THE KEY TO HAPPINESS

Like most kids, my nine year old nephew Joel has more questions than I have answers. The other day he wanted to know why crows get chased by small birds. I always try to give the boy the straight scoop.

Unfortunately, he asked Spike about the birds.

Spike is my brain tumor. I named him because I got tired of referring to him as a benign acoustic neuroma brain tumor. Spike is easier. We look a lot alike, Spike and me, so I can see how my nephew confused us. Spike is not the best person to answer a young boy’s questions. His wiring is a little screwed up. And he’s no friend of the truth.

So when Joel asked Spike about the crow, Spike told him this.

“When the earth was young, Woodstock, the wizard of the wood, gave the key to happiness to the Mockingbird People. He knew they would safeguard the key, as everyone knows Mockingbirds hold no one in high esteem.
Of course, everyone wanted the key. They had all heard the song,’don’t worry, be happy’, so they sent soldiers to steal the key from the Mockingbird People.
An Opossum was dispatched, but halfway through the journey he was surprised by a wild dog. The Opossum lay down and played dead. While playing dead, he suffered a massive heart attack and died.
A tyrannosaurus was sent, but before he finished the long, arduous journey, he became extinct.
A pig was sent next. The old sow figured she could make better time flying, so she got a running start and launched herself from a high cliff. The porker dropped like a stone. As a result, people today still say, ‘when pigs fly’.
The people of the woods voted, and a fox was elected to steal the key. It is well know a fox is sly. Because of his cunning, the fox studied on how best to steal the key. He studied the ways of the Mockingbird. He charted their migratory patterns. He read everything known about their ability to imitate other people. The more the fox learned, he harder it was for him to formulate a plan. Eventually, he went mad and was last seen stealing grapes.
Finally, a crow volunteered. A shinny dingus is irresistible to crows who will steal anything not nailed down. The crow flew straight to the Mockingbird People and snatched the glinting piece of metal.
And to this day, you can still see Mockingbirds chasing Crows through the skies of the earth looking for the purloined key.

My nephew, to his credit, hasn’t repeated this to anyone.

PICTURE THIS

Last summer I bought a 35mm camera with a telephoto lens for $10.00 at a yard sale. I've shot seven rolls of film and have decided this is going to be an expensive hobby, considering I only get one decent picture for every three rolls. Good thing the camera was so cheap.
Some time back I saw a flock of twenty-five wild turkeys in my backyard. I grabbed the camera and stalked the gobblers. Turkeys are difficult to sneak up on, but I managed to get within fifty to sixty feet of the magnificent birds. They looked huge through the telephoto lens. The rising morning sun lit their plumage in an iridescent glow. I knelt behind an old gnarled oak and snapped several pics, bracketing the exposure to ensure I'd get at least one good shot. One ancient gobbler with a 12" beard strutted like a model on a runway and I entertained visions of seeing his portrait on the cover of Outdoor Life Magazine.

Fire yanked me from my fantasy. My right knee was enflamed. I was kneeling in a red ant hill. The fiery devils were swarming up my leg. I limped inside, dropped my pants, and jumped in the shower. A red river of ants swirled down the drain.

After I popped a couple of aspirin, I checked my camera to see how many more shots were left on the roll. Of course, the camera was empty. No film. No photos to submit to Outdoor Life. Just a knee full of angry red welts.
Later, after the swelling went down, I loaded the camera and took these.

WEIRD GOTHIC PAINTING

I found this oil painting in a dusty corner of a thrift store the other day. I can't stop looking at the damn thing.

The scene has invaded my dreams. I find myself enveloped in mist, my mood as blue as the swirling fog, eyes wide as I make my way to the castle, toward the warm, yellow light shinning in the windows.
When I wake, I'm standing in front of the painted monstrosity, unaware of rising from my bed. I look for myself in the mist, and am drawn to the empty eye socket. It pierces me like no eye ever has, and I shiver despite the warm May night.

A QUEER DAY FOR YARD SALES

Man, it was cold at six this morning. And overcast. I could smell rain, but the clouds held their water. Must have been young clouds-if clouds are anything like men-because this old man can’t hold it that long.

Spike and I usually don't travel too far from home, but this morning we decided to ride into J‘ville. According to the classified ad, someone had a huge selection of books for sale. The misguided young woman holding the sale had four boxes of books. Four. To me, huge conjurors up a lawn covered in stuff, but I still managed to pick up five or six titles. Spike handled the haggling. Price should have been $7.00. She added wrong and came up with $4.00. Spike gave her a Jackson. When she made change, she handed Spike $18.00, cheating herself out of another $2.00. Spike didn't catch the mistake. He claims he didn’t, but you never know with Spike. An hour and a half later, I realized the woman gave too much change. I wanted to go back, but now I'm now forty miles from her house and it would have cost me $12.00 in gas to give her the $2.00 back, so we kept going…..


At the next sale, I bought an 1892 volume of poems by Wordsworth. What a perfect name for a poet. Knowing the worth of a word, they use them sparingly. I also picked up an old pharmacy bottle from Savannah, and a small stack of vintage catalogs. My total should have been $5.50. I give the owner two quarters and a five. She gives me one dollar and fifty cents change. Didn't realize mistake till after I left.

