Wednesday, December 17, 2014

  When I was five or six, Lake Bonaparte was just about exactly at the center of the whole round world.
            From the roof of our boathouse, you could clearly see that the  world was flat on top, with a plastic dome  that came down to the horizon all around to keep you from falling off the edge … if you ever went that far. 
   But if you lived near the middle of the world, why would you ever go away?   
         Then one day, my mother told me we were going to move. 
      My Great Grandfather Dr. Drury had our house built when he came to practice medicine in Natural Bridge, and both my mother and my grandmother were born at home there, but for all I knew about such things, the house had simply grown in this place and had itself given birth to us all.     
   The house  is a fairly simple  post-Victorian with the  notable embellishment being the brass statuette of what I have been  told is the muse of poetry. Sixteen or eighteen inches high, on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs  … so when you slid down the bannister you had to jump off quickly  toward the bottom, or come to a tragic end. 
   When my mother announced that we were going to move from Natural Bridge , I was dumbfounded, bewildered, and flabbergasted.  I asked her just  how we were going to  move  our HOUSE.  
         I understood her to say then that  a big truck would come along with a WIND MACHINE.  And the WIND MACHINE would BLOW  the house up onto the truck.   
  When  my mom was in her nineties , I finally brought up the subject of our move.    Mom denied that she ever said that stuff about a WIND MACHINE blowing our house up onto a truck;  and I am sure she didn’t.   It would have been totally out of character for her.   
        The disappointing  actual move was the end of my natural-house theory, and shook my conviction that Lake Bonaparte was the center of a world that is round underneath and flat on top, with a plastic dome that keeps us from going over the edge.   I have gone over the edge more than once .   

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Escape from Christmas

 From the time I was seven or eight years old,  I would get sick most every Christmas.  I suppose it started with my  loss of faith in Santa Claus, and my  disappointment  at not getting the big gifts I wanted.   What greedy child would be happy with a Ukulelle when  he  had hoped  for a guitar?   After all, it isn’t like I asked for a pony!
   Other than that ukulele, the only Christmas present  I remember right now, was the  miniature “spy” camera   I  got in my stocking when I was fifteen, and never used until I took it along on my junior year abroad in Austria.
             For the Christmas/NewYear holiday that year John Irving, Eric Ross, and I had booked a room  in the Post Master’s pension, right at the foot of the ski slopes at Kaprun,  which had very little snow cover at the time.  If any spy photos from that ski trip had survived,  they would have shown broken skis.
      Because of the poor snow at Kaprun and just about anywhere in Austria that year …. a year of winter olympics in Salzburg …  we three left Kaprun temporarily, taking the  bus to the train to  a town further up range, where we caught another bus that  took us up  a long steep valley to a  hamlet built around the terminal base for a gondala the size of a railroad car that was used for pulling timber off the slopes of a long draw  that was another twenty   miles up a roadless swath  to a lodge at the foot of Grossglockner, the highest mountain in Austria.    From the lodge, you could walk  up the talus slope and ski back the lodge, or ski the twenty miles down valley under the gondola line.
      There was plenty enough snow under Grossglockner,   but it was so cold up there, that as soon as we could step outside the lodge and put our skis on, we had to take them off and go back in for tea with rum.
      The next day we took the gondala ,the bus,   the train , then a bus again, back to our rooms in the post master’s pension at the foot of Kaprun’s milder mountain, where we tried to ski again, despite the nearly naked slopes.
 I hit a fence while  falling in an attempt  to  avoid some bare rock. I broke one ski … which is as effective as breaking both.
    We three took a break from trying to ski.    We ate, slept, and drank.  We took steam baths.  When it snowed a little bit, and they didn not plow the streets of Kaprun, we held on to the rear bumpers of unsuspecting cars, and skidded around the streets on or boot heels.
     Alone on foot Christmas eve, I strolled around Kakprun, and stopped to watch a  church service from outside the doors,  which were wide open and imploring.

      Why was I … why AM I … suddenly smelling butterscotch cookies?  Is that priest  fueling the incense burner with butterscotch cookies?  Are butterscotch cookies the communion wafers in this church?

