Larry Brody's "Live! From Paradise!"

I’ve always marveled at the fact that the most consistent thing in life is change.

The paradox is so clear that no one even blinks when it’s pointed out.

Unless, that is, the change is occurring to you … and it’s not the kind of change you were wishing for.

Here at Cloud Creek Ranch, Gwen the Beautiful and I have been going through a couple of months of change, with no end in sight. And try as I may to be ready for the new — mostly by keeping myself open to the unexpected so I can go with it — I’ve got to admit that recent, current, and future changes have me … well, how about if I protect my feelings by saying “off-balance” and let it go at that?

My health’s turn for the worse is the “recent” change I’m talking about. And Gwen and I and all the spirits at Cloud Creek (both living and not-quite-material) have been deeply affected.

My body no longer lets me do the things it used to, leading to a situation where I have to face a future without Huck the Spotless Appaloosa. A couple of weeks ago, in this very space, I put out a call for possible caretakers or even owners (as if anyone could “own” a free soul like him!) for my horse brother.

At first, it looked like Burl Jr., Blues Singer Extraordinaire, was going to take Huck to his father’s farm, but that fell through when our still-sputtering economy cost Burl Sr., longtime Paradise Farmer of the Year, control of the spread he’s owned for almost fifty years. This was accompanied by the end of Burl, Jr.’s day job, which means that he, wife Tera, and toddler son Strummer have taken off on another road trip not merely in search of musical fame and fortune but in need of it to pay the bills.

Huck’s future, however, still seems provided for. Even as I write this, the Landry family is packing up for a move from the coast of Florida to The Mountain, to ensconce itself on the property. The Landrys are even bringing their own horses with them so Huck will have plenty of company.

This future change isn’t without its dark lining. The Landrys will be taking over both the Main House and the Annex because Gwen and I won’t be here. Remember last summer, when we spent a month in Port Paradise, on the Pacific Northwest coast? We’re headed back there for an indefinite period of time, to be closer to most of our family … and snug in the bosom of Youngest Daughter Amber and her Amazing Jeremiah.

The easiest way for anyone in Paradise to envision Port Paradise is to think of the Ozarks’ Victorian haven, Eureka Springs. Add oceanfront. Stir in classic wooden sailing ships, galleries galore, nearby Seattle’s modern medical facilities, and a devotion to Credence Clearwater Revival unmatched anywhere else in the world and you’ve got the setting for my recuperation.

Accompanying Gwen and me will be Emmy the Bold, Ditsy Dixie the Golden Lab, and Decker the Giant-Hearted.

In fact, Decker’s already there. Thanks to Our Friend the Dog Trainer, a loyal reader of all I’ve written here, Decker’s natural good-nature, intelligence, and acute awareness of his surroundings have been professionally honed, turning him into a full-fledged Service Dog.

Our Friend is refining Decker’s training now, so he’ll be able to accompany us wherever we go along Puget Sound and, at the command of, “Take us home,” return us to our car or front door.

The perfect companion for a couple as “directionally challenged” as Gwen and I have found ourselves to be over the years.

Because we’ll be living in a small space with the kind of rules and requirements that normally chafe me to the bone (and, who knows, may do that still), we’re unable to take Belle the Wary, Emmy’s daughter and Decker’s litter sister, and Bob the Very Careful Cat.

As a result, Gwen and I are looking for homes for both of these loyal, lovable, and (because who would expect the Brodys to have it any other way?) slightly eccentric friends. If anyone out there, current neighbors and readers and friends of friends, wants to know more about either of these two fine furballs, I guarantee a prompt reply to any email sent to my larrybrody@cloudcreek.org address.

So, there we have it. Change.

Inevitable.

Relentless.

Tearful.

Excuse me while I blink.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published March 5, 2010

I’m feeling very “Larry” today.

I know that sounds strange. I am Larry, after all, so how else could I feel?

Well, for four weeks, “weak,” “tired,” and “anxious” in various combinations with “in pain” pretty much described my postheart-attack-and-bypass-surgery condition. But last night, at about 2 a.m., I realized that no longer was the case.

I woke up as I have every post-op night, pulled myself up and out of bed using only my stomach and thigh muscles (no hands or arms allowed!), hied myself to the bathroom to perform the necessary ablutions …

And realized that something was different.

Amazingly so.

Wonderfully so.

My pain level was the same as it’s been for the past several days, but it didn’t bother me anymore. My breastbone ached, but instead of dominating my being it was just a background effect. Like a mild headache. Or muscle stiffness after a workout.

