The Game Called "Get A Life"

For my youngest sister-in-law, Happy!

Have you ever opened a chest in the attic that was locked and forgotten or opened a closet door in a room that is no longer used for people?  It could be a house that belonged to your parents, maybe your grandparents, but it could belong to your friend.  But inside those buildings, inside those houses, where love shines bright, inside all those closed doors and cedar-lined chests, there would be a treasure trove of memories and fabrics.  They would be old and, at times, dusty.  Sometimes faded, perhaps filled with the smell of old mothballs. They would be oversized dresses that would trip you up when you tried to dance about the place.  There would be gingerbread man shoes that would constantly let go of your feet and take off in a run.  And then, there would always be the shirts and coats that slip off your shoulders ever time you had to sneeze.  And, let’s not forget the “Blind Man’s Bluff” hats that would slide down the forehead and cover the eyes so you would bump into the wall across the room, or be surprised when the desk or table decided to attack you at the knees and shins.  Did you marvel at those treasures when exploring these houses?  Did you put on those articles of cloth, those inanimate things, that sit lifeless on shelf, or hanger, or in box?  In the wearing of those “things,” did you feel or smell those people who wore the items?  Did you remember?  Or did you simply become?  Or, even more fun, did you travel in time, you know, to those days that all adults talk about with stars in their eyes?  Or did you put on those togs just so you could know what it was like to have stars in your eyes?

Well, if you answered “yes” to any and all of those questions, or wore the clothes to ask your own questions, give me your hand and let me take you to a place, a fun place.  It is a place with many doors, all closed just this moment, but it will be okay to touch, even open.  The doors are metal doors, sturdy doors, meant to be opened and closed all day, every day.  There are hallways upon hallways of these doors in this place.  And behind each door, you will find a special something; inside each door, there will be something extraordinary to wear.  Inside each door, there will be a life.  And in this place, we shall play, perhaps be an actor, paint our faces and lounge under lights.

It is a place for laughter.  It is a place for possibility when the rest of the world is gray and rainy.  It is a place where unhappy does not exist, no “wrong” or “bad” or “bully” can live here in these halls.  It is a place where bad thoughts get shaken out of your pockets, and out of our heads, to be swept up and/or kicked out like dust bunnies eating socks.  Each door opens, no door is locked.  It’s a place for games and giggly bits.  It’s a place for secrets shared by friends and secret oaths.  It is where marshmallows get roasted over campfires, and lightning bugs float as faeries, or distant stars, deep in the night.  It is the place I go to when I feel alone.  And since everyone says that I must, we will call the game that we will play here: Get a Life.

I know that what you see is simply concrete, fluorescence, and steel.  I know that to you it feels hard and stone cold, but I do promise, if you come with me to open each and every door, it will change to a soft warm blanket and the smell of great grandma’s cinnamon, sugar, yeast house.  It will be safe.  It will be exciting.  It will be an adventure.  Please.  Dare if you can.  Will you join me and play the game, Get a Life? 

Of Tricks or Treats

They all saw the darkness coming, swirling around in a teacup, under flickering candles.  The wrap-around, front porch saw it through funny cards that were found in an old cedar chest in the attic.  They all saw it in the growing pile of chocolate chip, peanut butter, and oatmeal butterscotchies, in the midst of the pumpkin bars, lemon bars, quick breads, pumpkin pie, and even a caramel apple.  Darkness was coming to the little village of Spring Hill.  That’s what the mysterious Madame Mathusala declared as she waved her hand to reveal a shadow moving across the frosted crystal of her “All Seeing Orb.”  With that same hand, she showed the darkness take a dancing form in the grey columns of smoke that rose out from deep inside the eyes of a brass skull incense burner.  The whole front porch shivered as the wind made alive the mysterious Madame Mathusala’s tale of darkness lurking behind the oaks and maples, lurking in the crooked, flaming smiles of old pumpkins sitting on front stoops and porches, a darkness that moves through the cackling of swinging witches and plastic ghosts, waiting for unsuspecting trick-or-treaters, spilling bags of sugar upon lawn and street.  

“It comes,” intoned the mysterious Madame Mathusala, and everyone saw the darkness in the knowing smile of her assistant brother who lingered in the shadows.   

He saw it; he was certain.  The darkness could not be mistaken.  Little Tommy Strom, just age 7, hoped that the mysterious Madame Mathusala would not be displeased, for he knew that the impending doom was in his hands in a baggie of soon to be forfeited treats.  You see, Tommy Strom’s mother laid out on a plate for his afternoon snack, three small, store-bought ginger snaps.   He gazed down upon the sidewalk in shame, waiting his turn to gaze into purple, glistening Bohemian fabric of the mysterious Madame Mathusala’s cloak.

