PART TWO: He Lives: A Six-Foot Tall Tale

...Man, oh man, you are not going to believe what happened next....

So, where was I? Oh, yeah, she, the security person, takes us in this little room cleverly hidden on the ground floor. She tells us that we, well actually my husband, has been chosen, as the 12,500,000 person to visit Graceland receive a “special” private tour. But, since I’m with him, I’m allowed to share in the experience. However, since this is a private “behind the scenes” tour, we will have to turn off our I-Phones, which they have noticed we were using to snap photos. I mean not only completely turn them off, but we must put them in a locked pouch, which we can carry, but will not be able to open until the tour is complete. “Will that be something you’re comfortable with?” she asks. We look at each other and my husband says, “I’m okay with that, if you are.” “Fine with me,” I say.

“Okay, then next we have a document we’ll need you to sign indicating that you will keep anything you see this day private. By private, I mean anything you see or hear is not to be shared with media, friends, family, no one. Is that something your feel you can honor?” “May I read it?” asks my husband. “Certainly.” She hands us the two page document and says, “And we’ll also need to see your driver’s license or state I.D. and make copies of them. In addition we well take photographs of both of you and take your fingerprints.” “No, DNA swab?” asks my husband, smiling. She doesn’t find his joke funny.

After reading the first page of the document, my husband hands it to me to read, as he reads the second page. I was hoping he was making sense of this. Me? My heart was pounding and I couldn’t read a word, but I pretended to be concentrating on the print. He finishes, looks up at the woman and says, “Yes. We’ll sign this and we have no objections to the photos, I.D.s and fingerprints.” But, I’m thinking that he forgot to ask me if I agreed. She took away our audio headsets. “Y’all won’t need these,” she said with a big smile.

The whole process took about a half hour, it seemed. I couldn’t see a clock anywhere in the room and my phone was now locked up in what looked like a small bank pouch, so I wasn’t sure of the time. She took us back toward the kitchen, all the while she spoke quietly into one of those CIA-type microphones near her collar. Then she looked up at us and said, “You’re tour guide will be downstairs in one minute.” I’m thinking “downstairs?” I thought the audio tour said that the upstairs was sealed off.

But, maybe that was just the main staircase because behind us, just off the kitchen is another staircase and it was here that I heard the footsteps of someone coming slowly down the stairs. I saw his feet and lower legs first. I say “his” because it just looked like a man’s feet. I realized she never told us if it was a man or woman giving us the private tour.

Just now, I need to tell you something about me. I have this incredible ear for the human voice. It’s a gift or an aptitude, nothing I’ve ever worked at, but if I hear a person speak a few times, I can usually identify the person, just from hearing their voice. My husband marvels at it. I can be in the next room, totally out of sight of the television that he’s watching and I’ll call out the voice of the person talking. “John Travolta,” I’ll call out. “Correct,” he’ll reply. Or, “Helen Hunt.” “Yup, you got it” “Dale Earnhart, Jr.” “How do you do that?” 

The person coming down the stairs had those shoe slippers that my husband wears around the house, I think they’re called “Sanuk.” And he was wearing maroon velour sweat pants. As he came into view, I saw that it was a man, an older man, and by older, I mean older than my husband and me. He was tall-ish, with a mostly-full head of white hair. And he was wearing a white t-shirt under the matching zip-up maroon top to his sweatsuit. It was dark on the staircase, so we couldn’t see him well until he stepped closer, with his hand extended to shake.

My heart began to pound again as I heard his voice and knew for certain, it was 78 year old Elvis standing right in front of us saying, “Welcome to Graceland.”

He looked his age, but physically was in better shape than most people I know in their late 70s. He moved about easily with a natural grace. I was just as certain from his face as I was from his voice that it was really him.

After my husband and I recovered from our shock and after brief introductions, he directed his attention to my husband. “You know that was nonsense about you being the 12 and a half millionth visitor. You see I have a bank of viewing stations for the many security cameras here at Graceland. They’re pretty sophisticated and I can zero in on a shirt button, if I like. Every now and then I take a look at some of the visitors. And let me tell you, brother, you could be a double for an old buddy of mine, named Johnny.” He laughs out loud and says, “Well, actually a double for Johnny’s old man. But, they always said Johnny looked just like his daddy. Anyway, I saw you looking at the light switch. That’s what caught my eye initially. And man, when I saw your face it was like a step back in time for me.” He laughs again, “I said to myself, Johnny’s daddy’s here.”