Instead of overwhelming me, the pain in my chest simply felt — familiar. Almost comfortable, in a strange way, as though my chest was saying, “Yo, Larry B., I’m still here, still part of you. I’ve got your heart here in my hands and am taking the best care of it I can.”

“Thanks, chest,” I whispered, keeping my voice as low as possible so Gwen the Beautiful wouldn’t hear me.

I had two reasons for that. Firstly, I didn’t want to disturb her sleep. Secondly, I didn’t want her to think I was crazy. (Ain’t a lot of sane guys I know who’ll cop to talking to their chests while listening to the toilet flush.)

But I meant what I was saying, and it seemed perfectly reasonable for my chest to be able to hear and understand my appreciation. I’d heard and understood it, hadn’t I?

“No problem,” my chest replied. “Just doing my job.”

And then it said to me what everything says to me when we talk. My body. The house. The trees. The Wind. And the Universe itself.

“I love you,” it said.

“And I love you, dude,” I whispered back with what I knew was a great big smile.

I took a pain med and went back to bed. In the morning, I woke up to the sound of Ditsy Dixie whining and barking. Beside me, Gwen stirred, but I told her to go back to sleep and went down the stairs to let all the dogs out.

Although I wasn’t rushing, I saw that I was taking the steps one at a time, which was a change from the way I’d been descending since returning from the hospital. Until this morning my M.O. had been to do the one step with one foot — then catch up with the other foot — then repeat on the next step semi-crab-walk.

I’d thought of that as “The Invalid Walk” and been kind of ashamed of it. But now the need for it was gone. I felt confident. Secure.

As the morning progressed I found myself falling into my old, pre-heart-out-to-get-me routine. I made coffee, checked my e-mail, then made toast. Oh, and I stretched, reaching high overhead and out to the side with my arms, then stretching my legs and arching my back as well.

This was a Big Deal because until that moment I’d been afraid to arch my back, thinking somehow that would … well, make my chest explode. I’d had a lot of illogical exploding chest thoughts. But this morning they were gone. Gone so far that I had to work at recalling how they felt, and not for the life of me could I imagine why I’d let them have such a big influence on my recent life.

All day it’s been like that — normal shower, normal getting dressed, normal swearing at the Japanese Beetles cum Ladybugs crawling inside the windows, normal food taste, normal energy level (mentally anyway).

“Thank you, Universe,” I’ve said more than once, but upon reflection I understand that this miracle isn’t really that at all. Last week, Debra, my surgeon’s nurse (who looks like a better-looking Kate Hudson), explained that because of the surgery my hormone balance had shifted but that I shouldn’t worry because it would shift back.

I didn’t understand until today … specifically until I looked at Gwen and felt the kind of stirring I hadn’t experienced since before I went into the hospital.

“I love you, hormones,” I said.

And not only did I not try to keep Gwen from hearing, I wanted her to know.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published February 26, 2010

It’s been four weeks since my quintuple heart bypass surgery, and the most difficult aspect of the situation to deal with has been just that — the four weeks.

Time.

Recovery is a marathon, not a sprint, and I’ve always been a sprinter. An instant-gratification kind of guy.

“I want —”

“I need —”

And zap, I go out there on the hunt and I get.

I know I’m not the most virtuous man on the planet, but as the days of discomfort have crawled by it’s become increasingly clear that the virtue I most lack is patience.

I can’t go out and hunt for health. I can’t force my new arteries to mesh smoothly and perfectly with my heart. Can’t grab my incisions by their scruff and holler, “Heal, damn you!”

All I can do is take my meds and eat my veggies and rest in the new recliner and engage in the kind of exercise I would’ve mocked just a month ago (“Oh, boy, I’m walking around the house for six and a half minutes. S-l-o-w-l-y. Oh wow.”), and wait.

And, man, do I ever stink at waiting.

All together now. Let’s hear it for Larry B.:

“Sigh …”

I’m furious at myself for handling things as I’ve been. For trying to get way too much work done. For cursing at every twinge. For constantly telling my body, “You can do this. You can step over the doggy gate. You can stretch way up there to the back of the closet shelf and take down that old pair of shoes. You can toss that garbage can around like a popcorn-stuffed stocking, no problem.”

Because I can’t.

Stepping over the doggy gate or stretching my arms to the back of the closet or schlepping the garbage means losing my balance. Means catching myself by pushing against the wall. Means flexing stiff chest muscles and making myself wonder for a terrifying second if I’ve totally undone a month of breastbone healing.

“Ouch!”

