Tag: Can a city writer make it in the country?

LB: Live! From Paradise #218 “Animal Talk”

(The Intro above is from this column's previous web incarnation)

by Larry Brody

Here on The Mountain, the animals are restless.

“I need to talk to you,” Huck the Spotless Appaloosa said early this morning as I rolled the hay cart to the corral.

“He really does,” Rosie the Romantic Arabian affirmed, stamping her hoof. “It’s important.”

“I want you! I want you now!” Ditsy Dixie the Yellow Lab yelped from the dog yard.

“And me! And me! And me!” Emmy the Bold, Decker the Giant-Hearted, and Belle the Wary called out as they pushed their way past her to the fence.

“When you have a minute there’s something we need to talk about, boss.” That was the biggest of the unnamed Silky chickens, calling from their pen. (Unnamed because chicken have a tendency to expire when you least expect it, and giving them names made their deaths much harder to bear.)

The only Cloud Creek Ranch animal inhabitant who didn’t push himself into my usual morning reverie was Bob the Careful Tuxedo Cat. In fact, when I awoke and reached out for Gwen the Beautiful and found my hand on his furry little rump instead he responded with a sound somewhere between a hiss and a sigh and slipped off the bed. Bob had never wanted me for anything in his life, and that wasn’t changing now.

But the others—

“Things are way out of kilter around here,” Huck said.

I tossed the hay over the fence, figuring that, as usual, Huck and Rosie would dig in. Instead, they pinned me with sideways gazes.

“He thinks it’s unacceptable,” Rosie added.

“What’s unacceptable?”

From the porch, the dogs filled me in with loud, staccato barks.

“You’re not giving us enough attention! You’re not playing—”

The rooster I was now thinking of as the Silky King (uh-oh, that’s the same as naming him, isn’t it?) interrupted. “You’re not singing to us! You’re not doing that Mozart thing when you throw us our bread!”

“You don’t talk to us anymore!”

And there it was, the same complaint, from three different directions and seven different breeds of Not-Supposed-To-Be-But-Nevertheless-Sentient-Beings:

Oh, man, I was in Trouble. With a capital T.

And they went on:

“Why don’t you pay attention to us? Why don’t you come outside like you used to? Why are you hiding in the house? Is it something we’ve done? Have we hurt you? How? Tell us!”

I looked around the clearing at the Cloud Creek Crew. Let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“It’s not you,” I said. “I love you all. It’s—”

“What? What?” Dixie cried.

“It’s July.”

“July? Who’s that?” Belle said.

“It’s a ‘when,'” Decker growled. “A month.”

“Not just any month,” I pointed out. “It’s a month when the temperature lives in the 90s and the humidity’s even higher. A ‘now’ when I’m covered in sweat by the time I walk across the front porch. A ‘when’ when flies swarm and chiggers burrow and ticks suck—”

“No ticks or chiggers or flies here, boss,” the Silky King called. “Anything like that comes in this pen and it’s lunch.”

“Ah,” I said, “you love the summer weather in Paradise, don’t you?”

The Silky King answered with a crow. I shook my head.

“But I don’t,” I told everyone. I looked from one animal to the other. Tried to explain. “This weather wipes me out,” I said. “It leaves me weak and exhausted and itchy. Look at these welts! I wake up scratching and go to sleep the same way.

“When it’s cooler you know where to find me. Outside. Making my phone calls from the front porch. Working at my laptop on the back porch. Hanging out with you.

“But in the summer—I’ve got to hide,” I said. “And you’re not who I’m hiding from. It’s the weather, that’s all.”

The animals were silent. Thinking. (I think.) Then:

“People!” Huck snorted. “You’ve got some serious problems.”

“Bad breeding,” nickered Rosie.

“And you call yourselves the planet’s top dogs?” Emmy said.

The horses dipped their heads down into the hay.

The dogs flopped down on their bellies on the grass.

The chickens scratched in the dirt.