A sad, faraway look comes across his face and he says, “I lost Johnny to drugs, prescription drugs, but drugs just the same. But, let’s not dwell on that now. I’ve got a tour to direct,” and the smile and accompanying wrinkles that abound his eyes and mouth return. He drapes an arm around my husband’s shoulder and looks back at me and says, “Shall we?”

 We set off on a tour that, well, really what can I say? But, that we saw Graceland through Elvis’s eyes. Eyes that shone with joy and laughter at times and eyes that once or twice fought hard to hold back tears. I have to give my husband credit here. He’s just one of those guys that people immediately open up to, a sweet, non-judgmental soul.

I won’t bore you with too much of the house detail. You can visit yourself or see the rooms and descriptions online. But, let me tell you some of what Elvis told us about how all this came to be.

First he told us that he actually lives upstairs in Graceland. “I didn’t want to go anywhere else at the time. This was where my heart was, where my mama was buried.”

“There came a point in my life where I, like my buddy Johnny, was taking too many prescriptions. It started out innocent enough, taking a little amphetamine to help keep the weight off and keep me alert and focussed for my performances and tours. But, I wasn’t sleeping well, so the doctor prescribed something to help me sleep. I had an injury with my karate and the doctor prescribed something for the pain. I always told myself, the doctor wouldn’t give me something if wasn’t good for me.”

“You know I had a lot of people depending on me back then, family, friends, fellow band members, charities, you name it. If fact when I first had some closed circuit cameras put upstairs for me, I used to check to make sure everyone at Graceland was happy. It was important to me that what I  was doing was making a difference in their lives. To do that I had to keep working and reworking myself, you know? I worked hard and harder to keep the money coming in.”

 “But, I came close to dying. Man, I mean this close,” he holds his index finger and thumb barely apart. “I knew I had to do something. It wasn’t an easy decision. But, I knew there was no other way. It was do or die. I chose ‘do.’ “

He closed his eyes for a bit and sighed, “Even now, I know there was no other way. I had some bad days getting myself straight, and some even worse nights. But, every day I would think back to my days as a boy, with my parents in Tupelo, and how I didn’t need nothing but their love, my mama’s good cooking and the clothes on my back to make me happy. We didn’t have much, but we had enough. I didn’t need the caffeine from a cup of coffee to wake up full of energy. I was energy back then, man. When I was tired I slept. I didn’t need a doctor’s prescription to enjoy life. I knew then that I had to get that back.”

He told us about how he’d read a lot about meditation and eastern philosophy and decided to give yoga a try. “You know I think it really helped me early on, so I kept at it. I was getting older and eventually I had to switch from karate to tai chi, from touch football to yoga. And then someone got the fool idea to turn my racquetball court into a shrine for my awards and such.” Elvis has an infectious laugh and my husband and I joined in.

We talked about how quickly life passes by, how we were all getting older. Then we were quiet, each of us kind of reflecting, when Elvis suddenly laughed and said, “Hey, did you guys ever hear stories after my ‘death’ that people had spotted me? Back then, I used to go out at on occasion, mostly at night.” He puts his arm on my husband’s shoulder, “Buddy, you are going to love this...” Elvis tells us that Graceland was once part of the underground railroad and so somewhere on the estate there is an underground tunnel that will take him to an area off the property with a garage where he keeps a car and a couple of motorcycles. “Buddy, I wish you could hang around tonight. We could take a ride on the ‘cycles. You know, raise a little hell.” He said he could no longer hold up the big motorcycle and had recently switched to a three-wheeler. “But, really I don’t go out anymore. My vision’s no good at night. But, I feel good just knowing if I wanted to, I could.”

We were there long enough that he had the staff serve us lunch. Can you believe Elvis is on a macrobiotic diet? Not only that, but he is “gluten-free.” The food was delicious, but definitely healthy, brown rice, squash, black beans, chopped avocado and tomato, and some kind of pickled seaweed salad. At lunch he talked about the “Colonel” Tom Parker. “You know some people said he was a crook. But he wasn’t. He was a genius at marketing, merchandising, and licensing.” He laughs aloud again, “Hey, have you ever bought your kid a ninja turtle? You can thank the Colonel for that!”

As we finished lunch, he asked how long we could stay. “Well, we really need to get going,” my husband said apologetically. Elvis said, “I know I can trust you guys to not say anything about this to anyone.” We both assured him he could count on us. Then he laughed out loud again, “Who would believe you anyway? Elvis is alive and meditates, practices yoga and eats a strict macrobiotic , gluten-free diet!”