That’s me.

“Take it easy, sweetie. I’ll get it for you.”

That’s Gwen the Beautiful.

“I don’t want to take it easy. I don’t want you to get it for me.”

Me again, of course.

“I know that, honey. I understand.”

Gwen again, naturally. “But I want to be there for you. The way you’ve always been there for me.”

I always thought it would be easy — more than easy, it would be wonderful — to be taken care of. To let others attend to my needs. Used to joke about how I’d married a woman substantially younger than I was “so she can push my wheelchair when the time comes.”

I was wrong.

Being a caregiver when Gwen had her “early” stroke was a walk in the park, psychologically, compared to being taken care of by her now. Helping someone I loved was the most natural thing in the world to me. But being helped, ah, it’s alien, icky, wrong.

A voice inside my head keeps crying out. “I can do it. I can do it. I’m really okay!”

A voice created by pride.

By habit.

By fear.

Fear of revealing weakness.

Fear of revealing fear itself.

Fear of becoming too demanding, too difficult to deal with. And, because of that, of pushing away my Team Brody partner.

Of losing her love.

Physically, I’m so much better than I was a week ago that I can barely remember what that old feeling was. I’m out. I’m about. In fact, at fifteen pounds lighter than before the heart attack, I’m most amazingly fit. Most of the time, my body feels like me again, only even better.

Actively good.

Hearty.

Sound.

Psychologically, though, I’ve become my own whipping boy. Talk about a self-defeating state of mind!

My doctors, my friends and family who’ve been through this same surgery, and Web site after Web site tell me that what I’m experiencing is normal. “They’ve got meds just for this,” they say. “Take ‘em.”

I dunno about that. For most of my life, my way of controlling my emotions, of handling the blues, has been to move into the moment and appreciate the highs and the lows as the transient miracles they are.

And to write about them. Share ‘em. Own them by giving ‘em away.

Hey, what do you know? In the words of that immortal songstress, Britney Spears, “Oops, I did it again.”

Thanks for listening.

Couldn’t carry it off without you, y’know.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published February 19, 2010

And now it’s time for a little self-aggrandizement.

I mean, if a 65-year-old man who’s just had a heart attack and bypass surgery can’t show off a little of what’s helped him feel better and stronger everyday, who can?

Here, then, is a brief sampling of the astounding number of e-mails, letters, and even postcards I’ve gotten since first revealing what happened:

From Aebeth, here in Paradise:
“I for one hope you’re around to report on Paradise for a long time to come. I am truly sorry for what you have gone through; but I feel quite confident you will only allow the slowdown to help you ponder life and share your thoughts with the wind, and the rest of your loyal listeners. Get strong, Larry!! And get well soon!!”

R.D. in Arkansas:
“My prayers and best wishes for a quick, strong, high-energy level to come to (Larry B) … very quickly. He still has some things to do that call for passion. So recover quickly, kind man.”

D.Q., in Australia:
“I just wanted to say I am sorry to hear about your health and wish you a speedy and full recovery. I am sure all out there wish you the same and all understand that you need to heal. Having given so much of yourself to us, it is now time to give to yourself and grow stronger again. All the very best, mate, and positive vibes coming at you from down here.

J.T., in Wisconsin:
“Take good care and glad you are still with us … Thank you for being you, giving back, and sharing your journey with the rest of us. Best to you … in the next stage of your many-faceted wanderings …”

C.C., somewhere on the web:
“I was very saddened to hear of your recent heart attack. But I’m glad you’ll be surrounded by friends and family during your recovery. I’ll send a wish out to the universe for your continued and rapid recovery. (That’s as close as an on-the-fence agnostic like me can get to saying a prayer.)”

Loyal Reader D.C. Rowlett:
“Dad was 59 years old when his heart attack came … It was late October 1966 and bypass surgery had not been thought of … so recovery was a very slow process. Dad spent the greater part of the upcoming winter in the house, pacing the floor and looking out the screen door across the Ashley farm just to the north of us.

“As soon as the grass began to turn green in the early spring his demeanor changed. ‘Gotta get my boat out and see if it still floats.’ ‘Gotta get my shotgun and rifle cleaned up. I ain’t sitting in this house anymore.’

“He didn’t either. He stayed active till he was almost 80 years old . Hang in there, Larry B.; this is just a bump in the road.”

