Anyone who is not a Facebook friend of Will Maring is missing a bet. Her daily posts from the bowels of southern Illinois are thoughtful, analytical, poignant, informative and relentlessly hysterical as she and her faithful companion Robert Bowlin negotiate the twists and turns of life with ineptness and confusion. Never was Murphy’s Law more religiously followed; if something can go wrong for our two heroes, it will. Their audience winces as they start off on a cross-country trip, unsure of whether they will get irretrievably lost in the deserts of New Mexico, see their car blow up in Texas or find Wil kidnaped by a gang of biker dwarfs in Kentucky. If you ever watched Lucy and Ethel at The Chocolate Factory, you get the idea. This is a soap opera which could find an eager sponsor at AAA or Tractor Supply or uBreakiFix. Syndication is a no-brainer. We, their steadfast fans, can hardly wait to see what happens around the next corner as the nicest people east of the Mississippi try to lasso a break and go on a winning streak. Hey Wil, don’t forget to turn off the gas.
Life In Fairfield
One of the boons of walking a mile through the neighborhood each morning is our ability to monitor the ‘hood for pending problems, perform cursory wellness checks (“Ernesto’s mail is piling up”), say hello to the fenced-in critters and be on the lookout for suspect interlopers. We found one of the latter the other morning, sitting on his skeletal vehicle just inside the property line of a new neighbor for whom he was doing odd jobs. “Hi, I’m Ricky,” he advised, walking over to the fence. “I’m looking for work. I can do about anything and I’ll work eight hours for $100.” Siobhan wrote his number down and asked him her favorite question. “Ever been in prison, Ricky?” He stood up tall and answered back, “Yeah, but that was a long time ago.”
A few days later, the monsoons hit and knocked over a modest tree in the south paddock. Not a big enough tree to call Bobby the Tree Man, but too big for Dave the Handyman. We decided to call Ricky and he was waiting at the gate the next morning at seven with his new chain saw, apologizing for being early. We thought he’d be at the job all day, making the c-note a major bargain, but Ricky splashed through the water, cut up the tree, rolled the bigger pieces into the tractor bucket and made a nice burnable pile for when things dried off, all by 1 p.m. We might have to find a few more things for Ricky to do. Sure, he was in prison once but that was a long time ago.
Aye, There’s The Rub.
When I was in my late twenties, I had some neck problems so I went to a chiropractor to get relief. After trying about half a dozen, I found one who actually knew what he was doing. The cure finally took and I’ve had no more neck issues ever since. About twenty years ago, however, my lower back began acting up and my old chiropractor had retired so I found a new group in Ocala. The first time there I noticed several signs on the walls testifying to the miracles performed by Jesus; unfortunately, Jesus was not on the staff and the people who were barely touched you with little crackling hand devices which did nothing to relieve the problem.
I took the advice of a friend and found a massage therapist, the first in a long line of miracle workers who have helped keep me whole. Her name was Tiara Catey and she was an imposing woman, about 6-1 and strong as a dockworker. Tiara told me we’d be having a personal relationship rather than a business-only connection and wanted me to tell her everything that was bothering me, mental, physical and spiritual. I was a little taken aback but I mentioned some recent difficulties getting to sleep and staying there. She smiled knowingly, went over to her table of many brews and concocted some sort of sandalwood ointment to rub in all the right places. I scoffed quietly, but that night I slept til morning. Next night, too.
Tiara Catey was more than a masseuse, she was a fix-it girl, a psychiatrist, a white witch sent to Earth to save mankind from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. We became friends. I helped her with her advertising, gave her some business ideas, hooked her up with a rehab facility. She kept me pain-free. Tiara’s business improved. But then one day, the bottom fell out. “I’m moving to Helena, Montana,” she confessed, teary-eyed. “My husband has a new job. I’m devastated, everything was going so well.” I couldn’t believe it, but off she went, first to Helena, then to a more suitable spot in Southern California. I never saw her again. Try as I might, I never found another Tiara. One day, I thought I had a likely prospect. I opened up to her, told her about all my problems, mental, physical and spiritual. “Worst of all,” I complained, “I’m having a lot of trouble sleeping.” She bent over her workbench, pulled a couple of bottles off the shelf and frowned. “Me, too.” she said.