        No, it is just the pungent memory  of Christmas Past:
       The Christmas eve when my Sunday school teacher Mister Hutter  had  invited us kids out  to his farm. It was probably not functioning as a farm then, though I suppose there were chckens, because Mr. Hutter was a poultry science professor, who is remembered for having developed the famous Cornell Barbecue sauce, which is still used by many a fire department at fundraisers.  We were invited to the farm on Christmas Eve  in order to wrap  gifts of toys and food which we would put in baskets that we snuck onto the porches or front steps of the local, rural poor … then running back to the car,  parked just out of sight.
        When we got back to the farm house after a few such raids,  Mrs. Hutter was   baking butterscotch cookies. The smell ot hot sugar hit me with such a Tsunami of nausea that, right there in the kitchen, I lost my cookies before I could even eat them.
        I don’t know if there were any actual butterscotch cookes anywhere near me that Christmas eve in Kaprun, but with odor ghosts threatening invisibly and Church bells all around  ringing,   I hurried back to the  Postmaster’s pension.   
   It snowed a little more the day after Christmas,`so I rented a pair of skis.
     But  on my  last run … a little too late in the day  to notice some bare granite … I broke another ski.

         So the next day Eric and I  checked out of the pension again, collected the lunch sandwiches  we had already paid for at the hotel,   and headed off hitch-hiking toward the   coast of Italy.
     The first day we were passed by  truck after  truck, carrying snow from the peaks to Salzburg for the olympics.
    We got very few rides that first day  and ended up sleeping in a corn crib … which was enough of that sort of thing for Eric.  He turned around and hitched back  to Kaprun the next day.
     I myself detoured to Germany and  look up Peter Kruger,  a German friend at the University in Stutgartt.
        I hitched only so far as the next town  and went the rest of the way to  Stuttgart  by rail arriving late on New Years Eve.
                   The university was not in session   and   I couldn’t find Peter Kruger in the phone directory.
     With help  at the railroad station I found a room in a household  a short walk away.
       Outside the pension, a jolly group of roving students saw me with my rucksack and invited me along, but I declined, and checked into the pension about fifteen minutes before  midnight. The Frau put me in my room abruptly, then went back to her family celebration.
  At midnight I watched the fireworks  from my window.
         Next day, I bought a train ticket to Vienna.

                But the train wouldn’t leave for another six hours so I sat down in the station restaurant and ordered a bowl of Liver Dumpling Soup:  a grey broth with a grey, fist-sized  dumpling half sunk in the middle of it … a homely comfort food for which I often stopped in for at the WestBahnhoff station near my room Vienna .  

     The only other person eating there at the time was a kindly smiling older man who asked if I was an American and where my travels were taking me and  if I was a fan of The Reader's Digest.  Learning that I had to wait six hours for my train, he invited me to his apartment for tea and to look at his Reader's Digest collection.
   So O.K.  I was young,  far cuter than I am now,innocently appealing, and ignorant.  
       His room had a cot, a chair, and a hot plate.   He made  tea, and we sat on his cot to read a "most unforgettable character "story… which I don't remember.
          He put his hand on my thigh and I lifted it off. Though his advance was a surprise to me, the scene was not as awkward as it might have been …unless it was more awkward than I remember … but I do remember clearly that my friend said  he guessed it wasn’t his lucky day;  and  I think we even read another unforgetable character  or “life in these United States articles.

       When my train time came near, I left politely and went back to  grey Vienna with its bare streets and liver dumpling soup at the Westbanhoff.
       Now, as I recall the year in Austria … I realize that I actually DIDN’T get sick that Christmas.
                 I don’t  want a pony anymore,  I have a guitar, and  too much other stuff , but   I have been ill for the last two Christmases, and I  may be ill again this Christmas too. I’ll stay home, and you can go shopping if you wish to.

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Honey Moon Thoughts


    Did I mention that Georgia and I got married?