It took at least another two hours before Elvis and my husband stopped talking and we finally said our goodbyes. “Man, I hope I didn’t bore you guys today,” he said with a weak laugh. As he turned to walk up the staircase, just off the kitchen, he had such a heartbreaking look of loneliness.

We passed through a final briefing with security and were on our way. The gift shop was open as we walked to our car. My husband requested that we walk through it. We didn’t buy anything, but my husband had a somber look on his face as he viewed the merchandise.

In the car my husband immediately searched for and found the “Elvis” channel on the XM/Sirius radio, it was channel 19. I think I’d mentioned that my husband had never been an Elvis fan before. But, it’s all he’d listen to on our trip back home.

We were driving home the next day and I said, “Hon, that was an experience of a lifetime, huh?” “What was an experience of a lifetime?” he asked.

“You know meeting Elvis.” 

“Elvis? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I look over at him as he drives. He looks completely serious and has his eyes on the road. “Oh, I get it,” I say. “The whole promise thing we made, that we won’t talk about it to anyone.”

“Seriously, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Now I’m getting kind of angry. “I know we swore we wouldn’t tell anyone, but I’m sure it’s okay if we talk about it. Don’t you think?”

“We took a tour of Graceland. We saw his gravesite there. Elvis is dead.”

And that’s the thing about my husband. When he makes a promise to someone he keeps it. And no amount of alcohol or truth serum or any kind of haggling from me can make him void his promise. The only proof I have is that I am now married to a dedicated fan of Elvis. Did it really happen? I think of a line from an Elvis song:

“But, I know what I know, and I’m here to lick the guy what says ‘taint sol”

HE LIVES: A Six Foot Tall Tale

There was a winter storm threatening the northern part of Illinois. Forecasters warned it could dump up to 12 inches of snow state-wide, all the way from the Mississippi River to Lake Michigan, and from the Wisconsin border down through Springfield.

We were headed home from a long stopover in Biloxi, Mississippi. Our original plan was to drive to Springfield, Illinois, stay overnight and make a stop at the Lincoln Museum before heading home. The museum was my history-buff husband’s idea. But, since reading Doris Kearns Goodwin’s book “Team of Rivals” I was just as eager to make the visit.

“I don’t know. I’m worried about the weather. What do you think?” I couldn’t blame my husband for his concern. We’d left home two and a half weeks earlier in an ice storm that turned the country byways, where we live, into an automobile skating rink that left many a truck and SUV littering the ditches on the side of the road.

Being a solutions person I offered, “Let’s skip Springfield for now. We can drive to Memphis and stay a couple of nights. By then the roads should be clear enough to make it home safely.” Besides, I reasoned to myself, this way we’ll have time to visit Graceland, something I’d wanted to do for over 30 years.

After we booked a hotel I suggested some of the things we could do with our spare day in Memphis. I mentioned Graceland and although he didn’t actually roll his eyes, I could tell he wasn’t really keen on it. “I should have seen this coming. Okay, how much does it cost?” He knew well the entrance fee, because a friend had suggested a visit to Graceland not one week before and given us all the details.

“I think the basic tour would run about 30 bucks a piece. Oh, and um, another ten dollars for parking.” Did I detect a sigh in his voice? “Well, sure if you want, we can do it.”

Mind you, my husband’s never been much of an Elvis fan. I mean I like Elvis okay but, I’ve never been a hard-core fan, like my husband’s kooky Aunt Elsie, who bought every record album and even “wall-papered” her bedroom with photos of Elvis she’d cut out of fan magazines. Still, I’d always wanted to tour his Graceland home, if only to see just what kind of rabid Elvis fans like Aunt Elsie still flock to his place.

So, I launched into planning a whole day, starting at Graceland early in the morning and ending with a late lunch at a popular barbecue joint, knowing that the better I planned things the less likely my husband would be able to wheedle his way out of it. I was now determined to get to Graceland, even if it meant I had to drag him “kicking and screaming.”

We’d been on a road trip that, so far, had taken us through 11 states. We’d listened to XM/Sirius radio most of the time in the car and I don’t recall having heard a single Elvis Presley tune, so it was just plain strange that as we set off to our Graceland tour “Suspicious Minds” was playing as we started the car. I looked at the radio and saw that it was set to the ‘60s station. After the song finished I tuned in the ‘50s channel and they were playing, “Always on My Mind” by Elvis. Weird, huh? Little did I know then just how weird things were about to get.

