Lullabies That Didn’t Lull Me

 

Carolyn J. Rose

When I think about the events in my life that led me to want to describe places, characters, and emotions, to write books, and especially to write mysteries, I recall the days of my early childhood and the techniques my grandmothers used to lull me to sleep.

 

My parents didn’t go out often, but when they did my grandmothers were called on to ride herd on me and my year-younger brother. While we viewed the occasions as opportunities to eat more dessert and stay up late, they attempted to adhere to established dietary and bedtime rules. They aimed to get us fed and to sleep so they could do whatever grandmothers did back in the 50s—tat or embroider or, mostly likely, sigh and clean up the mess we’d made.

 My mother’s mother read to us from a huge volume of poetry and short stories. There were tales about giant squids and shipwrecked sailors. It was pretty exciting stuff, the kind of stuff that held sleep at bay and filled dreams with chases and fights and crashing waves. I’d wake up determined to be a better swimmer, learn how to build a raft, catch fish with my bare hands, and invent a dozen ways to signal passing ships.

 My father’s mother, however, would often sing. 

She had a soft and sweet voice, but the songs weren’t sweet at all. In fact, every one of them involved injury and/or death. While the night birds cried, Red Wing wept for the man she loved, a man killed in battle. As for Clementine, well, thanks to the fact that the person who referred to her as his darling couldn’t swim, she went under. The song about Red Wing made me sad. The one about Clementine made me mad.

 And then there was that classic lullaby, the one about the baby rocking in a cradle in the top of a tree. When the wind blew the cradle rocked, but then the bough broke, and that cradle plummeted to earth. There the song ended, leaving it to me to imagine blood and broken bones and even the cradle being exchanged for a coffin. I wondered who would put a baby in a cradle in a tree and why? What was the back story? And what happened afterward? Did someone call the police? Was there an investigation? Were charges pressed, jail time served?

 I wonder how my life would have turned out if one grandmother had read a lovey dovey romance and the other had wailed “Walking on Sunshine” or Good Vibrations” or “My Girl”. Then I stop wondering and think about how I’ll kill off an unsuspecting character and I get to the keyboard and set another mystery in motion.

 

How Stuff Works

 

 

By Michael Nettleton

I’m no dummy.

No, this not a debate topic. (Sit down, Carolyn.)

But I’d be the first to admit . . . (Carolyn waving hand frantically to get my attention.) Okay, okay, I’d be the second to admit that figuring out technical and mechanical stuff is not my strength.

It took only about fifteen minutes of my freshman calculus class to send me skittering to another building to relaunch my scholastic career as a liberal arts major. I may not handle multi-level equations very well, but I can analyze the crap out of Shakespeare. You need to know how not to bump into the furniture on stage? I’m your guy. Great Hadron Collider or how to fix venetian blinds? Not so much.

Once, while working as a substitute librarian, I was shelving books in the science section. My eye fell upon a soft-covered volume called Quantum Physics for Dummies. I scooped it onto my soon-to-be empty cart and took it to the front desk, bravely entered my library card number, and checked that puppy out. How hard could it be? This book would lay QP out step-by-step. I felt my inner Stephen Hawking rising to the challenge. I could even swallow my pride and overlook the For Dummies part of the title. (Reference opening sentence.)

Later, at home, having spent a quality two hours trying to make my way through the opening chapter, my loving life partner Carolyn tapped me on the shoulder.

“You want I should call and have them bring the Jaws-of-Life?” She queried.

At that point, all I could produce, vocally, was a pathetic mewling that might have contained the words ”what?” and “for?”

“To twist your head around and get it facing the right direction on your shoulders,” she said, trying her best not to smirk.

Which brings us to LED lighting.

Recently, we had a fluorescent light in the garage flicker, then give up the ghost. Now I kinda-sorta understand how fluorescent lights work. A fluorescent lamp generates light from collisions in a hot gas ('plasma') of free accelerated electrons with atoms. Simple, yes? Okay, okay, I looked it up. But I’m within the general area code of understanding it.

Carolyn decided to replace the gassy/lighty thinggummy with an LED fixture. More energy efficient, longer lasting, better for the environment and blah, blah, blah.

 She had our neighbor Mr. Tool Belt install it, and it worked great. In fact, it was so bright, the first time she turned it on my immediate reaction was to yell “I’ll buy the negatives.” (If you’re younger than say, 45, there’s no chance you’ll get the joke. Unless you’re a fan of noir movies.)

