Alaska

Harder to enter Canada than I thought 

VICTORIA, BRITISH COLOMBIA – If memory serves, this is the first time I’ve ever communicated with you from British Columbia. You’ll recall that I once came to you from Halifax. Remember the thick Haligonian accent I acquired?

Kay and I toured Halifax during our cruise to Nova Scotia. Today, we toured Victoria because it is the next to the last stop on our Alaskan Cruise. I gave no heads-up on our cruise plans, because I feared some of you would want to come over and mow my lawn while we were gone. Maybe wax the floors. You readers are the glaze on my donut.

Our cruise actually started in Vancouver. We had a direct flight from Bush. I thought sure we would have a stopover in Atlanta, but we flew straight to Canada. Seating arrangements on a commercial flight are every bit as comfortable as sharing a lawn chair with a stranger.

Those of you who have been concerned about weak border security between Canada and the U.S. can stop worrying. We had to wait four hours in 11 monstrously long lines while trying to go through the security at the airport and the port terminal. That was 11 times that we had to show our passports.

Scott: the PhD who wheeled us through Victoria

In Vancouver, they actually studied our faces while viewing our passports. I began to understand how Jason Bourne felt. At one point, I was pulled out of line by a lady who swabbed the palm of my hand with a Q-Tip. I, no doubt, fit the profile of a suicide bomber disguised as a dorky-looking, plump, white guy. I’m invisible to people in the service industry, but to those looking for suspicious characters, I’m a beacon.

But forget that. We’re on the boat, just back from a bicycle tour of Victoria, a beautifully flowered city on Vancouver Island. I believe Victoria was named after Queen Ester of Britain. No, that doesn’t sound right. I lose my ability to listen while on any tour that lasts more than 90 minutes. This 90-minute tour took four hours.

I thought we’d signed up for a bus tour, but the kiosk salesman confused me. After buying the tickets, we were directed to a line of bicycles, each of which was attached to a two-seated carriage. I hated that, because I don’t enjoy having anyone pull, push or carry me any distance. I just hate to be a bother.

Our bicycle guide wore a weird-looking floppy straw hat. I thought it uncharacteristic of a guy with a PhD in religious history. (I asked him about his background because I need to know something about the person who’s peddling my carriage. It’s just the way I’m wired.) The peddler (Scott) was so kind and so intelligent that I felt especially uneasy having him go to so much trouble to get us across town. If anyone should be peddling the bike, it was me. Or I. It was one of us.

Victoria is splendid; the people swell; and Scott way too informative. I went into shutdown mode during a discussion on the history behind one of the hundreds of Chinese restaurants. Kay, on the other hand, “hung in there like grim death, and I loved her for it.” (A quote from an old Robby Benson movie.)

Right before the stop in Victoria, we anchored in Skagway, Alaska. Yes, Skagway, named after the wife of one of their mayors. At least I think that’s what I heard from the tour guide who drove us in a short bus to the mountains north of town. The ride took over two hours, so, again, I was unconscious during much of the return trip.

The mountain views were magnificent and there was plenty of ice to see. Just not as much as usual, according to our guide. We saw two bears, an eagle and two mountain goats. Spotting a mountain goat standing on the side of a mountain that has scattered ice patches all over it, is like trying to find lettuce on a chilidog. I saw two goats and four patches of ice that the guide mistook for goats. Nevertheless, we had a great time.

Before Skagway we visited the port of Juneau where we searched for whales. On the bus ride to the tour boat we saw the State Capitol and the little white structure that some Alaskans call “Russia.” It’s what they surmise Sarah Palin was referring to when she said she could see Russia from her house.

While on our four-hour whale watching tour, we did get to see some humpbacks. They were so named for the odd shape of their heads. I noted this bit of information immediately after the three-hour part of the boat ride. I believe the captain was referring to the humpback when he mentioned the flat head, but it just as well could’ve been referring to a rock formation.