Our conversation was over. I went back into the house and up to the bedroom. Gwen was still sleeping. Bob lay on my pillow, but he was awake. “Everybody out there feels sorry for you because you’re a human,” he said. “Do you feel sorry for yourself too?”

I thought about it.

“Only when I itch,” I said, scratching away.

LB: Live! From Paradise #216 “The Old Billionaire’s Prognosis”

(The Intro above is from this column's previous web incarnation)

by Larry Brody

A few weeks ago I filled this space with the joyous news that the Old Billionaire was back among what he himself would call “those passing for sane.”

He was taking meds that eased his anger and made it possible for him to communicate with the rest of us without going ballistic about something that seemed like nothing to anyone else.

Since then the two of us have spent time together almost every day, immersing ourselves in friendship “before,” as the O.B. put it, “I lose myself again.”

We’ve talked more than a little about his condition, which may not in fact be dementia but, in his words, “just plain, old-fashioned bi-polar disorder, according to some of the big shots I’ve been flying around to be prodded and poked by.

“Then there’s still other fancy MDs who say that what I am is schizophrenic. One shrink said that in front of another who was part of the Bi-Polar Posse, and Dr. Bi-Polar got so red in the face that he looked like the crazy one. Except then Dr. Schizzy started ranting and it was pretty clear that he wasn’t exactly your normal human being either.

“If I was still running my company,” the Old Billionaire continued, “you can bet that neither one of those geniuses would’ve gotten on, or stayed on, the payroll. And one of ’em wanted me to build him his own hospital wing!”

“You’ve always got a theory about things, O.B.,” I said. “What’s your theory about yourself now?”

He regarded me mischievously. “Well, I like the point of view that this kid from Hollywood gave me. The idea that as lost as I am about what’s real and what’s not, this is how lost I’ve always been.”

“I said that?”

“Sure you did,” said the O.B. “Because you’re as nuts as I am. When you look at me, you see your own future, and because you’re just about the most optimistic, hopeful person that ever waltzed obliviously across this infuriating and mortally dangerous planet, you’ll probably get to where I am and go, ‘Wow! I’m so out of it I can’t even remember what to use toilet paper for! Isn’t that grand?!'”

I started to protest. The Old Billionaire held up his hand.

“No point in arguing about it,” he said. “Now that the meds take away my deepest downs, I kind of get into that place too once in awhile. And it’s not a bad place at all.

“But sure, I’ve got a theory about all this. My theory is that anybody who says, ‘Life is an illusion’ is somebody who’s never lived. Life is real as can be. But it’s subject to interpretation.

“When we’re babies we’re closer to what’s ‘really real.’ As we get older everybody around us teaches us the common, accepted version of ‘real.’ But when we get still older our brains start hitting on different cylinders and we’re back to the beginning again. We have to reinterpret and find new ways to understand what’s going on.”

“So when you said you remembered two different pasts, one where you had an affair with your assistant and one where you didn’t, you meant that literally?”

“Ah! I knew you’d find a way to get to that!” He laughed. “Some reality this is, where my marital fidelity—or not—has become the most interesting part of my life!

“Have to admit, though, that it’s the most important thing to Nettie and me too. I’ve been trying to explain to her that all of us go traipsing around through thousands of realities everyday. Making every decision possible. So the likelihood is that I actually have gone both ways. I’ve been loyal and…not.”

“What’s she say to that?”

“My wife’s a wonderful woman, Larry B. She started out fighting me, but lately she’s been wrapping her head around this whole situation, and it’s a mightily capable head, yessiree. Came up with her own theory, that the cheating O.B.’s in another dimension, and me, I’m the one who stayed true. And now we’re getting along almost as good as ever.”

“You’re a lucky man, O.B.,” I said.

“Absolutely,” he said.

Then his smile faded.

“Now all I’ve got to do is keep her away from the shrinks who say my problems come from being angry at myself. Because Nettie’ll know better than anybody that the only thing could make me that furious would be if I really did betray us both.”