   When Georgia and I went off  on a quick honeymoon to see the ocean,   we left Oren Pierce in charge of the  chickens again, but didn’t offer him the trailer to stay in, because Gee was still there …supposedly waiting for William.
  When we returned, Gee was still  here and William still wasn’t, nor do I expect him any time soon,  but Oren’s dog Loosefur was lurking about, as no doubt, is Oren.  
             I don’t bother myself too much about what goes on between Oren and Gee, and I don’t mind if William never comes back, but if Gee stays on much longer I will be asking her to pay rent or work it off somehow.

      We don’t need her professional housekeeping skills, but there are garden plots to weed, and when we are on book tours, someone needs to tend  the fruit stand and deal with the fans who …  despite the milk crates we put halfway down the driveway so people won't drive further in than the stand …. stumble   up to the door hoping I will sign a copy of my book, take their manuscript to read, and pose with them for a phone photo, as if we had been up all night drinking together … which they would also be up for.   
    As I write this, it occurs to me that when we are away AND when we are here trying to work, Oren and Gee could, without actually lying,  take off some of the pressure by giving the impression that THEY are David and Georgia.
    As a matter of fact, when they are NOT here, we could pretend we are THEM.
 The Warrens have gone off to the ocean and will be back next year sometime.
       No, I don’t know when because they are very impulsive and haven’t even told me, but you can try to email them and if they are not out on the water and off the grid, you may get an answer.  Mr. Warren is very kind, but he is an extremely private man and kind of boring.

Monday, February 3, 2014

The imaginary bank robber.

   Every once in a while …. or maybe most of the time … the story I want to tell, has no moral or point that I can put my finger on or words to, but still I want to tell it.  People give me so many stories.
     People  who know me   mostly  as a handyman/ private detective, will sometimes walk up to me at the market or on the Commons, wanting to talk  about modern survelance systems,  (I am an old fashioned human-based, not electronic practitioner) or about weaponry or they  want to discuss  their idea for the Perfect Crime.   

 Wilfred Morrison  was his own sort of conceptual  criminal, but Wilfred Morrison is not his real name.  His real name may have been Rolf Dickerson, He  lived for a while on raw eggs and beer,  and at other times was a vegan,  and may  have tried to live on air,although I have changed some of these details to protect his privacy
       You may remember "Rolf"  from the eighties, when he worked at a German Deli in the Dewitt Mall, where I used to go for the sausage and cheese.  He worked also refinishing floors, but he  s fantasized about robing a bank.
  Most of the bank heist ideas were cartoonish and highly  dependent on electronic equipment not yet generally available.   
    He's just out of jail, not on account of a bank job gone wrong, but because of a floor finishing job.          On a job near Trumansburg,  he and his partner mopped on the oil to flood the floor,  let it sit and soak, than sopped up the excess with rags, and hung them out to air.  You always hang oily rags to cure, or keep them in a bucket of water so they don't oxidize. You have heard about oily rags in confinement, where slow oxidation builds heat that eventually bursts into flame.          They hung the rags on a ladder to dry for a while that day in T Burg, but jammed them into an empty spackle bucket a while before they cleaned up and drove off.
       About when they were passing the bank the bucket in back of the van burst into flame.  You knew it was going to happen.  Wilfred threw the flaming bucket out of the van as quick as he could , and there was really no choice
        The mistake was they kept on going.  They went a bit to  far.

        But there  in the deli, after serving a term for what was characterized by the prosecuting attorney  as terrorism, he tells me that if he had only thought of it and planned ahead,   the flaming bucket incident would have a pretty good diversion, if someone had wanted to rob the bank that day.  He didn't see any moral to the story.

Friday, January 24, 2014

The Advent of Oren Pierce

            One morning a few years  before I  had ever heard of Oren Pierce, I  went out on the deck to check on the weather,  and  I saw a man standing in the yard, his back to me:  olive-drab cargo-shirt, black pants over tall-heel boots, thumb down his  collar  while his fingers flipped  the  shingles of his hair; he was looking  at the old travel  trailer office/guest quarters  as if   he was planning to make some changes.        
 "EXCUSE ME!"  I said ; "CAN I  HELLPew?"

