Travel in Groups

Life in Kickapoo Center at the Turn of the Century

"Travel in groups."That's what the highway department advises in the Lacrosse Tribune.All the schools from Lacrosse to Westby and Viroqua are closed.


The Pooch begs to go out at 7 am. "Are you sure?" I ask him. I am not ashamed to admit I talk to him as I would a human being. A previous episode repeated here affirms that he understands English. The paw on the arm trick. Sitting at the kitchen table, I say to my wife,"Watch this." "Put your paw on my arm." I don't use his name so there are no context clues that I'm speaking to him. The pooch drapes his paw across my outstretched right arm.

Several minutes later the Pooch perfects his blur routine. I open the back door taking a gander to see if he's around. I notice a blur at the outside of my field of vision. I see nothing near. He's already in the house crunching dry cat food. I shovel paths to the deck and to the ash dump on the south fence line. I shovel off the portion of the deck nearest the door. Inside, I load the wood furnace with silver maple and a few split pieces of oak. In a few minutes the fire is roaring past the burn zone indicated in white on my stovepipe thermometer. The Pooch climbs on the console table in the kitchen window, tries to gnaw at one of the Christmas lights and nuzzles my hand as I open a bag of milk flavored cat treats. While I'm fixing breakfast and grousing about last night's dinner dishes, He jumps down. His second favorite spot at night is the back of the sofa. When Indiana Jones gets too loud, he'll retreat to a chair in the studio. Otherwise he'll watch TV with mild interest. If he hears a cat on TV, he raises his head. You can see the cartoon bubble over his head, "Eh, what was that. Where's the kitty?" Grooming himself on the back of the sofa and at the same time keeping watch over the birds at the deck feeder, I know we have had a serious snowstorm.


He has no desire to go out.

It may be raining or six below zero and the cat wants to go out. Fog doesn't deter him. The other day his fur was matted with sleet. He's an animal. Howling winds make him crazy. I'm dressed in a ski mask and three layers of clothing splitting wood. The Pooch is running like the devil from the woodpile to a spot under the deck. He stops midway to chase a leaf blowing across the top of the snow running in crazy circles. If cats could laugh, he'd be guffawing.

Now, mid morning he's asleep on my lap. In a few minutes he'll drop to the carpeted floor of my office to stretch out. Occasionally, I hear him moan,"erryew". On one of his few quick romps outside early this morning, he follows my shoveled paths. Stopping in line with the bush in the backyard, he watches juncos picking up stray birdseed. He realizes there's no way he can leap across the snowbank for a feather mouthful. The last stop he makes is the cardboard egg box I lined with a few scraps of black felt in the woodshed. Inside are the four gnomes we met bathing at the river's edge Monday morning.


"What the hay!" I exclaim as I lift the ragged blue tarp stretched over the opening of the wood lean-to. The gnomes are chattering away. They sound like people breathing helium. I catch a few "eh's", an "uff-dah" or two and several"you betchas." One of the gnomes-I still do not know their names- says," Fer sure, that was a funny sight." He's talking about the sermon on the rock pile a crow with a top hat performs. A pink bird? What's with the white bird who's laughing? And why does the orator have crow bodyguards? The gnomes snicker. In the back of the egg box, I see a familiar face. It's,Newton Ulm. I know a gnome's name. Now, I can get these guys to hang drywall, pull funky paneling, sweep up plaster and debris. "Yoo hoo, hooray." I shout.

"OK, Newton. Tell me their names," I order.

"Not so fast Bubba", he says.Once again, I remind him that my name isn't Bubba. "Subsection C, paragraph 3 of the Big Book of Gnomes exempts another gnome from revealing the name of a fellow gnome." "You're stalling," I say. I don't believe there's a subsection C. He pulls a leather bound book from his back pocket. It looks like one of those miniature bibles, so much in vogue back in the 50's. Newton licks a thumb and pages through tissue thin pages of the book. "Ah, here it is," he says.

No gnome shall be required to reveal the name of another gnome except on the winter solstice."" What does the solstice have to do with anything?" I question. Gnomes belong to a group of little people, like fairies, leprechauns, elves, sprites and dervishes." "Dervishes?" I ask. "What's a dervish. He gets out another tiny book from the other back pocket. "Dervishes," says Newton, " are poor religious mendicants.They are common in Turkey and spread out from there." Mendicant?

