It's Murder on the Lemon Express

Today's news of a Canadian man who tried to cross the U.S. border with his dead wife in the car reminds me of a story I heard about ten years ago.

My friend Jonathan, a British national, was working as a tour operator in Bournemouth. He booked an older British couple (let's call them Maggie and Sal) for a trip to Benidorm on Spain's Costa Blanca, a beautiful area popular with British tourists,

According to Jonathan, Benidorm is a bit like Acapulco with a dense beachside strip of high-rise hotels packed to the gills with tourists. Jonathan warned Maggie and Sal that being on the beach might not suit their tastes but Maggie was firm in her tour package selection for one reason: it included two tickets on the fabled "Lemon Express"--something that would make her the envy of all her friends.

The fabled--and now defunct--Lemon Express.

The Lemon Express--Spain’s first tourist train--was launched in 1971 by a British man named David Simpson who rescued old train carriages from the Carcagante-Denia line. Featuring balconies at each end, the old carriages gave the narrow gauge train an old world air, and it became very popular with tourists. The five-hour excursion train offered spectacular scenery, breathtaking views of the Mediterranean coastline and a tour of the guitar factory in Gata de Gorgos.

Maggie was adamant in her choice. Sal was ambivalent. He'd been leaning more towards a quiet caravan park in Croatia. Seeking a compromise, Jonathan booked them into the last hotel on the strip, away from Benidorm's densely populated central beach.

The morning after they arrived, Maggie proudly presented herself in front of the hotel with a reluctant Sal in tow. Within minutes, the bus arrived to take them to the train and the retired couple boarded the empty bus.

"Please move to the back," said the bus driver.

"Certainly!" said Maggie and the pair walked to the back of the bus where Sal grabbed the window seat and promptly fell asleep.

The bus edged along the strip and stopped at nearly every hotel. Dozens and dozens of British couples eagerly boarded, all steadfastly clutching their prized tickets for the Lemon Express. They cheered when the driver turned in at the station. He watched as row after row of chattering couples patiently exited the bus with one exception: a radiant Maggie stood alone in the aisle.

As she stepped past the driver, he said, "But madam, where is your husband?"

She turned and patted him on the shoulder, "Oh, he's not feeling up to this so I just decided to let him sleep. He'll be fine until I get back."

The driver shrugged and parked the bus in the adjacent lot where he, too, napped until the train's return.

The journey up the coast to Gata de Gorgos was everything Maggie had hoped for and more: the charm of the old-time carriages as they gently swayed up the mountainsides; the handsome waiters who passed out cool, sleek glasses of chilled, sparkling wine; the fascinating artisans who so expertly crafted fine, Spanish guitars. She was proud of her newfound independence and, for several hours, didn't miss Sal in the least.

When the group returned to the bus, Maggie was, again, first to board. She walked down the long, narrow aisle, found her original seat next to a still-slumbering Sal and proceeded to revisit her trip by sorting through her ample bag of souvenirs. The bus snaked along the Benidorm strip leaving happy couples in its wake until, finally, it reached its final destination: Maggie and Sal's hotel. Bag in hand, Maggie marched up the narrow aisle and presented herself--alone--to the driver.

"But madam," he asked again, "Where is your husband?"

"Sir,"she responded, "I'm afraid my husband's dead."

"Dead!?" he said, horrified. "When did he die? Just now?"

"No," she said. "He died this morning just after we boarded the bus."

Baffled, the driver asked, "Why didn't you say something?!"

"Well, there wasn't anything I could really do about it," she explained, "He's always doing something like this, and I decided I wasn't going to let him ruin my trip. Besides, I really wanted to go on that Lemon Express."

Selling Thumbs Door-to-Door With Charles Darwin

My buddy Blake.

Sometimes I think that Blake is the one person in this entire world that truly loves me. But that’s not really true. Denial is a river in Egypt; the capital of Djbouti is Djbouti; and jaded is that green sweater that makes me look like a big old ball of molting angora.

First of all, Blake is not a person, he's my dog. Second of all, he only loves me for my thumbs. If he could kill me and take my thumbs for himself, he would. I know this for a fact. He would kill to be able to open his own bag of food and clip his own nails.

This--I tell myself--this is Darwin knocking at mankind’s primordial door. “Come down from the trees,” he calls as ancient man chitters and peers down at the wicker basket over his arm. “I brought thumbs!”

Which reminds me: I had a dream about the Apocalypse once. I stood on a high, windswept rock and the horizon seemed to swallow itself whole in a very bright, convulsive flash. In the fading light I saw two Palmetto bugs sitting on the edge of a large, flat rock playing cards.

“Tell me Agosto,” said the one bug to the other. “Have you got any thumbs?”

“Go fish,” said Agosto.

And the sun snapped off like a light.

Where's the (Black Angus) Beef?

Nobody here but us chickens cows. That's right. Cows.

When I was growing up, Dad liked to terrify me with his plans for his future retirement. "Your mother and I are moving in with you Murray so you can support us in our old age." Nothing frightened me more.

Shortly after I graduated from junior college, Dad announced that I would be pursuing a journalism degree at the University of Missouri-Columbia (news to me) while he pursued the life of a gentleman farmer on 10 acres just outside of town. It was everything Dad had ever wanted--a charming little spread with a red horse barn and matching outbuildings. Most importantly, it offered him an opportunity to raise Black Angus cattle.

I don't know why Dad obsessed over Black Angus in particular. One cow is as attractive as another to my eye and although I understand the difference between a Guernsey and a Texas Longhorn, I was not the discriminating carnivore my father was. He held Black Angus Beef up as the pinnacle of man's pursuit of the ultimate steak. At long last, he had an opportunity to become a serious cattleman.

My Dad was one of those people who can succeed at just about anything they put their minds to, be it real estate, banking or sales (he excelled at each of them and more). However, Dad was a master at talking other people into doing what he wanted. Enter the 4-H kid from down the road.

Anyone who's ever attended a decent county fair knows that 4-H has a number of great programs that introduce young people to the animal sciences, teach them self sufficiency and give them an opportunity to demonstrate what they've learned by raising livestock. My Dad knew this important fact and he immediately put this knowledge to use by scouring the nearby farms and finding a 4-H kid. (I was a suburban kid; we had Junior Achievement instead of 4-H. I can't milk a cow, but I can sell you a coffee mug.)

I don't remember the kid's name but Dad put him to work right away assassinating the pigeons roosting on the horse barn and soiling his shiny red aluminum siding. He was very happy to go 50/50 with Dad in purchasing and raising five or six young Black Angus for his summer 4-H project.

