The Coo-Coo Clock Companion

Today I sat in the house and listened.

Silence has a sound and it's louder than
the train whistle
and the barking dog
and the buzzing in my head.

I took some time and gave it my attention.
There's some thing in silence.
A thing of power and depth.
A thing inside me and out.

I want more of it.

Listen to it. It's a big sound. You can't miss it.

I wonder what it would sound like if for one minute
all sound on the planet was ceased. If everyone could
just stop what they're doing and stand still and be quiet.
All cars, all machines, all telephones and televisions and radios,
everything.

It'd probably kill us.

___________________________________________________

The Man returned to the place where all roads lead.

The day before he left I made him stop talking and listen to the quiet.
I told him that that was what I had to look forward to in the weeks ahead.

He heard it, too.

Now the coo-coo clock is my companion.
It ticks away the seconds
and pops out to say hello
on the hour
and the half hour...
actually it says "coo-coo,"
but I pretend it is saying hello.

Other than that I'm raking the leaves,
the mountains of leaves,
the endless prairie of leaves,
the oceans of leaves,
all consuming,
never ending,
eternal,
leaves.

If we used leaves instead of dollars for currency
I could personally bail us out of the national financial crisis
and, in addition, give every citizen a five thousand leaf
tax incentive stimulus check to be used however they want.

I have helpers.
Henry VIII. He's a squirrel and likes peanuts.
Jester The Bluejay likes to come in and snatch away the peanuts
which really gets H the 8th's goat.

If they could talk I'd bring them in the house.
The four of us could just sit there and have a cup of tea
or maybe play cards.
Me and Henry VIII and Jester and Coo-Coo.

Major Mall Man

There's this weird guy out at the local shopping mall. I call him Major Mall Man. He's at least 65 years old, fat, with thick spectacles, and is at the mall every single day dressed in some type of military combat uniform, of which he has several. He's got an Army Desert Camouflage uniform complete with beige Army boots, some kind of loden green outfit that he wears with a beret, and there's a dress uniform with little medals on it. I'm never sure which military force he's representing because I don't know my uniforms, but he's ALWAYS in complete, crisp uniform...everything but the guns.

He patrols the mall, in and out of the shops. It's obvious that he's on duty, you can see it in his face that he's keeping the mall safe from...whatever, probably terrorists or maybe Imperial Storm Troopers. Who knows. Sometimes he stops and talks to some of the shop workers, but usually he just walks the store perimeter with his hands clasped behind his back, like he's reviewing his troops. I've often seen him nod and utter a perfunctory "hello" to shoppers.

I hate it when he talks to me. First of all, the guy is NUTS and I'm not a trained psychiatrist. Secondly, I don't know him, I don't want to know him, and I don't want him to be aware that I even exist. Thirdly, he speaks condescendingly, like you're some peon, enlisted man, like he expects you to salute him. It's creepy.

Call me paranoid, but I am convinced that one day he's gonna show up with an AK-47 and blow us all away. Perhaps I've read too many mall horror stories, but this guy is odd and his oddity is neon pink with blinking lights all over it. He scares me.

So, here's the deal. I'm leaving the mall the other day and decide to stop in at the security office. I'm going to ask them about the faux military man and see what they can tell me about him. I want to tell them my concerns about some guy pretending to be a combat soldier. Just as I'm about to go in the office, a security man comes out. He's tall and thin with a neatly clipped mustache and he's wearing a blue, polyester, forest ranger-type uniform with a big, shiny gold badge on it, topped off with a stiff "Campaign Hat," just like Smokey The Bear! I'm not kidding!

I just stood there and gaped at him, my mind racing. Then, I mumbled "oh, hi" and walked away. I mean what was I going to say, "Hey, there's some weird guy dressed up in a funny uniform out there?" To which he would have replied, "Yeah, so?" I mean, they're probably brothers, or something!

I drove home picturing the two of them after hours, playing war games in Victoria's Secret.

The Debatable Humor of Vegetables

Will Rogers said, “An onion can make people cry but there’s never been a vegetable
that can make people laugh.”

Sorry, Will. I beg to differ.

