I Know What You Did 12 Years Ago

On my scheduled day off Wednesday, I ran by my mom's house to take her my used tabloids. It's my way of saving the environment. No Russell Dalrymple and Greenpeace antics for me. I read them, pass them to Mom, who gives them to her neighbor across the way, who gives them to an old lady down the road, who gives them to an elderly friend, who donates them to the local ministerial alliance, and so on. I wouldn't be surprised if Kevin Bacon ended up with them.

After our brief visit, I stepped out on the porch to walk through Mom's mole-tunneled yard to T-Hoe. Mom really needs to get some of those spinning metal sunflower thingies before I pull up lame. Of course I could have walked down the concrete porch to the steps by the garage, but my knees would rather do battle with molehills all the live-long day than descend a mountain.

Looking up from my sinking feet at the edge of the driveway, I glanced across the road. There's a house that was vacant for quite some time, and an older couple moved in several months back. Their first contact with Mom was to ask if their relatives could park along the edge of her side of the road for a family reunion. Mom agreed. Not knowing that the entire population of Rhode Island was showing up. She has had little to no contact with them since. People are private like that around here.

On the porch of that house sat a white-haired man. He was well over 75 yards away, but to me he looked like that man you might have seen on the internet who got in trouble for slapping a baby on a plane. It was SO creepy. He was simply sitting there. Watching. No wave. No, "Howdy, neighbor." Silently watching. From an Adirondack chair. Or maybe a woven-strip lawn chair. My brain was focused on his face. I climbed into T-Hoe. Then whispered to Mom, who had followed to the porch, but not the mole-swiss-cheesed yard. "Hey. There's a man staring at us."

"Oh, I know. He does that all the time. It's gotten to the point that I won't come out to work in my yard if I see him over there. And when I come out, and he comes out later, I go back in. I figure I can trim my tree or water my flowers later, when he's not there. It kind of bothers me."

I know what she means. I went about my merry dead-mouse-smelling-post-office way, and waved from the road. I used to toot my horn for her, but that didn't feel right with The Observer.

Last night, I called Mom to tell her of Genius's visit with his college buddies. After soaking in all things Genius, Mom asked, "When you left my house the other day, was there anything on the porch?"

"No. I didn't see anything. This is not like that time you came home a couple years ago and found a cinnamon roll wrapped in foil with one bite gone, and thought that your friend left it and a dog got into it, is it? Because I told you then that a dog wouldn't take one bite and wrap it back up, and something fishy was going on."

"No. But I looked out a couple hours after you left, and there were three bags sitting there on the edge of the porch, right across from the door."

"You mean under your seasons flag? You really need to change that. It's fall, you know. What's on there now?"

"That's where it was. I have a "Celebration" flag up. For the 4th of July. It's not a flag, but it has red stripes and stars. The bags were full of hedgeapples. I don't know who put them there. It might have been that man down the road. You know, where Lang and Shirl used to live? He brought me some one time. They keep bugs out of the basement. I took one bag and scattered them out in the basement that evening, and I was down there today, and didn't see one bug. But I don't need THREE bags. Just the one. I don't know what to do with the other two. And I'd kind of like to find out who brought them. I know it wasn't my friend. She always calls after she gets home, and tells me to look on the porch. And if it was my neighbors, they would have called, too. So I guess it must have been that man from down the road, but he didn't give me any last year. So it seems conly funny."

"Mom. When was the last time that guy gave you hedgeapples?"

"Well, it wasn't very long after your dad died. So I guess it was...about 12 years ago."

"MOM! Nobody is going to give you hedgeapples for your basement one year, and then bring them again 12 years later, without once talking to you! Something is weird here."

"I really wish I knew who left them. Maybe they meant to leave them somewhere else, and stopped at the wrong house. And I've already used one bag!"

"This is creeping me out. Remember that girl I used to teach with, whose husband was in college at Rolla? They had an apartment, and the guy next door kept taking their morning paper. She said something to him about it, and the next morning her paper was on her doormat. With a dead bird looking over it at her, its wings outstretched. This is LIKE THAT!"

"Ooh! That's terrible. But I'm sure there's an explanation."

"What if it was The Observer, Mom? Maybe he saw me leave, then ran over here with some hedgeapples?"

