Marquis of Queensbury Rules

Marquis of Queensbury Rules

By Victor Epp

By now we were moving up the social ladder. Oh yeah, a brand new bungalow in a brand new subdivision in the suburbs, that was us. Well, let me put that into a bit clearer perspective for you. This brand new subdivision was so new; it was just as surprised as anyone else that it even existed. Three new houses almost finished, in a cow pasture were the only testament to the elaborate plans on the brochure. For all intents and purposes we were back on the farm.

Truth be told, moving day should have given me a realistic appreciation for that fateful move from Teulon corner. Rain in the city wouldn't normally have been a problem. After all, you had your paved streets, covered moving vans and all that. This was true for us; well at least up to two and a half blocks of our new house. That's where everything stopped - except the rain. The developers hadn't yet paved the streets so it was shank's mare from there on in. Even with my connections in the Rotary Club I couldn't persuade the Security Storage guy to drive any further. Well, it was a long day to say the least. And as old man Krahn, the house builder was to discover over and over, the wife's 'delicate' condition at the time didn't make it any easier. In fact, I've got a notion she was the reason he finally went out of the building business.

As time went by, our neighbors established themselves as well. That is to say, the other two cow pasture dwellers, one family on either side of us. On the north side was a traveling salesman for an auto parts company. He was a tall, lean guy with a booming voice. Likeable enough, he was. His wife was very pleasant too. But his boy was another story. A couple of years older than our kid, he was given to a lot more adventure than was good for him, particularly when it came to playing with matches.

Wellsir, as is bound to happen from time to time, the two boys had a disagreement about something. Darned if I know what it was. In fact, they likely didn't know either, not that it mattered much. As can be expected, given the difference in size, ours got the worst of it. He came in the house; tearfully complaining about the kid next door, and looking somewhat the worse for wear.

The wife never did like the neighbor's brat, as she called him. She thought he was mean. She didn't like his obsession with fire either, and by God, she wasn't going to put up with her little boy being pushed around. It was time to teach the neighbors a lesson about how to bring up their delinquent kid and if I wasn't going to do it, by gum she was!

Well, she did. It was a Friday afternoon as I recall. It would have to be because Richard was home from his sales trip. He was out in the driveway firing up the barbecue and enjoying a martini or two and being a typically upwardly mobile suburbanite in his shorts and muscle shirt. The last thing on his mind was a pint sized Tasmanian devil ripping into him with a string of cuss words the like of which I hadn't heard since grade school.

The neighbor stood his ground like the man he was, all six foot two of him. The wife, maybe a foot or more shorter if she stood on tiptoes wasn't giving up either. I guess what finally took the wind out of their sails was the fact that in the middle of the screaming match they noticed that the boys had gone off in the field across the street and were having a ball chasing frogs. Nobody ever brought up anything about who was acting like adults and who was acting like children. We didn't have to. It was a mute point.

After that I made two rules, probably the best I ever thought up. I told the kid that if I ever found him starting a fight, he'd have me to deal with. That was rule number one. Rule number two was if he ever got into a fight he didn't start he'd better finish it. Otherwise rule number one would apply. It probably accounts for him not getting into too many fracases after that, although there were a couple of instances of note that are the reason I got into remembering this in the first place.

Wouldn't you know it; the first one was caused by a girl. She was a classmate in either kindergarten or grade one. Her name was Tammy and she was a character straight out of Charles Dickens - a scrawny, mousy haired little slip of a thing with a giant crush on our boy. You couldn't help but smile when she came around.

Now just think for a minute about the relationship boys and girls at the age of six and seven might have. You're not talking about mushy romantic stuff or even friendly play. What happens is that boys throw things at girls. It's kind of reverse courting - an attention getter of sorts. Unfortunately, this behavior can sometimes backfire and lead to some of the most spectacular brouhaha’s you could ever imagine. Girls have a way of triggering that sort of thing, whether by accident or by design.

That was exactly what happened one fine Sunday afternoon. It was ironically enough, Boxing Day. My folks were over at the house for dinner and the kid was down the road playing with his pal in the snow. The doorbell rings and Tammy is there all starry eyed and wiping her runny nose on her sleeve, wanting to know if our boy can come out to play. Well, he's not home I tell her, and like a dummy I point to where the boys are. Of course, I can see them in our still sparse subdivision. They're building a snow fort. Off goes Tammy, undaunted, to find her man.

You can already suspect what's coming, can't you? Poor Tammy suddenly becomes the unwitting target for lumps of snow. The two boys, one on either side of the street are pelting her left and right. I think that she was either skinny enough or fast enough that they didn't do her any harm, but what followed was the most amazing spectacle you could ever want to witness.

Both boys had a pretty good throwing arm, active as they were. It was only their aim that needed work. It just happened that one of the snow lumps our boy had picked up was more ice than snow. When he whipped it at Tammy, he missed and caught his friend right in the forehead. Well, there was enough raw pain in that chunk of ice to dissolve the friendship right then and there. At least it would have been if his friend's older brother hadn't been on hand to take charge.

Now we were inside the house all cozy and warm so we couldn't hear the conversation but near as we could tell somebody needed some satisfaction. My best guess is that the older brother had been sent out to look after his younger sibling and had to take care of matters himself. He was probably of an age where he had been reading about fair play and duels and all that stuff. I'm only speculating of course, but when I was about that old I knew all about Robin Hood and Sir Lancelot and honor in battle and all that noble fair play bumph.

In any event, what we saw from our ringside seat in our living room was these two seven year olds, all bundled up in snow suits, squaring off like two Victorian boxers while the older brother refereed. They would go at it hammer and tong until somebody threw a low blow or pushed the other one down. The older brother would make them break contact and start over again. Every once in a while the three of them would sit down in the snow bank and rest. Then they'd be at it again. It was all Marquis of Queensbury rules, right and proper. It seems to me they even shook hands when it was over.

This is how it went for a whole hour, all the way down the block until they got to our house. By then they were so tired, they'd forgotten what the fight was all about. And Tammy, having gotten her dose of attention from her seven year-old man went on to other things. In the meantime we'd had the best hour of entertainment we could possibly have hoped for. Muhammad Ali himself couldn't have done better.

Well, I've got to give the kid his due. He never did have to deal with the old man over rule number one or rule number two.

