A Place for Ted

 

The paintbrush had been abandoned and left to dry on the edge of the kitchen counter.  It would no longer be useful to anyone.  The television flickered without sound, reflecting images to no one in particular, while a small gray mouse searched for more crumbs along the tired floorboards of the old farmhouse.

Sitting out on the bench beneath the Oak, sat Lacey, the farmer’s wife and Ted, their Spaniel.  Now with her husband gone, Lacey felt she should sell the farm and move closer to town.  A smaller, more manageable place would be good.  She knew many townspeople already and having neighbors close-by might prove helpful.  She just wasn’t sure about Ted.  An apartment is no place for a dog, she thought.  He was used to the freedom of the farm, running, exploring and barking at the wind.  What was to become of Ted, she wondered.  She had some serious decisions to make.

Ted just seemed to know his master wasn’t coming back.  He had stayed by the side of the bed the entire time the farmer was sick, and the moment they carried the body away, Ted stuck to Lacey's side every minute of the day.  Even now, sitting by her side on the bench, Lacey stroked his head, and he leaned into her, knowing it was just the two of them now.

Lacey's first encounter with a realtor didn’t go well at all.  She was a pushy girl who couldn’t have had much experience in the business and spent the entire time pointing out the problems with the place.  Ted also seemed to know this person wasn’t the one for the job, as he growled the moment she drove up.  The last thing Lacey needed was to have all the problems around the place pointed out to her.  She cut the interview short and sent the girl away.  After a few days, she called Hampton Realty.  Their office was in town, and they had been recommended by the funeral director.

Bob Lewiston showed up the following Thursday.  He was on time and had somehow known to bring a Milk bone dog biscuit with him.  He was an instant favorite with Ted.   The three of them walked around the farm and then went through each room of the house.  He took several notes as they went, and complemented Lacey on having managed everything with her husband’s passing.

He never made any comments about the farm until they were back in the front room, then he asked Lacey how much she hoped to get from the sale.  That seemed to be when the reality of selling the place hit her.  She began to cry and appeared unable to respond.  The realtor closed his notebook and said he would put together a package for her at the office and bring it back out at her convenience.  “You don’t need to decide anything now.”  He bent down and patted Ted and headed back out to his car.

It wasn't until the following Tuesday morning when Lacey called Hampton Realty and asked for Bob Lewiston.  They set up a meeting to have coffee at Tuning Fork Cafe' at 9:30.  Bob was already sitting in a booth when Lacey walked in.  After a few pleasantries and coffee had been brought to the table, Lacey noticed Bob had an excited look on his face, like a little kid about to see Santa Claus. 

"What's going on Bob?"

"I have a proposal for you to think about."  He slid his stack of papers in front of him and flipped over the top page.  "I have run some numbers based on the size and location of your property, and I have looked at a few comparable farms.  What I'd like to propose is this..."  Bob took a sip of his coffee and looking back up at Lacey said, "I'd like to rent your place for a year, paying you $2,000.00 a month and at the end of the year buy it myself.  Doing it this way will save us both all kinds of fees and taxes.  I calculate a fair market price is $475,000.00.

So far Lacey had not said anything.  She was quite surprised at Bob wanting to live so far out of town, and on an old run-down farm.

"Here's the bonus." he said.  Ted can stay right where he is.  I'd take care of him.  In fact, I'll most likely get a couple more dogs, so he'll have buddies."

Lacey's face lit up at the thought of Ted being able to stay at the farm.  "What's the catch?  Why rent for a year first?"

Bob dug a couple more pages from his stack. "I've put it all in writing.  Lacey, I can afford to buy it now, but that would knock down most of my savings.  What I want to do is to take a year to slowly get myself out of the real estate business and start a business of my own.  With that much property, and being outside of the town limits, I'll be able to operate without all the town council interference or their fees, rules and regulations.  They tend to come up with some goofy ideas.  I know this is a lot to consider.  Just think it over and if you're not comfortable with this plan just say so."

The waitress came back to the table and refilled their mugs.  She shot Lacey a quick glance and with a slight frown shook her head, No.

Lacey wasn't sure how to interpret that, but suddenly felt like she shouldn't be too trusting of Bob.  Just as the waitress was turning to walk away, she stopped and said to Lacey, 

"You've got something on your face."  She dunked Lacey's napkin into her coffee and then began to wipe it across her cheek.  Lacey had her eyes closed and could not only feel the wet napkin rubbing across her face but thought she could hear Bob calling her name.

As she opened her eyes she was a little startled to find herself laying on the floor of her kitchen, as Ted licked her face.  Her husband was saying her name has he bent down to help her up.  "These paint fumes must have gotten to you." 

