Larry Brody's "Live! From Paradise!"

“Department of Motor Vehicles.”

Nothing fills the hearts of Big City Dwellers with more terror than those four words. Not only are they inevitably accompanied by a bill guaranteed to burn your soul, very often they mean: “Get your butt in here, buddy. Time to stand in line.”

And in the Big City they aren’t kidding about “time.” When I lived in L.A., it was common to wait at least four hours just to renew a vehicle registration. And when I had to take the written test to renew my driver’s license, it literally took all day.

So it was with a fair degree of dread that I went to Paradise’s equivalent of the DMV the other day. The Revenue Office.

The state of Arkansas and I were having this little disagreement, see, about my personal property assessment for the coming year. I said I’d sent in all the right information about my truck. The faceless folks in Little Rock said, “Uh-uh.” I was hoping that my friends in the local revenue office, a storefront on the town square, would be a little more helpful than that.

I was also hopeful that I’d get out of there in time for, say, Easter. But I wasn’t counting on it.

As soon as I walked in, though, I saw yet another reason why this place is Paradise. It was the lunch hour, but instead of a milling throng of supplicants, only two people were waiting — for three clerks. In other words, no waiting. Not one minute. No need for the “Take-A-Number” machine.

I stepped up to the counter, and Evie the Friendly Clerk, who I’d seen many times around town, smiled like the sun and told me not to worry about a thing. She took the letter the state had sent me and clacked away at her computer keyboard.

In all of 20 seconds, she’d identified the problem. “This shows that you assessed and paid last year,” she said, “but the year before that is blank. The state wants you to pay for that blank year. With penalties, of course.”

“But I did pay it,” I said.

Evie nodded. “Of course you did. If you hadn’t, we wouldn’t have let you register the truck the next year. So let me make this little change…”

She typed something in. “There. Now you’re officially paid up. All I need is a check and I’ll give you your new sticker.”

I handed her the check. She gave me the sticker. Total time elapsed from when I’d entered: Two and a half minutes.

See? Paradise.

“Is there anything else I can do?” Evie said.

I was about to say no, but then I noticed something on the wall behind her. An old-fashioned cork bulletin board. On the board was an 8-by-12 poster with the words, “In God We Trust,” surrounded by little American flags.

“Is that your poster over there?”

Evie nodded. But she looked a little troubled. “We’re not supposed to have the word ‘God’ in public buildings,” she said. “But I kind of like it.”

“You think it’s risky for you to put it there?”

“I think it could be,” she said. “But they say it on money, don’t they?” Her voice grew stronger. “And besides, I’m a free woman in a free country. I can believe in whatever I believe in, can’t I?”

All I could do was shrug. “Anyone complain about it?” I said.

Evie smiled again. “No,” she said. “I was expecting them to, but nobody has. So far the only people who’ve mentioned it have said how happy it makes them.”

A look of concern returned to her face. I knew she was waiting for me to tell her my reaction.

And I knew what my reaction would be.

I’m not into ideology, or what rules and regulations and politics and religions are right or wrong.

But to me, when Evie put up that poster, she was performing an act of pure self-expression. Of individuality. Of, in its way, rebellion.

And as a thinking, feeling, pretty much open and out there “go ahead take your best punch kind” of human, there’s nothing I love more than self-expression and individuality and, yep, rebellion, too.

I mean, what’s real Paradise if not a strong place in your soul that plants you firmly as your own person, ready, willing and able to let everyone know who you are?

So I smiled back at Evie, and said, “I’m happy to see that poster, too.”

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. 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 August 30, 2006

Doug the Dog Breeder’s recent comments about patterns of behavior have gotten me thinking about the animals at Cloud Creek Ranch. Common wisdom says animals in general are creatures of habit. But Brody experience says, “Not the dogs, cats, and chickens here. For them, change has become the order of the day — as of this week.”

Take our dogs, for example. For more than three years, since the birth of Decker the Gentle Giant and Belle the Wary, the dogs had the same morning pattern. At 7 o’clock, when I feed the horses, I let the two younger dogs out of their yard and they run into the house with me to join their mother, Emmy the Bold, for breakfast.

Emmy always finished first. Then she and whichever of her kids ate the quickest would rush to the door so I could let them out to roam the woods for about an hour. The remaining dog — usually Belle — would curl up on the couch until the others returned. As soon as I opened the door, Decker, run ragged by his super-energetic mother, would shove his massive way inside and Belle, like his partner in a tag team wrestling match, would take his place, going back into the woods with her mother.

