Day 71
Saving the baby
garden bunnies from Brandy.
They always
nested in the potato rows.
Not
only did we entertain a plethora of
domestic critters, we had a menagerie of wild beasts.
Deer
populated our little farmstead, along with rabbit, quail, wild turkey,
squirrel, coyote, ground hogs and myriad song birds. The local rabbit
population inhabited our vegetable garden, year after year. One of our Irish setters
managed to uncover their “secret” nest each spring.
You
can’t successfully fight Mother Nature, so we did our best to protect the “long
ears” erecting protective fences and such, mostly to no avail. C’est la vie!
We
thoroughly enjoyed our animal “wards”; that “farm” project was a real family
hobby.
About
five years ago, or so, our “little” girls decided they wanted a rabbit for a
pet. Of all the many animals we had as pets on the farm, we never had a
long-eared bunny. But, ole Bapa went to work and built a strong, and large,
hutch to house the new pet. Well! Our girls have become “young ladies”,
seemingly overnight?, and ole Bapa is the now proud custodian of Mr. Timmothy!
He’s a black mini-Rex and just as cute as a button; that rabbit has personality!
So,
the saga continues. Hell! I might even saddle up again and ride off into the
sunset! Yeah!
Ah! Cookie
Jar “Hippity-hop” Sweet Memories
Plus:
(Part 2 0f 3---Station Master)
The coveted silver crucible had been
stolen and quickly hocked for twenty dollars, doubling Sammy’s panhandling gain
for the day. He had bought a bottle and refilled the silver container several
times that afternoon and was enjoying an off-key serenade of “Danny Boy” when
his assailant had struck, swiftly and silently. Sammy-the-singer never knew
what hit him.
A
uniformed cop, walking his beat in the downtown commercial district, heard the
squealing tires amidst the screaming terror of several observers of the little
one act performance. When he turned the corner at the building which George had
just exited and reached the scene of the horrible tragedy, the elderly woman
and two other concerned citizens stood on the curb near one of the city’s new
“Savior-of-the-environment” green buses, pointing at a pair of black leather
dress shoes, one still on the victim, the other thrown askance, protruding from
the underside of the huge vehicle, the shoeless foot turned at such an
impossible obtuse angle as to be seemingly attached to some poor cripple with
an affliction beyond that which any human being could endure, certainly any living human being. The unadorned
attachment displayed a big toe unceremoniously sticking nakedly through a hole
in the black fabric meant to contain it.
The
woman delicately laid a fine lace lady’s handkerchief over the naked protuberance
as though such an improper display was inappropriate and offensive to some
delicate sensibilities, although she did not turn even slightly away from the
gruesome bloody scene.
Putting
in a call for an ambulance to remove the body and the fire department to come
hose down the despicable mess on the street, the cop absently pondered why the
bus seemed to be suspended slightly higher at the right front quarter than what
seemed normal.
He
questioned the rotund woman for her statement. The gentleman who had shouted a
vacant warning to the now deceased George was nowhere to be found; he and the
other good citizen passers-by had fled the scene after satisfying their macabre
appetite viewing the ghastly aftermath of an unfortunate altercation between a pallid
playboy and a “green” gargantuan.
The
beat cop had approached the accident scene at such an angle as to preclude
notice of the aftermath of the concrete truck at the rear of the livery. His
interview of the lady witness was abruptly interrupted by the bus driver whose
face was covered with streaming blood from a cut above his left eye as he
stumbled from the bus. He pointed to the open door and mumbled something about
“people hurt” inside.
The
policeman climbed the stairs and gasped at the interior carnage. He called for
immediate back-up and at least three additional ambulances. Still not seeing
the huge concrete truck in the tangle of crumpled steel, he was confused as to
what happened inside the yellow and white “green” Savior-of-the-environment; grayish
ooze clad an adult and several children like cast concrete statues in the city
park.
The yellow blur caught George by surprise,
and, what was that man and woman yelling about in the background. Didn’t they
realize he had just closed a big deal? Such untoward commotion!
Funny
thing! The way the blur took him on a foggy journey; George could remember neither
the impact nor where he was. Not even, whom, he was. There was no discernable
up or down, left or right, in or out, day or night. Everything had lost its
value of perspective and nothing seemed to exist, save, himself, and the cold,
clammy cloud which permeated his senses, such that they were. Suddenly, he felt
dizzy, as though whirring around inside a run-away vacuum cleaner.
Whirlwind! A life become so hectic that the dapper young man, the former
by hip design, the latter by lie refined, could no longer discern reality from
fantasy---maybe, just a little nip!
He
glimpsed---what? Something familiar, in his topsy-turvy world. For an instant,
he thought it might be a woman and several small children. Why? Then, just fog.
Was he losing his mind?
He
was totally confused. Bewildered. He shook his head to clear it; where was he?
George
had to be---where? Somewhere!? Everybody had
to be---Somewhere!
“God! George!” He lamented. Oh! How he despised that name; only his pernicious
mother could impose such an historic classical moniker as that on “Mr. Cool!”
But, some comfort, at least, females of his social class understood the sound
of a soft “G” as endearing. Hmmm!
He
found himself on a platform of sorts, in front of a double door, the kind with
wood in a cross buck design on the bottom half and divided glass panes
reinforced with a grid of fine diamond shaped black wires running through it on
the top. He had seen this style entry before, but his fogged mind could not
decipher the enigma just then.
Suddenly,
a hint from the dark recesses, perhaps, a train station? But, why that?