She could see the handle of the paintbrush hanging over the edge of the counter.  As she sat up she still felt nauseous and had a headache.  "You were dead, and I had to sell the farm.  Ted was a waitress wiping off my face."

"Wow, replied the farmer, we could sell those paint fumes."

The End

 

 

It's what's for dinner.

 

I’m on the verge of something

about to lose my balance,

It’s better than a dumpling

and requires cooking talent,

there was a time - I would choke

the pressure was immense –

tasty things went up in smoke

then scraped into past tense.

This time though, it’s different

I’ve wrapped it all in dough,

doubled up the butter

and I’m cooking it real slow.

It will have a scent of heaven

and be in time for lunch,

it will feed up to eleven

and have a little crunch,

it may not look appealing

though I’ve picked off all the scales

no longer does it face you

without its heads or tails,

It hasn’t any gristle, hairiness or carbs

It hasn’t any GMO’s

I’ve pulled off all the barbs,

It might be somewhat chewy

don’t eat the part that swells,

Scrape off the stuff that’s gooey

ignore the way it smells.

Best if served by candlelight

keep away from sparks

never feed the leftovers

to anything that barks.

 

Really, I mean it.

 

Kodak Moments

 

My pockets are empty

I’ve not got a pence

The workers aren’t happy

they picket the fence,

The cows became lazy

they won’t even chew

My thoughts are all hazy

I’m older than you,

When memory leaves me

I’ll not say good-bye

my thoughts and my pen

will all have run dry –

A box full of pictures

will help you recall

the times we both had

when we had it all.

 

 

Scott & Zelda

 

 

Let your pencil try that.

 

Spellcheck is good indeed

when e before i, it intercedes,

When sometimes y

and I don’t know -

it fixes things as on I go.

 

Blinter

 

My fingers are cold

even though I have mittens,

My Scarf is quite itchy

it's allergic to kittens.

Not quite a blizzard

Though very much winter,

I'm thinking together

I’ll just call it Blinter.

Written in memory of Sonny Elliott.
Detroit Weatherman 

It could happen...

 

Calvin G. Rental

never owned a goat

Bought himself a red canoe

thought he’d like to float,

Put his name upon it

crossed the river wide

Questioned by the local police

upon the other side,

“Where’s your registration?”

“Show me some I.D.”

Calvin didn’t understand

Just what the trouble be,

“It say’s that it’s a rental

It’s printed on the side.

You should have changed the color

cuz red is hard to hide.”

I don’t want any trouble

Just thought I’d like to float

As soon as I can get back home

I’ll get myself a goat.

Sorry - but the Blog was out of commission

Everyone at Blog headquarters went to 

lunch at the same time and no one thought

to leave me a key to get in.

Consequently -

noting was posted yesterday.

Maybe some day they'll trust me

with a key of my own,

but I doubt it.

It's the environment we know

 

It’s been said that a person raising a baby duck has a direct effect, in that the duck will imprint on the human.  Believing they are the same as humans.

 

I contend that placing a human into a city environment has a similar effect.  Over time, the city can be seen in the face of the human.  This is recognizable through simple observation.

 New York City

Seas

 

Stress

 

Swiss Colony

 

The fine print in the catalog

says your gift may vary

The message added to the box

misspelled, have a Mary

Shipping is an extra charge

specify a date –

Doesn’t matter what you put

it’s going to get there late

Nothing in the picture

will ever match the item

Guaranteed to get there fresh

just don’t try to bite em.

 

Humans

 

Give them a ball and they will entertain themselves for hours.

Show them a hole in the ground, like the Grand Canyon,  they'll marvel at it endlessly, taking pictures and making postcards.

Draw borders and they will argue, fight and kill each other.

The older they become, the more they live in the past.

They allow technology to think for them and to drive their cars.

They seem to know just enough to look for intelligent life someplace else.

 

The Green Button

 

For the last 12 years there has been a Google employee, I won’t say who, sitting in front of a bank of switches, flashing lights, buttons and buzzers.  It is their job to keep all the Blogs of the world running smoothly.

Every day, for the past 12 years, they have brought their lunch.  They carry it in a retro, Howdy Doody – Buffalo Bob lunch box.  Inside is a thermos, held in place by a wire clamp.  There is a sandwich wrapped in wax paper, a banana and three Fig Newtons.   Once in a while, an orange takes the place of the banana.

Part of their job is to keep running totals of the number of times someone visits a blog.  Those numbers are posted on a status page, which can be found on the blog itself.  It also reports from which countries those hits come from.

