This year's Christmas short story.

Maggie's Christmas Mircacle

Up until the time my sister Maggie destroyed the baby Jesus, Mom was the one who made sure we always went to church twice on Sundays, once on Wednesday night, and a whole week in the summer. Vacation Bible School they called it. Vacation my foot.

    Daddy missed out on all this. The man had issues. I never knew what they were, and he didn’t seem to want to be asked. I didn’t fault him for it, though. Envied him.

     The church on Fern Street was the best gathering place for the sad and angry that one could find. If anything appeared the least bit enjoyable it was a sin. It was almost as if the elders were trying to scare us and bore us at the same time. The longest prayers, the driest sermons and the worst singing in the history of mankind resonated in confines of that building.

    Daddy would have nothing to do with it. He read his Bible and made sure we prayed before every meal, but he couldn’t abide church. Organized religion can draw the Spirit right out of a person. I heard him say something like that to Mom once.

    Dads slant on church seemed magically transformed after the Christmas Party at Aunt Rae and Uncle Bill’s. Aunt Rae was Daddy’s sister so he was committed to show up. Daddy liked parties about as much as he liked going to church.

 Things went well at Rae and Bill’s up until the time of the accident. Could’ve happened to anybody. My sister Maggie was trying to pull a throw pillow out of my hand at the same time I let go of it. I thought it a cool trick.

As luck would have it, Maggie’s momentum landed her against Aunt Rae’s cabinet… the one that had the ceramic nativity scene on it. A fragile display it was. Sheep, camels, shepherds… every object resting atop the thick cotton base went flying. 

A few of the pieces had yet to reach the floor before Maggie started bawling. All the grownups ran over to console her. Aunt Rae told her it was a cheap display that she just got it out for the party. Nothing to worry about.

Mom was slow to arrive on the scene. She sat and stared at me for about 3 hours. Fire came out her eyes. Literally. Mom’s glares could cut particleboard.  All I could do was shake my head and point at Maggie. Hey, she would’ve done the same to me.

Turned out, all the figures ended up relatively unscathed. Oh, a nick here, a scratch there, but not near what one would expect. Unfortunately, one of the wisemen did get decapitated. But, it was a clean break. A little glue and he would be the picture of health… except for some serious nerve damage.

Daddy soon had all the characters resting atop cotton. All except for the baby Jesus. The figure was no where to be found. Aunt Mae ordered everyone back into the living room, but Maggie wouldn’t stop looking. I don’t know what got into her. It was like she had lost the real baby Jesus. She looked in and under everything in the dining room.

Mom finally had to take her to the hallway for a talk. I tagged along for moral support. Hey, Maggie would’ve done it for me. Mom went on and on about how the doll wasn’t really Jesus and how it was silly to get so upset. Just a little ceramic doll, and she was treating it like an idol, and that if she didn’t quit crying she would give her something to cry about.

    On the way home, Maggie was still whimpering. I even patted her on the arm a time or two, ‘cause she was beginning to scare me. Finally, Daddy said, “Maggie, did you ever stop to think that maybe you couldn’t find the baby Jesus because God took him to heaven?”

    What a load of hoo ha! I had to hold back a laugh. But, my little sister swallowed it. Feathers and all. “Really, Daddy? You think I didn’t really lose the baby Jesus, that God took him to heaven?”

    Daddy said, “Yes, I do, Maggie. I believe Jesus is in heaven.” Well, that changed everything. Maggie beamed, I snickered and Mom just shook her head. 

I thought that would be the end of the whole baby Jesus story, but Maggie wouldn’t let it go. Kept telling anyone who’d listen about the miracle that happened at Aunt Rae and Uncle Bill’s. Mom told her that whatever she did she was not to mention it to anyone at church. Something about Jesus not being born on December 25th, and that people might get the wrong idea. Now it was Daddy’s time to shake his head.

On Christmas Eve something really weird happened. After supper Daddy told us all to get dressed up, that we were going to the Christmas candlelight service at the church downtown. I hated the idea, but Mom hated it worse.

Maggie was excited as all get out. “Really! What’s a candlelight service, Daddy?” Daddy told her he didn’t know, but that we were going find out. 

That Christmas Eve I had the best church experience I’d ever had. And, it wasn’t even Sunday… or Wednesday night. We each got our own candle and got to light it in church. I didn’t think it possible. And then we sang some happy songs. Christmas carols even.

At one point, as we all stood holding our candles, I heard Mom whisper to Daddy, “Thank you, darling.”