"Oh, I don't think he would do that. They stay to themselves. When his wife is working in the yard, and I go out, SHE GOES INSIDE!"

"You mean like you do when HE comes out?"

"Well...hahaha...yes. But that's different."

"I don't know, Mom. This porch stuff is weird. But thank goodness you've given me something to look forward to after sewing up that hole in the knee of your pants. I'll talk to you tomorrow to see what you find out."

"Oh, I can't wait to get to church and ask about the dog nose in the hole in Noah's Ark."

"Yeah. Because you'll have to tell the whole story about why you're asking."

"I can't help it. I laugh every time I think about Juno putting his nose in your mouth."

That's my mom. Still can't remember that Juno is a girl. I can't wait to hear about her adventures when I call her tonight. We need to take our show on the road.

Maybe My Pen Name Should Be Corrigan

I am kicking myself in the butt right now. It's kind of hard, even though there's that ample target. I have balance issues. A one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest could do a better job of butt-kicking than I. IF he showed up on time for his butt-kicking contest. Which is my problem.

There were two contests I had planned to enter. Neither of them was a butt-kicking contest. I had my topics all picked out. A rough outline in my head of the points I wanted to make. A plethora of humorous references to include in my manuscripts. But I did not make the time to complete my great literary works. Surefire Pulitzer prizers. Left clinging to the sides of my brain like Stove Top Stuffing left to harden overnight on the stove top by a husband and a low teen.

I should scrap that proposed handbasket factory, and form a business called The Road to Not-Heaven Good Intentions Paving Company. I will need to hire burly, fit-fat, barrel-chested men so that our company name can be easily read on their neon green work T-shirts.

Seriously. I am barely treading water with this writing business. I'm good at actual water-treading, though, thanks to my college Swimming and Diving Techniques teacher, who made us all pass the drownproofing test in the deep end of the indoor pool. Fifty minutes keeping your head above sixteen feet of water without touching the sides pretty much prepares you for keeping your head above sixteen feet of water without touching the sides for fifty minutes. Just in case you ever fall into the middle of the pool and the lifeguards are really inattentive.

I always have ideas percolating like spurts of Folger's in the clear glass stopper top of a 1960s chrome coffeepot. Sometimes I even jot these ideas down in my trusty tiny flip-top spiral notebook. But I am unable to bring them to fruition. And I only watch TV two nights a week! The evening flies by so fast, what with slicing the occasional onion for Hick, and warming food in the oven or heating it in the microwave.

I have only written one letter to Genius at college. I know that boy lays on his jacked-up bed strung with blinking Christmas lights which he sells on the side at a profit using my Amazon Prime membership, tears dripping into his ears while pining for a letter from Mommy dearest. Sure, I have my personal secretary, The Pony, send him one-line texts on occasional mornings from the seat behind me in T-Hoe on the way to school. But it's not the same as getting mail out of the box. At least his grandma sends him a card every week.

I don't think it's the blogging that's slowing me down. I can whip out two blog posts in an hour every night. It gets my creativity oozing. To sit down and try to write my Pulitzers before blogging would be kind of like shaving your legs while they're dry and crusty. Not that my legs are dry and crusty, of course. Or hairy. We're talking about your legs, not mine. Maybe if I spent more time writing and less time talking about your legs, I would get to the end of my point and my stories sooner. I seem to have veered off from my special purpose.

Distractions find me like weirdos at Save A Lot.

Do You Know the Onion Man

Do you know the onion man,
The onion man, the onion man,
Do you know the onion man,
Who lives with Backroads Val?

Yes, you know the onion man,
The onion man, the onion man,
Yes, you know the onion man,
Who lives with Backroads Val.

As you might have deduced by now, Hick's new nickname is The Onion Man. It's a hickname!

I had to give The Onion Man his second warning this evening. Last night he was working on his BARn, so I left him a splendid repast of fish, garlic bread, slaw, and a baked potato. Of course there was sliced onion on the side. The Onion Man is fond of onions. He's the first to fork them if we go to the all-you-can-eat catfish house. It's worse than competing with a teenage male for undesignated meat on a platter. Better strap on a pair of those stainless-steel-mesh gloves that butchers and oyster-shuckers wear, lest you receive a gaping flesh wound by fork-stabbing.