We did get to see a bunch of humpback whale tails. Humpbacks always show their tails when taking a dive. Boxers generally show their feet. The greatest scene was that of three whales doing the breach thing. You know, where half their body comes out of the water and they turn and make a big splash? I don’t know where they learned that, but it’s a most impressive maneuver. And, yes, instead three whales, it could’ve been one whale breaching three times. I have trouble distinguishing between humpbacks. I may have mentioned that before.

The two giant breaches were well worth the arm-and-a-leg cost of the tour. Kay enjoyed the experience even more than I did, because she has a call-of-the-sea. I have a call-of-the-buffet. And it is the buffet and our many adventures aboard ship that I hope to discuss -- next time. Till then, stay dry, my friend.

end
Mark@rooftopwriter.com

American

A country without a language

Do you know how many languages there are in the world? Well, I’ve got a number here that’s going to shock and amaze. There are 6909 languages spoken on this planet. At least there were back in 2009.

 Last week I heard a narrator of one of those UFO series say there were over 6000 languages. I never take those guys all that serious, so I researched it. Vetted ‘em is what I did. That’s when I hit the 6909 figure. I don’t think they were all that accurate about aliens living in a cave in Quebec, but the language thing is close to right. Understated, even.

The big question is, how do you determine the number of languages? If I were in charge, I’d use telemarketers. --  “Hello, Ms., uh, Rabadobal? How are you doing? What? You can’t understand me? Okay, what language would I need to be speaking for you to understand? Gubangi? All right. How many people are in your household? Bazaku? Uh, tell you what, if it’s less than eight, dial one. Ms Rabadobal? Ms—oh, shoot!”

But, let’s get past that, if we can, and look at the one fact that really knots my shorts… and you know how much I hate underwear problems. The most important language, the best language, and the most efficient language on the planet is not even included on the list.

Conspicuous by its absence is “American.” Seems the smartest linguistic collectors in the world do not recognize “American” as a language. The British claim that we don’t speak English. They call our language “barbarous.” I believe they said that because Shakespearean plays never do well at the box-office over here. That’s because our language has evolved beyond the 17th Century. Hey, I can’t believe it either.

While using the American language, you seldom end a sentence with a verb. “What light from yonder window breaks?” That’s Yodaspeak. “The Force, Luke, you have.”

The British believe that conjunctions are lazy words. The word “isn’t” is considered ungenteel. The British won’t even drop the “g” at the end of “ing”. They’re never “ridin’” around London; they’re always “riding” around London.

A lot of people up north even pronounce the “g” in “ing.” Several years back, I was in a play called “The Prisoner of Second Avenue.” I was constantly losing my fake New York accent. I was not unlike Marlon Brando in “Missouri Breaks.” He used a different accent in almost every scene. It was considered genius… by many.

 There was no shadow of Marlon Brandon in my performance.  The director rode me like John Wayne on a goat. “Hayter, if you can’t do anything else, at least pronounce your participles without dropping the bloody ‘g’!’The writer put them there for a reason, you—“ I was going tell him that “bloody” is considered a curse word to the British, but he just didn’t seem to be in the mood. I could tell from the way his sentence trailed off.

But, what say we move past American and English and look at some of the weirder languages. Take Russian, for instance. Russian is one of the worst spelled, worst spoken languages in the Eastern Hemisphere. It took me until this morning to come up with a theory as to how Russian works. I haven’t vetted it, yet, but I’m fairly confident that someone played a bad joke on the Ruskies.

Someone took the English alphabet, moved the “Z” up to the front and shoved the “A,” back which made the” B” a “C” and so and so forth. This changed the vowels to Z, D, H, N, T and sometimes X and V. Can you imagine how hard it is to pronounce a word that has a Z where the A should be? That’s why so few contestants on “American Idol” pick Russian songs to sing. I imagine.

