pre-high school musical

The pit band struck up the familiar chords of "The Candyman" and the curtain jerked open to reveal a cardboard cutout of the front gate of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory.

As the music reached a crescendo, Willie stepped out onto the stage in a silver glitter top hat and Jiminy cricket coat. The hall shook with applause.

The gym/auditorium was packed with 300 hundred hooting and hollering theatergoers in folding metal chairs who cheered on their siblings and friends as they flexed their fledgling acting muscles in the middle school production of Willy Wonka.

The Candyman came. The Oompa Loompas' oompaed. Willie Wonka winked. Nary a line was dropped, and nobody was embarassed.

Everybody agreed the show was awesome.

Did I tell you Number One Son had a featured role? He played the video game fanatic Mike TV. He stole the show.

At least in this critic's eyes.

Who says Our Town has no clutcha.

I confess

I steal pens. I just returned from a walk to the bank, where the haul was two TD Bank pens with retractable points. I got a thick stemmed beauty at the hair dresser's this morning. I've lifted ballpoints from auto dealerships, museums, restaurants and schools. A box on the coffee table in front of me holds writing instruments from a veterinarian, the town recreation department and the MSMA Alumni Association, whatever that is. I lifted them all. And I did it when nobody was looking. My wife and son think I'm crazy.

Dawn Patrol

At dawn on an unseasonably warm April morning fog hugged the river like a down conforter. I heard the distant honking of Canada goose before the motors of the commuters began to growl. As the calls grew louder and louder, it became obvious that a solitary goose had become separated from its flock while migrating north by starlight from Chesapeake Bay. As its voice grew fainter I snuggled under the covers. I still wonder if he found the flock.

Three Bags...

Spring is the time when a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love. My fancy has more earthy concerns. My mind turns to thoughts of poop.
While the return of warm weather isnpires some to rake their lawns, tend their garden, or go for a long walk in the woods, it motivates me to grab a plastic grocery bag and venture out into the newly revealed backyard where like a giant Easter bunny, Mike the Labroador Retriever has been depositing spring surprises since the snow began to fly last November.
Buried by successive snow storms some of the little packages have been in the deep freeze for months. So like Groundskeeper Willie, I spring into action at the first sight of defrosted lawn, before my neighbors, or my nose, tells me that I've been remiss in my duties.
Consequently, yesterday morning while the neighbors power walked with dumbells in their hands and the dog cavorted in the sunshine, I was stooping over a fragrant bundle with a plastic bag in one hand,
"Enjoying the weather?" asked one sweat sujited stroller.
"Yes, sir. Yes,sir. Three bags full."

mike

The Hounds of the Baskervilles are baying. I can hear them now. The wind is blowing from the west, carrying the sound of their barking from the doggie day care center in the former factory across the river. It’s a sound you rarely hear, except perhaps in a fox hunt scene in a movie. Mike, the black lab, ignores them. He doesn’t realize he’s a dog.

Sunshine Patriot

Elmer Fudd is a patriot. At least he thinks he is.

When he moved into the house next door, the engine of his pickup truck had barely cooled before he began to put up a flagpole in the front yard.

He wore a camouflage suit and a matching baseball cap and had a handgun strapped to his thigh in case he had to defend himself from one of the neighborhood kids tooling around on their bicycles.

He dug the hole himself and wielded his shovel like a weapon.

The flag now flies 24 hours a day rain and shine. Today it hangs limply in a wind driven rainstorm.

Apparently Elmer never learned the rules about paying proper respect to the flag. That would take effort.

The Morning Patrol

A Walk on the Mild Side
Like a mangy old coyote with more limp than swagger in his step, I begin most mornings by patrolling my territory.

I live on a pine ridge in a town I‘ll call Riverdale. My cottage sits on a corner overlooking a river. One street is named after the first European settler in the area. He made his farm on the corn fields of the Native Americans who had their summer encampment on the other side of the river where a milltown now darkens the horizon. The other street is named after the brothers, who operated a general where the ferry crossed the river.

One hundred and fifty years ago there were two general stores at the ferry landing. When a Republican was president the post office was in one store and when a Democrat was in power it moved across the street.The ferry was replaced by a trolley bridge and finally an automobile bridge that crosses the river into the mill town.

The general stores have been replaced by a chain convenience store and the gas station, where I buy the newspaper every morning.

On the walk to the store I stroll past winterized cottages under 80-foot white pines. On the way back I walk along the bank of the river at the base of the ridge. That street is named after one of the town fathers who made his fortune in California during the gold rush. Rumor has it when he was digging the cellar of his home, he had to dispose of the remains of Native Americans buried there.

Nothing that dramatic has happened during my morning stroll, but it the river’s mood changes with the weather.