McEwen vs. McMuffin

McEWEN vs. McMUFFIN


He thought the thing was dead. Well, before that he thought it was just a piece of somebody's garbage that had been dropped by one of the long line of trespassers who used his yard as a shortcut to the convenience store. He was going to kick it into the snow at the edge of his walk but thought better of it, opting instead to pick it up in his gloved hand. If he'd told those kids once, he'd told them a hundred times to not throw garbage in his yard.

He reached down to grab it by a tattered end, still muttering under his breath. The thing suddenly moved and squeaked.

"Jesus!" he exploded and dropped it, crossing himself to atone for the utterance. Not that he was still a practicing Catholic, but it was a reflex from boyhood. Besides, it allowed him to cuss with a relatively clear conscience whenever the mood struck him. Well, you never knew about these things and McEwen wasn't one to take a chance with the powers that be, just in case.

The thing was alive! Was it one of those big sewer rats that had come out of the big complex? He knelt down for a closer look. It was a cat, for God's sake - a mostly dead, mostly frozen alley cat barely hanging on to life by the slenderest of threads! Its fur wasn't really fur anymore, just clumps of matted hair sticking out in spiked tufts here and there. The face was battered and bloodied. Even as he was thinking it was kinder to leave the wretched creature there to die in peace. McEwen headed for the house; quickly returning with the oversized cushion from his couch and the blanket he loved to lie under while he watched television.

Kneeling down again, he gently laid the cat on the pillow not knowing whether it had already expired, and covered it with the blanket. His eyes were seeing double again as he rose. 'Damned pills,' he thought, crossing himself again. They sure played havoc with him. Ignoring the inconvenience, McEwen headed back to the house. If the cat was going to die anyway, it might as well be comfortable. He'd want the same courtesy for himself. That thought had crossed his mind more than once since he had contracted an aggressive form of diabetes in the lab where he worked.

Inside, McEwen busied himself spreading out enough old newspapers on the floor beside the massive desk that pretty well contained his whole material world. Teakettle, tea bags, giant ashtray, remote control, computer, all those things necessary to a man's existence were there. It was his command center, so to speak. From here he could do just about anything that needed doing, including communicate with his ex-wife who had left him partly because of odd habits such as this. Gently he laid his package down on the newspaper, making sure there was enough space under the blanket for the cat to breathe. He put two little bowls; one with milk and the other with water at the edge of the cushion where he remembered the head was and put the kettle on.

There was little else to do now but wait. McEwen opened a new pack of smokes, sat back in his chair and puffed away until the kettle boiled. His eye fell on the blanket when the kettle began to whistle. There was neither sound nor movement. He poured the steaming water over the used teabag already in the mug. 'Should have washed it first,' he thought. “Nah, next time.” Then he settled back and puffed away at another cigarette. It was strange, McEwen thought. He was feeling as wretched as ever he did after taking those blasted pills - nauseous, crampy, and his head ached. None of that seemed to bother him just now. It wasn't important. He just sat there beside the cat, sipping his tea and sucking on his smoke.

Almost trance-like he found himself humming softly, crooning a lullaby from somewhere in the distant past. It surprised him, just coming out like that. Not bad voice either, he thought. All the whiskey and cigarettes hadn't quite killed it yet. McEwen could see himself sitting there, keeping vigil over the pathetic creature he had dragged in. It was almost an out of body experience. Everything was as it should be, he thought.

Three cups of tea, half a pack of smokes and four trips to the bathroom, McEwen was still sitting in his chair, quite content. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a slight movement of the blanket. He kept on humming, eyes locked on to the cover. Another movement, then another, and then a small nose poked out from under it, inching toward the milk. Slowly the nose moved along until it found its mark. The wee beastie must have been starved as much as beaten, McEwen thought as the entire bowl of milk vanished.

He glanced up at the clock on the wall. Two-twenty it said. Two-twenty a.m. it must be. Uh-oh, McEwen thought. He'd been sitting there for nearly eleven hours with no supper. If he didn't get something into himself right quick, he might go into insulin shock. There was nobody here except him and this pathetic creature. Mrs. Martens the cleaning lady wouldn't show up until ten in the morning. By that time, well -.

Wearily he dragged himself to the kitchen and picked up a banana on the way to the fridge. He changed his mind. The banana would have to do. He was just too tired to make supper. It seemed a supreme effort to get himself to the couch where he collapsed and promptly fell asleep.

Oh Lord, the doorbell was ringing. That must mean Mrs. Martens would soon be showing her face. She always did that. She'd ring the doorbell and wait thirty minutes before entering the house. Doing housework, well that was one thing. She was very good and took great pride in her work. She didn't take any nonsense from McEwen either. If she put something where she thought it ought to go and he moved it to his liking, she darn soon set him straight. About being dressed proper when she arrived, that was another thing she was particular about. There was to be no lolling about in his underwear when she arrived, and no strange women in the house either. No point in having a clean house with a dirty old man in it, she reasoned.

Before he could raise himself, McEwen became aware that the little cat had crawled out from under the blanket sometime during the night and climbed up on to his chest. It lay there sound asleep. Gently, he placed it back on the pillow and got himself together. By the time Mrs. Martens returned he had changed his clothes and fixed a neater corner for his new friend. She wouldn't like it but McEwen wasn't in any mood to argue. She'd just have to remember who was the employee and who was the employer.

She burst in the door just as McEwen was sitting down to his breakfast. Well at least he was decent, if nothing else. Mrs. Martens said nothing about the cat. In fact, once she laid eyes on it, she said nothing at all. But her cleaning activities went on at an accelerated pace - noisier too. That was McEwen's punishment - the silent treatment.

'Disapproval noted and acknowledged' he chuckled under his breath. No use in doing anything until she left.

"So its come down to this," he shook his head at the site of the two of them in the bathroom mirror, he in his shirt and trousers that had once fit him about forty pounds ago and the bedraggled furry creature in his arms. "Two half dead, used up orphans left alone to sail the stormy seas of life. It's a pretty sorry state of affairs, but at least you won't be alone." As an afterthought he added, "I guess now neither will I, come to think of it."

Cleaning the cat up proved to be more of a challenge than McEwen had counted on. She tolerated her bath surprisingly well until it came to her shoulder and her face. The left shoulder was visibly bruised and obviously sore. The face was another matter. What he had assumed to be cuts could now be seen as split skin from a series of blows.

There wasn't much to be done with those now except to soften the scabs with ointment. It was too late to do any stitching. In the end he settled for a bandage he suspected would be torn off as soon as the cat had a free paw. Done now and dried, the cat looked like a casualty from a refugee camp. In fact; what with McEwen's emaciated clothes rack of a body carrying his water soaked shirt and trousers, they were a matching pair.