After Christmas, our church life went back to normal. Change can be a hard thing. Eventually, though, the church on Fern Street split over a technicality. The whole concept was pretty fuzzy in scripture. The stuff of controversy for those in search of one.

By the time I started high school, Mom was taking us to the church downtown. And, over time, Daddy started going with us.  

I don’t know what one is to gather from all this, if anything. But I do know that my sister sees God’s hand in it all.

Last July, as Maggie and I we were going through all the family stuff after Mom passed away, I opened the old box of Christmas ornaments. We had all personalized decorations over the years. Snug in one end of the box was a wadded paper towel. I pealed it back and saw a fractured ceramic baby Jesus. Daddy had apparently made a futile attempt to glue the swaddling clothes and torso together, but it was a mess. And the head was shattered and beyond the semblance of repair. 

“What is it?” Maggie asked, noticing that I had been quiet for too long. I smiled and said, “Oh, just the clothespin reindeer that I made in, what, Christmas of ’73”? I gripped my hand around the wadded paper towel and returned it to its place in the box.

 The discovery of the missing figurine did nothing in my mind to diminish the power of Maggie’s Christmas miracle. But, I thought it best to let her in on the finding another day. Like maybe this Christmas.

END

To view Mark and Brad's review of Tailgators Pub and Grill, click on pic below.

Claus at the mall

“Real Santa”

    I’m proud to say that my countdown for Christmas can now officially begin. I had to wait for Kay and me to make our trip to the mall. Happened yesterday. I’m festive as all get out.

    Truth be told (and shouldn’t it be?) I actually enjoy visiting the mall during the Christmas Season. I act like I don’t just to keep my brothers from scorning me. The brothers do good scorn. – “So, you enjoy the crowds, decorations and Santy Clause? Okay nobody talk to him. Go ahead and hit him, Al.” – Since Mom passed away, those boys aren’t afraid of anything. It’s been open season on Mark.
   
    Had they seen me at the mall yesterday they would’ve really let me have it. I couldn’t help it. I saw the real Santa Clause. He even waved at me.

I don’t know how The Woodlands Mall managed to book the real Santa, but he was there all right. No mistaking. The guy on the corner in the red suit and waving the big apartment opening sign? No Santa. Not close.

At the Mall, Santa wasn’t even wearing his awkward, thick, red jacket. And, he was hatless… ‘cause he was indoors and sitting next to a fireplace! Why would the real Santa wear a coat and hat indoors?

At the Mall, Santa wore a plaid shirt and baggy pants with suspenders. His hair is really white and his beard is curly and long. Not so thick as on a Santa actor.

And, there was none of this “ho, ho, ho!” stuff. There was no acting like Santa . This guy was the real deal. The kids could tell right off. There was not a crying kid in sight. Most of ‘em were even reaching for him. I’ve never seen that before. And, they’d hug him before leaving. He was like a universal Grandpa figure.

Oh, and like I said he saw me in the crowd, and waved. At me. I didn’t know how to react, but Kay motioned at him to see if it was all right for her to take his picture with her cell phone. He nodded big and then his best Santa pose. Big smile, hand up in a wave.

I know I’m carrying on a bit much over this. At no time in my life do I ever remember believing in Santa. And, never did I even contemplate sitting on the lap of the Sears and Roebuck Santa in Pasadena. That was one scary-looking dude. And, with that deep “ho,ho,ho” voice, it was like a giant monster clown was trying to grab you. What youngster wouldn’t want that?

The real Santa is nothing like that. In fact, if the line hadn’t been so long, a framed eight by ten of Kay sitting in his lap would be hanging over our mantel.

Bottom line, take your kid or spouse to The Woodlands Mall to see Santa. I imagine the real Santa doesn’t work a complete shift, so they may have a stand-in for him. You’ll know the real one when you see him, though.

Oh, and word of warning. As you’re making your way to Santa, be very careful not to catch the eye of the salespeople at the kiosks. You know those booths of specialty stuff? If someone tries to hand you a free sample of soap or cosmetics, don’t take it. If you do, they own you.

Most, if not all, of the beauty product salespeople are French or East European. Maybe Norwegian. Hard for me to tell. The girls are beautiful as all get out, and they speak fast and quiet in broken English. They’re sirens with soap. If you take a sample you’ll feel like a real chump if you don’t buy something. There is one Slovakian lovely who thinks I’m the mayor of Chumpville.