     The  Stranger's head  turned toward me ...  followed more slowly by the rest of his body.
           A   third-day stubble bristled maroon-red  on  his  jaws, contradicting his black shag of hair. 

          " Oren Pierce, " he said.  But   I hadn't really asked his name, and what he said sounded to me like   "Warren Curse", or maybe  "Warren Purse".  He has a tenor voice which can create its own interference, ringing in ones ears.

        " I am in search of the person you know as William Bonaparte Warren," he   said;  and paused,
seeming to look at a teleprompter above and behind left shoulder. 

            " I have read his book and   I believe him to be my Brother."
      My mouth may have fallen open when he said that.  

    That is because, as I have assured my  readers:  William is a   FICTIONAL character, mostly an outgrowth of my insecurities and shortcomings, I supppose:  a troll from my personal depths who doesn't otherwise exist and doesn't even resemble anyone  outside of my head.  
   The fact is  that although I write about William and myself in our boyhood days, I did not    have an imaginary brother then.  I invented him later as a tool for putting across tall tales. 

     Of course William  has become more fleshed-out as time has passed,  and I suppose he will object to my characterization of him as a "tool"; to say nothing about my insistence that he is imaginary. 
   William says that I and my  whole family are just in denial about him.
       Well, sometimes he makes a good case for that;  We all learned to make a good case for anything at my father's dinner table, even William who was more often under than at the table;  and  I do have to admire  his  adaptability  and his  physical gifts,  as well as the skills which are a result of many years struggle to  overcome his several outstanding limitations: particularly his extremely short legs, a not so lovely, pinched-looking face and large forehead which all ...especially when he isn't wearing the two foot sheet-rock stilts under his pants ....  incline people to take him for sick child, an elf,  or an alien.  He hates that.
      William is O.K.  Even sometimes generous.  He saved me some misery  when he  helped save my chicken flock from itself;  so besides admiring him, I should be grateful to him. 
      But even during periods in our lives when  he has been living near by,  William and I have never  been real close,  and less so since  he moved on from here.
     The last time I heard from him, was in a Facebook message,  according to which he was out in California , wrangling Chickens for period movies. 
         Of course I didn't say all THAT to Oren Pierce right then.

       William is only my IMAGINARY brother!   is all I said.
     Oren Pierce rolled his eyes over my head, saying  that HE himself was NOT   William's  IMAGINARY brother.  He's William's REAL brother! His  tenor voice squeaking on the emphasis .
    Then he knocked his head with his knuckles,  and his eyes widened with enlightenment as  he proved his existence.
   Stunned  by his strange rap,  and knucklehead that I was in that moment,  I didn't just ignore his absurd logic   but answered  without thinking ;   that ANYWAY,  William has been gone for a good while now;  that  I don't know where he's gone, haven't heard from him since he left, and  don't  expect him back here anytime soon.
        Pierce took one step forward, as if through the hole in my argument. 

          He said he  himself WAS expecting William.
         Then, before I could ask what reason he had to expect William, and as his gaze dropped from the space over my left shoulder, to the shoulder itself, he added, "We called him Skippy…….  He was so short  we didn't expect him to live, so it wasn't a name like Delmore or David, and we had mostly used up the boy names we knew……….."
    Having gone way  off script, Oren Pierce  paused and straightened up  some.  His maroon jaw bristles rippled.       He took a few more steps forward,  pulled a small, black  card from his pocket,  and   flipped it at me across the distance.    
   The card tipped up and  slowed at the height of its trajectory,  alighting   exactly   where   he must have known that my raised  hand would be cupped and ready in self-defense.  Suddenly I held it.        
            "Please give me a call if our brother shows up, or I will be stopping by.   Thank you. good bye."
   All of which he said as if he were sending a voice mail message.   
       Pierce pivoted  and set off walking, then striding into the  orchard, his gait irregular due to the high boot heels hitting or missing hummocks and   ruts.   
     As soon as Pierce was ten or twenty yards away, a grey-black dog stood up out of the tall grass behind the salad garden.   Long-haired,   with standing ears and lighter grey spectacle patches around its eyes,  the dog watched as Oren Pierce disappeared into the orchard, then it  trotted off at a angle to the man's   route.  


