Larry Brody's "Live! From Paradise!"

A few years ago angels were hot.

We had TV shows devoted to angels. Films about angels. Books. Greeting cards. Everywhere you looked, you encountered fact and fiction about people who’d been contacted by angels and how it changed their lives.

Lately, though, the angelic hullabaloo has died down. The Web sites are still there, and I hear a couple of networks are talking about bringing out new “Stairway to Heaven”-style shows. But it’s not as pervasive as it was before. Angel sightings have dropped way down, with their space being filled by Bigfoot sightings and UFO abductions.

Yesterday, however, something happened that brought angels into my mind all over again.

No, it wasn’t the e-mail I got from Wanda the Arkansas Angel, chatting about what was new down her way. (Good news. Bad news. Births. Deaths. Things getting better. Things getting worse. Business as usual, you might say.)

It was lunch.

At the Mexican restaurant across the street from the courthouse.

Gwen and I were having an unusual lunch there. Unusual not because of anything they were serving — or we were or weren’t eating — but because Lyndie the Waitress wasn’t there. She’d had the nerve to take the day off, and I admit it. I was thrown off-balance as a result.

“The place doesn’t feel the same,” I said. “The atmosphere’s different. No one said, ‘Hi, Larry! Hi, Miz Gwen!’ when we came in. No one said, ‘Iced tea for Gwen and hot coffee for Larry, right?’”

Gwen sipped from her glass of iced tea. Pointed to my cup of hot coffee. “Somebody did say, ‘What would you like to drink?’” she pointed out. “And we’re drinking it, aren’t we?”

“Sure. But no one’s saying, ‘How’re you feeling today, Mizz Gwen? Don’t forget your cell phone on the table again, Larry.’ It doesn’t feel right.”

Gwen smiled that smile wives and lovers smile when they think we’re a little nuts but also a little cute for being that way, and I decided to enjoy my lunch without thinking of Lyndie again.

But then another customer came in. A man in a Razorbacks baseball cap. The Waitress Who Wasn’t Lyndie came over to give him a menu, and I saw the smile on his face fade. “Where’s Lyndie?” he said.

“She’s not working today.”

“She always works Mondays.”

The Waitress Who Wasn’t Lyndie shrugged. The man let out a sigh. Spoke to no one. Everyone. Himself. “It’s not the same when Lyndie isn’t here. She makes me feel like someone cares about me. No matter how rough my day’s been, after I walk out of here I feel strong again.”

Gwen’s face took on a “Eureka!” look. She leaned forward to me. “I get it now. You guys are right. Lyndie always feels so eager it makes everybody else — even me — want to plunge right into things, too.”

I’ve been thinking about people like Lyndie since Gwen said that. People we see all the time, but don’t know all that well, or even complete strangers who just happen to be in the right place at the right time to ease what ails us regardless of what’s going on — right or wrong — in their own lives.

I remember the guy who came up to me one day as I was gazing out at the ocean sadly wondering what the point of my existence was. “You’ve got to go with it,” he said out of nowhere. “All of us do.”

And because of him, I did.

And the time I was that guy for an elderly woman sitting on a bench in the Paradise Town Square, looking like she was about to cry. “I’ll bet your grandchildren love you,” I said for no reason I knew of as I walked by. A week later she stopped me in the market. “I want to thank you for your kind words,” she said. “I was doing poorly, and you made me feel alive.”

Gwen’s had times like that in her life also. So have all the friends I’ve talked to about it. People rising out of their suffering because of someone else. Or helping other people do the same without even knowing that’s what’s going down.

So here, for whatever it’s worth, is what I think about angels:

I think we’re all angels — each and every one of us shuffling across this planet — just for helping another human being or two get through the day.

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.

When I was a kid, I sometimes had nights when I couldn’t fall asleep. Most of the time it was because the day had been too exciting and my body was too revved up to relax. Sometimes tomorrow just plain seemed too frightening.

Over the years, I discovered that a good way to make myself relax was for me to think about something wonderful. Sometimes I’d make up stories and tell them to myself as I lay in bed. Other times, I’d fantasize about things I wanted to have someday.

I still do this on difficult nights, but as I’ve gotten older, the stories and fantasies have changed.

Take my Dream Team of Acquisitions, for example.

As a 4-year-old, I wanted a puppet version of Howdy Doody, the marionette hero of my favorite TV show. With that at my side, I’d be a hero as well.

As a 14-year-old, I wanted a new bicycle. A Raleigh racer, top of the line, so I could ride like the wind and go places I’d never been before, in style.

By the time I was a 24-year-old, I wanted a Porsche and the showbiz career that would make owning it possible. I worked hard and achieved both those desires, just as I’d managed to acquire Howdy and the racing bike years before.