Santa loves me, though. Waved at me, he did. I think he could tell that I had been nice all year. Most of the year. Maybe a week or two in May.

NOTE: Kay's phone photo of Santa didn't take. Spooky. Further proof that this guy is the real deal. 

END

Click on pic below to view review of Mi Cocina restaurant in The Woodlands.

Already got my gift

“Chair prints”

    I already got my Christmas gift for the year. See if you can tell what it is. – No, not Scotch Tape. Look, Ernie, if you’re not going to be serious, we’re quitting this game right now. – It’s the chair! See? New desk chair.

    Boy, did I need a new chair. Several of you complained about how much the old one creaked. I oiled it, tightened the bolts and adjusted the big knob on the bottom. The mystery knob. Nothing. Over a period of 15 years it evolved into a creakazoid.

A Creakazoid lookalike 

The relic is over there in the corner. What do you do with an old, noisy desk chair that’s got your seat print branded on it? If I could convince someone that it was JFK’s seat print, I could sell it for a bunch of bucks. But, that would be wrong. Would that be wrong?

    Speaking of which, the new chair has touched the rear ends of others. I don’t know how many. Sixty-three maybe. It was a display model at Office Depot. We visited O D to find a desk lamp for Kay. I’m not good at looking for Kay stuff. Whatever I pick out is always wrong. Not sometimes wrong. I can’t even pick stuff out for me.

    Back at Office Depot, Kay told me to quit playing with the LED curly necked lamp, so I decided to get out of her space and go look at the desk chairs. Told her I wouldn’t mind if Santa got me one for Christmas.

    Do you know how many desk chairs they’ve got at Office Depot? It looks like the layout of the interior of a 747 with all different seats. I sat in half of ‘em. Some chairs you can tell without sitting that they’re all wrong. The expensive ones were all comfy. I don’t know how that works.

    Kay joined me just I was trying out the center section, aisle eight. “Did you sit in this one? How ‘bout this one? Oh, look over here.” Kay was all over the place. Had no idea that I had developed a system.

She settled on the $80 chair. It was reduced from $170. That’s a technique Grant’s Five and Dime started back in 1953. Did it with a set of stick horses that weren’t selling. Put up a sign that read -- “Fifty cents! Reduced from $4.75.” It was the most expensive stick horse I ever owned. A little skittish at first, but fast.

Kay wanted to buy the chair right then and there. I thought we should wait for Christmas, but she feared the sale would be over. Talked me into it. I was going to wheel the chair out, but Kay said we needed to get one in a box. It cost more to get it assembled. She said the chair would be easy for me to put together. I knew she was mistaken ‘cause I’m the one who assembled the creakazoid.

Kay has an exaggerated view of my mechanical aptitude. If you don’t believe me, go look at the toilet in there. Just needed a new flapper. New flapper, my hairy toes! I may have it back in running order by Christmas.

Back at Office Depot, it turned out that luck jumped on my back and road me like a five-year-old on a four wheeler. The Home Depot girl said that the demo model was the only cheap chair they had left. The things had been selling like, uh… reduced from $170 chairs.

Then she told me that since it was the floor model I’d get $10 off the price. Do you know what that means? Any idea? No, be quiet, Ernie. It means that they paid me $10 to assemble my chair for me. You can’t beat a deal like that.

So, here it is. Santa came early this year. Not for Kay. I’ve still got to find something for her. She says she wants a bicycle. Wants one for me too, so we can race away from neighborhood dogs together.

The bicycles she wants for us are at Academy. She thinks I should get ‘em and assemble ‘em between now and Christmas. Christmas 2011. What a joker girl.

END
To view Brad and Mark’s review of Yucatan Taco Stand, click on pic below.

Rough Night

“Try not to think about this”

    How well did you sleep last night? Feel invigorated, do you?  Or did you have a bad night? A research team at Loyola University recently reported that 93 percent of those polled don’t care to hear about your night’s sleep.

I wish Virginia had read their findings. This morning she tried to tell me all about her bad night. I didn’t want to hear it. I decided to interrupt and tell her the story of my bad night. One-upped her is what I did.

It’s hard to one-up Virginia, but it can be done. On this occasion, I didn’t even have to exaggerate. By the time I was through, she forgot all about her lack of snooze time.

Begs the question, on the nights you can’t sleep, how long do you usually stay in bed fighting it? Minutes? Hours? The whole night?  -- No, not all at once. Sheesh, I actually came up with a relevant topic --- insomnia. I occasionally amaze even me. 