This week, though, Belle has proved herself the Queen of Creative Thinking. Instead of coming in for breakfast and trying to rush her food down in a usually futile attempt to beat her brother, now she just stays outside and waits for Emmy to join her. Then off they go. “Food?” Belle says. “Who needs it? I’ve got first dibs on the action!”

The change in the cats’ behavior looks to have been a joint decision of Baggy, the 25-pound look-alike of Fantasia’s hippo ballerinas, and Roberto El Gato, the tuxedo cat who never has let anyone but Gwen the Beautiful touch him. (Actually, no one’s ever even seen him but Gwen, Youngest Daughter Amber, and me. That’s what being born in a box alongside a busy freeway does to even the bravest of critters.)

For almost five years, the two cats were for all practical purposes the owners of the back of our house, as anyone with a working sense of smell could attest. The guest room, downstairs bathroom, hallway and laundry room were their domain, and neither cat so much as ventured beyond an invisible boundary line.

Imagine my surprise, then, when this week they decided to broaden their horizons. Suddenly they’re everywhere. Splashing papers off the partners desk Gwen and I share. Taking over as centerpieces on the dining table. Sprawling across Gwen’s pillow in the evening. (They still won’t touch mine, which has taught me to be grateful for small mercies.)

What made them change the pattern? I don’t have a clue. Maybe they just did it because they could. Or maybe they did it to prove they could. Or maybe they’ve been talking to Belle.

Then there’s the chickens’ new behavior. For years, the same thing happened every time I entered their domain.

They’d cackle and flutter and flap themselves out of my way, eating the bread I threw only if I threw it farther than my shadow.

All except the old brood hen. She would sit in the coop, atop the day’s eggs, and sing and sigh and spread her feathers so I could pick her up, pet her, and take those yummy little omelet makers.

When the hen died last year, the next hen in line replaced her but would have no part of me. The sight of me would make her shriek and puff herself up and fly from the nest, abandoning the future kids and “saving” herself.

Ah, but this week it’s a whole new ballgame. I walk into the chicken yard and the chickens come swarming to me.

Not only do they not care how far I throw the bread, they clamber all over my feet to get at it.

And the new brood hen! She sees me and sings and sighs and spreads her feathers. When I reach down to her she draws herself up into my arms and vibrates as though purring. “What’s mine is yours!” I hear her say. “Take whatever you want.”

Humans are special? The only animals who can grab the bull by the horns and initiate the kind of change they hope will improve their lives?

Not here on The Mountain.

Not this week anyway.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. 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 August 23, 2006

A couple of months ago, when Gwen the Beautiful and I were over at Doug the Dog Breeder’s house, he and his wife Anita introduced us to Dora, a young woman with a month-old baby. Dora and her husband, who wasn’t there, were renting a trailer on the property next door. They were new in Paradise and, “We love it here,” Dora said.

After Dora and her baby left, Doug filled me in a little. “Dora’s husband’s name is Sebastian,” he said. “Hails from Texas. Dora’s from Oklahoma. They moved in last week. Sebastian’s a carpenter. Not good enough to do finish work, but he’s a decent framer. He’s already got himself a home remodeling job.”

“Sounds industrious,” I said. “Like a man making a good start.”

“Yep, sounds that way.”

But I could see from the look on Doug’s face that he wasn’t all that sure. A couple of minutes later, after Anita and Gwen went outside, I found out I was right.

“There’s something wrong with Sebastian,” he said. “I can’t put my finger on it, but I know it’s there. He’s twice as old as Dora is. Won’t talk about his past. I don’t trust a man with no stories.”

Doug’s an ex-lawman. A former federal marshal. When he says he doesn’t trust someone, I listen. This time, though, there wasn’t anything more to listen to. Not until last week, when I stopped by to see Doug’s latest litter. Six round, fat, little golden retriever pups.

Across the yard, through the fence, I saw Anita and a middle-aged woman I didn’t know come out of the trailer with Dora and the baby. They walked over to a beat-up old Dodge with boxes piled up inside and a U-Haul trailer attached to the back.

After a last hug from Anita, Dora and the baby got into the car. The other woman took her place at the wheel, and they drove off. “That’s Dora’s mother,” Doug said. “Taking her daughter and granddaughter home.”

“I thought they were happy here,” I said.

Doug looked out at the road. “Remember what I said about the husband? Sebastian? Turns out he was a convicted felon in Texas.