Later, we were talking about our new light source and both admitted we had no idea how LEDs work. The odds of me not knowing something Carolyn also doesn’t know are astronomical. Right up there with picking 6 winning lottery numbers. This called for a drink and a quick trip to Wikipedia. Here’s what it says:

A light-emitting diode (LED) is a semiconductor light source that emits light when current flows through it. Electrons in the semiconductor recombine with electron holes, releasing energy in the form of photons.

“Electron holes. Photons. See, that would have been my guess.” I nodded.

“Ly-uhhh!!!” Carolyn crowed. “And what’s your definition of a photon?”

“It’s . . . err . . . um . . . A facsimile you use when you can’t afford a real tawn.”

“Brepppp!” She hit the B.S. buzzer. “What else does it say?”

The attainment of high efficiency blue LEDs was quickly followed by the development of the first white LED. In this device a Y₃Al₅O₁₂:Ce (known as "YAG" or Ce:YAG phosphor) cerium-doped phosphor coating produces yellow light through fluorescence. The combination of that yellow with remaining blue light appears white to the eye. 

“Oooh-kay! Of course,” I tried to sound assured. “Now it’s perfectly clear.”

“Breppppp!” Carolyn hammered the buzzer a second time. “Tell you what.”

“What?”

“How about we settle on a simple one-word explanation?”

Sensing my chance to stop dangling in the wind, I nodded. “Sounds good to me. What do you suggest?”

“I was thinking magic. We just agree it’s magic and move on.”

“You are the brains of the operation, aren’t you?”

She beamed. “I do my best. Do you have anything to add?”

“Well, there’s this. If you plow into the couch on stage and tumble ass-over-teakettle on top of the people sitting on it, stay in character and pretend you did it on purpose. The audience will never know.”

 

         

         

 

The Lure of the West

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

My father, who was born and raised in the Catskill Mountains and lived there until he died, loved the West. As a child he read Zane Grey’s novels and other western adventures like those of the X Bar X boys. I still have a tattered copy of The X Bar X Boys Lost in the Rockies. It carries the scent of mildew now, but when I first opened it, perhaps 60 years ago, I was certain I smelled sage and pine, campfire smoke and scorching bacon.

 

There were always paperback western novels stacked on my father’s nightstand, books by Max Brand, Louis L’Amour, and others. If a western played at the local drive-in theater, we went. And he’d watch the programs TV had to offer in the 1950s—although he’d often point out the sameness of Hollywood-back-lot scenery. 

I don’t know if he’d ever intended to pull up roots generations deep, head west, and try his luck on the open range. Perhaps he did. But Pearl Harbor changed the trajectory of his life. He enlisted in the Army Air Corps and was sent east instead. He landed in the China-Burma-India Theater where he maintained planes and, as was required to insure the job was done right, went along on supply missions. Those missions took him over The Hump—the east end of the Himalaya Mountains. To say those missions were dangerous is a gross understatement.

 When he wasn’t flying or fixing, he lounged in his tent, swatting mosquitoes and trying to put aside fears about being shot at and shot down. He often imagined he was on the other side of the world, out on the plains, in the mountains and canyons. He passed the hours of boredom between flights by mentally living the kinds of adventures he’d read about. I imagine he saw himself herding cattle, shooting rattlesnakes, joining a posse, or simply gazing into the depths of a canyon or at the peaks of the Rockies.

 

He didn’t get to see the country he read so much about until the early 60’s when he packed us into the family station wagon, stuffed a small trailer with tents and camping gear, and headed that way. In six weeks, we saw the Mississippi River, the Great Plains, the towering Rockies, the Grand Canyon, and the geysers of Yellowstone. We saw the Painted Desert, Bryce Canyon, a cattle drive down the main street of a Wyoming town, and the Grand Tetons. We saw tumbleweeds and redwoods, bears and coyotes.

 

Oddly, the day we mounted up and went on a trail ride in the Rockies, the man who had imagined himself living a cowboy kind of life as World War II went on around him, didn’t come along. Instead, he waved us off and waited at the car.

Looking back, I like to think he recognized that riding a hired and tired horse with a dozen other tenderfeet would degrade or even demolish his dreams. So, he turned his back. And he preserved the images.

Me and Ma Nature

By Mike Nettleton 

I’ve always had a tenuous relationship with nature. Which is to say it both amazes me and scares me (bleep)less.