City folk, such as we were, are not meant to raise livestock. We don't understand the mechanics of it and, what's more, we don't have the right mentality. We didn't see future steaks or burgers. We saw overly large dogs with soulful, liquid brown eyes that cut us to the quick. Those stupid, staring eyes bewitched us and we became servants of their growing, insatiable need for food. (There were times, I confess, where we considered fitting them with collars and leashes so we could take them for walks in the cool of the evening.)

The 4-H kid was responsible for purchasing and stocking feed supplies for the small herd, and he was very dutiful in ensuring that food was fairly distributed on a timely basis. But, again being city folk, we knew that all dogs--even pet cows--love treats. Dad grew up during the Depression and he was always keen to pinch pennies wherever possible. So, taking a cue from Woodrow Wilson's herd of sheep on the White House lawn, Dad set up a system to distribute lawn clippings to his beloved cows.

Dad had many pursuits in life but he had one overriding passion: his lawn. In my father's world, the quality of a man's lawn was a reflection of his stature. The better the lawn, the better the man, and Dad's lawn was like a golf course. The cows loved it and Dad loved feeding them. He'd spend hours petting them and scolding them for humping one another when they got bored. He knew each of them by sight, gave them nicknames and faithfully remembered which of them liked a good belly scratch or nose rub. Each week, he carried a bright yellow plastic bin full of grass clippings and fed them by hand or scattered the treat along the ground. Soon, the once timid cows learned to recognize the bin and anticipate the reward it contained.

Dad always insisted that the clippings not be dumped over the fence but, instead, that they be scattered on the ground inside the corral as neatly as possible. This wasn't always easy to do. Mom took the bin in one day when the pack stampeded up the hill and surrounded her in eager anticipation. Being stared at by 2,000 pounds of cow can be pretty intimidating--especially for a 65 year old, 5'2" woman with a heart condition. She screamed, threw the bin at them and ran for her life.

Eventually, the time came for the kid to present his project at the county fair. The corral was empty save for the yellow bin, a haunting reminder of our dear, departed pets. As I recall, the kid got a blue ribbon. More importantly, Dad got five sides of hand-raised Black Angus Beef.

It took about a week for the slaughterhouse to process everything and deliver pound after pound of pet cow wrapped in crisp white butcher paper that Dad enthusiastically piled into a brand new freezer. Finally, after months of patient, diligent feeding and care, Mom placed an ample, medium rare porterhouse on Dad's plate. His excitement knew no bounds--until he took a bite and chewed. And chewed. And chewed. The meat was as tough as an old shoe.

Angry, Dad called the slaughterhouse and accused the man in charge of switching his beloved Black Angus for inferior cuts and keeping the best for himself. He'd been swindled! No, insisted the man in charge. He'd done no so such thing. That was Dad's herd.

"How do you explain this then?" Dad demanded. "This is prime Black Angus Beef I raised myself! I fed them by hand since they were calves! Why is it so tough and stringy?"

"I dunno," said the man. "I can't explain it. Unless, of course, you fed them grass clippings."

The Nuts are on the Road

Deputy Greer, a walk-on minor character in an episode of the X-Files said it best: "all the nuts roll down to Florida." But come election time, they charter buses, hire staffers, declare their candidacy for higher office and begin rolling from one primary hot spot to the next. Debates among the prospective candidates were once focused on the big, pressing questions: unemployment, war, inflation, the economy--issues that directly impact where and how Americans live, work and pursue those things that bring us happiness. These days, however, candidate debates have become the strident opening salvo of a mudslinging contest that now alarmingly includes religion.

When did religion become so entrenched within the voting booth? It didn't belong there when Americans dithered over President Kennedy's Roman Catholicism and it doesn't belong there now. One's choice of faith is highly personal and completely individual. There is a separation of church and state for a very simple reason: it upholds the right of the individual. Our society is a melting pot that strips all of us of our preexisting cultural identities. Africans, Asians, Europeans--we're all transformed into Americans through the legal conveyance of citizenship. Thanks to the separation of church and state, our religion is not subjected to the same process. Instead, it's kept out of the melting pot and, like voting, recognized as a personal, private choice.

It seems to me that candidates who flaunt their religion are under the mistaken impression that embracing the "right" religion will convey popularity. Many of them also believe this is a "Christian" country without bothering to dig any deeper and define what kind of Christianity we practice. Are we Catholics, Protestants, Anabaptists, Adventists, Campbellites, Lutherans, Apostolics, Mennonites or Episcopaleans? The fact is, we're all of those things; we're also Muslim, Hindu, Ba'hai, Buddhist and more. Formally combining religion with politics stands to deepen the divisions between these schools of religious thought and inflame our political process with religious zeal--the one thing it patently does not need. If you doubt that, take a quick look at the histories of Northern Ireland, Bosnia and Lebanon. Each case shows that blending religion and politics is a recipe for disaster.

We should not evaluate any candidate--be he Newt Gingrich, Rick Perry or Mitt Romney--on the basis of his faith or how well we think he practices that faith. Nor should any candidate cloak themselves in religion and present themselves for ordination. Doing so sets a dangerous precedent for institutionalizing religion and robs each of us of our most fundamental right as Americans. The right to choose.

Monkey See, Monkey Don't

My grandmother always said that idle hands are the Devil's playground. Thanks to her, I have a Protestant work ethic built on a rock solid foundation of guilt. Since I'm currently unemployed, I've turned my attention to all the little (and large) projects I've spent so much time and effort ignoring. My reluctance is understandable when you consider my last DIY project: a bathroom remodel.

The room was bearable when I moved in over a decade ago--especially when you consider the fact that the average Floridian bathroom is required by state law to use at least three or more colors in which even Liberace wouldn't be caught dead. If it's not pink, turquoise, black and/or lavender with mismatched toilet, sink and tub then it's NOT a true Floridian bathroom. "Bearable" became impossible one morning, however, when the sagging vanity fell apart in mid shave and left me up to my ankles in porcelain, sawdust, wall plaster and an alarming number of fast-moving bugs. In one fell stroke, I had unbalanced my sideburns, breached the wall and uncovered the Palmetto (Bug) Expressway.

The term "Palmetto Bug" is an exercise in denial. Floridians say "Palmetto Bug" because we cannot come to grips with the fact that these critters--which easily dwarf today's pricey, Italian compact cars--are actually giant cockroaches. They're so big, in fact, that the state legislature is exploring how they might be pressed into service for public transit.