Both were exhausted and McEwen had to eat. It was well past lunchtime. He had been so preoccupied with cleaning up the cat that he had forgotten again. That was happening a lot lately with this new, powerful cocktail of medicine he was being given. The side effects would just begin to wear off when it was time to take another dose and start the cycle all over again. Well, what could a person do? The alternative was not something he was prepared for yet. He would share a bran muffin with the cat and then go to the store for some real cat food. When he got home, they would dine together in style.

The cat literally attacked the bran muffin, wolfing it down in great chunks and leaving none for McEwen.

"You'd not care to wait and have a bit of butter on it," he smiled. Of course the cat must be starved. He would go right away and bring back some proper food. On his way out he grabbed another muffin.

Dinner was delightful to say the least. You'd think McEwen had a new lady friend over for a romantic evening. He set a fine table with good dishes and cutlery for himself, brand new stainless steel bowls for the cat, tablecloth and candles too. Now he sat at one end and the cat at the other with the best cat food he could find.

McEwen watched curiously as the cat ate the food gingerly, looking up from time to time with what seemed to be disdain. Still she ate it all while giving the impression that such fare was beneath her. When she was done, she lay down in front of the bowl as if waiting for McEwen to finish. Well, it was nice to see she had manners, he thought. He had an idea. He sliced another bran muffin in two, slathered butter on both pieces and presented half on a saucer to his new friend. Instantly she attacked it with gusto. It was gone in seconds. A few laps of fresh water from the other bowl and she retired to her cushion.

What an unusual creature this cat was. She displayed an almost human behavior. Well then, she must have a name. Indeed, a name - what should it be? Of course, it should be Muffin since that seemed to be a passion for her. No, wait - that sounded all too common. McMuffin - that was better. McEwen and McMuffin - of course! McEwen set out his tray of five pills and began swallowing. He was well pleased all around. McEwen and McMuffin he mused, it had a ring to it.

He never used his first name anyway. It always embarrassed him. That's how unlikely it was. Mario was the name his mother had given him. A hopeless romantic, she had been enamored with that American tenor Mario Lanza at the time. She bestowed the unfortunate legacy upon her unsuspecting son. By the time he left the family nest to seek his fame and fortune, he'd had had enough of that name, so he left it behind too. Whenever anyone asked his name, he'd give out McEwen. When they asked for his given name, all he would admit to was that it was the same. As far as anyone in this country knew, he was McEwen McEwen. At least the ribbing he took over that was in better humor.

Ah, the tragedy of women was such an enigma. It wasn't that he disliked women. He loved them - every last one of them. Often that posed a problem. But they confused him with their strange ways. The few stabs he had made at getting to know them always ended in disaster. In the end he decided to regard them as an amusement - an entertainment. That way he could keep his feelings out of it and stop being emotionally steam rolled every time a relationship ended.

This new friendship though was comfortable, so natural as if it was meant to be. The two of them would talk for hours, well into the night on many occasions. They would discuss anything from the pyramids of Egypt to Stone Henge to the 'Bloody Government' to use McEwen's terminology. The fact that McMuffin spoke only Cat didn't seem to hinder these dialogues at all. In fact her thick dialect suited McEwen just fine. He'd himself held on to his Scottish brogue and the colloquialisms that were so much a part of it. Not that he was putting on airs; he just liked the descriptive vividness of them. Words and expressions were things of beauty to him. What a dull, gray world it would be if it couldn't be painted in precise, eloquent words.

And McMuffin shared his views and his interests. She quickly familiarized herself with the place, with McEwen's comings and goings, and with his habits. She created her own time space as well as her physical space to be in step with his. It appeared she could be as happy pursuing her own interests as she was listening to a reading of Longfellow's 'Song of Hiawatha'. She had her preferences too. She particularly liked Robert Service and Robbie Burns. Maybe, thought McEwen, she had a thing about anyone named Robert. One night, wanting to be sure that McMuffin had a grasp of his people language, he pulled out a copy of 'Mein Kampf' and began reading in a great loud German accent. McMuffin listened thoughtfully for a few minutes before becoming visibly annoyed. She put a paw up on the book and meowed thickly. McEwen could have sworn it was a Germanic growl. When he continued on, she unceremoniously hopped from the command center and stomped off to the kitchen. Amusing as the incident was, McEwen vowed not to intentionally annoy her again.

Up to now McEwen had plodded through the last few years like an automaton, putting one foot in front of the other without a great deal of enthusiasm. When his diabetes turned on him and became severely aggressive, he was philosophical about it. What could he complain about anyway? In younger days he'd traveled the world, met people in high and low places, was still connected to them via the Internet. What else could anyone expect? He knew that immortality was not an option and was long ago tired of chasing rainbows. Still, his habit forced him to amuse himself with little things no one else would think of. It was certainly better than holing up in some sterile hospital room, waiting for the grim reaper.

Now suddenly, McMuffin had put a different slant on things for him. Oh, his health wasn't improving any and if this latest concoction didn't work, it would be curtains anyway. That wasn't the issue. Now at least he had companionship - intelligent, non-demanding, unconditional companionship. Whatever time lay ahead was at the very least going to be fulfilling in some measure.

For the first time ever McEwen allowed himself to open the door on something that had been a dream for years. A wee cottage in the country would be nice for him and McMuffin. The very thought surprised him since he didn't know where it came from. It had nothing to do with anything, yet it had everything to do with everything. When all was said and done, McEwen's real worry here in the heart of the city was that McMuffin might get out of the house and meet with a disaster worse than before. Even now she was still limping and disfigured. At least in the country the two of them would be able to enjoy a breath of fresh air without fear of traffic.

Brushing aside the other risks such as getting lost, foxes and coyotes, him succumbing to his illness alone in the country, McEwen and McMuffin proceeded with newfound enthusiasm. It wasn't long before the deed was done over the protests of Mrs. Martens, bless her straight-laced heart. Bossy as she was, she did have a genuine concern for McEwen's welfare.

It was a glorious time of discovery for both of them in their little Garden of Eden. They walked every inch of the grounds, inspected every tree, every bush, every flower. They sat side by side on the porch watching the sun set. McEwen even started feeling a little better though he tired very easily. Was it the change of scenery or was his medicine really starting to work? Time would tell.