Once, while staying in a cabin on the property of Carolyn’s mother and father in the Catskill mountains of New York, a sound from outside the window made me sit bolt upright in bed. It was a loud, electric, hummy-chirpy-buzzy sound that seemed to envelop the whole structure.

“Relax, town boy,” my wife reassured me. “It’s just katydids. Go back to sleep.”

“Katy-whoozits?” My teeth chattered as I asked. “Are they predators?”

“No, silly, they have no desire to break in here and eat your brain.”

“Y . . . you’re sure?”

“It’d just be a light snack for them, anyway. They’re bush crickets. Insects. And this time of year, they’re in love.”

“Oh,” I said. “So, the sound they’re making is just katydid talk for ‘Hey baby, what’s your sign?’”

She snorted, punched me in the shoulder, and went back to sleep.

The other day, a coyote walked down the middle of our street, big as you please, and spent some time casing the neighborhood. They’re impressive-looking wild dogs and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to encounter one while perambulating about. I made a note to myself to try not to look like a rump roast the next time I took a walk to the park and back.

I decided knowledge is power, so I Googled up “fun facts about coyotes” and came up with a sampler.    

• Coyotes are omnivores. Which means they don’t just eat small critters like rats, birds and schnauzers but are also partial to berries, vegetables and fallen fruit. So, if you’re worried that you might encounter one of these wild dogs, you might want to carry some broccoli with you.

• They’re monogamous and mate for life. Which makes coyote prenup agreements unnecessary paperwork. 

• They are fassssst! They’ve been clocked at 35-43 miles-per-hour. Contrary to what the cartoon would lead you to believe, they’re almost twice as fast as a roadrunner. However, it is true that they’re prone to ordering products from the Acme company that will blow up in their faces or fall off a cliff and brain them.

• Coyotes are, by far, the most vocal wild mammals in North America. Researchers have identified 11 different growls, huffs, woofs, yips, howls, whines, and yodels coming from the beast. (You can tell the ones that yodel, they’ll be wearing lederhosen.)

• And finally, this. Coyotes adapt well to city life. The one we saw on our street is not unique. Urban coyotes are less shy and more likely to eat cats, pet hamsters, and human-made food than their rural cousins. They’ll also munch ornamental fruits and seeds from non-native species like figs, grapes, and palms. Reportedly, (and this is especially timely with Christmas on the horizon) they are one of the few creatures on the planet that will voluntarily devour fruitcake.

 Well, it appears the coyote is still in the neighborhood. A quiche that was cooling on a windowsill has vanished and there are reports of yodeling in the vicinity. A neighborhood posse has been assembled to look for a neighbor’s missing duck. The pitchforks and blazing torches are a nice touch.

I’ll be honest, the idea of a renegade coyote in the vicinity spooks me a little. But at least no one has reported hearing any katydids.  

Close Encounters With an Invasive Species

 Carolyn J. Rose

 

 

When I hear the term “invasive species” I don’t think about murder hornets or hogweed or gypsy moths or pythons. Nope. I think about the folks who work in the medical suite labeled “gastroenterology.” I think about the folks who perform colonoscopies, and I try not to think about those who conduct flexible sigmoidoscopies. In my opinion, if that procedure had been around in medieval times, there would have been no need for the rack or thumbscrews.

When I turned 50, my doctor informed me it was time to have a look at my large intestine. Thinking this meant some kind of a scan or X-ray, I nodded agreement. Then she uttered the words “flexible sigmoidoscopy.” It was a term I’d never encountered, but the flexible part sounded okay. Bending and twisting was becoming more of a chore very year, so flexibility was a good thing. The sigmoidoscopy part puzzled me. The first part of the word made me think of Freud. Maybe I’d emerge from the procedure with insights into my actions and relationships. The experience might be emotionally painful, but worthwhile. That left the oscopy portion of the word. While I was puzzling over its derivation, the doctor explained the procedure.

 My brain let out a long shriek of dismay. My mouth followed suit. “They do what? They put a camera where?”

 She explained in greater detail, assuring me it was no big deal.

 Easy for her to say. “I’ll be asleep, right?”

 “No”

 “But I’ll get drugs to relax me, right? Valium or something, right?”

 “You won’t need anything. You’ll do fine without drugs.”

 As a rule, I’m in favor of passing on meds unless they’re absolutely necessary. Others may be more rigid about the meaning of “necessary,” but this situation met my definition. So I begged. I pleaded. I sniffled.