What bothers me most about Palmetto Bugs is their potential to establish a new world order. The only thing holding them back is the lack of opposable thumbs. With thumbs, they would be unstoppable. They could buy lotto tickets with their spare change, hitchhike with purposeful direction and shut the kitchen light switch off behind you. Like cats, they have an uncanny ability to land on their feet in addition to many lives. They have no fear of nuclear holocaust; they may be plotting to achieve dexterity. I freely admit that this is the kind of thing that keeps me up at night.

So, there I was, with a large hole in the wall and a gaggle of Palmetto Bugs giving me dirty looks. Now, I have never been one to let sleeping dogs (or bugs) lie. No, sir. The power of Christ (and OCD) compels me to pick at that hole and make it bigger and find out just what is inside the wall. It took a month or two, but I managed to demolish enough of the bathroom to make me self-righteous.

Who in the world, I asked myself, remodeled this bathroom last? Capuchin monkeys? Because the workmanship and construction methods pointed to someone who did not benefit from the aforementioned opposable thumbs. I took down an inch-thick layer of tile and plaster off this wall. Why they used so much is a mystery, but it's plain that patch jobs had a lot to do with it. "Pile it on!" seems to have been the mantra of the day. Can't find a matching tile? No problem! Just get something really cheap and ugly and then...paint it to match! Tub look less than bright white? Paint that, too!

Midway through this itinerant autopsy I found evidence that a pipe had sprung a leak at some point. Our enterprising monkey (not necessarily a Capuchin although they are quite handy; perhaps something as pedestrian as your average Howler Monkey--not from Goa, though possibly from Mahareshtra) decided that the way to fix the problem was to encase it in cement.

I surmised that this little monkey (let's call him George, shall we? because he certainly seems to have been curious)  may have regretted sealing this leak so completely because he clearly set the wall on fire while soldering later.

I'm not proud. I can take a hint with the best of them so, with a self-righteous heart, godly hands and grandma on my mind I picked up the phone and called a contractor. My next project? Finding the couch.

Tweeting into the Wind (and Snickering a Little, Too)

The rise of social media has me a little miffed. I'm chatting, blogging, tweeting and posting with abandon but I sometimes get the feeling that I've walked into a party in search of someone who's probably ditched me in advance of my arrival. Or I'm talking too loudly in a crowded room that's suddenly gone silent just in time for me to blurt, "Rectum? It nearly killed him!"

Then there's what I like to call social media's dirty little secret: it's a very public barometer of just how unsocial you actually are. And that messes with my self image. You see, sometimes, when I get mad at the world (about every Tuesday at 4), I shut my cell phone off and head for the nearest ivory tower, steadfastly refusing to answer the texts, tweets and chirps that connect us all to Kevin Bacon.

The truth is no one misses me. Online or off, the phone doesn’t stir, the computer doesn't beep--there's only silence. For the sake of my ego, I pretend that there are meaningful people looking for me who are saddened by their suspicion that I am deliberately concealing myself from their company. They're pinging me on Google, scouring Foursquare, poring over Facebook--aren't they? I wonder: if you hide and no one seeks, are you still hidden? Or are you merely overlooked or perhaps misplaced? It’s a pretty simple game but it does have rules you know. I embrace exile on principle. I’m Greta Garbo. “I vant to be left alone.”

And so I am.

People are funny that way. They can give you what you want in a smooth and effortless manner and, thanks to social media, they do. Honestly, I’m such a lucky man. This is my Walden Pond!

All That Glitters Is Not A Nickel

Alexander and Hannah Marquis.

Once upon a time in a land called "The Knobs" there was a girl named Hannah and a boy named Al who found themselves--somewhere between church picnics and fall harvests--smitten with one another. So, things being what they were (and still often are), he asked her to marry him and she eagerly accepted. Al was quite a catch after all. Everyone spoke well of him; he was kind, funny, hard-working and sincerely in love with her. On the other hand, he was poor and couldn't afford much fanfare much less a proper wedding ring. Hannah didn't care. She loved him anyway and so she walked down the aisle in a simple, modest dress and tended their home with a graceful, unadorned hand.

Over the years, many things changed and yet many things did not. They still loved one another a great deal (as evidenced by their ten children), yet they were still poor (again, as evidenced by their ten children). And though he may have wanted to, Al still could not afford to give Hannah the shining gold ring she deserved. Instead, he did the best he could by presenting her with a simple, thin band that he cut from an equally simple, modest nickel.

Years later their children began to fall in love and build their own families; not all of them, however, met with success. Eva, in particular, struggled with her heart's desire. Although she loved her father, she also loved her freedom and she was convinced (wrongly) that she had to choose between them in order to be happy. She left one night on the back of a motorcycle, fleeing The Knobs for the flats of Oklahoma where the man she loved presented her with what had eluded her mother for so long: a shining band of gold.

In the morning, her finger turned a figurative green. Eva's man already had another wife--or so they said. Soon, she was chasing the road back home where her family waited to welcome her and usher him to the door at the end of a pitchfork. Her family didn't judge her (well, not that much), and she soon became her own worst critic and she began to despair. Sadly, her shining band of gold became something she viewed as unearned and undeserved. But after thought and prayer and contemplation, she found an elegant solution that would resolve her public humiliation, her father's private wish and her mother's secret dream: she traded it for a simple, modest nickel.

***

You may find my story to be a little corny, naive even but, aside from a few embellishments, it is a true tale. My great-grandfather Alexander Marquis married Hannah Pennell in the late 1800s and they raised a large family in "The Knobs" of southern Illinois. Their daughter Della Evalee--a "flapper"--eloped on the back of a motorcycle during the Roaring '20s only to have the family run off her duplicitous beau upon their return. She exchanged rings with her mother because, as I was told, she felt badly that her mother--so richly married--should wear a nickel while she--so poorly matched--bore a ring of gold.

When Hannah died in 1944, Della took back her ring while the nickel ring--and the story behind it--became lost. Or so one would think. I found the nickel ring among Della's things during her final illness and gained the story from my mother. Things being what they were (and still often are), the ring disappeared soon after. Or so one would think.

I found the ring again not too long ago among my own things, and I've been wearing it ever since. Unfortunately, my stewardship has not been that kind, and the soft-metal ring is now misshapen and it has lost the markings that identified it as a one-time coin. But the story remains, and that's what's most important. So, this weekend, I am passing the torch, so to speak, and placing the ring in the care of my niece, Eloise. It's my hope that this ring--however cheap and unassuming it may appear--will convey a wealth of meaning to her and the other young women within my extended family as they one day start their own lives and families years from now. Alex and Hannah's ring will, I hope, be eagerly and actively embraced and traded amongst them as "something old" or "something borrowed" when it comes time for them to follow their hearts down the aisle.

