Blue Ridge Parkway

 

        There is a log cabin nestled amidst the pines along the Blue Ridge Parkway in North Carolina.   You can’t see it from the road, or for that matter, you can’t even see it from the hiking trail that runs about 600 yards behind it. 

            Over the years it has never changed owners.  It was built with a great deal of skill and craftsmanship.  The roof has never leaked, the walls have always been airtight, and the large rock fireplace is a work of art.

            The view from the wrap-around porch is spectacular.   Each and every chair on the porch is hand-made, and rocks smoothly and without a single squeak.   The entire cabin is so well constructed that you’ll discover a noticeable absence of bugs.  No spiders, crickets, or beetles have ever been seen inside.  If they didn’t come through the front door, they didn’t make it in.

            It has running water and electricity, two bathrooms and four separate sleeping areas.   The furniture is clean and well maintained.  There are over-stuffed chairs, comfortable, pullout couches, and a large dining table with high-back chairs.

            In the back of the pantry there is a straw broom and a dustpan.  Next to the broom, hanging from a small nail is a sign that says, “I’m here for you.”

            In order to rent the cabin, each member of the renting party must submit four paragraphs about themselves.  The owners believe that the average person will have difficulty writing four paragraphs about themselves, and will give up and stay elsewhere.  They do this because they believe this most peaceful and beautiful place deserves better than average renters. 

            Along the west wall of the living room is a bookcase filled with a wide selection of reading material.  There are several large binders housing all of the submitted paragraphs collected over the years.  The majority of the submissions are several pages in length.  It is some of the best reading you’ll find - leaving you wishing you had met these people in person.

            Mr. and Mrs. Wan Lee, from Hokkaido wrote about how their children had saved to send them on a trip to America, and during their research had discovered the cabin along the Blue Ridge Parkway.   As the Lee’s are not proficient in writing English, their children translated and wrote for them.   It is beautifully written and is a story you’re not soon to forget.

            Mary Kaylynn and her daughter Nora, from Greenwich, Connecticut wrote about themselves, while actually painting an image of their life without Ted, who was a fireman, killed during the 911 attacks.   It wasn’t until they actually arrived at the cabin that they came to write this last paragraph, and slip it into the binder.

 

                        It was Ted’s dream to someday retire to a place just like this.

                        He loved nature and being somewhere where he could just

                        sit and listen to the birds, and hear the wind in the trees.

                        Throughout my life, whenever he would hold me tight in his

                        arms, he would whisper, “I’m here for you.”

                        When I looked into the pantry - I cried all over again.

 

 

Reprinted by request.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cryogenics on a budget

 

The Great Escape

 

Just a short time ago

In a place not so far

In a little boy’s hand

Was a bug in a jar –

 

The bug we now know

Had a plan of his own

To escape Mr. Mason

Then make his way home –

 

Clearly this child

Could not be a thug

To snatch from the wild

Such a cute little bug –

 

Yet there they both were

Just a block down the street

The boy gathering leaves

For his new friend to eat –

 

As he loosened the lid

A startled surprise

For fly the bug did

As he took to the skies -

 

 

Such a one-sided friendship

Did not go real far

For you can’t keep your buddy

Locked up in a jar –

 

Even when holes

Are poked in it for air

The world from inside

Just doesn’t seem fair –

 

And a short time ago

At dinner that night

In the fireflies glow

He told of his plight

 

He spoke of the child

And the jar with its lid

Of being snatched from the wild

And of what katydid.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                            

No Skyscraper - a short story

         The wooden dock stretching out over the lake is old and not all that comfortable to sit on.  I always bring a cushion.  Dangling my legs over the edge places the bottom of my bare feet just at the surface of the water.  If I flip my feet up and down, I can splash just a little.  I usually don’t do that, however, as it tends to scare the fish.