We headed east looking for more treasure. Blackbeard use to roam this area, and Spike likes to think of us as swashbuckling pirates, so it is only fitting we sail from yard to yard looking for plunder. Spike also wanted to look for a little Captain Morgan since it was so chilly, just enough to warm his old bones, he said. I told him it was too damn early, and besides, I was driving. Sometimes Spike doesn’t think things through. What he does affects me. For those who don’t know Spike, he’s my brain tumor.

At the next sale, I bought 10 coasters at a quarter each. The woman couldn't total my purchase. She counted them out, one at a time, saying, .25, .50, .75, $1.00, until she counted all ten coasters. I think she is a retired professor.

I almost didn't make the next stop. I’ve been in the area before and it’s not a great place to find good stuff. There was only one other shopper rummaging. I spotted an old bible. It was a thing of beauty. Hand-tooled. Leather bound. 8“-10" thick. Beautiful, full page color illustrations. Attractive endpapers. Immaculate condition. I asked what she wanted. $10.00. I pulled my wallet out so fast smoke rolled up off my butt. The jerk shopping tells her, "I wouldn't sell that for $10.00. You should research it on the internet. Probably worth hundreds!" Lady changes her mind and decides to keep it. I thought Spike was going to kill the guy and I didn’t want to go to jail as an accessory, so I wrestled him into the truck and we peeled out of there. I hit a pothole on the way out and messed up my front end alignment.

Signage was a problem this morning. We wasted an hour, tricked by posters advertising puppies for sale, wedding receptions, family reunions, and charity car washes. In my neck of the woods, once you’ve committed your turn signal, and have slowed down, you have to make the turn or risk going visiting the proctologist so he can get a 57 Chevy pulled out of your ass. Spike and I followed one sign to a church. The parking lot was full. We went in, expecting an indoor, fund-raising yard sale, only to find a wedding in progress. Spike ended up giving the bride away.

I did pick up thirteen pieces of Clarice Cliff dinnerware. I didn’t know the pattern, but the fine ladies at The Yardsale Queen's site told me the pattern is Rhodanthe.


Looks like Spike and I found some treasure after all.

SIDEWALK SALE

A local antique store holds a truck load sale every two weeks. Store employees unload the truck, filling a small wagon with seven or eight boxes of goodies at a time. The boxes are lined up along the storefront. Nothing is priced. The boxes are full of all kinds of vintage items. Linens. Books. Glassware. Pottery. Tools. Radio tubes.

Customers are not allowed to touch anything in the wagon, and they cannot dig through the boxes, until the last box is set down. When the wagon is completely unloaded, all hell breaks loose. Arms flail, hips bump and grind, feet stomp and get stomped as customers claw their way through the feeding frenzy. If two hands grab the same item, it's a tug of war, with the plunder generally going to the beefier picker. The store's owners supply coffee, doughnuts, and band aids.

Last Friday, the crowd was particularly worked up. I saw an older woman pick up a medium sized box full of table linen. She fought her way out of the crowd so she could go through the treasure unmolested. Two women boxed her in and started pulling pieces of damask and laced napkins from the assorted linens. The older woman was game. She twisted her body with great force, trying to dislodge the interlopers. She held that box like a linebacker holds pigskin, but fingernails trump cardboard, and pretty soon the box gave way. The crowd smelled blood, and they swarmed in like locusts. When the scene cleared, the old lady was left holding a piece of tattered cardboard and one dingy, crocheted doilie.

I fared a little better. While going through one box I noticed an old, accordion style envelope. What it held was a guessing game, but I’ve found some good stuff stuffed in envelopes and small, sealed boxes. I grabbed it. As I was bringing it out of the box, I felt some resistance. I looked up, into the cold, dead eyes of my arch nemesis. The Chaplin.

We have a past, the Chaplin and I. For six months this man has stomped on my feet, he has nudged me out of the way just as boxes of goodies were laid at my feet, and a few weeks ago, he almost sent me through a plate glass window. I'm an easy going guy, and in the past I just took it all in stride. But this time Spike was with me.

Spike is my brain tumor. And he's no push-over. When the Chaplin latched onto that envelope, Spike took control. He got a good grip and tugged back. The Chaplin's eyes widened. His arms looked like road maps with thick, blue veins crisscrossing the contours of his flesh. Sweat beaded on his tightly knit brows.
I started hollering, "Give'um hell, Spike."
People stopped digging though boxes and settled in to watch the match. One guy took bets. Spike was the odds on favorite.
I don't know how long they battled, but Spike finally managed to rip the envelope free. The Chaplin hung his head and staggered past the crowd of cheering spectators.
Later, after the crowd returned to razing boxes, I noticed the Chaplin. He was standing alone, rubbing his hands. Knowing he was watching me, I opened the envelope, clutched my chest, and put on my best, "My, God, I've hit-the-jack-pot," expression. The look on the Chaplin's face was worth the dollar I paid for an old envelope full of worthless junk.