Larry Brody's "Live! From Paradise!"

My new haircut, the one that buzzed me within an eighth of an inch of my scalp, has brought me a whole new world of acceptance here in Paradise.

Folks who never noticed me before nod as I walk by. Other folks wave from their trucks as we pass on the highway.

The stocker at the market even comes out of the back to say howdy.

At last I’m one of the boys.

The clincher came yesterday when Brannigan the Contractor and I went over to the courthouse to check on the title to some property near Cloud Creek Ranch.

After we’d finished our business, we walked over to the square, where a couple of Good Old Boys were shooting the breeze.

Brannigan wrapped both men in his usual energetic bear hug, and then introduced us to each other.

Uncle Ernie, 6-plus feet of hard wire in a weathered face, shook my hand and smiled.

Jimmy Blue, a little shorter and a lot rounder, did the same. “So you’re the new boy on the old Ross place,” Uncle Ernie said.

“That’s a great property,” said Jimmy Blue. “Remember the fun we used to have in that pond back when we were kids?”

“That’s what — a hundred and sixty acres?” said Uncle Ernie. “All the way down to the creek?”

“Is it that big?” Jimmy Blue said. “I don’t remember. When I think about the place, all I see is woods.”

“Woods and critters,” Uncle Ernie said. “Used to go trapping out there. The Fish and Game Department had a bounty for everything. Fifty cents a squirrel. Same for rabbits and civets.”

“There were civets on my place?” I said.

“Sure were,” said Uncle Ernie. “Ornery little things. Spotted polecats is what they are, only they smell worse.”

Jimmy Blue leaned forward. “‘Worse’ is putting it kindly. Civets smell so bad that if you ever meet up with one, you’ll spend the rest of the day looking for a dead skunk to roll on.”

“Used to trap a lot of coyotes at the Rosses’ too,” Uncle Ernie said. “And red wolves.” He looked at me curiously. “Ever see any red wolves these days?”

“Not a one,” I said. “But we don’t see much in the way of wild things. My dogs think it’s their job to keep the property clear.”

“And it is,” said Jimmy Blue. “Unless trapping’s your thing.”

“Larry’s thing is ‘appreciating,’” Brannigan said. “You’re looking at a man who’s so happy he left the city he could bust.”

“So you like it here, do you?” Uncle Ernie said. “That’s good. Very good. …” He looked me up and down. Nodded as though making a decision. “We need men who love this place to help take care of it. Could be we’ll stand you for office someday.”

“With all due respect,” Jimmy Blue said, “there’s more to public service than loving the land.” He turned to me. “What about fiscal responsibility? Where do you stand when it comes to saving money?”

“Are you kidding? He’s all for it,” Brannigan said quickly. “A regular saving fool!” He gave me a look that said, Go along with me here.

“Oh,” I said. “Right. Absolutely. In fact, back in L.A., I saved so much money one day not buying a Ferrari that I was able to go down the block and buy a Porsche with the difference so it didn’t cost me anything at all.”

It was an old line Bob Hope had used on a TV show I’d produced. I knew I wouldn’t get the laugh he did, but I waited for the smile.

And waited some more.

Uncle Ernie and Jimmy Blue exchanged gazes.

Uncle Ernie shifted on his bench.

Jimmy Blue cleared his throat.

“Reckon it’s time to get on home.” That was both of them, talking at once. In about 10 seconds they were gone.

Brannigan kicked at the dirt. “That was Uncle Ernie!” he roared. “If Uncle Ernie says he’s going to stand you for office in this town you’re as good as elected! You had it all right there — till you started in about Ferraris and Porsches!”

“But I’m not interested in running for anything.”

“Of course you are. Why else would you stand here like the perfect candidate? As your ex-campaign manager, I’m telling you. Next time stick to Chevy and Dodge Ram!”

And so it goes, when you’re one of the boys.

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 September 27, 2006

I’m covered with bites today and, as Elvis put it so well, “itchin’ like a man on a fuzzy tree.” Which means I’m ready to rant about one of the most maddening aspects of living in Paradise.

Ticks!

Wherever you find beautiful greenery you also are sure to find Earth’s most obnoxious little bloodsuckers. Step outside on a beautiful summer day, and the odds are good you’ll step back in with a tick somewhere on—or in—your clothes.

Over the years I’ve learned how to deal with chiggers. Stay out of the woods. Wear boots and long pants and tuck your pants inside your boots. Keep moving. Deet up.

Ticks, however, are another story. Pick up a rake and presto! There’s a tick crawling up your arm.

Walk past a shed and wham! That’s a tick fastening itself to your neck.

Trim a tree branch and pow! That ain’t no aphid clinging to your leg.

I can Deet myself to death and still find a little bump in an inappropriate place, scratch at it…and splatter myself with my own blood, courtesy of one fat, well-fed tick mom.