I want to pass on something I learned the hard way. It’s a little gross so if you’re
easily disgusted don’t read the following small print. But, I think this is important.
I’m in the mood to share with you.

Eating beets makes your poop turn red and it looks like blood.

That’s it. Except for the fact that I love beets and have never had this problem before,
but last Saturday I bought two bunches of them at a local farmer’s market, brought
them home and served them for dinner. They were goooood and I ate a lot of them.

24 hours later I noticed a strange phenomenon and I don’t think it’s necessary to
elaborate. Let’s just say, “I saw red.”

The eating of the beets occurred to me and I assured myself all would be well.
However, the next morning things were actually worse...looking, if you know what
I mean, so I got panicky, my heart was racing, and my stomach was jittery. I went
out to bid farewell to The Man and to begin selling my organs on Ebay because I
was, by the evidence I’d seen, A GONER!

The Man, engrossed in his work, looked up at me with that “Who is this woman and
why is she in my house” look that he seems to be doing a lot of lately. But, I waited
until his eyes focused and I could tell he was back on the planet Earth with me. Then
I told him about my pending death. He looked at me quizzically then said, “Google it.”

Now, this is the good part of the story. I typed in beets poop red and got all this information
from people who knew all about this phenomenon and thought it was har har amusing.
Well, it’s only amusing if you know about it.

And, while on this subject I might as well mention asparagus – another “joker” on
the dinner table. For years I thought I had some recurring disease. I kept waiting
for the axe to fall, but then put two and two together and googled the asparagus-fume
phenomenon.

Luckily, my absolute favorite food is joke-free, so far anyway.

Rapini, also called broccoletti, broccoli di rape, broccoli raab, plus various other things.
I don’t know why it has so many names, but I love it. It’s the only food I can think
of that actually makes me moan when I eat it. It’s like that “I’ll have what she’s having”
scene from When Harry Met Sally. I told The Man that when I eat rapini it’s as if some
latent, neanderthalic gene is awakened, something from my ancient ancestors comes
alive and makes me want to pound a drum and dance naked around a bonfire in ecstasy.
I would rather have a plate full of rapini than anything else in the world. More than
chocolate cake, even. If I were a cat, rapini would be my ‘nip. I want to roll in it.

I am a woman of simple pleasures.

My GOBAMA is Gone

I'm really miffed this morning because some loser (and I mean loser!) stole the
Obama sign that I had in the front yard. I'm not sure when it was stolen, sometime
within the last two days because it was definitely there on election day. I can't
remember seeing it yesterday, but I remember thinking about how I'd better
take the sign down now that everything is over, etc. except now IT'S TOO LATE
BECAUSE SOME STINKING THIEF STOLE IT AND I'M REALLY MAD!"

It was an original sign, too, in that I'd taken some white paint and added a "G"
before the "OBAMA," underlined the "GO" and put an explanation point at the
end so that it read "GOBAMA!" I had done such a nice job on the lettering. It
looked professional, I mean it.

I was proud of that sign. Proud to have the opportunity FOR THE FIRST TIME
IN MY LIFE to put up a sign in support of hopes and dreams and intelligence and
fortitude and calm assurance and love and family and dignity and pride and promise
for the future and all that other things that the man Obama exemplifies for me.

What's weird is that the stinking thief also stole the other sign I'd placed out there
for a local politician named Murray. I'd seen him speak at a "candidates night" at
the library and in spite of the fact that he's an attorney (aren't they all?), a profession
for which I don't have much liking, he was so amazingly brilliant, articulate and
focused I wanted to show my support for him as well; hence, the sign.

So, that was it: two signs. Two signs that represented my enthusiasm and desire
for smart people to be elected, which they were, thank goodness.

But, now I want my signs. I want to stick them in the closet and find them in about
twenty years and look at them and think, "Well, lookie here. I remember putting
these up in the yard back there in ol' Lime Plant City. Those were some bad times
we went through. But, thanks to these here smart guys and many others like 'em,
we were all saved and now the world is a better place for everyone. We're all safe
and live in peace. We all have food to eat and clean water to drink. We're tolerant
instead of extremist. We're compassionate instead of hate filled. We're calm instead
of anxiety ridden. We are proud of our largesse rather than the size of our military.
We are ever growing, ever changing, adaptable to changes that create greater
sustainability for all people, and petty isolationist views have been replaced with a
sense of the wholeness of the earth and its inhabitants.