      Deb says there’s a body in the lake.  She says she saw someone, two summers ago, dump it late one night.  She says she won’t put her feet in there cuz now the lake is cursed.  I know the kind of people that live around here, so I believe her about the body, but I’m not buying into that curse thing.  I’m sticking to my story about scaring the fish.  That’s why I don’t put my feet in there.  You believe me… right?

      There has always been too many people moving in and out of this neighborhood to notice just who might be missing.  None the less, a detective came snooping around here last year.  I don’t recall his name, but I remember he questioned everyone around, even old Jake.  Doesn’t seem like Jake would know too much.  He never comes out of his house, except to get the newspaper off his porch.  Even then, he scoots right back inside.  It’s like he allergic to fresh air or something.

       Rumor was, Nancy, from Channel 7 was going to run a piece on the drug problem here.  Everyone I’ve talked to was going to watch just to see if their house got on TV.  That would have been their big claim to fame, seeing their house on the television.  In a round-about way the mayor has let Channel 7 know that there would be no report about drugs in our town.  We all thought that was an unusual statement to make, especially to the press, but then again, all the cops work for him, so who knows what he’s capable of.

       Here's what I do know.  Debbie, the one spreading the stories about a body in the lake, just happens to be quietly buying up all the available lake front property she can.  I’d like to think the best of her, but in looking at what she’s doing, I’d say she’s up to no good.  I’m not saying anything to anyone, but really?  I can’t be the only one to notice this.  And come to think of it, I remember now who has disappeared from around here, its Naveen Porter, other than Debbie, this town’s only other realtor.

       I need to be careful, sometimes I let my imagination get away from me.  I am currently working on another book.  This one is entitled, No Skyscraper – a short story.  From my computer desk I can see across most of the village.  I think it is this vantage point that started me writing about multi-story buildings and what it must be like to have a view of everything.  Even the shenanigans.

 

 

But at what cost?

 

I never ate watermelon as a kid.  I also never ate it as a porcupine.  I’ve never flown a plane or off the handle.  To someone with their luck in tatters, I have given change and the benefit of the doubt.

I have attended the funeral of a vending machine, with its display lights extinguished forevermore.  It lay vacant of snacks, empty of treats and without so much as a hum.

It’s body still cold, the replacement was wheeled in, fancy buttons, computerized and glimmering, with lights and colorful artwork to tempt and beckon.  I thought I noticed a few snickers. 

Making art - one glass at a time.

 

Why the long face?

 

All Rise

 

"A dangerous path is made worse by darkness."

 

An old oil lamp sat on a stump just 8 feet or so from where we were.  Our thinking was to enjoy the light it was putting out without sitting in the swarm of flying bugs it was attracting.  Had any of us been sober enough we would have caught on much sooner to the fact that instead of giving our little flying friends our undivided attention, we should have been listening to the four-legged creature that was making its way to our campsite.

 

            The above paragraph was my first start into this week’s adventure.  As you can see, I quickly lost interest, as I am now typing this.  I shall come back later with attempt number two.

 

            So what is it about ghost stories and campfires?  Much like peanut butter and jelly, when one spreads out a campsite, complete with a circle of chairs around a small fire sending sparks disappearing into the night sky, a jar of ghost stories is soon to be opened.  It’s almost mandatory.

 

            Would they be so scary in the light of day?  I used to think they wouldn’t be, but should you hear a good one…  I mean, a really good one… well, by nightfall its potency will bloom and you will suffer, as I did, its full effects without the comfort of neighboring comrades perched on short-legged chairs.

 

            I will share with you this story, but please, if you are the slightest bit apprehensive about going on, I beg you, stop reading here.  Shut this off and walk away.   Once you pass this point you’re on your own.  Not even the light from an old oil lamp will save you.

 

****

 

            It was a bright and clear day.  The closest thing to a storm was several states over and moving slowly the other way.

 

            Sorry, but I have reconsidered.  I would be quite morose if I were to leave you with such a horrifying tale and then just skip along as if I were not to blame for the quivering mass of nerves I left you to be.