Of course, not all has been sweetness and light. A lawyer-reader had this interesting take:

“Do you know whose dog went through your trash? A case could be made that its owner is responsible for your heart attack…and liable for considerable damages …”

I do know whose dog it was. But to me this hardly seems the time for mean-spiritedness. I doubt that the Universe has hit me with what another reader called “this wake-up call” for reasons other than to urge me to be more generous than I’ve been. More open. More giving.

After all, what does the planet need me around for if I can’t help make it a better place?

Speaking of generosity, I have a favor to ask.

My heart’s misadventure has opened new doors for me but, sadly, also is closing old ones. No longer am I capable of caring for my horse brother, Huck the Spotless Appaloosa.

Everyone who comes to this space knows about our relationship. A dozen years of sibling-style love and sibling-style rivalry as well. (“Why couldn’t I be the human and you the horse?” Huck once complained. “I guarantee you I wouldn’t waste one single moment of being two-legged and alive!”)

The time has come for me to entrust Huck to the care of someone else. So I’m putting out this call to my Paradise readers. If you’d like to hang with the wildest, woolliest, funniest, absolutely best equine pard ever, and have the wherewithal to do it, please, drop me an email and, sad as it may make me, we’ll talk.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published February 12, 2010

One of the most reassuring aspects of life is its regularity. Regularly recurring events like the phases of the moon, the seasons, and, in Paradise, the cresting of the Buffalo National River give me feelings of dependability and reliability. Kind of a, “Hey! The chiggers are back! All’s right with the world!”

Turns out that my life also has its recurring events. In fact, one of them raised its not-insignificant head just three weeks ago.

Not, however, in what I think of as a reassuring way.

Thirty-two and a half years ago, when I was just a lad, I had the massive heart attack I’ve written about in this space before.

And in mid-January of this year I had another one.

Thirty-two and a half years after the first, give or take a few weeks.

On one hand, this is horrifying. On the other it’s just plain cool. If not for the pain and other consequences I’d be spending delightful hour upon hour analyzing and puzzling and trying every which way to figure out why I’m getting these regularly scheduled wake-up calls.

Who or what has set up the timer?

Why?

When?

That kind of thing.

All right, I admit it. I am putting in those hours. Can’t help myself. It’s how I’m wired. I’ve gotten some answers to my questions too. Mostly in dream time, where I’ve found myself confronting my past, present, and future, my dead parents and former friends and lovers, my enemies too.

The result of all this introspection is that I have a whole new outlook on life and reality … and what may be a genuine inkling of the true nature of the Secret of the Universe itself.

Or not.

Doesn’t matter, not really. What matters is that I’m alive to throw myself into the search.

My heart attack occurred over a period of four days. Started when I was picking up trash some not-so-friendly neighborhood dog or coyote or bear or whatever had strewn all over the Cloud Creek driveway. Chest pain for 20 minutes, then the all-clear. Then pain again, until at last I wised up and told Gwen the Beautiful what was going on.

Gwen made the right call, and soon I was in an ambulance, heading for the emergency room, receiving a life-saving supply of oxygen and morphine and nitro pills. Two days after this particular race for life, I underwent quintuple bypass surgery.

Four days after that I was home.

Two days later, I was in front of the computer, trying — and failing — to work.

The aftermath of the surgery has been “interesting,” à la the ancient curse, “May you live in interesting times.”

Some of the time has been horrific, infused not only with pain but also with a sense of helplessness that has left me afraid to take the next breath.

But some of the time has been wonderful too. Peaceful. Filled with powerful emotions … and with a true awareness of the old saw about wherever there’s life there’s hope. I find myself more hopeful than ever, and filled with excitement about facing the challenge of recovery and the re-assumption of the mantle of ambition/aspiration that has always been my defining characteristic.

This time around, I find my surgery more meaningful than the heart attack itself. My moment-to-moment activity is, for all practical purposes, a response to having been cut open, messed around with, and then closed up again.

For example, I’m now terrified of lying on my back. Because it’s unsafe to use my hands to pull or push myself up (might strain my carved-up breastbone and keep it from healing properly, as well as hurt like hell), I’ve got to struggle into the next position using only my abs.

And you’re not going to catch me using a knife for awhile. Because I keep thinking I won’t be able to control it and, snick!, it’ll end up in my chest.

I’m not too keen on showering or bathing either. Because, “Aargh! The water, it’s beating on my chest wounds! And on my torn-up left leg, where they took out veins to make into arteries replacing those that were blocked!”

But this will pass. Each day gets exponentially better. Today, so far, has been pain-free. And Gwen and Burl Jr. are taking good care of me and the ranch.

Even as I get better I ponder about the future and what’s in store 32 1/2 years from now.