Likely the weirdest of all the 6909 languages is spoken by a small group of people living in Southern Africa -- San Bushmen. Did you ever see the movie “The God’s Must Be Crazy?” The lead actor in that was a Bushman. He spoke in clicks and pops. It’s supposedly the oldest language still in use. However, it may soon disappear as the population of Bushmen continues to dwindle.

Do you know Clint? Big Al’s boy? When he was a kid he used to make clicking sounds when he talked. Anytime Clint would say “Uncle Mark” the “M” was a click or a pop. I’m unable to duplicate the sound, nor can I even spell it. I always considered Clint’s childhood language to be a gift. It was too cute to be a curse.

You can do so many things with the American language. You can turn nouns into  verbs as in “Did you hear him disrespect me?” You can also completely change the meaning of a word, and it will catch on. As in “He’s about to go postal on us.”

Yes, American is a fun language, because its flexible. I’ll bet if we had a time machine we could go back to Boston during the Tea Party and the people wouldn’t understand half of what we said. And, if we could go 20 years in the future, we wouldn’t understand what people were saying. We certainly wouldn’t understand what they were writing. They would write and speak in a form called “Advanced Texting.”

All except for the British. While American evolves, the English will do what they do to keep English intact. They’ll never spell “tonight” – “2nte.” They will always 1DR (wonder) What light from yonder window breaks.” – In short, I like American, but I respect the daylights out of English. I just don’t use it all that well. – Next time.

End
mark@rooftopwriter.com

British TV

I'm Mark Hayter and I'm a sucker for British TV Programs

I would like you to be the first to know of my new career change. I haven’t told Kay yet, ‘cause she won’t take me seriously. We’re at a place in our marriage where Kay can read me like Times New Roman with a 48 font. What?

So, for your ears only. -- I’m seriously thinking about returning to school to study midwifery. I decided this because I like the sound of the word. Mid-wiff-eerie. Sounds like a position in a game of cricket.

Other than the cool name, I got the idea from a PBS series that I enjoy.  “Call the Midwife.” I’m not afraid to mention here in print that I like “The Midwife” because I know that my brothers don’t read my column, and let me tell you, they have castigated me for much less than my preferences in TV viewing. Castigated?

I haven’t even told Jill that I watch Midwife. I was going to the last time she was here and we saw a preview of Midwife. Before I could recommend the show to her, she said, “Who on earth would want to watch that?”

Obviously, I hate the birthing scenes on Midwife. I have to close my eyes, plug my ears and hum the Mr. Ed tune. (Don’t ask.) The one thing I like most about Midwife is that it takes place in Britain. There’s something about British TV that is a big draw for me. It started with “Monty Python.” The first time I saw that show, I thought it was a hoot. It was so crazy. So different.

After Monty Python, I started watching British detective shows. What is so unique about the British is that they don’t care one bit what their leading characters look like. You can be old, ugly and weak as a worm’s sternum, doesn’t matter. They’ll let you be the lead detective.

British leading ladies are seldom anything close to gorgeous. They’d never make it on “Castle” or “Rizzoli and Isles.” But, their characters are so well written that after awhile they become attractive. I understand that intoxication can do the same thing. Except in the case of Miss Marple.

Granted, almost all British dramas move along slower than slow. Little action. Not a lot of chase scenes or fights. For some reason, when the unarmed detective tells the bad guy that he’s under arrest, the thug usually just gives up. Logic being, the real story is in the hunt, not the physical exertion required to the cuff the villain.

 Right now I’m hooked on period pieces. I watch “Mr Selfridge” and “The Paradise,” two turn-of-the-century dramas about British retail stores. I have no explanation as to why I enjoy them. Why do I like peas with my mashed potatoes?

I watched the entire BBC series of “The Tutors.” I know more about Henry VIII than I do George Washington. Recently I found “Wolf Hall.” It’s another series about same King, only the facts are different. In TV shows as with politics, it is acceptable to skew the facts to enhance the story.