It was a cool morning, actually cold I guess by Memphis standards. We parked our car in the official lot across the street. It wasn’t crowded, perhaps due to a combination of the cold and early hour. The tour bus lot was empty. We passed about 20 or so cars as we walked to the ticket counter building. Amongst a few rental car license plates, I saw license plates from Alaska, California, Washington, Florida, Texas, Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, New York, and ours from Illinois. Later we’d find out that at least a few visitors that day were from overseas, like the young 30-ish year-old Australian man wearing an orange baseball cap who sat next to me on the mini-bus that carries visitors from the ticket/gift shop area across a busy street to the actual house. Or the young couple and their 4 year-old son visiting from Germany, who sat in front of us on the bus. 

Upon boarding the minibus for the two-minute bus trip across the street, we were given a headset containing an audio description of the home. (Note: the two minute bus trip includes the distribution of the headsets and sufficient time for everyone to test the headsets and give a “thumbs up” as to whether they are in working order.) In that short drive banners lining the street that proclaimed, “Elvis Lives” caught my eye.

They dropped off our minibus of about 20 visitors at the entrance, where we were cautioned “Take all the non-flash photos you wish. There is absolutely no flash photography or videos of any kind allowed inside the home.” 

We donned our headsets and stepped inside and thus our experience began. A visitor can opt to listen to the basic tour or at any point punch in codes posted throughout the home that give a more detailed version of Elvis’s career and life at Graceland. Directly in front of us was a white-carpeted staircase with a velvet rope barring anyone from walking upstairs. The audio says that the upstairs is "sealed off' and no one is allowed upstairs out of respect for Elvis. "It was “Elvis’s private domain.”

I look to the right and there is his living room and just beyond it a small music room with a grand piano. The living room also has a velvet rope keeping visitors from actually entering the room. There are signs instructing visitors not to reach or touch anything beyond the ropes. I take a couple of snapshots and move to the left. My husband taps on my shoulder and points to a wall switch just outside the living room. It’s one of those push button switches as opposed to a toggle switch. Out of the corner of my eye I see him take a snapshot of it.

I notice a security guard lower his head as if in concentration. He appears to be listening to  into his headset. He then speaks into a tiny microphone near his neck. The same security person asks everyone to move to the next area, apologizing and explaining that there has been a problem.

The security guard now approaches my husband and begins talking to him. I see my husband nod, say something to the guard and then point to me. The guard directs a different security person towards me. The female security guard says “S‘cuse me, Ma’am, would you please be so kind as to come with me?” and begins to direct me toward my husband. It all happened so quickly. My husband and I and an additional three security persons are the only people remaining in the foyer. The security people don’t seem angry, but they do look serious.

A couple of other security personnel were quickly directing the remaining few visitors through and past the area of the kitchen and Elvis’s parents bedroom. I saw the young 4 year-old boy from Germany turn around and look back at me as his parents and he were ushered out with the rest of the group.

I look desperately at my husband with arched eyebrows, which is my “What in the world have you done now?” look. He gives a subtle shrug of his shoulders. A fifth security person stepped into the room. It was another female guard. She took a deep breath and said, “If I could have a few minutes of your time, please?” “Yes,” we said in unison. “Great,” she replied. “Please follow me.” As we walked single file behind her, she turned, smiled and said, “I think y’all are going to like this.”

And man, you are not going to believe what happened next....

Writing Interrupted

Before I resume my self-imposed assignment of writing about bits of our life in the country, I have something to get off my chest:

Sometime back a family member recommended a book to me. I forgot all about it at the time. Then over the Christmas holidays a trusted friend recommended the same book. Then I ran across another relative who was reading the book. Interest piqued, I did some checking and found the book near the top New York Times’ list of best-selling fiction. In fact, remains there at the time of this posting. I then read a glowing NY Times review. Unable to find the book at our local library, I decided to buy it.

I will not mention the title of the book nor the name of the author, only “cuz that’s how I roll.” Anyone interested could probably figure it out.

I was immediately engrossed by the author’s clear and clever writing. The book is divided into three parts, each with an innocuous sub-title that belies the underlying mysterious, juicy suspense and evil that begins to ooze forth.