She didn’t relent. So, a week later, after hours of fasting and more hours of quality time on or near the porcelain throne, I went to meet my fate. Two young men positioned me on a gurney with all the padding of an interstate highway. Then they prepared to shove a tube up a part of my anatomy where the sun doesn’t shine. As I knew they would, they told me to relax.

I laughed in a grim way and asked if either of them could relax if the situation were reversed. They didn’t answer. I took that for a resounding “NO.”

As a child I had been cautioned against passing wind in public. My sphincter muscles are always on alert, ready to clamp down on an emission that might make a telltale sound and/or carry with it an embarrassing odor. But the sigmoidoscopy procedure involves pumping in air to inflate the colon. And air that goes in also comes out. So the sphincter got a workout. And so, apparently, did the equipment. It broke down. I was informed I’d have to reschedule.

 This was back before texting was so prevalent so I didn’t say “WTF?” I laid down the complete words. And more than once. Then I called my doctor and asked if the test was absolutely necessary. When she said she felt it was, I demanded drugs for the retake. She didn’t tell me to suck it up and stop whining but, once again, she refused. She claimed I’d have no problem relaxing because I knew what to expect.

That, of course, was exactly why I wanted drugs. So, after abandoning the idea of shopping for pills in a gritty part of town, I recalled I’d been allowed to sip clear liquids. With that in mind, I went for a muscle relaxer I had on hand. I filled a half-quart bottle with gin and tonic and started sipping on the way to the procedure.

 My stomach was empty. My intestines were cleaned out. The gin hit like a hammer.

 I sipped in the waiting room. I sipped as I slipped on one of those gowns with rear ventilation. I sipped as I clambered up on the gurney. When they stuck the tiny camera up my butt, I gave up on sipping and swallowed the remainder of my drink.

Embarrassment no longer mattered. Passing wind no longer mattered. Whether the equipment might break down again no longer mattered. I was relaxed. So relaxed that when I got off the gurney I wobbled into a wall. So relaxed the technicians called my long-suffering husband in to help me get dressed.

Years later, about to be put under for my first colonoscopy, I told the anesthetist about my flex sig experience. “I’ll put you deep,” he assured me. And he did. I had a great nap. I never knew the invasive species were there.

 

THREE DAYS OF ROCKIN', ROLLIN' AND ROAD FOOD

 

I have found out that there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them is to travel with them.

                        Mark Twain.

    

All things considered, Carolyn and I travel remarkably well together. We've been to Australia, England, and on dozens of excursions on America's highways and never once has a serious death threat been issued. 

Recently, we packed up Big Red, backed out of the driveway and set out for Northeastern Oregon on a "make-good" three day trip. Here's a view of what we mostly saw as we drove the mountainous roads on the March adventure.

With high hopes we wouldn't end up mid-blizzard again, we set out. I'm proud to say we logged hundreds of miles without a wrathful word being spoken. There were several dozen incidences of general good-natured snarkiness, but no real anger. 

    First stop, Pendleton for lunch. We ate at Joe's Fiesta, a Mexican restaurant with big portions and an owner with an even bigger personality. Across the street was my favorite business sign of the trip. 

Correct pronunciation would make it Mo Fuh. But you get the idea. After lunch we rolled down the road to Joseph, with only a short stop to say hello to Holly at the charming little library in Wallowa.

The last time we were in Joseph in March it looked like this.

This time was mo' bettuh (as opposed to Mo Pho)

Joseph has a lot of 'old west' style charm, with many well-restored original buildings and lots of artsy-type stuff to look at and buy. 

We stayed at a classic American-style motel, the Indian Lodge, which was built by legendary character actor Walter Brennan "back in the day." 

The motel featured reasonable prices, comfortable beds and showers with enough water pressure to send your skin cells dashing for cover.  

Favorite story from Joseph. In the morning we wandered down the seven or eight blocks of main street to have breakfast. We came to the Cheyenne Cafe and encountered a codger, all five-foot nothing and 95 pounds of him, hobbling along on a cane toward the door. "Best damn breakfast in Joseph," he croaked. We thanked him and went in. As we ate, we watched a table loaded with grizzled old-timers swapping lies and hooting and hollering at a table by the wall. The codger we'd encountered sat by himself on table down from them. Now, the walls of this place were festooned with all kinds of memorabilia and humorous (depending on your politics) signs. After enjoying what was a very good breakfast, I sidled up to the register to pay. I pointed at one sign that read WE RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO STORMY.  "Who's Stormy? I asked. With a rueful sigh our waiter pointed at the codger we'd met at the door. I know there must be a story there, but I didn't ask. 