Fall came early to the small village.  It visited with long shadows and fog and magnificent light green aurora, while the sleepy little community raked frosty leaves into piles and watched as a God Who Ate Green Things devoured.  All through this spectacle of orange, yellow, red and brown, two siblings, one Jacob, one Esther, both 11 years of age, plotted.  Then the two adolescent twin Helmouths, the girl and the boy, raided their Grandmama’s attic for specific things that would aid in their created atmosphere, their charade.  They even borrowed Grandmama’s old purple kimono and turbine from “back in the day,” and Grandpapa’s old smoking jacket with the smell of old cigars still present, even though Grandpapa was not.  

“The older, the dustier, the better,” the two shrieked.  “Who needs to Trick or Treat when there’s a fortune teller to make.”

So, while Jacob gathered, and Esther moved, their splendid creation took hold and soon they had taken over one end of Grandmama’s wrap-around front porch.  And then, the two siblings Helmouth made some announcements, more like pronouncements: “To all the children who dwell in the village of Spring Hill.  Gather all the bakery, all the sugary goodness that abounds in your house.  You know, the kind created out of the coolness of fall (and your mother’s kind heart).  Please, take them to the house at the end of Summer Lane.  Upon which, you will then find your fate, and know your end.  Come hear the mysterious Madame Mathusala proclaim.  Come one, come all.”

And so, in a line that wrapped completely around the block, in the cold winds of a promised winter soon to come, one by one, every child of the village of Spring Hill came to feed, and then to hear, the mysterious Madame Mathusala.  For some, there was good fortune; for some, there was bad.  It seemed based on what was offered and whether you were friend.  But in the cool air of evening, the faithful not phased, all waited in that one line including little Tommy Strom, with his meager offering.  

  

He told his parents that he would be back soon to take his little brother for tricking and/or treating, but that darned line moved so slowly, all the while, the clock ticked, eating every second away.  Finally the steps came into view, and a hollow knocking of feet upon elevated boards.  The candelabra imposed itself upon the center of the table; it was almost as imposing as Jacob Helmouth in Grandpapa’s smoking jacket, who greeted with a smile.

“Set your offering to the mysterious Madame Mathusala on the altar directly in front of you, peasant, and listen heartily as the great Mistress reads your future” ordered Jacob Helmouth as he took Tommy’s offering and threw on to the porch glider.  Jacob seemed in such a hurry.

Tommy Strom was taken by surprise by the large stack of goodies accumulated.  He was flat out stunned and had to be shoved into a chair opposite Esther in disguise.  But before the great Lady Mathusala could speak, a boy wearing a jeans jacket marched on to the porch and shoved past everyone.  Even through the protests, even though he lacked the appropriate payment, he progressed until he came to the table with Esther, her brother, and little Tommy Strom.

“Hey, I hear there is a great seer in our midst,” said the boy in a hurry, slamming his fists upon the table.  The round, frosted crystal of Madame Mathusala’s “All Seeing Orb” shook loose from its entrapments and rolled off the table, revealing in its shattering to be a globe from an antique light.

“There is.  And you have made a horrible offense upon her person and the spirits she consults by barging in like you have,” confront her brother.

“Oooh, I am terribly sorry.  I meant no offense.  Cross my heart, hope to die, but I am in need,” said the boy in the jeans jacket.

“Of what?” Barked Jacob.

There was something about this boy, so bold, so….dirty.  He almost smelled like the freshly turned dirt at little Tommy Strom’s Grandfather’s grave.  Everyone else seemed to notice the smell as well, and they all took two steps back.

“I heard something.  In the woods, over by Ol’ Mr. Samuelson’s barn.  Only the mysterious Madame Mathusala can help.”

“Why would Madame Mathusala have anything to do with you and the noises in the woods by the old round barn?” Questioned Jacob.

“Because if she were to find out about the noises, what they are and what we can do, well, there would be a reward for such help.  Madame Mathusala shall be paid with a double recipe of double fudge brownies, the best in the land,” the boy replied.

Both Jacob and Esther looked at each other with their sugar-loving eyes.  “Whose double fudge brownies?” Asked Esther Helmouth.

“Miss Willenbring’s.”

With that, Jacob and Esther left the porch and bounded down Summer Lane to the woods behind the old round barn on the edge of the village, without so much as a “goodbye,” leaving behind everyone who had not yet received their futures.  The abandoned ones all stood on the porch speechless and confused, except for little Tommy Strom who decided he was not going without his future.  Little Tommy also decided in the split moment that he was no longer going to be punished for seeing things that were not supposed to be there, like the garden spirits and ghosts with whom he had hours of conversations.  He was no longer going to be ridiculed for feeling everyone else’s pain, or knowing things he should not know.  He was not going to be conned any more, used, or bullied.  So, Tommy grabbed his meager offering of three small ginger snaps off the “altar,” and follow the Siblings Helmouth the several village blocks down Summer Lane to the Great Old Round Barn that was once own by Mr. Samuelson before he left town.