That's what I want to think when I see those signs in my closet in twenty years...but,
of course, I won't see those signs because some stinking thief stole them.

HAPPY FEAT!!

YES, WE CAN!!

YES, WE DID!!

Beside, B-side

I'm beside myself
I keep bumping into me.

It's so annoying.
But that's beside the point.

The problem is that I've already voted
so I'm totally bored with that subject.

It's like listening to the B-side of
Elvis' hit 45 record "Return to Sender"
which was "Where Do You Come From," in case you didn't know.
A pretty song but not the "hit," if you know what I mean.

So, this is why I'm beside myself
and keep bumping into me.

I need to set a new course,
move in a new direction
in a straight line
no bumping.

Besides that -
I have leaves to rake.

My Halloween Resolutions

1. I will not eat more than one piece of candy per day...unless it is a special
occasion...like today, for example...but, even then I will not eat as much as
the four year old Spiderman next door.

2. I will cease all witchiness. I will not screech at, cackle in the face of, or
cast evil spells on The Man with the exception of magic potions which
I will continue to concoct.

3. I will be nice to ghoulies and ghosties and long leggety beasties and
other things that go bump in my local Walmart

4. I will not sit around on my big fat pumpkin. I will exercise like a banshee.

5. I will clean out the other half of our creepy, haunted cellar within the next 30
days. I will remove the giant-sized cobwebs, even the one that says "Save Wilbur,"
and all those other mysterious things lurking there, like the dried-up, petrified
osage oranges that The Man put around down there more than five years ago to
deter spiders...yeah, right! I will use my broom for something other than flying
EVEN THOUGH THIS PART OF THE BASEMENT IS FULL OF THE MAN'S STUFF
THAT HE HAS NEVER ORGANIZED AND NOW IT'S ALL A MESS AND THERE'S
OLD RUSTY, GREASY TOOLS AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT ALL.

6. I will devote more time each day to reading and studying in an attempt to learn
new tricks, like la lingua italiana, for one. E un incubo! Che fatiga!

7. I will work on being more open-minded, leaving all paths open for thought...
even those crossed by black cats.

8. I will keep my spirits up, glowing like a full moon in the face of perceived
horrors that come my way.

9. I will take time each day to sit in quiet solitude unfazed by the wailing and
moaning and thumping of The Man because he wants his lunch.

10. I will memorize something every other month, starting with the following
quote from Shakespeare's Macbeth which I will recite the next time I make
dinner for guests:

Round about the caldron go;
In the poison'd entrails throw.—
Toad, that under cold stone,
Days and nights has thirty-one;
Swelter'd venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i' the charmed pot!

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,—
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

Scale of dragon; tooth of wolf;
Witches' mummy; maw and gulf
Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark;
Root of hemlock digg'd i the dark;
Liver of blaspheming Jew;
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse;
Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips;
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver'd by a drab,—
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
For the ingrediants of our caldron.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.

Okay, everybody! Let's eat!!

Food Fighter

Last night we went to see the Guru of Food, the
Grand Poobah of Poly Farming, the Oligarch of
Omnivores, the Champion of Chow, the Bruce
Springsteen of Sustainable Food Production.

I'm talking about Michael Pollen. Author of
The Botany of Desire, In Defense of Food:
An Eater’s Manifesto, The Omnivore's Dilemma:
A Natural History of Four Meals, named one of
the ten best books of 2006 by the New York
Times and the Washington Post. Most recently
the New York Times Magazine published his 8000
word letter to Mr. Next President entitled: Farmer
In Chief. It's long, but well worth the read.

This guy is no slacker.

