Flakey Jake

Jake wasn’t feeling all that great, and he didn’t know why. What he did know was that he didn’t like it, not one bit. He was grouchy and itchy and jumpy and twitchy, and felt like he could crawl right out of his skin! He would ask Brother BudPie, his long, lean, dependable mentor and roommate, for an opinion, but Brother BudPie was currently out of town, scouting a potential sales area for a new product he had taken on. Already at the top of the sales heap in refrigerators and space heaters, he had recently added electric griddles to his product line. Since he had just sold his last space heater to a donkey herder in Ecuador, he planned a stopover in the Amazon rainforest. He just had a hunch that the griddles would sell like hotcakes.

This was all well and good, but it left poor Jake on his own to deal with, what to him, was a serious problem. “I’m going to ask Brother BudPie if he will take me along on his next trip. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, and I might pick up a few sales tips. Then, when a problem like this pops up again, he’ll be there for me.” But in the meantime, Jake needed help, and he needed it bad.

“Ruff, come here boy, feel my back. What does it feel like?” “Rough” said Ruff. “Do I have a fever? Is it really high?” “Roof” said Ruff. Ruff was a dog of few words, but when he did speak, he was direct and do the point. But Jake needed more than monosyllabic responses. He needed real advice.

“So, what do you think, Prissscilla?” Jake asked of his young snake friend. She sometimes thought she was Jake’s girlfriend, but Jake wasn’t so sure how he felt about that. “Have you tried lotion, Jake? That helps me when I get itchy. Or maybe a bath. When was the last time you had a bath anyway?” Maybe just a smidgen offended, but overly so, Jake replied with “That’s not it Prissscilla. I’ve gone way longer than this without taking a bath and nothing happened. Well, except no one came over to play for a couple of months, but that was probably because they were all busy. That’s what they said anyway.” Prissscilla just rolled her beady little eyes and said “Uh huh. Try the lotion. Talk to you later.”

Jake did try the lotion, and it didn’t help the itching. It didn’t help the heebie-jeebies and it did nothing for the jitters. In fact, it did nothing at all. “I’ll give Lemon Lady a jingle. She always has good advice” thought Jake, as he absently scratched under his chin. And so he did. “Hi Lemon Lady, it’s me, Jake! I need some advice. Are you busy?” “Jakey Jake, my little snake! How good it is to hear your squeaky little, if somewhat distressed, voice! I was just on my way out the door, dear boy. My Lemon Lovers League friends and I are going to a Citrus Social Quilting Bee. But I do have a minute for my best little buddy. Out with it now. Tell Lemon Lady all about it.” “Lemon Lady” said Jake, in a quivering voice, I feel miserable, and itchy, and scratchy, all over. What can I do?” “Oh my! Indeed, that does sound awful! Let me think of what might help…hmmm…..lotion, nope, bath, nuh uh…ah! Try this Jake! Have a hot glass of lemonade, a sugar free non-artificial sweetener non-GMO, gluten free cookie, and wrap yourself up in a quilt. Take a nice long nap in font of the fireplace. The combination of citrus on the inside and heat on the outside should sweat the bad humours right out if you! Okey-doke Boyo, gotta run, kissy kiss on the phone! Mwah! Mwah!” and with that, she was off, leaving only advice, and a dull ringing in Jakes ears.

Later that same day, no better for Lemon Lady’s treatment plan, Jake was nearly at wit’s end, when an idea came to him. “Maybe I’ll call Ralph. He might have some ideas.” Ralph was a friend Jake had met at the Sentient Snake Seminar a while back. He too was a little snake, but unlike Jake, lived with his mom and dad and a couple dozen brothers and sisters. He was really smart from watching Innovation Nation on Saturday mornings. Mo Rocca was his personal hero.

“Hey Ralph, Jake here. I was hoping you could come over and help me with a problem.” “No worries, Jake, I’ll crawl right over. Uh, when’s the last time you had a bath? Never mind I’m on my way.” “Man, what’s with all this bath stuff?” thought Jake as he furiously scratched his back against a bristle brush that Brother BudPie, his thoughtful, handy, really-cute-to-the-ladies roomie had screwed to the floor for just that purpose.

When the doorbell rang, Jake was still busily scratching his back. “Ruff, will you get the door please? Who is it?” “Rowf” said Ruff. “Okay, let him in. C’mon in Ralph.”

“Hi Jake. You look awful! You’re blotchy, peeling, and generally in bad shape. How long has this been going on?” “A couple of weeks, although it seems like forever” replied Jake, as he scratched is underside on the brush. “You gotta help me Ralph. This is making me crazy!” “Okay Jake, we’ll get the handle on this. Just relax for a couple of minutes while I do some research.”