In Spring Hill, there are strange geological forces are at work; forces that cause springs to pop out of the ground at the very top of the odd hill.  Those geological forces are the very reason that two-fifths of Mr. Samuelson’s barn, that once glorious, red round barn, no longer rest upon firm land, but instead, are held up by five gnarly Oak trees where the grass can not grow.  And those forces are the very reason why the ravine, that tried to swallow Mr. Samuelson’s barn, is the deepest and steepest ravine in Spring Hill today.  And also, in that ravine is the densest wood all around Spring Hill, and the largest owl colony (if such a thing could ever exist in the world of owl) in the entire state.  Because it is this ravine and wood and an abnormal, and very large, colony of owls, some 5o years of stories fill night time campfires and backyard barbecues with the likes of lost souls, lost explorers and strangers, ghosts, and creatures that go bump in the night.  It is the place for sounds, both explained and unexplained.  And this is where little Tommy Strom caught up with the two Siblings Helmouth, still in kimono and turban and old smoky smoking jacket, and the boy who smelled like cemetery dirt.  Both the siblings and the boy were looking down into the snarly, scrub of trees below their feet, down into the decayed hillside and listening.    

“Excuse me!” Admonished little Tommy Strom.  “I want my future!  I did not spend most of my trick-or-treat time, and waste a perfectly good mid-afternoon snack, on a line to nowhere, for NOTHING!  I want my fortune told!”

And before the condescending, con artist twins could tell Tommy Strom to take a flying leap of the edge of barn and into the ravine, a belch resonated deep from within the chasm.  It vibrated in everyone’s chest, and knocked everyone down.  It sent some twenty owls into the air all at once, quiet ghost birds, all motion.  And then out of the blue came a gust of wind that blew through the trees, breaking several nearby large branches.  That wind knocked out the power to the entire farm and part of the village and pushed dense clouds across the sky to cover the waning gibbous moon.  All went dark.  And then, like nails running down a chalkboard, there was a horrible scream from deep inside the ravine.  The scream came closer and closer until it sounded as if it had climbed the dirt walls of the chasm on a four-wheeler that drove, and then hid, inside the old barn.  And then it all stopped: the wind, the scream, the owls, and the trees.  All went still, except for blinking, glowing owl eyes, which seemed to say in a low gutteral whisper: “Leave this place.”

“Not until I get my future!  They promised!” Yelled the 7 year old.  “I have three ginger snaps!”

The voice changed and became almost a growl, “Get out!”

“NO!” Screamed Tommy. “I will not!  They promised!”

“Now!!” Yelled the owl eyes and a voice from the barn.

“You are no better than all those kids that made fun of me.  Pushed me into the mud because I mentioned seeing things like garden spirits.  I was laughed at.  Kicked.  Had my lunch stolen.  Locked in my locker.  And now, they stolen my Tricks-or-Treats!”

“Enough!” Boomed the voice, and with an explosion of air everyone was again on their backs.  And something stepped out into the dark night air and slid across the grass.  It slid across Jacob and Esther and stood next to the boy who smelled of earth.  And then, it slowly enveloped the boy until finally he disappeared.  The air exploded again; this time, everyone was flash frozen to the ground facing the clouded sky.  One by one, the darkness slid from one prone body to the next until finally the darkness climbed on top of Tommy Strom, straddling his chest.  Tommy felt a thumping of a pointer finger on his chest, and a warm breath upon his cheek that smelled of old sewer.

The growl said, “How’s this for Tricks or Treats?  How’s this for fortunes read?  How’s this for mud, boy?”

“Is this the worst you got?” Cried Tommy into the starless night.

“No, I am ancient.  I have seen worse.  I have been worse.” said the growl.

After a few seconds, the thumping stopped and the weight was lifted from off his chest.  No more warm, foul-smelling breath.  Tommy rolled over on to his stomach, and was just about ready to push himself up off the ground, when the Mysterious Madame Mathusala was lifted straight up into the air, her body completely three feet off the ground, and then shaken.  She screamed.  Jacob, her twin brother, screamed.  Tommy dropped back on to the ground and covered his head.