    Next we drove up to the Hell's Canyon Overlook on a narrow, twisty highway. We averaged maybe 25 mph. But when we got there it was well worth it. The view was glorious.

 We drove back to Pendleton for our final night's stay. After being told the "Working Girl's Hotel" a refurbished Bordello downtown was booked for months in advance, we settled for a Best Western. We ate at Sister's Cafe, opting for salads to offset the steady stream of road food we'd poured into our bodies. Cheetos and Jerky are tough on the digestive system. Great meal, after we got them to turn down the ear-splitting country-western music so we could hear our food. 

We capped our trip off with a tour through the Pendleton Underground.

Exit Stage Right Pursued 
by Bear

      

After escaping the predator in the lobby, we followed our tour guide Cricket (honest that was her name) through the winding tunnels and into the historic saloons, card rooms, Chinese laundries candy stores and brothels that have been restored     under the streets. 

We drove home along I-84. For my money this is one of the most spectacular Interstate highway stretches in America. The Gorge is (wait for it . . . wait for it.) Gorgeous. 

Oh, and for the record, I love all the windmills on the clifftops. I'm not among those who believe they spoil the natural beauty of the place. 

All in all, we chalk this one up as a successful excursion. Lots of great country we hadn't seen before, sing-along tunes on the mp3 player, road food and no need to hit the speed dial for a divorce lawyer. 

A Ghost of an Idea Leads to a Novel

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

The Catskill Mountains, where I grew up, are rich in stories with a supernatural twist, some dating back centuries. When I was a kid, I scared myself silly reading some of those tales, like the story of the split elm grave in the Woodstock cemetery. I imagined spirits haunting the ruins of the Overlook Mountain House and lurking in abandoned barns. I made up stories of my own and told them to friends during sleepovers, thus guaranteeing not a lot of sleeping was done. 

I can’t recall if I believed what I read and heard, but I certainly believe in the possibility of ghosts. Over the years I’ve talked with people who claim to have seen at least one. I’ve watched TV shows featuring ghost hunters searching with high-tech equipment. I’ve read about mediums striving to make contact on the other side. My mental jury is still out.

 And I’ve had experiences of my own, like seeing the legendary light along the railroad tracks in Gurdon, Arkansas, and hearing footsteps crossing a room when no one else was home. There are explanations for both incidents—distant headlights, underground quartz crystals, wood creaking as an old house settles, an active imagination, etc. But my feeling about those experiences is that there was something more.

 But what?

 Musing about that led to more questions: Do ghosts have a say in where they appear and who they haunt? Is there a learning curve for mastering the art of haunting? Is there a school for spooks? How do they get the energy they need to manifest? Can they read minds? Are they stuck with wispy white sheet-like outfits or the clothing they wore in life? Or can they somehow keep up with fashion trends?

 All that musing, plus a conversation with Mike about our memories of the 1950s TV show Topper, spawned ideas for my latest novel, The Three Shades of Justice: Never Give Up the Ghost. Like the ghosts in many traditional stories, my three protagonists have a reason for returning. They have scores to settle. But unlike the ghosts in many traditional stories, they’re less into scaring and more into what they’re wearing. They’re more likely to head for a mall than walk through a well. And they’re more likely to taunt than haunt.

I’m hoping readers enjoy them as much as I do. And I’m really hoping they’ll like them enough to encourage me to write a sequel.

Exercising at the keyboard. Stroke of multi-tasking genius? Or highway to distraction hell?

Carolyn J. Rose 

On a day when it’s all coming together the way every writer dreams it should, I log a lot of hours in front of the computer. That adds up to a welter of words and a pile of pages. It also adds up to a collection of kinks, aches, pains, and twinges.

          Recently, while trying to loosen a knot in my hamstring muscles by leading with my heels as I walked the living room/kitchen/dining room circuit, I vowed to stretch more often.

          But how to find time?

          How could I loosen my muscles without losing momentum on my work in progress?

Charley horse gone, I returned to my chair and strafed the Internet. I found several lists of exercises I could do in my chair, printed them out, and began my new routine.

          I started with an exercise for my neck, tilting my head slowly from side to side and then from front to back.

          Bad move.

From that angle I noticed cobwebs festooned where the walls met the ceiling. Yes, festooned. This wasn’t the work of a single spider. There must have been a convention since I last swept up there—a date lost in the mists of time.

