January 1979: R.J.’s mother had been a music major, and so when they joined the small rural church, perhaps it was natural that she volunteered to lead the music, since they had nobody to play piano or organ.

However, since she’d been a vocal major, in fact she couldn’t play piano or organ either, but that didn’t slow her down. She got a three-ring binder, and wrote in the lyrics, and above the lyrics she wrote the chord symbols such as “C”, “D7”, and “G”. Then, she’d strum her autoharp and lead the choir, singing sweetly together.

About that time, two brothers who were truck drivers started attending the church, and in a rural church, since it’s the custom for everybody to pitch in, it soon developed that they were standing behind R.J.’s mom with their two guitars.

She’d start playing the next song, and they would listen for a measure or two, and then they would follow along. And follow along they could, quite well.

One day, she saw them huddled around her three-ring binder, and she overheard their discussion.

“What are those letters written above the words?” asked one of the truckers. His brother gaped at him.

“What’s wrong with you?”, his brother replied, “Can’t you read music?”

Fort Mason, San Francisco, 1989: It was late night, and the air cool in the parking lot beside the bay. Over the murmer of the movie set, I could just hear the gentle sound of the water, lapping beneath the wharf.

I’d just emerged from Blue Bear School of Music, where I played touch-style bass in a “learn how to play” band, and outside I suddenly found a movie being made. I wandered among the movie folk, striking up a conversation with the sound man, who was bundled up heavy but shifting from foot to foot from the cool air. Hah! Tenderfoot to San Francisco!

As we spoke, Sigourney Weaver walked around a corner, and stood waiting a few feet away.

If, since that night, you’ve seen the movie “Copycat”, you’ll remember that she’s not made up super-glamorous, and in fact she looked like any pleasant-looking woman you might know, a neighbor, a friend, a co-worker.

Though I’m inquisitive and not very shy, something in the abstracted way she stood seemed to say she’d not welcome conversation, neither from fans nor movie-folks. Maybe she’s a method actor. The movie people didn’t speak to her, and I didn’t either.

But the startling thing was my sudden realization how much she and my once-wife Lori resembled each other.

Perhaps it was the makeup or the moment. Or perhaps it’s the surprising way that seeing someone from television or the movies, often they look different in person. Some years previous, in a bowling alley downtown, I’d seen Clint Eastwood enter the door as Dirty Harry in the making, and it was odd. He was strikingly handsome in real-life where on screen he always just looked grim.

So Sigorney, looking like Lori in a long black coat, stood pensive and waiting. Nothing happened for a long time. Everybody was quiet, except for a small group huddling over some paperwork. The sound man shifted in the cool breeze.

Then there was some calling out, and Ms. Weaver went inside to be filmed above the street on a balcony. More standing around ensued. Finally something seemed to happen, though I didn’t actually see anything happen.

“Does this just take forever?” I asked the sound man. He bade me to silence with a wave, listening to his headphones, then turned some knobs on the small console.

“Yeah,” he said. “Forever. Paul Newman once described making a movie as the Ten-Yard Dash.”

The ten-yard dash.

I don’t think I’d like it. Acting is not for me. I’d rather watch apple slices turn brown.

Perhaps it’s just as well I’m not Paul Newman.

Mount Shasta, March 14, 2004: Today is bright and clear and the air fresh, promising Spring. Our dog Tulip, retrieved from the animal hospital with terrible blood tests, spent a bad night. Tulip cannot sleep, will not eat, throws up bile. Her body is failing; overnight she is ancient. Thin and gaunt, she shivers and trembles. Tulip is dying.

Because of blood and bile, she had to sleep in the kitchen. She wanted her own bed. She wanted her life back, but that life is gone now, fading as we watch.

Today she visited beside me in the office. This is her job, and comforts her, though she shivers, gasps, rail-thin.

I had to lift her up the steps. She is weak, and fading.

Adrienne and I spent much of last night, and most of today, sitting with Tulip while she is dying.

Tulip fades.

Highway 89: Chad Henson from Mount Shasta was driving toward McCloud this morning, and as he neared the Ski Park, a big bear came barrelling down the slope, across oncoming traffic, and careened into Chad’s Volkswagen Rabbit.

“I slammed on my brakes,” Chad said, “but the bear didn’t even slow down.”

The Rabbit survived. The bear didn’t.

Los Angeles International Airport, January 2000. Two nicely dressed ladies were sitting near me, and as the flight was late, I suppose they fell into conversation.

The first woman seemed to be a brusque, arrogant California woman, apparently married to a very wealthy man. The second woman was a well-mannered elderly woman from the South.

The conversation centered on their children, and the California woman said, “When my first child was born, my husband built me a wonderful mansion in Bel Air.”

The lady from the South commented, “Well, isn’t that nice.”

It wasn’t long before the first woman was boasting again. “Then,” she said, “when my second child was born, my husband bought me a beautiful Mercedes Benz.”

Again the lady from the South said, “Well, isn’t that nice.”

Encouraged, the first woman said, with an air of pride, “Then, when my third child was born, my husband bought me this beautiful bracelet.” She jangled the bracelet, and it glittered in the bright light.

The lady from the sound again said, “Well, isn’t that nice.”

The first woman seemed to realize she was bragging, and she turned to the second lady and asked, “Men are so funny. Did your husband buy you presents when you had your children?”

The lady from the South replied, “Only the first one. When I had my first child my husband sent me to Charm School, something I’d always wanted to do.”

“Charm school?” asked the California woman. “What’s so interesting about going to charm school? Is it useful?”

“Well, yes,” replied the lady from the South. “I found it quite useful. For one thing, in Charm School I learned that, instead of saying ‘Who gives a rat’s ass’ I could instead say ‘Well, isn’t that nice.'”

[From Bankrate.com:] More responses for your telemarketer-calling pleasure —

CHARLES THE POET
Answer with: “I am so glad you called, I just finished some poetry that I wanted to try out. I will be glad to listen to the rest of your call if you’ll listen to my poem.”

“Sometimes, in life, you find, that if you try, as you will and have before, you may be …”

Now fill in the rest with rambling nonsense for about a minute; then stop. When the telemarketer starts to talk, cut him off and start rambling again for another few minutes. Continue this as many times as is necessary until he hangs up.

If the telemarketer is persistent, you ask:

“Did you like the poem?”

If he says yes, ask which part he liked the best. Demand specifics, and then comment at length on the emotional angst and spiritual juxtaposition of the part he has chosen.

NO PHONE
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have a telephone.”

SANTALAND
Answer: “One moment.” Make pausing and clicking sounds. Then answer: “This is Buddy the Elf.” Then talk very very fast about a shipment and some problems in the workshop, so that they don’t understand you when you then say, “Loser says what?” Repeat as needed.

RADIO STATION
You answer: “Caller number nine, you’re on the air. What song would you like to hear?”