Larry Brody's "Live! From Paradise!"

Last week, Burl Jr. the New Groundskeeper surprised us with some news, and it wasn’t good.

“My mom’s having open-heart surgery tomorrow,” he said as he, Gwen the Beautiful and I took turns trying to start the riding mower that had been sitting idle for six months.

“What?” I said. “Tomorrow?”

“I didn’t know Laurie was having problems,” Gwen said.

“We didn’t, either,” Burl Jr. said. “But Mom started running out of breath and getting dizzy, so my father made her see Dr. Max. Dr Max sent them to a cardiologist he knew in Fayetteville for an angiogram yesterday. The cardiologist there said Mom had to have a bypass ASAP.”

“Who’s the cardiologist?” I said. “Who’s the surgeon?”

“Whoever Dr. Max sent her to, I guess.”

“How do we know they’re the best? Maybe your dad should take your mother somewhere else —”

“Larry —” Gwen said warningly.

“I just think Laurie should get the best treatment possible. Don’t you? We’ve got to make sure she does.”

“And how’re ‘we’ going to do that?” Gwen said. “We’re not part of the medical community. But Dr. Max is.”

“Right. But we need a second opinion. We need an ‘in.’ If there’s one thing life has taught me it’s that you’ve got to be an insider if you want to get the best of — well — everything.”

“Is that what life’s taught you?” said Gwen. “Or showbiz?”

“Now that you mention it,” Burl Jr. said to Gwen, “seems to me that Larry B’s always said that life and showbiz aren’t at all the same thing.”

“This isn’t about me and how I view the world,” I said. “It’s about your mother.”

And I hurried into the house. Got on the phone. Called — who else — the insider’s insider … The Old Billionaire.

“As a matter of fact, I do know the best cardiologist in the South,” the Old Billionaire told me. “And the best cardiovascular surgical team. The folks who did my quadruple bypass 10 years ago.”

“They’re good? Really good?” I said.

“I’m still breathing, aren’t I?” said the Old Billionaire. “When I should be six feet in the ground. And just to make sure other people keep breathing, too, I built these boys their own hospital wing. That’s how good they are.”

I wrote down the name. Went back outside just as Burl Jr. got the mower fired up. “Call your father!” I shouted. “I’ve got the name of the best man for the job!”

Burl Jr. took the StickIt note I handed him. “Soon as I finish mowing,” he said.

“Forget the mowing —” I said.

But he trundled off, and Gwen took my arm. “Let it be,” she said.

“But —”

“Let it be. Different people handle their worry in different ways. You’ve got to call billionaires. Burl Jr.’s got to work.”

I knew she was right, so I let it be. And forced myself to sit back and do one of the things I do worst in the world — wait. And one of the things I do best — worry.

I made it through the rest of the day, and the following morning as well. But I couldn’t fully relax until Burl Jr. came over to the main house a little after noon to tell us, “Mom’s doing great. They did a triple bypass, and everything was routine. The doctor guaranteed that she’ll feel the best she has in years. He even told dad to start buffing up because he’s going to need to be in great condition to keep up with her now.”

Gwen and I sighed with relief. But some business still was unfinished.

“So who did the surgery?” I said. “Dr. Max’s doctor? Or the Old Billionaire’s?”

Burl Jr. grinned. “Both,” he said.

“Both?”

“Dr. Max’s doctor is the Old Billionaire’s doctor. They went to medical school together back in the day.”

Burl Jr. went outside to do some weed whacking. Gwen put her hand on my shoulder. Gave me a wry smile that meant, “So we needed an ‘in,’ huh? To make sure Laurie got the best care?”

And there it was. Another Lesson from Paradise:

One of the best things about living where everyone knows everyone else is that not only do they know who the good people are, they even know the good doctors as well.

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 May 30, 2007

Just about every man I know agrees that the four most terrifying words in the English language are: “We’ve got to talk.”

Invariably, they are uttered by a woman we love. Just as invariably, they mean, “You’re bugging the teeth right out of my mouth, and I want you to stop.”

To the women we love, this is a simple statement of a need to communicate in order to keep the relationship on track.

To men, it’s a declaration that means, “Get ready, boy, ‘cuz I’m about to make your soul bleed.”

I don’t think anyone’s going to deny the importance of making our needs, desires and intentions clear to each other. But I worry about how difficult it is. How many of us really understand what the next person is trying to say?

