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Breakfast Conversation

Mornings… a peaceful time; a time to gently ease into the new day; a time to contemplate what must be done, and what might be put off ‘til tomorrow. For me, there’s plenty of time to mull over these things each morning. I’m what you might term an early riser... a short sleeper... a dawn greeter. It’s routine.

After a time, I find myself searching out some breakfast, and some breakfast-time conversation. Since no one else will be up for several hours (including the dog), my options for conversation are limited:

“Good mornin’ Cap’n Crunch! How goes it this fair day, sir? Will ye and Sea Dog be shovin' off to sail the Good Ship Guppy this morning? Be mindful, sir; I hear the Barefoot Pirate, Jean LaFoot has been trolling about, a-searchin’ for trouble. A toast to the new day! Here’s to success in battlin’ the Soggies, and to be sendin’ that rascal, LaFoot, to Davey Jones’ locker!”

And so I toast the Cap’n, with a hearty swig of milk from the Quisp mug that I purchased some years ago, with a dollar bill and four box-tops.

I’ve enjoyed cereal at breakfast for as long as I can remember—I never tire of it. One of the pivotal moments of my childhood came when Mom, after a long and hard-fought battle, finally waved the white flag, signifying the end of the Cereal Wars and the purchase of my first box of Kaboom! The box claimed that the cereal was fortified with vitamins and iron—a ploy by the manufacturer to foil all the Moms. We kids knew, from our careful study of Saturday morning television commercials, that the clown faces and marshmallows in Kaboom would provide a psychedelic, sugar-charged blast of fruit flavored insanity. We were cautious to avoid eating it too fast—we had heard stories about a kid who had attacked it greedily, causing his head to explode. (A story no doubt circulated by the moms.) KABOOM!

“I’ll not partake in any of your mischief today, Leprechaun! No, you can’t tempt me with yer pot-o-gold; 'tis the Charms I’m after. I hear they’re magically delicious!”

One morning, I might gossip with Count Chocula about Franken Berry. On another, it’s a lively chat with that ever-energetic trio: Snap, Crackle and Pop. Many a morning, I’ve sat expectantly waiting for Cornelius the rooster to proclaim the dawn of the new day with his Cock-a-Doodle-Do… as I sop the limp Corn Flakes from my bowl… wishing I’d had Frosted Flakes, instead.

Frosted Flakes... once known as Sugar Frosted Flakes. The manufacturer dropped “sugar” from the name due to pressure from those pesky nutritionists—probably all moms. Thankfully, in spite of the name change, the sugar remained firmly and generously frosted to the flakes. Sugar Smacks (Now disguised as Honey Smacks) and Sugar Frosted Flakes. They’re G-r-reat!

Every morning, no matter where I am, you’ll find me up early, practicing my morning routine. “I follow my nose! It always knows! The flavor of fruit! Wherever it grows!”

“Ah! Good morning Toucan Sam! What shall we talk about today?”

Side Effects

It frightens me to think that, one day, I may have to count myself among the millions of people who take prescription medications. I know that I shouldn’t be afraid. These medicines have been developed by some of the finest minds in medical research. Developed and improved upon since the days of Hippocrates and the alchemists. They offer the opportunity to lengthen life, improve the quality of those extra years, even help you jump tall buildings in a single bound after your double hip replacement.

Knowing this should make me feel better, but it doesn’t… not at all. This is because every time a new pharmaceutical hits the market, and the ad campaign hits the airwaves, the only thing I remember about the drug is its side effects.

The side effects are always summed up by the soft-spoken, speed-talker at the end of the 30-second spot. It’s the verbal equivalent to fine-print. “May cause headaches, nausea, bleeding from the ears, goiters, ocular cysts or, in rare instances—death. This product should not be taken by people who are considering air travel, as changes in atmospheric pressure have been know to cause spontaneous, human combustion. Consult your physician, neighbor, mechanic, and gardener before taking this product.”

Now, all that may not sound so bad to you. But what is one to do when their doctor prescribes two medications. What if one of them has the potential to trigger an uncontrollable urge to binge-eat and the other may cause the inability to swallow? What do you do then? How about if each of them causes drowsiness? If I take them both, as prescribed, am I going to sleep through tomorrow? Doesn’t that reduce the value of the whole longer-life principle?

Or, what if both drugs have their own unique set of side effects, all of them bad? The side effects that the drug companies are willing to admit are never good. You don’t ever hear Speed-Talker say anything about experiencing a deep-seated sense of well being, or a tendency toward healthy weight loss, or the ability to read people’s minds.

No, it’s always: “This product could cause seeping lesions of the skin which may be mistaken for leprosy. A sensation of insects crawling over the entire body has been known to occur. Actual insect attacks have been reported by some survivors. You should not take this medicine if your doctor determines that you are ill, or becoming ill, as the manufacturer will deny all claims of liability that come as a result of your weakness.”

No, this isn’t for me. As I grow older, and the indiscretions of my youth begin to manifest themselves physically, I think I’ll just ignore them. And when the pain and suffering become more than I can bare; when I feel that it may be time to fill the ream of prescriptions that my doctor has written for me; when I begin to question if life is still worth living—I’ll just listen to a pharmaceutical ad on the radio. I imagine the picture painted in my mind as I listen to Speed-Talker will convince me that I don't feel so bad after all.