Captivated, I breezed through Part One in a matter of hours. It was a page-turner, as they say. It was then that I decided to pause and do a search to see what other books the author had penned. I found that she had written two books previous to this, and those books had both enjoyed positive reviews, and I could easily purchase these books at a bargain rate from a used book purveyor. I can only say now, thank goodness I didn't follow through with my impulsivity.

In Part Two, there is a confirmation of what the reader already suspects: that one of the narrators is unreliable. Now nobody loves a good “unreliable narrator” plot more than me. And I adore when a writer can manipulate me, so that I find myself rooting for the ‘bad guys.’ Initially, I was impressed with the author’s insight into the minds of her two main characters. She’d a good grasp of what would seem to be the honest inner-thoughts of both a male and a female struggling in a borderline marriage.

So, I was sucked along.

It was here, in Part Two, that my newly beloved author began to slip and, my friends, she was taking me down with her. I began to notice that her writing exhibited one too many convenient coincidences. I mean how lucky can one person be to have every single thing work out exactly as planned, without ever an error or misstep? Her story became ever more implausible, and her characters ever more ineffectual.

Still, I plowed along into Part Three, hoping the ending would redeem the book. By now the plot showed incongruities. It had loose threads, like a littered tailor shop floor. Her hints of juicy evil had turned to parched clay. And by now the only character I gave two hoots about any more was the dementia-riddled father-in-law.

And then, my friends, came the ending. Holy smokes, was is ever horrendous. She’d tried to clean up those loose threads, but I wasn’t buying any of it. I felt cheated. I felt used. I’d been robbed, both of money and time. And now that I think about it, probably more than a few brain cells. The experience made me think of that part of Malcom X’s speech: “You been had, you been took, you been hoodwinked, bamboozled, led astray, run amok...”

Do I sound angry? Me, who espouses, “It’s not good, it’s not bad, it’s just different.” It’s just a different style of writing that is not suited to me. I’d like to think I was perturbed, disappointed, and frustrated. Like when you hear about some mastermind criminal and wonder why he uses his extraordinary intellect to no good end.

I did a bit of online research and read that she had found herself stuck about 82% (that’s her figure - 82%?) into her book. Her editor provided help to enable her to finish the book. Okay, I’ll cut her slack, maybe she’s the one who’d "been took, hoodwinked bamboozled, led astray and run amok" by her editor.

So okay, it’s not her it's me. I’m just not a good reader of this type of book. I guess the only crime here is that I can no longer trust New York Times' book reviews. 

So, I’m returning to where I feel safe and sound, with the likes of: Kazuo Ishiguro, a master of unreliable narration, or Patrick deWitt, who can make me not only cheer for his bad guy characters but develop a liking for them as well, or the book I’m currently reading, The Cold Comfort Farm, by Stella Gibbons. It was published in 1932 and has clever witty, satirical writing that has made me chortle, giggle, snicker, and laugh often enough that I had to move to another room, so as not to disturb my husband, who was concentrating on some project. It’s the kind of book you don’t want to read in the crowded doctor’s waiting room, because people’ll look at you funny when you suddenly let loose with a loud guffaw.

America's Coolest Small Town 2013

I quit Facebook some time ago, so I'm posting this here. First, read yesterday's blog and then vote for Mt. Carroll, Illinois as "America's Coolest Small Town 2013." We've only 6 days left to vote!! Here is the link:

http://www.budgettravel.com/contest/americas-coolest-small-towns-2013,14/

It's the one on the map just east of the Mississippi, inside the Illinois borders. Don't accidently hit the Iowa town to the left. Egad!!

It's really a cool "Mayberry-like" place. Look at the photos. If you're my friend and reading this and you've come out to visit us, we've either already taken you there to see it, or we plan to take when you do visit us this summer. And how cool will that be when they're voted "the best" and you can say that you've already been there! So, do me a 'solid.'

Here is the criteria:

What makes a Coolest Small Town?

The town must have a population under 10,000. It also needs that indescribable something: independent shops, a sense of energy, an epic backyard, culture, delicious coffee. In other words, cool doesn't necessarily mean quaint: We want towns with an edge and a heart.

And here is the official contest description:

Don't be fooled by the elegant brick courthouse and the pastoral farmland settings: Though this town in Illinois's northwestern corner looks like classic Main Street, U.S.A., there's something gleefully, well, "off" about the place. And the residents wouldn't have it any other way. Need proof? The local antiques store and tea room has a Victorian Mad Hatter theme. Weirdest of all—by a country mile—is Mount Carroll's year-round haunted house, the Raven's Grin Inn. The 19th-century mansion has been converted into a spooky art piece with a homemade pterodactyl skeleton, a giant metal skull, four cars sticking out of the facade, and a series of slides and trapdoors. 