Once More, Into The Breach!
As August’s days dwindle down, the gift of football awaits in the anteroom. Left for dead after several seasons of lachrymose behavior, the University of Florida’s gridiron grunts will attempt to climb out of the coal bin, through the cellar window and back to respectability. Morose fans ask where has all the defense gone, long time passing, and hope the Gator coaches have learned to count to eleven, the maximum number of players a team is allowed to put on the field at one time. If you’ve ever sat your bare butt on a boulder on a summer afternoon in Death Valley, you know how hot is the seat of head coach Billy Napier, a nice guy of unproven abilities.
To the rescue, all of us hope, come a new batch of assistant coaches and a bright star from the west in the person of one D.J. Lagway, a Texas high school quarterback phenom who will turn water into wine and possibilities into points, at least that’s the plan. Lagway can throw the pigskin from here to Santa Monica and run the ball like Gale Sayers. Worrywarts hope he’ll be sounder than Sayers and also the last fragile UF phenom, Anthony Richardson, who was often injured in high school, college and now with the Indianapolis Colts. Lagway was injured in high school competition and again in the Under Armor All-American game, so don't hold your breath.
In any case, we’ll be sitting up there again in row 54, seat 28 on the 49-yard line, foolishly believing in magic and fondly remembering the Steve Spurrier days when God smiled on the Gators, or so the old ball coach opined. Those rotten Miami Hurricanes come to town on August 31, a despicable bunch with perennial delusions of grandeur, and nothing would be finer than to watch the home team punch them right in the nose while you gnaw your chili dog and slap hands with Maizie in the seat next door. After all, where else can you find 90,000 people of good will, all on the same page, happily sitting in the sunshine on a fine summer’s day enjoying the elements. Waitaminnit! Was that a goddam FUMBLE?
The Perils Of Pauline
“I flopped on down in my easy chair and turned on Channel 2. A bad gunslinger called salty Sam was a-chasin’ poor sweet Sue. He trapped her in the old sawmill and said with an evil laugh: ‘if you don’t give me the deed to your ranch, I’ll saw you all in half.’
And then along came Jones. Tall, thin Jones. Slow-walkin’ Jones. Slow-talkin’ Jones. Along came lonely, lanky Jones.”---The Coasters
“Has anybody here seen Jones?”---Dawn Stephenson
If we ever get shin splints or the heartbreak of psoriasis, if the bread man is late, if our paddocks are teeming with vicious mosquitoes and we just had to sic the dog on an invading cadre of Jehovah’s Witnesses, we are not discouraged because we know someone who has it much, much worse. Her name is Dawn Stephenson and she lives down south on the Gulf Coast about an afternoon’s drive away.
Back in the day, there was an American melodrama film serial produced by William Randolph Hearst called The Perils Of Pauline that was shown bi-weekly, in which the adventuresome heroine regularly found herself in some inescapable dilemma at the end of each episode, only to survive by some incredible means in the next week’s chapter. Well, Pauline is a piker compared to Dawn Stephenson. In the past 24 months, she has survived endless surgeries for brain cancer, been medicated to the point of delirium, had her nice house skwushed and flooded by a hurricane, lost most of her money to medical bills and was tied to the railroad tracks by fiends just as the Midnight Special came roaring ‘round the bend. Miraculously she is still there, slipping out of handcuffs, ducking falling debris, fighting off locusts and, on a good day, taking gallery-worthy photographs and posting them on Facebook. Scientists should be flocking south to investigate the possibility of a new life form impervious to destruction. Even Superman has his Kryptonite.
Unlike others who suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Stephenson takes pen in hand to write about it in stark, terrifying, soul-sapping prose. You are right there with her as she reels from one catastrophe to the next, wondering if she’ll see another morning. It is not the work of a polished scribe with all the attendant flourishes, it is better---a gripping, no-holds-barred battle to the teeth for survival, Dawn versus an unsympathetic universe. It’s only a matter of time until the fray becomes an interactive cinematic smash. Ms. Stephenson is looking for available actors to help fill out the cast. You know where to find her.
That’s all, folks….