      Getting Familiar

   When Pierce was gone,  I looked, still surprised, at the card he had so deftly thrown  to my hand:  
       red letters on black, heavily laminated credit card stock.
                           Oren Pierce   B.A., B.S. , M.S.G.

                      Osteoempathetic Healer, Stylist, Oracle
                    Consultations, Investigations, Badminton 

                               Cell 315- XXX- XXXX 

    The X's in the phone number are  printed with the card, and he had red-penciled numbers over the x's.  I pulled the card out to read and puzzle over  so many times that   the pencil was about worn off the plastic when I went to check my box at the Post Office one day several  weeks later,  and the dog
I had seen the day Pierce had appeared in my back yard, was sitting outside by the bicycle rack, no leash, and no collar showing, though there may be a collar and tags under all that ruff.      Inside, the man  himself stood at the sorting desk, bent over  his mail:  the same maroon-red three-day beard, and oynx-black hair, layered in shingles as regular as three-tab asphalt roofing. I don't know how he does it, but he always has that  third-day stubble, and that neat roof of hair.  His face was so close to his mail that he didn't seem to notice me, but  on my way to the door, Pierce caught my eye.
              "No William", I told him; but he had not actually asked.
               "Nice Chapeau"  he said,  speaking Frenchly  to my noir, Gortex, rain-hat.
                Oren himself  never seems to wear a hat, although there could be anything under that thick shingling of hair..  
      I saw him there at the P.O. so often in the following months,  that it seemed as if  he must have been answering  his mail or writing a book at the sorting desk.
     Occasionally we talked mostly about my hat of the day  or the weather, his tenor ringing in the P. O. lobby and making up in volume, what it lacks in depth.

         No William I would tell him without being asked.

      One burger-night at the Fargo bar and grill across from the Post Office,   I recognized  that stark black business card embedded in the dart board.    I   brought it to the bartender on my way back to the table, and asked did she know about it. Melody, is her name I think, though maybe it Melony.
     She said thanks, but she would put it back later … because of the story about it.

         Oren Pierce had come in a little before happy-hour one day, ordered a lemon and soda,  and said he had stopped in particularly because he grew up not far from a  place  called The Fargo.   Inn.   I myself know about  The Fargo Inn because it is only a few miles across the Indian River plains from the village of Natural Bridge, where I came from.  It has been around through many owners, and my own grandmother and grandfather met at a dance there.  That Fargo is on the border of the Fort Drum Military Reservation.   After the Fort Drum expansion, his mother worked there, part time.
      " She was a Fort Drum whore",  was exactly what he had told, using that very word.  He told Melony,  that's not something he would make up to brag about.
   He showed her his plastic calling card, and then, he showed her and a few others who had by then appeared, just how hard he could throw the thing, embedding it right where I myself had found it.
   He had been back a few times when Melody was there.  Always the lemon and soda, never anything to eat, usually he is asked to throw a card, so he extracts the old, if someone has not stolen it,  and he throws in the new. I don't know that it has gotten him much business, other than requests to throw cards

        He has no vehicle, and walks everywhere usually with his dog, but  often his dog will be on the other side of the road, as if she were  stalking him.  Once I  slowed down  and offered him a ride, but he waved me off.   
      One day I  walked a quarter mile up the road to get some apricots,  and Oren Pierce was at the fruit stand talking to Joe Long. 
   Oren nodded to me but went on   telling  Joe  about  the home he mostly grew up in:   a Homosote and tarpaper shack not even as big as the chicken house out back of it; and there were so many kids that when   each one got to be eight or ten years old,  he or she moved to the chicken house.   No stove there, but the chickens kept it from freezing, and the kids slept in a pile under one blanket.
        "We didn't know how uncomfortable we were.  And we didn't know about apricots!"   He took his apricots and turned, nodding to me again and  actually smiling … albeit somewhat yellowly.
            "HI THERE"  he said, on a high note that rang in my head as in the P.O. lobby.
                 "No William" I told him.