          Having spotted them, I could think of nothing else. With a sigh, I trudged to the kitchen in search of the broom. Twenty minutes later I found it in the garage, returned to my office, and attacked. “This is also exercise,” I told myself.

          Half an hour later, in my chair once more, I tried arm and shoulder stretches, interlacing my fingers and stretching my arms out in front at shoulder level.

          Through the lattice of my fingers, I spotted blops and smudges on my computer screen, crud in my keyboard, and dust on the desk.

          As you can imagine, I soon found myself bound for the kitchen again. Digging into that scary cabinet beneath the sink—and making a note to organize it later—I found the special screen cleaner and banished the blotches. With a paintbrush, I cleaned the keyboard. Then I dusted the desk, organizing as I went.

          After writing for half an hour, I attempted the full back release. I put my feet flat on the floor, let my arms hang loose, and slowly curled forward until—

          Crap.

Dust bunnies.

And not just one or two. The area beneath my desk was a dust bunny breeding ground, a regular warren for the little gray critters.

          I dragged myself to the kitchen again and found the vacuum, but not the brush I needed. That surfaced in the guest room, but only after an exhaustive search. Once I got it in place, I did the entire floor and sucked the grit from the closet louvers.

Back in my chair, I attempted quadriceps contractions, extending my legs and tightening my thigh muscles for the count of ten. Around five, I noticed a definite wobble in my chair.

I rocked from side to side.

Dang it!

Definitely a loose screw.

          Stomping to the kitchen, I pawed through the junk drawer—making a mental note to straighten it out, maybe tomorrow—and excavated a screwdriver.

          I returned to my office, tightened the offending screws, and tossed the exercise sheet into the overflowing recycling bin—after making yet another mental note to cart that outside and empty it.

          And so, the sun set on my attempt at exercising at the keyboard.

          And, as almost everyone knows, when the sun sets, it’s time for an adult beverage.

 

 

Carolyn J. Rose

On a day when it’s all coming together the way every writer

dreams it should, I log a lot of hours in front of the computer. That

adds up to a welter of words and a pile of pages. It also adds up to a

collection of kinks, aches, pains, and twinges.

Recently, while trying to loosen a knot in my hamstring muscles

by leading with my heels as I walked the living room/kitchen/dining

room circuit, I vowed to stretch more often.

But how to find time?

How could I loosen my muscles without losing momentum on my

work in progress?

Charley horse gone, I returned to my chair and strafed the

Internet. I found several lists of exercises I could do in my chair,

printed them out, and began my new routine.

I started with an exercise for my neck, tilting my head slowly

from side to side and then from front to back.

Bad move.

From that angle I noticed cobwebs festooned where the walls

met the ceiling. Yes, festooned. This wasn’t the work of a single spider.

There must have been a convention since I last swept up there—a date

lost in the mists of time.

Having spotted them, I could think of nothing else. With a sigh, I

trudged to the kitchen in search of the broom. Twenty minutes later I

found it in the garage, returned to my office, and attacked. “This is

also exercise,” I told myself.

Half an hour later, in my chair once more, I tried arm and

shoulder stretches, interlacing my fingers and stretching my arms out

in front at shoulder level.

Through the lattice of my fingers, I spotted blops and smudges

on my computer screen, crud in my keyboard, and dust on the desk.

As you can imagine, I soon found myself bound for the kitchen

again. Digging into that scary cabinet beneath the sink—and making a

note to organize it later—I found the special screen cleaner and

banished the blotches. With a paintbrush, I cleaned the keyboard. Then

I dusted the desk, organizing as I went.

After writing for half an hour, I attempted the full back release. I

put my feet flat on the floor, let my arms hang loose, and slowly curled

forward until—

Crap.

Dust bunnies.

​

And not just one or two. The area beneath my desk was a dust

bunny breeding ground, a regular warren for the little gray critters.

I dragged myself to the kitchen again and found the vacuum, but

not the brush I needed. That surfaced in the guest room, but only after

an exhaustive search. Once I got it in place, I did the entire floor and

sucked the grit from the closet louvers.

Back in my chair, I attempted quadriceps contractions, extending

my legs and tightening my thigh muscles for the count of ten. Around

five, I noticed a definite wobble in my chair.

I rocked from side to side.

Dang it!

Definitely a loose screw.

Stomping to the kitchen, I pawed through the junk drawer—

making a mental note to straighten it out, maybe tomorrow—and

excavated a screwdriver.