“Dora met him on the Internet. He came to see her in Oklahoma, and sparks flew. They got married without Sebastian ever telling his bride who he really was. Mama didn’t like him and kicked him out right after the baby was born. Dora chose to stand by her man.

“Things went pretty well for awhile. Then, a couple of weeks ago, two deputy sheriffs came by and arrested Sebastian for violating parole, and for not registering as a sex offender, which is what he is. Dora’s been crying ever since.”

I thought about what Doug was saying. “How do you suppose the law knew to find the guy here?”

Doug shrugged. “Could have to do with the fact that somebody who knew what he was doing dug into Sebastian’s past. And that same somebody also learned that the people whose house Sebastian was working at everyday had a young son, same age as the boy who figured in his conviction.”

We left the puppies. Walked over to the run where Doug keeps Boomer, their 125-pound daddy. Doug was still talking: “It could even have to do with the fact that it’s one thing for a man to try to mend himself and another for him to welcome back an old pattern guaranteed to cause misery to everybody around him …”

Doug looked like he had more on his mind, but Boomer’s happy barking as he saw his favorite human interrupted him. The dog high-tailed it over to our end of his run, barking and wagging and leaping excitedly.

Like all folks who are good with dogs, Doug had a pocketful of treats.

“Hey, Boomer! Here you go, boy!”

He reached over the fence and fed his big friend.

Boomer chowed down. Barked for more. “Know what I love most about dogs?” Doug said. “We can change their patterns. All it takes is a little work. And they can’t lie or hold back about it. All they can be is honest and open and true.”

He scrounged a few more liver snaps from his pocket. As Boomer gulped them down, Doug’s face squinched up into a look I couldn’t quite identify but was either ineffable sadness or radiant joy.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. 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 August 16, 2006

Summer isn’t exactly the best time to visit Paradise. With the temperature in the hundreds and humidity to match, my favorite summer activity is camping in the living room, up against the air-conditioning vent.

Still, for reasons boiling down to our friends explaining, “This is when I’ve got time off,” Gwen the Beautiful and I have had more than our usual share of houseguests during the past few weeks. We looked forward to all of them. But what all of us hope and what really happens aren’t necessarily the same.

Our first guest was Jim the Banker. Shortly after Jim arrived, he and I visited the feed store to get some chicken scratch. When we walked in, Jim stopped short. Took a deep breath. “Smells like pigs!” he called out.

Everyone in the place turned, staring at him.

“Why are they looking at me like that?” Jim whispered. He raised his voice. “Pigs!” he said. “Pigs!”

The stares turned to glowers. I steered Jim out the door.

“C’mon,” I said. “We’d better get back home.”

Jim looked forlorn. “But I don’t want to leave. I was born on a farm. The smell of grain always reminds me of pigs. And I really miss our pigs.”

Our second houseguest was Lex from upstate New York. He was driving across country with his two Doberman pinschers.

“This is going to be a great visit,” Lex said as he let the Dobies out of his car. “You and Gwen and me and Bruno and Helga —”

That’s when we heard the deep, rumbling growl from one of his dogs. And turned to see her standing nose-to-nose with Emmy the Bold.

“Oh,” said Lex, “I forgot to tell you. Helga hates other dogs.”

Decker the Giant Hearted came running to his mother’s defense, followed closely by Belle the Wary. Joining Helga was Bruno, the other Dobie. Helga snapped at Emmy. Emmy lunged. Yours truly dived between them …

Time now to mercifully move along to guest number three, our old pal Kevin the San Francisco Realtor. He, Gwen, and I were doing great until we took him into Paradise for some Saturday night Music On the Square.

“They call this blues?” Kevin said. “The music scene in San Francisco, that’s where you’ll find down-home blues.”

Then there was his reaction when we joined a group from Big Paul’s Wilderness Outfitters for a morning of floating on the Buffalo National River.

“You call this a river?” Kevin said to everyone who could hear. “Northern California, that’s where you’ll get hard-core whitewater.”

Our fourth houseguest was my Old Elementary School Buddy. He roared up on his new BMW motorcycle. Showed me not one, not two, but five handguns hidden on his body. “Let’s stake out this bike near town tonight and see who tries to steal it. Then, when they do …” He did a quick draw from his boot. Made the same shooting sound he used to back when we were kids playing.

Guests five and six arrived together. Gwen’s Old Boyfriend Gary and his wife, Norma the Nerve Jangler.

We met them at the airport in Little Rock. “Hi, Gwenny!” Gary said. And gave Gwen a big hug.

“Glad to see you, Gary,” I said.

“You sure look wonderful, Gwenny,” said Gary. He hugged Gwen tighter.