McMuffin took full ownership of the place within hours of their arrival. On days when McEwen had either been up too late or wasn't feeling well enough for their morning constitutional, she would put her one paw on his nose from her now permanent perch on his chest to let him know she was off for about an hour. Anticipating her independence, he had installed one of those flaps in the screen door so that she could come and go at will. She appreciated it too and said so while she watched him put it in. She knew exactly what it was for. It worked just fine too as long as the inside door was open.

As one is wont to do, McMuffin started exploring the things that were natural for cats to explore. She wanted to savor everything and the tops of trees were no exception. It never occurred to her that there might be squatters who didn't appreciate her presence. That's a problem city folk run in to. Its not that they're rude or anything, they just don't know any better. Well, this particular morning McMuffin had decided it might be nice to climb one of the big oak trees up towards the front of the property. Her one shoulder was still giving her trouble, but she figured it might help to give it a work out. What she didn't count on was that a big, fat, gray squirrel had its cache of food up there. Not only that, but the squirrel himself just happened to be in the tree at the time.

About half way up the thick rough trunk the squirrel noticed the advancing intruder. The question of 'Fight or Flight' came up briefly as the screaming squirrel started its barrage of threats and insults. It was quickly resolved though as he came barreling down the trunk and straight at McMuffin. She had the presence of mind to swing wide around the garden to give her a straight run in to her little private entrance. The squirrel wouldn't dare trespass there. Once her plan was in place she ran at lightning speed, making a screeching left turn at the wheelbarrow and headed straight for the door flap at top speed.

The other thing McMuffin hadn't counted on was that on this particular morning McEwen would rise soon after she left on her constitutional. His command center was now in the long converted verandah overlooking the front yard. From there he could not only conduct all his business and amusement, but at the same time, see all there was to see in this lovely place. That would all have been fine too except that there was a stiff breeze blowing that morning, wrapping itself around his bare legs. He had absently shut the inside door and put on the teakettle. McMuffin hit the door like a battering ram and collapsed in a heap, out colder than a wet mackerel. Startled by the loud thump, McEwen jumped up to see what had smashed in to his door. Seeing McMuffin lying there all crumpled up and limp, he had a sinking feeling. He looked up just in time to see the angry squirrel making his way back to the oak tree.

McMuffin wasn't herself for a good week. For one thing she had a big lump on the part of her head that had hit the door. Sensing a colossal headache, McEwen cared for her gently and gingerly. He played a lot of very soft Mozart and started singing lullabies again. It seemed to work. Hopefully she hadn't received too great a concussion, well maybe just enough so she wouldn't remember it was McEwen who had closed the inside door on her. Perhaps she wouldn't even remember the accident. That happened sometimes.

Presently she came around though. She soon resumed sleeping on McEwen's chest at night and waking him with her paw for their morning stroll. She again took up her post at the command center inspecting the computer monitor for new information and listening to his idle ramblings. Everything was back to normal.

McEwen got to thinking that McMuffin was just one of those accident-prone creatures who could make a disaster out of pretty well any situation. That was the second time he'd nursed her back to health. He had better start taking more care of himself if for no other reason than to take care of McMuffin. Independent as she was, she would never manage this place alone if he kicked the bucket. Who would even know she was there? Funny - just a few short months ago, he didn't really care one way or another, and now he felt a responsibility. Well, so be it.

The place in the autumn was spectacular to say the very least. The colors of the leaves on a variety of trees were akin to giant fireworks, frozen in space. McMuffin's apple tree was the favorite. She had selected it after the oak tree incident. There was nothing on it to interest a squirrel. McEwen kind of liked it too. The apples shone in the sunlight like Christmas tree decorations.

Unfortunately there was also a great female black bear who liked the apple tree as much as McEwen and McMuffin, but for a different reason. One morning the two were just returning from their stroll, chatting away unmindfully when a great roar brought them up short. There, between them and the house stood the bear munching on the ripe fruit. She was not pleased with the intrusion. What to do? McEwen's hundred and twenty pounds didn't even stack up against her one front paw. She could certainly out run him in the shape he was in. McMuffin on the other hand, had her own game plan. She headed straight for the oak tree. McEwen remembered thinking that it wasn't much of a good idea, given past experience. Nonetheless, she scampered noisily up the tree, howling and growling. Predictably, the squirrel started down angrily after her. That was what McMuffin was counting on. Waiting just long enough so the squirrel was committed to the chase, she headed straight for the bear who was already in the act of rearing up on her hind legs. Up her leg, her belly, her face went McMuffin, claws out as far as she could stretch them. The squirrel that couldn't care less about anything but the annoying cat was in hot pursuit. The bear on the other hand had just lost all focus on McEwen given the sharp-clawed furry fury that dug in to her nose and eyes not to mention the soft spot on her belly. McEwen was completely mesmerized. This was definitely a David and Goliath story. The bear thought so too. The painful pinpricks in her skin coming from places she couldn't even see plus the chattering of the angry squirrel were just too much. She thumped down on all fours and with one last roar, took off into the bush where she'd come from.

McMuffin now returned to McEwen and turned on her tail to face down the squirrel. He in his wisdom went blustering back to his oak tree. McEwen was still standing there with his mouth open in disbelief. McMuffin coolly wanted to know where they were before this untimely interruption. So they carried on as though nothing had happened.

Lying in bed that night, McEwen was reflective on their situation. McMuffin knew a long discussion was in the works. It was always that way when he stretched out like that with his hands folded behind his head. She settled herself in the hollow between his sparse ribs and waited in the dark.

"You know," he began, "that was either the bravest thing you did today or the dumbest. Where did you ever get the idea for that squirrel to chase you?"

McEwen was startled. In her cat reply, he was sure he heard the human word, 'idiot'. It struck him funny. What - was she learning to speak human now?

"The point is," he continued, "Here we are in our dream cottage in the country which pleases us to no end. We are way out of our league here. If something happens to either one of us the other won't survive more than a few days." He was exaggerating of course, but it seemed reasonable at the time.

"We have to turn this in to a challenge just to make it interesting. If neither of us cares that much about our own welfare, that's one thing. But we do care about each other, right?"

What was the point?

"Simple," McEwen continued after a moment. How should he put this? "You need to try to keep me alive so that you can survive. I need to keep you alive for the sake of my own survival."

Hmm.

"It would be McEwen vs. McMuffin - kind of a grudge match to see who can keep the other alive the longest."

Now he was getting stupid. McMuffin put both her paws over his mouth, gave a yawn and promptly fell asleep.