When I ascended from my dark basement lair to the main floor last night in the early morning hours, the odor of onion permeated every molecule of inhaled household atmosphere. I smelled a rat. Something rotten in Backroads. Got wind of a fishy situation. I followed those noxious fumes like Pepe LePew following a vapor trail to his hoped-for paramour.

Two onion slices remained on a paper plate on the kitchen counter. WHO DOES THAT? Eat them. Bag them. Or throw them off the back porch. Nobody wants two slices of onion that have cooled their rings on the counter for seven hours. Nobody.

The Onion Man pretended to be progressing. "Oh. The onions. I meant to throw them away. But I forgot about it."

"Could you not smell them with every fiber of your being? Like a butterfly with its antennae and feet? Like a pit-viper with its tongue?"

"It wasn't a matter of not smelling it, Val. I meant to throw them out. But I forgot."

"Well, I had to throw them out at 1:00 a.m. There I was on the back porch, everybody asleep. What if my leg went through that rotten board I've been nagging telling asking you to replace for four years? On the back porch with my leg sunken to the hip at 1:00 a.m., nobody can hear me scream."

The Pony wandered in. His room is on the other side of the kitchen stove wall, and windows onto the back porch. "If you had pounded loud enough on the doghouse under my window, I would have heard you. The screams? Probably not."

"Well, I couldn't have reached the doghouse with my leg trapped in the porch, now could I?"

"She's right, Dad."

"Alls I can say is, I meant to do it but I forgot."


I hope I don't forget to slice an onion next time.

If a Teacher Plays Hooky in the Park and No One Knows Her, is it Still Considered Truancy?

Yesterday I used some personal leave from work to take care of my business. Not my proposed handbasket factory. Just my business, as in, it's none of your business.

I also met up with my best old ex-teaching friend, Mabel. We had arranged our rendezvous two sentences at a time, by text, within the 50-minute interval that is my plan time. That's because our cellular providers don't see any urgency in placing communication towers in the Outer Backroadsia area, and home cell phone usage is like trying to talk on a long section of twine stretched between two tin cans. We can't even ask each other, "Can you hear me now?" We might as well type, "Can you read me now?" Texts are not instantaneous.

Still, we are quite efficient, Mabel and I. The logistical ballet did not come near to rivaling the D-Day Invasion logistics of Mom and me planning to meet briefly to exchange already-read tabloids and two dollars. It was more akin to mounting a nationwide tour for the Barnum and Bailey Circus.

I had not seen Mabel since May 17th. Graduation night. Our last, unbeknownst to me. And her. She up and surprise-retired over the summer. Notifying me by text, of course. You'd think we were separated by more than one thin county line, and less than the distance of Rhode Island's diameter. But we weren't.

Our joyous celebration (not to be confused with a somber celebration) took place at a midway city park. Mabel and I stopped short of grasping hands, tilting our noses in the air, and serpentining a Snoopy toe-tapping dance through the primary-colored playground equipment. However...Mabel stole three years worth of hugs from Val's prickly persona. I do not plan to press charges for the flesh-pressing.

We selected a concrete picnic table three meters from the parking area. Of course that signaled a horde of morning park-walkers to converge like locusts from the wisps of fog. A closer resemblance of those walkers to the entire populace of WhoVille could not have been engineered through cloning. Young, old, male, female, fit, fat, fit-fat, scrawny, hairy, smooth, bowlegged, knock-kneed, erect, humped, dog-walking, baby-carrying, toddler-pushing...I'm sure they had all plopped a roast beast into the crockpot before leaving their colorful, curlicued homes.

Every time one lady went past, I thought I recognized her back. I finally mentioned it to Mabel, who informed me that my backquaintance stared at me each time she walked by. Finally, Backquaintance said, "Are you retired?" Dang! Spies are everywhere! No. I am not retired. But Backquaintance is. She's a friend and neighbor of my newly-retired sister, the ex-mayor's wife. Backquaintance should be ashamed, out spying for The Man.

"No. I'm taking a personal day. You can't get me in trouble if you try!" I also made note that Backquaintance was pushing her toddler granddaughter around the park at 110.5 mph in a red plastic automobile. That's what the dashboard decal said, anyway. No wonder that kid threw a shoe that took two laps to recover. We agreed that our blackmail data cancelled out any upper-hand-gaining contact with respective authorities.