“Madame Mathusala, I presume,” growl the voice.  “Well, hear me, thing.  You Esther Helmouth I shall visit when you sleep.  I shall come from the shadows, the dark places.  I shall come when you do not wish, and straddle your torso, make it hard to breath.  I shall give you future, but no one will believe, no one will hear.  But you must come here so I can tell and you will share.  You, Jacob Helmouth, I shall visit you.  You shall see pestilence.  You will be visited by minions and locked in dark places.  And, you, too, shall come here to this place to bear witness of what I shall speak.  Then, you, Esther, and your brother, Jacob, shall be given the pox of maturing that you will wear like a mask, and for some time will be called: pizza face, and disowned by your kind.”

With that, Esther was dropped to the ground, and the Helmouth brother and sister, just 11 year old twins, got up off the ground and fled in terror.  The darkness slid back into the ravine from where it came.  Tommy uncovered his head and got off the ground, dusted himself off.  After a moment, the moon slipped out from behind the clouds and lit the scene, and before him stood the boy now a bright, pale white in the moonlight.  He hovered and bobbed slightly above the scrub trees growing below him; he tilted his head at Tommy, like a dog listening.

And then the growling voice said from deep within the boy and into Tommy’s head, “there is a light at the end of your tunnel, boy human.  This is tricks.  This is treats.  Now, go, human!”

Tommy stumbled backward as a rumble shook his body.  The floating, white boy, who once smelled of dirt but now glowed and still held his head tilted like a dog, lifted one hand casually and gave a mechanical wave.  And then, twisted his head slowly, just his head, as he waved with a knowing, if not evil, slow grin.  And Tommy left to go home and salvage his evening, his hide, and discover whatever light would be waiting at the end of the tunnel.

Morning

The morning dew was so heavy that you have thought there was rain during the previous night.  The song of the cardinal, sparrow, crow, robin, and others rang out loud enough to overpower the sound of tires on road, the whine of a diesel engine as it downshifted to slow down at a four-way stop, and the bass of a distant engine from an older car preparing to make its way into a festival where the older car was the queen of the show, the belle of the ball.  The sun shone bright and warm through the broken, mostly blue, sky.

He stood on the lawn, tending to his dogs.  His attention to the terrestrial was weak, as he drifted in the sky with the speeding clouds.  Both the boy and the clouds moved across the sky in such a hurry that he tried to slow down, to creep, but felt, when he slowed, that he would sink into the earth.  He started to think to himself that everyone should slow down; it was Sunday after all.  But the clouds kept on pushing, and time kept rushing to some end result, some terminus.  He looked out upon the morning sky and marveled at the parade-like precision everything moved.  The clouds walked on one of those mechanical walkways you see at an airport, a flat escalator, a treadmill.  And then, a car rolled by his house; it was good that he held on to his dogs without thought and with a tight fist.  Bark and snarl.  The tugging and snarling on the end of the leash made his thoughts roll to highways, stuck in mechanical beasts which snarled at stoplights, yield signs, and slower moving traffic.  He thought of folks who had to go, had to move, late, late, late, for a very important date.  But it was Sunday.

Then, he thought of internet connections and blinking television sets.  Monitors on laptop computers. He wished he could fly, perhaps even to the edge of the atmosphere some 100 miles up, perhaps to the edge to see the stars and floating space junk and active satellites.  He blinked to avoid an Astro-collision, and then once again, he was back into the sky, racing with dark, cold front clouds.  Feeling a cool breeze, contrasting the heat of previous days, He closed his eyes and listened again to the birds and their happy morning song.  

With a bark and a yelp and a hard tug of the leash, he opened his eyes and was crashed down on to the lawn and his dogs, and all that machinery and rushing.  The birds slipped into the background; the dew evaporated into the warm morning air, as folks in the far church parking lot slammed closed their car doors, rushing into the building.  Leaving him, by himself, who stood on the lawn, tending his dogs. 

Facebook. 23 July 2017

A Good Story of A Bad Old Egg

Little Jimmy Helmsquash was a boy who loved to explore.  He spent little time in the house, and lots of time outside in the yard.  This yard was an excellent place to explore, as it was filled with old trees, creeks, and wide expanses of tall grass.  Old stories of villagers echoed about Little Jimmy’s yard; the stories talked of strange inhabitants amongst the ancient trees.

It was on one of his exploration treks through the tall uncut grass that Little Jimmy discovered an egg.  According to Little Jimmy Helmsquash, the newly discovered egg was a Greater Egg, according to the great taxonomy.  That’s right, according to experts, it was an egg of much acclaim, and therefore, an egg worthy of everybody’s time and energy.  And for a long time, folks came from far and near, to find out about all of the fuss.  To most, this egg seemed quite ordinary, maybe even on the level of “lesser,” so after a while, folks stopped coming.  Disappointed Little Jimmy Helmsquash tossed the “Greater Egg” into a steamer trunk and locked it away in a closet, and then promptly forgot about his discovery.