This could go on forever.

I look up mendicant in my Oxford English Etymology. Vb; begging, noun-beggar.I'm really confused now. Years ago, I studied with a professor of Native American studies, himself one-half Ojibwa. He said that the Ahnishnabe of this area believed in the poeesigug. My probably misspelled label in English translates to "little people". A wagging finger at this chemokamon (again probably misspelled)whiteman cautions me to beware when performing ceremonies with a drum,tells me that when a person's hair was as white as snow, only then could they get involved with healing. He mentions, never,never tell stories except in the dead of winter. The reason being that any spirit, evil or otherwise could manifest in the story. In the dead of winter, no spirit in his right mind would bother appearing in the middle of a snowstorm or in weather with a windchill below zero. Most benign spirits went to the Baja fishing for Tarpon. The evil ones were happy to be close to the fires of hell.

My devious mind says that I know the names of several gnomes: Newton Ulm, Elfred T. Gnome, Wayne Snut(pronounced Snoot) and Delmar Denton. Hmm. There's got to be a way. Besides, I already know that the previous four gnomes are no good at kitchen remodeling. Why do you think they live in the base of a tree?

I have two choices. Postpone further remodeling until the winter solstice or find a common name for the quartet. I'll head for the library to do some research. In the meantime...
Nate, Quincely, Trevor, Balmor, Meathead, Ralph, did I mention Alvin? Jesus, Jaime, Carlos, Cristof, Don, Telly, Bert, Roger, Joseph, John, Francis, Aloysis,Gustaf, Heimlich, Ingemar, that's got to be a good one.

Wintery Mix

Life in Kickapoo Center at the Turn of the century
First, it's leg cramps. Then, that old familiar feeling of a spider crawling up your nose. I pinch my nose, hoping to ward off the sneezing fit. I get up and walk to the bathroom. It helps to relieve the leg cramp but not the asthmatic seizure. By now I've alerted El Gatto that I'm up. He climbs the bed and settles next to my face. Purring. I'm allergic to animal fur. He's allergic to me. The other night, sleeping peacefully(him, not me) next to my head, he sneezes. It startles him. I don't know why he flails his paw when he sneezes, but he does. His paw catches me across the face. I feel my lip bleeding. I already have a cold sore. Now, I have a thin red scar from the corner of my mouth.

I mark Thanksgiving as the start of the kitchen renovation. To save money, I have begun removing inexpensive paneling from any wall in or near the kitchen. I've hired someone for the tricky construction. Although I was raised in a Polish family, I will not allow three different kinds of paneling in the same kitchen with new birch cabinets. At the foot of the stairs, I removed one segment of paneling exposing pink fiberglass insulation around the downstairs bathroom. Must have been cold in this place when they added the paneling, I muse. There's tufts of fiberglass on the floor. Guess who? I've already had to yell at him several times with a sharp " No" as he chews on the Christmas light around the window frames.



Aw shucks, ain't he cute.

On Sunday morning I change the routine and take him for a walk. True to his name, I stand and wait while he takes a pee in the snow. Further down the lane toward the river, I wait again while he takes a dump. It is required on every walk. He bounds over the snow, sniffs deer tracks and climbs tress for a better vantage point. There may be lions, tigers and bears out there. The June flood washed whole, burned dead trees up on the south bank of the Kickapoo. The Pooch uses one as a run and bridge over high grass and weeds. He's interested in something in the river.

When I catch up to him, I see tiny pairs of long underwear hanging from a branch over the river. Four little men are standing on the thin ice near the shore, splashing water on their faces. I call out, "Hey you there." One looks up at the giant on the river bank. "Hey you there yourself," he says. I guess gnomes don't like to be disturbed when bathing.



"Whats your name?" I ask. "None of yer bees knees," he retorts. The little fellow next to him stands up. He straightens his cap. Gnomes, you know, never remove their caps in front of strangers.