    I even saw him at the Wilcox General Store in Ledyard, which is five or six miles from here.  He was buying semi-expired bananas at a reduced price.      This time, I didn't say anything about William,  but as he left the counter, Pierce seemed to inquire quickly into my eyes, making a little noise like a laugh in his throat.
    I don't  know which way he went from Ledyard.  Not down the road I drove home.   
      He seemed to be everywhere around me, but it was a long while before I learned where he was living.
   My neighbor   Eddy Maasson, who has an awful lot of double consonants in his name, owned the Fargo before he sold it and retired twenty or thirty years ago.   Now he walks up and down the road in fair weather, keeps track of the neighborhood by talking  to everybody,  and might have been a little dissapointed that he did not appear in my last book.
  Eddie  doesn't go down to the Fargo much anymore, but, like most everybody around here, he has seen Pierce at the post office and has encounterd him a number of times during his own walks up and down Route 90. Eddie and Oren are often enough talking together in front of the or in the P.O. when I go for mail.  It was Eddie who told me  Pierce is living  less than a mile  down  through the woods from Dog's Plot,  in a concrete silo that I have often enough seen through the woods as I walked down a gorge ridge, but had thought was abandoned. 
      He says someone almost finished converting it  to comfortable living quarters when an electrical fire turned the silo into a chimney.   No further improvements were made at that point, and no one   lived in the place for twenty years, until Oren came around.  
   According to Eddie, Oren calls the old Silo "Cayuga Tower" because it's very near the lake, but I know the barnyard is so over-grown  with Buckthorn, Juniper, and Cottonwood that he couldn't see the  lake for the trees; he couldn't even see the sky, from  Cayuga Tower.
 Wiring runs in and out of the windows, and twists up the outside of the silo,  along with wrist-thick Virginia Creeper and Poison Ivy.   
  A depression in the yard  with cattails growing at the bottom may be a failed dug-pond or a sump hole.

        Oren had told Eddie all about his origins on the Pine Planes up north.  He told him about William/Skippy too.
        He told Ed that when the baby was born and his mother saw his undeveloped legs,  she  waved the it  away, saying it was not a baby of hers, saying it was nobody.
     The chicken house sisters  called him Nobody and rocked him serially.  Oren was the only boy among them at the time, unless you count Nobody.  Boys tended to wander away early.
    The sisters  pierced  eggs  for Nobody to suck, then put him to sleep under a broody hen.

   When  it seemed Nobody was going to survive to be somebody,   they called him Fourteen for a while, because they figured he was the fourteenth child, counting the ones that had died or wandered off.  But he was such a lively little thing that they began calling him Skippy.
      And  he had Skipped off the same year the boy  appeared there in our family's back yard garden,   a boy with the same bodily disproportions and cranial distortions that make him look like an old man standing in a hole.
    Oren told Ed all this in one conversation during which Ed could scarcely get a word in, which is a rare thing.  And Oren told Eddie that he was expecting William.
         " Expecting your imaginary bother," Eddie observed, "That Oren guy's a bit of a fruit cake, isn't he?"
   Maybe, but Oren  has even more ingredients than listed on his fruit-cake of a business card, and he is everywhere. One evening in May, my partner, our assistant, and I were up at the Pumpkin Hill Bistro, sitting out on the patio, having a sort of business lunch.  Actually we had come for the tomato basil soup.    When, nobody by Oren  Pierce again came walking up the path past the vineyard,  and sat right down at our table.
 It was as if we had been waiting for him so we could order, which was convenient, because the waitress came right up.
    Oren would like to try  basil  tomato soup too.   And a slice of lemon in sparkling water. 
  I  introduced him around and asked him how was life in Cayuga Tower, and he said the cell phone reception wasn't too good there because of the trees or maybe the cement walls, so when I call,  I should just leave him a voice message.   After all, he had grown up in a house with no phone at all … and no outhouse even, just a shit-hole  in the mudroom floor, with a box over it to sit on and to keep kids from falling in.
     Oren talked without interruption, except that he took a spoon of soup after most every sentence, even while talking about shit holes.  
         Until he was three his family  had a real house on the pine planes, small but with two stories, an outhouse, AND a smoke house.  His father had worked smelting iron near village of Lewisberg on the pine plains between Natural Bridge and Black River, until   the government took over that and several other mining   villages as the Pine Camp military reservation expanded into Fort Drum for the World War II effort.    The family had moved not much farther than the edge of he reservation and, failing to get a job at the paper mill,  his father went West looking for work took most of the  government buy-out money with him, and   he has not been heard from in the fifty or sixty years since.
    That said, Oren stood up from the table, explaining that he had an appointment for a Badminton  session so he had to leave before desert. 
   But before he walked off, he Oren  pulled a   pad from his pocket and put it on the table, asking us to take a look at it sometime. 
       Which of course we did as soon as he was gone.
   On each page, written in italics with a broad-nibbed pen was an aphorisim,  a homily, or whatever you want to call it,  like:   "Use Logic to eliminate confusion and prejudice, in order to arrive at reasonable conclusions."  That one struck me as particularly ironic, given Oren's peculiar twists of logic.

