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Live! From Paradise! #257

Monday, May 3rd, 2010

Dwayne the Earth Mover called the other day, and he sounded even more surprised than I did.

“Larry B! How you doing? Why didn’t you say good-bye?”

It’s been almost a year since I saw Dwayne last, so it took me a moment to recognize the voice. That seemed to be fine with him because he plunged right on:

“Here I am, figuring life’s like always and you and Gwen the Beautiful are dancing and loving and living the dream, and then I hear from Brannigan that you’ve gone and departed your Mountain for some flatland that’ll be on the ocean floor any day!”

“It’s just for awhile,” I said. “Gwen told Elizabeth what was happening when we saw her at the bank.”

At the mention of his wife, Dwayne was silent for so long I thought his cell had dropped the connection. Then, with his usual fast-talking effervescence: “So what’s it like, starting over in a new place?”

“Tougher than I thought, that’s for sure. Been here a month and still haven’t found the TV remote. The dogs can’t get it into their heads that they don’t have to announce every visitor anymore. Met the neighbor across the street when she came outside to yell at me for yelling in the neighborhood because I was calling out to another neighbor —”

I stopped myself. Because I realized I was running on about…well, about the same kinds of things every move to a new home has brought to my life.

I remembered when I went off to grad school at the University of Iowa and was stopped for speeding just as I crossed the state line. State Trooper got out of his car and came over to my window with a big smile on his face. “Welcome to Iowa, sir!” he said. “Drivers license, please….”

Then there was the time I whisked Gwen to Santa Fe. We’d just gotten married in Vegas, where an Elvis impersonator walked us down the aisle at the Graceland Wedding Chapel and were about to settle down in a house I’d rented on the Santa Clara Pueblo just north of town.

We were treating the drive like a honeymoon. Until we got to Kingman, Arizona, where my hot new truck got so hot it caught fire on I-40. While a local dealer waited for the new driveshaft the truck needed, Gwen and I drove on in a rental car and got home just in time to learn that, as beautiful and modern as the house was, the builders had neglected to install one necessary ingredient.

A heating system that worked.

And how could I forget the first time I wrote anything in this space? It was about an event our first week in Arkansas. When the horse transporters pulled onto the Cloud Creek Ranch driveway with Huck the Spotless Appaloosa and Elaine the Not So Wild Mustang. And promptly got stuck in the mud. For a good long time there it seemed as though the wranglers were going to be permanent residents of The Mountain with us.

None of these things compare, though with the Biggest Move I Ever Made. The one to L.A.

It was over 40 years ago, but I still can picture every detail of the night I arrived at LAX. I was heading for the baggage carousel when a white-haired old lady collapsed to the floor in front of the chute.

Immediately, her companion, an only slightly less white-haired woman, bent down to help, wailing, “Somebody get a doctor! My friend is dying! Get a doctor, please!”

That’s when the baggage started coming down. As I stood there, not able to make myself move, I saw all the other passengers surge forward, stepping over the two women without the slightest visible hesitation, and getting their bags.

Another passenger from the flight turned to me. “Hey, kid,” he said. “Welcome to L.A….”

Dwayne didn’t say much as I told him all this. When I finished, he laughed but didn’t sound amused. “The reason Elizabeth didn’t tell me you were going was that we don’t talk much anymore. Me working in Little Rock, her in Paradise, we kinda came to a parting of the ways.”

“I’m sorry, Dwayne,” I said.

“Thanks,” Dwayne said. “And for the stories too. But I hope you understand, bud. Way things are, I’d rather be stuck in the worst beginning ever than the ending I’m in now.”

I didn’t disagree.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their various animals divide their time between the Ozark Mountains and Puget Sound. The other residents of Larry’s mythical Paradise reside entirely in his imagination and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Live! From Paradise! #254

Friday, April 9th, 2010

As a result of my recent heart attack and quintuple bypass surgery, Gwen the Beautiful and I have gotten a place in Washington State closer to the rest of our family, along the body of water I think of now as Paradise Sound.

We spent our first night on the West Coast in Seattle, which meant we had our choice of great food and even greater company, Youngest Daughter Amber and Jeremiah the Rugged, who took us for something we’d never been able to get in the Ozarks.

Sushi. Fresh and tasty.

We love hanging with our daughter and sorta-son-in-law. They’re young, intelligent, talented, and, best of all, eager and excited about the myriad possibilities stretching out from this point in their lives.

We didn’t have them all to ourselves for very long, though. Not after I heard a familiar voice just a couple of feet away.