The day Mary almost shot the devil

A friend called and said he had a downed tree out on his farm. He told me I could have it for firewood, if I wanted, but I would have to get it soon—if his wife spotted it, she would make him cut, split, and stack the wood to use at their place. “Please hurry!” he begged.

The humidity was high and it was already pushing 90 degrees when I drove out to the farm late the next morning. I got right to work, cutting and loading the sections of log into my pickup. It was one of those days that people describe as sticky; so I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when I saw a hummingbird fly over, and then stop to rest in mid-flight. It hung suspended there, its motionless wings silent as it surveyed my worksite before mustering the strength to plow on through the soggy stillness of the hot summer air.

Turning away from this anomaly, I looked down and noticed my shadow appeared to be slumped over. As I studied this new spectacle, my shadow lifted its head and made a sweeping gesture with its hand—as if waving me off and saying: It’s too hot. I’m done! And with that he walked over to the truck and laid down in the shade.

I looked back at where my shadow should have been, but there was nothing there. This caused me some concern, and thinking I might not be well I decided I’d better go home and rest my obviously heat-addled mind. I couldn’t see my shadow, there in the shade of the truck, so I called out, “If you’re coming, let’s go!”

I looked, but still no shadow.

Over the next several days, my shadow appeared to be enjoying his freedom. One day, I saw him follow someone into the feed store. On another, I’m pretty sure I saw him standing behind a reporter on the TV news. I started to hear talk of a strange, dark critter roaming around town, always in broad daylight. Some folks were getting a little jittery about it. I hoped he wasn’t going to get me in trouble.

One of the most concerned was my neighbor, Mary. Apparently, my shadow had taken a particular liking to spending time in Mary’s garden, where she had spied him on several occasions. Mary has a Mediterranean style garden that’s full of urns, benches and statues, but the focal point of the garden is the labyrinth. The first time Mary showed me her garden, she told me the history of labyrinths and how they were once constructed to serve as traps for evil spirits. Mary mostly used the path for quiet exercise and meditation.

One morning, my shadow was taking a stroll in Mary’s labyrinth, when she spotted him. Mary’s husband, Cal, heard her growl, “Now I’ve got you!” before grabbing Cal’s 16-gauge from the gun rack and running onto the screened porch. Mary took five shots, right through the screen, missing my shadow (even the labyrinth) completely. Cal snatched the shotgun from her hands as she screamed, “I shot him! I shot the devil!”

There have been no more reports of the dark, mystery-creature skulking around town. My shadow returned unscathed—not that he would have been hurt much anyway, I suppose. He’s been staying close by, and to keep it that way, I’m taking it easy if temperatures are forecast to go over 70 degrees.

My wife thinks I’m making this up to avoid work—Mary and Cal aren't talking about it. But there’s a shadow of truth in it…I swear!

Sheepdog

Spiders… insects… bugs… crustaceans… they’re all the same, when they’re big enough to be fitted for a saddle.


Living in the woods along Raccoon Creek, our family suffers more than our share of extra-large creepy crawlers. Any of us, glimpsing a bug out of the corner of our eye, may easily mistake it for one of the family pets.

Common are earwigs the size of scorpions, spiders with a leg-span of 4 - 5 inches, mosquitoes whose buzzing could be mistaken for low flying aircraft, and houseflies that cause bruising when they happen to ricochet off an unvigilant victim. We’ve got them all, and they’re all gargantuan.

Buddy was somewhere between a pup and a grown dog when his first summer arrived. Bugs hadn’t been a part of his earliest months, and they were proving to be a novelty as well as a supplemental food source for the hungry young hound. Buddy could often be found sitting on the front porch, where he attentively watched for the hapless cricket, moth, or daddy-long-legs spider that might come within striking range.

It was late summer, and the cicadas were nearing the peak of their incessantly pulsating waves of racket when Buddy discovered they were easy prey. For those unfamiliar with cicadas; they are a stout, flying insect that appear each year during the dog days of summer, spending their days and nights singing to woo a mate. The ones around our house are as big as a hippo’s thumb. Whenever Buddy would catch one, he would hungrily scarf it down with two or three snaps of his long snout.

One morning, our mailman, Sam, was driving up the lane to drop a package at the house. On his way up the wooded drive, Sam spooked a couple of cicadas that flew noisily ahead of him. Buddy had heard the familiar sound of Sam's truck, and was waiting to torment the mailman when he recognized the mid-morning snack that was winging his direction. I watched as the excited mutt ran out and leapt to grab a cicada, just as the rattle-with-wings took a decided dive.

The cicada shot down Buddy’s maw, causing him to stop hard in the middle of the drive where he violently shook his head before running a couple of figure eights. Expecting a howl of displeasure, I was surprised when Buddy, instead, opened his jaws wide and bleated… like a sheep. This happened several more times—Buddy opening his mouth to howl, and the pulsating rhythm of the cicada changing his usually strong voice into the plaintiff wail of a wooly ruminant. It was apparent that the cicada had remained intact on its decent, and was busy inside Buddy’s gullet expressing its own indignation at its current circumstance.

Sam studied this catastrophe for a moment before deciding it was safe to get out of his truck and hand me the package. Without a word, Sam looked at Buddy, then me, then back at Buddy before getting into his truck and driving away, laughing and shaking his head.

Eventually, the cicada fell silent and Buddy crawled under the porch where he stayed until mid-morning the next day.

Now, whenever Buddy hears the mail truck, he just crawls under the porch. I guess the embarrassment is just too much for him.