The Ticking

   He loved his chair. It was large enough to accommodate his frame, well-padded but not too puffy, and when fully reclined it placed him in an unbelievably comfortable position that allowed him to fully relax but without putting him out of range of the small table to the right where he kept the remote.

   The upper bustle of the chair, where his head fit at an angle that, while cradling his big melon like a baby still supported his neck enough to allow him to watch the television without strain.

   One fine afternoon as he was ensconced in the chair while watching a rerun of a show that was first broadcast nearly 65 years ago (Della Street was exchanging witty repartee with Paul Drake again) he suddenly heard what he described as a slight, insistent ticking.

   Except it wasn't the ticking sound one associates with a clock or a watch. It was more like the sound of a very small drummer playing a very small drum...very slowly. Like a military tattoo, but at a painstakingly slow tempo.

   He heard the ticking when his head was enveloped in the upper bustle. It stopped when he popped his head up. For a few minutes he experimented with the placement of his head on or near the bustle and he was quickly able to conclude that the ticking sound was only heard when his head was in full contact with the bustle.

   He got up and examined the entire upper half of the chair as if he was performing an autopsy. Carefully he ran his fingers over the supple leather covering, hoping to find something that could be responsible for the sound. All he felt though was the soft stuffing used to fill the bustle - noting like a watch or small clock or anything...mechanical.

   He searched under and around the chair and found nothing in the vicinity except a few old stale Cheetos and miscellaneous crumbs of indeterminate origin.

   After twenty minutes of searching, he sat back in the chair. He then sat up straight in the chair and twisted around to look at the bustle and ran his left had over it again for the umpteenth time.

   Nothing.

   Then he again sat back and fully reclined, nestling himself into the chair until he was again in his preferred comfy position.

   He sat perfectly still and listened. 

   Still nothing. The ticking sound was gone. He remained as still as he could for a few more minutes, straining to hear. 

   Not the slightest sound. He grabbed the remote off the small table and turned the television back on, thought to himself he must of just imagined the sound, and renewed his interest in watching Lt. Tragg once again being upstaged by Perry.

   Then he heard the voices. Small, tiny voices that sounded like two or three people having a whispered conversation...somewhere inside the upper bustle...

   

    

The Face Inside The Face

 

The Letter & The Reply

      He explained carefully and in no uncertain terms his position. The words he selected clearly detailed why they had to proceed as they must. There could be no doubt whatsoever, at least not in the mind of anyone sane and rational, that the course of action he was outlining was the best for them both. His intention was not mean-spirited nor was it hasty. The timing was perfect.

   Except it wasn't and when he really considered the situation he realized that the timing could never be right for what must be done. He wished he knew how to soft-pedal the decision, make it less painful, but there was no real way to make it more palatable, no matter the timing.

   So he braced himself for the worst. He would not be a coward about it - he would hand the missive to her directly and he would stay while she read the words he hoped beyond hope she would understand without disappointment or worse, acrimony.

   He carefully reread the eight pages, looking for errors in spelling or grammar. Lord knows he didn't want to distract her attention from the matter at hand with run-on sentences or too many prepositional phrases. 

   After the third rereading of the letter he carefully folded the pages and placed them in the envelope. Then he stood up and walked out of the small study, down the long hall and out onto the balcony, where she was relaxing on a lounge chair while sipping a cup of tea.

   He handed her the sealed envelope and as she took it she asked, "What is this? Did the mail arrive early today?"

   With as serious a countenance as he could muster, he replied, "No. It is from me, and I would like you to read it now, if you wouldn't mind."

   Setting down her tea she opened the envelope and removed the pages. Unfolding the pages she quickly and deliberately read the painstakingly written words. When she finished she refolded the pages, replaced them in the envelope and set it down on the small table next to the tea.

   Looking up at him she smiled in that unnerving manner that she had perfected by the end of their first year of marriage. He knew her response was too quick for her to be able to claim that she had given the matter anything remotely close to "careful consideration".

   "Mi Corazon", she said, and instantly he knew he was defeated. "For the final time the plans are already set, reservations made and deposits paid. We are not going to Legoland for our anniversary this year, we are going to Saint Lucia. Get that through your adorable head. Oh, and you misspelled disagreeable. There are two e's".

War Surplus, 1947

 

Second row of items from the bottom, on your left.

Stills. War surplus stills. Ostensibly to purify water.

Only $59.50 - might as well buy two.

The Icy Road Carelessly Traveled

 

The tire tracks tell one helluva story. The driver likely overcorrected after the car spun out of control on the icy road and careened over the sidewalk and up the slight rise of the perimeter berm in front of the strip mall, somehow managing to avoid hitting the big tree on the right and the For Lease sign on the left...before crashing into (and taking out the left side of) the small wooden enclosure where the trash cans are kept.

The car then came to rest in the parking lot without hitting either the lamp pole or the metal post with the No Parking sign attached to it that are both right next to where the left side of the trash can enclosure had been.

The question is...was the driver extremely skilled or extremely lucky?

Turning The Conversation On

 If you are in a situation such as family gathering or a work group meeting that has stalled out and everyone around you has started looking at the ceiling tiles or their shoes, here are a couple of surefire ways to get the conversational ball rolling again.

1) Loudly state that something clearly preposterous is true but the government has been covering it up (i.e., Aliens have been visiting Earth for years, kidnapping people and cows).

or...

2) Loudly proclaim that something obviously true is a fraud being perpetuated by the government (i.e., Jet contrails are not the result of water condensation, they are clouds of chemicals being used to make us blindly obedient to the government).

You could probably think of a hundred or so more examples of both, all of which are guaranteed to stir the pot and bring out the best in family, friends and random strangers.

Avoiding Attendance At Going Away Parties

   Is there anything not-quite-sad but also not-quite-happy as a going away party? 

   Admittedly, it's been a few years since I have attended one even though there have been several times over those same past few years when my presence was requested at a party of that nature. 

   However, I can still remember how I felt at the last going away party I attended.

   It sucked.

   I guess I just don't like saying goodbye to people, even if the people in question are simply casual acquaintances.

  Heck, if the going away party is for someone I know well and like a lot, well then it's going to make for a good ol' melancholy time. Chances are I'll get all syrupy-sappy bringing up all the good times we used to have and so on and so forth.

   And that is not a good thing to have to bear witness to.

   No one needs to have to deal with me getting all cranky-pants melancholy, so as a general rule, I dodge going away parties like the Baseball HOF dodges Steve Garvey.

   Besides, in this day and age of the Internet and unlimited texting and calling, no one ever really goes away - they just get a new zip code and maybe a different time zone.