Take the “We’ve got to talk” situation. The other day, as I stepped out of the shower, Gwen the Beautiful greeted me with those very words. Immediately, my body tensed. My chest tightened. My pulse raced. I came up with a quick list of 150 things I’ve done wrong lately, ranging from working too hard and not giving her all the attention I should to still not turning up the heat although she’d asked me to an hour ago.

I expected — make that assumed — the worst.

“It’s the new filing cabinet you bought,” Gwen went on. “The one that’s supposed to look like an old trunk. It’s acting like an old trunk, too. The bottom drawer sticks, and I can’t find the WD 40. When you get a chance can you give it a spritz?”

My budding fear and building anger retreated. My body relaxed. I wrapped my towel around me securely and went downstairs to get the WD 40 … and turn up the heat.

All was right with our world after all. But it sure was a close call.

Later that day, I saw another example of two people just not getting each other. Gwen and I were walking through the Paradise Town Square when we heard raised voices.

“I’m just saying, ‘here’s how you do it!’”

“And I’m saying I’m tired of you telling me to do things your way all the time!”

We turned to see Uncle Ernie and his cousin, Jimmy Blue, sharing a bench. Jimmy Blue was carving what looked to be a walking stick. Uncle Ernie was, well, here’s how he put it:

“I’m not telling you to do it my way. I’m saying that’s the way to do it!”

“A way, maybe. Not the way!” said Jimmy Blue.

“Ain’t that what I said?”

I took a couple of steps toward them. About to say, “Um … not really …” But Gwen took a firm grip on my arm.

“Burl Jr.’s waiting for us at the music store,” she said.

When we got home, another failure to communicate stared me in the face. Huck the Spotless Appaloosa was digging around the corral for some spilled grain. He had a rhythm going, digging with his front hooves, then lowering his head to the ground to pick up what he’d loosened with those amazingly sensitive horse lips.

At the front door, Emmy the Bold spotted him and took off, barking and leaping at the big guy. Because in dog language Huck was performing the “bow” that dogs do when they want to play, and she was happy to oblige.

But Huck didn’t see it that way. In horse language Emmy’s behavior was an attack. He reared up and galloped away. Emmy gave chase. So did I. As we passed Elaine the Not So Wild Mustang, she shook her head. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen this particular scene.

I’ll spare you the details of what came next, except to say that this morning as I contemplate my new bruises and aches I’m thinking about how much better off dogs and horses would be if they could learn not to jump the gun. If they could watch each other, and listen, and try to understand what’s really going down before they react.

Which brings me to where I am now. Trying to teach myself to slow down and do the same. So that someday when Gwen says, “We’ve got to talk,” I’ll be able to relax and listen with pleasure to what she’s really got to say.

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 May 23, 2007

In my never ending search for a reason behind the mysterious goings-on here at Cloud Creek Ranch, I’ve been taking a long, hard look at the land itself.

Especially at The Mound.

That’s the little rise in the clearing in front of our main house that’s the highest spot on The Mountain. It looks very much like the mounds marking windswept areas of earth over ancient ruins that I’ve seen at sites in Arizona and Utah.

My neighbors tell me this area always has been a great spot for amateur archeologists to explore, and you know what that means.

Yep, I’ve begun looking in earnest for signs of a lost past.

And I’ve found them, too.

My first discoveries were stone arrowheads. Then I found a large axe head and a stone carving of a turtle that’s an excellent likeness of the snapping turtle that brings so much excitement into our dogs’ lives whenever they go down to the pond.

But what cinched the conclusion that The Mound is more than a hump in the earth was when Doug the Dog Breeder came over and his GPS unit gave me The Mound’s precise latitude and longitude.

I ran that by some researchers who correlated the location with what’s already known about ancient civilizations all over the world and The Mountain fit right into the distribution pattern. According to cutting edge scholarship, whatever’s below The Mound is exactly where the spiritual center of a long lost city should be.

Although it sounds impossible, everything I know about Cloud Creek Ranch says the spiritual center theory is true. The way I hear it, strange things often happen at such locations, and a pattern of inexplicable sounds and sights was established here long before Gwen the Beautiful and I arrived:

# Voices from nowhere

# Wispy critters tantalizingly appearing just at the edge of view

# Unexplained singing and drumming.

That’s what ran off the previous owners, who created this clearing and built the house.

Shortly after I got this information, I was contacted by the Paradise Historical Society. Miz Jayne, the secretary of the PHS, asked me to speak to the group, and I was delighted to do so because it gave me the chance to share what I’d learned. A couple of weeks ago, I presented myself at PHS headquarters, received a warm greeting from the wizened Miz Jayne and told the dozen or so members in attendance what I’ve written here.