The
headaches had persisted, but, not reason enough to be so confusing that his
whereabouts became a mystery. That quack witch doctor in Manila had prescribed
some mountain magic potent powder of a Mindanao indigenous tribe that gave
initial relief and, at least, allowing a week of restful sleep, more than he
had experienced in three hellish months of nightmares. But, then, as suddenly
as the pain had subsided, the medieval Philippine concoction had lost its
effectiveness; the nightmares resurfaced with a focused vengeance.
By
the time the demon dreams had returned, George found himself on the coast of
the Aegean. Such was the twisted life of an international financier. Of course,
that grandeur was self-titled; George was a glorified salesman; at best, just
another slick silver-tongued manipulator. So, insulting to brand suave George a
“snake-oil salesman---but…if the proverbial shoe fits…
Those
Greeks were not so bad, he decided; certainly, Adrianna made him feel
exhilarated; such was the emancipated life of an international playboy, too!
Ah! Sweet sacrifice! Sweet Life!
He
entered the building and the cloudlike fog subsided; his sight was fully
restored, but his understanding of his situation remained obfuscated.
Looking
around, George spotted the ticket agent booth across the large room; an
avuncular character sat on a stool inside the wire-front cage. The old man
sported a train-style conductor’s cap with a flat top, straight sides, black
patent bill, gleaming like a businessman’s wingtips after a popping-brisk
polishing shine by a Chattanooga porter. A gold plate, encrusted with the
likeness of a flying eagle on the front of the headgear, grasped in its deadly
talons the grandpa’s important title: Station Master!
The
man had snow white hair sticking out the edges of the cap and a neatly trimmed
mustache of the same pallid shade; he wore wire rimmed glasses over piercing
blue eyes, a white shirt, black string tie, black leather vest and arm band
garters on his sleeves. George thought he looked like he had been cast by some
movie studio to play the part; he decided that it was good casting.
Before
heading to the counter, George turned away from the densely populated terminal
inhabitants for a needed stiffener. Ah! The saving elixir of life!
A
quick, clandestine swallow, then, surreptitiously, another, before secreting the
silver flask; that little lifesaver had set him back two hundred and fifty U.S.
dollars in a rag-tag tent shuddering under an assault by a stirring Sirocco under
an oppressive heat at a Turkish bazaar somewhere in a desert oasis. Somehow, magically,
his ludicrous, seemingly inexhaustible expense account had covered that little
extravagance, secreted in its undetectable enclosure, expertly tailored, in the
inside pocket of his proudly-worn fifteen hundred dollar silk, three piece
suit. The design professionally crafted in expert execution to conceal the
spreading girth of forty-odd years, okay, fifty-seven, of excess food and
drink! Well! A successful man-of-the-world had to have his little pleasures---and…secret
denials. It’s only fair!
“Damn!”
he silently chastised himself for the ump-teenth time, “I have got to cut back
on the rich foods, not to mention the enormous quantities and frequencies.” He
paused, purposely, in his deliberations, reluctant to confess his bigger
problem. Then, “Yes! Hell, yes! The drinking, too!”
Monique,
in Paris, he loved the sexy sound of the French pronunciation of the capital
city, losing the “s” slur the Continentals found so---American, confessed that
she simply could not tolerate an elderly lover, nor would she be understanding.
The naïve Parisian believed “George” to be in his mid-forties, notwithstanding
his ample paunch, which the sophisticate just loved to poke, making it shake
“like a bowl full of gelatin”. Her perfect beauty rivaled her perverse sense of
humor as she so annoyingly teased about his plumpness. Indeed: Mr. Jell-O!
She,
too, like the others around the world to whom this gigolo was so monogamous,
didn’t that mean: one at a time? And, he
often broke that rule, also, in the commitment of the act, itself, had her own
delicate little idiosyncrasies. Not the least of which related to her actual
lack of any French Royal blood or monetary circumstance; her beauty made her a
favorite along the Seine!
“Ah!
Mon Monique!” He inhaled, imagining her expensive French perfume. Intoxicating!
How
long since he had held her close? Alas! Too long! Much, too, too long! Indeed!
Securing
the decadent flask in his suit coat, he turned toward the ticket agent,
and---Wham!
Three
raucous urchins rushed around his legs, laughing, cursing, slapping at each
other.
“Here!
Here! You impudent little rodents,” he scolded in his very best European
accent; it must have been Continental, had he not just been contemplating the
lovely, Monique de Paris?
Brushing
his expensive suit as though he had just been accosted by a rancid garbage can,
he watched the trio assault the nearest vending machine; if it was capable of
any sense, it would just give up its candy treats and encourage the soda dispenser
to do the same. The outlaw Jesse James gang rides, again! Silently, George
wished for Bob Ford and a couple of hanging trees replete with ropes fashioned
into expectant nooses.
“Oh! I beg your pardon, kind Sir,” came the
apology in a throaty whisper. “I confess, they are
quite
a handful for a mother all alone. Pardon! Please!”
Outraged
by such uncivilized behavior and indignant at the feeble attempted apology, an
insult questioning the miscreant’s legitimacy and calling into challenge their
mother’s virtue tantalized the very tip of his tongue; then, his dark eyes fell
on her vision of loveliness.
The
oval face shone like an October alabaster pale full moon bejeweled with green Asian
tiger-eye opalescent sparkling gems under dark brows plucked thin enough to be
suggestively translucent, a nose proportioned by a master sculptor with an
aptitude for perfection, desirable, generous ruby lips, a delicate chin
punctuated with the cutest dimple, jet black straight hair and a tantalizing
beauty mark, an attractive mole, the angel’s kiss, on her soft left cheek.
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