Right now we're in a dismal 2nd to last place, so we need your vote. If you are on FB, you can post the link for me. I want Mt. Carroll/Mt. Pilot to win, but not enough that I'd actually consider re-joining FB. Come on, I'd do it for you... Come on, you know how... As Nike says: "Just Do It."

Just look at these cute "Mayberry-like" photos. How can you resist?

Okay, friends and family o' mine, here is my final offer: I've never actually visited "Raven's Grin Inn," but my sister has, so I know of what I speak. Here is my offer: You vote for Mt. Carroll for "America's Coolest Small Town 2013" and I'll not only take you there upon your visit to our home, but I'll buy your entry ticket and lunch or dinner (depending on time of day) in Mt. Carroll/Mt. Pilot. (It's a good thing my husband doesn't read my blog!)

It's "Art!"

Our Town

For the remainder of February I’m going to write some basic, random bits about our new “home town.” In the nearly eight months time we’ve become nicely accustomed to our new home and its surroundings. Now my writing will not match the haunting, existential beauty of Thornton Wilder’s play about Grovers Corner. But I like the idea that maybe, if I save my writings, someday my great-grandchildren may read about our experience of moving from the big city to a rural area and even, maybe, find it interesting. Much in the way I would love to now read the words of my ancestors.

Our “town” is really an almost-completely, private development situated in the middle of a rural county of 90% farmland. Yeah, I know it’s strange, but there you have it. We have, our county that is, one stop light and erecting that was a politician’s nightmare. They didn’t have to pull a Mayor Daley “middle-of-the-night Meigs Field bulldozing” to get it in, but it was hard fought and much protested by the local community. Other than that, we’ve only stop signs and small town municipality’s speed traps to slow us down and that is usually sufficient to keep things in check around here. Most of the crime found on the “police beat” of the local paper deals with DUI’s and speeding. 

If you’ve read my past postings, (and if you knew how few people actually read my blog, you’d know why I’m even mentioning this ;-) ). Anyway, you’d know that I enjoy old-time television. So my husband and I have nicknamed all of the local areas according to our memories of “The Andy Griffith Show.” We call our ‘privatopia:’ Myers Lake. Myers Lake has a lake, a golf course/clubhouse, a small ski/tube/snowboard hill and tow, and an “aquatic complex” with indoor/outdoor pools. It’s not at all like the simple rowboat fishing hole near Mayberry. We have our own security officers, but rely on local towns for volunteer fire forces.

We share a zipcode with a small nearby town of about 1400, (although we are pretty sure that includes the 400 or so of us ‘full-timers’ here in Myers Lake). Here we include another nearby town of about 750 (this town didn’t have the savvy to let us use their zip and thus share our tax base. But due to county regulations, they are within our “township” and so it’s where we vote during local and national elections.) We call these two collectively our “Mayberry.” Between the two Mayberrys, which are both about 10 miles from us, there are two main gas stations, which serve as fast food/convenience centers. They sell mostly gas, cigarettes, beer, milk, donuts and fast food, and I’d gauge it’s about in that order of volume from highest to lowest. They seem to both have that “general store” draw and it’s where you’ll rub elbows with area farmers and townfolk.

The Mayberrys also have one small grocery store, one biker bar, an on again/off again cafe and a pizza carryout/delivery place, which is run by a guy who preaches during the day and makes pretty good pizza by night. Each town has a post office, but I’m sure that one will close as the USPS makes future cuts.  One of the towns has a public library. They share a high school and I’m not sure but maybe even an elementary. It’s where our few children from Myers Lake would be assigned.