 

            Maybe some day later, after you have imparted to me a secure and honest conformation that you can withstand the event, without any lasting effects.  Then, and only then will I tell you the tale, just as I know it happened.

 

Cheboygan (Yes, it's a real place)

 

I was going to tell you about an encounter we had with a seating hostess in Cheboygan but I’ve thought better of it.   It would just be three or four paragraphs telling you what a total moron she was and that wouldn’t be nice, so I’ll not do that.

 

            Instead I will share with you the story of our dinner last Friday night.  We were in Harbor Springs; a fancy-schmancy waterfront community that makes La Jolla look like the slums.  Oy vey.  

 

            We wandered around trying to decide what we wanted for dinner, looking in various shops as we made our way through town.  We finally ended up at the Pier Restaurant, where we had been the night before for the big birthday dinner.  This time, however, we sat outside, right next to the bazillion dollar boats.  The waitress brought two glasses of ice water and our menus.  As we scanned through the choices we both came to the same conclusion.   This isn’t what we wanted.  We got up and said our good-byes to the staff and we headed off to get a simple sandwich, take it to the beach and just have a little picnic.

 

            Two days before we had gotten a sandwich from this great Deli, and it was soooooo good.  Yum.  Anyway, we get to the deli and gaze up at all the choices on the big sandwich board when we hear someone say,  “We’re not making anymore sandwiches today. Everything has already been cleaned and sterilized”.

 

            I looked over and saw that it was the owner, counting out her register for the day.  They were getting ready to close.   Hoping it might help, I explained how we had just gotten up and walked away from a prime seat at the Pier in favor of one of her sandwiches.   She didn’t seem impressed.  Then her husband explained that even though they couldn’t make us a sandwich, we could still buy all of the ingredients, and build our own.

 

            We can do this, we said, and started selecting our sandwich building materials.  A fresh baguette was brought out of the freezer, barely cool, since they had closed only 5 minutes before. Well, apparently the vision of us trying to assemble this thing at the beach was too much for the woman at the register to handle.  “I’ll make the sandwich”, she said, and after washing her hands she quickly built a beautiful masterpiece.  She said she could now sleep that night, knowing we weren’t out struggling in the sand to make some sad, ragged-looking sandwich.

 

            We had a great picnic at the beach.  We had a super meatloaf sandwich, chips, a cold root beer, and for desert we had Tom’s Mom’s Cookies and fresh milk, with the same view of the bazillion dollar boats.  

            But that isn’t what I wanted to tell you about.   Four of us walk into this restaurant in Cheboygan and we tell the pretty young seating hostess, “Four for non-smoking.”  She glances around the room and then looks down at her seating chart and says, “I don’t have anything.  All the tables are full.”

 

            We all waited for her to add,  “Can I take your name and would you like to wait at the bar?”  but there was nothing.  So finally we said,  “Is it okay if we wait?”

 

“Oh,” she says, (somewhat surprised) “sure.”

 

We give her our name.  “We’ll wait over there at the bar.”   “Ok, she said, and once again assumed her “ready to greet the next one” pose.

 

            We all ordered a refreshing beverage and enjoyed that for awhile and then watched as four more people came in and she sat them at an empty table in the middle of the room.  (I should mention here that this isn’t a reservation kind of place.)  So now we are all looking at each other and wondering what’s going on.

 

            I get up and walk over to the hostess stand and point at the rest of us saying, “We are sitting right there, waiting for a table.”  (Less than 20 feet away). 

 

            “Oh, I thought you all left.”  She replies.

 

 “Nope.  Here we all are.”

 

            She picks up four menus and asks, would any of you mind sitting at a tall table?

 

            “I don’t think we care about the height of the table.”

 

            “You don’t care?” she is now looking at me with serious concern.

 

            “Nope.  We don’t care.”

 

            “OK then, you all can sit here,” and walks us to an empty tall table for four.