Wonder if I’ll be able to report on it here.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published February 5, 2010

I’ve written before about our dog, Emmy the Bold, Queen of the Cloud Creek Ranch pack.

Her puppy adventures running up mountains and merrily crashing down have left her with bone spurs, arthritis, and pain.

For awhile, Emmy’s condition slowed her down, but meds and her own internal fire have combined to keep her alive and continuing to play-play-play till she drops.

Most of that play is with the other dogs in the big yard behind the main house, but each dog also gets some alone time with Gwen the Beautiful or me.

For Emmy, that means playing football. Actually, it’s more of a game of Keep-Away with an under-inflated youth football. I take Emmy and the ball outside. Emmy allows me to punt it…and then she runs, catches the ball in her mouth, and prances around, daring me to snatch it away:

“C’mon! Yank this out of my mouth!” Followed by her battle cry, “I dare ya!”

I always do my best, but the only time I get the ball is when the dog gives me a break so I’ll keep playing. And after one kick she catches it and starts teasing all over again.

If you’re a dog person, you understand: This is fun.

Especially for Emmy.

Last week, though, I made a big mistake.

On one of her catches, Emmy punctured the ball. I couldn’t kick an empty rubber bladder very far, so I tossed it in the garbage and drove to Walmart, where I found something I couldn’t resist.

A pro, regulation model. On sale.

Its hide was much thicker than our old football’s, and it was filled solidly. And when I took it home and kicked it – wow!

I watched excitedly as the ball flew higher and farther than I’d ever kicked before. Emmy ran, leapt up for the catch —

And yelped as the football bounced from her grip.

Filled with her usual fire, Emmy pounced.

The ball squirted away.

Emmy circled, rushed from another angle —

And plain couldn’t hold on. The new ball was too big, too strong, for her to keep in her mouth.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, Dixie the Ditsy Lab picked that moment to pounce on the porch gate, jar it open, and rush out to join us —

Scooping up the football effortlessly and racing around the yard with her trophy.

Emmy sagged. Her ears drooped. For the first time in her life, she’d been defeated.

I’ve seen her posture on humans. It said, “I’m not who I thought I was. I’m not me anymore.”

For the rest of the day, Emmy moped and slunk. “You started this,” Gwen said. “Now you’ve got to fix it.”

My first attempt was a washout. I let some air out of the ball and went outside with Emmy. I punted…and watched as she ran to catch it.

And failed once more. She still couldn’t wrap her mouth around it.

I let out more air. Kicked again. This time Emmy didn’t even try to catch the ball. She just watched and whimpered.

The next day I went back to Walmart and bought exactly the model we’d played with before. Let out enough air so it was as soft and manageable as Ole Number One had been.

Emmy the No-Longer-So-Bold, the ball, and I went out to the yard. I kicked.

And Emmy ignored it.

I mean, she ignored everything:

The kick.

The ball.

Larry B.

Instead of trying to play, Emmy just turned her back and sat down.

“Nothing going on here,” she said with a yawn.

And went back into the house to sleep for 24 hours.

The following morning, Gwen woke me way too early. “Garbage pick-up today.”

“So?”

“So don’t you have something to do?”

I groaned.

But I knew what she meant.

I got out of bed, pulled on a pair of pants and three warm bathrobes. Drove down to the bottom of The Mountain, where I’d left the trash cans last night.

Twenty slimy minutes later I dug out what I was after, and that afternoon I took Emmy outside and showed it to her:

A punctured, empty, rubber bladder.

Emmy sniffed at it, watched as I kicked…

With a happy woof, she raced after her old pal. Plucked it out of the air. Ran off with a quick look my way.

“C’mon! Yank this bad boy out of my mouth! I dare ya!” she yelped.

Just a small victory, but that’s what she needed.

Emmy the Bold is back!

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published January 15, 2010

Like most people, I live a life where if anything can go wrong, it does.

Several months ago, though, the Universe took pity on this obscure inhabitant of the Milky Way, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around what happened.

Gwen the Beautiful and I were in China when creation itself seemed to reach out and touch me and say, “This is your moment, Larry B.!”

What a moment it was! Far from cosmic. Not especially significant in any broad sense. But oh — so satisfying.

Gwen and I were at a showbiz party. Surrounded by stars of the Chinese stage and screen. Our Generous Hostess asked if I played any musical instrument, and I’d had just enough wine to say, “I play the drums.”

At that, our Hostess grinned and clapped her hands together. Immediately, her Major Domo rushed to my side.