After a couple of years, and after the horrible smell of sulfur left Little Jimmy Helmsquash’s bedroom, mysterious sounds started emanating from deep inside Jimmy’s closet.  There were moans, and creaks.  There was a popping or two.  Then, there were scratches and sighs.  There were even the sounds of mad tea parties from Mars.  The whole house, his entire family, and sometimes some guests, would think nothing about the strange noises that would eke out into the hall.  I mean, it was Little Jimmy, after all.  

But one day something changed that took peace and tranquility right out of the place.  Instead of the moaning, the screaming began.  And the scratches and sighs were replaced with some nail dragging and belching all along one wall.  But the thing that really disturbed the place, and caused neighbors to call upon police, was an earth-shattering boom that shook the entire house like the concussion of a bomb.  Now, no one said anything, not mom nor dad, but they slowly entered the room.  His little sister brought the dog to stand guard, all the while dragging the poor creature, tearing up carpet as they went down the hall.  One Aunt Matilda and Uncle Gerard, paying a visit, cut their trip short, packing up all their luggage and throwing them all in their car.  It was good that poor Aunt Matilda had been taking yoga classes for three months just before.  So there they were, minus poor Aunt Matilda and Uncle Gerard, all in unison, Little Jimmy, his dad and his mom, his little sister and dog, leaning in toward the door to give listen.  Then, everything went still. 

And then, without warning, there came a nearby sonic boom of a jet, and it shook out the windows and shelves, and the desk and a chair, knocking a few books from the shelves on the walls.  It disturbed the whole house right off of its foundation.  The entire group of curious gawkers leapt hard off, several feet into the air.  And then, like a single, gigantic hand, all in one, the entire group grabbed Little Jimmy Helmsquash, conveniently placed him at the center and front, and then, Little Jimmy he found himself face-to-face with the closet’s door, only the tiny sound of a pack of little arctic lemmings padding off and the sound of one phrase, “find out!”

So, alone in his now extremely small room, Little Jimmy Helmsquash had to find the courage to do what no one else wanted, and open the door.  He swallowed hard, grabbed the door knob, and then slowly turned the door.  He noticed skeletons hanging in his closet, and nothing more.  Curious as to how all that Halloween stuff got into his closet without his knowledge, he stepped inside.  Before he could reach out to touch the old bones, there was a creak and then blackness and nothing more.  And no one ever heard from Little Jimmy Helmsquash from that point forward, and everyone forgot about that egg.  Little Jimmy’s family eventually moved out, and now, after year, a new family has moved into the house.  And lately the young boy has been asking, “What is a Greater Egg?”

Jayden K. Blink, Real or Hoax

At one point, I was visited by an individual.  Well, maybe not so much as visited, but I did receive a knock upon my front door.  When I asked to whom I might be speaking, a pleasant voice called the name of Jayden K. Smith and then asked politely if I would possibly open my door.  As it all seemed so harmless, I did, I opened my door.  But when I complied and then investigated, my front stoop stood completely empty…well, I did see wet footprints in the naked porch light.  So, in disappointment, I shut my front door.  I didn’t think anything more about this strange and chance encounter.

Then one day I received a warning: do not let Mr. Smith in.  The alarm made him seem a vampire or a body snatcher, but as I had my good name taken for a ride, I was sensitive to the matter.  So, taking in the alarm, I did the neighborly thing; I warned all of my friends of a Mr. Jayden K. Smith, do not let him in.  But in response, I received a missive, a warning just as tight, that Jayden K. Smith was a hoax, and a lie.  I thought for moment about how strange the whole thing was, after all, it was Jayden K Smith that knocked on my door.  There were dewy footprints on my front porch that one particular night.  But then, after thinking, “who cares?” I set the whole matter aside.

Then recently, I received the warning once again: don’t let Mr. Smith in, all harm would come.  I’m sorry, but it seemed like the warning on the gates of Hell that Dante the poet had mentioned.  So, instead of dropping the matter as a whole, I am back to wondering about a man by the name of Mr. Jayden K Smith, a hoax or a person, or even, a woman or a man?   Again, in the recent, the present, Mr. Smith, the person with no presence (except maybe for footprints), a lie and a hoax, affected my life with a tease of a promise and nothing more.  Maybe, Jayden K. Smith is a real, not hoax or a lie.  Maybe, this person is a gremlin, or a ghost, a ghost in the machine, or a shadow, seen but without substance.  This Smith person could actually be a mask or a cat phisher dancing a masquerade, hiding a life of a person they feel has failed but wanting more.  And then I contemplate the idea of person as a hoax, feeling it odd to claim, but then I am contemplating this is a rumination of thing not made up or created for some purpose.