And with that, Ralph whipped out his iPad and began scrolling through past episodes of Innovation Nation. “Jake, while I’m going through this, let me ask you a couple questions. Did you try lotion?” “Yep” replied Jake, “Zero. Zip. Nada. Except that now I smell like a garden in springtime.” “Well” said Ralph, “that can’t be anything but good.” “Too bad you chose to be a science nerd, Ralph” said Jake. “Comedy lost a true genius when they lost you. Maybe you could keep scrolling. It’s getting to a point where I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”

“Well, let’s see, scratching, you’re doing that now. Bathing is out. You already nixed that. Let’s talk about your symptoms. Do you have an elevated temperature?” “Yes” replied Jake. “According to Ruff, it’s through the roof.” Ralph continued to scroll. “Hmmm….let’s see….itchy, twitchy, grumpy, jumpy, like you’re going to crawl right out of your skin….wait!! Lemme see…..it says here, molt. That’s it! You’re molting!” “Whaaat?” asked Jake with more than just a teensy bit of doubt. “What’s that?”

“According to Mo, it’s a natural process that, as snakes, we all go through. You’re shedding your old, smelly skin to make room for a new, sparkly, non-itchy one. It appears that your questionable hygiene habits may have triggered an early molt. It goes on to say that by the time you reach the stage where you feel like you’re going to crawl out of your skin, that you will. Crawl out of your skin, that is.”

At that moment, maybe as a result of all the intense brushwork, Jake’s old skin peeled off like the skin of a split Cara Cara orange. “Ho boy what a relief!” said Jake as he admired his new duds. “Ralph, you’re a genius! I’ll be eternally grateful, for a while.” Just then Ralph began furiously scratching where his armpits would be, if he had armpits. “No problem Jake! Any time. Gotta crawl! See you later. Awww man….itchy…..” Whereupon Ralph, making a hasty exit out the front door, down the steps and through the gate, headed for home.

A few seconds later, the front door opened, and in stepped Brother Budpie, Jake’s tall, tanned, treat-for-the-eyes roomie. “Well howdy, Ruff! Who was that just leaving?” “Rowf” said Ruff. “Ah! A good lad, if a little nerdy. How’ve things been around here the last couple of weeks? “Rough” said Ruff.

Jake Gets a Dog

“Where are we going Brother BudPie? Is it close, is it far, when will we get there?” Jake was somewhat less than the ideal passenger. He wiggled and squirmed and tossed and turned as only a young snake could. He didn’t deal well with suspense, and patience was not his strong suit. “Calm down little buddy” said Brother Budpie in his deep, soothing, magical voice. “We’ll be there when we get there. And that will be the moment we arrive.”

 Brother BudPie was Jake’s roomie, a tall, well-proportioned hunk of a guy with handsome features and a chiseled chin. He loved teasing Jake, and could see he’d just managed to push the little snake’s button. “What fun!” he thought as he grinned from ear to ear, revealing, even, well-spaced, sparkly white teeth. Some people, especially the ladies, said that his smile was his best feature. He didn’t know if it were true, but he never passed up an opportunity to flash it.

Pulling up in front of a long, low building, Brother Budpie parked the car and looked over at Jake. “We’ll, Jakey Boy, we’ve arrived, and not one second before we got here. Just in time actually, to be present.” And tuning him out, as he sometimes did, Jake looked out the window at the front of the building, which bore a sign proclaiming “HUMAN SOCIETY”. Not understanding, Jake sighed, got out of the car, and followed Brother Budpie inside, where he was immediately bombarded with barking, growling, whining, and general mayhem. Wondering what this all had to do with humans, he turned to Brother BudPie, hoping to gain insight.

“Humane Society, Jake-Bob. You must have misread the sign. Could be that blob of lemon curd in your eye has fogged your vision.” Then, with a chuckle, and a wink of his hypnotically hazel, wise, knowing, but not overly so, eye, he said “We’re here to get you a dog, Boyo. You’re old enough now to have and care for a furry little buddy.”

Jake was so excited! He’d been wanting a dog since forever, but had almost given up hope of it ever coming to be. “Can we go see ’em? Can we, huh?” “That’s why we’re here, Jake. Let’s go!” And with that, Brother BudPie headed toward the back, with an exuberant Jake right on his heels.

As they entered the holding area, Jake saw dogs of all shapes and sizes. He saw big ones, and little ones, young ones and old ones, fat ones and skinny ones and everything in between. What he didn’t see was one that he felt a connection with, that is, until he stopped in front of the very last cage. In the back, in the corner, cowered a dog, not very big, not very old, not very anything. He looked up at Jake, their eyes made contact, and instantly Jake knew that this was the dog for him.

Jake slithered into the cage, right up to the dog and said “Hi, pup. What shall we call you?” “Grrrr….” said the dog. “No” said Jake, “that sounds a little harsh.” “Woof!” said the dog. “Mmmm, no, I’m not feeling it. It doesn’t grab me, you know?” “Ruff!” said the dog. “Ok! Third time’s a charm. Ruff it is! Hi Ruff, I’m Jake. I’m pleased to meet you. How’s it been going, here at the shelter?” “Rough” said the dog. “At least they gave you a blanket. How does it feel?” “Rough” said the dog once again. “Great! I feel like we’re already communicating! We’re going to get along just fine.” “Ruff” said the dog.


