RotoRooter

12:45 PM
Outpost: Central Command, we have a problem.

12:50PM
Me: This is Central Command calling emergency plumber. Do you copy?

Image: Well no, Chuck the plumber is not responding. The poor weekend on-call guy must be wading through knee-high slop caused by backed up drain pipe in some God forsaken basement that never sees the light of day expect in late November around Thanksgiving when someone retrieves the outdoor Christmas light and fake tree, and again in mid-January when the stuff is crammed back in the wet, spider infested cellar. Of course he can’t get to the phone.

12:55 PM
Me: This is Central Command calling Outpost. Do you copy?

Outpost: Copy.

Me: Waiting for response from emergency plumber. Tell occupants to cease showering and flushing, or you will be cleaning up sewage.

Image: Four unhappy tenants waiting to go to the bathroom and rents are due on Tuesday. Well, maybe not?

Outpost: Roger, sewage.

1:45 PM
Me: Central command calling emergency plumber. This is an Emergency. Water is coming into first floor bathrooms. Drain needs to be unclogged. Do you copy?

Image: Chuck is now up to his waist. Cellar rats have evacuated. Cave Crickets clinging to the rafters.

3:20 PM
Me: This is Central Command calling outpost. Update?

Outpost: Situation is desperate.

Me: How much longer can you hang on?

Outpost: We are doing everything we can. We could really use some back up. Sorry, we have a back up, that’s the problem.

Me: Waiting on response from emergency plumber. Will attempt to get a response from competitor.

Image: HUGE DOLLAR SIGNS. There goes this month’s rent. Scan the yellow pages on the internet. Sunday afternoon. This out to be good.

3:55 PM
Me: Central Command calling RotoRooter.

RR: We’ll have a man out there within the hour.

Me: Unbelievable!

RR: How would you like to pay?

Image: Firstborn.
Image: Emergency Plumber eating Doritos on over stuffed couch. Looks at ringing cell phone. Recongizes number. Flicks on TV, adjusts rabbut ears. Ignores call.

Me: Credit Card.

Image: Dave Ramsey having a heart attack. Check's in the mail, check's in the mail.

4:23 PM
RR: Hey, we are here. Where’s the Outpost?

Me: He’ll be there in five minutes.

Image: Auto wreck on Broadway.

4:26 PM
Me: Command Central calling Outpost.

Outpost: Shit. I am on my way.

4:45 PM
RR: Roots. $295 to clean the pipes. $1350 to repair.

Image: Another month of rice and beans. Got any good recipes?

6:20 PM
Outpost: Command Central, we just finished. Guess what, now the washer doesn't work.

Me: Sigh.

Emergency Plumber: Just got your message...

Image: Explosion

Cold

Some snowbird returned to the north and took the unsecured wireless connection to the internet with him. I got lazy logging onto the internet with one click. I returned to using my Verizon Access, which is easy and convenient but I have to turn it on. The difference is like unlocking the car door with a remote, or actually placing the key into the lock, which I have to do to get into the Jeep. My life is soooo difficult!

I read a story about a barbershop experience at the Tarpon Springs Writers Group. While the descriptions were solid, the story was “buried"-- not much story to the 1800 words. It is the end of summer when the main character, who turns out to be a little girl, goes to the barbershop with her dad. Summer should never end, but she sees a cute little boy in the shop and suddenly the start of school doesn’t seem so bad.

Afterwards, I sat in Danny’s, a local restaurant across the street from the Public Library. I looked at the art work hanging on the walls and wondered if artists meet with samples of their work for fellow artist to critique.

"Today, this is an acrylic about a toad."

"Looks like a dead toad in the middle of the road."

"I like how you used the red. Dramatic."

"I'm sorry, I got completely lost in the use of brown near the end. Made no sense to me. Maybe if it was a watercolor."

"Where do you expect to sell that?"

The ideas for the Peace Corps book and the RV book are beginning to float into my head. I like this, but find it too scary to begin. Regardless of when I get started, both will be much better because of the feedback I get from my fellow writers. Florida has been a good move because of them.

But boy oh boy, it is still too cold for my blood. Went to Howard Park last night to watch the sunset, something I don't do very often since coming here. (In Hawaii, it was a daily ritual.) I sat on beach in a sweatshirt with a beach towel wrapped around my legs. I hunkered down waiting for the sunset figuring smoke from the fires in Georgia would make a beautiful sky. Nope, it fizzled out.