I thought upon this in the cool morning air, just today, as I stood in the front yard with my dogs watching the mists of Avalon caress the sky.  I thought of my own entity taking leave of my soul like a balloon, landing to take holiday on the French Riviera, high tea with some royal, and of having to foot the bill.  I thought about how easy it is for us to detach, to rip asunder.  We have firmly placed ourselves, thanks to the digital age, into a state that is all electronic, all whisper.  We no longer think of corporeal, but we’re simple numbers, a thing.  I have witnessed the act of a text, a conversation without spoken word, occurring in the same room, just thumbs and clicks.  Certainly to the great cooperations and money handlers of the mighty capital world, we can only be simple numbers, simple data.  For when a person fails in rules and must pay with world standing, there is no room for feelings or a consideration of circumstances.  Rules are rules, which is true, after all, in society.  Welcome to capitalism, welcome to the material world.  

And then I remembered the two recent visits of Mama Fox in my front yard, both at what stands in for darkness these days.  I remembered her looking my way.  She did not come knocking on my door, but there she was, out hunting, simply trying to survive.  She did not fear any thief that might steal anything, except as my dogs both barked at her, she did fear a presence that might reveal herself to the world and thus take her meal.  Maybe that’s all this whole Jayden K. Smith ever was, or could be.  Jayden could only be a shadow of a thing that never was.  A thing that only sits in the corner where the shadows are dense, devouring all of our hopes and dreams and sense of safety, an attempt to make the Boogie Man real in a digital world, an old school of thought on being weary and clear, an ancient thought of keeping us alive in a computer world.  Now, please be so kind as to add another log to the bonfire.

Magic Show, a School Bus Kids story

So, it's easy to let yourself feel like you're stuck in a rut, a piece worker on an assembly line, working with a quota.  For the bus drivers, you're paid to pick up kids at home and bring them safely to school, then pick them up at school and bring them safely back to their houses, you have the same route, out here for years, going over the same countryside over and over again.  (For hilarious measure, all of my routes are literally giant loops.)  It's easy to get stuck, and then, you get angry at the stupid and slow drivers, annoyed by road construction because it adds literally miles to the flow pattern, unhappy at the empty clock that screams you're late, angry that no one plows the roads where you travel....em....well, you get the picture.  It works for some of us I guess; they need routine or they simply find their way around the routine.  For instance, the previous driver on my route would apparently drive it different ways, which caused me issues initially.

One day, not too long after I took over the route, one of my high schoolers came up and asked me how I could possibly do the job.

"Yuck!  How boring!"

I didn't have to think about it; I simply replied, "No.  It's not."

Now, I know that he did not understand, all he saw was same old, same old, and not much money to go with this particular dose of the daily grind, but I had (and still have) an "office" with quite a view.  Yep, a big, gigantic picture window and it shows me a thousand pictures.  Even in the worst of moments when I can not pay attention due to weather or mood, I still get to feel the subtle color changes in the swirling clouds as the sun stretches up towards the horizon, soak into my being the setting moon in the early AM, get a subtle rub of a rainbow as the storm rushes toward you instead of away from you.  I can see, in the coming light of dusk, the dark silhouettes of the regal turkey as they flip, flap, and glide twenty-five feet into the air, rising above you, the bus, and the road you're on, flying in formation like cattle coming in from the pasture, all "follow the leader," only disappear into the shadow of the corner of your eye to hide their not-so-graceful "plop and gallop/warble to a stop" landing in the field next to you.

Why even this past Monday, our first day after Christmas break, old Mother Nature presented us the most beautiful gift of hoarfrost at noon.  (With appropriate old professor voice, reader's choice: Yes, hoarfrost.  Hoar is spelled correctly, you naughty kids.  If I am not mistaken it is the Middle English word for hair.  Check out the Grand OED, that's Oxford English Dictionary for those who do not know the acronym.)  The frost was amazing.  Just west of our little hamlet of 3000 people, the fog was very dense, 1/2 mile visibility by my guess.  But when you looked directly straight up into the sky, there was nothing but deep blue.  It was like being placed into a sliced egg where the yolk should have been.  (Yeah, that analogy didn't quite work for me either.  I'll get it fixed.)  It was bright, very, but the fairly recent snow was so pure.  The dark shadows of the gnarly trees were almost black in their uprights but white and furry otherwise, oh, and, as the first 4 year old to board the bus on my noon route pointed out, sparkly.  It was magic.

I guess this little red head was feeling the magic of the day, because she was dying to show me something (I could tell because she was bouncing in her seat.)  I told her she would have to wait until we got to school as the roads were not good and I had to work really hard at driving that day.

"Okay."