Nearby is a town one step up from our Mayberry, and they have about 1800 residents. We call this town, “Mount Pilot” and it is our county seat, so if we're called for jury duty this is where we’ll be assigned. They have a jail attached to the courthouse, (kind of Mayberry-ish) and they have a beautiful Carnegie Library. They have a medium-sized grocery store, which I think is owned by someone from Myers Lake and has a delivery service that includes Myers Lake. Mount Pilot has a drugstore, a hardware store, a Dairy Queen, two gas stations, four bars all serving food, and a couple of which feature live music on weekends. They also have a couple of restaurant/cafes, one of which is billed as “upscale.” They have a couple of quaint antique shops, and also have a crazy haunted house, which has been featured on network TV and is a huge draw near Halloween. They also have a 8-lane bowling alley, which was recently revamped with new, slick lanes, and includes the latest in video, automatic scoring, live television entertainment. It gives you the speed of your throw and shows hints on where to aim to pick up your spare. It’s where I am a sub on Myers Lake’s women’s league. As a league player one can bowl any time for the bargain rate of $5 per two hours. Oh, and I almost forgot, our Mt. Pilot was recently named one of the 15 finalists in the "Coolest Small Town in America" Budget Travel's annual listing. How cool is that?

The next biggest town is a place we call “Siler City.” It rests on the Mighty Mississippi and has the only movie theater in our county, and all the bells and whistles to go with that famed stoplight, bars, restaurants, gas stations, a drugstore, grocery store, an actual “True Value” hardware store and a couple of big biker bars. Being on two main state highways, adjacent to the river, and nestled in rolling hills it is a big draw in warmer weather for motorcyclists.

The other towns we visit are outside of our county. For the nearest large town of 20,000, we use the name of the place where they actually filmed The Andy Griffith Show in California: “Culver City.” And for the ‘big city’ that has ‘everything’ we give Rockford, Illinois, the name “Raleigh.” And just like Andy’s show, we can find whatever we need in “Raleigh.” It's where Barney Fire had his annual vacation in a corner room at the YMCA, and where he wrote this letter to Andy:

Dear Andy: It certainly is exciting up here in Raleigh. Really having a ball. My head hasn't hit the pillow before 11:15 since I got here. Catching all the shows. Saw that Italian picture that we read about in the paper, Bread, Love and Beans, and it was plenty risque, let me tell you.

The food here in the cafeteria is terrific, and I've been eating up a storm. The breakfast special is unbelievable: three hot cakes, two strips of bacon, one egg- any style, juice, and coffee, all for 35 cents. It's served only between 5:00 and 6:00 a.m., but I can't sleep anyway.

I ran into a fellow on the street the other day who tried to sell me an iron deer for my front lawn, but I don't know.

Well, it's almost 5:00, so I better get down to breakfast. Love to Aunt Bee, Opie, Floyd, Goober and all the boys.

10-4, Over and Out, Barney 

P.S. I'm not saying anything, but there is an awful lot of pretty women up here. Ha Ha.

“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.” 

     - Thornton Wilder

Took this picture yesterday in "Culver City" where we went to pick up plumbing supplies.

Read the Jimmy John's sign ;-)

Let It Snow, Let It Snow

Every so often I had a vague sense that something was not right, like a nagging something, my mind trying to tell me something but, for the most part I was able to ignore it. I arrived at our agreed destination, all by myself, about 70 yards ahead of my companion, so I stopped. Then I felt the pain and I knew.

In my head, I could hear the voice of my yoga teacher, from years back, “Let us not label it just yet. Might it perhaps be better called “fatigue?” Fatigue or pain, I knew it hurt and I knew the right thing to do was to turn back. In fact, now that I think about it, wasn’t it my yoga teacher who also used to say, “Always listen to your body.” But, I’m having so much fun I don’t want to stop. My husband catches up to me. He’s breathlessly asks, “Well, should we continue on, or head back home?” “I have a blister,” I confess. “Aww. But good.” he says, then laughs. “No, I don’t mean good you have a blister. I mean I’m still sore from yesterday so, I’m ready to turn back.”

In my heaven there will be cross country skiing. So, that means in my heaven there will be snow, at least some of the time. There will also be warm sunny days and beaches with soft white sand and salty waves that lap at the shore. But, no biting sand flies! There will also be a kick-ass digital library. Wait, you probably oughtn’t call it “kick-ass” in heaven... but, I digress.

Four days ago we had a blanket of snow about 4-5 inches deep and each day since we’ve had an overnight dusting of 1/2 to one inch. So everyday we’ve gone out on our skis. We even went out on Ray Lewis’ blessed, holy SuperBowl Sunday.

We live on a golf course and when winter comes, provided there is snow,  the course morphs into a cross country ski trail. The association even grooms it, which basically means someone drives a snowmobile with an eight foot wide plank of wood dragging behind it to compact and level the snow out. But, unless it’s ridiculously deep I prefer to blaze my own trails.