Not far down the road from where I live, nestled in a small shopping center in Wildomar, is one of my favorite places to spend an hour, and where on most mornings, you’ll find me. Bean, my little neighborhood coffee shop, welcomes me with open arms, gathering me in, folding me into its warm embrace. It has an eclectic feel, much less commercialized than Starbucks. They offer all the fruity, foamy, icy drinks one would expect, but my cup of tea is the coffee, freshly roasted, ground and brewed, served up black, with no room for cream.

The coffee is excellent, but the atmosphere is the main draw for me. I enjoy the social aspect, even though I don’t socialize. I like the friendly buzz of conversation, the people, some talking among themselves, others sitting alone with a laptop or notebook, fingers flying across the keys, most likely students from one of the local colleges doing an assignment or preparing for an upcoming test.

Across the room, two mothers quietly converse, enjoying a brief moment of calm from what might be a normal, hectic day. Two young children play at their feet, occupied with one toy or another, bothering no one. At a nearby table, a would-be employer is conducting a job interview, in a much more relaxed setting than one is accustomed to seeing. To me, that speaks volumes about the company he represents.

Occasionally, as though by common consent, the chatter dies momentarily, and the quiet sound of music can be heard, Michael Bublé, singing a Frank Sinatra song. It’s busy this morning, seating is at a premium, and a sharp eye and quick reflexes are a must if you wish to grab a just vacated seat, still warm from the previous occupant. As the buzz increases to a normal level, I look about the room, and knowing no one, still feel a sense of connection.

The little coffee shop feels like a bit of home. When I order my daily brew, few words are required. They know my preferences, what I like, and they serve it up with a smile. Standing at the counter, watching them work, I can tell that they enjoy what they do, the interaction with patrons, friends, being part of the connection.

Through the bustle, the relaxing background noise, the comings and goings, I can sit back, breathe in the aroma of my coffee, jot notes and observations into my tablet, on the chance that I might be able to use them in a story. Then I have to laugh at myself when I come to the realization that this is the story, and while some faces are different, some the same, the story will change as the cast of characters change. I like being part of the story, and as I look around at the people focused on their keyboards, I wonder if they too feel like a part of the story, or even by chance, are recording their own version of events.

My little coffee shop will be there tomorrow, as will I, as will most of us, taking a timeout from our busy lives to look around and see the things that matter.

Itchy Brother

If you were a child growing up in the United States in the 1960s, and watched cartoons on Saturday mornings, then you’re familiar with, if not a fan of, King Leonardo and His Short Subjects. If, as an adult, you still watch cartoons on a Saturday morning, then you were not totally ruined by society. There’s still hope for you. My sister Sue and I collaborated on this story. Her handle is quiltysue.wordpress.com.

Itchy Brother

Leo was drunk. Again. He didn’t really need much of an excuse to get blasted, but having one, even if it were only Saint Patrick’s Day, helped to ease his guilt just a little. “Whoa! A few too many green beers” he muttered to himself, as he staggered out of Duffy’s, barely able to walk. “I guess I better get a cab home.” As he stumbled toward the curb, something, or maybe nothing at all, snagged the toe of his right foot, and before he could catch himself, he pitched headfirst into the street. The last thing he remembered was the squeal of tires on wet pavement, bright lights, then….nothing.

He woke up scratching. He itched, everywhere. He couldn’t remember a time when he had itched so badly. “Where am I?” he thought, as he picked himself up off the ground. He had no memory of the night before, except for a vague recollection of green beer and stale pretzels. But one thing he did know was that he had been wearing clothes, not dirty, flea infested fur. And he had been in the real world, not some crazy cartoon version. “I’m probably still drunk” he thought, as he tried to clear the fog from his head, which, now that he thought about it, felt like he’d just taken a Russel Wilson spiral right between the eyes.

But even though he might still be drunk, it didn’t change the fact that somehow, something had gone terribly wrong. Gathering his wits, what few he had left, he looked in both directions, randomly chose left, and began walking. The buildings all seemed crooked, out of kilter. And the street, wide enough right where he was, seemed to narrow, both sides converging to a point just ahead, an impossible display of  cartoon perspective. As he walked, the structures on either side of the street vanished, only to have new ones pop up to take their place. “Curiouser and curiouser” he thought to himself. “What have I gotten myself into this time? I gotta lay off the sauce. Next thing you know, I’ll be seeing talking animals, lions and rats and skunks.”

And as though the mere thought could create the reality, he found himself staring at an impossibly large, impossibly impossible skunk. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You’re Odie, and you’re here to take me to the King.” It sounded ludicrous. It sounded insane. But, if by playing along, he could get to the bottom of this nightmare, and back home, then that’s what he would do. At this point, he told himself, he had nothing to lose.