LB: Live! From Paradise #215 “Love is in the Air”

(The Intro above is from this column's previous web incarnation)

by Larry Brody

Maybe it’s the summer weather, but as I look around I see love everywhere.

Huck and Rosie nibbling each other’s lips.

Belle the Wary and Ditsy Dixie curling up together to share a stuffed pad.

Larry B and Gwen the Beautiful, holding each other and marveling at all we’ve through together.

And, now, Uncle Ernie’s widow, Edda, and Her New Man.

This latest coupling came as quite a shock.

Jimmy Blue and I were at Paradise Pharmacy, where he was picking up a tote bag full of prescription meds. Half of the meds were for the various conditions aging brings on in almost everyone. The other half were for the conditions caused by the meds. As we turned from the counter there she was, the wife of Jimmy Blue’s late and still highly lamented best friend.

She was coming in to pick up her own stack of prescription. And she was beaming.

“Yo, Jimmy Blue!” Edda said with a big smile.

“Edda!”

The two of them hugged. Then, still smiling, Edda gave me her cheek. “‘Afternoon, Larry B.”

“You’re looking great,” I said to Edda because it was true. “Best I’ve ever seen.”

Even though she’s close to 70, Edda blushed. “I’ve been having quite a time,” she said.

“Something wrong?” Jimmy Blue had his Concerned Old Pal face on.

Edda shook her head. “Not at all.” More blushing. Edda was embarrassed about something. I was amazed.

“Out with it, Edda,” I said. “If you don’t tell us what’s going on I’ll get Gwen to call you and call you and call you some more until you ‘fess up.”

“I—I think I’m in love.”

“Love?!” The sound that came out of Jimmy Blue was the sound a kid makes when he’s taken by surprise at the lunch table and milk goes flying out of not only his mouth but his nose.

Edda moved back into one of the aisles so no one else would hear. “I met somebody at church. Well, I didn’t really just meet him, I’ve known him most of my life. But never paid attention. You know how that is. He’s a widower, and the both of us were so lonely….”

She trailed off as though stopping to remember. Smiled again. “It’s so strange, feeling like this now. Makes me think of what it was like when Ernie and I were kids. All those moments we were having for the first time. Those, ‘I never felt like this before,’ ‘I’ve never done this before’ times that make everything seem like magic.'”

“You’re feeling things you never felt with Uncle Ernie?” Jimmy Blue said. “You’re doing things you never did with him?”

“Not really, no. Neither me or my man. I always thought that falling in love again would be a big letdown. All ‘same-old, same-old.’

“But even though if either of us said, ‘I’ve never loved like this before’ we’d be lying, when we’re together, everything feels new anyway. ‘Cause the love is new. There’s no letdown at all.

“There you are. Been looking all through the store for you, Edda.”

It was Calcy the Preacher. “Good to see you, boys,” he said to us, and gave Edda his arm. Edda tossed back her head like a 16-year-old, and they headed up the aisle.

“The preacher! She’s with the preacher! And Uncle Earl ain’t even been dead a year!” This time Jimmy Blue’s voice was a strangled hiss.

We watched Edda and Calcy move around the aisle and out of sight. Which was a much bigger move than it sounds because Edda’s no teeny girl, but a very grown woman with a butt wider than Lou Ferrigno’s shoulders, and Calcy’s a man who if he was driving one of those King Kong trucks with the six foot wheels would still end up scraping the chassis along the ground.

“That’s one big loving couple,” I said. “I understand how you feel, Jimmy Blue. But maybe they’re perfect for each other.”

“Hope so,” Jimmy Blue said grudgingly. “I’d hate to think it’s all just because Edda’s blinded by something new.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” I said. “I think she’s overcome with a kind of wonderful magic. What else can you call it when the old becomes new again?”