A Letter to My Homeowner's Insurance Agent

Hi Mike

Got a question here. My subdivision (Pompano Beach Highlands) is undergoing infrastructure rebuilding with new sewer and water lines being installed. Water pressure up until now had been respectable but nothng to write home about. When they connected the new water line, I was in love. Water pressure was fantastic, every faucet was like a car wash and a hot shower was a lengthy, rewarding experience.

About 7-10 days ago they started doing a bit of "mop up" to all the construction mess. This included prepping driveway aprons and then completing asphalt installation. My water meter box happens to be in the driveway. When they first came through, they said it would have to be moved because it was "in the wrong place." They never moved it. Instead, they paved right over the thing. And that's when I fell out of love: my water pressure was gone.

Instead of turning on a faucet to a consistent, strong flow, I discovered that it would start out  with good intentions--forceful, strong flow rate--and then gradually ease until the flow was about 1/3 of what it had been at the start. I, of course, was not happy.

Yesterday, I had an opportunity to talk to the work crew when they came to excavate the driveway apron in their search for my water meter. They said they would look into it, but that I was responsible for everything north of the water meter.

After about an hour or so, they knocked on the door, showed me a hole (but NOT the water meter), turned on their side of the line (which they had disconnected) and demonstrated how strong and virile the flow rate was--on their side of the still-to-be-seen meter--and promptly pronounced they had nothing to do with it. It was all my responsibility.

Then they filled in the hole. And that's when lost love turned to hate. No more strong flow dwindling to a modest one-third. Now it's a bashful one-third dwindling to a pathetic trickle. Taking a shower now is equivalent to receiving a tongue bath from a chihuahua.

Please tell me that my policy covers this or I'm going to have to get a bigger dog.

Wherefore Art Thou Aggie Twaddle?

The older I get, the more I realize what an enigma my father was and how insufficient my overtaxed memory has become at dispelling the mystery of the man. Time and again I fix his portrait within my mind's eye only to look away and find it reduced to paint chips and sparkling dust.

Now and then I can hear him before the last 30 years of silence picking out a tune on Mom's piano, fists clenched, forefingers extended and stabbing out the notes, singing: "I like coffee, I like tea; I like the girls, and the girls like me!" Sometimes he sang-along with Sinatra's "Young at Heart" on the hi-fi or, embarrassingly enough, offered up a boisterous Tony Orlando & Dawn's "Tie a Yellow Ribbon" which was always sung up-tempo with a load "Whoa!" to properly kick off each chorus.

As I grew up, he practiced routines that were utterly foreign to me, my sisters and our friends and used a language all his own. Dinner at the kitchen demanded cloth napkins, no elbows and mouths closed when chewing. Conversation there was punctuated by Dad's sparse French "Passez-moi le beurre, s'il vous plait" or simply "Ou est le beurre?"  Time alone with Dad was sometimes even more incomprehensible, especially when confessing sin. The private disappointments I authored were often met with the horrified odd exhortation, "Use yer beano Murray, use yer beano!"

In winter, on the coldest of Sunday mornings, he would warm the car before driving us to Sunday School. He consigned us to the backseat where he wrapped us in car blankets knowing we could never be too warm in the brittle snap of February. Thus mobilized, we were a captive audience to his ongoing lecture series on the perils of being a child.

Dad's favorite (and oft repeated) themes included "You Think Money Grows On Trees" (Part 1) which, if he drove slowly or we left early, was followed by a brisk "You Kids Are So Ungrateful" (Part 2). Although wildly popular, "I Would Never Speak To My Mother Like That" could never hold a candle to the masterful "My Father Would Have Thrown Me Across The Room If I Ever (fill in the blank)" which, quite frankly, always brought down the house. 

Ever the dutiful disciplinarian, Dad always strove to ensure that, by the time we reached church, we were indeed ready to come to Jesus. Sadly, faithful, dogmatic repetition of these time-honored themes didn't phase us. We were awful kids.

I say that in hindsight, of course. Back then, we were golden, Teflon, unimpeachable--the glowing, ripening apples of our grandmother's eye! Except perhaps for one tiny, irreducible flaw passed down to us from our mother: we were always late. No matter where we were going, no matter where we had been, somehow we were always, always late--no mean feat for children raised in a town that thrived on time. Elgin watches aside, we were a tardy people who made others tardy as well and that was unforgivable. Dad had a strange and exotic name for someone who kept him waiting: Aggie Twaddle.

"Come on Aggie Twaddle," hands fixed at 10 and 2 and thumbs thumping out the measure while he fought the urge to honk. "Let's go Aggie Twaddle," locked doorknob firmly grasped in one hand and car keys splayed in the other ready to poke the engine to life. "Are you ready Aggie Twaddle?" innocent expression fixed over Mom's left shoulder in the mirror even while the anxious eyes gave it all away.

Who, I have always wondered, is Aggie Twaddle and where in the world is she going? Is she just another fleck of fallen paint chip or does she have more to say on the subject of Arthur Macdonald Ferreira?

I doubt he realized it, but Dad's lessons might have made more of an impact at the time had he been more forthcoming about his own life. His family were strangers to us and infrequent visitors to our home. Reunions--seldom held--were private affairs looped around Dad's poker table, fortified with gin and tonic, scented with menthol cigarettes and punctuated with the foreign vowels of Boston's streets.

What they discussed over those long nights is unknown, but they had no shortage of history for review. Their father died early in life and left their mother, Jeannette, destitute with four children to raise in the growing dust of the Great Depression. Though still a child, Robert, the oldest, quickly grasped what few adults could: Jeannette was unsuited to her fate, oblivious to their peril and incapable of escaping her condition. Resolved, the children closed ranks to protect her. Robert quit school to work mean jobs and feed the family. Arthur and George scoured the nearby railyards every day, buckets in hand, searching for stray bits of coal to dull the teeth of their New England winters. Their sister "Kargy" took charge of the household as best she could.

I'd like to think that this painful, hard-won knowledge would have made Dad's lessons more meaningful to me as a child. Surely all these moments and scattered bits of information would have cracked the hard, glossy shell of cynicism my sisters and I wore so openly. And my father's witness--the mysterious Aggie Twaddle--perhaps most of all, would have spoken volumes about the hopes and dreams of a child who would later become the man. Ironically enough, she would have done so without saying a word.