More About Oatmeal Cookies

Part III - More about Oatmeal Cookies

By Victor Epp

In part one of this little trilogy, I started with oatmeal cookies and so I'll finish with oatmeal cookies. You've already seen how they can inspire lofty ideals and focus on higher goals. Well, what about teaching manners? What about teaching charm and grace and all the things that go with it like getting along with sultry, temperamental young women? Would any of these things have been learned without the power of the oatmeal cookie? Well maybe yes and maybe no, but I think not. Let me explain.

The very seeds of everything that was to follow in our boy's life were sown right there on Parkhill Street in Kirkfield Park. That was where he found her and fell in love for the first time. Her name was Karen, and she was a beauty. She was the proverbial girl next door - the stuff movies are made of. It was a torrid romance to say the least, sort of like Bogie and Bacall, and fraught with turbulence as love affairs of three and four-year-olds often are. The two were almost inseparable. But their personalities were so different; you'd never know when they might erupt in a shoving match or a fistfight. As I said, it was just like Bogie and Bacall.

An example of how tight this relationship was is shown in the big fuss about our going camping on holidays one summer. The hullabaloo those two lovebirds put up about it would make you wonder if we were ever coming back again. Karen had to come to wave a tearful goodbye as we backed out of the driveway and our whole time away was consumed with going back home. Finally the holiday was at an end and we were homeward bound. Wouldn't you know it? The car had barely stopped back in our driveway when our boy was out the door, hugging and kissing his beloved Karen. Then he pushed her down in the gravel and the fight was on - again!

As luck would have it, the Duffuses lived on the other side of us. Big Tom Duffus was a lean, mean looking ex army sergeant major with a gruff sort of voice to match his looks. The children saw right through him though as he worked in his garden and with the flower pots in his little homemade greenhouse. He never fooled them for a minute. They never hesitated to pass the time of day with him, and he never refused them either.

Mrs. Duffus, Tom's Scottish war bride of fifteen years or more, was the exact opposite of old Tom. Short and dumpy, she reminded me of an old English fishwife, standing out there on the back platform hanging out her wash. Picture if you will the sight of such a woman in a faded summer dress, a roll-your-own cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth, hanging up her clothes. Imagine your surprise when she addresses you with a cheery, soft spoken good morning in her thick Scottish brogue. These two were absolutely delightful neighbors who had no children of their own. Perhaps that's what drew them to the street full of baby boomers.

Well now then, to oatmeal cookies. No, I hadn't forgotten. I just had to set the scene for you. Of course you know that Scots and oatmeal go together just as much as Scots and bagpipes. So it's no surprise that Mrs. Duffus would have oatmeal cookies on hand. It wasn't long before our two lovers along with several of their friends had Mrs. Duffus' number. Now picture this if you please. They would troop nicely in to the front yard, being careful not to step on Mr. Duffus' flowerbeds, ring the doorbell and this is about what you'd hear.

"Good morning Mrs. Duffus, we came to visit."

"Och now, isn't that nice of ye. Well come in then and I'll see if there aren't a few wee cookies with a bit o' milk. Would ye like that?"

Of course they would! Why the heck else would they be there anyway? And wouldn't you know it, they'd be on their best behavior because they knew they'd be back. And so manners were learned and socialization skills were honed and so was an appreciation for dark eyed, sultry women.

(Morgan, I'd be willing to bet any money that you've heard your daddy say things like ‘Thanks for tea and toast, or cookies and milk, or coffee and cake’ at some time or other. Oh, and go have a good look at your mom while you're at it. It seems he never lost his appreciation for dark eyed sultry women either.)

So next thanksgivings when you are remembering things to be thankful for don't forget about oatmeal cookies. Without them, there are a lot of things that might not have happened.

Part II - The Dresser Caper

The measure of a man or woman is taken at a very early age. Once set, the course of the journey of life takes an unveering course to it's very end. So it was with . . . . .

Part II - The Dresser Caper

By Victor Epp

It can't be corroborated just what it was that caused the dresser caper. Certainly oatmeal cookies couldn't have been the cause. But given the success of the oatmeal cookie caper, it was inevitable that this would follow. Suffice it to say that once you get the idea that good things are found in high places, then reaching ever higher is bound to be your destiny.

Now you have to understand that we weren't exactly present as observers to all the details of these adventures. It's a good thing too, because otherwise they would never have happened in the first place and who knows, our boy may never have become the achiever he was. On the other hand, we weren't exactly absent either. But how many eyes can you have in your head at once? So in the telling of these stories, the blow-by-blow details come not from eyewitness accounts as much as they do from knowing exactly how his mind worked in putting his body into action. I've proven over and over that my descriptions are absolutely accurate to the last details. It's a mysterious gift that comes from parenthood.

In this case though, his mother was in on the finale, and what a finale it was! Slippery hardwood floors and a flannel diaper avoided a tragedy and made it all the more spectacular.

As I recall we had just bought new furniture for his bedroom. No, that's not right either. Oh I know, I had just painted it all with that new-fangled Flecto paint that had to be applied with a sprayer. It was awful stuff to work with, but once it was on and dried it was indestructible. Besides his bed, there was a dresser and a four-drawer chest. Now to call this a dresser caper is a bit of a misnomer. The summit this time was the top of the chest of drawers.

Again, to capture the picture of the event you have to be able to visualize this blond tousle headed Sir Edmond Hillary with hopeful little blue eyes fixed on discovering the world - the big high world. With that in mind, you can also picture the chest of drawers, not too big, but children's size. I mention that because it didn't have the big heavy drawers like in today's oversized furniture. In other words, it was possible for a pint-sized kid to open drawers, even if only enough to peek inside.

Well, you guessed it. If you start opening drawers from the bottom you can build kind of a staircase to the top. But there's a catch because it can get very tricky; - physics again. See, as you climb up the drawers, the center of gravity changes with the redistribution of weight. This would all be fine if, when you grab on to the top-drawer handle, it didn't slide open.

Well it wasn't fine this time because he did grab it and it did slide open - just as his mother was coming to check up on him. Now try to keep your mind on the action here. Down comes the chest of drawers like a giant tree, our boy hanging on for dear life. The open drawers slow the fall somewhat while his mother stands there paralyzed in absolute terror. There's a loud crash and the kid comes squirting out from under the chest like toothpaste being extruded out of a tube. The slippery hardwood floor sends the chest one way and it's extruded victim the other way.

The bedlam that followed had more to do with hysteria than reason. But I don't want to spoil such a spectacular show with that. Evel Knievel would have been right proud.

Lure of the Highest Mountain

This is the first part in a mini-trilogy that I don't tire of reading. I hope I've painted a picture as vivid as the one in my mind's eye for the reader.