The last time I saw Pete the Wild Man was during the ’90s. He was one of the most in-demand composers in television, scoring three different hit shows and providing theme songs I’m sure many people remember.

Before that, Pete had been a guitarist with a major rock band and, after his over-indulgences became too much even in the days of rockers trashing hotel rooms, limos, and private jets, he’d become a successful session player in L.A.

That’s when he met Madeline. Maddy was an aspiring actress, one of what were known as “those girls,” beautiful young women who frequented all the right places in all the right ways.

What I remembered most about Maddy wasn’t her beauty but her intelligence. In an era where the Rocket to Stardom opened its hatch readily for well-shaped and agreeable ditzes, Maddy was a contrarian with a brain.

Instead of bending over backwards to be what the sugar daddies wanted, she stood her ground, and got what she wanted anyway.

Pete’s first words to me about her said it all. “Some people go along for the ride. Some live like chess players, planning strategy two or three moves ahead. But Maddy’s a general who sees not just the outcome of the battle but how both sides’ll come out of the occupation 20 years down the line.”

(Yep, Pete may have been an insane rocker, but that’s how he spoke.)

Kind of the way Maddy thought.

They were perfect for each other and knew it. Theirs was a love so true that it made Pete over into the hard-working, dedicated, go-to kinda guy with whom I loved working. Maddy changed too. No more cattle call auditions. No more clubbing. She was the Queen of the Mulholland Drive house Pete shared with her, and together they made it a magical retreat.

I’d always been sorry we’d lost touch, so there at the sushi place I was thrilled when I heard:

“Harry Connick Jr. tickets are going for how much? Are they insane? The promoter must be Canadian. Only a Canadian would think @$#ing Harry @$#ing Connick @$#ing Junior had soul.”

I knew that indignation well and leaned over to the speaker. “Hey, he’s got more than Michael Buble.”

“Michael Buble’s not fit to carry Connick’s toiletries—”

And then Pete got it. “Larry B! You survived!”

I can’t remember when I’ve felt a bigger hug. Pete and I held each other tightly. Then he was turning to Gwen, and I was looking at Maddy.

“Gwen!”

“Maddy!”

More hugs. Introductions to Amber and Jeremiah. Happiness all around.

It was a wonderful welcome to a new place. An evening of catching up and celebration. The best part was how clear it was that Pete and Maddy still loved each other like crazy, and how good that made the rest of us feel.

Finally, Pete and Maddy had to go. Pete stood up and went around to Maddy’s chair. He did more than give her his arm. Very carefully, he helped her to her feet and handed her a pair of canes that had been leaning against an empty table nearby.

Maddy secured the canes to her wrists, one at a time. The process seemed to exhaust her, but she just smiled and accepted our surprise. “M.S.,” she said. “Going on year 13 and I’m still mobile. Sometimes anyway.”

Six people exchanged kisses in various combinations. “You’ve got my number now,” Pete said. “If you don’t call after you’re settled in on Paradise Sound I’ll make the place look like the Hollywood Holiday Inn the morning they banned me.”

I watched as Pete slowly helped Maddy outside. Turned to Gwen and the kids. “I always thought of them as the world’s luckiest couple,” I said.

Gwen and Amber replied with the same words at the same time.

“They are,” they said.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. He, his wife and their various animals divide their time between Marion County, Arkansas and Puget Sound. The other residents of Larry’s mythical Paradise reside entirely in his imagination and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Live! From Paradise! #252

Friday, March 26th, 2010

My mention in this space that Gwen the Beautiful and I are going to Washington State for an indefinite time of rest and recuperation has garnered an array of responses, pretty much running the gamut from this, from “Yvonne:”

“It was with a heavy heart that I read your column on March 5 … I have read every single column you have written…have enjoyed every single one … Please tell me that you will still be writing even if it has to be from Port Paradise. Paradise will not be the same without you and Gwen, the Beautiful and your assorted cast of characters.

“I wish you continued good health as you recover from your surgery. My husband had the same kind of surgery … in … 2006. He claims to be feeling the best he has in years …

“I have found as I have grown older, that, as much as I sometimes resist change, good things are always waiting for me when I get brave enough to forge ahead. I am sure that will be true for you and Gwen.

“Bless you, and I pray that you will continue to use the gift of writing to touch people where they truly reside-deep in their hearts.”

To this, from “Benjamin:”

“So, that’s it, then? You’ve surrendered your life to Fear just like everyone else because your body let you down. I thought you, of all people, would realize your heart attack was just another Lesson the Universe handed you. Instead, you threw it all away … and ran for ’safety.’

“I’ve read your columns since the very first one and enjoyed them … I even changed some of my behavior because of what you wrote. No more.