Rest in Peace

Last year Jeremy helped his grandfather plant twenty-five apple trees. He promised to return this summer to build a fence around the trees and stake them up so they would grow straight and strong, bearing delicious fruit. Jeremy won’t be able to keep his promise. He and thirty one other men and women are no longer with us, robbed of their hopes and dreams. No one promises tomorrow, but never do we expect it to be stolen by such evil.

Jeremy never got a chance to walk among the mature trees on an October afternoon and taste the fruit from his trees he planted with his grandfather. His family grieves and asks why. No one will ever be able to explain.

Photo: Andrew Undercoffer, a freshman, reads inscriptions on one of the many boards set up in the Drillfield on the Virginia Tech campus. (AP Photo/Mary Altaffer)

War at Dawn

I don't know why I write this stuff.

An early morning gust howled like an urban coyote trapped inside a dumpster sending the empty sound through the bedroom window. The blast violently rattled the metal frame. Scouting parties had earlier reported back to the waiting soldiers using a sophisticated communication system of touch and pheromones. The transmitted messages went undetected by the enemy. The coast was clear and the invasion plan was a go. Cloaked in the darkness of the predawn sky that promised to capture the rising sun before it broke the horizon, the invaders slipped silently into position.

Dressed in protective armor the invaders route tunneled through a labyrinth of wood, concrete, plasterboard and construction debris before they emerged to cluster around the electrical outlet. Once given the signal to proceed, the mass swarmed through the entry way and assembled on the sill. Others staked out higher posts on the wall near the opened window. Another gust played the Venetian blind like a harmonica, and when the last stale note slipped away, the window dressing crashed against the glass. Undeterred by the foul weather, the invasion continued ahead of the coming rain.

I laid in the dark since 3 am listening to the storm’s prelude. At 6:30, the alarm went off. I snapped on the light. My blurry vision caught their dark silhouettes pressed against the wall. “What the hell is that?” I asked, fumbling for my glasses without taking my eyes of the shadow that remained beyond my depth of field. My two sentries, a chunky tabby and a scrawny calico, hunkered down at the foot of the bed warily listening to the rustling palms and hibiscus on the other side of window didn’t bother to respond. “Cats,” I whispered. No response. I flung back the floral sheets draped over my legs and went to investigate.

The lungless creatures with black exoskeletons poured into the room, unfazed by my presence towering over them. I shivered in disgust at the tiny creatures relentlessly overrunning the room. Their trails reached out from the electrical outlet like the tentacles of the giant squid from 2000 leagues below the sea.

“Crap,” I said knowing I had no defense or weapons to wage a counter attack against the siege. I needed the lethal mixture of deca-hydrate and sodium tetra-borate and the nearest arsenal was a mile away. Winds chased me across the parking lot; drops of rain spattered at my heels like bullets. I ducked into Walgreens where my quick entrance startled the lone clerk manning the front register.

“May I help you?” she asked.

Without losing my stride I asked, “Bug spray.”

“Aisle five.”

I marched onward and found stockpiles of gas canisters sitting in pretty rows of red, orange, blue and yellow. My choice had a new and improved scent of citrus. $4.49 plus tax—the cost of war.

I raced back to the battlefield, envisioning the worst—a carpet of invaders spreading beyond the bedroom to the bathroom floor, down the hallway and onto the sacred realm of the kitchen cabinets where caches of sugar, honey and chocolate syrup waited for plunder. Instead, I found the troops mobilized across the faux marble window sill. Easy targets, like shooting pigeons off the eaves of the county courthouse.

“Directions. Directions. Read the directions,” I warned as I fumbled with the safety tab that prevented accidental release by foolish consumers before purchase. The innocent needed evacuation. I tempted the felines with food. Once the refugees safely escaped to the kitchen to gorge themselves on rabbit and peas, I barricaded them from the war zone.

I crossed the room shaking the pressurized can to assure a proper mixture of noxious chemicals with the propellant laced with the aromatic scent of Florida fruit trees. The counter attack began with only a plan to ready, aim and fire. A forceful spray spent across the wall and doused the invaders with a sweet, sickly dew. The slaughter was quick and seemed too easy until a gust of wind from the opened window blew the toxic vapor back from the enemy’s line. The scent of orange filled my nostrils. I hacked and exhaled in disgust as I lunged for the open window, slamming the glass pane shut.