I remember as a child plucking off a tick and continuing on my merry way. What I don’t remember is the welt the size of my mountaintop and the Big Itch afterward that I feel now. Have ticks mutated into something far more powerful than before?

In Paradise, common wisdom says there are two ways to beat the ticks.

The first way is to move to the city and spend your life on concrete and asphalt, insulated from nature’s miserable little sucks. Since my neighbors and I are all about living where we can touch and smell and listen to the land, that’s not an option.

The second way is to spray all around with the strongest possible poison. But that’s got a downside too. Everyone’s livestock would pay a high price for grazing on chemical-soaked grass.

Yesterday, as I pondered and scratched, Brannigan the Contractor came by to ratchet up our sagging back deck. After a couple of sweaty hours he came inside to take Gwen the Beautiful up on her offer of sweet tea.

After pulling up a chair, he noticed a two foot long feather on my desk. Brannigan eyed it curiously. “What’re you doing with this?”

“Admiring it,” I said. You don’t see an eagle feather every day.”

Brannigan snorted. “Eagle feather?! No way! It’s from a turkey vulture. Eagles are noble. They hunt just like real men. But vultures? They’re the lowest form of bird life there is. Good for nothing but stripping roadkill!”

After Brannigan left I picked up the feather. When I’d thought it was an eagle feather I’d seen it as beautiful. A prize. But now? Now I felt like a jerk.

Which got me to wondering. Why value eagles over vultures? Is killing food automatically a “better” thing to do than eating what’s already dead? Wouldn’t it be easy to argue exactly the reverse?

I called Johnny Lee, Deputy Game Warden at Paradise County Fish and Game. Asked him what he knew about vultures.
“Vultures are awesome,” he said. “I’d want to be one if I was a bird.”

This was a surprise. I asked Johnny Lee one question. “Why?”

“They’re the ultimate team players. They know how to make everything around them work for them. They’re not made for hunting so they depend on others to kill. When the hunters are finished, the vultures eat what otherwise would rot and be wasted.

“And they share it with other animals. Everything in the woods knows where to go for supper when they see vultures circling around.

“They’re great flyers too. Most efficient gliders of any bird, and they’re just about the healthiest. They’ve got special bacteria that knock out most disease.”

Which, believe it or not, brings me back to ticks and the itch I’m still scratching. Vultures are in tune with the world, and they’re big on sharing, right?

Well then, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m taking that big feather outside and waving it at the next turkey vulture I see overhead. And I’m asking it the Question of the Hour:

“How can I get along with ticks? How can I get something good out of them? What should I do?”

And I promise that when that vulture tells me, you–and Brannigan–will be the first to know.

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 September 20, 2006

I committed an act of great daring yesterday.

I got a haircut.

Not just any haircut — oh no. As I write this, my hair is shorter than it’s been in more years than I can face remembering.

It’s so short it makes the head of a USMC boot camp recruit look shaggy.

What happened was I woke up with an overwhelming need to change something about myself.

I do that from time to time, mostly when things are going too well and I feel a need to start something new. To find a reason to struggle.

The last time I went through that I quit my job, got divorced and ran off to live with “Wild Indians.”

Literally.

In comparison with that bit of work, deciding I no longer wanted to present myself in a way that made people nod and say, “Oh, aging hippie, I get it,” shouldn’t have been a very big deal.

My goal was to look more like the real me … formerly an aging hippie, but now —

Now what?

I didn’t know, but I was hoping my neighbors would help me find out.

My plan was to drive over to the Paradise Barber Ship, tell Hank the Barber I wanted a change, and see what he’d do.

I’ve been in that shop before, and I can tell you this: Clippers rule.

I’ve never seen a customer leave there needing to use a comb.

But when I got into town I discovered I’d miscalculated.

The barber shop was closed.

So I walked across the street to the shop where a friendly divorcee named Melissa cuts Gwen the Beautiful’s hair and told her I wanted the $10 “Men’s Special.”

“Are you sure?” she said. “I set the clippers all the way down to ‘Two’ for the Special.”

“‘Two’s’ pretty far down there, huh?”

“Well, not as far as ‘One.’”

“How’s this?” I said. “Set it for whatever you want. Give me any haircut you want. I’ve got total faith in your judgment.”

“You mean that? Really?” And before I could answer, she fired up that clipper and cut the first swath.

Fifteen minutes later, my hair formed a gray and silver and various shades of brown- colored pile of fluff on the floor.

With a flourish, Melissa swiveled me around to face the mirror.

“What do you think?”

I stared at my new reflection. “What do you think?” I said.

“I love it,” she said. “Honest.” Melissa nodded, more to herself than to me. “You look good. Like a man. Not an old man, and not a kid. Like an adult. Like I wish the man I’m dating over in Morning Star looked.”