Every day, for the last 12 years, that employee, I won’t say who, has set their lunch box down on the desktop, just to the right of this bank of switches, flashing lights, buttons and buzzers.  This has become a habit.  What they haven’t realized is their lunch box is resting on a green button.  The lunch weighs just enough to depress the button.

When depressed, the button shuts off everyone’s ability to send a comment back to the blog.  The reason I know this is because over the last 12 years this blog has received 178,570 total hits, from over 90 countries.  There are currently 2,633 posts on this blog.  2,634 counting this one. And over the last 12 years there have been zero comments.  (With the exception of one lady, I won’t say who, who has written her own code to bypass the depressed off switch)

Logic tells me, the odds of 178,570 people all agreeing to not reply to any post is not only astronomical, but also impossible.  Two people standing next to a window won’t agree if it is day or night.

I have written this post in hopes that the employee with the Howdy Doody lunch box be given a raise, if for no other reason than for his or her loyalty and dedication.  The thought process here is with just a little increase in their pay, they can stop bringing their lunch and start eating lunch in the Google cafeteria.  I understand there is a wide selection of both hot or cold meals, complete with fresh fruit and complementary Fig Newtons.

 

 

 

Zero

 

No salt left in the shaker

no corn upon the cob,

no bib upon the baby

such a messy, little slob.

No fish within the fishbowl

no flies upon the poop,

no paper left upon my porch

giving me the scoop.

No wind to push my sailboat

no motor in my car,

lost my keys a week ago

I leave the door ajar.

I hope this poem dissolves itself

long before I’m dead,

it’s stinking up my little blog

and never should be read.

 

 

Left unsupervised, stuff like this happens.

 

Made in Heaven

 

She had a face for radio

her voice a nasal twang,

never once a love song

for her was ever sang.

Both her feet were left ones

her eyes were always crossed,

on the men around her

her beauty just was lost.

But then along came Larry

clueless as could be,

thought that he should marry

for lonely boy was he.

The day they found each other

his jeans were sadly worn,

She had on a sweater

her jeans as well were torn.

Their marriage a sensation

their future now was bright,

he owned a radio station

she worked there every night.

At least, no one is sitting behind me.

 

I sat down to write this morning but first wrapped my hands around my coffee mug to get them warm.  I could immediately feel the heat radiating through the ceramic mug.  Being the stickler for details that I am, I questioned whether it was radiating or was it conduction or maybe even convection?  Did any of this really matter?  No.

It could be, I was just stalling, not really sure what I wanted to write about today.  Either way, my hands were now warmer than they were, so here we go…

There is a utility box in our front yard.  I have no idea what is in it or what it does, I just know that when I want to feed the birds, the top of that box is where I put the peanuts or birdseed.  The crows know this and have gotten used to looking there for food.

Now comes the problem with theatre seats.  There is always some pole, holding up the ceiling of the theatre.  More often than not, I am sitting behind that pole.  In order to see the play going on, I have to lean far left or far right, probably annoying the person sitting behind me.

Now, back to the utility box.  Between the window in my office and the utility box is a large Oak tree.  Consequently in order for me to enjoy watching the crows find and enjoy their food, I must lean far right or far left to see around that tree.

I should have combed my hair.

 

It started out as a simple walk around the block.  The things I expected to see along the way were a few neighbors, usually several wild turkeys and of course a barking dog here and there.

What I wasn’t expecting was to be stopped by a passing police car.  At first, I thought it was just a neighborhood watch patrol, but it wasn’t.  This was an actual cop and now he was out of his car and asking me for identification.  I explained that I lived here, just a few houses back a ways and that I didn’t bother to carry my ID with me because, like I said, I live here.

He said that I matched the description of someone they were looking for and for me to get into the backseat of his patrol car.  “I’m not really comfortable doing that, why don’t you follow me back to my house and I’ll show you identification.”

Now I could see some people coming out on their porches.  I’d seen them before and waved hello before during my walks, but I didn’t really know them.  They weren’t saying anything, or waving.  They were just standing there watching, probably wondering what I did to cause the police to stop me. 

This whole thing reminded me of a movie I once saw called, The Trial.  There was a wrongly accused man in that story, being questioned about a half-circle spot worn in the tile floor.  The worn area was towards the back of a barber chair.  I couldn’t believe they were asking him about that.  They apparently didn’t comprehend the travel patterns of barbers.  They only walked in half-circles.

I had never felt so close to the edge of chaos before.  This person could potentially haul me in for questioning, take my fingerprints, and snap my picture for a mugshot.  I could end up in a book of mugshots, maybe even have my picture up on some wall.

 

 

 

 

My view

 

I could see it from my window.  A little bunny out on the lawn, munching on the tender grass and across the street a hawk sitting up in the tree was watching.  I knew it was only a matter of time before the hawk was going to swoop down and have the rabbit for breakfast.