I figured that at worst they’d laugh at my speech as more crazy fiction from Larry B. And at best they’d be astounded and delighted and give me some clues about what to do next.

But in a universe where the unexpected rules, the reception my words received was one I’d never anticipated.

Utter silence.

No one spoke. No one asked a question. No one responded in any way.

“Dude, you are so bombing here,” one part of my mind said to the other.

To which the other could only reply, “Not only don’t they believe you, they don’t care.”

As a public speaker, I was a dead man. Time to creep out gently, into the good night …

As soon as the meeting was over, I bolted for the door. Felt like I was barely escaping with my life. In my disappointment with myself, I started thinking about ways to find out for certain whether the Sacred Center theory was right and decided to call Dwayne the Earthmover about the availability of his backhoe.

But before I made it out to the parking lot Miz Jayne stopped me. “Hope you’ll join us for refreshments,” she said. “Don’t those cakes smell good?”

I mumbled something about having to go. Miz Jayne looked at me closely. “How old did your experts say the civilization on your mountain was?” she said.

“Um … 8,000 years,” I replied.

“They might be a little off,” said Miz Jayne. “We’ve got some of our own artifacts in the back room. Archeologists told us they date back 10,000 years.”

“Why didn’t you say something about this while I was speaking?” I said.

“We didn’t want to hurt your feelings. You were so proud of your discovery.”

“Then why’re you telling me now?”

“I may be a hillbilly, but I know that look on your face,” Miz Jayne said. “Can’t let you go out and do something as dumb as excavating your whole front yard.”

And at that moment, the cakes smelled very good 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 May 16, 2007

Big doings up here on The Mountain last weekend.

It was Burl Jr. the New Caretaker’s 23rd birthday, and everyone gathered in the Annex for some whoop-de-do.

We had Burl Jr., Tera (his Twin Flame), Burl Jr.’s parents — Burl Sr. the All-Time Best Farmer in Paradise County and his wife, Margie — and a couple dozen of Burl Jr.’s friends and cousins.

Gwen the Beautiful and I were there, too, of course. Gwen’s contribution to the festivities was a chocolate layer cake with a plastic Elvis on top of it in honor of Burl Jr.’s ambition to become the next big Rock God.

Burl Jr. sang and played the guitar. I joined in on drums. Tera made like Linda McCartney on the keyboard. A good time was had by all.

Well, almost all.

What Burl Sr. had was a problem.

He spent almost the whole time on his cell phone. Listening to someone who wouldn’t stop talking. Toward the end of the celebration, I found him sitting outside at a picnic table. A frowning Margie sat nearby.

“I don’t know, Bobby,” Burl Sr. said into the phone. “I just don’t know.” And he shut it with a sigh.

“Well, I know,” said Margie. “He ain’t staying with us, no matter how much he cries.”

Then she saw me, and her voice grew less harsh. “Larry B’s a man of the world. Tell him what’s going on.”

Burl Sr. was uncomfortable. But he also needed to have his say.

“That was Bobby, my old high school best friend. Fifty years ago, understand? We did everything together, him and me. But after graduation, we took different roads.”

“Bobby was always restless,” Margie went on. “Paradise wasn’t big enough for him. He had to go to the city. Be a hotshot in Little Rock.”

“Little Rock didn’t agree with Bobby,” Burl Sr. said. “He picked up and went west to Oklahoma City. Then Albuquerque. Then some skiing place in Colorado. Made a lot of other stops in between.

“No matter where he went and what job he got, Bobby stayed restless. Every once in awhile he’d wake up, decide he hated his life, and move on. Leavin’ wives and kids and homes and bank accounts behind.

“Bobby started with some promise,” Burl Sr. went on. “He was the smartest boy in school. His first job was managing a Greyhound bus station. Twenty-five years ago, when he called me to shoot the breeze, he was pumping septic tanks.”

“And this time? Tell Larry B about this time,” Margie said.

“Now he’s calling from Springfield, Mo. Saying he ain’t worked in three years. He’s got diabetes, and they just cut off one of his legs. They’re taking the other one next week. He’s married again, to an ol’ gal who’s been supporting them by working at the Waffle House. She doesn’t want to do it any more. She wants him out.”

Burl Sr. paused unhappily. Margie filled the gap. “Bobby’s calling because after he gets out of the hospital he’ll be nothin’ but a homeless cripple, with no love and no money and no friends to coddle him. He’s lookin’ for someplace to land.”

“Us taking him in would be the right thing to do,” Burl Sr. said. “The charitable thing.”