Mabel and I had a delightful visit. I refrained from treating a walked-dog's nose like Bubble Yum. And Mabel ate a bug. A good time was had by all. Except maybe the bug.

A Tale of Two Biddies

Today I invaded two U.S. Post Offices to inquire about my missing box of books. I was quite polite. You never know when a federal worker might whip a weapon out from under the counter. Just for show, of course. To discourage people who enter at ten minutes before the lunch hour shut-down to question exactly what goes on during the shipping of precious cargo.

Oh, what a different vibe each Post Office emits! They're like snowflakes! Like fingerprints! Like DNA!

The first stop was at the local hub. Everything hauled to rural areas comes out of this facility now. Things that don't fit in the mailbox are brought back, then trucked to the neighborhood Post Office the next day for pickup with a little orange postcard.

The Hub had no discernible smell. Kind of like a dog's nose right before it enters one's mouth uninvited. I passed through two sets of glass doors and stepped up to the middle of the counter, where the lone worker worked. She consciously ignored me. You know that action. I know it well. I was, after all, a public servant myself, once. I call it a Public Service Standoff. In this version, the worker knows you're there. You know the worker knows you're there. The worker keeps working. So busy. Such vital duties. You know the game. So you wait. You don't want to set yourself up for a rebuff.

Finally, Stick Woman acknowledged me. "All right now. How can I help you?" She had hair like straw. Like it was sticking right out the wrist cuffs of The Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. It was not her natural hair color. She was all angular, like a Picasso Weeping Woman. Only not so pretty.

I explained my predicament. I could detect the beginnings of a smirk. She said she would take a look in the back to see if there was a box of books. I know she rolled her eyes the minute her back was turned. I suspect she simply stepped to the side out of my vision, then came right back. "No. There's no package back there. Without a tracking number, we really have nothing to investigate." She reached around the back-room wall and grabbed a form. "All I can suggest is that you fill out this claim form with the tracking number, and submit it to see if your box might be in the Dead Letter Facility."

She did not seem thrilled when I asked for a phone number and a name to contact with the tracking number. "Here's the number. Just ask for a supervisor."

After such marked success, I headed for my mom's house to wait for the lunch hour to be over at my next Post Office. It's not pleasant to stand in line at the metal roll-top-desk thingy they pull down during their noonday feast. I can imagine them peeping through pinholes in that silver curtain, snickering behind their Cheeto-encrusted hands.

The dead-mouse-smelling Post Office had an aura all its own. The lady at the counter was a comfortable sort, with a face like an applehead doll, who had obviously never been introduced to Mademoiselle L'Oreal. A golfer-looking thirtysomething in a white knit shirt stood first in line, obtaining tracking numbers for his package. Next in line, but off to the side, leaning on the counter, was a scrawny man who appeared to be in his fifth decade of a hard-knock life. Like Smoky Lonesome in Fried Green Tomatoes, just before Idgie told him the story about the geese flying away with the lake.

Apple Head asked to help Hard-Knock. He apologized for bothering her, and pointed to a package on the side shelf that rattled like pills. He thanked Apple Head profusely, explained that he was down on his luck, and asked if he might keep his general delivery address for a bit longer. She agreed.

Apple Head looked in the back room for my box of books. She apologized for my loss. And before I had a chance to ask, she wrote down the number of the Hub Post Office and told me to ask for a supervisor when I had the tracking number. Same result. Different delivery.

I suppose there's something about working in a dead-mouse miasma that keeps one humble.

Val is the New Sasquatch

Mom really enjoyed hearing about my afternoon nosh on Juno's nose. If laughter is the best medicine, she will be immune to a multitude of ailments in the near future. Furthermore, after talking to her last night around 9:30, then calling her again this morning at 6:00, she informed me she had not really learned anything new during that time period. But she had laughed out loud every time she thought of Juno's nose between my teeth. I assured her I had not tasted any other dogs' noses overnight. And that I awoke with a funny taste in my mouth.

As if that little snout-munching episode is not enough to make a believer of you...here is incident #19,478 to illustrate how the universe conspires against me.