 

The friends we were with explained to us later that there is something about people from Cheboygan.  It’s like,  “How many Cheboyganites does it take to build a complete set of teeth?”

 

Anyway, last week’s adventure was fun.  I hope all of you did something worthy of summer.

 

Have a great week, and write back when you can.

 

Now & Then

 

Jackson Pollack vs. Bill Gates

Expression, communicated well, is the transfer of excitement from the experience.

1.       20 years from now, sit down with an old family album on your lap and leaf through a flood of memories.

2.       20 years from now pull out your pictures on CD’s and try to find something that will read them.

There is no Right or Wrong – There’s only “Different”

I believe that as we see the art world break into pixels; we will witness the value of the Master Pieces soar to an incomprehensible, mind-boggling value. 

Final Thoughts from a Flibbertigibbet

I have no prediction of the outcome.  The art world is changing but so is the audience.   Perhaps it is in that relationship that an altogether different creature will emerge.

Extra Credit

Did Bill Gates ever experience a Baroque period?

The views and opinions expressed in this publication are the rights ones.

Without Umbrellas

 

The field across the street has wild turkeys, turtles, rabbits and squirrels.  Those are just the things I can see from here.  That doesn’t mean there aren’t chipmunks, birds and wild hogs.

None of them carry umbrellas.  When it rains, they simply get wet.  When it rains hard or for a long time, they get soaked.  Only when the sun comes out do they begin to dry off.  Without opposable thumbs, a small business loan or umbrella factories, they remain exposed to the elements.  They can’t change their situation.

I cannot tell from their behavior if they are bothered by this fact.  They don’t seem to complain.  Unlike my neighbor, who does have opposable thumbs as well as umbrellas, yet complains constantly about the weather.

She grumbles when it rains, complains it is too hot whenever the sun is out, and should the breeze mess up her hair, you’d think the world had come to an end.  Why she ever steps outside I’ll never know.

I’d like her to be a bunny for a day.  Her life would consist of constantly looking for food, going about her day being soggy, all the while hoping that circling hawk doesn’t see her, swoop down and have her for lunch. 

Just once, she should focus on what she has and not on what she doesn’t.  Better yet, she should try being the hawk.  Then let her lecture me on why I should be a vegan.

 

 

 

The Five Stages of No Emails

 

Denial: The system must be down.  This can’t be.

 

Anger: What’s wrong with these people?  It cost them nothing to send an email.

 

Bargaining: Maybe they never received my email.  I could just send another one and then they'll see that I’m here waiting to hear from them.

 

Depression: They obviously don’t want to write to me.  I must have done or said something wrong.  It’s my fault.

 

Acceptance: People are busy living their own lives, they’re not just sitting around anxious to write to me.

 

 

 

 

Change

 

Water from the faucet

Air into the balloon,

Dinner on the table

Music out of tune,

Driver in a Chevrolet

People on the bus,

Kittens only want to play

No one left to trust,

The faucet has a steady drip

The balloon has sprung a leak,

The food that’s on the table

I’m sorry – but it reeks,

Kitty’s grown into a cat

The chair is ripped to shreds,

There’s not a soul that I can trust

Hope is almost dead,

The oceans are polluted

Rivers have run dry,

The Chevrolet is out of gas

the music makes me cry,

Summers almost over

I think I’ll wear a sweater,

and hibernate until next June

and pray that things are better.

 

 

 

 

Nature's Canvas

 

Sand Fences

 

        The zigzagging sand fences—so deliberate, so human—trying to tame the wild drift of nature, cast shadows like choreography across the beach. Footprints meander through the scene like ghostly actors who’ve exited stage left, leaving only the memory of motion.

Trust me -

 

They'll never figure it out.

Let Go

 

No! You let go.

Now THAT's Funny

 

Looks like another Monday

 

Nose to the Grindstone

I double-dog dare you

 

The sign said, Stay in your vehicle.