Who was Aggie Twaddle? Released on Christmas Eve 1922, the silent movie "Broke and Back Home" was pure Horatio Alger with its rags-to-riches plotline. It tells the story of Tom Redding's journey back to respectability and introduces us to the people he meets along the way--including our very own Aggie Twaddle. Even though her name only appears in the cast listing and no mention of her place in the story is made, I can imagine what she might have meant to my father. He would have been 10 at the time, and the storyline would have gripped him. When his apparently wealthy father dies and leaves only debts, Tom Redding is deserted by all save Mary Austin. Desperate, he goes west and successfully develops an oil well. Later, Tom returns home in the guise of poverty, secretly buys up property and then rubs everyone's noses in his good fortune and gets the girl when he reveals that he's rich. Small wonder that, just seven years later, Dad turned his back on Boston and struck out for California in hopes of finding a little good fortune of his own.

Whatever part Aggie Twaddle may have played in Tom Redding's life, it's clear she made a lasting impression on my father and, in turn, on me. What's funny is that I didn't have far to look for her at all. I just needed to be willing to look.  She was a resident in my father's every home, a passenger in every car and a sympathetic friend with whom he synchronized his watch every time I made him wait. She's present in my home and mind as well now, no longer a discarded or decaying bit of portrait paint. Instead, she's taken on some dimension and loaned a bit of it to Dad. She's given him some color and definition, filling in the background with meaning instead of shadows and adding purpose and perspective to the lines around his eyes. I'm still filling in the gaps, but his portrait is far from incomplete. I'm not worried though. After all, memory is a work in progress, too.

In Praise of the Third of July

Despite the fact that the Fourth of July marks the signing of the Declaration of Independence, the founding of our country and the launch of modern democracy, the holiday hasn't carried much weight with my family for almost 30 years. I guess, in a way, we can take it or leave it.

We didn't always feel this way, however. Back in the 50s, 60s and 70s, my extended family gathered at my grandparents' home where we'd picnic in the back yard and listen to the cicadas' song rise and fall like a lazy siren. At twilight, my sisters and cousins and I would play "kick-the-can" with the neighborhood kids and pursue one another through Miss Purdy's yard and the Mayberry's bushes. And finally, when the night had fallen into a pool of velvet dark, my Dad would pile all of us into the station wagon and we'd drive all over the county as we chased the fireworks shooting overhead.

All of that was lost when I went away to college at the University of Missouri-Columbia. With my grandparents gone, the house on Oak Street was sold to strangers. And after years of anxious waiting, my father announced his plans to abandon suburbia and retire to a 10-acre "farmette" he'd found a few miles outside Jeff City, the capital of Missouri. It was a nice spread as these things go: a small barn for boarding horses, 8 acres of fenced pasture, a chicken coop, a workshop and all kinds of old tools, plows and implements hidden in the weeds. Every other week Dad would find one of these ancient, blackened marriages of iron and rotting wood, drag it to the front yard and slap a "FOR SALE" sign on it--entrepreneurial to the end.

The farm was Dad's dream and his long awaited chance to raise Black Angus cattle, board horses and weed  two acres of scraggly lawn to within an inch of its life. For him, it was heaven. Mom, on the other hand, was presented with water in the basement, snakes in the rec room, bright orange kitchen countertops, "harvest yellow" appliances and a quarter-acre of flower garden to tend--a little less divine for her, I think.

"Living the dream" was difficult for Mom, and she was very lonely in those first few months. I was never home (I lived on campus), and my sisters and the rest of the family were 400 miles away.  Dad, sad to say, was a stranger to Mom's mood. He was too busy slapping aluminum siding on all the outbuildings and hiring the crack-shot 4H kid next door to shoot down the pigeons that were always roosting on his pristine, aluminum-sided barn.

My sister Donna, however,  knew Mom's mind and plotted a surprise "mission of mercy." She convinced my sister Susan, cousins Colleen and Becky along with Mom's brother Dean and my great aunt Della to squeeze into Uncle Dean's posh Safari van and drive eight hours for a brief visit over the holiday weekend. The idea was good, but the timing was a little off because the 4th fell on Monday. Since some of them had to work on Friday (July 1) and everyone had to be back at work Tuesday morning (July 5), Saturday (July 2) and Monday (July 4) became travel days. It was a cold hard fact that seemed to strip the holiday of everything we had come to expect.

When they arrived--tired, cranky and late--Mom was very happy to see them but at a loss as to where to put them because she hadn't fixed up the guest bedrooms yet. So, most of them just sprawled on the new living room carpet. Mom asked, "Does anyone want a pillow?" Uncle Dean, already going comically deaf, looked up, smacked his lips and enthusiastically said, "Jell-o? Jell-o? I'll have some Jell-o!"

Mom was disappointed to learn that they would only be staying two nights. But Susan, Becky, Colleen and Donna were not dismayed in the least; shopping, they swore, can work miracles and make memories. Armed with $150 cash and an ounce of determination, they hit the fireworks stands along I-70 and scored sparklers, worms, bottle rockets, cherry bombs and Roman candles. Cruising up and down the aisles of Wal-Mart, they grabbed kiddie pools, disposable barbecue grills and Chinette dinnerware which, the next evening, made for a macabre yet festive family reunion as we celebrated the Third of July.

"Third of July! Third of July!" we cried as we ran up and down the driveway with sparklers blazing in our fists. "Third of July!" we screamed each time we set off a bottle rocket and sent Dad hunting through the grass to find and dispose of the leftover stick. We sang camp songs ("Peanuuuuuuuuuut Peanut Butter--Jelly!"), told ghost stories, and when the night fell into the velvet dark--something the Chicago suburbs can no longer do--we sent our own fireworks into the sky and called everyone to follow.

It was one of the best times in my life, and it's probably my most cherished family memory. Yet, Mom and
Dad and I missed out on the perfect finish touching for that weekend. Driving home on July 4, Uncle Dean took "the back way" up Route 47 where he spied scores of eager locals waiting for the DeKalb County fairgrounds to open for the evening's fireworks show. He pulled his glorious Safari van to a stop near the gate, rolled down his electric window and yelled, "Cancelled! Cancelled! Go home! TOO DANGEROUS! Cancelled!" before starting off again on their way home.

My sisters and cousins, of course, were tickled pink. And me? I was and am just a little green with envy for having missed a moment that has since become family legend.