“I can’t tell you how disappointed I am or how much you’ve let me down. Go to your ordinary life in some ordinary town and know this was one Lesson you didn’t learn.”

Even though I’m probably the world’s biggest believer in a good laugh, at heart I am, in the words of the Coen Brothers, “a serious man,” and I’ve taken these two emails, and every message in between, very seriously indeed.

Many people might look into themselves and question their actions, as in, “Oh my God! Am I doing the right thing? Have I gotten from this experience what the Universe wanted me to?”

Others might take the opposing perspective: “Who do these people think they are, judging my response? How dare they curse or even bless me for what I do and say?”

For a few seconds there, I followed each of these paths, but ultimately I found myself on a different one altogether. We’re all different from each other, “snowflakes” as many people have said (some with great sincerity and others while being snarky as all get-out) and throughout my life more often than not I’ve been so different from most other people that I’ve felt like a member of a whole ‘nuther species.

Maybe it’s my Asperger’s.

More likely, it’s simply because I’m a writer.

In this situation, because I’m a writer I ended up examining both what I’m doing and people’s reactions to it in terms of my responsibility as a creative being, as an artist … because the one thing I know best about myself is that an artist is what I truly am.

As an artist, I have two responsibilities.

One is to my audience. Writing is all about communication, and if I don’t have an audience, or can’t establish a link with an audience, then I’ve got nothing at all. Might as well daydream my little adventures, or misadventures, and let them evaporate into the smoke of pure imagination.

My other responsibility is to myself. To be honest and true and write what I believe. Most importantly, if I’m going to write about my life, then I also have to live in terms of what I believe. This is what I’ve done and will continue to do, no matter where I reside or where my work appears.

For ole Larry B, it boils down to this: Life is a hike up a steep, treacherous mountain. As I hike, I chronicle the trip for all who want to read about it. I work hard to maintain our connection, to entertain a bit, teach a bit, and learn a bit more.

My thanks to everyone for caring about what happens to the Brodys next. It’s good for all of us when we can laugh, or cry, or grow furious together, even — maybe especially — as I fall.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . 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, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #251

Friday, March 19th, 2010

Got a call from none other than The Old Billionaire yesterday morning.

Yep, he interrupted his World Farewell Tour (as in, “It’s time to say hello-goodbye to all the places I’ve never been to before I go to my Final Destination) to wake me up with the ultimate weapon in the armory of everyone who has a child:

“Larry B, I’m very disappointed in you.”

“Huh? Wha …? That you, O.B.?”

“It’s not Sarah Palin,” the O.B. said. “Man, I leave the country and not only do you come close enough to death to shave the Good Lord’s whiskers, you hold out on me about it. And not just on me, on everybody who reads your words.”

I was still clouded by sleep, but finally, “What’re you talking about, O.B.? Where are you?” I managed to say.

“Netty and I were looking at some property in Costa Rica when the earthquake hit in Chile. Since then we’ve been in a tent in Valdivia, working with the Red Cross. Every day I wake up thinking it’s going to be my last, and every day I thank the creator in advance for letting me go out doing something better than making money.”

“Not like you to pay in advance,” I said.

“Well, you know what happens when you do that. You get cheated. So I keep on having to live and fear my end. A fear you might be able to ease if you’d come clean.”

“About what?” I said.

“You said that after your heart attack you had the big dream, the one we all want,” said the O.B. “You know, the Secret of the Universe dream. But you haven’t told us what it was, boy, and I need to know before it’s too late.”

He was right. I haven’t written about the dream. Not because I’ve been holding out but because, “Now that time has passed I don’t really think it was all that much,” I told the O.B.

“Let me be the judge,” the O.B. said. “How’s that?”

I shrugged. I knew he couldn’t see me, but I did it anyway. “I dreamed I was outside, in the middle of a ruined city…” I said.

“Uh-oh,” said the Old Billionaire.

“It looked like a bomb had hit. Or a hurricane.”

“Or an earthquake?”

“Um … maybe that too. People were standing all around, watching while I fought for my life.”

“Fought who? Out with it now!”

“A giant. He was the one who’d destroyed the city, and now he was determined to destroy me. He swung fists like bulldozers and pounded me and pounded me and pounded me. I was battered and bloody and didn’t know what to do.”

“Didn’t you hit him back?” the O.B. said.

“I wanted to, but I couldn’t. My arms weighed tons. I was sure I was going to die, and I was terrified. But you know me,” I said. “I was also curious. The giant’s face was all in shadow, and all I wanted, before the end, was to see it, to know who he was.”

