hundreds of people in this building overlooking the harbor. I wonder if anyone else is watching right now, or even if they would give it a second thought. I can't abandon this drama now that I've noticed it.

The conversation continues. People and their problems. I'm taking notes again and asking questions. The fluttering is continuing and the dragonfly is actually moving in the water, either from current, wind, or its own efforts. The ripples continue intermittent, like Morse Code on the water. Is the dragonfly trying to save his strength or is he getting nervous about making so much commotion? I expect any moment to see a swirl, splash, and disappearance of the insect, like what I imagine while pulling in a lure out on the flats; I'm expecting (hoping) for the tug at the other end, the acknowledgement of another life force.

Something gets said that captures my attention. I turn automatically to the notepad, scribble it down and ask a follow-up question to flesh it out. Details, details, details, that's what's important. Everyone gets the big picture, but who sees the reflection in the glass?

I hang up the phone. I look out over the harbor. No ripples, no dragonfly.

I go back to work.

Belly
And Belly makes four.

Rounding out the family is this one, the yard panther, “killer of the night.” Belly was discovered (literally) in the woodpile one winter’s evening back at least six or maybe even seven years ago. He was abandoned by the flophouse pussycats that populated the no man’s land between our old cottage acre and the Mayor’s home. The Mayor is a kindly old man in our neighborhood with a terrible fear of snakes which led to an over indulgence in cats. Anyway, there was this pitiful little furball knock knock knockin’ on Heaven’s door right outside our little cottage. Of course he hit the jackpot; our house is now recognized as the sanctuary for ill-fated animals.

He was nurtured with an eye dropper, swelling up to just a rock hard belly with legs--that’s how he got the name. One afternoon, I had to rescue his little butt from itself; he was pitiful in his own poo, flailing around helpless and moaning. I’ve now officially cleaned everyone’s butt in this house. Belly wasn’t the last but he may have been the worst.

But Belly grew up fairly normal considering the obvious inbreed circumstances he came from. He’s been guessed to be a Maine Coon Cat because he’s large and handsome—but I know he’s all country bumpkin. Still, he’s proved very tolerant of the little one and thinks he’s just another dog like Chester. All in all, he’s really been about all you could want from a cat, except when he wants to sleep right on my chest when I’m watchin’ a football game.

Yes, Belly has a voice too, high pitched and neurotic with severe insecurity issues.