He looks up at me. "Do ya have a pool?" he asks. We're out of work pool cleaners from California. We work hard and charge little," he says. "I don't have a pool," I respond. His Norwegian accent sounds funny. I wonder what people in California think of gnomes that are pool cleaners.

The gnome next to him is rubbing his face with a towel. " Where do gnomes buy face towels?" I wonder. There's no suitcase, no luggage on the banks, only red union suits hanging from the branch over the Kickapoo. This is getting weird.



"What are your names?" I ask.

"We can't tell you that," they all reply in unison.

One of the more swarthy gnomes explains.

" If we tell you our names, we'll be your servants. We are required in the Big Book of Gnome Rules to work for a term of no less than one month and no more than one year, if you learn our names!"




Several guesses come to mind immediately. What the heck, I can use some help around here. There's firewood to split. The house always needs cleaning. I hate doing dishes, too. I wonder if gnomes do drywall? Oh boy, gnome more housework.

Fred, Ted, Mek, Wilbur, Teddy, Knute, Lars, Sven, Ole. Delroy, Red, Dom...
Yeah, one of them has to be named Ole. Mel, Elmer, Sigmund, Hamid, Lester, Jorge-this could go on forever, couldn't it?


"Nice try Bubba, " he says. Bubba? "That's not my name." I tell him. He says, " I guess you're lucky then. You won't have to work for us."

to be continued

Ya Ya

Life in Kickapoo Center at the Turn of the Century







Ya, Ya-the name for a fellow employee at Wal-Mart. Everything that came out of her mouth was preceded by or followed with;

You know what I mean?

She wasn't so much dumb as lacking in social graces. I knew I was in trouble when I first met her. Bending over stocking shelves, I could see she was wearing Bugs Bunny underwear. Now, I'm not going into a long discussion about drawers-God knows I'm afraid to hang some of my shorts on the clothesline outside. In winter I'm fortunate I can hang them in the basement. The wood stove dries them quickly on the three lines I've strung from two by fours and large screw eyes. One pair has so many holes, I momentarily lose my thrifty sense and consider tossing them. At least I don't use them for rags like a former boss in Arizona. Imagine your boss bringing you underwear to use in refinishing furniture. Better yet, imagine one of the assistant managers at my former Wal-Mart-the one with the Butch haircut and swagger bringing in a pair of her BVD's. Oh I have strayed so far off course, I have become lost. God help me, Jesus.

Ya Ya. In the employee break room she makes a phone call. Her voice is loud. It carries out to the hallway. Fellow workers in the small room lined with booths and folding tables look at each other and roll their eyes upward. Someone in a rear booth makes a loud, quick, shh, sound. She is blissfully unaware. Every phone conversation ends with, " I love you." That would be to the petard boyfriend.

Some would say I am an uncharitable person. Unfeeling, even. There's a 270 day span without an accident. Ya Ya manages to end the streak by injuring her hand lifting cases of orange juice. She also works at Mickey D's. Funny but she doesn't wear the special brace at her other job. Petard boyfriend comes to the store to discuss her condition with the dairy manager. "I'm responsible for her," he says at one point in the conversation. Responsible? Later the manager mumbles something about never wanting to speak to this person again.

As a couple, their exploits rival those of Ma and Pa Kettle. In the movie The Egg and I, Fred MacMurray meets Pa Kettle. Pa's a lazy ne'er do-well neighbor with a nasal twang and dozens of wild looking, dirty children. Ya Ya and Petard outdo Pa Kettle in finding the wrong way to avoid work.

The manager of the hardware department tells the story of the crazy couple fixing the cloth ceiling of their automobile. In and out of the vehicle they're a menace. The cloth has separated from the ceiling. They buy spray adhesive. Then, in a fit of pure inspiration, one( probably Ya Ya) holds the cloth up while the petard sprays the inside of the ceiling cover-the one that's above your head-with the spray adhesive. The thinking is that the spray adhesive will soak through the cloth and attach itself to the roof of the car.

I need to get out of the house.

It snowed during the night. Blowing snow swirls around the house drifting in places I have already shoveled. The 30 mph wind chills you as if it were 54 below zero. It bites your face and numbs your fingers. It's been like this for days. Winter hasn't officially begun. We have two weeks to go before the shortest day of the year. Woe betide me. I fantasize about going back to Arizona. It's a short fantasy when I remember that most of my neighbors moved there after retiring. In essence they were sitting around waiting to die.