Lure of the Highest Mountain/Oatmeal Cookies

By Victor Epp

Part I - Assault on the Fridge

What causes people to strive for the unachievable - to climb the highest mountain against impossible odds? We gasp in awe at the indomitable spirit that tests every fiber of the human body in the pursuit of higher goals, whatever they may be. Admiration of such achievements inspires us to emulate our heroes, if only we can learn what drives them to their destiny.

That sense of purpose, that ethic of achieving must come from somewhere. These must be very special people, who strive for their goals while the rest of us would rather watch television, or play video games, or spend an enormous amount of time and energy making up excuses for not doing something we were supposed to do. Just where does this insatiable thirst come from anyway?

Oatmeal cookies are the answer, plain and simple. Oh, does that surprise you? You were thinking more along the lines of destiny, a thirst for knowledge or a sense of adventure, perhaps even a desire to challenge difficult tasks. Oh sure, all these lofty ideals contribute to the purpose, but without oatmeal cookies, none of these attributes would ever surface. I can prove it to you too, first hand and hands down.

See, around our house everybody had sort of a sweet tooth. We knew though, that too many sweets were not good for you. What to do? As usual, Grandma had the perfect answer. Oatmeal cookies were tasty and not too sweet. Not only were they a good substitute for candy, but the oatmeal also provided the necessary roughage for a healthy digestive system.

There were three people in our family very fond of oatmeal cookies. Actually there were only three people in our little family at the time so it was a unanimous taste. You can well imagine the number of lively discussions that always started with 'Who ate the last of the oatmeal cookies?' That usually wasn't a question but more of an accusation. I only tell you this to give you an idea of how often these cookies were on our collective minds.

Well, you couldn't just put them in the cupboard or the pantry now could you? I mean, they would just be too obvious and tempting there. Of course the two alleged adults each had their own schemes for blaming somebody else for missing cookies. Finally in fairness to our pint sized other family member, it was decided to put the cookie jar up on top of the fridge. That way he wouldn't be the victim of false accusations by anarchistic cookie looters, nor would he be able to gorge himself into oatmeal heaven. While all that roughage might have been good for his digestive system, you have to remember that all this was before the days of disposable diapers and, well, there was already too much laundry as it was.

Well now, there were just a few little details we had overlooked in selecting a cookie home. Firstly, while we knew there was nothing wrong with his eyesight, we didn't think the kid was really paying attention. Second, the cookies were so far out of reach that it never occurred to us how much he really wanted them. As far as we were concerned, when we said no, there was no other option. In our minds the cookies were safe.

How wrong can you get? I mean, here's a little kid about two feet tall peering way up at this tin can full of oatmeal cookies roughly six feet off the ground. There are no steps leading up to the prize. In fact the only way up is on the slippery fridge door. It's like trying for the peak of Mount Everest. But wait - didn't Edmund Hillary climb Mount Everest? He climbed it with the help of his faithful Sherpa guide Tensing and having done that planted his flag upon the summit. When asked later what drove him to undertake such a treacherous journey he said, ‘because it was there.’ The whole world was in awe of the remarkable feat.

It turns out that we had our own version of Sir Edmund. Not only that, but he had his own Mount Everest – in the embodiment of our refrigerator. Now in order for you to get the whole picture you have to step back a minute and look at it from a one and a half to two year-old's viewpoint. He has no lofty ideals of planting the Canadian flag on the summit of the fridge! And this is no frivolous adventure about 'because it's there' either. Here's this pintsize kid with only one thing on his mind - OATMEAL COOKIES! All that lies between him and his prize is that humungous fridge.

You have to know that a child's brain isn't all cluttered up with bits of useless information. It works kind of like a giant industrial vacuum cleaner, sucking up everything that comes in its path. It notices in an instant that the fridge is tightly placed next to the kitchen cabinets. It also already knows that if you yank on that shiny handle on the cupboard door, it will open and you can enjoy yourself by hauling all the pots and pans out and make interesting banging sounds. Of course most often that's not too good an idea because it always gets mom upset. Well, sometimes it's all right because when mom shows up, you can yell 'COOKIE!' at the top of your lungs. Who knows, you might even get one if you say that 'please' word.

But then the little sponge brain notices that if you grab the other shiny handle on the drawer just above the pots and pans door and step on the bottom shelf, you can get your little eyeballs up to the level of the counter to see what's on it. Naturally, anything that's worthwhile is going to be right at the back of the counter and no matter how far you reach, your little arms are just not quite long enough.

But wait! With the right hand wrapped on the front rim of the sink and a little leverage from the left arm, you can just barely get your little foot on the second cupboard shelf. Unfortunately the laws of physics don't allow for standing in this position and still be able to grab something, but -.

At this point, our little tyke is in a bit of a pickle. The only way down is to let go of everything and whack his head on the floor. This is not an option, even for him. But, looking around, he discovers that the cabinet door is jammed up against the fridge. It's just low enough to get his left foot on and just high enough to boost his center of gravity on to the counter. Go for it, he says to himself!

It turns out that the stuff on the counter isn't nearly as exciting as what's on top of the fridge after all. But then he spots a windfall. Well now, let's be realistic. Even he wouldn't have figured out how to move the breadbox up against the fridge. It just happened to be there. It also happened to be tall enough for the final assault on the summit. And it was just strong enough to support about twenty pounds of ingenuity and raw courage.

And that's where his mother found him stuffing his cheeks with oatmeal cookies, oblivious to the dangers of his perch. Now you'll have to cover your ears while I tell you what his mother had to say. Well, on second thought, I'd better not. In my book his accomplishments that day equaled anything Sir Edmund Hillary ever did, when you factor in the size and age difference.

Author's note

It must be remembered that all this took place before the advent of childproof door locks. The only thing we could do was change the door handles to knobs and secure them with sealer rings. But that only solved the problem in the kitchen. Wait ‘til you hear what the little bugger managed with his bedroom dresser. Well, that’s for another time.

Honest to God and Other Whoppers - Spanky

          They don't teach this stuff in bleeding heart social psychology, but maybe they should. Maybe then they wouldn't be so obsessed with creating enmity between children and their parents. Hmmm. I know a few old-timers well qualified to do the job too. Well, here - you be the judge.

SPANKY

My mom always told us that if we couldn't say something nice about someone, we should say nothing at all. The next six hundred and fifty four blank pages are devoted entirely to Child and Family Services. (Well, she didn't say we couldn't tell whom it was that we wouldn't say anything about). Out of respect for the rain forest I have not included the pages in this manuscript.