I also enjoy “Death in Paradise.” Great characters, great location, with a good sprinkling of humor. “Broadchurch” is darker than dark and slower than slow, and I really like it. “Luther” is about a black British detective who can sense who the bad guy is by being in the same room with him. He’s almost as good as Patrick Jane. And like the Mentalist, Luther just steals a scene the minute he sets foot in a room.

“Foyle’s War?” Absolutely my favorite. It’s the one show that caused me to become a contributor to PBS. By contributing, I got the entire set of “Foyle’s War” DVDs.

My favorite comendy today is found on Netflix. It’s called “The IT Crowd.” In this case “IT” stands for “Information Technology.” Like practically all of the British programs, by the time IT made it’s way to America, production had ended. The IT Crowd aired in Britain from 2006 to 2013. I’m fairly close to seeing the last 2013 episode. Drat!

The IT Crowd

I have watched so many American sit-coms and detective shows that I’ve caught on to practically all of the formulas. There is no U.S. detective show, or any other drama for that matter, where most of the dialog does not take place while on a fast walk. The scene opens with the detectives or lawyers or reporters hurrying through an office area, down hallways, around the corner and eventually back to the starting place.

With regard to sitcoms, 90 percent of the humor is tied to the unexpected, which makes the unexpected expected. For example: Bob: “I wouldn’t take that job for a million dollars!” – CEO:  “I’ll give you $1000 more than you’re making now.” – Bob: “Throw in a red stapler and I’m yours.” (Eight seconds of canned laughter)

I’m certain that I will one day catch on to the sameness of British programs, but before that time, perhaps American TV shows will have evolved beyond the current state of creative stagnation. Until then, I will continue to watch “Peaky Blinders”, “Inspector George Gently”, and Midwife… but not the parts where the babies are being born. Who wants to watch that?

End

Mark@rooftopwriter.com

Vacation

Where to go?

One building in the Smithsonian

            Just a few minutes before you showed up Kay and I were sitting on the carport discussing stuff. I mostly discussed. Kay was reading her new copy of National Geographic. Mostly reading out-loud. She does that with magazines and newspapers.

            I asked her to pick a vacation spot we might be able to visit. She said, “Killer whales are a part of the dolphin family. I think I knew that.” I’m not making this up. Then I had to crane my neck so I could see a whale photo she was trying to show me. I think it was a beluga. Kay’s partial to belugas. I have every confidence I will go to my grave not knowing why.

            “Washington D.C.” That’s what she said. I said, “Yes?” She told me that was where she might want to visit. “Ah.” That’s what I said. I hate it when she answers a question after it’s been left in the dust.

            I have wanted to see the Smithsonian since I first heard there was one. One? I actually think it’s a museum complex that includes something like 89 buildings. I don’t care to research that at the moment, so just take my word. – What? Sheeesh. Wait here while I check. – Nineteen different museums. I was close.

            The only thing keeping me from visiting the Smithsonian and its 19 museums, comes from its location. I’m afraid of DC. I don’t worry about getting mugged or killed or anything. That’s a given. No, I don’t feel comfortable driving or parking or walking around that area. I just can’t help thinking I would end up some place I wasn’t supposed to be.

            I realize that a guy climbed the fence around the White House and made it all the way down a hallway before he got stopped. But, I’m not that man. I can see me getting separated from Kay and ending up in a weird place where a couple of guards yell at me. “Hey, Abudullah! What are you doing in this restricted area? On your knees; hands on your head. Frank, hand me the taser.”

            No, I’m not ready for D.C., and that’s what I told Kay. She said, “Do you know what this is?” She held up a picture of something that looked like a huge tobacco chaw. That was my guess, but I didn’t tell her, ‘cause I don’t like to be asked what something looks like. I never guess right. Kay picked up on that ‘cause she didn’t wait very long for an answer. She said, “It’s a rack of beef ribs found in King Tut’s tomb.” I told her that was my fifth guess.