“You will like this,” he said and ushered me into the next room, which was set up like a bandstand, complete with instruments. Behind a line-up of guitars and keyboards was the drum kit of any drummer’s dreams. Drums, drums, and more drums. Big cymbals. Little cymbals. Everything and anything that went crash, bam, or boom.

“Music is Madame’s passion,” the Major Domo said. He pulled the drum “throne” out for me. “Please — rock on.”

I’ve played the drums for over 50 years. Started in the Junior High band. My parents got me my own drum kit, a Ludwig Buddy Rich Super Classic in “black diamond pearl” in 1958.

My high school buddy, tenor sax man Ron Tiersky (now an eminent political scientist teaching at Amherst), and I started a band that played at all the school events and gigged around locally as well.

For awhile I thought I’d make drumming my life’s work. Except that I wasn’t quite good enough for that. Had one tiny little weakness — keeping a steady beat.

I turned to the typewriter, and later the computer, for my livelihood. Still, over the years I’ve played with a great many musicians, both minor and major. I love doing it, but every session has been stressful at best … and a few have been outright terrifying.

For some reason, however, that night in China I wasn’t at all frightened or even tense.

I sat down, picked up the sticks, and started wailing.

And as I played, party guests who were musicians made their way into the room, grabbed guitars, began playing. Guests who were singers joined in. We played together in various combinations, and as though we’d known each other for years, traveling a rocking road from ’50s rockabilly through ’70s psychedelia to 21st century pop.

We jammed for hours, and everything I did sounded … well, to my ear I sounded the way I’d always wanted to, for the first time in my drumming life. I was wild, but my beat was steady. I hit the heights I’d always aimed for but never came even close to before.

When it was over, and we’d all crashed from exhaustion, I looked around at the happy faces of my One Night Band Mates, and then I looked up at the ceiling, trying to see beyond it, to the stars.

Two thoughts leapt into my mind.

The first one was, “Thanks.”

The second was, “Why?”

Since that night, I’ve often relived the exhilaration I felt when, for a few hours, I got a taste of being someone I’d so much wanted to be when I was young.

And, each time, my gratitude immediately is followed by a search for the cause. Finally, I decided it had to be the drum kit. The quality of its components. The way they were set up.

If those drums were mine …

I checked out the price online and found that it was way out of my reach. But I saw another kit, similar but more affordable. And so, after 50-plus years with my original Ludwigs, I finally bought new drums.

They arrived a few days ago, and I spent the next several hours setting them up, tuning the heads, doing the things drummers do. I’ve been playing constantly ever since.

Do I sound the way I did that night in China?

Gwen says, “Of course you do.”

But my ear tells me something different.

I need to make sure.

To know, absolutely, whether the Universe handed me a one-nighter or intends for Larry B. to rock on.

Anyone out there have a band that needs a drummer? Or want to jam?

Give me a call.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published January 8, 2010

Every night for the last three weeks I’ve had the same dream.

More than every night, in fact, because it comes back to me any time I relax or close my eyes.

For someone like me, who’s been trying to figure out the meaning of life ever since I can remember, this is a wonderful dream. A dream that comes thisclose to answering my questions.

And then — but of course — turns around and gives me about 50,000 new questions to ask. In the dream, I live in a small town. Like Paradise, it has two main streets. Unlike Paradise, the architecture of all the buildings is Victorian. Also unlike Paradise, the town is along a sea coast. What sea, I don’t know. What coast — east, west, north, south — I don’t know either.

I do know that it’s a beautiful place. One where, along with a Partner I can’t see and don’t really know, I run a business out of one of the buildings closest to the sea. I don’t know the name of the business, but its purpose is crystal clear. I — make that “we” — teach people of all ages how to live.

Specifically, we teach them how to live proudly and openly and with as much style and excitement as they can. In this dream, Shakespeare was dead right when he said in “As You Like It,” “All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players.” (Except I’d drop the “merely” because I don’t see anything “mere” about this.)

That’s right. Everything we do is part of a show, designed for the entertainment and enlightenment of both an unseen audience of who knows who or what and also one consisting of ourselves. The school I share with my unknown Partner teaches everything you need to put on a show to everyone else in the world.

Now that’s cool.

In the dream, I divide my time between sitting in an office and working with other writers to write scenes for the actors to play as part of their lives (including scenes about writing scenes) and stalking through the halls helping younger students — children — and their parents grasp the general point of everything.

The writing part is a snap. I do it well and love every instant. But helping the kids and their folks grasp the general point is tough. Because I don’t know the general point. I’m clueless as to why everyone in the world is living this show business life. And totally in the dark about who the unseen audience is.

