Larry Brody's "Live! From Paradise!"

I started suspecting that — at last! — I was nearing the American Dream and scraping my fingernails in a grip at the bottom of my 15 Minutes of Fame when people began recognizing me as “that Paradise nut” and coming up to say, “Howdy!” in restaurants and parking lots.

Yesterday my suspicions were confirmed.

Fame is mine.

I’ve reached the dizziest height to which a weekly columnist/blogger/wordsmith can aspire.

Yes, that’s right. Yesterday I was contacted by some folks asking me to write something favorable about the cause in which they strongly believe so my readers will urge their representatives to vote for passage of the “Employee Free Choice Act,” which was submitted to Congress last month.

Talk about a feeling of accomplishment.

My chest is swelling.

So is my head.

I am so there, baby.

Top of the world, Ma.

I mean, I don’t know one single, solitary other person anywhere who’s been given this opportunity.

At least, not here in Paradise.

Here’s the lowdown:

The EFCA “will finally update the arcane and outdated labor laws of our country with a modern and streamlined system for workers to join together and bargain collectively.”

And the reason the EFCA has to do this is:

“For years, workers in America have tried to organize unions under the arcane laws established under the New Deal. These laws created … the National Labor Relations Board (NLRB), which was charged with holding union elections in worksites and policing the actions of employers during the process. This process worked well into the 1960s, but today … organizing a union could not be more unfair.”

Here’s how the unfairness manifests itself:

“Union elections can take months to schedule, and employers often use the delays to harass, intimidate, cajole, lash out, sweet-talk, harangue or otherwise convince their employees that there is no need for a union. Workers are often fired for trying to organize a union. …”

I’ve got more facts and a whole lot of figures, courtesy of the staff of my own union, the Writers Guild of America, West. Yes, that’s who got in touch with me. Not only am I a success, I’m in the unusual position of being one in what I definitely think of as my own “land.”

The only way things could get any better would be if it the request had come from all the aunts and uncles and cousins who didn’t believe in “Teenager Larry B Who Thinks He Can Support Himself As A Writer Ha!” instead.

I understand that my tone here sounds mocking, as though I don’t believe in, or care about, making union organization easier and fairer. But I do believe in it. I believe in the protections unions give workers. How can I not when my main income is my union pension? In fact, I believe, in general, in anything that levels any playing field or clears the logjams that so often block what’s right or new.

Writing about it, however, makes me feel…uncomfortable.

I don’t write about issues or politics. Never have, not in any of my writer incarnations. I write about people and feelings, and, sometimes even ideas if one or two strike me.

And in my writing about people and the rest I try very hard not to argue in favor of this or that or the other thing. I like to present situations and let those who are kind enough to read me draw their own conclusions. I like to demonstrate rather than advocate.

In other words, I’m in a spot. I want to celebrate the fact that people I respect view me as an opinion-shaper, and it seems proper for me to do that by shaping some opinions. But I feel that shaping other people’s opinions is exactly the kind of thing kindly Uncle Larry B never should do. To me, it seems like an abuse of the trust a reader puts in me by reading what’s in this space.

Talk about being cut down to size. My chest has caved in. My head is shrunken. Once again, the sky stretches out so high above me I can’t see its end.

I’ve failed in my task.

Unless —

Of course! That’s it! I can help the cause and keep my self-respect if I go straight to those who actually vote. So, “Yo, Arkansas Senators Lincoln and Prior, Congressman Boozman, don’t just sit there! Vote for the EFCA!”

My 15 minutes are up.

Whew.

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 March 26, 2009

Last month I wrote what I thought would be one of the least controversial pieces in this space.

It was about writing and daydreaming. And how being paid to write interferes with the daydreaming process. How, in regard to one particular project, I’d realized that although I could live without the money, I wouldn’t be able to stand my life without the daydreams. So I let the money go.

Yesterday, though, in the Walmart parking lot, I met a reader who had a bone to pick on the subject.

I was walking toward the store from my truck when I noticed a woman looking at me closely. Trying to figure out if I knew her, I looked back.

“Are you Larry Brody?” the woman said.

“Why, yes, I am,” I said. “And you …?”

“I’m Doris,” said the woman. “I read you every week.”

“Aha! So you’re the one,” I said. “Thank you so much.” (Yes, this is a canned response. But it’s also sincere. I appreciate each and every human being who allows me the privilege of communicating with them. The fact that anyone cares what I’ve got to say about a topic is always as gratifying to me as it is astounding.)

Doris looked thoughtful. “What you said about daydreaming has me pretty upset,” she said.

“Upset? I’m sorry …”

“Not your fault,” said Doris. “Not really. It’s my own.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When I was a little girl I used to daydream all the time,” Doris said. “I’d sit at my table in school and, instead of working on the project we’d all been assigned, I’d be in the middle of a dream. I’d dream I was Princess Leia. Or Lara Croft. Or a character I made up myself, a kind of tiger woman from Jupiter, no less.”