Okay, here’s the deal. For just today I need you to pretend that you’re among the seven percent who care to hear about the bad nights of others. Got it?

All right, now let’s return to my bed at 11:30 last night. -- Yes, you can keep your shoes on. Cute. -- I tossed and turned for three hours. Actually, I was just turning. I don’t remember ever tossing. Kay says I toss, but she makes up stuff. A lot of stuff.

Bottom line, I couldn’t sleep. Around midnight I decided to try the universal cure for insomnia. I relaxed my face and tried to make my mind go blank. I’m sure you realize that thinking of nothing will make you pass out. -- Maxine? Maxine! Well, we lost her.

Unless you have the thought pattern of, say, Maxine, it’s not easy to put everything out of your mind. I can lose worry, dread and anger. Those are three major sleep stealers. Not the worst. But, major. Unfortunately, last night I was in the grip of sleeps worst enemy—stupid stuff.

Right before we hit the sack, Kay and I watched a taped episode of “Body of Proof,” a who-done-it with Dana Delany playing a medical examiner who wears really tight clothes, six-inch heels and has really long hair. Hair that falls all over any dead body she examines. That alone is enough to keep me awake for 40 minutes.

Here’s what happened in the episode we watched: A bartender/oyster-shucker at an airport bar was upset because he had a crush on a cute pharmaceutical rep who started talking about a doctor she was having an affair with. The bartender oyster guy got jealous, so he stole an African Gaboon Viper that had been confiscated by airport security and stuck it in a bag of oysters that he gave to the girl. She ended up sticking her hand in the bag while at a beach house with the doctor she was sleeping with. After that things got silly.

I defy you to extricate something that convoluted from your brain in under two hours. And, I saw the entire episode.

Once I stomped out that ludicrous thought, an equally ludicrous one surfaced.  It was something I read in the “Ask Doctor K” column. In explaining how to treat a nosebleed, Dr. K writes that you should pinch the front of your nose and hold it for five minutes. “And remember,” he says, “To breathe through your mouth.”

One can only imagine how many lawsuits were averted by that warning. – “I’m holding my nose like he said, only something’s not right. I can’t breathe! Help meeeee! Somebody heeel--” Plop. 

That’s the kind of stuff I was trying not to think of.  At 3:30 I went downstairs and started reading on my Ken Follett novel. The real thick one that I was reading at the auto dealership when Troy the service supervisor guy told me I had a squirrel nesting under my dashboard.

Oh, what a night. And, I doubt tonight will be much better. Tonight I’ll probably do some actual tossing. And, I don’t even know what that means.

END

Watch Brad and Mark’s restaurant review of Montgomery’s Pizza Shack by clicking on pic.

The ol' pet tree

“Feeling Fall”

    ROOFTOP – All right, now it feels like fall. You know when it feels like fall? Now. I think I just said that.

    I can understand why you had trouble hearing me, ‘cause it’s so breezy. Breezy and cool. And, clear. In fact, to see a bluer sky you’d have to travel to Oel in the galaxy Trifore. They’ve got an unnaturally blue sky there. Scary blue. Take my word.

    Another fall sign is the one tree we have with some red leaves. It’s the Chinese Tallow at the edge of the porch. The one I usually climb to get up here. Unlike the oaks out there, the tallow leaves do turn a lovely red.

Kay was out a few minutes ago with the camera. Mumbled something about the light being all wrong and went back inside. I guess the light would be better were the tree on the north side of the house. I’m not moving it though.

I don’t know if you knew, but my first pet was a tallow tree. The one on Camille Street. We weren’t allowed animal pets, ‘cause you had to feed ‘em and they made a mess in the yard. That was back when kids played outdoors and rolled around in the grass and stuff. Dogs and cats were not welcome at the Hayter house.

So, one day I asked Mom if I could have the tree in the backyard. She said, “I don’t know. Which one do you want?” I took her to the kitchen window and showed her the forked Chinese Tallow.

"Well do you think you can take care of it?” Can you believe that Mom never took a parenting course? She honed her skills on the first four Hayter kids. By the time she got to Al, she forgot all she learned. Anyway, she gave me the tree, and I befriended the thing. Even talked to it. “How was your day? You need more water? Oh, I got my report card and Ol’ Ms. Smith gave me a ‘C’ in conduct. Dad’s gonna kill me. I’m scared to go inside. What should I do?”