Perhaps I mentioned that I have stories published in Not Your Mother's Book...on Being a Parent, and Not Your Mother's Book...on Home Improvement. Both anthologies were released on the 11th of September. I have been waiting for my copies of these editions, as I have many fans clamoring to read them, asking how they can get their hands on such modern classics. Of course I refer them to Amazon, and also tell them I can be the middleman. My loyal fans have been patiently awaiting their Val brain candy.

Being a novice at this book-hawking business, I did not sense anything amiss in the lengthy time it is taking to get my books. Maybe things just run this slow in The Business. I do not ever want it said that Val is a complainer. Stop that! I'm serious!

Today I had a message on my machine to call the CEO herself about the problem with my book shipment. "Isn't that special!" I thought. "She's taking the time to call me in person. She must be psychic! I have never even asked where my books might be." Maybe I should have.

Seems the company received the shipping envelope thingy that was taped to the box, and the invoice as well, from the USPS. How kind of the USPS to mail back all that pertinent information that was attached to my box of books, yet not the box of books! The USPS says they have no idea where the books are. They are in the dead-mouse-smelling triangle, I suppose.

Tomorrow, I have to go to two TWO TWO post offices to inquire as to the whereabouts of my books. Seriously. How can a box of books disappear? It's not like they're two tubes of Clearasil left on top of my mailbox row for two hours in a pharmacy package. It's not like people around here have a thirst for knowledge. Or yearn for it. I know I will eventually get my books, one way or another. I'm just tired of the universe conspiring against me. This Sasquatch is tired of bein' messed with.

It's nobody's fault but the United States Postal Service. That bunch of Newmans must be hiding my package in a storage unit until they can trick a neighbor into delivering on Sunday.

I Might Be Changing the Name of My Garage Band From "Mommy's Got a Headache" to "Other Dogs' Anuses."

Well. I seem to be slipping in popularity with my students. It took until 5th hour for them to comment on my haircut. That is unheard of! Usually the adoration kicks off right after first bell. Perhaps they are still basking in my celebritydom, and not wanting to draw attention to themselves with an untimely inquiry.

This new coif makes me feel all special. Excuse me while I spin around and burst into song. Somebody get a helicopter, quick, to record some aerial shots.

"How do you solve a problem like my Juno?
How do you catch a borador and tie her down?
How do you change behavior in my Juno?
A Walmart-bag-sniffer, a yard-turkey chaser, a hound?

Many a thing you know I'd like to tell her.
Many a thing she ought to understand.
But how do I make her stay, and listen to all I say?
How do I keep her nose out of my mouth..."

Yes. You read that right. Nose. Mouth. Juno's nose. My mouth. Juno's nose was in my mouth!!! That can't be sanitary. No way. No how. Ugh! I've been kissed by a dog! I have dog germs! Get the hot water! Get some disinfectant! Get some iodine! Hey, it worked for Peanuts Lucy.

Juno got a little carried away during our lovefest upon my return from grocery shopping. Normally, she lays her head on my chest so that her nose is against my neck. Or under my chin. No, I'm not a contortionist, and Juno is not five feet tall. She stands on the side porch while I stand on the sidewalk to the garage.

I don't know what got into my sweet, sweet Juno. Instead of the loving, chuffing, hot dog breath on my throat, I was treated to a wet, rubbery, dog nose in my mouth. It was like an extra-large Jujube in texture, though not at all like a Jujube in taste.

I recoiled in horror! Had I just bitten into a dog's nose? It wasn't my fault, actually. I was talking at the time Juno made her move. And VOILA! Instant dog nose!

Do you have any idea where a dog's nose has been? If we were to take Google Street View and turn it into Dog Nose View, I'm sure we would be privy to shots of other dogs' anuses, dripping dogs' urethras, the waxy insides of other dogs' ears, the crusty corners of other dogs' eyes, logs of other dogs' poop, cow pies of the pasture kind, steaming innards of once-fluffy bunnies, liquified possum carcasses, and grass, lots of grass, to clear the canine nasal palate.

I hope that Juno's schnoz was not damaged. That I did not nick her with an incisor and drip my saliva into the cut. I wouldn't want my sweet, sweet Juno to succumb to a nose-eating infection.

A human mouth is full of bacteria, you know.