Giving Dad His Due

Father's Day is just around the corner. I've largely let it slide by because I lost my dad 20 years ago but, since I recently lost my oldest brother, I thought I'd take a little time to pay my respects to two men I wish I had known better. Time has a funny way of messing with your mind. Sometimes I think it literally grabs hold of your head and shifts your field of vision so that you see the past at a different angle. And while others may be shivering and quaking before that "Oz the Great and Powerful" image many of us held of our fathers, time's little wrench of the neck is constantly calling the "man behind the curtain" to my attention--a man that often ends up being completely human, admirable and even lovable when I stop filtering what I heard and starting listening to what he said.

I'm the first (and perhaps only of my father's children) to admit that growing up with my Dad wasn't easy. He was 50 when I was born. I'll be 50 in just a few short months and I cannot possibly even consider what impact a child would have upon me at this stage of my life much less three sons from a previous marriage, two from his current marriage and one on the way. In my mind, the only children I could cope with would be wind-up automatons that venture out into the world on their own and only return--like boomerangs--once they've finished college and secured high-paying jobs with long-term prospects.

With a 50-year difference in age, I like to say that Dad and I didn't have a generation gap, we had a generation gulf. One that was squarely located in the fashionable--yet volatile--seventh level of hormone hell. Why? Dad had his mid-life crisis, Mom went through menopause and my sisters and I all went through puberty AT THE SAME TIME. Together we rode a five-year roller coaster of hot flashes, mood swings, rebellious tantrums. And yet, it wasn't all bad. In fact, thanks to the neck twisting antics of time, I've come to appreciate my father more and more over the years, and I have discovered his surprising, endearing and spellbinding gift of storytelling.

With his colorful and varied employment history, my father had plenty of tall tales to tell of brushing soldiers with famous faces and becoming mired in outrageous situations. Like the time he and a few friends were arrested in Havana, Cuba after failing to bribe a crooked traffic cop during Batista's reign. Dad's dark, Portuguese complexion guaranteed him a longer stay behind bars than his friends and he nearly missed the boat when it sailed on to Los Angeles where he worked at the Beverly Hills and played cabana boy to Sonja Henig, Buster Crabbe, Johnny Weismuller and other stars of the day.

My favorite story, however, has always involved my oldest brother Dodge (who we lost last year). Dad and his first wife Barbara, a prominent socialite with impeccable family connections, were living in New York at the time. Dodge, who was probably around 5 or 6 then, had been invited to the Rockefellers' New York City home for a children's birthday party (a cousin on his mother's side) on a Saturday afternoon. Dad had dropped Dodge off and give him strict instructions to meet him outside at 4 p.m. for the trip back home.

I suppose Dad found the chore a little annoying since he typically practiced his religion on Saturday: the edification and perfection of the soul through lawn care. Now, for Dad, lawn care required certain vestments, those being his nastiest, rattiest pair of paint-stained khakis, torn tennis shows, and a cotton, button down shirt that had probably been purchased for Millard Filmore's inauguration.

Dad (always prompt) returned to the party by the stroke of 4 but Dodge was nowhere to be found. After a few minutes, Dad (always impatient), screwed his courage to the sticking point, brushed a few stray grass clippings from his shoes and rang the Rockefellers' front bell. Dad, mortified at his appearance already, could not escape his reflection in the highly polished door and was busy weighing the benefits of abandoning his child when the butler answered the door.

"I'm here to pick up Dodge," Dad confided. "Could you just grab him, tell him it's past time to go, and bring him down?" To his horror, the butler insisted on ushering him in to the entry hall and announcing his presence to Mrs. Rockefeller. Before Dad could stop him, the butler was well on his way up the grand staircase to retrieve the said Mrs. Rockefeller and the wayward Dodge.

By this time, Dad was desperately searching for any piece of furniture large enough to conceal him when he heard Dodge's voice--indignant with disappointment. There, descending down the grand, curving staircase, Mrs. Rockefeller herself--looking as if she had just stepped away from a society ball instead of a child's birthday party--was busy mollifying an irritated Dodge who, tugging on her expensive, taffeta gown, kept griping, "How come I didn't get a present, huh? How come?" Whereupon Dad introduced himself with a thick Mexican accent as our hired gardner and part-time chauffeur who was here to "take the little master home."

Happy Father's Day Dad. As time goes by, I'm learning to love you more.

My Kingdom for a Laptop

The cynic in me will tell you that Murphy is alive, well and building himself a bustling law practice these days. Yes, that's right. When it rains, it pours. Insult has been added to injury, and I am forced to admit: I'm a technocrat. I'm lost without the hum of a hard drive under my left hand. Why? Because my tired, tattered Dell Latitude has died.
Sure, I have an old desktop to fall back on, but I suspect it has emphysema from the way it wheezes and I feel guilty any time I install a new program on it--I hate to ask it to do more!
What pains me, of course, is the loss of all that data. No, it's not a permanent loss. I can take the old hard drive in to your nearest Tiger Direct and have everything transferred, but I dread leaving it there. It's like dropping a pre-schooler off at Day Care but the difference is that the little tyke's pockets are stuffed full of all my emails, photos and private ruminations. This kid is loaded for bear and ready to throw a tantrum while the techno-nerd behind the counter is already sizing him up for the takedown.
The worst part, of course, is when I come back to pick everything up. The techno-nerd is smirking at me (quick! How many photos did I download from "Naughty Koalas on Parade" and "Teddy Bear's First Picnic?"). He makes me stand there and wait while he sloooowly rings up the order and every techno-nerd in the back room comes out to look me up and down.
With the deed done, I take the walk of shame out to the parking lot where, properly chastened, I clutch the new hard drive in one fist, shake it at the rain-streaked sky and yell, "As God as my witness, I'll never forget to back up my laptop again!" At which point Murphy pulls up in his new Bentley, rolls down his window with a silken hum and says, "Hey buddy! Did you know you left your lights on?"

Have You Hugged Your Grandma Today?

Memorial Day is coming up, and while I am very fortunate to have not lost any family service members since the civil war, I do use the occasion to remember those family members I have lost. Memorial Day was a big deal for my mother's parents, aunts and uncles (my "grands and greats" for the sake of brevity). The whole family trekked out to the family plot at Bluff City Cemetery where we weeded, planted and even mowed to ensure that the final rests of our loved ones were worthy of the flags placed by the local VFW.

The closest--and best--family relationships I had growing up were with my "grands and greats." They were so down-to-earth, loving and simple. I say simple in the sense that they lived frugally without making a big deal about it or appearing poor in any regard. They may have been on modest, fixed incomes, but they were the most generous and freely giving people I have ever known. They spent a great deal of their time helping other family members, friends and even complete strangers. They volunteered at church, taught Sunday School, did laundry at "The Old People's Home" (an old style assisted living facility) and served in The Salvation Army.