Because of my ignorance, I find myself turning more and more to the unknown Partner for help. Which isn’t so easy when you don’t know what he looks like, or even where she is.

It takes work, but I always manage to find him when I need to. Sometimes she’s able to help me. Most of the time, though, he’s as bewildered as I and the two of us just mush on as best we can.

But every time we “mush” we succeed.

When I was writing and producing television I learned that both jobs were about making decisions. It didn’t matter what you decided, just that you decided something. Making a decision, even the wrong one, meant the show could go on. Not making one brought things to a shuddering halt.

The dream reaffirms that. The dream tells me that it’s the mushing — the trying — that counts, and not whether what we try is right or wrong.

For three weeks now, I’ve been trying to dig down to a deeper interpretation of this dream. One of the main ways I interpret thoughts and feelings and dreams and events is to write them down and see what the act of writing turns them into, which is why I’m writing this.

And in the course of this writing I’m starting to understand that one of the points of the dream is that we’re not going to get any grand meaning out of life as a concept … because the meaning is in the actual living of the life. It’s in going onstage and doing our best. Getting totally involved in putting on that great, big, wonderful show.

I could’ve written this just for myself and then put it away. Instead I’m throwing it out to everyone who comes to this space. To do otherwise would be to betray my part of the Partnership. To abdicate the teaching thing.

So that’s it, today’s class. The last class of 2009.

On to 2010 and the next awesomely mystifying Dream.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

There’s something about December…

How can I not love the month that gives us:

My birthday! (Chocolate cake every year I can remember. And, this year, genuine Chicago deep dish pizza, from the loving arms of UPS.)

Hanukkah! (Eight nights of gifts every year of my childhood, from the loving arms of my parents. And, this year, more Chicago pizza.)

Christmas! (The tree, the caroling, eggnog every year since I became an adult. And, this year, no pizza but the wonderful opportunity to communicate via this space.)
Cold weather! (Colder than any month but February at the least. Icy nasal passage cold in years my shiver-friendly self gets lucky.)

And, this year, an added bonus in the form of a healthy Gwen the Beautiful.

I haven’t written about Gwen’s medical problems lately, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t had them. Especially over the last six months, when she was wracked with stomach pain that got so bad it was impossible for her to eat.

Lost 20 pounds the last two weeks of November, my wife did, and no one could figure out what was going on until a terrific M.D. named Simmy Goyle, currently residing in L.A. but formerly of London, New Delhi, and St. Louis, put us in touch with another terrific M.D by the name of Peter Warner, who practices within two hours of Paradise in Springfield, MO.

Shortly after my birthday, Gwen was hospitalized and Peter put her through a battery of tests showing that even though Gwen’s specific symptoms were unusual, the cause was an underachieving gall bladder, swollen, and up to no good.

Out came the insidious organ, and in came the December—Larry B’s Birthday, Hanukkah, Christmas, cold weather—miracle of no pain and edible meals for Ms. The Beautiful.

To misquote a Disney song I used to hate, “It’s a whole new world” for the Brodys.

And we’re not the only ones here on The Mountain affected that way.

A lowlight of this past year was the sudden and unexpected death of one of our horses, Rosie the Romantic Arabian, while Gwen and I were away on the other side of the world.

For weeks, my horse brother, Huck the Spotless Appaloosa, was deep in mourning. How bad was his depression? Well, from the looks of him he lost a lot more weight than Gwen did. I’d estimate about ten times as much.

He’d been alone in the corral — with a few side trips into our backyard and some interesting attempts to climb onto the porch — since mid-October, and a Huck who’s alone is a very noisy Appaloosa indeed. He would complain loudly and angrily, and then stop to listen oh-so-closely for a reply he clearly was hoping would come from the distance, from his lost mate.

So when Gwen and I drove back up to Cloud Creek Ranch after her surgery we were surprised to see the big guy standing calmly in the center of his area instead of galloping straight to the fence to horse-yodel his usual welcoming demand.

We were used to, “You’re home! It’s about time! Rub me! Nuzzle me! Brush me! Okay, yeah, you can feed me too!”

Instead, we got a little nod and a flick of the lips that I know (because Huck and I have been together for almost all of his life) is a smile.

“Look at that!” Gwen said. “Look at them all!”

I stopped our pickup at the top of the trail we call a driveway. Counted not one, not two, not three or four, but five truly beautiful women standing behind my favorite equine.

No, not human women.