I held my fire and surveyed the carnage. The march had ceased. Satisfied the poison reeked havoc on the gathered masses, I took cover in the hallway. In hasty retreated I tripped over the refugees whose curiosity planted them just beyond the war zone—the other side of the door. They scattered like leaves blown in the storm’s wind as I collapsed.

Rain drove through the gray morning and pelted the window. Drops merged together and formed a stream which snaked its way down the streaked glass. The barrage continued as I huddled in the hallway with the refugees. Their uprooting left them without a place to stretch and cleanse themselves after their morning meals. “Cats,” I whispered. Diablo, the tabby, blinked at me while Phoenix, the calico, lifted her nose as if detecting the light drift of citrus. I waited for the gas to dissipate with the same patience of a cat stalking a sparrow as it scratched in the dead leaves under the hibiscus looking for insects.

I felt violated and angered. My morning routine disrupted. The trespassers had crossed the eight inch wide barrier that separated my internal space from the external places I’d relinquished. As I waited in the hallway, my annoyance grew spurring me to punish the enemy. I planned to foil the retreat of any deserters who might escape.

The deluge made me hesitate at the front door. “I can do this later,” I thought. But mission had begun. The downpour pelted my back as I inched my way between the exterior wall and soaked hedges that grew inches away from the building. Water dripped from my elbows and I wondered if I could keep a tight grip on the nozzle. By the time I reached my destination, I spit rain from my lips. Crouched beneath the sill, I inspected the ground for clues of a retreat, yet saw nothing but a pooled puddle of water soaking my feet. I flushed the cracks and crevasses between the vinyl siding and the window casing to assure no enemy left unharmed.

I held the damp towel to my face as I surveyed the killing field. Their armored bodies were stuck to every surface. The saturation instantaneously killed the warriors freezing them in place. The wall looked like a miniature replica of a battle scene staged with storm troopers from Star Wars. I collected the carnage by sweeping the shriveled bodies into a dust pan and disposed the remains by tossing them to the wind out the back door.

The next morning my alarm clock went off at 6:30. First light would soon seep through the Venetian blinds. Phoenix and Diablo curled their warm bodies against my legs content in the morning calm. I peeked over at electrical outlet. “Damn, ants.”

Wipe Out

Last Saturday I latched onto an idea for a short story. By Sunday, I had set the scene, and decided the twist. I wrote about half the story and on Monday morning I revised what I wrote, expanded on the last half and felt confident that by Friday I’d read the story to the writers group. Except on Tuesday when I opened my computer and the document I found a significant chunk of text missing. The title from page one sat at the top of the page, followed by a quote from one of my characters on page six. Where the rest of the document disappeared to? I had no idea. I searched a few possible places, but the work was mysteriously gone. It felt like an appropriate time to spew a few choice words, but with the help of the Lord, I resigned to the sad fact I would have to start over.

The prior week my wrists hurt, so I stopped riding my bike and kayaking. I slept in wrist braces to keep from waking with my wrists tucked beneath me like chicken wings. And I bought a wrist rest and a computer gloved filled with magical beans (kidding) to type in an ergonomically correct position. It rained so my recuperation seemed perfectly timed and these days were productive until I lost the data.

I went to Block Busters and rented two movies—Happy Feet (stupid environmental message, but beautifully done.) and Babel (way too long and the story’s connection to the Japanese family focused on the daughter when it should have been the father. Critical reviews cost no extra.).

By Wednesday, after running in the morning, I recreated about a third of the story and prayed that I lost it only to make it better. Thursday found me patiently waiting for an unexpected turn and I found it, when my six year old protagonist decided to hit a little boy in a barbershop. I wrapped the story up, but wasn’t confident that story could hold up to the Friday morning review, so I held back. Four authors read and for some reason each received picky critique from the other thirteen writers. I made a few mental notes about my story, and worked it again Friday night. I’m done until I read and get some feedback from the group next week.

Now the blog.

Easter

I thought of His pain and suffering as I stood on the lawn of the Church on the Bayou. A sliver of light cut across the horizon. The below normal temperatures caused me to shiver and I jammed by hands deeper in my jean pockets. Relax.

I hate the cold. I suffered with the pain of cold. What a wimp! It was nothing compared to His agony. Suddenly, my regret melted. The half mile walk along the bayou in the darkness to stand in the new light of day with fellow worshippers didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Sure I was still cold and I missed my warm bed.

As I waited I thought of my aunt and uncle in Hawaii. Still asleep, but they will wake to hike up the mountain to Fagan's Cross near Hana to witness the sun break on this glorious day. It is a good day to be a Christian.