They were deeply religious with strong, solid convictions. When my mother's youngest brother Bob was killed at 18 by a drunk driver, my grandmother spent a great deal of time counseling the driver and talking to him about his life and his choices. She explained how the God she knew and the faith she held could help him, too, and heal the emotional hurt he'd caused himself.

My "grands and greats" weren't a bunch of priests and nuns, however. They loved to laugh and poke fun at one another. They had wicked senses of humor and told great jokes. They loved games; my grandmother Kate was a mean "Flinch" player and we often accused her of cheating; Della was a whiz at Scrabble, and the Dictionary was kept right next to the family Bible. They were also full of wonderful stories. Some of my best memories are sitting on the big front porch at 153 Oak Street on hot summer nights listening to them tell all sorts of stories.

When the evening had grown pitch black we gathered to hear ghost stories like "Where's My Big Toe?" and Della's version (below) of a stanza from James Whitcomb's "Little Orphan Annie" poem.

Once there was a little boy who wouldn't say his prayers, and then one night he went away up stairs, his mammy heard him holler and his daddy heard him call, but when they pulled the kivvers back, he wasn't there at all!

They seeked him in the attic room, the cubbyhole and press and even up the chimney flu and everywhere, I guess, but all they ever found of him was his pants and round-abouts so you know the goblins will getcha if you don't watch out!


I spent a lot of time at 153 Oak Street. It holds my most vivid childhood memories--both good and bad. One of the most traumatic experiences of my life happened in that house. My sister Donna and I were staying overnight on the roll-away bed upstairs when my grandfather, Ira, had a massive stroke during the night.

Donna woke me around 7 a.m. full of fear and close to tears. "I think the house is on fire," she said. I looked out the window to the street below--full of emergency vehicles. We walked hand in hand to the head of the stairs in time to see the hallway below filled with firemen trying to move grandpa out the front door to the waiting ambulance. But Ira didn't want to go. His left hand held a staircase baluster and they couldn't pry his iron grip open to release it. And he was screaming, and screaming, and screaming "NO! NO! NO!" because he didn't want to leave his home. He didn't want to leave us. He didn't want to leave Kate. For the rest of his life, his left hand was curled as if still holding on to that baluster.

After a few months at home, his needs outstripped Kate's strength and he was moved to a nursing facility. The night Ira died, Dad took me and my sisters to the Howard Johnson's to use their pool (the manager was a client of Dad's). As usual, we did something to tick Dad off and he lashed out with a bombshell: "Your mother is sitting at your grandfather's deathbed RIGHT NOW and you can't behave for one hour! You are the most ungrateful, spoiled children I've ever met!" (Dad was always saying things like that.)

Then, only my grandmother, Kate, and my Aunt Della remained at 153 Oak Street. I loved Della dearly because we were kindred spirits. She was so unabashedly colorful--like Auntie Mame, but with an unmatched talent for embroidery. Della was a "flapper" back in the Roaring '20s, and she became the black sheep of the family when she eloped to Oklahoma on the back of a motorcycle. When she returned, Ira ran her new husband off with a very large rake.

A few years after Ira's death, Kate was standing in front of the kitchen window washing dishes when someone outside in the dark back yard took a shot at her. She wasn't hurt, but it left a small hole in the window and a larger, metaphorical hole in her mind. First fidgeting, then nervous, then forgetful, she descended into Alzheimer's and dementia and lost her grasp of reality. Lost in time, she unconsciously chose to relive the life she'd known in the 1950s. But she became paranoid and violent and could not be left alone.

She moved in with my family for a short time, but she became increasingly unmanageable and a danger to herself. Despite the fact that I had been born in 1961, she always recognized, trusted and relied upon me. I was the only one who could reach through the fog and comfort her, calm her and make her feel safe. But my efforts couldn't stop her growing confusion and we eventually had no choice but to place her in a nursing home.

When I was 11 or 12, I wanted to live at Oak Street so I could help them with the things they couldn't do themselves. When Ira had his stroke, I begged my mother to take what little savings I had ($37.50) and use it to help them. But kids grow up. And when you're a teenager about to graduate high school, you're eager to kick off the shackles of family and run towards freedom and adulthood. You work very hard to push away the guilt you feel at leaving your aging, fading "grands and greats" behind.

I passed her nursing home almost every day, but I only stopped by once a month at best. I never visited her often enough. It hurt too much to see her doped with rope burns on her wrists from being tied down in a lazy attempt to keep her safe during the occasional epileptic seizure. Thorazine, Haldol and other generously administered neuroleptics ensured that her fog never lifted. And yet she always knew me. She was just five minutes away from my home, but I never took the opportunity to say good-bye. It is my life's one regret.

My "grands and greats" taught me so many life lessons; not by lecture, but by example. Their lives--lived quietly, fully and joyfully--showed what it truly meant to be a Christian. They didn't picket funerals. They didn't stand on street corners waving placards and shaming people who were different. They didn't presume to know the mind of God and predict his actions or pass judgment on others. They simply lived.

Ira taught me that a man can be strong, sensitive, shy, loving and quiet.

Kate taught me that everyone deserves love, no matter how much they may have hurt you.

Della taught me that joy is a gift from God and it must be expressed and shared with everyone in every way possible.

Myrtle taught me that physical pain doesn't define you, limit you or prevent you from being who you are or doing what you want.

Lyman taught me that material things don't define us and that a simple, time-worn coffee cup can hold a wealth of memories.

Perry taught me at the age of 5 how to bow my head and pray.

Eileen died before I was born, but she taught me that a life well lived is a legacy. All my "grands and greats" spoke lovingly of her and kept her widowed husband, Harry, close.

Lee taught me that volunteering not only helps others, it builds self-respect and generates self-fulfillment.

William taught me that the secret to a long life is to always have someone to care for and love.

I'll be thinking of each of my "grand and greats" this weekend with love. I hope you'll think of yours as well.

They have pharmacies in Alaska, don't they?

The news media have seized onto yet another carefully crafted soundbite from Sarah Palin and her pack of sled dog groomers. I suppose that since the assassination of Osama Bin Laden (there, I said it), it's been a pretty slow news week (in Osama's defense he was trying to honor his Mother and every Mother's advice; he wasn't reaching for a gun when he was shot, he was trying to find a clean pair of underwear).

Anyhoo, the Palindrome has announced that she has "a fire in her belly" for running for President.