The Pooch hides under the steps waiting for an unsuspecting bird to land at the foot of the bird feeder looking for spilled birdseed. We need celery for tonight's chicken soup, a movie to rent and-what the heck-how 'bout turning in that $3 off coupon(a postcard of a turkey holding a sign that says eat ham!) good only at the Cheese Corner in Viroqua.

In the grocery store, someone peruses the produce section. Her cart is parked next to the graduated shelves. A woman stands between refrigerated produce shelves, the shopper and the free standing produce bins to the right. She's humming along with the speaker system which plays Do you hear what I hear? She's blocking the aisle. Her brain is somewhere between here and the North Pole. I glare at her as I push myself through a narrow opening.

There's a fortyish man standing near the automatic doors. His hair is cut in very short crew-cut. He's shaped like a pear. I run into him often at the market. He's having lunch at tables between the entrance to the movie theater and the outpost bank. His lunches alternate between the grocery store and Subway out on the highway. To imitate his voice, I'd have to pinch my nose so tightly that it would hurt. "Is it cold out there?" he asks at the same time holding out his hand waiting for a handshake. I shake his hand and reply, "Yeah, really cold." "How cold is it?" he asks. "I don't know,"I mutter, walking off to the bathroom. He's a friendly,harmless person from one of the local group homes. I enjoy talking to him and rather than avoid him,like some people do, I'll take the time to listen to what he says. The woman blocking the aisle is a Ya Ya. This man is not. Later walking out he asks the same question, "How cold is it?" "Really cold I answer."

Two women stand next to a SA kettle. When I came in, one greets me loudly with a Merry Christmas. I want to punch her. When I came out, the other says, Happy Holidays in a voice so loud other people stare at you. They're thinking, "The cheap-skate didn't throw any coins into the kettle." I want to hit her also. Surly.Mean. Must be the howling wind. The windshield washer fluid freezes creating a miniature ice floe at the small black plastic risers coming out of the hood of my car. To be able to see, I have the wipers turned up to frantic.

Yes, it is winter. Keep your stick on the ice, to quote Red Green.

Spirit of Crows, Dancing

New Art From Seven Roads Gallery








When we moved to our present location, the old schoolhouse and the adjoining four and a half acres were vacant for five years. While the exterior showed new siding, a new roof and a fresh coat of paint, the interior and various outbuildings were rough. The garage was used as a workshop and storage. In the main part of the garage, a barrel stove heated a poorly sealed room, big enough for two cars. The rear portion with a lift up door could have been used to store a riding mower. It had an abandoned gas heater in a rear corner.
Before I removed the gas heater, I looked inside and found three perfectly preserved bird skeletons. I assume the birds, looking for a warm spot in winter, found their way into the heater through a vent-pipe. As an amateur naturalist I found the skeletons intriguing. I photographed them before disposing of their bodies. Years later they became the inspiration for this painting.

Spirit of Crows, Dancing










Photographing this acrylic retablo(plaster on board), I was surprised with the first shot. Sun from the west windows illuminated only the Native American dancer.






An Indian dancer with a crow mask on his head circles around a campfire. Drums beat a steady rhythm in the background. The happy spirits of crows dance with him. It is a tribute to my late, adopted Menominee mother who watches over us. The real praise lies with the artist who was able to take my inspiration and translate it into one of hers. Excellent work, Linda.

Frozen Air Vapor

Life in Kickapoo Center at the Turn of the Century



Il neige, I say looking out the kitchen window. "What?" my wife responds. It snows," I repeat in English.Lately, instead of background music from the 1980's rolling around in my brain, French phrases pop up. It's a fantasy about returning to Paris.