Rainbow River Race

It was a cold morning for April - in Florida. I couldn't see my breath, and we didn't have to crack the ice on the river, but it was cold. I wore three shirts!

Don't forget. You can click on any photo to enlarge it.













Bob, race chair, and his brother Chuck. I kayak with these guys every Sunday afternoon. Except this Easter weekend because we are eating Easter ham at Chuck's.

The Committee: Camile, Bob, me and Chuck. I need a hair cut.
The park would not allow us to put our boats into the water. We did however have permission to take our boats out in th park. Go figure! So we carried the boats to the other side of the road, ducked under the bridge and hit the water.
A North Carolina entry, Nancy. She and her husband Jack won their class.

Honestly, every one won. What a beautiful day.

John Winter 1967-2007

When I lived in Tampa John became part of my morning ritual. As I showered and dressed for work I heard John’s voice in my living room. I relied on the young man' s help with the first major decision of the day.

“Rain expected,” John reported. I closed my windows before leaving for work.

“Cooler air dropping south,” he said. I peeked around the corner of the bathroom to see him sweep his arms down from the north. I grabbed a sweater.

“Inland temperatures could reach the mid-nineties.” Sounds like short sleeves.

I looked forward to his boyish grin, his fun-loving spirit and playful attitude. Regardless of how early, he had a sparkle in his eye. He loved pets and featured animals needing homes on his segment. I knew Mom would have loved this guy. He visited schools and whenever a child asked him a question he took great interest in that child's curiosity.

I missed the meteorologist when I moved away. Shortly after my return I surfed the local TV stations to see if he still stood in front of his weather maps. I smiled when I found him right where I left him, at WFLA. With John, returning to Tampa was a little like coming home. How sad I am to learn that yesterday, John Winter died of a self-inflicted gun shot wound. He was thirty-nine.

Cat Fur

They went nose to nose leaving clumps of fur in their wakes. This morning noses touched as tentatively as two strangers, sizing each other up. “Who are you?” they asked.

They are my stupid cats. I returned from kayaking to find the two hissing and growling at each other. I got real nervous standing between the two felines.

What is it that sets them off causing the two to act as if they never saw the other before, remains a mystery. They haven't had a vicious episode since June and the behavior started in January last year. The first time Phoenix was possessed and unrelented in her attacks. I had to physically separate them. Phoenix howled to get at Diablo. That lasted a week.

Last night if Diablo moved too fast, or let her guard down, Phoenix attacked. I actually tripped her on the way through the living room and she never lost her focus, returning to her feet hell-bent on taking a chomp out of Diablo’s hide.

It surprised me to see them sleeping on the bed this morning, but growls lingered in their throats. By mid morning they touched noses at the food bowl, but slinked off making sure their flanks were not exposed to sudden ambushes.

The two are exhausted. So am I.

Title Seven

Nine years ago, I left Florida. Nine years ago Tennessee won their last National Women’s Basketball Championship. Tonight, Tennessee clinch their seventh title - 7 in 2007.

Did I have to return to Florida to make it happen? Congratulations to the team on the Summit – Rocky Top.

By the way, I could care less about Florida Men's Basketball.

Wind Chimes

I wondered what the cats would do when face to face with a cockroach. Hunt it down like a rabbit. Except I can’t bear the thought of cat fangs piercing the hard bug body and slurping down white juices. Blahk! That’s how I accidentally clobbered Phoenix with a magazine when she lunged after the roach at the same time I took a deadly swing. Phoenix lived and the cockroach escaped under the living room couch. It is still there as far as I know because I went out for my morning run. (The couch weighs a ton.)

The annual Tarpon Springs Fine Art Show came to town, temporarily interrupting my run as the park gets fenced and the entrance fee becomes two bucks. Out early on Saturday, I slipped through the gate and got a sneak preview of the exhibits along the water front. Later I spent most of the afternoon in the park viewing the rather large show. Very unique combination media work – and I even saw some work done with bark. So just maybe I’ll use the tree bark smuggled from Hawaii in my bike box two years ago. I saw a few things I liked, but nothing too affordable outside of the ceramic fish hooks, for hanging bathrobes in the bathroom.

I did find a wind chime with a pleasant sound. Except I think I am the only person who ever bought a wind chime and now can’t get it to chime. Although there has been a good breeze every since I have been here, the purchase seemed to have started the doldrums.