The Fairfield Daily News
There are a lot of these flying around lately. Surely, you’ve received your own. It reminds us of the time when we were wee tykes and a nice gentleman named Arthur King (You can call me ‘King Arthur’) noticed us leaning our noses on the window of the ice cream store, invited us inside and bought us all sugar cones. Don’t get nervous, there were no perverts in those days and nobody looked a gift cone in the mouth. Anyway, it appears that King Arthur has returned to spread his largesse across the land once more. Otherwise, how do you explain the following?:
“Dear folks, I’m interested in buying your house for a colossal price, probably WAY more than it’s worth. And I can pay you CASH MONEY for the place AS IS. You don’t have to repair it or even clean it up or take that mysterious year-old brown stuff out of the back of the refrigerator. Lost interest in your old schnauzer? Just leave him tied to a post, we’ll take him, too.
You’ll pay me NO commissions and I will pay the typical closing costs. There’s no obligation if you contact me, so call if you’re interested in a hassle-free CASH sale. Wouldn’t it be nice to take this big wad of bills, put half in the bank and buy yourself a nice ranchette in Dubuque or Bismarck? You know it! Why do you want to live around here anyway, the neighbors are goobers, the phone keeps going out and there’s probably a lot of radon under the feed room. Take this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and call Jumpin’ Jack Flash for your cash, CASH, CASH! (This offer not valid in mobile home villages and Palatka.)”
Quo Vadis, KittiPuss?
The Great Roofing Blight struck Fairfield a few weeks ago as insurance companies dropped local customers left and right for alleged roofing shortcomings. Siobhan says this is because the insurance people own all the roofing companies and business was getting a little slack. Anyway, the skywalkers came out and gave us an estimate more than double the one we got eight years ago when the last roof was installed. We asked around and Maria, our faithful real estate broker/neighbor told us the estimate was typical of today’s prices and that’s why all the better roofers are carrying Gucci bags.
If you abhor peace and quiet and love nails in your driveway, sign up right away for a new roof, then get out the earmuffs. Roofers make more noise than the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe coming down your driveway at 70 mph in a hailstorm. Enough racket, in fact, to scare away your fearful old feline Kittipuss, who had just read Stephen King’s The Langoliers and promptly jumped on the last train to Clarksville. We have looked here, there and everywhere over the course of five days with no luck, although area cat fanciers report a noisy brawl last night outside a local tuna joint. Siobhan has filled Fairfield mailboxes with Wanted posters and even climbed up on the giant trash receptacle at the neighborhood dump to attach a photo of the missing pet.
Let us know if you see our wandering voyager. She’s all black, prominent of tummy and is carrying a sign which reads “Will meow for Coho Salmon.” There may be a small reward.
It’s My Party And I’ll Cry If I Want To
What’s going on with here? Is it National Birthday Week? Was everybody born in the first few days of April? First, it’s The Snakeman, Will Thacker popping up with his 77th on April 3, then the shake-and-bake man, Jeff Goldstein running the total to 71 the next day. Jeff had his big party last year at Heartwood, so this year it was Thacker’s turn and The Fates---Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos---set about to make it a red letter day. In their earthly identities of Judi Cain, Gina Hawkins and Vicki Bordeaux, the sisters planned a great feast weeks in advance to surprise the Snakeman and earn his undying affection. Fortunately for them, Thacker lives in the forlorn kingdom of Oviedo where the only sound you hear is the clucking of free-ranging chickens merrily trucking through the city’s downtown streets.
It was decided by the trio to hold the celebration in a deserted railroad station near the fabled Wacahoota Mountains. Snake cakes were baked, an elite guest list was devised and the Greek wandering minstrel Paco Pacopolis was enlisted to provide entertainment with his harpsichord and tales of snakes on a train (boxcars mostly). Guests came from across the land bearing gifts of Prevagen, wristwatches and roadmaps to help the Snakeman deal with his personal difficulties. Will than gave an emotional speech, wiped his eyes and fled to the porch.
“I’m not worthy of this amazing display of affection,” he wheezed through falling tears. “I’m a sinner, occasionally a cad and a bad driver. Sometimes I’m late to church and forget my hat during the National Anthem.” All true, we agreed, but sometimes us old folks need a good excuse for a bonfire. Party on!