The O.B. knows me indeed. He grunted.

I hurried on. “The giant bent down to pick me up and throw me to the ground one last time, and finally I could see his face. It was huge and twisted and purple and brown and black with rage, but I recognized him immediately.

“The giant who had destroyed everything around me and was about to let loose the final blow was me.”

“What happened then? When you saw him?” the Old Billionaire demanded.

“I escaped the only way I could. I woke up.”

My heart was racing. At the other end of the line, the O.B. was silent. Then:

“I’ve had that dream,” the O.B. said, “every night since we got here. Me, fighting myself. Sometimes I fight back. And sometimes I tell the other me, ‘I forgive you’ and deliberately do nothing.

“But no matter what, when I wake up the result’s the same. I’m in the middle of more suffering than I ever could imagine. Real suffering. Not a dream.

“I think your dream is ‘all that much,’ Larry B.,” the Old Billionaire continued. “You just have to be careful about the meaning. All the hell we find on earth isn’t our fault. We don’t have that much power.”

The O.B. hung up. But not until he’d passed the real Secret of the Universe on to me. “Only thing we can destroy,” he said, “is ourselves.”

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . 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, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #248

Friday, February 26th, 2010

I’m feeling very “Larry” today.

I know that sounds strange. I am Larry, after all, so how else could I feel?

Well, for four weeks, “weak,” “tired,” and “anxious” in various combinations with “in pain” pretty much described my postheart-attack-and-bypass-surgery condition. But last night, at about 2 a.m., I realized that no longer was the case.

I woke up as I have every post-op night, pulled myself up and out of bed using only my stomach and thigh muscles (no hands or arms allowed!), hied myself to the bathroom to perform the necessary ablutions …

And realized that something was different.

Amazingly so.

Wonderfully so.

My pain level was the same as it’s been for the past several days, but it didn’t bother me anymore. My breastbone ached, but instead of dominating my being it was just a background effect. Like a mild headache. Or muscle stiffness after a workout.

Instead of overwhelming me, the pain in my chest simply felt — familiar. Almost comfortable, in a strange way, as though my chest was saying, “Yo, Larry B., I’m still here, still part of you. I’ve got your heart here in my hands and am taking the best care of it I can.”

“Thanks, chest,” I whispered, keeping my voice as low as possible so Gwen the Beautiful wouldn’t hear me.

I had two reasons for that. Firstly, I didn’t want to disturb her sleep. Secondly, I didn’t want her to think I was crazy. (Ain’t a lot of sane guys I know who’ll cop to talking to their chests while listening to the toilet flush.)

But I meant what I was saying, and it seemed perfectly reasonable for my chest to be able to hear and understand my appreciation. I’d heard and understood it, hadn’t I?

“No problem,” my chest replied. “Just doing my job.”

And then it said to me what everything says to me when we talk. My body. The house. The trees. The Wind. And the Universe itself.

“I love you,” it said.

“And I love you, dude,” I whispered back with what I knew was a great big smile.

I took a pain med and went back to bed. In the morning, I woke up to the sound of Ditsy Dixie whining and barking. Beside me, Gwen stirred, but I told her to go back to sleep and went down the stairs to let all the dogs out.

Although I wasn’t rushing, I saw that I was taking the steps one at a time, which was a change from the way I’d been descending since returning from the hospital. Until this morning my M.O. had been to do the one step with one foot — then catch up with the other foot — then repeat on the next step semi-crab-walk.

I’d thought of that as “The Invalid Walk” and been kind of ashamed of it. But now the need for it was gone. I felt confident. Secure.

As the morning progressed I found myself falling into my old, pre-heart-out-to-get-me routine. I made coffee, checked my e-mail, then made toast. Oh, and I stretched, reaching high overhead and out to the side with my arms, then stretching my legs and arching my back as well.

This was a Big Deal because until that moment I’d been afraid to arch my back, thinking somehow that would … well, make my chest explode. I’d had a lot of illogical exploding chest thoughts. But this morning they were gone. Gone so far that I had to work at recalling how they felt, and not for the life of me could I imagine why I’d let them have such a big influence on my recent life.

All day it’s been like that — normal shower, normal getting dressed, normal swearing at the Japanese Beetles cum Ladybugs crawling inside the windows, normal food taste, normal energy level (mentally anyway).

“Thank you, Universe,” I’ve said more than once, but upon reflection I understand that this miracle isn’t really that at all. Last week, Debra, my surgeon’s nurse (who looks like a better-looking Kate Hudson), explained that because of the surgery my hormone balance had shifted but that I shouldn’t worry because it would shift back.