I returned to my office, tightened the offending screws, and

tossed the exercise sheet into the overflowing recycling bin—after

making yet another mental note to cart that outside and empty it.

And so, the sun set on my attempt at exercising at the keyboard.

And, as almost everyone knows, when the sun sets, it’s time for

an adult beverage.

Egg-Timer democracy

 Note: This is a part of my unpublished memoir I Might Be Naked For All You Know: A chronicle of my lazy-hazy-crazy days in the radio broadcasting business. 

The long-time host of the important wake-up show, a self-important fifty-something guy named Gary something or other, had developed the habit of drinking himself senseless every night and stumbling into work late every morning, nursing a monster-mother of a hangover. 

Even though I was a rookie graveyard shift pronouncer, I knew you never left an empty swivel chair in front of the microphone, even if your shift was over. Wavering between pissed-off, tapped out, and juiced up by the chance to work prime-time, I’d launch Gary’s show, explaining that I expected him any minute. Sometimes I would answer the inside line and say the same thing to the glum and resigned general manager.

I perfected talking while back-timing in order to hit the ABC news at the top and bottom of the hour and Howard Cosell’s sports at ten after. I also set the timers to tape Paul Harvey on twin decks behind the control board. You always ran a backup on the famed commentator’s feed. You could screw-up on-air all you wanted, but listeners got their undies in a bunch if Paul was MIA. They’d flood the phone lines for hours sputtering their disgust and displeasure, claiming you were part of the international communist conspiracy, and threatening to phone your boss.  I also brought the Jackson County news in on a feed from the local paper and gritted my teeth as one of their reporters, a man I would later learn was the North American body-odor champion, droned his way, word for word, through the front page of the Medford Mail Tribune. Riveting it was not.

Gary would wander in at six-thirty or seven—once or twice as late as eight—red-nosed, coughing, and throwing aspirin down his throat. He’d flap his hands to keep me in my seat and head for the john. When he emerged, he’d fill his mug with steaming sludge from the pot, drink it down, and then refill it before sliding in behind the microphone. The smell of whiskey wafted from the cup as he sank into the swivel chair behind the board, declaring that his “medicine” had made him well enough to help his listeners greet the new day.

I once asked him if he ever caught any heat about being late. “Naaaah,” he confided. “You’re lookin’ at one bulletproof mo-fo. A local institution. Been on the air in this town forever.” The fact that he was also the program director convinced me he was right.

          He wasn’t.

One morning about five I got a call from E.J. Michaels, the afternoon guy, Without preamble, he told he was the new program director and Gary had been canned.

First real-life radio lesson: nobody’s bulletproof. Second lesson: listeners forget who you are faster than you can say the station call letters, time, and temperature. Which was exactly what I ended up doing in the six to ten timeslot. Hey, what can I say? They offered me a smokin’ raise: an extra hundred a month. Even then I was a shameless show business whore.

          At nine, at the end of the news block, KYJC originated a one-hour call-in talk show hosted by David Allen, my former college professor and mentor. I loved and respected Dave. He was a great teacher, a square shooter, and an A-1 human being. I miss him to this day      

But, as much as it pains me, there’s no dancing around the truth: Dave sucked as a talk show host. He was intelligent, reasonable, and as incapable of lying as he was of being rude. In short he was the polar opposite of today’s crop of shrill, finger-pointing, fact-warping conversational mutants. Dave truly believed that his show served democracy. No matter what kind of boring drivel or bigoted lunacy a caller wanted to spew, David Allan would take him on, armed only with his mind, his microphone, and his handy egg-timer.

          That egg timer was Dave’s way of guaranteeing every caller was treated equally. He’d twist the dial to the three-minute mark and set it ticking.

Tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick. When you heard the ding, your time was up. Until then, you could blather on. Democracy.

          Now, this being right-wing Southern Oregon in the early 70s, there was undoubtedly more than one storm-trooper-wanna-be in the broadcast area. The one I called “the Nazi” had appointed himself their official spokesman. Since I’ve blocked his name, can’t remember it, or may be sued if I use it, let’s call him Henry. Every morning, at eight-forty five sharp Henry called. As instructed, I’d take his name and put him on hold. Another aspect of Dave’s concept of democracy—callers went on-air in the order they called in. The Nazi always called first.