Nor horse-type women either.

Deer.

Five full grown does.
Their eyes as big and as round and as sensitive as Huck’s.

The does’ posture shifted to that of wary attention, directed at us. Huck turned his head toward each doe, one after the other, and nodded again.

Then bucked, kicking out with his rear legs.

“Bye, ladies,” he called out. And, “Thanks for the fun!”

The deer scattered, leaping over the fence on the woodsy side of the corral, and Huck ran to the gate closest to where the truck was idling.

With a truly merry horse laugh, he greeted our return.

“You’re home! It’s about time! Rub me! Nuzzle me! Brush me! Okay, yeah, you can feed me too!”

Should’ve known a cool guy like Huck wouldn’t be alone for very long.

Merry Christmas, y’all, from all of us at Cloud Creek.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

I’m far from being the first person to observe that as our lives amble, zip, and sometimes sputter along paths we’ve chosen — or had chosen for us — many different milestones measure our passage.

First day of school.

First communion.

Bar or Bat Mitzvah.

High school or college (and, these days, junior high and preschool) graduation.

Marriage.

The birth of a child or two, or more.

Divorce.

Grandchildren.

The deaths of our parents.

The death of a mate.

A host of others, some intensely personal, others appropriate for us all.

Obviously, many of these moments are wonderful. And, just as obviously, many are 180 degrees in the other direction.

But just a few weeks ago I encountered the most terrifying and, yep, depressing milestone of all.

Like a whole lot of bad news, it came in the mail.

My Medicare card.

I’m not talking political-socio-economic philosophy here, I’m talking psychological reality.

Staring at that little card waiting to be separated at its perforations and slipped into my wallet, I could think of only one thing:

In less than one month — under 30 days! — I’ll be 65.

Yikes!

Was that for real? Could it possibly be true? Once upon a time various of my grandparents were 65. I remember them well. Doddering, deaf, terrifying when they were behind the wheel of any vehicle on any public, or for that matter private, thoroughfare.

And my parents. They both reached 65 too. Shriveled. Barely able to see. Terrifyingly driving each other to doctors and hospitals as bouts of illness became more and more frequent … and severe.

But those old codgers were from other generations. Immigrant oldsters born in Europe at the turn of the 20th century. Generation Gapped adults of what Time Magazine called “the best generation,” born in the Good Ole USA just in time for the Great Depression.

That’s not me.

It can’t be.

I’m a young, vital, physically fit baby boomer. I’ve trained with weights for over 50 years. Worked as a writer, a gig that demands the utmost in concentration and creativity for 40 …

Uh-oh. Wait a minute. There are things, some important, some not-so, that I’ve done for 40 or 50 years?

Friends I’ve had for that same length of time?

Stories I tell that begin not with “Once upon a time” but “Back in the day …?”

I am so … so … what’s the word? Back in the day I never had trouble picking the exact one I needed, but now …

Now I’m old.

Medicare old.

Social Security benefits old.

“Grampa Larry” old.

I may not be doddering — yet — but when I stand beside my children I feel nowhere near as tall as I used to. My doctor recently recommended a good hearing aid so I could appreciate all the now-missing “sha-bop-sha-bops” on oldies radio. The prescription that just a year ago covered the farthest distance of my “progressive lenses” now is too weak for even the middle …

And, difficult as this is for me to admit, I wouldn’t want to be in another car driving on the same road Grampa Larry was on, nosirree. In fact, just yesterday a neighbor young enough to be my son posted these much-too-true words to me on Facebook:

“Hey, Brody, stay on your side of the road!”

He added an “LOL,” but that was just an act of mercy, after a surprisingly close call.

“I grow old, I grow old. I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”

So wrote T.S. Elliot back in the day long before the day I go back to. He was referring to fashion, a teacher of mine who had heard him speak about his poetry told our lit class.

“At the time Eliot wrote this,” she said, “the style was for young men to wear straight bottoms and for older ones to fold their pants into cuffs.”

I’m still wearing straight bottoms on my jeans, but even though I’ve beaten Fashion, Time’s got me on the ropes.

Having become a grandparent several times over has been wonderful, but what comes next doesn’t seem nearly so good. I’ve spent much of my life throwing myself at the future but fear that the best I can hope for next time I do that is that I’ll bounce groggily back.

What bothers me most is that after all these years I still haven’t figured out what the Universe is all about.

On the other hand, I’m pretty sure the Universe hasn’t figured me out either.

Hmm, whaddaya know?

Gotcha, Uni—dude.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published December 18, 2009