I didn’t understand until today … specifically until I looked at Gwen and felt the kind of stirring I hadn’t experienced since before I went into the hospital.

“I love you, hormones,” I said.

And not only did I not try to keep Gwen from hearing, I wanted her to know.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . 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 February 26, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #246

Friday, February 12th, 2010

And now it’s time for a little self-aggrandizement.

I mean, if a 65-year-old man who’s just had a heart attack and bypass surgery can’t show off a little of what’s helped him feel better and stronger everyday, who can?

Here, then, is a brief sampling of the astounding number of e-mails, letters, and even postcards I’ve gotten since first revealing what happened:

From Aebeth, here in Paradise:
“I for one hope you’re around to report on Paradise for a long time to come. I am truly sorry for what you have gone through; but I feel quite confident you will only allow the slowdown to help you ponder life and share your thoughts with the wind, and the rest of your loyal listeners. Get strong, Larry!! And get well soon!!”

R.D. in Arkansas:
“My prayers and best wishes for a quick, strong, high-energy level to come to (Larry B) … very quickly. He still has some things to do that call for passion. So recover quickly, kind man.”

D.Q., in Australia:
“I just wanted to say I am sorry to hear about your health and wish you a speedy and full recovery. I am sure all out there wish you the same and all understand that you need to heal. Having given so much of yourself to us, it is now time to give to yourself and grow stronger again. All the very best, mate, and positive vibes coming at you from down here.

J.T., in Wisconsin:
“Take good care and glad you are still with us … Thank you for being you, giving back, and sharing your journey with the rest of us. Best to you … in the next stage of your many-faceted wanderings …”

C.C., somewhere on the web:
“I was very saddened to hear of your recent heart attack. But I’m glad you’ll be surrounded by friends and family during your recovery. I’ll send a wish out to the universe for your continued and rapid recovery. (That’s as close as an on-the-fence agnostic like me can get to saying a prayer.)”

Loyal Reader D.C. Rowlett:
“Dad was 59 years old when his heart attack came … It was late October 1966 and bypass surgery had not been thought of … so recovery was a very slow process. Dad spent the greater part of the upcoming winter in the house, pacing the floor and looking out the screen door across the Ashley farm just to the north of us.

“As soon as the grass began to turn green in the early spring his demeanor changed. ‘Gotta get my boat out and see if it still floats.’ ‘Gotta get my shotgun and rifle cleaned up. I ain’t sitting in this house anymore.’

“He didn’t either. He stayed active till he was almost 80 years old . Hang in there, Larry B.; this is just a bump in the road.”

Of course, not all has been sweetness and light. A lawyer-reader had this interesting take:

“Do you know whose dog went through your trash? A case could be made that its owner is responsible for your heart attack…and liable for considerable damages …”

I do know whose dog it was. But to me this hardly seems the time for mean-spiritedness. I doubt that the Universe has hit me with what another reader called “this wake-up call” for reasons other than to urge me to be more generous than I’ve been. More open. More giving.

After all, what does the planet need me around for if I can’t help make it a better place?

Speaking of generosity, I have a favor to ask.

My heart’s misadventure has opened new doors for me but, sadly, also is closing old ones. No longer am I capable of caring for my horse brother, Huck the Spotless Appaloosa.

Everyone who comes to this space knows about our relationship. A dozen years of sibling-style love and sibling-style rivalry as well. (“Why couldn’t I be the human and you the horse?” Huck once complained. “I guarantee you I wouldn’t waste one single moment of being two-legged and alive!”)

The time has come for me to entrust Huck to the care of someone else. So I’m putting out this call to my Paradise readers. If you’d like to hang with the wildest, woolliest, funniest, absolutely best equine pard ever, and have the wherewithal to do it, please, drop me an email and, sad as it may make me, we’ll talk.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . 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 February 12, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #245

Friday, February 5th, 2010

One of the most reassuring aspects of life is its regularity. Regularly recurring events like the phases of the moon, the seasons, and, in Paradise, the cresting of the Buffalo National River give me feelings of dependability and reliability. Kind of a, “Hey! The chiggers are back! All’s right with the world!”

Turns out that my life also has its recurring events. In fact, one of them raised its not-insignificant head just three weeks ago.

Not, however, in what I think of as a reassuring way.

Thirty-two and a half years ago, when I was just a lad, I had the massive heart attack I’ve written about in this space before.

And in mid-January of this year I had another one.

Thirty-two and a half years after the first, give or take a few weeks.