While turning the page, Kay told me she would like to go the UK; mostly to Scotland and Ireland. I imagine she meant The Republic of Ireland. I think that’s where most of the castles and moors are. I’ve never seen a moor. Never dug up peat, either. Never even saw a castle. Nor do I care to any time soon. Which is a good thing, ‘cause we sure can’t afford such trip.

Dennis and Al took their wives to Europe a few years back. What I remember from their stories was about how hard it was to find public restrooms. When they were in Rome next to the Coliseum, they spent more time looking for a restroom than looking at the Coliseum. The one they eventually found had some serious sanitation and privacy issues. Either one of those issues is a deal breaker for me.

Americans may have a lot of flaws, but let me tell you, one look at the International Restroom Bar Graph will show that the US of A is at the very top. Europe can keep its castles and cathedrals. Better to have good restrooms.

Kay said she’d go to Hawaii before she’d go to Europe. I’ve told her a dozen times that I don’t care to visit our 50^th State. (Not to be confused with our 52^nd.) My image of Hawaii is much like the one I have for Disney World. A haven for tourists. And a place where getting there is merely a part of the cost for the trip. From what I hear, Hawaii is an expensive place.

Kay said that most of the tourists are in Oahu. We’d go to the largest island in the chain, Hawaii. I guess it has more Beluga’s. 

Then Kay mentioned a place I hadn’t thought of. She suggested Michigan. Kay said that Michigan in the fall is lovely. I suppose she’s talked to someone. Do you know that the northern portion of Michigan, the peninsula that looks like Wisconsin’s nose, also has some lovely places. And the best thing -- Michigan is not Washington D.C. It’s not even Oklahoma.

I’m now prepared to start saving for a visit to Sault Ste Marie and points south. But just to make it interesting I asked Kay that between Michigan and an African Safari which would she pick? Kay said nothing for a few seconds, but eventually said, “Scientists are working on a heartier honey bee. One less prone to getting ill by pests of pathogens.”

I asked her what a pest would be for a bee? She said, “The Asian mite.” Then she held up her opened National G. An evil-looking creature, the Asian mite. So vile that I took it as a sign that I should go back inside.

As I got up to leave, Kay said, “While you’re inside you need to call a plumber.” I had no idea where that came from. She said, “There’s no way, I’m want to be on Safari knowing that our washing machine still has a leak.” – I hate it when she does that.

End

Mark@rooftopwriter.com

The Rooftop in Spring

Spring on the Roof

            ROOFTOP – Do you have any idea how close I came to getting someone to mow my lawn last week? Close. I’ve always done the mowing, but let me tell you, after last week’s ordeal, I’m about ready to pass the torch to six other guys with a trailer full of lawnmowers, weedeaters and hedge trimmers.

            I hadn’t mowed in a good while because of all the rain. I don’t know if you’re aware, but rain, while preventing you from mowing, actually enhances the growth of your lawn. I assume the Homeowners Association was keeping an eye on my yard, ‘cause, occasionally, I could hear a drone hover.

Last week was my first chance in about a month to crank up the mower. When I first purchased my Honda Mower, “Self-propelled” was printed right three on the box.Today, it is a Mark propelled.

I don’t know if you’re aware but a self-propelled mower that won’t propel is much harder to push than just a regular push mower. Archimedies once tried to explain why that is, but he got confused. Regardless, I’m here to tell you that a Mark propelled mower is the worst one you can have. 

            To tell the truth, I was pretty much worn out before I even started to mow. I had to move eight bags of Cypress mulch to the front flowerbed for Kay. I could’ve carried one on each shoulder, but my head kept getting in the way during placement. So, that’s a stooped-shoulder eight tripper.

            I used to own a wheelbarrow, but the tire wouldn’t hold air. It didn’t have a leak, it just didn’t like air. I eventually put it at the end of the driveway and someone relieved me of it. People will sure do that for you. You don’t even have to put a sign up explaining your intention. They’ll just up and take it. Every creature has a purpose in the circle of life.