When Dennis found out that Mom gave me a pet tree, he laughed big time. And, when he heard me talking to the thing, he told the world about his idiot brother. He’d swing around on the thing just to tick me off. “Is this its elbow right here? Do you think it hurts when I do—this!”

I suppose I should’ve thanked my big brother for trying to humiliate the weirdness out of me. Unfortunately, I wore humiliation well. Always seemed to fit. I was a mess. I’m so much better now.— Beg pardon?

And, who wouldn’t feel better on such a lovely day?  After all, it’s fall! I’ve been so anxious about its arrival that Thanksgiving snuck up on me. Sneaked? What’s bizarro is the fact that none of the Hayters have stepped up to the plate to host the family get-together. They all have families and have apparently made other arrangements. It can sure happen.

So, Kay and I are staying home and preparing something we wouldn’t ordinarily prepare. The ol’ surf and turf. Lobster and steak. The two times we bought lobster tails they were frozen and we tried to steam ‘em. They were rubber tails. Kay read where you’re either supposed to grill or sauté a frozen lobster tails. I’m grilling.

Thanksgiving morning, we’re going to eat breakfast, read the paper, watch about ten minutes of the parade and then play some one-on-one football. With only one person per team you pretty much have to play tackle. Touch would just be stupid. “Okay, hike.” Touch. “That’s not fair.  

No we’ll have to play tackle football. As soon as one of us gets hurt, I’ll do the fireman’s carry and get her inside and then fire up the grill. It’ll be different, but good. You know what it will be? Different, but good. Just seeing if you were listening.

Hey, Happy Thanksgiving from the Hayters. And, befriend a tree.

END

To view Brad and Mark’s review of Dimassi’s Mediterranean Buffet click below.

Mark can be reached at mark@rooftopwriter.com

Too much information

“THE Procedure”

    I’m pretty much the head of the household. Have been for right at 40 years now. I’m the man in charge. Nothing occurs without my tacit approval. That’s how I approve stuff. With tacit.   

    I say that to say this. I’m losing it. And, I’m beginning to wonder if I ever had it. Sometimes I sense that I’m a pawn in a game of String-Mark-Along. And that Kay is pulling all the strings. I fear I may have married into the Corleone family.   

I had a procedure done last week. THE procedure. Upper GI with a colonoscopy twist. If you haven’t had that, get ready… unless you have no insurance, in which case you’ll have to wait till you find yourself carrying your colon around in a suitcase. Health Care System? Where’s that?

Anyway, before the event, I fasted while going through the entire gut flushing episode. Wasn’t fun or pretty. Photos at six. After a long, riotous night, Kay took me to the hospital the next day for THE procedure. She helped me fill out all the forms. She had to. I don’t know stuff?

Sooner than I expected, the nurse shouted my name into the waiting room. As I headed for the door I could hear people mumbling. “Oh, poor guy.” – “He’s gonna have a little lighter step when he comes outta there.” – Waiting rooms.

When I got to the door, the nurse asked if I’d like my wife to accompany me. I thought Kay was right behind me. I turn around and saw her reading National Geographic. Something about the Lost Penguins of the Maldives. 

“Kay!” I gave her my “This way” head gesture. It’s served me well. As she walked passed me, she gave me a swat on the rear with the National G. I’m sure nobody noticed.

I needed Kay there for the questions. Oh, the questions. “Mr. Hayter, was your prep successful?” I looked at Kay and she nodded. “Yes, ma’am the prep was a gas.”

“Mr. Hayter, do you have esophageal protuberance lucidity? Kay looks up from her penguin article and nods. “Of course I do. Doesn’t everyone?”

I won’t tease you with further details of the demoralizing, humiliating and shamefully puzzling procedure. But when it was over and I surfaced from the deep funk of anesthesia, Dr. Pearce came in and gave me the good news. A kind man who left no turn unstoned. I may have still been a little groggy.

I stopped listening after he said there was nothing to worry about. I did hear something about a clip inside me that will… I don’t remember. Disintegrate? Pass? Make its way out my left nostril? Who can remember? Kay can… and did.

Later that evening, Kay was giving a family member the lowdown on THE procedure. She rattled off a whole list of details. A polyp, cauterization, something in the esophagus. Nothing to worry about. Need to do this again in five years. Then she started talking about the misplaced penguins. The girl loves penguins. 

When Brad Meyer asked me about the results, I said, “Uh, I’ve got a clip in my stomach. I think.” It was more than he cared to know.