On one hand, this is horrifying. On the other it’s just plain cool. If not for the pain and other consequences I’d be spending delightful hour upon hour analyzing and puzzling and trying every which way to figure out why I’m getting these regularly scheduled wake-up calls.

Who or what has set up the timer?

Why?

When?

That kind of thing.

All right, I admit it. I am putting in those hours. Can’t help myself. It’s how I’m wired. I’ve gotten some answers to my questions too. Mostly in dream time, where I’ve found myself confronting my past, present, and future, my dead parents and former friends and lovers, my enemies too.

The result of all this introspection is that I have a whole new outlook on life and reality … and what may be a genuine inkling of the true nature of the Secret of the Universe itself.

Or not.

Doesn’t matter, not really. What matters is that I’m alive to throw myself into the search.

My heart attack occurred over a period of four days. Started when I was picking up trash some not-so-friendly neighborhood dog or coyote or bear or whatever had strewn all over the Cloud Creek driveway. Chest pain for 20 minutes, then the all-clear. Then pain again, until at last I wised up and told Gwen the Beautiful what was going on.

Gwen made the right call, and soon I was in an ambulance, heading for the emergency room, receiving a life-saving supply of oxygen and morphine and nitro pills. Two days after this particular race for life, I underwent quintuple bypass surgery.

Four days after that I was home.

Two days later, I was in front of the computer, trying — and failing — to work.

The aftermath of the surgery has been “interesting,” à la the ancient curse, “May you live in interesting times.”

Some of the time has been horrific, infused not only with pain but also with a sense of helplessness that has left me afraid to take the next breath.

But some of the time has been wonderful too. Peaceful. Filled with powerful emotions … and with a true awareness of the old saw about wherever there’s life there’s hope. I find myself more hopeful than ever, and filled with excitement about facing the challenge of recovery and the re-assumption of the mantle of ambition/aspiration that has always been my defining characteristic.

This time around, I find my surgery more meaningful than the heart attack itself. My moment-to-moment activity is, for all practical purposes, a response to having been cut open, messed around with, and then closed up again.

For example, I’m now terrified of lying on my back. Because it’s unsafe to use my hands to pull or push myself up (might strain my carved-up breastbone and keep it from healing properly, as well as hurt like hell), I’ve got to struggle into the next position using only my abs.

And you’re not going to catch me using a knife for awhile. Because I keep thinking I won’t be able to control it and, snick!, it’ll end up in my chest.

I’m not too keen on showering or bathing either. Because, “Aargh! The water, it’s beating on my chest wounds! And on my torn-up left leg, where they took out veins to make into arteries replacing those that were blocked!”

But this will pass. Each day gets exponentially better. Today, so far, has been pain-free. And Gwen and Burl Jr. are taking good care of me and the ranch.

Even as I get better I ponder about the future and what’s in store 32 1/2 years from now.

Wonder if I’ll be able to report on it here.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. 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 February 5, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #244

Friday, January 29th, 2010

I’ve written before about our dog, Emmy the Bold, Queen of the Cloud Creek Ranch pack.

Her puppy adventures running up mountains and merrily crashing down have left her with bone spurs, arthritis, and pain.

For awhile, Emmy’s condition slowed her down, but meds and her own internal fire have combined to keep her alive and continuing to play-play-play till she drops.

Most of that play is with the other dogs in the big yard behind the main house, but each dog also gets some alone time with Gwen the Beautiful or me.

For Emmy, that means playing football. Actually, it’s more of a game of Keep-Away with an under-inflated youth football. I take Emmy and the ball outside. Emmy allows me to punt it…and then she runs, catches the ball in her mouth, and prances around, daring me to snatch it away:

“C’mon! Yank this out of my mouth!” Followed by her battle cry, “I dare ya!”

I always do my best, but the only time I get the ball is when the dog gives me a break so I’ll keep playing. And after one kick she catches it and starts teasing all over again.

If you’re a dog person, you understand: This is fun.

Especially for Emmy.

Last week, though, I made a big mistake.

On one of her catches, Emmy punctured the ball. I couldn’t kick an empty rubber bladder very far, so I tossed it in the garbage and drove to Walmart, where I found something I couldn’t resist.

A pro, regulation model. On sale.

Its hide was much thicker than our old football’s, and it was filled solidly. And when I took it home and kicked it – wow!

I watched excitedly as the ball flew higher and farther than I’d ever kicked before. Emmy ran, leapt up for the catch —

And yelped as the football bounced from her grip.

Filled with her usual fire, Emmy pounced.

The ball squirted away.