            Anyway, after manhandling cypress mulch, I was beat. It was while in this condition that I started mowing. Our yard holds as many weeds as it does grass. What we have is a hybrid variety of weeds that came in on a Southeast Asian freighter loaded with swamp-raised crawfish. It took me two days to mow the Cambodian Wartleaf-deformis. 

That means, I’ll need to mow again fairly soon. At some point between now and then, I must decide if I want to get my mower repaired, buy a new mower, or hire the six guys with a trailer to mow the place for me. There are financial concerns about each of these choices. The most expensive would be to have Cy’s Yard Care and Tire Rotation crew take care of the yard. (If there really is a Cy with a lawn care business, please know that this is a joke. And, could you give me an estimate on my yard?)

I’d let Kay in on my dilemma, but she’ll just say, “Keep the mower we’ve got, and I’ll help you mow.”  After mowing two strips, Kay would look like one of those pioneer women on “Gunsmoke.” A passing Sheriff’s deputy would see her, stop his car and tase me.

The good news is, I’m not going to make a decision right now. So let’s move along, shall we? Egad! Did you hear about Blue Bell clearing the shelves of all their ice cream? Does that not make you want to bite one or more of your knuckles?

Blue Bell didn’t make this decision because they actually believed all of their plants had a problem with an, heretofore, unheard of illness. No they did it because the bacteria were found in one of their magic ice cream making places in Oklahoma. (If memory serves.)

Blue Bell would’ve been better off if small pox had been found at the plant. You can sure enough tell when someone has small pox. But listeria? The symptoms for listeria are the same for every disease known to man. So, anyone with nausea or diarrhea or back pain or fever or a stomach ache would sue Blue Bell for giving them listeria.

No, the cheapest thing to do was to close everything down and disinfect every fudgesicle, dreamsicle, gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, hen house, outhouse and doghouse in a tri-state area. (I do so enjoy great movie quotes.)

And, speaking of hen houses, did you hear about farmers in Iowa having to kill over five million chickens because avian flu was detected? It used to be called “bird flu,” but the name was changed because “avian” sounded more serious. The name “Bird Flu” has the same punch power as “cooties.” By the way, both avian flu and cooties have the same symptoms as listeria.

Regardless, because of this flu scare we’ve now got over 20 million less buffalo wings. That would be enough to feed the entire Houston Metropolitan area for lunch. – I ask you, how can there possibly be enough chickens to supply the millions of wings consumed each day? I think I’d rather be a mud grub than a chicken.  

My word! How on earth did you let me get so negative during this rooftop episode? The intention of these outings is to encourage one another. Help us to see life from a different frame of reference. A different something.

            Oh well, it’s also a good place to vent. I suppose I have done enough of that. But, next time? Next time we’ll play the happy game. No whining allowed. Well, maybe just enough to keep things interesting. – Next time.

End

Hypnotism

"You're getting very sleepy." -- "Am not."

Have you ever been hypnotized? Me neither. I don’t think I can be. I don’t think I’m smarter

than other people, I just think that perhaps I’m a bit more reasonable. Are there actually people on the planet who will get sleepy if you tell them that they’re getting sleepy?

“Your eyes are getting heavy.” What? No they’re not. I wish I could be talked into being sleepy, but I find I’m unable to suspend reality long enough for a notion like that to grip me. Reason can be such a curse.  

Have you seen that video on YouTube where a baby is in bed crying, and the mother takes a light cloth and continually wafts it over the baby’s face? Magically, the baby, little by little, quits crying and then goes to sleep.

I almost believe this will work, but probably only with chloroform applied to the cloth. It’s just hard to believe that it took thousands and thousands of years for word to get out about this magical process. People have recently tried auto trips, vacuum cleaner rides, walking while rocking, sitting while singing and rocking… But no one thought to try the cloth moving gently across the bawling kid’s face. I assure you, I would’ve come up with that before I would the vacuum cleaner ride.