Having a fair understanding of nature, I know the hawk has her life to live and the bunny must fend for itself.  But I am also aware that I was put here, at this place, at this time for a reason.  If I act fast, I can be out in the front yard and scare the rabbit back into the woods, maybe prolonging its life for one more day.

But what of the poor hawk?  Shouldn’t she be allowed her morning bagel and cream cheese?  Does it really boil down to survival of the fittest?  Where is the balance?  Where is the fair play?  The hawk is a skilled hunter with perfect vision, silent motion and the element of surprise.  The bunny has only her hearing to alert her to the dangers around.  Listening seems no match against the hawk that doesn’t even need to flap her wings, but only glide silently down from above.

Nowhere is it written that life is fair, but what if it were?  What if we could change it?  Knowing what we know of Man’s ability, I expect everything we attempted to correct would drastically alter something else, and not for the better. 

New York cab drivers would all speak perfect English, being courteous and polite to everyone.  Hamsters could suddenly run as fast or faster than cheetahs.  Alligators would become vegetarians.   Nothing we know would ever be the same.  Journalists would only report the good news, teachers and police would be paid more than athletes, while lawyers and politicians would fill the country’s prisons.  (Okay, so that part wouldn’t change).    

In the time it has taken me to write this, three smaller birds have chased the hawk away.  The bunny will live another day.

Maybe things are fine the way they are.

 

 

 

Shut-up and deal.

 

There is a story in my morning coffee, although sometimes the flavor of it gets lost as it rises from the surface, blending with the heat.  Blowing on it only tends to alter the punctuation, occasionally sending tenses to the bottom of the mug.   Is this a flashback or are these simply coffee grounds?

If I find the first sip to be a little bitter, I’ll back off, start more slowly, like - once upon a time.  Otherwise, I will just jump right into the action, increasing the volume of the ticking wall clock, as the stranger at the poker table grins slightly, sliding yet another stack of chips into the pot.  The surface tension suddenly becomes noticeable.

Too much.  This has a dark roast feel to it.  I don’t like it.  “What’s your name, stranger?”

“Mr. Coffee.”

As you can see, sometimes I add a little sugar.

 

Probably inside the vacuum cleaner

 

It was an indication of how my day was going to go.  It began with me trying to vacuum up a spot on the carpet that turned out to be a little bit of sun coming in from between the blinds. It took me just a little too long to catch on to that one.

Later that morning, while following my GPS directions, it had me making six left turns in a row.  As the same buildings kept passing in front of me, I figured something must have been wonky.  

When I got home my garage door wouldn’t open.  I looked across the street at my neighbor’s house.  His porch light was off.  It is always on, day and night.  Okay, so the power was out in the neighborhood.  It’s good that I figured that out, but I was still sitting in the driveway with no way to open the garage door.  So where is that little ray of sunshine when I need it?

 

 

 

 

This should have never happened.

 

Someone is peeling an orange.  I had been hiding just under the skin when I noticed it starting to get lighter, almost too bright.  For so long now I had been safe living undisturbed beneath the orange peel, not bothering anyone.  Now, all of a sudden, I can hear the skin being peeled back, beneath me I feel the juices rushing every which way, seeds scooching over, trying to keep safe.

Why is this happening?  The tip of a fingernail plunges deep into the skin, just missing me.  I’m scared.  A spurt of juice shoots out like an artery has been severed.  I think I hear a muffled scream.  It must have headed for their eye.   Suddenly I’m falling.  A clever plan, they have let go of the orange to attend to their eye.   We hit the floor and roll across the aisle.

They don’t chase me.  They give up.  Their grocery cart squeaks as they move further away.  For now, I’m safe.

 

Left here by the Indians

 

The Sioux Locks

Things that scare the cat

Hovering monsters

with 5 wings

After Hours

 

The library at night holds a completely different set of monsters.  Unfamiliar sounds, creaking noises and shadows everywhere have not been checked out. They are all still here.   I would have thought everything scary about an after-hours library would have been cataloged and filed away under Boo.  Not the case.

How I ended up here is not the story.  The real story is how the heck am I going to get myself out.  Maybe if I can locate the light switch, I’ll at least be able to read until I end up setting off some motion sensor, and the police show up.  That’s when I’ll have to explain about falling asleep in that chair over there and not waking up whenever they flashed the lights, letting everyone know it was closing time.

The small light at the front desk may be enough to read by, I think I’ll look for a book on how to escape from a locked room, maybe a magician’s How-to, book.  Then again, maybe some law books.  I may need a lawyer.   Accidental Trespassing might be a thing.  Who knows?

 How poetic if I get booked...