Tiny snow crystals are blown at an oblique angle because of a gusty north wind. Clouds of snow roll down the roof when bursts of wind disturb the blanket of white on the entrance way. Cars stir up swirls of snow on the highway as they pass by. In the distance, the hills are obscured. The falling cover of white appears as fog. Trees look like statues. I personify them by imagining them as stalwart beings. The Pooch goes outside at 7 am. Forty five minutes later I open the deck door. "You out there?" I ask. In less than five seconds, he jumps up on the deck from his post under the steps. Once inside, the routine is the same. Stretch. Put a paw on the foot of the nearest person. Grunt and meow. I look in the cabinet for fresh cat food. Hearing me open a cabinet door, especially the one with treats behind it, he perks his ears. He's learned a new trick.

At the right end of the kitchen counter is a lazy Susan. In the open position, it acts as a step to the counter. The Pooch climbs to the counter and munches on the dried venison that sat overnight in his feeding area. I placed it on the counter while I toss the last of a can of leftover dried, beef-flavor cat food. The venison is more attractive now in the form of jerky. I open a foil package of cat food-"chicken ecstasy" which he ignores in favor of the deep maroon deer meat.

When my wife returns home after work there's always a story about Pucci's new exploits. Yesterday I missed a photo opportunity when the Pooch climbed on the seat of Ron's tractor. The way he was perched made him look like he was cranking the Massey up in preparation for a ride in the field. Ron and I laughed at the sight. The Pooch has a bag full of tricks. Another new entry is the leap. There's a hedge lining the sidewalk around the house. Normally he'll walk to an opening. Now, showing off, he makes a high leap over the hedge. This is a companion to the tree climbing behavior on our afternoon walk. Run like hell at a tree, climb half way up the trunk and hold fast. When I catch up with him he drops to the ground.

Walking through high grass is perfect for stalking. Slunk down, he wiggles his body. If I watch him, he pretends to ignore me. If I'm not watching-a strike. As he runs away laughing, I mutter,"You little shit." It doesn't matter that I know he's out there in the high grass, I still jump.

Before you get terminally bored with Aw ain't he cute ? I'll end this segment with an Oh wow story.

When I was the Mayor of Newhall street, one of my neighbors was a former policeman and now, attorney. I'll leave out his name because he keeps popping up in my life. Late in the evening under the influence, Oh wow, the storyteller would surface. Some of his stories were chilling tales of corruption in the police department.

Oh wow: I look down at Pucci's food dish." You always leave one piece behind." I mention to him. The Pooch curls a paw and reaches for the last piece of raw pork, snagging it before swallowing the pork. Oh wow. My wife and I are sitting at the kitchen table. The Pooch is lying next to me on the table. "Watch this," I tell her. "Pucci, put your paw on my hand." The Pooch hears his name, looks up at me and puts his paw on my right hand. Oh wow.

I've been splitting wood. Next to the back door is an old wooden bench I bought in Arizona. I'm enjoying a quiet moment with the cat on my lap. Life is good.After an unmeasured amount of time, I look down at the Pooch. I pay attention to body signals. This is a test. Without a stir or any movement on my part, I say to him. "You have to get down. I have to go back to work." I do not move my arms or make an attempt to get up. Dead still. I want to see what he'll do now. No more than ten seconds elapse before he jumps down. Co-incidence? Perhaps. My wife and I now spell words in front of him. Talking of Christmas, I spell T-O-Y. She replies T-R-E-A-T. The experiment will continue. I will report back.

Kickapoogian

Life in Kickapoo Center at the Turn of the Century

Everything happens at once.




I spend my days in splendid isolation. The Pooch and I enjoy each others wordless communication. I vent my urge to communicate in the early morning, writing about Kickapoogians. That is the term used in an 1896 book about the area by Gertrude Frazier and Rose B. Poff. About Kickapoo Center they write:

"This locality is among the earliest settled in the Valley.Among the first settlers were Robt. Wilson and family.At that time, Kickapoo Center gave great promise of being the metropolis of this region, but other places outdistanced it.At present there is little but a post office, a church, and a school to mark the spot."

They also write;

"The earliest white inhabitants were trappers and hunters and the men who carried on lumbering...the first company of trappers was composed of twelve Germans who came from New York. They crossed the Wisconsin River at Wright's Ferry and went to Coon Prairie. Here the party broke up and went to different parts of the Kickapoo Valley. This party of men were a rough set and it is said they added the making of counterfeit money to their avocation of trapping...A little later another lawless company of men had their headquarters on what is now the Olson farm near Viola. A doctor by the name of Hill owned the place and kept a station for a band of horse thieves who were thought to operate in Illinois...The trappers emigrated to pastures new,and the citizens assisted the officers of the law to capture the horse thieves. In 1864 they were sentenced to three years in the penitentiary; but the names Kickapoo and Kickapoogian have for over thirty years been associated in the minds of some narrow-minded people with horse thieves."