My sister, Jill, is easy to hypnotize. She actually quit smoking after being hypnotized. The doctor or counselor started out telling her to make her toes relax, then her entire foot and then her legs. Jill said that by the time he got to her neck she was a ragamuffin. The guy started telling her about how bad cigarettes tasted to her. The smoke was nauseating. He told her to keep repeating, “I will never smoke again.”  

Jill said that after that, when someone would ask if she smoked, she’d say, “I will never smoke again.” She said she’d just blurt it out without even thinking about what she was saying.

Unfortunately, the hypnotism only worked with smoking. Jill has tried to get rid of a host of other bad habits, but it just hasn’t worked as well. Did you know that Jill types conversations in her head while listening to people? Well, she does, and the doctor can’t make her stop.

Jill even says that she’s got a happy place where she goes when she gets angry or overly concerned about stuff. She asked where my happy place is. No one’s ever asked me that. And that’s a good thing, ‘cause I don’t have a happy place. Can’t think of one.

I used to enjoy sitting beneath the tall pines on the campus of Stephen F. Austin University in Nacogdoches. I’d sit out there at night or between classes and just think of stuff, which is perfectly normal ‘cause I haven’t learned how to NOT think of stuff. My mind will not go blank. Oh, I’ll forget what I’m trying to say, but my mind doesn’t shut down. It’s just refuses to pull up the thing I’m trying to remember.

After all that, I don’t consider the SFA site a happy place, ‘cause even when I was sitting beneath the pine, I worried about chemistry class, homework, and research papers. Always worrying.

The four Hayter brothers once went on a mountain hike between Silverton and Durango in Colorado. It was the most beautiful country we’d ever seen. And, I would’ve enjoyed it had I been able to breathe. I had to walk in a stoop for four days while carrying a 75 pound backpack over rocky terrene. The only way I could breathe was to stop and force my body to stand up straight so I could actually inhale.

Big Al would say, “Wow! Just look at that valley down there.” All I could do was mumble between gasps, “Somebody kill him.” No, it was beautiful scenery filled with memories of sheer agony. Not that many happy thoughts escaped that trail.

There’s a large pond in a part of the National Forest west of New Waverly. It’s out in the boonies in an area that used to be the site of an old sawmill town. My good friend Rodger Parker took me there once. (Virginia’s Dad) The water on that pond was so calm. It held a reflection like dark glass. I’ve visited the location several times and have never met another soul out there.

Still, Camp Letcher is not a happy place for me. As I look over the area, I imagine the people who used to live there and how hard they must’ve had it. And, how most of ‘em are bound be gone by now. I thoroughly enjoy imagining the history of old home sites, but I wouldn’t care to live in those times.

When I explained all of this to Jill, she said, “You gooberhead! (dunderbutt) You don’t have to pick a place where you’ve actually been! You just make up a happy place.” I didn’t tell her how stupid that sounded, ‘cause I didn’t want to ruin her happy place. I would’ve ruined Al’s.

No, I consider it cheating to make up my own happy place. I just don’t have the state of mind to be happy about a place I’ve never been. I way over-think stuff.

However, I am tempted to have Kay move a light cloth gently across my face for a few minutes tonight. After talking about all of these mind trips, I’m feeling the least bit gullible enough to believe that the cloth across the face may just put me to sleep. I’ll even pretend to be crying if it helps. I’ll let you know. – Next time.

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com

Pet Parade

“Pet Parade!”

Goat loses valuable points for eating Al's tie. 

            I thought last year was my last Pet Parade. Lisa Hightower, the person who got me involved in the first place, was stepping down as coordinator along with her associate Lesa West, whom-I refer to as Lisa-with-an-E. That way, I don’t get their names mixed up.

I was tapped to be to be the emcee for four years running, and Big Al was chosen to be one of the judges during the same stint. Al is a good judge, but I never thought myself qualified as an emcee of a Pet Parade, ‘cause I’ve never had pet. I never wanted a pet. Pets are a responsibility. I’ve got enough pressure just being responsible for me.