The entire route, when the door would open and before the student could even get on the bus, "Do you want to see a magic show? Do you want to see a magic show?  Okay.  Bipetty-boppetty-boo.  Wait!  Bippetty-boppetty-boo."  Then giggles.

Finally, at school, "Bus driver!  Bus driver!  Do you want to see a magic show?"

We had some time before the teachers' aides came out to collect the students.  "Sure."

With one arm extended and that hand firmly grasping the hat's "pompom," bipetty-boppetty-boo!  (Yep, that was the magic word.  Thank you, Mr. Disney.).  Without flourish or apology, she took her hat with her other hand and flipped it inside out and put the hat back into her first hand like nothing happened.

"Ta-da!"

Then, "Wait, bus driver!  Bippetty-boppetty-boo!"

She did the same thing as before but this time in reverse.

"Ta-da!  Now, look, bus driver."

With a giggle, the show was done, one trick.  She gathered her stuff and bounded off the bus.  After a count of three, there was a cheer, somewhat flat if you ask me, and the rest of the bus evacuated the bus giggling and smiling.

Where does your "office window" lead?  Bippetty-boppetty-boo!

The Big Clean, an Edward James Blink Adventure

On the edge of town, there is a big house.  And in this big house, there is a big room with lots of books.  And in this house, there is man and a woman.  And in this big house, there is a girl and a dog, a cat, and a goldfish who looks out through his little fishbowl with an expression of great confusion.  And in this house, there is a boy, a boy known to some as Eddie, but most call him Blink.  This boy's name is...Edward James Blink.

9 A.M. Big house at the edge of town.  It's just like any other day.  I sit in front of the entertainment box listening to the prattle until I zero in on "Dexter's Laboratory."  Love Nickelodeon.  Funny.  Remind me later to check in on "Samurai Jack."  Anyway, I'm Blink, Edward Blink.  I'm the one conferencing with the bowl of soggy breakfast cereal.  That's my partner, Spike.  Don't ask what he does.  When he sits on the floor like that, doing whatever it is that canines do while sitting in the corner, assume it's yoga.  We sit in front of the entertainment box like two wet noodles, waiting for our next case, when this dame walks in -- Upright solider, it's the boss, a.k.a. Mom.  It's news from HQ.  "Dexter's Laboratory" will have to wait - damn!

"The streets in Shagsville are getting overrun, Agent Eddie."

"Overrun?"

"Yes, Agent Eddie.  By grime."

"That's Agent Blink, mom.  Please, let's keep it profession.  Shagsville overrun by what?"

"By grime.  Yes, grime has taken over Shagsville."

"Okay.  I get it.  Funny.  This is me laughing.  Ha.  But what should I do about it - the crime problem, that is?"

"Go to Shagsville and stop the evil doers before they can do harm."

"So, you're suggesting, Mom?"

"A big clean.  Yep, that's right.  Go right in there and wipe out the grime - okay, crime - before it has a chance to set in and stink up the place."

"Got it.  Reward?"

"Just the usual."

"Milk and cookies, then?"

"About a dozen or so."

"Alright, I'll go, but I'm bringing Agent Spike with me."

"Good luck, Agent Eddie, I mean, Agent Blink.  Let Operation: Big Clean commence!  Oh, and should you and your partner get caught--"

"We know, you disavow us, and set us out on the curb Sunday night for the Trash man.  Mom."  And with that, she went on to mention that the message will self-destruct.  So we went upstairs to see what awaited us in Shagsville, leaving my bowl of now pablum.  That's okay; the now sugary cold porridge in my bowl was starting to bore me.

To be continued....

On the edge of town, there is a big house.  And in this big house, there is a big room with lots of books.  You know, things you read.  And in this house, there is man and a woman.  And in this big house, there is a girl and a dog, a cat, and a goldfish who looks out through his little fishbowl with an expression of great confusion.  And in this house, there is a boy, a boy known to some as Eddie, but most call him Blink.  The boy's name is...Edward James Blink.

That's Agent Blink to you.  We made good time getting here, my partner Spike and I.  Just up and over the Staircase Mountains and through the Doorway Pass.  Any snow and we could have been on the edge, the point of no return, two marbles teetering, trying hard to hang on to all the marbles, trying not to lose our--

Edward James Blink!

Damn, all three names.  "The Man" must be applying some heat.  We need to work fast if we are going to appease both "The Man" and Mom, our immediate boss.  

On it!

So, this agent and his partner stare deep into the bowels of it all, and we dig up this little jewel: HQ is right!  Shagsville is a cesspool, at least, something smells at any rate.  Small time hoods have set up shop at every corner.  Little gangs of mismolded solider boys, driving busted up Tonka trucks and Matchbox cars, shake down regular stuffed animal types for lunch money.  And all the while, Batman and Superman are having an all out brawl high above the streets of town.  Hoodlums!  How can any self-respecting, soft-formed entity live like this?  Agent Spike and I come up with a plan.  We call HQ, put our boss, Mom, right in the middle of a big fat loop.  Then, we pay a visit to "The Box."