At 34, when I lay in bed unable to sleep, my mind turned toward even fancier fare: A red Ferrari, a stable of thoroughbreds, that kind of thing. I struck out, but in the bedtime fantasy game real world failure and success don’t count, and my appetites continued to increase.

By the time I was 44, I was fantasizing about having a private jet and a crew of lovely flight attendants to go with it. A villa in the south of France and a household of lovely French maids. A TV production empire that would’ve rivaled present-day Viacom and a studio full of lovely assistants. (Who cared if they were French? Not me.)

I didn’t get any of those things, either. But in spite of (or maybe because of) the futility of my ambitions I did get a lot of sleep.

These days my desires are less exotic. I realized this the other day when I was over at Doug the Dog Breeder’s, helping him install a new wooden floor. (Assuming, of course, that the definition of “helping” is saying, “Man, this place is really looking great,” while sitting and sipping sweet tea.)

“Know what I want?” Doug said.

“This little mallet over here?” I said.

“I want a tractor,” Doug said. “A John Deere. I saw a brand new green and yellow backhoe on Highway 14 yesterday and spent all last night imagining what it’d be like if that was mine.”

“Really? All night?”

“Well, until I fell asleep filling out the paperwork for the bank loan in my mind.”

“I know what you mean,” I said more or less automatically.

And then I stopped, realizing that, in fact, I knew exactly what he meant. Not because I used to think about what it would be like to have my own million-dollar this or billion-dollar that, but because the most recent thing I’d thought about having for myself was a John Deere tractor of my own.

Not a backhoe. That was too rich for my blood. A little 990, the kind you can get for $135 a month through the John Deere Web site. A Web site I go to at least once a week so I can replenish the fuel for my latest dream.

I told Doug that he and I were counting the same sheep except he was thinking bigger than I was, and he burst into laughter. “Some folks might say you’re lowering your sights,” he said. “But I know better than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t help but be ambitious. You’re not wanting smaller, just different. This 990 is only the beginning. By next month, you’ll be working out how to take over Tyson Farms.”

Once upon a time Doug would’ve been right. But here, now, I don’t ache in the slightest for my own big-time agribusiness or world dominance of any kind. I really just want my own John Deere.

Not the little 990 though. Or the backhoe.

I want the 9620T. The bad boy that goes loaded for $300,000 plus.

If stewing on that doesn’t get me through the night, nothing will.

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 June 20, 2007

A neighbor by the name of Ron Thomas stopped by Cloud Creek Ranch over the weekend to put an interesting proposition on the table. Interesting enough, I think, to share.

Ron’s in charge of the local version of an educational program called the “East Initiative,” and he wanted to know if I’d volunteer some time and energy for it. The East Initiative is all about teaching high school and middle school students how to make the most out of their computer skills by applying them to the making of video. It gives them a solid foundation they can follow up professionally, or as hobbyists, or simply as appreciative viewers who genuinely know good work from bad.

The specific project Ron has in mind for his students is called “My Community.” It’s a contest in which they make short videos about their town. This, of course, is right up my alley. I would’ve agreed to help out even if Ron hadn’t offered me the fine Paradise payment of three miniature goats.

After Ron left, though, I got to thinking. I’ve seen some of the past winners of “My Community.” No matter how good they’ve been — and some have been very good indeed — they’ve all been pretty cut-and-dried.

“Here’s what our town looks like …”

“Here’s what it used to look like …”

“Here’s what we do in our town …”

“Here’s what we used to do …”

None of them give the flavor, the feeling of what it’s like to really be alive in that particular place, at that particular time. And to me that means both the audience and the video makers are missing out.

There’s a reason my thoughts wandered in this direction. The name of that reason is Elaine the Not So Wild Mustang.

Born wild in the inhospitable Nevada desert, Elaine is congenitally bowlegged and knock-kneed. Her front end has been breaking down for years, and now, at about 20, she’s loaded with bone spurs and chips, and the pain that accompanies them.

To relieve the pain, Elaine does what any sensible creature would do. She lies down. But these days it’s getting harder and harder for her to stand back up. Painkillers have become an integral part of Elaine’s life. They taste terrible, so to get her to eat them I grind them up and sprinkle the powder into her afternoon mash. Then I watch to make sure her lover boy, Huck the Spotless Appaloosa, keeps his nose out of her bucket and in his own.

The price of failure at this assignment is an intoxicated wild man of a Huck who races around kicking and rearing like a horse from Hell for an hour or two, demonstrating more power than it seems safe for any living thing to have — and a shockingly powerless Elaine who hurts too much to move.

Since the first time I found Elaine on the ground, unable to get up, I’ve helped her to her feet more times than I can count. Sometimes, I can cajole her to her feet. Other times it takes some yelling, or even prodding. A push here, a pull there, and then a quick dive for cover so I don’t get kicked in the head as she scrambles.