“Teachers don’t exactly understand those things, do they?” I said. “I remember when I …”

Doris waved off my words. “My teachers didn’t know what I was doing. I knew how to look like I was paying attention. Guess I was a pretty sneaky kid.

“I loved living in two worlds at one time. It was so exciting to be in the middle of a soccer game in one world and in a Florida swamp in another. Everybody saw me kicking the soccer ball, while I saw myself kicking a ‘gator’s snout.

“And doing my chores was so much easier when I was able to imagine myself singing a hit record instead of pushing that awful vacuum cleaner,” Doris went on.

“But then, the kind of thing nobody ever wants to happen, happened to me. The kind of thing that makes it impossible to ever trust anybody again. That keeps me watching and listening and screaming inside.

“The soccer and vacuum world turned so ugly that I couldn’t let myself daydream anymore. How could I walk down a snow-covered street to the market and pretend I was ice skating at the Olympics when every step I heard behind me made me jump with fear? How could I let my mind wander to a star cruiser at the edge of the galaxy when I had to watch every shadow around me to make sure it wasn’t somebody who meant me more harm?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Doris said. “Do you understand how I got so used to feeling afraid and being watchful all the time that I forgot what it was like to be any other way? That I got so used to being only in this too-real world that I forgot I’d ever been able to go somewhere else?

“My old daydreams stayed hidden, till I read what you wrote. Now I remember every one. I remember how it felt to be inside them. And how wonderful it was to be filled with excitement instead of fear.”

The late winter wind blew Doris’ hair into her face. She brushed it away. Regarded me with moist eyes.

“I’m still afraid,” she said. “Can’t dream the dreams again. Can’t even let myself try. So I don’t know whether to thank you for the memories … or damn you to hell.”

I reached out to comfort her. Doris’ eyes widened in terror, and she rushed away, down the parking aisle.

Since then, our meeting has been replaying in my mind. What I see when I watch it is that she’s still dreaming.

But now her daydream is the nightmare of real life.

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 March 19, 2009

Because y’all demanded it:

The Beautiful (albeit forlorn):

The Aftermath (albeit boring):

That’s Almost Son-in-Law Jeremiah at the fire pit we made so we could more safely burn the wood we cut.

And Don Quixote de la Brody completely freaking out – caving in – on Powerless Day 10.

The Even More Beautiful (as in Gwen the Beautiful):

Gwen in New Orleans with her two closest friends. Waiting for their cruise ship to Mexico to come in. (Which one is the Old Billionaire’s wife?)

Gwen on the beach in Cozumel having a hot time while the rest of us huddle around the fire up above and – erm – sob…. (Or, in the words of at least one female citizen of Paradise: “You go, girl!”

May we all continue to lead interesting lives!

Thanks to the Big Bad Southern Ice Storm of ’09, my home, Cloud Creek Ranch, went 10 1/2 days with no power.

Paradise County as a whole had electricity only sporadically. It would go on, then go off again, as energizing one new line stressed another old one and the line went down. The situation was pretty much the same in neighboring areas as well.

On The Mountain, our main house had nothing. No heat. No water. No light. No computer connection. No TV. No radio. (Not-Quite-Son-in-Law Jeremiah and I tried using one of those wind-up radios to get information, but broadcast reception here on The Mountain has always been iffy. This time, the “if” in question was “if not.”)

The trailer my wife Gwen the Beautiful and I call the Annex had heat of a sort: the gas range. Keeping the oven on all day kept the temperature in the comfort zone, and, of course, we could cook there. Jeremiah already was ensconced in the Annex; he’d come to Paradise a few days before the ice storm to help me put up a new fence, which the storm had inconsiderately obliterated. I took over the trailer’s back bedroom, along with Emmy the Bold, Queen of The Mountain’s Dogs.

I enjoyed hanging with Jeremiah. We worked together from sunrise to sunset every day, trying to keep the property clear and redo the fence.

The days were filled with jokes and laughter as we became foxhole-style buds, and when the power situation in Paradise became more stable we would go into town and eat breakfast or lunch at the Mexican restaurant every day. Each of us even got a shower in Mountain Home courtesy of The Baxter Bulletin’s Freudensprung family — Kelly, Amanda and Bess — when their power returned.

But the nights…

Oh, those miserable nights!

Gwen was on a Mexican cruise. Couldn’t see or feel her. And, cell phone rates being what they are in international waters, we couldn’t talk to each other, either.

Without my wife beside me, the darkness that hit at 6:30 p.m. was a black, strangling cloud of futility.

My usual patterns were impossible to follow. During the day I did nothing that I usually did. Still, I felt no sense of loss because the time was filled with physical labor. But during the night there were no options. I felt nothing but loss. And had difficulty sleeping. Because I was unable to breathe.

At first, I thought my nightly gasping for a full breath of air was adult-onset asthma. But asthma meds did nothing. Then I figured the sensation was a panic attack. Except I didn’t feel panicked until after the “Oh my Lord, there’s no air!” feeling began.