“Lead on, Maestro. Take me to your King.” Without a word, the skunk spun on his heels and marched up the street. Hurrying to catch up, head pounding, legs that were barely able to support him, he paid scant attention to the bizarre landscape on either side. Streets popped up, only to vanish as he drew abreast. Odd, absurd, caricatures of people and animals stared through him, as though he were not there, did not exist in their world. And maybe he wasn’t fully in their world, or his either, but somewhere in between. For sure, the skunk saw him, and was at that very moment, turning onto a broad avenue that led up to a palatial building, with huge double doors, and guards standing on either side. Idly, he wondered if getting stuck by a cartoon spear would hurt. Dismissing the notion, he scrambled up the stairs after the skunk.

One of the guards opened the doors, the other’s spear vanishing, to be replaced by a large, preposterous version of a trumpet, which he immediately placed to his lips, and issued forth a fanfare, announcing Leo’s arrival, and what he assumed to be an audience with the King.

He made his way unsteadily down the carpeted aisleway, only to be stopped ten feet short of the steps leading up to the throne. A sharp blow to the back of his legs with what he assumed to be a spear haft, brought him to his knees. “Kneel, huh? That’s what you’re looking for? Okay, I can do that.” So far, no one in this outrageously insane…place…he had no other word for it, had yet to utter a single word. Looking up at the figure on the throne, an animated, sketchy version of reality, Leo felt a sense of familiarity.

“Do I know you? Am I supposed to recognize you?” As the silence drew out, the figure on the throne studied him. “No, Leo, you wouldn’t recognize me. It’s been too long since the last time we met. You see, I’m you. You, before you lost yourself in a bottle. I’m what you were when life still mattered, before you had numb yourself just to face each day. Look at me Leo, and you will see yourself, as you were before your life spun out of control. Look in a mirror. Do you like what’s looking back at you? Which Leo do you want to be? You’ve got one more chance to get it right.”

As he fell to the floor, his head spinning, darkness pulling him in, his last thought was “I know what I want! I’ve always known. I was just too weak to hold on to it….”

Leo opened his eyes, then immediately closed them. The sunlight streaming through the window was blinding. Cracking them open, peering through slits, he began to take in his surroundings. Walls, a bed, windows with curtains. He breathed a sigh of relief as he realized where he was. “I’m in the hospital.” That was the first thought that came to him. “And I hurt. All over.” That was the second thought. Memories came flooding back, blasting his mind with visions, both real and fantasy. He now knew what had happened to him, and why, and he vowed it would never happen again. The doctor chose that moment to enter the room, clipboard in hand.

“Ah, Leo, you’re awake! It was a close thing my friend. I can’t believe you’re alive. I wouldn’t have bet on you, no matter the odds. I thought if the taxi cab didn’t kill you, the alcohol would have. But here you are! When they found you in the street, according to the taxi driver, you were clawing at your skin, as though you were trying to scratch yourself out of your clothes.”

Jake the Inventor (Test Flight)

“There! Almost got it” muttered the little snake as he tightened the last hold down screw for the framgadget in his new jetpack. “Now I just need to hook the torsion spring onto the flapcap, top off the tank with some go-juice, and it should be ready for a test flight.”

Jake the Snake, inventor, putterer, tinkerer and total science nut had been working on this project for months and was glad to finally be getting it off the ground. His new jetpack should let him soar above the treetops, fly over hill and dale, cruise the clouds, buzz the Ave, and other pretty cool stuff. Fueling was the final step before launch, but he had to be very careful. This wasn’t just any fuel. This was a specially refined, super concentrated, really potent derivative of lemon juice, and required the utmost care in handling. So powerful that the container was labeled CAUTION! EXTREMELY HIGH LEVELS OF CONCENTRATED, ENRICHED, FORTIFIED LEMON JUICE! FOR USE AS A FUEL IN JETPACKS AND CLEANING THE KITCHEN SINK ONLY!

“Fuel topped off, check! Flapcap shut, check! Little tiny straps for my little tiny snake body strapped on, check! Airbrake pressure up, check! Bailout Button handy, check! That should just about do it, except for one last thing.” His preflight checks complete, Jake placed a quick call to his best friend.

“Hi Prissscilla, Jake here. I’m just about ready for launch, all systems are go, and I’ve initialized countdown (Jake loved that kind of talk). I just wanted to let you know, in case anything goes wrong, that you can have the rest of my lemon jellied spiders, my scout compass, and my petrified fly collection. Oh yeah! And my specially modified backpack. You can have that too. (Jake still hadn’t been able to get the remnants of the lemon jelly out of it from his trip to Lost Lake.) Wish me luck!” And with that, Jake the Snake, inventor and would be test pilot, hit the launch button, juiced the jetpack, put the pedal to the metal, and let ‘er rip!

“This is really cool!” thought Jake as he climbed higher and higher, his house diminishing to a tiny speck far below. “I could get used to this…Whoa, what was that??!!” Jake just about hit something or something just about hit him. And whatever it was, another one was headed his way!