The Box is the nickname for the legendary, high security prison that sits on one edge of Shagsville.  You know the one.  It's the place with the big sliding wall and all the appropriate protocols: eye scanners, laser guns, supercomputer codes, DNA tongue readers, nostril and butt analyses.  That's right.  Everything's state of the art, no expenses spared, right down to the secondary, high dark walls and a lid complete with a big clumsy clasp that houses solitary confinement.  Yup, toy's check in, but they don't check out.  We talked to the warden; all was in readiness.  So, Operation: Big Clean was pushed out into the light of day, like fresh-baked caramel rolls pulled out of the oven.

We had started to make great progress.  We had most of the small-time hoods and operators off the streets and "tossed into "The Box."  Among the names were "Juggling" Jack-in-the-Box Johnson, operator of the "hide the snacks" and other food games and "Colonel Black Jack" of the mismolded solider outfit.  It wasn't easy; bagging Renegade members of the G.I. Joe crew and the occasional member of the Pokemon and Magic Card decks.  But our greatest fete was the mid-air surrender of Superman and Batman and consequent wipe down of that street scene.  All awaited their turn in Shagsville's great golden halls of justice, sitting quietly in the dark of the box, contemplating their crimes against soft-sculptured kind.

We were just about to send a progress report back to HQ, when Agent Spike and I began to notice a stink in the air.  Yep, that's right, stink was Mom-speak for "bad."  According to reports coming in, piles of toxic wastes, perhaps even nuclear, a.k.a. dirty clothes, were popping up all over Shagsville.  It could only mean one thing, The Stuffed Three.  The Stuffed Three was a crime syndicate lead by the notorious Mr. Stuffy (Mr. S.), Mr. Giggles, and The Elephant, a ruthless bunch of stuffed fabrics, who had been working to take over the teeming metropolis of Shagsville for years.  The Stuffed Three were rumored to have taken over the Sanitation industry during the Great Shagsville Worker Strike back in October, which included the municipal dump known as "The Hamper."  They were threatening to release the dust bunnies if Agent Spike and I didn't back off.  This was no longer a task; it was now a chore.

To be continued...

On the edge of town, there is a big house.  And in this big house, there is man and a woman.  And in this big house, there is a girl and a dog, a cat, and a goldfish who looks out through his little fishbowl with an expression of great panic.  And in this house, there is a boy, and the boy's name is...Edward James Blink!

Some call me Edward. Some call me Eddie, but most call me Blink, Agent Blink.  Me and agent Spike, my partner, were left with a dilemma: face the Stuffed Three and take down their vast criminal network, or face (Dah-Dah-Dum!) dust bunnies.  We called HQ and talked to our boss...Mom.  She told about dust bunnies; how, in spite of their adorable, fuzzy exteriors, their red eyes hid lasers that cut trees, and their mouths concealed horrible, razor sharp teeth.  "They'll consume anything.  They especially like dirty socks!  Which explains dust bunny breath!" Shrieked Mom.

"That could also explain the problem I have with my sock drawer," I said.

"Only singles...No matching pair?"

"No, like I care.  No, all my socks are for Sunday.  Anyhow, what's to do?"

Mom thought for a bit, and then she sent us the big gun.  When it arrived, we went to work.  We unpacked, plugged in, and prepared to use the biggest, and newest, gun in our arsenal.  Mom called it...the Vacuum!  It was named after Professor Farnsworth Vacuum, the inventor, and it held the power to make all of Shagsville disappear into thin air.  We discovered this power a bit too late for Plastic Mouse, though.  (Poor Plastic, he was a good kid.)  We quickly called the Stuffed Three to tell them about our "little demonstration."  Well, actually, we had no way to conference call anyone, so we called Mr. Stuffy, who, in turn, called Mr. Giggles, then The Elephant.  They were nervous.  You could hear the sweat rolling down their little linen faces.  A meeting was arranged, back alley other side of The Bed, local gathering place.  But when we got there, it was an ambush.

It turned ugly pretty quickly, and the battle would have taken days, perhaps weeks, if it wasn't for the quick reaction of our boss, Mom.  Holding the plug, "that's enough!  Take Mr. Stuffy, Mr. Giggles, and The Elephant to The Toy Box!"

So, that was that; Operation: Big Clean done and officially in the books...or closet, maybe.  So, here we are, Agent Spike and I, taking in our reward while watching the Nick.  Did I ever mention that I'm okay with chocolate meltiness and sugary crumbs?