“Eee — !” Norma screamed. She pointed at some Good Ole Boys across the baggage claim. “I know their kind,” Norma said. “They’re going to steal our luggage. They do it all the time back home in Chicago.”

Gary was still talking to Gwen. “Remember that summer when we went to Taos?”

And these are the highlights of each visit.

Because of all this, yesterday morning Gwen and I made a vow.

“No more houseguests,” I said.

“Pinky promise,” said Gwen.

We did the silly handshake we’ve done so many times with our kids.

I went outside to feed the horses. Huck the Spotless Appaloosa squealed as a dozen mares and their foals crested our driveway and moseyed over to the corral. Buck the Ex-Navy Seal’s little herd had gotten out of its pasture and the ladies were calling on their closest friends.

The happy horses pranced and snorted and nuzzled over the fence, and although I knew I was going to have to bring the new arrivals home eventually, I also knew Gwen and I had been wrong to make our vow.

There are guests … and there are guests.

And these are the kind I’ll welcome any time.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. 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 August 9, 2006

I’m still getting e-mail regarding what I wrote about the day I spilled coffee when there was no coffee to spill, watched change in my pocket vanish and reappear, and found birdseed I’d bought put away in our storage shed before I ever took it out of the truck.

Thanks to this publication and the wonder that’s the World Wide Web, I’ve been inundated with responses from all over the planet to the questions I posed at the end:

“How about it, readers? Any strange experiences like this you’d care to share? Better yet, any explanations of what’s really going on?”

I’ve gotten both positive responses and negative ones. The negatives mostly go like this:

• “You weren’t serious about that stuff, were you? My wife thinks you’ve lost it.”
• “What meds are you on? Those can really effect your memory.”
• And the one that still hurts: “Who cares about your Twilight Zone coffee? Sorry, but I want the three minutes of my life back that it took me to read this.”

The positive responses of course are more fun:

• “Things like that happen to me all the time. I used to think of them as ‘Old Guy Moments’ even though I’ve had them since I was 17. Your piece made me realize that I’m not alone. I’m not crazy after all.”
• “Throughout my life I’ve relived various events over and over, especially ones where I meet people. It’s like an eternal state of deja vu.”
• “My studies show that matter isn’t nearly as stable as we’re taught. What we think is the universe is a false belief, and the universe doesn’t always play along.”
• “These slip-ups happen constantly. Mostly we miss them. Your eyes were wide open this time.”
• And my favorite: “I’ve been doing probability experiments. You would be amazed. I can’t stress enough the importance of what I have found!”

When I wrote my musings, I had no idea I’d be opening such a large can of worms.

The fact that so many people live with so many strange things happening to them made me want to grab Gwen the Beautiful and jump into the truck for a cross-country jaunt to visit as many of them as we could. To learn who they are and how they live and what truths they have to share.

Since this was on my mind, I had to share it as well. With those who are most important in my life.

First, I talked to Huck the Spotless Appaloosa. I told him I was thinking about taking a long trip. His response was to shake his head so hard that his forelock and mane swept from side to side.

“You want to leave us?” Huck said. “Who’ll brush me? Who’ll tell me stories? Who’ll listen to what I’ve got to say?!”

Decker the Giant-Hearted, son of the Big Red Chow Dude, was so upset that he leapt off the porch swing we shared. “Who’ll wrestle with me?” he said. “Who’ll let me out every day? Who’ll listen to what I’ve got to say?!”

Gwen’s response was both tender and knowing. “Sweetie,” she said, “do you really think you can bring yourself to leave Paradise for as long as this kind of trip would take?”

She stroked my cheek. “You’ve got a bond here. If we take off, who’s going to listen to everything the Wind’s got to say?”

Thinking about my wife’s words, I went down to the pond. As I sat down on one of the benches there, a little wind chime in the nearest cedar sang more than it should have on such a still day.

“I don’t understand,”it said. “You want to find magic by leaving here? By journeying from a place where the animals and the trees and the rocks and the very house you live in talk to you all night and day?

“Where everything you see and hear and touch says ‘I love you,’ and all you’ve had to do to earn that love is live?

“Where all you’ve had to do to experience it is … listen. Listen to all your friends?”

Looks like Gwen’s right. Paradise and I are one. I hate leaving for even a day.

But y’all are invited over here any time. And you’re welcome even if your lives don’t feel all that strange.

All you’ve got to do when you get here is tell me about yourselves.

I’ll be glad to listen.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. 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 August 2, 2006