Emmy circled, rushed from another angle —

And plain couldn’t hold on. The new ball was too big, too strong, for her to keep in her mouth.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, Dixie the Ditsy Lab picked that moment to pounce on the porch gate, jar it open, and rush out to join us —

Scooping up the football effortlessly and racing around the yard with her trophy.

Emmy sagged. Her ears drooped. For the first time in her life, she’d been defeated.

I’ve seen her posture on humans. It said, “I’m not who I thought I was. I’m not me anymore.”

For the rest of the day, Emmy moped and slunk. “You started this,” Gwen said. “Now you’ve got to fix it.”

My first attempt was a washout. I let some air out of the ball and went outside with Emmy. I punted…and watched as she ran to catch it.

And failed once more. She still couldn’t wrap her mouth around it.

I let out more air. Kicked again. This time Emmy didn’t even try to catch the ball. She just watched and whimpered.

The next day I went back to Walmart and bought exactly the model we’d played with before. Let out enough air so it was as soft and manageable as Ole Number One had been.

Emmy the No-Longer-So-Bold, the ball, and I went out to the yard. I kicked.

And Emmy ignored it.

I mean, she ignored everything:

The kick.

The ball.

Larry B.

Instead of trying to play, Emmy just turned her back and sat down.

“Nothing going on here,” she said with a yawn.

And went back into the house to sleep for 24 hours.

The following morning, Gwen woke me way too early. “Garbage pick-up today.”

“So?”

“So don’t you have something to do?”

I groaned.

But I knew what she meant.

I got out of bed, pulled on a pair of pants and three warm bathrobes. Drove down to the bottom of The Mountain, where I’d left the trash cans last night.

Twenty slimy minutes later I dug out what I was after, and that afternoon I took Emmy outside and showed it to her:

A punctured, empty, rubber bladder.

Emmy sniffed at it, watched as I kicked…

With a happy woof, she raced after her old pal. Plucked it out of the air. Ran off with a quick look my way.

“C’mon! Yank this bad boy out of my mouth! I dare ya!” she yelped.

Just a small victory, but that’s what she needed.

Emmy the Bold is back!

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer . 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 January 15, 2010

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Live! From Paradise! #242

Friday, January 1st, 2010

Every night for the last three weeks I’ve had the same dream.

More than every night, in fact, because it comes back to me any time I relax or close my eyes.

For someone like me, who’s been trying to figure out the meaning of life ever since I can remember, this is a wonderful dream. A dream that comes thisclose to answering my questions.

And then — but of course — turns around and gives me about 50,000 new questions to ask. In the dream, I live in a small town. Like Paradise, it has two main streets. Unlike Paradise, the architecture of all the buildings is Victorian. Also unlike Paradise, the town is along a sea coast. What sea, I don’t know. What coast — east, west, north, south — I don’t know either.

I do know that it’s a beautiful place. One where, along with a Partner I can’t see and don’t really know, I run a business out of one of the buildings closest to the sea. I don’t know the name of the business, but its purpose is crystal clear. I — make that “we” — teach people of all ages how to live.

Specifically, we teach them how to live proudly and openly and with as much style and excitement as they can. In this dream, Shakespeare was dead right when he said in “As You Like It,” “All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players.” (Except I’d drop the “merely” because I don’t see anything “mere” about this.)

That’s right. Everything we do is part of a show, designed for the entertainment and enlightenment of both an unseen audience of who knows who or what and also one consisting of ourselves. The school I share with my unknown Partner teaches everything you need to put on a show to everyone else in the world.

Now that’s cool.

In the dream, I divide my time between sitting in an office and working with other writers to write scenes for the actors to play as part of their lives (including scenes about writing scenes) and stalking through the halls helping younger students — children — and their parents grasp the general point of everything.

The writing part is a snap. I do it well and love every instant. But helping the kids and their folks grasp the general point is tough. Because I don’t know the general point. I’m clueless as to why everyone in the world is living this show business life. And totally in the dark about who the unseen audience is.

Because of my ignorance, I find myself turning more and more to the unknown Partner for help. Which isn’t so easy when you don’t know what he looks like, or even where she is.

It takes work, but I always manage to find him when I need to. Sometimes she’s able to help me. Most of the time, though, he’s as bewildered as I and the two of us just mush on as best we can.

But every time we “mush” we succeed.

When I was writing and producing television I learned that both jobs were about making decisions. It didn’t matter what you decided, just that you decided something. Making a decision, even the wrong one, meant the show could go on. Not making one brought things to a shuddering halt.

The dream reaffirms that. The dream tells me that it’s the mushing — the trying — that counts, and not whether what we try is right or wrong.