I don’t know how Kay remembers all the boring stuff of life. Stuff that eventually resurfaces as important. Me? I remember nothing. Yet, I’m the one in charge of the household.

On the way home from the hospital, I was really hungry… from “the prep.” I asked Kay to stop somewhere so I could get a burger and onions rings. She said, “No. You don’t want that.”

Wow. She knows what I want and don’t want even before I do. You can see what’s happening here, can’t you? Well, I wish you’d let me in on it, ‘cause after 40 years with Tricker Girl, I don’t know which end’s up… metaphorically speaking. I speak metaphoricals sometimes. 
   
END

Tune in to www.waymorefm.com  at 5 to 6 p.m. Monday through Thursday to catch Brad and Mark’s “You’re telling me” live program. You can contact Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com.

Missing lunch on the roof

“Lightening up”

    ROOFTOP – I dragged you up here this morning in search of happy thoughts. Kay thinks I need to lighten up. She picks up on every little signal. Drives me nuts.

    Anyway, I decided to placate her by sitting on the roof till I lighten up a bit. First thing I notice from up here is all the mole mounds below. Kidney bean shaped things. And, look at the tunnel protrusions in the grass. Irritating as all get out.

    Do you have any idea how many cats there are in my yard? I don’t either. A lot of ‘em. Might even be some up here with us. They’ve been known to climb.

How many of the cats belong to me? None. Zip, zilch, nada. Yet, I tolerate their activity ‘cause I figure they’ll keep varmints out. Moles, snakes, Gila monsters… the usual. Well, they’ve done wonders with the Gila monster population, but not so good with other stuff.

Cats are curious aren’t they?  Supposed to be. I’ve read books about curious cats. Not recently, but I’ve read some. Yet, the cats that congregate around my place don’t give a ripe fig for anything but birds. These stupid cats hear burrowing underground, and what do they do? They stalk birds. “Ah, the ground is vibrating. Time to catch a bird.”

Last week there was a two-foot coral snake by the back door. The red and yella kill a fella kind. I about lost my breakfast over the sighting. I appeared so shook that Kay asked if I wanted her to kill the snake. My entire feminine side was screaming, “Yes! Of course I do! What are you waiting for?”

But that one extra Y chromosome spoke up. “Nah. It’s a job for a guy. Let me get the shovel.” I didn’t enjoy dispatching the demon serpent. I’ve never seen a snake die easy. I’m only glad God didn’t give ‘em vocal cords. A snake scream would pretty much do me in.

That being said, the chance of a coral snake biting me on the ankle is slim. They’ve got small mouths. It’d have to bite me between the toes. I don’t go outside barefoot. Regardless, I couldn’t run the risk of losing one of my neighbors’ cats.  I couldn’t live with that.

Okay, what else do we see down there? Yes, the old Jungle Gym is still there. I’ll dismantle it this winter. Yes, I’ve been saying that for six years, but this time I really mean it. Probably mean it. Regardless, give it a rest will ya? I assure you, we’ll all miss the wooden contraption after it’s gone. It’s the way of things.

Whoa! Did you hear that? You’re right. It’s a rooster. Not much of one by the sound of it. The thing lives closeby. I don’t know if it’s a young rooster or a really old one. Either way, it needs some serious work on its crowing. It’s got the Cocka doodle down pretty well. But, the “do” part is so lacking.

“Cocka doodle squak.” Just pathetic. Isn’t that something? An embarrassment to fowldom. Seems to crow only when I step outside. Regardless of the time of day. A real loony.

I’m the luckiest man in the world. I’ve got moles, snakes, bird-chasing cats and an emasculated rooster. The world is not looking all that well from up here.

Except for that. Did you see it? Just flitted past us. Yep, a monarch butterfly. How do they do it? Fragile as a daydream, yet it will keep plugging away until it ends up somewhere in Mexico. Maybe not that particular butterfly, but one of its kids or grandkids. I don’t know what you call butterfly offspring, but you get the point.

What say we leave on the Monarch sighting. I’ll walk into the kitchen and show Kay that I’m chipper as a… cat trying to attack a cardinal. – “Scat! Leave the birds alone! Go eat a mole!” Doesn’t that beat all?

Well, I guess this minor tirade of mine means that we’ll have to stay up here a little longer. Back to work. We’re all on the lookout for happy stuff. Let’s all spreadout. Report your findings. And work fast, ‘cause I’m not missing lunch. Not this time. – Yes, I’ve been through this before.

END

You can reach Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com