“Hey Buddy, watch where yer going! Ya durn near run me right off’n this here cloud!” said a big white bird with a long beak. “It’s a pelican!” thought Jake. “Susorry mister, I’m still getting the hang of this” said Jake, as politely as he could. “Wal, if ya don’t got wings then ya got no bizness flyin’ around up here. So scram! I’d tell ya to blast off, but it looks like ya already did, har har!” And just like that, the perniciously persnickety pelican was gone.

As Jake continued on his way, unaware of the gaggle of geese on his six (more pilot talk), he was startled by loud obnoxious honking. “Honk honk!” he heard. “Honk honk! Move over kid! If you can’t maintain the flow of traffic, then stay out of the fast lane!” said one particularly grouchy gray goose. “Great!” thought Jake, “a bunch of honkers. Might as well be on I-5 at rush hour.”

Moving to the right, allowing them to pass, his attention was drawn to a mockingbird in the slow lane. As he approached and drew up beside the bird, his ears were assaulted by raucous laughter. “Ahh you got no arms you got no legs, Runt. You got no feathers you got no wings. I bet your mother wears army boots.” Of course, Jake never knew his real mother, who had left him on the doorstep of his adoptive mother, the loving, kind, and generous Lemon Lady. But he’d bet a box of jellied spiders that she didn’t wear army boots. And for as long as he’d known Lemon Lady, not once had he seen her clomping around in such footwear.

Rolling his eyes as he passed the maliciously miscreant mockingbird, Jake thought “Man it’s more crowded up here than I would have thought. Oh well, I still have some testing to do.” Whereupon he hit the throttle, pulled back hard on the stick, and went into a barrel roll. “Yeehaw this is fun!” shouted Jake, and he did another, and another, and another. He did so many that he became dizzy and he blacked out! When he regained consciousness, he was plummeting earthward, straight down at full acceleration!

Jake frantically pulled back on the control stick, knowing he had only a few seconds until disaster struck. Pulling back with all his might, he finally seemed to be making some small progress when the stick broke off in his hand! “Rats!” thought Jake, “I knew I should have used something other than a stick to make the stick out of. Now what am I gonna do?” Thinking quickly, Jake realized he had only one option: The Bailout Button! “Here’s hoping I packed my parachute correctly” he thought as the harness fell away and he went from power dive to freefall.

Floating gently to earth, Jake was able to see his house below. Shifting his body weight to maneuver the parachute, he aimed toward his front yard. Looking down and seeing a small figure by the front gate, he thought “That looks like Prissscilla!” She was waiting at his house to meet him! “What an awesome friend!” he said to himself as he gently touched down.

“Jake! Jake! I was so worried! I saw you lose control of the jetpack and was afraid you wouldn’t make it down safely! Thank goodness you’re okay!” “Hi Prissscilla. Yes, it was a nerve-wracking experience, but us pilot types never panic. We must always remain calm and clear-headed in the face of the unexpected, so we can be prepared, and react decisively to any situation. But it does feel great to have my belly back on the ground. Say… is that a lemon jellied spider leg stuck to your chin?”   


Across the highway from my hometown Rock Island, Washington, just upriver a ways from the old silicon smelter, was a little hill that wasn’t much in the summertime, but in winter, when we had a couple of feet of snow on the ground, it became the neighborhood sledding hill. More so in our teens than when we were younger, as we tended to sled closer to home then.

We would have sledding parties, although the preferred means of descent were inner tubes of various sizes, some big truck tubes, some smaller car tubes. Each had their own advantage. The big tube won out if girls were involved. It allowed more bodies to be packed more closely. Even some kids from East Wenatchee would come down. In fact, although I knew my soon future wife from as far back as junior high school, it was at one of these sledding parties that we first actually interacted. On a big tube no doubt.

These parties usually started in the late afternoon after school, on a Friday night, or on weekend nights, and lasted until well after dark. The first few runs were tame, just getting the route established and packing the snow. Tubes did a great job at this. In fact, we may have cast a sneer or two at the few traditional sledders for shredding our well-groomed run.

It was cold during the day, but when the sun went down it got even colder, to a point where frostbite was a legitimate concern. So we would build a bonfire at the bottom of the hill, off to the side of the run. All that was required were a few old tires and a half gallon or so of gasoline, the good stuff, before they started removing the lead. It was a lot easier to scrounge up a few tires than firewood, and they would burn for hours. Our bonfires were a thing of beauty, visible from far away.

One night, the Sheriff came by. We called anyone in the County Sheriff’s Department The Sheriff, so it may not have been the actual Man himself. But no matter. He drove up as far as he could, then walked the rest of the way. He stood around for a while, almost like he wished he could take a run or two. I would have been more than happy to hold his gun and hat. But, he just said “You guys be careful”, and left. There are positives and negatives growing up in a small town where everyone knows the Sheriff and he knows you. For me, it was a bit of both.