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On what seems to be a completely unrelated topic, some veterinary surgeon should figure out a way to stitch the front ends of horses to the already existing horses' behinds that run our various government departments. I was going to say horses' asses but mom didn't allow cussing either. Anyway if somebody could figure that out, they could be harness broke into good working teams and at the same time hungry cattle ranchers could switch from cows to genetically modified horse fronts and start a whole new industry nobody ever thought of before.

Oh now don't you 'tut-tut' me. When you're saying derogatory things about somebody, governments don't count. I mean, just look how they talk about each other. Besides, they got diplomatic immunity or something like that. I wasn't even going to talk about them anyway. Well, I wasn't but it just sort of slipped out before I could stop it.

What with school being out and all in the summer, half the kids under the age of sixteen are regularly grounded for not getting home on time, or staying in their pajamas all day, or not pitching in with the chores. It got me to thinking about my own upbringing and how those situations were dealt with back then. Naturally, the subject of spanking crossed my mind. Well there you go then. We know the government frowns on that sort of stuff. That's how the government and you know who crossed my mind. The question that came up was, is spanking illegal? Is it a criminal offense? It was in my mind that there had been a recent change in legislation, or so I thought.

So I glommed on to the Internet to see what there was to be learned. Wouldn't you know it? Up pops that Ontario case where the (unmentionable) people did (unmentionable) things to some children and their families that caused a whole bunch of them to flee to the United States as refugees. It was an awful uproar. Everybody was so busy dancing around protecting their horses' behinds that they all missed the important roll that spanking or not spanking plays in the drama of life itself. What - have I missed something? Are today's adults too glued to the TV or the Casinos to participate? Are our children too sensitive about their "rights" to give up blowing everything to smithereens in their video games and be part of a family and all it's subtle little intricacies?

How far do we have to get from reality before somebody notices we're lost and want to go home? Shoot, even Shakespeare admitted that 'all the world's a stage' and that we're all players in it. So before this turns into a negative rant filled with another six or seven hundred blank pages, let me tell you about how these sorts of things used to be choreographed in our house. Heck, come to think of it, these little theatrics were better than anything you could hear on Lux Radio Theatre, especially if they were happening to your brother or sister, and not you.

The thing was that there were certain spankable offenses and everybody knew the rules. The biggest one was talking back, especially to your mother. That one was so big that you'd probably go straight to H E double hockey sticks unless it got corrected in a hurry. Almost as bad was the crime of lying. Mind you, there were degrees to this one and it could get pretty complicated. Now an outright, bald-faced lie was one thing. There was no getting around that. Such an offense called for just plain old crime and punishment. But things like 'I didn't know what time it was', which really meant 'I was having too much fun to notice the time' were something else. They had a thing that you-know-who would call wiggle room. Those could be manipulated to a degree unless they became chronic, which was my problem all too often.

Wellsir, my old man was a thespian of the highest order. He could play our little foibles like a Stradivarius. It was uncanny. Of course, he was always ready for us. By the time he got home from work, the scene was set. The minute he walked in the door the radio got turned off.

That was standard procedure. After all the noise that went on at the factory all day long, he needed some peace and quiet. This was a really good time for us to do our homework. He'd wash up and change out of his dirty clothes before lying down for a half-hour nap while mother finished preparing supper.

See what I mean? The father comes home with his ears ringing from the factory noise. He's worked so hard that he needs a nap before he can even eat supper. The mother dutifully prepares his meal and gently wakes him to join the family at the supper table. Now you tell me. Is he the king or what? But wait, that's just the beginning.

See all the events of the day were touched on at the supper table, even the spankable ones. I say touched on because the real discussion didn't come 'til much later. Firstly, the supper table was a place for harmony, not confrontation. Secondly, the place to work out such problems was in front of the throne - that was dad's big easy chair - and then not until he'd finished reading the paper.

Timing - it was all timing. You'd have at least an hour after your indiscretion first surfaced to mull over your fate while doing the dishes and whatever else you could think of to kiss up. Finally, when your hour of judgment arrived, you were pretty well a basket case. See, whatever the misadventure, it wasn't as though you hadn't been warned beforehand. One of the aces dad had up his sleeve was the major guilt trip trick. Every time he had a job for you, or allowed you to do something, there was always a caveat. "Can I rely on you for that?" was attached to just about every activity. Talk about a millstone around your neck. The thing was that when you said it in German, it sounded like a command from Gabriel himself.

The second worst thing about a spankable offense was the lecture. You had to stand in front of the king on his throne and hang on every word. And he always had plenty to say. I never did know anybody who could talk longer about not coming home on time than my old man. I learned the lesson of letting my eyes glaze over after about forty minutes of hearing about how it was well past time that I learned to be responsible. When he caught me drifting, he just started all over. There went another forty minutes.

The absolute worst thing about a spankable offense, if it came to that, was not the spanking itself. Heck, I got more bruises coming home from school every day than I ever got from a spanking. That was nothing. It was the high drama leading up to the spanking that always got me. There was a set script for this whole business. Once a judgment had been handed down, the whole family sprang in to action - even me. Each of us had a specific role to play. Mother would make like this would be just too traumatic for her to concentrate on her work. So she'd wander around the house wringing her hands and groaning. My siblings would disappear around the corner where they could snicker in safety at their idiot brother. And me - well by this time in the scenario, my brain was so addled I could do nothing except follow instructions. Now it was time for the ultimate humiliation.

Dad sat there on his throne, grim faced and told me to go get - the chair. Obediently, I went and got - the chair.

"Put it there," he pointed. I did.

"Not that way. Turn it around sideways." I did.

"Go bring me the strap." Son of a gun if I didn't do that too. Here I was, hauling all my own torture equipment into the living room while he - the king, sat there looking like the reluctant judge and jury. It was like a mini crucifixion with lesser consequences.

The last thing he would say as I numbly parked my target neatly over the chair was, "I wish it didn't have to come to this."

I, in a feeble attempt at defiance would think to myself, 'Yeah, you'll beat me and then I'll die, and then you'll be sorry.' I could almost see them in my mind, mourning over the loss. Whack, whack, whack.

"Go put things away where they belong. Then we can put this behind us." I never did find out whether the reference to the 'behind' was a pun or not.

The curtain had fallen on the final act and the whole performance was a triumph. You could almost hear the Hallelujah Chorus from Handel's Messiah being played. The only thing missing was the standing ovation.

