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!