Jake and The Pirates’ Gold

“Cap’n Bilgewater! Cap’n Bilgewater! There be a frigate from The Queen’s Navy off’n our starboard bow, it looks like they be fixin’ to board!” “Aarrghhh Matey, if’n it’s a fight they’re lookin’ for, they come to the right place! Bring me me red shoes.” “Cap’n! Cap’n!  They be anuther frigate off’n our port side, closin’ fast!” “Yar! Bring me me red shirt, Matey.” “Two more spotted Cap’n, fore and aft!” “Bring me me red pants Matey!” “Sar, it looks like we be surrounded by the whole Queen’s Navy!” “Aye Mate, belay that last order. Better fetch me brown pants I instead…..”

Announcer: “Stay tuned for another exciting episode of Pirates Aplenty!”

It was well past his bedtime, but there was no way Jake would have missed the end of the movie. He loved pirate movies. With a huge yawn, he turned off the light, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep…..

The afternoon sun beat down on the little snake perched high in the crow’s nest of The Incontinence, a swift if somewhat leaky pirate ship feared far and wide by all vessels that plied the seas, with the possible exception of the Queen’s Enforcers. This was Jake’s first voyage on the scourge of the waters.  Not being a fighter (swordplay was off the table for the little snake) he was stationed in the crow’s nest, as a lookout. But The Incontinence was not fighting today, they had already claimed their booty and were headed for shore to bury it.

Jake, along with everyone else on board, had yet to view the contents of the huge locked chest, but the yellow gleam that escaped from beneath the lid had failed to evade his notice. How he ached to run his fingers through the treasure that lay within, and would do just that if only he had fingers. Or arms. He was a snake for goodness sake!

 The battle with the merchant vessel had been swift and merciless, the pirates only taking the time to hoist the treasure chest over to The Incontinence before hurrying away. Flee now, party later, that’s what Jake heard Cap’n Dipenz say to his First Mate Stumpy, and fleeing was exactly what they were doing.

“Land Ho!” shouted Jake, “Three points off the starboard bow!”

“Bring ‘er around Stumpy” said Cap’n Dipenz, in his gravelly voice.

“Stow the jabber! Hoist the main sail! Tie those sheets off! Jab the jib! Shiver me timbers! Full speed ahead!” Cap’n Dipenz certainly knew how to motivate his crew.

And before you could say Durn Tootin’, the pirate ship Incontinence was dropping anchor in a small lagoon on a tree covered deserted island. Dying to see what treasure the chest held, Jake found a seat aboard the dory that was transporting the captain, the crew, and most importantly, the ill-gotten booty to shore.

“Here we are boys, haul that chest over to yonder tree. Dig a hole, and dig it deep, the treasure there will surely keep.” And that’s exactly what they did. But before burying the chest, the captain, the crew, and the little snake too, gathered around to cast their eyes upon their filched riches. Stumpy, pulling off his carbon composite leg, smashed it against the lock, shattering it, causing it to fall away in pieces. Throwing back the lid, the pirates, with in-drawn breaths and avarice in their eyes, gasped in delight as they beheld the priceless, yellow treasure. “Lemons! We got lemons, boys!” said the captain, barely able to contain his excitement. “Lemonade fer all tonight! And mebbe, if there be a lime or two, a Margarita as well!” And with that, the whole crew except Jake jumped for joy, while Stumpy annoyingly danced in circles.

Jake awoke from his dream to warm sunlight through the window, and a gentle shaking by Brother BudPie, his attractive, charming, confident but humble roomie.

“Wakey wakey little Jakey, come and get your hot pancakey.”

“What kind of pancakes are we having, Brother BudPie?”

“Why, lemon of course” said Brother BudPie with a twinkle in his eye. Yarrr…”

Blank, The Girl Who Stole My Heart

My life in grade school, where I spent the entire day in one classroom with one teacher took an abrupt turn upon reaching junior high. Suddenly, and without notice, I was thrust into a maelstrom of bodies, unfamiliar faces, strange new places. Now, I had five or six teachers in a day, and as many classrooms. Navigating the hallways, dodging bodies, not getting lost, transitioning from a big fish in a small pond to a guppy, all were new and daunting experiences for me.

Among the positives, making new friends, experiencing a variety of subjects, vastly improved hot lunches that actually offered variety and flavor! On the other side, homework, competition, insecurity. How does one deal with being seated alongside large, imposing ninth graders when trying to eat one’s mashed potatoes with turkey gravy? I had yet to be able to impress with my baseball skills, leaving only one option: try to make them laugh. Sometimes that worked, other times not so much.

Not far into that seventh-grade year was the tragedy that would change our lives. I couldn’t begin to guess, among adults, who were supporters or non-supporters of JFK, but I doubt you would find a junior high or high schooler anywhere that didn’t adore him. When we lost him, we felt like overnight, the world had changed forever, and maybe it did, for us. The light dimmed, and never seemed to brighten much after that.

My fondness for redheads didn’t share the same fate as that of Gloria, who, through no fault of her own, was relegated to a dusty corner of my memory. This fondness followed me, nipping at my heels, waiting for me to let my guard down. 