      Besides the trades listed on his business card, Oren Pierce combs the beach and makes jewlery from     stones rolled in the waves so long they are vaguely fish shaped, and suitable for making the ear- rings, pendants, and windpchimes that he sells at the Aurora Art and Design Center.
     When I went to stock our shelf there   with more books, the dog   Lucy,  Lulu, or Loosefur, as Oren variously calls her, was sitting outside next to the large welded statue of a lizard.
      Inside,  Pierce was   showing Jacci his newest stone pendants.  I told him there was no sign of William or Skippy and Oren said he figured as much, but said that if I ever needed someone to look after the chickens, cats, and dogs for while …..   he was practically raised in a chicken house. 
          After he left, Jacci said Oren had offered himself at the Meeshe spa downstrairs to do his unique Osteoempethatic therapy.  Osteoempathology, as he has since explained to me, is a nano-electro-static, non-contact method of adjusting skeletal allignment and enlivening balance points, where the healthy body maintains a magnetic field much like a gyroscope, all of which he does without the actual laying on of hands.  Actual touching anyone would require a license, for which he would certification in massage or medicine.     But Meeshee turned him down. 

     Then one day Oren returned here to Dog's Plot, this time down the driveway instead of out of the orchard,  wanting to renew his chicken-sitting offer;  also to hand me some fresh adages, and wise sayings.
  We sat on the deck and I gave him water and  plastic, squeeze-lemon concentrate, because I keep only real water and had no actual lemon, but he accepted it with a happy squeak, as if he had seen me put a couple of jiggers of vodka in it, then he sat down and told me all about his idea for a young adult book about a special being named Nowella whose mother was a Black Bear, and whose father was a White Man.  It was a very  long and complicated metaphysical narrative involving many a crisis of identity and the basic mysteries of individual existence. 
   I asked him about his business card professions, like Badminton?  Is that how you spell it?  I thought it was badmitten. anyway?
   He  said he used   Badminton   as  what he called a wordless, diagnostic  conversation with his clients.   As for his unique practice of Osteoempathy, to which the Badminton is often  a prelude, he proudly confessed that it was his own invention, including the scientific  language.    It is essentialoly a placebo, and placebos  are on the average thirty percent effective.  That is better than most drugs!
   I guess I get it, and anyway I really couldn't argue with him.
     He had become extremely animated, so his voice was at a rather higher pitch, as if he were trying to prevail over the sound-cloud in a crowded bar. 
       I have since noticed that Oren seems to get drunk on just lemon and soda most EVERY time I give him any amount of it and a little of my time. 
      He left me with another batch of adages and oracles, some with a bit more of an edge than the earlier ones.  "There are two opposite answers to every question.  Both are wrong."
   Not long after that first intoxicated over-sharing, Oren returned with a  sheaf of not-half-bad Nowella stories, and some of them were later published by Georgia Cuningham in the Metaphysical Times, with more under contract.
      Very soon after the Pumpkin Hill Bistro encounter we walked in to the little Cayuga Bank to make a withdrawal, and found Oren ahead of us filling a deposit slips at the one desk there for that.    As he yielded the desk he handed me another few sheets of aphorisms in monumental italics,
     These were generally an improvement over his earlier aphorisms.  I particularly liked, "Revise your thoughts according to your feelings, as well as your feelings according to your thoughts, until they settle their differences."  Or "Your best protection, is to watch where you are going." Cute.
     Georgia Cuningham eventually colluded with Oren to design and produce a deck of    Oracle cards,  each with one of his oracular sayings, coupled with newly-alleged  metaphysical properties of various minerals and conglomerate stones, each card picturing a skull carved out of that material. He apparently had this  in mind all along.  He provided the list of minerals and their metaphysical properties; and he himself has a plum-sized, carved onyx skull that he uses in his Osteoempthay practice.