My neighbor raises horses. He's not a horse thief. I'm taking an old aluminum, 12 cup coffee maker and a discolored, yellow juicer,hardly ever used, from the kitchen to the soap studio in the garage. I'm startled when I see him standing at the back door. "What are you up to now?" I ask. Before he can answer, I see the tractor parked on the town road that is our driveway. On a platform attached to the rear of the Massey-Ferguson is another of my Crow Magnums. "Just a moment. I'll get my coat."

"Where did you find him? I owe you double big time now. You must have eyes like a hawk." I throw a barrage of verbiage at him for lack of anybody to talk to. He tells me about a pile of logs-my woodpile- that this crow was resting on. The flood washed away a neatly piled stack of silver maple logs 20 feet long on the northeast fence line. The crow is obscured by weeds. I've walked past it frequently on my walk with the Pooch in the afternoon.



I get my portable driver and unscrew the crow from the heavy log base. "I'll deal with that later," I tell Ron referring to the silver maple log. Then the phone rings. It's Thelma in Arizona. " Hello, Thelma," I answer. " I add, "It's Robert in Wisconsin." I'd just talked to them at Thanksgiving. I suspect she misdialed. She's the wife of the 86 year old Santero and friend in Arizona. "Oh hello, Robert.I was calling my sister. How are you?" "Just fine Thelma. It's cold here. Must be in the twenties. And we've got snow," I say. Then the phone beeps. One is a low tone indicationg call waiting. Another is a high tone-the battery is low. "Thelma, I have to go. There's another call coming in." I hear her say good-bye and by the time I press the green call icon, the line is dead. The screen tells me I have a message. "Probably, my wife keeping track of me," I say to Ron. He murmurs assent and tells me of the woodpile. The silver maple mixes in well with the black locust in the wood furnace.


I let the fire die down in the early evening. The wall thermostat climbs up toward 76. If it gets too warm-sometimes upwards of 78/80- it'll be hard to sleep. You can't turn down a wood fire. is another country aphorism. Ron offers to haul the wood out of the swamp land, now frozen. I ask him to put it by the pile of black locust logs on the south fence line. One of my daily tasks is to split firewood and pile it in the old Sears wheelbarrow. "I'll give you some black locust in return," I offer. It's after four. The Pooch is sniffing around the tractor.



It's time for our afternoon walk. The sun has gone below the western horizon. Freymiller's hill blocks the light. There's a glow from the west. Pooch and I walk down the lane to the river. He climbs a few trees showing off his climbing ability. He'll hug the trunk of the tree until I get near and drop to the snow covered marsh grass. Then he'll beat it like a paper-devil down a beaver trail into a grove of Willow across the road. I follow him. As is usually the case, the line of fur on his back is a raised charcoal gray ridge. His tail is straight up, almost black. He's happy to be out hunting.

Devil's Underwear

Life in Kickapoo Center at the Turn of the Century



At seven this morning it is dark. (It is winter). The overcast sky mirrors an inch of snow which fell after dusk last night. The Pooch goes out via the back door. The overhang between the garage and house creates a breezeway and an area free of snow. Because the winds were straight out of the north in the afternoon, the woodpile against the garage is tinged with white. Poochie sits on the concrete and surveys the scene. I close the door and go into the kitchen to make coffee. Because of the snow cover, I can track his whereabouts. If I let him out through the deck door, he'll walk on the ledge closest to the house, drop down off the deck and under the steps to his hideout beneath the porch. He comes in an hour later for breakfast, shaking snow off his coat.