But, despite all that, I made it through the seventh grade, and was poised on the brink of meeting the next potential heartbreak of my life, who, unlike Gloria, cannot be named in this narrative. While no one but me even remembers Gloria, in this case, even a first initial might screw the pooch. Can I say that? Well of course I can, it’s my story.

Another redhead, and she knew I existed! In fact, she made inquiries of my younger brother, a year behind me, seeking knowledge of the tall, blond, handsome eighth grader. And then, not finding out much about him, she asked about me. Not long after that, I was approached by one of her friends, I don’t remember who. In those days, boyfriend/girlfriend hookups were negotiated by an intermediary. No names, but you can imagine it going like this:

“Do you know who Blank is, with the red hair?” “Uhhhhh….” “She thinks you’re cute.” “Hmmm….” “Do you think she’s cute?” “Um yeah I guess so.” “She likes you.” “Uhhhhh….” “Do you like her?” “Um yeah I guess so.”

Courtship was no easy thing for young teens back then, at least until you moved beyond the kickoff and got settled into the first quarter. It wasn’t as simple as clubbing her over the head and dragging her by the hair to your cave.

In the end, I vanquished my shyness, and being the take-charge kind of girl she was, she became my girlfriend. I was smitten. And why not, she was as sweet as a honey dew melon in August, had beautiful red hair, freckles in most of the same places Gloria did, and her very own intermediary.

But, like most young romances, destined to fail, it too ended, over something so silly as a phone joke. At that age, at that time, the opportunity to talk with your girlfriend outside of school hours seldom occurred on a face to face basis. This was complicated by the fact that she lived in East Wenatchee, and I of course, lived eight miles away, in Rock Island. It wasn’t as though I could just walk down the street and knock on her door. Cell phones, along with lots of other things, had yet to be invented, so landline phone calls were the order of the day. It was during one of these calls that it happened.

 I called, her dad answered, he always answered, without fail. I asked to speak with Blank. He grunted, and put the phone down, at which point she picked it up and started talking. Really nice. Not like someone who had their very own intermediary. And there was giggling in the background, and then the voice on the phone was replaced by the real Blank. And they were laughing. As it turns out, her older sister sounded just like her. I said “Not very funny having your dumb sister pretend to be you.” She said “Don’t call my sister dumb.” Click. Click.

And just like that, what could have been a romance for the ages, red hair, freckles and all, vanished from my life. We never spoke again. Sure, we passed in the halls, we looked out of the side of our eyes at each other, but neither was willing to budge, not one inch. Not even a personal intermediary could put Humpty Dumpty back together again. And Blank, should you ever read this, and if you remember me, and those days so long ago, I would like to say that I am sorry. If it were mine to do over, I would not have called your sister dumb. She had a very nice voice. And, if memory serves me well, she also had red hair.

On Words

Words. Individually they may carry a message, but only when combined in such a manner so as to convey more complex thoughts, do they have the power to truly change the world. If we had to rely on single word communication, we most likely would not have advanced beyond the stone age. For the peoples of that time, survival was paramount. Any form of verbal communication longer than a single word would likely culminate in the utterer’s untimely demise. “Pardon me Dug, but I believe that’s a saber tooth tiger creeping up behind you” would be a polite way of warning a friend of danger, but “Run!!” would get the job done much more efficiently.

Inarguably, the discovery of fire and invention of the wheel were milestones in our evolution, but both would have fallen by the wayside were it not for the ability to effectively pass that knowledge from generation to generation. Language. Necessary, but at times confusing. And the most baffling of all is the English language. Words spelled alike, with multiple meanings, words with the same sound, spelled differently, context, dialect, body language, all combine to create a mixed up messed up way of communicating. Why is it that way? I don’t know, but if I had to guess, it would be that English is made up of several different languages, bits and pieces of each, grabbing words from even more languages, balling it all up into what must be a nightmare for anyone not born to it. But surely if we speak slowly enough and enunciate well, anyone should be able to understand us.

Even the way we see words and phrases can totally change their meaning. If a van pulled up next to you while stopped at a light, with printing on the side that proclaimed “Bob’s Blind Cleaning” would it not be logical to think “How good of a job could he possibly do? And why is he out driving around anyway?” If the sign above the front door of the store you just passed were to say “M&M Repair, Mike & Mike”, should you not jot down the phone number for when you get to the bottom of the bag?  Surely there will be some broken ones down there, and either Mike should be able to help you.

 The worst offender, in my opinion, is the news media, particularly when it comes to headlines. In an effort to cram as much meaning into as few words as possible, and put it before the public ahead their competition, they throw common sense to the wind, leaving us to ponder their intent. Some prime examples might be: “Republicans Grill IRS Chief Over Lost Emails” Ouch! I had no idea that emails were even flammable! Or: “Girl Hit by Car In Hospital” Ouch again! It must have made a mess of the waiting room. And last, but certainly not least: “Uranus ‘Opens & Closes’, Scientists Say Planet Releases Solar Wind Every Day” Just about anyone could have a field day with that gem!