Melissa reached out like she was going to hug me. Stopped herself. “Now tell me what you think,” she said.

I wasn’t sure what to say. I looked different, that’s for sure. Felt different, too.

I felt the way I’d wanted to feel when I set out from the ranch.

I felt new.

I was walking a new road.

At the beginning of a new adventure with a new me.

The real me as seen by someone who had no axe to grind, no statement to make, nothing to gain or lose by not revealing the truth.

I thought, “Ah! Beginnings!” and felt my whole body stir.

I thought, “Beginnings keep me alive!”

“I like it,” I said. “I like it fine.”

Melissa sighed with relief and gave me that unfinished hug.

Half an hour later, I was pulling up in front of our house.

Gwen came rushing onto the front porch. Stared. It wasn’t her half-blind thing. It was something more.

“Who’s this?” she said. “Who’s this man standing over by that truck? When you left here I knew you. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Neither am I,” I said.

Gwen laughed. “That is so cool!”

I came up onto the porch so she could see me better.

“I’m not sure I like this,” she said. “But I’m not saying I don’t.”

“That’s all right. We’re on the same page.”

“I’ll tell you one thing though,” Gwen said. “Whoever you are, you’re an adult. Wonder what it’ll be like after all these years, being married to an adult.”

“That’s the great thing about this,” I said. “We get to find out.”

We walked into the house, two familiar travelers taking a new road together.

An act of great daring indeed.

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 September 13, 2006

My mother-in-law, Jesse Laverne Manns, known as Laverne by her friends and colleagues, died last week in Fontana, Calif., after a heart attack and many years of diabetes. Laverne was 72 years old and beautiful in every way.

She was born in a small town in Oklahoma and became a high school basketball star in a state that took — and still takes — its “girls” high school basketball very seriously. Her sports skills earned her a college scholarship, but although Laverne always loved sports, her life was devoted to two other great loves.

The first was her husband, Everett. I came into Laverne’s life too late to meet the man everyone called “Coach Manns,” and who died, also of a heart attack, when he was still a vigorous, bodybuilding 59. But Laverne spoke of him with such adoration that I still treasure the time she turned to me — I don’t remember what I was doing but sure wish I did — and said, “Why, you’re just like Everett!” and gave me a smile that made the whole room shine.

The second great object of Laverne’s devotion was education. She was an educator all her adult life. Went from elementary school teacher to principal to university administrator because, for her, it was all about teaching and learning and guiding everyone she could toward a better future.

She could be pushy, demanding, stern. As manipulative, in a feminine “You talking about little ole me?” kind of way as Donald Trump is with his slick masculine aggression. But she played her games for the sake of others. Because she wanted the best for everyone else.

Laverne had big ambitions for her children, Vicki, Gwen, Denyse, Cary and Johnny (who came over to the house for dinner with Coach Manns one day when he was still a school boy and then just stayed on there to finish growing up), and her grandchildren. And for all her friends, neighbors, and co-workers as well. “You’ve got to do your best to get the best,” was the motto behind all of Laverne’s days.

I know Laverne best as my beloved mother-in-law. Who wouldn’t love a mother-in-law who, on Gwen the Beautiful’s birthday last month, sent her all of my favorite food? New York cheesecake! Egg bagels! Chicago pizza!

Laverne’s life was not without its share of travail. But it was impossible for her to stay down for long. Hope and idealism were like titles — or degrees — after her name. Quite simply, she was one of the most idealistic people I’ve ever known.

The last time Laverne visited us here on the Mountain, she told me about a problem a teacher she’d recruited for was having with another faculty member. This teacher was semi-retired, a former Superintendent of Schools, and a very savvy and practical man.

When I said to Laverne, “If he’s upset why doesn’t he go to the Dean?” she looked astounded.

“Oh no,” Laverne said. “He would never go over somebody’s head like that. This is a university. Nobody would think of playing politics here.”

I’ve got a few friends who are professors at various colleges, and you can believe me when I say I’ve heard a story or two to the contrary over the years. But I didn’t argue. I just smiled and nodded. Because if that’s how Laverne saw the world — if it was her world — well, that made her one very lucky woman. How could anyone ever want to change that?

Laverne’s death has brought luck to some other people, too. In her neverending battle to make things better at all times, she signed on as an organ donor. And, of course, her life helped all of us who knew her feel lucky indeed.

I already miss my mother-in-law. For 15 years, no matter where either of us was, Laverne was part of every moment of my life. She was always tucked away in the safest corners of both my head and my heart. Over to the right, beside Gwen. Now —

Just a minute. I’m hearing something. Wait —

It’s a voice. A familiar voice. A very familiar voice…

“I love you,” the voice is saying, from its old stand, still beside Gwen. “And I know I can count on you to go on and do what’s best.”

I’ll try, Laverne. It’ll be a lot easier now that I know you’re still here.

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 September 6, 2006