 

Bed, Bath and NOT all that Beyond

         Our visits to your stores have typically been pleasant—worth the drive, the time, and the occasional impulse buy. But today, we encountered a cheaper, less honest version of Bed, Bath & Beyond, and walked away disappointed. It left us wondering whether the value we once found in your aisles is still worth the trip.

        We purchased a high-ticket item through your bridal registry, encouraged by the promise of complimentary gift wrapping. A thoughtful gesture, we thought. We were happy to wait.

        But when we returned to collect the package, we discovered that “gift wrapping” meant placing the item in a store-branded bag. No ribbon. No wrap. No effort. Something that could’ve been done at checkout in under ten seconds.

        We’re not upset about the bag—we’re disappointed by the bait. Marketing should elevate the experience, not cheapen it. This felt like a shortcut disguised as a perk.

        We hope you reconsider what “Beyond” really means.

2 Years in the making

 

Sculpted from 233 wads of chewing gum.

Formed, tightly packed & carved.

Then painted.

(The prop does not spin)

Catching Fireflies

 

Back in 2012

 

This was the original Blog entrance.

What doesn't appear on the periodic table

is the element of danger.

An Old Friend

 

        I enjoyed a philosophical conversation with an old friend yesterday.  Although a good percentage of him had wandered off several years ago, the small spark that remained tried with great vigor to maintain a firm grasp on the thoughts that floated past.

        We spoke of the great universe and the precise placement of stars.  He suggested an alternate outcome had each star been moved 100 yards to the left; maintaining of course their spatial relationship to each other. 

        For a few moments there, I was feeling as though I was the one who'd wandered off.  As I was listening to his thoughts on how just 100 yards would affect the angle of the tides, the magnetic poles and the dispersion of languages across the globe, I remembered that he, in his youth, had always maintained that he was, in fact, a peripheral visionary.  He could see into the future but only way off to the side.

        At the end of our visit, I felt exhausted but glad to have spent time with an old friend.  I didn't snap his picture, as I wanted to remember him as he'll always be in my mind.

    That was my yesterday.

 

 

 

 

 

One day in New York

 

She had heard there was a finder's fee, that was her only motivation.  When she showed up at the door she was holding a shoebox.  She had one hand supporting it from the bottom and the other holding the top down, like something was going to pop out if she didn't.

I looked at her for a moment and then asked, "How did you ring the bell?"

She didn't answer, in fact, her expression never changed. There was just a vacant stare.

"Would you like to come in?" I asked.

I stepped aside and she cautiously entered, looking around to see who else might be in the room.  Just a couple of steps in she stopped, turned, and in a shaky voice said, "There's supposed to be a finder's fee."

I'll need to see inside the box first, I said.  She quickly drew the box closer to her. 

I'm not paying unless I see, I said.  Again. she glanced around the room then carefully lifted the top from the box.

I could see them, they looked perfect.  I went over to the coffee table and got my wallet.  I pulled two twenties out and handed them to her.  It was the first time there was a hint of a smile.  She handed the box to me and quickly tucked the bills into her pocket.

As I carefully took them from the box, I looked back at her.  "It's called a delivery charge, not a finder's fee."  

 

She left without saying a word while I tried on my new shoes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Gatekeeper

 

        Turns out, we couldn't just walk in.  This sheep stepped forward and didn't bleat but asked us in plane English to state our business.

        "We've put our quarters in and now have a handful of grain.  We were hoping to wander amongst  you and feed you.  This is a petting zoo isn't it?"

"No, you missed your turn.  You should have taken that last driveway on your left.  Now take your twenty-five cents worth of whatever that is and beat-it."

Windsocks & Windshoes

 

Of the two, windshoes are much more difficult to find. The reason being, anyone walking down the street would suddenly, and without warning, change direction with the slightest change in wind direction.