He didn't speak here in Lime Plant City. No way! Are you kidding?! If he ever
came to LPC he'd choke and gag and pass out from all the lime dust and mono-
farming around here. No, we had to drive to see him. We drove many miles and
4 light years away to the town of Oberlin, home of Oberlin College; a bastion
of bicycle riding, progressively thinking, culturally diverse people coexisting
in a community of music, art, and funkally-dressed, dread-locked, really, really
smart kids who are our future and who, as you look at them, make you proud,
not because they like to eat locally grown food from sustainable farms and hang
out in coffee bars, but because they are so doggone earnest and energetic and,
well, smart.

So, off we went. Us! The Man and I! In the dark! At night! Wow!

I had been planning on this event since last June, so there was nothing that
was going to stop me...except for the probability of forgetting all about it,
which almost happened, but thanks to The Man didn't. We drove in the dark
through sleet and hail. I asked the blizzard expert riding next to me if we should
turn back, but he said no it wasn't snow it was only albino rain.

We got there and were immediately amazed by and then excited by all the people
on the streets, the people streaming into Finney Chapel, the evening's venue. It
was really crowded. We quickly parked and made our way inside. It was packed
and getting packedier every minute. People, young and old, were happily talking to
each other, everyone seemed excited to be there, the room buzzed with anticipation.

Promptly at 8:00 Mr. Pollen walked onto the stage and the auditorium erupted
in loud applause and cheers. The people were actually woohooing him. He was
treated to a rockstar's welcome by this room full of informed, excited, and alert
groupies. They listened. They reacted. They were with him every minute for the
next hour or so - and still with him for the question and answer period afterward.

Michael Pollen, aside from being a dynamic writer, is a very good lecturer. First
of all, he's extremely brilliant. Secondly, he has a commanding stage presence,
relaxed and confident and, thirdly, his material was well prepared and delivered
with a passion.

Dear Mr. Pollen:

I don't want to marry you. I just want to be your neighbor. I want to stand
and look over the fence and stare at you. I want to follow you around your
garden. I'd even carry your stuff. I'd be your minion.

You could come over and yell at me because I'm mowing my lawn when I
should be planting broccoli there instead.

And, you could come inside my house and be horrified by the bag of corn
chips on the counter and you could yell things at me like "do you know
how much petroleum is used to produce just one chip?!" And, I could say,
"Oh sure, lots. Want one?"

Nah, just kidding about that. Actually, I'd do everything you said. I'd be
a good and faithful follower...just like Lassie.

So, please forward your address and I'll see you soon. Oh, and can I bring
The Man, too? He doesn't know diddly about gardening or farming, but he
can act like he does. I think he even played a "farmer" once on t.v. But,
what he doesn't know he makes up for by just standing there looking good
and he is sort of an expert on frogs.

I look forward to hearing from you and, until then,
I remain

Your faithful servant,
Meridith Sender

P.S. Is bacon a bad thing?

Joe The Voter

This morning we voted.

I have a theory as to why people are voting early in record numbers.
They all have a sense that after they cast their ballot IT WILL ALL
BE OVER! It will FINALLY BE OVER!!! They won't have to endure
any more television advertisements and dinner-time tape-recorded
phone calls and they won't have to pull glossy candidate mailers out
of their mailboxes every single day.

Of course it's just a theory, but it illustrates how I felt this morning
after we went to the Bureau of Elections and did our civic duty.

When we arrived there was a good sized crowd of "early" voters
and it was a little scary and definitely depressing because, honestly,
a good percentage of them looked unqualified for the task. Twenty-five
per cent were, clinically, the walking dead. The majority of the rest
looked dazed and/or totally confused...which is pretty normal looking
for around here, actually.

We had to wait a little while before receiving our ballots and I ended
up next to a very elderly man who kept asking "How'd I get this pen
in my hand?" about fifty times and his adult grandson kept telling him,
"You filled out that form, remember?" I just sat there, but I wanted
to shout "Are you kidding? This guy doesn't even know what century
we're in! He's living on the planet LaLa! Hello!"

Seriously, he didn't even know where he was so how on earth was he
going to figure out what the heck the ballot was all about, let alone color
in the correct circles. Potentially, it was a case of voter fraud, if you
ask me, because someone was obviously going to have to fill in the
little circles for him.

They have a litmus test for political candidates. I think it's only fair
that the voters should be required to pass one as well.