“I’m thinking ‘randiness’ might be a good word,” said Jimmy Blue. And the best and most loving friend of the late lamented Uncle Earl shook his head…and laughed so hard that the sound filled the store.

LB: Live! From Paradise #214 “Different Worlds”

(The Intro above is from this column's previous web incarnation)

by Larry Brody

Our Ford pickup spent a few days at Steve’s Body Shop recently, and when Gwen the Beautiful and I retrieved it, lo and behold! I found myself very happy about a couple of things.

The first thing that brought a smile to my face was the sight of the truck in all its renewed glory. Steve had done a great job of getting rid of all the dents, dings, and scratches caused when a tree fell down onto our camper shell during the ice storm. And there was even an added bonus: The paint matches perfectly.

The second joyful moment came with the realization that Gwen and I didn’t have to drive around in the stripped down mini-vehicle that the insurance company had rented for the 4 days the truck was gone. I don’t like kicking anyone while he’s down, but, come on, Dodge…do you really expect humans to ride in a Caliber?

As Gwen and I were deciding who would drive which vehicle while we headed over to the car rental agency, a couple of Good Ole Boys we didn’t know drove up. I don’t intentionally listen to other people’s conversations, but that doesn’t mean I don’t overhear them. Maybe it’s a survival thing—or, more likely, a writer one—but I’m usually pretty well attuned to what’s being said around me.

The topic of conversation between these Ole Boys wasn’t the car one of them was picking up. Instead it was his wife.

“Whew,” one of them said. “We’re picking up this baby just in time. I’ve got to go to Jonesboro tomorrow, and Edie’ll need the ride.”

“How long you gonna be gone this time?” I heard his friend say.

“Three weeks. Not long enough.”

“You two having trouble?” the friend said.

“What? No, no, I don’t mean it that way. I mean that I can’t make enough money in three weeks. Last time I made the Jonesboro run I had six weeks of ten-hour days. Made out pretty well.”

“Hey, this’ll be better’n nothing, won’t it?”

The friend’s voice sounded a little troubled, almost sad. The first man spoke up quickly. “There’s a job for you somewhere, Matt, you’ll see.”

They went into the office, so I didn’t hear Matt’s reply, if there was one. Didn’t see his face. But I understood his situation. And that of Edie’s husband as well.

The economy had struck again.

Gwen has the gift of being able to stick to a subject. Of being in one conversation at a time. Her conversation. She looked at me closely.

“Larry? Sweetie, what happened to your smile? Do you know you just went blank?”

I answered her question with one of my own. “Have you talked to Rachel lately? Her husband still out of town?”

“As far as I know. Working construction in Springfield. He’s been gone a couple of months.”

“How does she feel about that? About him having to be away in order to earn a living?” I said.

“The way I would,” Gwen said. “Or so I imagine. She’s never said anything except that there’s nothing here and they’ve got a mortgage to pay.”

“Dwayne the Earth Mover’s been working out of town for years. He and Elizabeth only see each other every other weekend. I’ve never heard him complain either.”

“We’re not in Hollywood anymore, honey,” Gwen said. “Nobody’s giving out golden statuettes and big paychecks for farming or driving a bulldozer. Diva behavior gets a person nothing but a kick in the pants.

“Our neighbors do what they’ve got to do” she went on. “They learned long ago to do it without complaining”

“And you know this because…?”

“Because I’m from Oklahoma, where it’s the same life.”

“Hey, I met you in Santa Monica, you know.”

“Where I was miserable. But you didn’t hear me complaining.”

Gwen pulled herself up into the truck. “Meet you at the car place,” she said and started the engine.

Couldn’t let her get too far ahead. I hurried back to the little Caliber, fumbled for the key. The time might come when, like too many other couples, we had to be apart in order to survive, but the thought of that ever happening made me want to do everything I could to stay as close as I could for now.

I’m not complaining, not now. But if life ever takes us that way, then, by all I believe in, I swear I’m going to make one hell of a stink!