The great number of collisions were not really the issue as everyone wearing the windshoes changed direction at the same time, not unlike a school of fish.

🌪️ The Origin of Windshoes

Windshoes were first conceptualized by Dr. Ellery Vane, a disgraced meteorologist who turned kinetic sculptor. He believed that true freedom lay in surrendering to the wind. His prototype—stitched from parachute silk and pigeon feathers—was worn during the infamous “Breeze Ballet” of 1963, where 47 volunteers danced involuntarily across a salt flat for seven hours.

 

🧭 The Great Gust of ’87

This was the year windshoes went mainstream. A rogue jet stream descended upon the Midwest, triggering mass directional shifts. Cities like Des Moines and Topeka saw entire populations veer eastward, abandoning errands, marriages, and municipal meetings mid-sentence. The synchronized missed collisions were so precise that some mistook them for flash mobs. Others called it “The Day the Wind Took the Wheel.”

🕵️ The Ban and the Black Market

After the Gust, windshoes were outlawed in 38 states. But demand only grew. In underground windshoe speakeasies—known as Zephyr Lounges—devotees gathered to swap soles, debate wind ethics, and perform illicit gust-dances. The most coveted pair? The Whisperwalkers.

 Available at J. Peterman        $128.50

 

 

 

Once upon a time in Michigan

 

We were headed to the beach, finally looking forward to a calm day after yesterday’s blasting winds. The car had barely rolled to the end of the driveway when there was a sudden thud, followed by a hesitation in the engine, like we’d just ran into something large.

I slammed the brakes and jammed the shifter into park.
“What did we hit?!” Claudia shouted as I jumped out.

I crept around the front of the car, heart hammering. Then I saw it.

Flat on its back, flailing weakly, was a full-grown male mosquito.  This thing was the size of a retriever. One wing was bent at an unnatural angle, and a thin line of blood had shot across the asphalt. Its compound eyes locked on mine. It grimaced in pain, waiting, almost daring me to finish the job.

I froze. Claudia joined me at the front, staring in horror.

“Rats,” she muttered. “If this thing left a dent, the rental company’s gonna charge us.”

The mosquito twitched, trying to right itself. The wings buzzed like chainsaws. Both of us leapt back.

“Get in the car!” I yelled. We scrambled inside, slamming the doors, fumbling with the locks.

I gripped the wheel. “Hold on.” The car lurched forward, rolling over what felt like a massive speed bump.

And then came the sound. Imagine smashing a ripe watermelon, that has been coated with Doritos, and adding a high-pitched squeal—half tea kettle, half dental drill. That sound will haunt me forever.

Claudia just shook her head.
“We’ll need counseling,” I said.

She sighed. “Maybe you.”

It gets there first

 

Not sure how I did it, but somehow I wedged the wrong size reed into my clarinet.  Bob had the reed in his jacket pocket.  I don’t know where he got it but he told me it was the right one.

Here’s the thing; It still plays just fine but now it seems to already know where I’m headed.  It’s like it is aware of the music I intend to play, and it is almost ahead of me.  It’s kind of scary.

         I didn’t choose the reed. Bob did. Said it was the right one. Said it matched my soul. I didn’t know my soul had a serial number.

          It slid in too easily. Wrong size, but right fit. Like a key to a door I didn’t know I’d locked behind me. Now the clarinet plays before I do. I breathe in, and it’s already weeping. I think of a tune, and it’s halfway through the bridge.

           It knows. It knows when I’m about to falter. It knows when I’m about to lie. It plays the truth, even when I don’t want to hear it.

           Last night, I tried to play a lullaby. The reed turned it into a 60's hit. I tried to play jazz. It gave me something very unrecognizable.

              Bob won’t say where he got it. Just smiles that crooked smile, like he’s in on something cosmic. Like he’s the usher at a theater where the show’s already begun and I’m the only one who didn’t get the program.

             I think the reed is leading me somewhere. Not forward. Not back, just… deeper.