What? They don't sell Prilosec up north? Being so homespun and "down to earth", surely she knows the medicinal benefits of buttermilk? Someone needs to put that fire out and fast. While a woman's place is definitely in government, a society's place is not behind 30-foot-high walls designed to keep out anyone and anything that is not white, chromosonally heterosexual and brainwashed to subconsciously emulate and revere Joe McCarthy.

More importantly, our economy--and ourselves--cannot afford to thumb our noses at the rest of the world. Had FDR not abandoned the prevailing policy of isolation under the cover of fighting evil this country would have not enjoyed the highest standard of living in our history.

Returning to an unwarranted attitude of supremacy and "go eff yourself" jingoism would be the greatest evil and self-inflicted injury we could possibly do. Unless, of course, we were to elect a candidate who admires the name and self-serving accomplishments of anyone named "Bush." Except for Barbara. It took courage, humor and class to kick Millie in the groin for so diligently cleaning herself on live national television while Sam Donaldson surreptitiously adjusted his toupee and giggled.

A Sense of Perspective

Ever watch HeeHaw back in the '70s? It was a favorite of my grandparents. Or, as I reconsider today, it may have been a favorite parenting tool (grand or otherwise).

Kate and Ira (my grandparents) had one favorite, particular skit, and the volume was always dutifully cranked in order to enhance their enjoyment of it.

Four moonshiners, jugs in hand, would swig and croon:

Gloom, despair and agony on me (moan)
Deep down depression, excessive misery (wail)
If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all (sob)
Gloom, despair and agony on me!

The lesson was probably wasted on us kids because as seasoned complainers ("it's what kids do," said a vampire on The Dresden Files, "they complain") we failed to recognize it as satire and uncover the underlying message: "Be grateful and appreciative for every blessing you enjoy; don't destroy what little you have because you have so little."

As I get older, however, the universe, God and Dear Abby like to throw little reminders at me to tell me how some of us have greater concerns than prolonged unemployment, annoying bill collectors, crabgrass and medflies. Tonight, I learned my beautiful, funny, talented and inspiring friend has MS. And while I grieve for her, I am grateful for my own life--medflies and all. I'd like to think I've given Kate and Ira a reason to be just a little bit proud.

Livin' Large in Zoo World

I have an addiction. No, it's not what you're thinking. It's not booze or drugs or illicit sex with tropical plant life. You might even consider it trivial, but I've got one big monkey on my back. In fact, I have several--along with a few Mandrills, Orangutans, Gorillas and over 3800 other animals. That's right, I'm addicted to Zoo World, a Facebook game.

At first glance, it looks like a child's game but make no mistake: this is a game tailor-made for the adult, unemployed masses of the world. Short on cash in your personal life? Soothe your subconscious guilt by weilding billions in purchasing power!

Concerned over those home improvement projects you've let slide? No matter! Build yourself a community with some of the world's most famous buildings: St. Basil's Cathedral, the Parthenon, the Sydney Opera House, Big Ben and more. (Okay, I admit it; I still haven't quite figured out why you would put Big Ben in the middle of a zoo but it just might be possible that animals are curious about the time, too, you know?)

I suspect that there is no current treatment for this particular affliction. People roll their eyes and snicker when they see me collect unbroken animal hearts and pass out animal treats. Their disdain and ridicule have driven me to spend hours in secluded privacy, huddled over my laptop. Mine is a lonely existence. So I've decided to help myself and others like me, to give us the power to cast aside our mouses (mice? meese?) and shun repetitive stress injuries.

I've decided to start my own 12-step program.

Step 1: I admit that I am powerless over Zoo World and that my life has become laughable.

Step 2: I have come to believe that Mark Zuckerberg (a Power greater than ourselves) could restore me to sanity.

Step 3: I have decided to turn my zoo over to the care of Zoomates as I understand them.

Step 4: I have made a searching and fearless inventory of my zoo (1592 uncommon, 1872 rare and 3 ultra rare animals from 89 uncommon, 244 rare and 1 ultra rare species).

Step 5: I have admitted to Comcast, myself, my Dalmatian and my chihuahua the childish nature of this game.

Step 6: I am entirely ready to "unlike" this application.

Step 7: I have humbly asked my roommate to remove my bookmarks.

Step 8: I have made a list of all Zoomates, and I am willing to send "limited gifts" to them all.

Step 9: I have made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would compromise their "zoo happiness" or allow them to advance a level or two past me.

Step 10: I have continued to take hire maintenance managers and when I have received zoo gifts, sent gifts in return.

Step 11: I have sought through animal breeding and island expansion to improve my zoo happiness as I understand it, asking only that those stupid "Oops!", "Zoo Alerts" and "ultra rare animal" 99-cent purchase opportunities stop, please, stop. And what's with that muzak from the Rain Forest Cafe?

Step 12: Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, I will try to carry this message to zoo-holics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

On second thought, you might hear something go bump in the night later. No worries. That's just me falling off the animal feed wagon. There's a flash sale on Jacaranda Trees!

Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

You wouldn't think that a punk rock band like The Clash would be prescient, but they had the right of it 20 years ago when they sang about being between a rock and a hard place. Clearly, that narrowly defined crevice was South Florida.

If you're a South Florida homeowner like I am, you're probably becoming increasingly aware of vacant homes, shuttered businesses and rising prices. Sometimes, at night, when I've taken a few too many Tylenol P.M., I have flashbacks to gas shortages, double-digit inflation and the droning voice of Richard Nixon exhorting his "fellow Americans" to tough it out. Frankly, I'd rather dig up LBJ to re-declare war on poverty.

There, I said it. Poverty. P-o-v-e-r-t-y. Yet the poor didn't just invade Bocahontas and her faltering sisters. They became poor just standing in place. If that sounds strange, take a look around and you'll see that the middle class is fast disappearing. In fact, it's pretty much already gone. All that's left are the fat cats with their grotesque oceanside homes (with matching boathouse on the Intracoastal Waterway) and that kid behind the register at McDonald's (the one that smells like stale grease).

Anyone with the slightest bit of insight could tell you that this situation has its roots in the heady refinance-now-and-take-out-equity days before the market waffled. Developers, banks and mortgage brokers further muddied the waters when they transformed thousands of rental units into condos that went unsold. No matter. The banks and mortgage companies got their bailouts, swallowed their bonuses and are now gleefully foreclosing on homes faster than you can say "vacant lot."

All of this leaves me wondering: what will we do when the greater Fort Lauderdale area becomes the "Detroit of the South?" No, don't bother answering. I can't listen and pack at the same time.