As I eat my breakfast, I consider titles for this segment. I've been batting around creating a humorous "wish list" for Christmas. No. Way too snotty. My daughter will feel I'm making fun of the wish lists she sends out for birthdays and holidays. I understand that she needs to create a narrow focus for gifts because of numerous in-laws. Bear's Eye Buttons is the next title candidate. It is a vague reference from a novel about Boston around WWI. It's way too involved to explain. Monday is quickly dismissed. There will be many Mondays. I settle on Devil's Underwear. First, does the devil have underwear? Is there a devil? This could lead to a long, involved description of my early childhood living with a Polish Catholic family. You and I are not ready for that YET.

OK, I'll reveal the symbolism here to make it easier for those people who haven't had their morning caffeine rush. Underwear "hidden". "Devil" negativity. Jump on the toboggan. It'll be a short ride until I get us back up to the top of the hill. For those of you interested in etymology toboggan is an Algonquin word out of Canada.

Poochie spent the night somewhere besides the thermal blanket on the foot of my bed. At one point I awaken after dreaming of making love to a woman I can only describe as a "cat woman". Oh jeez. Deep psychosis. Transference. I mean I really like this cat I found on a cold February night, but.... Then because of the war movie, A Bridge Too Far, I'm behind enemy lines. I'm a lucid dreamer. Just about anything is good as a suggestion for one night's dream frivolity. That's why I like romantic movies with a happy ending. No nightmares about ex-wives (the one who left without a note-Hey Howareya Penelope?) man eating monsters, being pinned down by machine gun fire or flying at 11,000 feet and climbing.

Break/pause:let the cat in for a second breakfast, "Are you cold enough yet?" I ask him.

He comes in quickly with a cat grunt. I'll continue with the story. He'll come in my office, pester me with cute tricks including sitting on my lap purring to convince me to let him out. Then, he'll sit under the deck for another hour and watch birds at the feeder. He butts his head under my right hand as I type. It's a not too subtle hint to get a pat on the head. Then, he curls up facing me and looks up with an intent, questioning look. It works. "What?" I say and pat him on the head.

I'm already sitting with my feet on tiptoes so he doesn't fall off my lap. The purring is loud. Every movement my hand makes is accompanied by a- wet nose nudge- (I've got to remember that for a title about some sexy dreams). "Poochie, I can't write with you on my lap, kid!" He reluctantly moves over to the chair next to mine. Then climbs on top of the monitor-one paw draped over the screen. "Will he get cancer from the radiation? Will my monitor get an allergic reaction to the fur? Oh Poochie-you kid you"



It's beginning to snow, again. I've a kitchen remodeling project to distract me from winter- from now until the beginning of March. I draw a line in the dirt, literally, about this remodeling project. In March I plant onions. No drywall, no construction, no dirt, dust or disruption,nada.

I promised a short ride. I'm sick of winter, already. Sitting on a riding mower seems like a luxury compared with splitting and hauling firewood. Dark days depress me. The Pooch and I start our afternoon walk a little after three. "For God's sake, that's the middle of the afternoon in the summer!"

I pull a piece of paneling from an inside wall between the entryway and the bathroom. Excuse my language. There will be more @#$! before this construction project is over. @#$! when the corner molding splits. #@$! when I discover that the rug which was laid on top of the linoleum in the entryway prevents me from removing the paneling. @#$! I have to remove the carpet strips to slide out the panel. @#$! the paneling is recessed beneath the cellulose ceiling tile which was applied after the paneling. And why the fuck did they insulate an inside wall??? Deep breath. Relax.

OK. We're at the top of the hill. I'm sliding the toboggan into the back of the pickup. The picture, you say. The deer? Oh yes, Christmas,2005. Oh, those were the days. The deer poops candy when you pump his tail. The painting is one of my wife's landscapes.

My wife and I are having lunch at "The Corners". Two men and the teenage girl at the table to my left are talking venison-venado-deer. The oldest of the two men recounts the tale of the buck at the edge of the "crick". The girl isn't much more than 14,judging by a serious case of acne. She'll remember deer hunting with her father. Could there be anything more wholesome than the Sunday special-chicken at Kickapoo Corners After paying the bill and walking to the car, I see their buck sprawled on the tailgate of the truck. If I were a life-long resident, I'd be counting the points and totaling up the score of the rack. My mind wanders to venison jerky. Hey you out there. I need venison for jerky.