By the sixth night, Jeremiah and I figured out what was really happening. Every evening we made a big bonfire out in the clearing, to get rid of all the shattered tree parts we’d cut up during the day. The trees were covered with lichen and moss and mold, including a cornucopia of indistinguishable mushrooms. I was breathing in the fumes of all this vegetation — and going into anaphylactic shock.

A little Epinephrine saved me on the night we figured it out.

No longer having the bonfire saved me thereafter.

My morale hit its low point on the tenth night. Jeremiah and I were eating a dinner of turkey breast-and-onions (better than it sounds) and looking out at the forest through the wall of glass in the Annex kitchen.

Suddenly, the lights came on!

We turned to each other, and, although I was afraid to, I started to grin —

And then the lights went off again.

Outside, however, the darkness was broken by dancing orange shadows.

Flames.

We ran outside. I called 911 on my cell while Jeremiah raced into the woods. A power line had fallen and ignited the grass and leaves along about 150 feet of the ground. Quickly, Jeremiah moved down the line, stomping the flames.

Luckily, they went out as quickly as they’d flared up, and we were safe enough for me to cancel the emergency call.

But I didn’t feel safe until the next night, when at almost the same time as before, the lights on ranch came on once more.

And stayed.

The following day we finished most of our work with renewed energy.

Gwen returned home the next morning.

As far as I was concerned, the Big Bad Ice Storm was over.

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 March 12, 2009

After the rain stopped and the Big Freeze that was the longest-lasting part of the Big Bad Southern Ice Storm of ’09 began, trees and power lines and power poles throughout Paradise and adjoining areas fell for days.

In fact, as I write this, weeks later, they’re still falling.

On the fourth morning of the storm and its aftermath, Gwen the Beautiful, Not-Quite-Son-in-Law Jeremiah and I awakened to the dismaying revelation that not only did we still not have any electricity, we were, literally, trapped at the top of The Mountain.

The 500-foot forest trail we call our driveway was impassible.

It was covered with toppled trees.

Which meant it was time for an Ozarks Chain Saw Massacre.

Jeremiah and I went at it, taking turns playing Ash Williams of the classic old horror film “The Evil Dead.” We supplemented my chain saw with an axe, shears, several hand saws and a couple of horse lead lines that worked perfectly when it was time to drag tree bits from the driveway to the surrounding (and mucho encroaching) woods.

The first time we cleared a path for my truck it took only half a day of concentrated effort.

The second time we cleared the same path it took two days.

’Tis the way of the world.

The trees kept on a-falling, and we kept on clearing because being stuck at the ranch just plain wasn’t an option.

For several reasons.

No electricity meant no heat in the “all-electric” (who came up with that idea?) main house. It also meant no cooking in said house. And no fresh water because without electricity the well pump was just a useless hunk of metal.

We had to be able to drive into town for food and drinkable water for humans. And down to our pond for flushable water for human toilets and drinkable water for Huck the Spotless Appaloosa and His Gal Rosie, both of whom seemed to be slurping up much more than usual for this time of year. Just to make us work harder, I was sure.

And eventually, yes, without a way down to the road we would run out of hay for Huck and Rosie, as well as dog food and chicken scratch and … and …

And anyone who’s ever likened living in the country to living off the grid doesn’t know what he or she is talking about.

Unless he or she’s talking about my smarter neighbors, like Buck the Ex-Navy Seal and Delly the Interstate Trucker, who, it turns out, weren’t overreacting when they bought themselves a shiny, expensive back-up electric generator right before the storm hit.

Not for me to say anything negative about Delly having to drive 15 miles to the gas station and fill two five-gallon gas containers everyday.

I would gladly have done the same to keep the power going.

We also had another reason for being able to drive off the property.

For weeks, Gwen had been planning on taking a cruise to Cozumel with Nettie the Old Billionaire’s Wife, and the cruise was scheduled for what turned out to be Ice Storm Week. I had to get Gwen to Nettie so Nettie could drive them down to New Orleans and they could get on the ship.

“Are you sure it’s OK for me to go?” Gwen said as Jeremiah and I cut and hauled. “I don’t want to leave you in the lurch.”

“I won’t be in the lurch,” I said. “Jeremiah’s Mister Outdoorsman. Wildlife photographer. Hardhat diver. Green Beret. Alaskan. Anything I can’t handle, he can. And I don’t want you to have to go through all this misery.”

I must’ve been pretty convincing because Gwen agreed to go through with the trip, and I got her down the cleared driveway and to the O.B.’s place just in time.

The only thing wrong with this resolution is that I really didn’t want Gwen to go at all. I wanted to say, “No! Stay here! I need you!” and her to say, “No! I won’t go! I need to be with you!”

But I didn’t.

So she didn’t.

And after she was gone, headed for sunny climes and mariachis and mojitos, I understood just how dark and long a powerless night can seem.

How miserable life can be when you feel alone.

More to Come.

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 March 5, 2009