The Emperor's New Clothes

Queen Elizabeth the First took a bath once a year...
whether she needed it or not!

It's the same sort of thing with The Man. Once a decade he goes clothes shopping...
whether he needs it or not!

If you could only see what I see. Oh, the horrors! Somewhere in there
he still has the beige western jeans that he wore on the day we got married
almost thirty years ago! And, don't even talk to me about "Ol' Greenie" the Shirt!

Yes, he names his clothes.

Anyway, today seemed like a good day to attack the shopping beast.
But, just to make sure everything went as smoothly as possible, I first suggested
we go get a bite to eat at Bob Evan's. We like to go there and sit at the counter
and watch all the dishes of food go by. We just sit there ooooing and ahhhing
and pointing at things and saying stuff like, "Oooo, what's that? I don't know,
but look at that! Chicken Pot Pie! Yeah, but look at those mashed potatoes
and gravy! Oh look, cherry blintzes! Mmmmm." We don't actually drool but
we do hyper-salivate. It's kind of disgusting. You'd think the waitresses would
mind but they don't, and they're more than willing to correct us when we guess
an item incorrectly. I have to say that Bob really knows how to put on a show
for the hungry and depressed plebeians of America.

After fueling up, The Man and I went shopping. No, let me rephrase that because
it's slightly misleading. I took The Man shopping to buy things for The Man. I didn't
get to shop at all. I had to stay completely focused throughout the entire ordeal
because The Man absolutely detests shopping of any kind. On an Enjoyment Scale,
he would put shopping somewhere between having a wisdom tooth extraction and
a prostate exam.

So, here's how it went down:

I drove him to the mall; walked him into the correct department store - I picked
J.C.Penney because I knew he would have latent memories of the Penney's smell
and he'd feel safe; I picked up and carried the items for him to try on (although
he did actually poke his finger on one shirt and said he would like that - but he
never actually held it in his hands - he just poked it); I made him locate the dressing
room all by himself; I fetched, folded and returned, fetched, folded and returned,
fetched, folded and returned pair after pair of blue jeans, narrowing it down slowly,
while The Man waited in the dressing room...he just sat in there and waited...he sat
there in his underwear waiting for me to return with the next pair of jeans for
Himself to try on, after which he would hurl the rejects out the door of the dressing
room for me to catch, fold and return to the racks.

Yeah, I know. It wasn't really shopping, it was more like a fitting for His Mightiness
The King. I, on the other hand, had turned into some harried, miserable scullery
maid scurrying around uttering things like, "Yes, m'Lord." "Oh, righty-o, Yer
Worshipfo'ness" and "Watch out fer them bloomin' straight pins, Yer Bleedin' 'ighness!

Do you have any idea how much I would PAY to have someone do this for ME?!
I mean, when I think of all the hours I have spent shopping ALONE, dragging
armload after armload of clothes into dressing rooms, stripping, trying on,
re-dressing and returning over and over ad nauseam until I'm faint and sweaty,
my hands are black with coat hanger dirt and my hair's sticking straight out from
the polyester electrical shock!

When I leave the store I look like I've been struck by lightening!

But, not The Man. No sirree! As I paid the cashier (Yes, I had to do that part, too),
I looked at him and he looked pretty good. He wasn't perky, but he looked fairly fresh.
He was even standing up straight. Usually, even before we walk through a department
store doorway, The Man assumes the "back slash" position, he starts leaning back
attempting to remain as far away as possible for as long as possible from the actual act
of shopping. I'm not joking. His feet usually end up a good 12 inches ahead of his face.
And, these little retractable nails extend out from the heels of his shoes and dig into
the floor making groove marks in the linoleum. It's embarrassing.

All in all it was a successful day.

I think The Man was very pleased. I would ask him but I don't want to interrupt.
He's upstairs introducing his new articles of clothing to Ol' Greenie. After that, he'll
hide away his old, worn-out, filthy, stained, ripped and moldy jeans, assuring them
that "I'll never let her find you. I'll never let her take you away from me. Don't you
worry Jeanies. You just rest right here, in the bottom drawer, way back in the dark.