Where There’s A Wil, There’s A Way
We have recently become intrigued with our new pen pal Wil Maring, who will be one of the featured entertainers at the May 20 opening of the spectacular Hogtown Opry. Wil is not only a primo singer-songwriter, she plays a mean guitar, paints, sweeps out the barn, feeds the farm animals, mows the fields, drives to obscure locations from her place in Cobden, Illinois to play her music and then writes about it all in her almost daily journal which you can read on Facebook if you’re interested. An excerpt:
“Lumpy is lolling on Earl’s toilet tank lid tombstone among some of the fanciest and definitely the last daffodils of the season. This was actually my neighbor’s cat and he didn’t really have a solid name. He came to me when my neighbor passed away and I named him Lumpy after the bully on Leave it to Beaver.”
Wil always refers to her bandmate and apparent partner as either “Robert” or “Mr. Bowlin,” and never as “honeybunch” or “that nitwit,” as do some females. Like here:
“I was missing New Mexico this morning so I finally dug out this sampler set that nice Mr. Bowlin gave me for my birthday last summer. They are incense sticks with the smells of the mountains of New Mexico. This morning I burned pinon and cedar. I still miss New Mexico but at least the house smells nice.”
And finally:
“Lately, I have been only putting a couple cups of birdseed out during the daytimes so that the birdfeeder is empty by nightfall because there have been raccoons coming and stealing from the birdfeeders. Knocking them down, taking them apart and of course eating the goods. They made me really mad when they took the lid off one of them and took off with it. So purposefully I could not put it back together. I found the lid on the other side of the house. The birdseed I have was gifted to me---it’s so good you can eat it with your yogurt in the morning---and seriously, I eat handfuls of it every time I go out to feed the birds. Sunflower seeds, pumpkin seeds, nuts, raisins, it’s almost too good to feed to birds and it is certainly WAY too good to feed to disrespectful raccoons. So just now, in the middle of the afternoon, I went out to check the feeders and right there in broad daylight was a bold raccoon who was not in too much of a hurry to leave when he saw he’d been caught black-handed. So I started walking after him, lecturing him the whole time. He was always keeping 15 or 20 feet ahead of me, and every now and then looking back at me to check if I was still there keeping up. He walked around the house with me on his tail, telling him the whole time what a bad boy he was. Maybe it was a ‘she,’ it doesn’t matter, even ‘shes’ can be bad boys sometimes. He finally picked up his pace a little bit and started heading down the holler. I’m sure he’ll be back in an hour or two. He’s going to nap off all that birdseed and be back for dessert.”
Buy Me Some Peanuts And Nacho Chips….
The major league baseball season opened the other day with the usual pomp, mostly good weather and the blind optimism of fans who see their doomed cellar-dwellers tied for first place. Maybe some miracle will occur this year, they naively ponder, perhaps the pitching will hold up, last year’s sieve-like infield will plug the dike and the manager will arise from his years-long coma and take out a starting pitcher before the visitors ring up eight runs in the third. Hope, thy name is Opening Day.
Go to a major league game and experience a gamut of emotions. Enjoy the children, especially the rookies to the big time, goggle-eyed at the prospect of watching their heroes close-up, heads on a swivel, exotic foods held precariously in their grasp. Remember when it was peanuts and Cracker Jack? Now they’ve got things like funnel cakes, jumbo pretzels (two bites would fill up Godzilla), the Original Donut-Burger and Pickle Poutine, which proves convincingly and for all time that peanut butter should not be used in gravy.
All males who were once and may still be slaves to the game remember their first time, the trek through the dingy bowels of a crowded stadium, the walk up the ramp to glory, the first view of an MLB field. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was even better than those brilliant pictures of Heaven in our first-grade catechisms. The players floated over the greenest grass in the world wearing robes of impossible white, fielding sharply hit baseballs with laughable ease, smacking the fast-flying horsehide exorbitant distances until it disappeared into the sunlight.
And when it was over, your first game ever, you looked up at your father, the magic man who took your hand, put you on your first train and delivered you to this edenic palace and you say, “Thanks Dad. This was the best day of my life.” It might still be.
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