One result of all this has been that Elaine has become more relaxed around me than she was. She comes to me for petting. Likes to stand close and listen to me sing. Huck’s not happy about sharing my attention, but he seems to know Elaine’s time is limited so the only trouble he makes about it is a horselaugh or dirty look.

From time to time I’ve been known to proclaim, “Life is laughter!” but it’s clear that for Elaine life is very much a suffering thing. Until recently, I hadn’t realized how difficult each moment is for her, and how much courage it takes for her to just get through the day. Now I’ve got to make that courage mean something, for her and whomever else I can.

Which is why, when I work with the students on their “My Community” project during the next few months, I’m going to encourage them to show the responsibility, the pain, the joy … the moment-to-moment emotional richness of their daily lives.

Will that make them winners in the competition? I can’t say. But if they can come close to carrying it off, they’ll have created something wonderful and unique, and winners they will be.

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 June 13, 2007

Just about anyone who’s ever read what I write about in this space every week knows how much I love living here in Paradise.

The land!

The animals!

The people!

The charms of country living are abundant, and I hear daily from city folks who say they envy me for the slow pace and warm intimacy of my world.

My old friend Cal, Brooklyn born and bred, put it this way: “Everything you write about Paradise resonates in me. Just the thought of living in a place where the UPS driver and I could know each other’s names sends chills down my spine.”

Well, Cal, my friend, just hearing you say that did the same thing for me.

But — much as I hate to say it — there’s a dark side to Paradise after all. I’ve tried not to say much about it, but the sad truth is that we’re missing a few things here that I’m still having trouble doing without.

Restaurants!

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying there aren’t any good restaurants here in Paradise and its adjoining counties. Because, of course, there are. Fine places, many of them not merely reasonably priced but downright inexpensive, and, also for the most part, specializing in delicious meals that are exactly what Mama would’ve cooked if she’d been as good a cook as Daddy always told her she was.

I mean, I can’t think of any other geographical area where I can pull into just about any building that says, “Café!” “Dining Room!” or “Grill!” on its sign and taste better fried chicken.

Or biscuits and gravy.

Catfish.

Mashed potatoes.

Chicken Fried steak.

Trout.

Good, filling (some unenlightened souls might say “fattening,” but no, not I), stick-to-the-ribs country food.

But — there’s that negative conjunction again — sometimes even as satisfied an old boy as Larry B gets a hankering for something new. For a delicious meal that’s not something Gwen the Beautiful could make at home.

For an aromatic, exotic, senses-stirring meal that takes my taste buds away from the heartland of the good ole U.S.A. and makes them think, just for an hour or so, that they and their good buddy my stomach have been transported to a faraway, spice-steeped land where they can indulge themselves in, oh say, sushi.

Or curry.

Beijing duck.

Sizzling rice soup.

Pad Thai.

Original Chicago-style deep dish pizza. (You don’t think Chicago pizza is exotic? Oh ye of little faith …)

Ah! How I hunger!

I can feel the pangs growing stronger as I write this. I can taste … I can taste …

Aargh!!

Sorry, guess I got a little carried away there. Remembering that in the city an Indian-owned-and-operated-and-cooked Indian restaurant was just around the corner. And that a Thai-owned-and-operated-and-cooked Thai restaurant was just up the block from that. With a Japanese-owned-and-operated-and-cooked sushi bar across the street.

Just about any kind of food from any country was available for any meal (ever have falafel for breakfast?), and I took the situation for granted. It was No Big Deal.

“If you’re missing all that so much, why don’t you go back? Why not put the ranch up for sale and wave good-bye to the hills?”

That’s the voice of Celia, Sweet Jane’s sister. That’s what she said when I mentioned this little problem a couple of days ago. I didn’t answer then, but now I’ve thought about it a bit more. And the conclusion I’ve come to is this:

All of life is a trade-off. A balancing of interests, wants, needs. Yep, I’d really like to have worldwide, world-class cuisine a 20-minute drive away. But there’s no way I’m ready to pay the price.

No way I’m going to give up my privacy and freedom, my fresh air, my horses and chickens and hawks and eagles and pond and creek and caves, my Brannigan and Doug the Dog Breeder and Buck the ex-Navy Seal.

No way I’m going to live in a place where the UPS driver and I don’t know each other’s names — just to satisfy the occasional craving for raw fish and burned lips.

Hmm … I think we should go out to dinner tonight. Where’ll it be? The All You Can Eat Buffet off the square? The Chicago Hot Dog Stand? The Mexican restaurant across from the courthouse? That Great Little Barbecue Place just this side of Mountain Home?

My mind boggles. The possibilities are endless.

See? I really do live in Paradise!

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 June 6, 2007