Ambiguous, confusing, frustrating, constantly evolving, it’s a wonder that it works at all, but work it does. And unless and until, something else comes along as an alternative, it’s what we have. I for one, intend to use it to full advantage. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ve reached the bottom of the bag, and find myself in need of a repairman. Either Mike should do. 😊

Jake and The Sage of Lost Lake

Jake was hot, tired, and very, very hungry. It was late afternoon and he’d been crawling through these woods for the last two days. His quest to find Lost Lake and the Ancient Sage that lived there had so far been in vain. “Maybe I’ll stop for a bit, have a snack and catch my breath” he thought as he slipped out of his specially modified backpack. Pulling back the flap and reaching in, he encountered something sticky. “Great, my lemon jellied spiders have spilled and made a huge mess! Aw man, it’s all over everything! My whistle’s stuck to my water bottle, my shovel is all gunked up, even my toilet paper is covered. I guess I might as well get back on the trail.” And with that, he closed his pack, threw it over his…back, and away he went.

Jake had been planning this trip for months, and with the help of Brother BudPie, his clever, capable, wise-in-the-ways-of-the-woods roomie, was pretty sure he had everything he would need to get him through the next couple of days. Except maps. There were no maps of Lost Lake. There was no point in recording its location, since it moved around, from place to place, popping up here, showing up there, never in the same place twice. “Maybe I’ll find some sign along the trail” he thought, as he slithered under a log, his backpack scraping on the way through. And it wasn’t long before one such sign appeared, nailed to a tree, a few feet off the ground. Looking up, squinting, he could barely make out the faded words: “LOST LAKE AHEAD. SOMEWHERE. MAYBE.”

“At least I’m on the right track” he thought, as he continued on. And soon enough, he came upon a stump in the middle of the trail, and perched atop the stump, both eyes closed, was an owl. “Sir Owl” said Jake, “can you tell me how to get to lost lake?” Opening one eye, peering down at Jake, the owl said “Who?” “Not who” said Jake, “what.” “Lost Lake. I’m looking for Lost Lake and the Ancient Sage that lives there.” “Who?” said the owl again. By this time Jake’s patience was wearing thin. “Lost Lake. Looking for Lost Lake.” “Who?” “Arghh! Sage. Lost Lake.” “Oh! Why didn’t you say so?” said the owl, shaking out his feathers and opening his other eye. “You can’t find Lost Lake by looking for it. You have to be lost. It will find you.”

“Then things are looking up” thought Jake to himself, as he bid the owl farewell and continued on his journey. “I don’t see how I could be any more lost than I am.” Jake was determined to see this quest through to the end. Lost in thought, he was brought up short when he stumbled into a warm, brown, furry body. Before him stood a weasel, with crossed arms, tapping his toe on the ground. “Going somewhere boy?” asked the weasel. “Mr. Weasel, I’m trying to find Lost Lake and the Sage who lives there. I’m seeking sage advice.” The weasel, smiling a broad smile, revealing a mouth full of shiny, white, pointed teeth, replied “You can’t get there from here, boy, but I would be more than happy to show you where you have to be to get there. I’m sure you won’t mind if we stop by my den on the way, for a bite of lunch. Hmm?” Suddenly quite afraid, Jake darted around the weasel and down the trail as fast as he could. He could hear the weasel laughing, “You’ll be back boy, then we’ll have lunch. Hey! You have toilet paper stuck to your tail!”

“I could swear I passed by this very rock twice already” he thought, “and this is the same valley I was in an hour ago. I hope I haven’t been crawling in circles all day.” But as he descended into the valley, for what he thought might be the third time, a fog began to roll in, and soon he was totally immersed in a dense, heavy mist. Not wanting to wander aimlessly and risk possible injury, he curled up at the base of a tree. Soon, his eyes grew heavy and he slept.

Jake awakened to bright sunshine and the sound of birds singing. And down in the valley was a lake. The lake was small, and blue and sparkled in the sunlight. Around the lake, on the far shore, was a small hut, made of stone. Jake hurried down, afraid it might vanish before his eyes. And crawling up to the hut, at journey’s end, he came upon an old man, sitting with crossed legs, his fingers intertwined in his lap, his eyes closed.

“Ancient Sage, my name is Jake, and I have traveled far, seeking you out in the hopes that you might impart some of your wisdom.” Opening his eyes, the Sage beckoned, “Come young one, come sit before me, that you may hear what I have to say.” Jake leaned close, that he might miss not a single word. This is why he had come. This was the culmination of months spent planning and preparing. “Young one” said the old man, “Two wrongs do not make a right.” Jake leaned closer, for he sensed there was more. “But three lefts do.” And with that, the old man closed his eyes once more. “But wait!” said Jake. “How do I get home?” Opening one eye, The Sage of Lost Lake replied, “Follow the trail from the back of the hut for approximately one hundred yards. There you will find a bench. Sit on the bench. The bus runs every half hour.”