Fortunately for us all, every so often I'd forget my lessons and provide the opportunity for a repeat performance. Dad never lost his talent for what was right and proper either.

I got to thinking that some of these dead people should have met my old man. Well, they're not really dead, but obviously they got no life of their own the way they go sticking their noses into other people's business, so they might just as well be. Maybe if they had got a lesson or two from him in their youth they'd have some idea of how families ought to be run. There sure wouldn't be as many horses' asses (Oops - Sorry mom) behinds around, meddling in things they have absolutely no idea about. Just think - the scriptures could be put back in the bible where they belong instead of being on the front page of the newspaper, and them do-gooder protectionists might actually have time to do some good. They might even try to focus on getting a life of their own, but that's a whole other story. Maybe then a family could get back to the business of being a family without having to look over it's shoulder every ten seconds to see if the family Gestapo is lurking around.

The Eye Within

          Every now and then one comes across a story that doesn't really fit the mould. Yet it gives pause to reflect on it's origin and it's purpose. You do sort af a double take and say - where in the world did that come from? And before you know it, you've read it and go Hmmmmmm. This is one of those.

The Eye Within

By Victor Epp

I have no idea where I came across this little poem, but it’s innocence and vulnerability struck a chord that demanded further examination. Who would write such a thing - certainly not some self-assured mature individual racing along life’s busy highway – certainly not some over - confident acquisitor amassing a hoard of “stuff” – or would they?

At first it seems child-like; something a young person looking for an identity would innocently explore. On the other hand, it could quite easily be someone whose identity has come into question or doubt. How many people do you know who go storming through life like a bull in a china shop and suddenly get stopped cold by clear messages of ‘who do they think they are?’ A message like that will come as such a shock that they might be prompted to question themselves. Well, you have a look. Have you ever contemplated such inner thoughts?

What do you see when you look at me?

Am I ugly as sin ‘neath the skin I’m in?

Or does it hide what’s really inside?

If my shell were to break,

Tell me what you could take

That’s of value to you

If you only knew

What there is to see?

When you look at me.

Well, what do you think? Assuming one were to actually contemplate such a question, it becomes one of the most intriguing puzzles imaginable when we stop to think about it. What makes it even more so is that we ourselves can’t figure it out. Maybe it’s too complex. Maybe we don’t know where to look – or the places we look are not where we are at the moment when we need to find pieces of ourselves.

One of the fundamental failures in modern day society is no ignore learning about the enormity of the human spirit. That something so magnificent and empowering is overlooked is unconscionable! Instead we tend to externalize our inner value for the judgment of others by the way we look and the way we act outwardly. How is it that we focus all our energies on the biodegradable carcass that carries our spirit from beginning to end until it finally turns into dust or ashes? How is it that we imprison the only part of our being that transcends our mortal frailties and just apply another coat of varnish to an aging body for the world to see?

Not too long ago a Dene Elder was heard to say that unless you use a resource, you lose respect for it. He happened to be speaking in the context of hunting the gray whale, but if you consider the principles of careful husbandry these people apply to all of their resources; it is possible to impose the same ethic on the human spirit. That much we can understand. But from here we plunge into the abyss of trying to define the human spirit. The task is daunting to say the least, if not completely impossible.

On a good day the spirit is boundless, as vast as all the stars in all the galaxies. If you've ever lain under the sky on a clear night watching the northern lights dancing across the heavens in spontaneous abandon, you might get some small sense of what goes on within your own spirit, somewhere inside you. In a mere instant it can be plunged into unfathomable depths of despair; not unlike being trapped in a raging gale in the North Atlantic where there is no hope; only desperation. Just as suddenly a warm summer breeze can creep over you like the softest, most delicate blanket only to turn into intransigent defiance without explanation or notice.

What is this thing called the spirit? How can such a kaleidoscopic range of emotion take place in the same body at will without our noticing it? Yet what we see is all we see. The untold richness that lies within our very soul is lost; even to us as we primp and preen our bodies and adorn them with silk and ermine and other finery. We surround ourselves with things to please us and impress our neighbors. It often seems that all our efforts are directed toward accumulating “things” until we're out of breath from the effort. Yet we neglect to take our strength and nourishment from the very spirit within that will give it up so willingly if we but ask.

Pulled to earth by my feet of clay

To plod along in my weary way

Life should offer me so much more

To fly like an eagle - rise and soar

Above the hoards of marching mass

File along their mindless path?

Soar 'til I reach where my spirit is free

Where I can rejoice and really be me.

Somebody once made the comment that inside every big woman was a delicate little china doll. On another occasion, there was a tiny Chinese girl who looked exactly like a China doll, and inside she thought of herself as a raging Amazon. Go figure. So in fact, our eyes lie to us about what there is to see. Some of the biggest women I remember were diminutive in stature. Mother Theresa comes to mind. So does Doctor Lotta Hichmanova who single-handedly wrestled millions and millions of dollars out of the world to found the Humanitarian Service Committee after WW II. Both of these women were about the size of a minute. Yet their spirits moved mountains. How did they do that?

Perhaps we are equipped with another eye - an inner eye that lets us see in another dimension.

It seems the ancient ones knew about such things and made use of them. There is no lack of evidence of the three worlds of the Shaman as a model for the universe. Through his trances he could travel from one world to another and communicate with those spirits who resided there. These machinations for the rest of us are a little extreme in today's world. I suppose the closest we can come to that is through what we call meditation. And how many of us ever indulge ourselves to that extent?

Still, all these parts of our spirit are available to us. If we can claim ownership of our spirit, then we must also be able to own its parts. And therein lies the key. To find that place within where who we really are resides and bring it into consciousness is the beginning of emerging from the maze of outward expectations and into real reality. Like an elaborately tailored wardrobe, we will know instinctively that it fits perfectly. It is then incumbent on us to wear it steadfastly as a garment that never loses its appeal.

Yet, if it's that easy, why is it so elusive a goal to achieve? Think about it. Who has taught you about the infinite number of points of light that is your spirit? Who has encouraged you to reach for those you can identify? Who has opened your mind to welcome those not yet experienced? Who has equipped you to go on a vision quest to find who you really are? Does anyone even know how to do these things anymore? I don't think there are many.

As I said in the beginning, some thoughts enter the mind to make you go ‘Hmmm’. And every now and then, it is an interesting exercise to plumb the depths of such abstract, or perhaps not so abstract thoughts. I felt it worthwhile sharing. You decide.