We live in a section of northwest Illinois with a terrain of rolling hills, hills unscathed by flattening effects of the ice-age glaciers. There are areas that are challenged aerobically as you climb uphill, and places where one can glide effortlessly downhill.

When the mercury falls, many of my neighbors head south. Our next door neighbors leave in early October and don’t return until May or June, so they’re kind of like the hummingbirds. Our across-the-road neighbors leave right after Christmas and return in April, so they're kind of like the robins. Our neighbor, Mike, who like us stays, calls all of them the “bluebirds.” “Mike, I think you mean “snowbirds.” “Yeah, snowbirds.” he says. And I wonder if it’s a Freudian slip for blue-haired old people. Anyway, I can’t blame anyone who leaves. I mean, who doesn’t love a warm getaway? I just don’t want to miss all of Old Man Winter. For me, nothing fends off the cold quite like xc skiing. And there is always the warming thrill of coming upon a wild turkey, a deer, a bald eagle, or a fox.

The best part of all is that the trail, for us anyway, begins just outside our back door and a return home promises a warm fireplace and a cup of hot cocoa, nicely frothed thanks to the nifty milk frother I received as a gift. Or, if it’s early evening maybe a glass of mulled wine.

The Gladiators

When I was a kid in history class, or maybe it was social studies, I remember hearing my 5th grade teacher, Sr. Michaela, tell us about the gladiator fights in ancient Rome. She wove a story I could easily visualize. The games themselves would begin with much pageantry, the participants would be paraded around for all to see. Loud trumpets or horns would blow to signal the start of a battle. I could picture an amphitheater like the Roman Colosseum, where thousands of spectators would watch, noshing on food either brought from home or purchased from vendors, cheering as athletes were beaten, bloodied and broken, some eventually breathing their last. The crowds of spectators would shout “Have mercy!” or “Kill him!” depending on for whom they had decided to cheer. She told us that they lined the floor of the amphitheater with sand to sop up the blood that would spill.

I remember thinking to myself, I would never, no way, be so barbaric. Nor, for that matter, could anyone I knew partake in the watching of such brutality. What could those uncivilized people of that time period have been thinking? And to watch such callous, violent confrontations, all while eating?! Oh thank goodness that today we are sensible. We no longer lust for such brutal combat.

Athletes inspire admiration, as well they should. They are revered. They are commemorated. They are popular. They entertain us. Grown men proudly wear replica jerseys of their favorite player, to let everyone know for whom they are cheering, the person they adulate, the person they wish they could be, except maybe for a lack of natural talent, and a penchant these days for performance enhancing drugs; as if the jersey possessed a magical power.

Football is the American sport that probably best exemplifies toughness and manliness.

I come from a football-loving family. My grandfather loved the sport, my uncles love the sport, my husband loves the sport, my sons love the sport and now my grandson loves the sport. I learned to like it right along with them.

Can you see where I’m going with this?

“Will somebody please just hurt someone?!”

These are the words I often hear shouted out when we watch sporting events with my brother-in-law. Once, as I reached for a piece of pizza, I heard his familiar refrain and I remembered those thoughts I had as a 10 year old. And here was I, eating, as the crowd cheered and called for blood and broken bones. Well, maybe it’s a bit of an exaggeration, but I’m just sayin’...

Now, as I prepare to make my boneless Buffalo chicken wings, guacamole and chips, hand-tossed pizza, brownie bites and a couple of alcohol pairings, all in honor of Superbowl Sunday, I ask myself “Is football brutal?” “Will I not be cheering as athletes are beaten, bloodied and broken? Is not the entire country and much of the world doing the same?

Will a player be hurt? Will somebody finally please my brother-in-law by actually hurting someone? Will a cherished career end in disappointment, permanent injury or humiliation? and all for the nation to cheer? Will players continue to battle, as did the gladiators of yore, despite aggravated injuries?

The Pro Bowl was last weekend, but no one actually watches it, because as someone told me recently it’s like watching a game of touch football. Apparently football without some physical brutality, while it may free you of guilt, is also not very fun to watch.

And yet despite these thoughts, I’ve made some weird compromise with myself, that will allow me to  watch this Sunday’s game. And cheer if my team does well. And secretly kind of be okay with an opposing player, especially if he is very talented and thus critical to the outcome of the game, being taken to the locker room, so long as the injury isn’t too bad or permanent. Why? Because I am a jive-face, hypocritical, mealy-mouthed, pretense of a human being. That's why.