“It’d also be the biggest chore I ever took on,” said Margie. “Me taking care of a man I never even liked. Mr. ‘I am the Smartest’ Bobby and his ‘nuthin’ here is good enough’ ways!”

She looked straight at me. “You’re a man of the world, Larry B. What would you do? Would you take him in?”

I looked at the two of them. Thought about the consequences. Saw the pain in the faces of Burl Sr. and Margie. Considered the pain Bobby, who I don’t know, had to be feeling as well.

I thought about times when I’d been in their position, and what I’d done … and what I might’ve done instead. About what was right in the eyes of the universe. And what was wrong when you had to live with it in the world.

And all I could say was, “I want to help you. I’d love to help you. But I can’t.”

“See?” Margie said. “Those’re the words. Those’re the words you say to Bobby next time he calls!”

That wasn’t what I’d meant. Not at all.

But as they say about the weather in these parts: “Guess it’ll have to do.”

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 May 9, 2007

There’s sane news and insane news here on The Mountain this week.

The sane news is that I let the brown hair dye Gwen the Beautiful use on me several months ago grow out and have no intention whatsoever of trying that trick again.

The insane news is that I’m still not fully reconciled to growing old gracefully and have started fighting it in another, probably even more ridiculous way.

Exercise.

Weight training, to be precise.

Although I can think of another term for it:

Self-torture.

Yep, there’s nothing like taking that desperate desire to regain lost youth and putting it face-to-face with a multi-station professional gym set, a few dumbbells, and a leftover Inquisition device called a “neck strap” to bring out the inner masochist in a man.

Everyday, it’s Larry B’s fantasy perfect physical self versus Larry B’s all too real imperfect physical self in the storage shed we’ve renamed “The Gym.”

I train in the morning, before distractions (formerly known as “real life duties and recreation”) get in the way.

That means waking up, pulling on my official gym outfit of sweatpants, sweat socks, and the tattered blue-and-gold P.E. sweatshirt I’ve kept since high school, downing a cup of coffee, letting out the dogs, feeding the horses, and positioning myself at the various stations of the apparatus Wanda the Arkansas Angel supplied for the express purpose of Gwen’s rehab from her stroke.

It means grunting and groaning and pushing and pulling and sweating and shaking and watching my life pass before my eyes with each agonizing rep.

It means reminding myself to breathe and cursing myself for panting and remembering how much easier it was to recover from this kind of exertion back in the day.

Accompanied by the following refrain:

“One … never … two … again … three … never, never … four … again …”

And on and on for what seems ad infinitum even though the number seldom gets past 10.

After which I make my wobbly-legged way back into the house, scarf down my breakfast of one slice of toast and more coffee, wait for various body parts to stop spasming and get back into bed.

Know what happens then? Well, four mornings out of five Gwen turns toward me, opens her innocent hazel eyes, and says, in a voice still all whispery from sleep, “Did you take a shower?”

Which (and it took me way too long to figure this out) really means, “Take a shower before you get into this bed!”

In other words, no matter how early it is, or how much I’ve exhausted myself, there ain’t gonna be no goin’ back to sleep. Because who ever felt anything but revived after a good shower? It’s a temporary feeling to be sure, but for me it lasts just long enough to fool me into thinking I’m ready for the day.

Notice, by the way, what I said I’ve been having for breakfast. A single slice of toast. That’s because in order to encourage the hands of the Larry B. body clock to spin backwards I’m also employing the dread “D” word.

As in “Diet.”

And not just any diet, no sir. I’ve put myself on the same diet that got me into shape back when Jerry Ford was President of these United States. It’s a diet I got from Lou (the Incredible Hulk) Ferrigno when he was a champion bodybuilder and a good friend.

I don’t remember what Lou called it, but in my mind it’s always been the “If You Like It You Can’t Eat It” diet. For reasons way too obvious to anyone who’s ever eaten anything they’ve liked.

Like the exercise, the diet worked pretty well once upon a time — except for that heart attack I had in the gym — which is why I’m punishing myself with it now.

So am I feeling younger? Stronger? More fit? Let me put it this way. I’ve lost a pound a week over the last three months, and I’m this close to wearing the same size I did 25 years ago. My heart rate is down. My blood pressure, too.

But everywhere I go people say, “You OK? Your face is drawn. You look so tired.”

And every night I think, “Ah, blessed sleep … ” followed by, “Oh no! When I wake up tomorrow I’ve got to hit the gym!”

And I keep wondering how many people end up old before their time … because of the very means they’ve chosen to return to their youth.

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 May 2, 2007