At 9:05, after the network news, Dave began his monologue, a review of what he thought were the important issues of the day. He’d take several logical and well-thought-out positions and invite callers to debate them. They never did. Some might say, “I agree with you, Dave” or, “I think you’re wrong about that, Dave.” But when he asked them why, he got dead air or a conversational U-turn. Often I’d hear his wheezy smoker’s sigh and once, after three or four idiotic off-topic opinions, he’d ripped the top two pages from his yellow legal pad, wadded them up, and tossed them over his shoulder.

As Dave concluded his daily the exercise in futility, I’d slip him a sheet of paper listing caller names and line numbers. Dave would nod and punch a blinking button on the multi-line telephone. “You’re on the air with David Allen on KYJC. Henry, what do you want to talk about today?”

 “The only thing that matters,” Henry would snarl. “When are we going to get smart and deport them all, David? You know who I’m talking about; the Jews. They poison our water, they put filth on our televisions and radios, and they want to end prayer in the schools.”

Tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick. On and on the Nazi would spew. He didn’t just hate Jews. Niggers, Spics, homos, lesbos, Catholics, liberals and what he called “Celestials,” got splattered with their fair share of verbal sewage.

Peering through the glass that separated us, I’d watch Dave doodle on a legal pad, where he’d scrawled the notes for his opening remarks. From time to time he’d light another unfiltered cigarette from the butt-end of its predecessor.

Tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick. Dave would occasionally interject calming words or warn Henry to “watch his language.” That only fed the fire. When I turned the caller volume down so listeners could hear Dave’s comment, the Nazi screamed louder.

Seething, I’d do my job, answering the phone, putting people in line to talk. Many of them, sadly, agreed with the Nazi, although in much more politically acceptable language. No, they didn’t hate Jews. It was just that, not being Christians, you know, their motives were a little suspect, weren’t they?

Tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick. As I listened to the toxic Nazi and watched Dave squirming until the egg timer dinged, I’d send him telepathic messages: Hang up on him, Dave! Blow the fucker up! Tell people what a stupid twisted cocksucker you think he is. Lose it, Dave. Just once, lose it and tell people what a pathetic, pencil-dicked, hate-mongering weasel the guy is. Please. Just once. Tick-a-tick-a-DING forever, motherfucker!!!!

But Dave never did. And when I finally worked up the nerve to ask him if I could just put the Nazi on hold and then “accidentally” hang up on him during the opening monologue, Dave shook his head and fastened hound-dog eyes on me. “We can’t do that, Mike. This show is for everybody. Even if we disagree with their opinions, we have to give them the opportunity to express themselves.” Dave took the First Amendment seriously.

And callers knew it. Nobody manipulated the three-minute egg timer with more style and élan than an elderly woman we’ll call Aunt Millicent. She fancied herself a poet and loved hearing herself on the radio. A deadly combination. Rest easy, Maya Angelou, you have nothing to fear.

“Hello, Aunt Millicent, You’re on the air with David Allen on KYJC Radio. What do you think about the protests in Washington this past weekend?” Since her daily calls never came within a philosophical country mile of the topic du jour he knew the conversation was going nowhere. But Dave was a professional; he kept on pitching.

“Hel-lo Day-vid.” The words wheezed from the studio speakers in her creaky, my-dentures-don’t-fit-quite-right delivery.

Dave’s microphone would amplify his heavy sigh as he reached into his shirt pocket for another cigarette.

Aunt Millicent would chirp out her opening poetic salvo: “The little puppy dog sat up and begged, but you know the rascal was three-legged.”

Her commandments for her daily verses were, in their own way as simple, principled, and unshakeable as Dave’s rules for a talk show: Thou shalt rhyme every other line. Thy poem shall deal with puppies, flowers, small children, birds, sunshine, and occasionally food. Nothing unpleasant will occur in the verse. Thou shalt read the final line just as the egg timer ticks to the end.

Her timing was uncanny. I visualized a gray-haired gnome in a hand-crocheted shawl, penning her rhymes by the light of a kerosene lantern. Ink quill in hand, she’d commit them to crumbling parchment, then set her own egg timer and read them aloud.

Tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-

“And the baby bird flew from the nest.”

Tick-a-tick-a

“And disappeared in the sun just to the . . .”

Tick-a-DING!

“. . . west. Thank you Day-vid. God bless you.”

 

Dave Allen died in 1973, a victim of his own chain-smoking and probably the stress induced by sharing the ionosphere with the likes of the Nazi. I think he would be appalled to see what talk radio has become. After all, Dave believed it was all about democracy—that everybody should get to talk until the egg timer dings.

Somebody notify Rush Limbaugh; I’m sure he’ll welcome the suggestion.