But, apparently, Lisa thought I’d be a good choice since I was unbiased when dealing with pets and their owners. You see, the Pet Parade is not really a parade. It’s called a parade ‘cause it sounds better. It’s really a contest that gives kids, eight and under, a chance to show off their pets. They do that by walking their dog or rabbit or goose across the stage, stopping long enough to chat with me. The kid can talk, too. In fact, it’s preferred.  

The pets are judged for things like not biting, not dragging the owner across the stage, and not going ape… unless it is one. Attentiveness is a good sign. If the pet is a dog, we might throw a rubber squirrel on the stage, just to see if the canine breaks character. If it’s a cat, well, you don’t need to do anything with a cat. Cats only do stuff when they think you don’t want ‘em to.

 Appearance means a lot, too. Sometimes the pets are dressed up to look like… uh, anything. I’ve seen several wiener dogs walking around in the middle of a giant bun. Not the same bun, mind you.

There have been Totos with their Dorothy owners, and Marys with “Little Lamb” dogs following ‘em. We’ve had snakes, goldfish, sand crabs and turtles. The turtles are usually no trouble at all. The sand crabs are a whole ‘nother story.

I’ve seen a black fluffy dog dressed up like a spider. I saw a rooster dressed up like a cowboy. I’ve seen attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. (I’m sorry. I seldom get an opportunity to deliver my favorite line from “Blade Runner.”

Oh, just so you know, pets are not allowed to eat other pets. Oh, it could and does happen, but when it does, it’s considered a foul. The animal will likely lose a few points for rude behavior. The judges are usually fairly strict on that.

There are three categories for pets.  Large dogs, small dogs and all other creatures great and small. You ask me, there should be some limitations on that. I consider a pet to be a creature that can be controlled without a whip, gun, or a gaff. Granted, that would eliminate all cats, but my vote counted for nothing.

Fortunately, there is an age limit on Pet Parade entries. Remember? Must be under eight years old? The kid not the animal. It doesn’t matter how old the creature is as long as it’s from Earth. 

The kid showing the pet is also being judged on stuff. Cuteness, good behavior, personality, not a lot of crying, knowledgeable about his/her pet.… that kind of stuff. If judges see a cool-looking St Bernard wearing a saddle, escorted on stage by a six-year-old chewing tobacco and wearing a cowboy hat, well, the kid stands a good chance of getting a blue ribbon in the large dog category

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That brings up a very interesting point. The Pet Parade is not an official competition. It’s against the law to get mad at the judges… OR the emcee. None of us will be lifting an animal’s tail for a better look, nor will be peeking up its nose or at its teeth. We know these three places on an animal’s body, but we’re not professional enough to know what constitutes a good, uh… any one of those things. Besides, I don’t want anyone doing that to me, so I’ll not do it to anyone… or anything.

            By the way, the fact that the kids have to be under eight-years-old seems to be a point contention among some parents. In every show I’ve, noticed kids who are obviously not the owner of the animal they’re escorting. Perhaps a neighbor or uncle or mafia figure has urged that they show a certain pet. It takes a shrewd kid to fool our judges. --  What’s your doggie’s name? – “I don’t remember.” – Okay, says here his name is Brussels. What do you feed Brussels? – “Food” – I see. How long have you had him?” – “What time ya got?”

            It’s up to the judges to deduct points for that. I’m not going to intentionally embarrass any kid. For all I know, they’re just scared and can’t think in front of the old guy asking the questions.

            Without question, one thing is going to be better about this Pet Parade than the others. Big Al is going to join me on stage to help with the names of the pets and kids and to keep me from stepping off stage like last year. It was an incident involving a leash tangled around my knees. Al can take care of that kind stuff.

            So, don’t be the only one who misses the Pet Parade this Tuesday (April 14) at 6:00 p.m. at the Montgomery County Fair grounds. If your child has a pet to enter, you might show up 45 minutes early. Oh, and I’ll get Big Al to stay late for autographs.

End

Mark@rooftopwriter.com