      Oren stopped by often enough during the card design period   that he has grown almost familiar, not that I quite understand him.
   As it was I finally took him up on the offer to look after the place when we are away up North, or out on book tour.
    It's cold comfort there in his Cayuga tower; so when we go away  Oren happily comes up here  to look after Dog's Plot, staying in the back-yard  trailer with  the sky-viewing cupola, and the comfy  bed   that converts to a bath tub .  He says he writes well there.  Whether at the fold down table, in the cupola, or the bathtub, I can't say.           

    While encamped in the trailer here, Oren wrote more Nowella   stories, this time locating Nowella among  the trunk full of abandoned stuffed animals I myself brought here to Dog's Plot from Edgewood Place:   and which  I  showed him at some point. I often leave it open so the animals can breathe a little.  According to Oren,  the steamer trunk animals lived in  house on a hill with diamond shaped windows and chickens and cats and every thing just like ours at Dog's Plot, and that much is true, but in the stories, WE do not seem to exist, which is a little weird, if you are us.

   The Nowella stories are not bad, by which I mean they are good,  but they are not the children's tales you might expect. What are they? Is there an Earth Science Fiction shelf?  A school of inter species relaltionships?  I don't know where to shelve the book of Nowella, but   the Metaphysical times is planning the Book of Nowella. 
      So I am alright with  that, and I am used to having Oren around here, difficult as it is to contact him when I am actually trying, what with bad cell phone reception in the tower, and his not being there when I drop off notes … he always  gets the message and appears just  before we leave.
    A few days after we had come back from a  recent Tall Animal Review tour  ( and he had moved back into his tower)  I walked by the deck door on the way to the john late one night, and I noticed a faint light glowing through the cupola of the trailer.
       In the morning, when I went out to feed the chickens,  I saw, a woman in front of  the trailer, wearing little except a pyramid of red hair, someone's boxer shorts, and a whole lot of freckles.   It was definitely William's old girlfriend Gee, but looking much older, than when I had last seen her, or maybe she just looked older naked. She was pouring   dirty water out of a dish pan into the milkweed stand.    
   "Excuse my wrinkled old body she said, reading my mind,   "but the pipes seemed to be clogged.  I don't know what all he put down there."
         Well excuse me, but  what was
SHE doing here?
           She told me she was waiting for William.
             Well maybe she WAS waiting for William;  and anyway, I had learned already not to cross wires with Gee's passionate intensity.  Tell her she is crazy and you will provoke a storm of curses that could drive a ship, a blast of curses  such that if a Sailor could deliver such curses, he would be hung for a witch, which has never happend because no sailor could curse like Gee.  She could drive off  a gang of rapists, he Devil and God too, with those curses   And she would clean up the trailer pretty well too, that being one of her proud trades, though I had to clear the clotted drain. It was just a ratty glob of her own hair.  I suppose there is a lot of grey ot the red as it grows now, but there is so much of it still and she dyes it with Sumach berries.  She is an herbalist, when there's a market for it.
When she and William lived here before, I had to tell her to stop picking the Joe Pye weed in the orchard, because I kind of like  seeing it, and  we don't have that much.
               William, of course, did not appear, but just few days after my discovery of  Gee living in the trailer, I saw Oren  Pierce's dog  slinking through the orchard.