For three weeks now, I’ve been trying to dig down to a deeper interpretation of this dream. One of the main ways I interpret thoughts and feelings and dreams and events is to write them down and see what the act of writing turns them into, which is why I’m writing this.

And in the course of this writing I’m starting to understand that one of the points of the dream is that we’re not going to get any grand meaning out of life as a concept … because the meaning is in the actual living of the life. It’s in going onstage and doing our best. Getting totally involved in putting on that great, big, wonderful show.

I could’ve written this just for myself and then put it away. Instead I’m throwing it out to everyone who comes to this space. To do otherwise would be to betray my part of the Partnership. To abdicate the teaching thing.

So that’s it, today’s class. The last class of 2009.

On to 2010 and the next awesomely mystifying Dream.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. 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.

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Live! From Paradise! #241

Friday, December 25th, 2009

There’s something about December…

How can I not love the month that gives us:

My birthday! (Chocolate cake every year I can remember. And, this year, genuine Chicago deep dish pizza, from the loving arms of UPS.)

Hanukkah! (Eight nights of gifts every year of my childhood, from the loving arms of my parents. And, this year, more Chicago pizza.)

Christmas! (The tree, the caroling, eggnog every year since I became an adult. And, this year, no pizza but the wonderful opportunity to communicate via this space.)
Cold weather! (Colder than any month but February at the least. Icy nasal passage cold in years my shiver-friendly self gets lucky.)

And, this year, an added bonus in the form of a healthy Gwen the Beautiful.

I haven’t written about Gwen’s medical problems lately, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t had them. Especially over the last six months, when she was wracked with stomach pain that got so bad it was impossible for her to eat.

Lost 20 pounds the last two weeks of November, my wife did, and no one could figure out what was going on until a terrific M.D. named Simmy Goyle, currently residing in L.A. but formerly of London, New Delhi, and St. Louis, put us in touch with another terrific M.D by the name of Peter Warner, who practices within two hours of Paradise in Springfield, MO.

Shortly after my birthday, Gwen was hospitalized and Peter put her through a battery of tests showing that even though Gwen’s specific symptoms were unusual, the cause was an underachieving gall bladder, swollen, and up to no good.

Out came the insidious organ, and in came the December—Larry B’s Birthday, Hanukkah, Christmas, cold weather—miracle of no pain and edible meals for Ms. The Beautiful.

To misquote a Disney song I used to hate, “It’s a whole new world” for the Brodys.

And we’re not the only ones here on The Mountain affected that way.

A lowlight of this past year was the sudden and unexpected death of one of our horses, Rosie the Romantic Arabian, while Gwen and I were away on the other side of the world.

For weeks, my horse brother, Huck the Spotless Appaloosa, was deep in mourning. How bad was his depression? Well, from the looks of him he lost a lot more weight than Gwen did. I’d estimate about ten times as much.

He’d been alone in the corral — with a few side trips into our backyard and some interesting attempts to climb onto the porch — since mid-October, and a Huck who’s alone is a very noisy Appaloosa indeed. He would complain loudly and angrily, and then stop to listen oh-so-closely for a reply he clearly was hoping would come from the distance, from his lost mate.

So when Gwen and I drove back up to Cloud Creek Ranch after her surgery we were surprised to see the big guy standing calmly in the center of his area instead of galloping straight to the fence to horse-yodel his usual welcoming demand.

We were used to, “You’re home! It’s about time! Rub me! Nuzzle me! Brush me! Okay, yeah, you can feed me too!”

Instead, we got a little nod and a flick of the lips that I know (because Huck and I have been together for almost all of his life) is a smile.

“Look at that!” Gwen said. “Look at them all!”

I stopped our pickup at the top of the trail we call a driveway. Counted not one, not two, not three or four, but five truly beautiful women standing behind my favorite equine.

No, not human women.

Nor horse-type women either.

Deer.

Five full grown does.
Their eyes as big and as round and as sensitive as Huck’s.

The does’ posture shifted to that of wary attention, directed at us. Huck turned his head toward each doe, one after the other, and nodded again.

Then bucked, kicking out with his rear legs.

“Bye, ladies,” he called out. And, “Thanks for the fun!”

The deer scattered, leaping over the fence on the woodsy side of the corral, and Huck ran to the gate closest to where the truck was idling.

With a truly merry horse laugh, he greeted our return.

“You’re home! It’s about time! Rub me! Nuzzle me! Brush me! Okay, yeah, you can feed me too!”

Should’ve known a cool guy like Huck wouldn’t be alone for very long.

Merry Christmas, y’all, from all of us at Cloud Creek.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer. 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.

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