Mount Shasta Milestone: Today, her majesty my darling and I ran around a bit, just for fun.

In the later afternoon, we drove through a snowstorm to McCloud (scenic mill town around the side of the mountain) to visit her mailbox there. We returned to Mando’s for spicy enchiladas de camarones (shrimp). We browsed the great cowboy art at Mount Shasta Gallery. But earlier, at lunchtime, something happened.

At the new Stage Door Cabaret and Cafe, we tried the chili and soup and cornbread. (Absolutely great!) And while Adrienne sat and I waited by the ordering counter, I struck up a conversation with Doug York, a local promoter who’s producing and acting in a Murder Mystery called “Murder on the Rails” tonight, up the road in Montague at the Corner Cafe.

And then, as we were souping and cornbreading, our neighbors Roy and Ashley came in, finding seats across the room, and they waved.

We waved back.

That was the magic moment.

For this was the first time we’ve been out, and we came across someone we knew. Oh, of course we know tradespeople. And Roy and Ashley we see in the driveway all the time.

But this was the first time we’ve seen people that we know, at the same place as us.

This may seem like a little thing. And it is.

But there it is.

Maybe we’re part of this place. We know people.

Abuja, Nigeria, November 7-9: “Don’t miss this opportunity to learn how to write better emails, and make better moneys,” says Mr. Laurent Mpeti Kabila, a senior assistant leader of the Revolutionary United Front of Sierra Leone.

“I present to you an urgent and confidential request for your attendance at The 3rd Annual Nigerian EMail Conference. This is an opportunity to meet your distinguished colleagues, learn new marketing techniques, and spend your hard-earned money. Attending this conference demands the highest trust, security and confidentiality between us.

The Keynote Address: Dr. Hamza Kalu adds historical perspective in his speech: “From Postal Scams To Email Scams: We Have Come a Long Way Infant Child.”

The Kick-Off Breakfast: (Your choice) A hard-boiled egg, or two slices of white bread and a cricket.

Click here for full conference details.

Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, December 17, 1903: After a string of glider tests, Orville launches the world’s first airplane, as Wilbur watches.

Steering by shifting his weight, Orville is aloft for 120 feet. It took 12 seconds to change the world.

On the radio: For the last week, the radio talkshow hosts have been frothing at the mouth. Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Michael Savage, and a couple more that Adrienne listens to.

It seems that Presiden Bush made a speech in which he recommended that all the illegal immigrants now in the USA could be granted “guest worker” status, and therefore could legally work here.

I’m not sure what this is all about, but these talkshow hosts are furious. They say it portends terrible things …

They cite that 30% of our jailed prisoners are illegal alients, and that many criminals stalk the streets among the illegal aliens, heinous criminals. Well, probably they do.

They say that these “approved” aliens will bring their wives and children, and these will swell the welfare rolls. They cite statistics. Well, since they do already, probably they will.

They refer to the president as Jorge Bush. They say that these “approved” aliens will bring our culture down to the level of Mexico. Well, I’ve seen East L.A. so I suppose they will.

They say that an employer can open a new carwash down the street from the old carwash, and that the new employer can go to mexico and recruit 20 guys to come live in a barracks and work for minimum wage, and so drive the old carwash out of business. Well, I’ve seen the carwash in San Rafael, so I suppose they will.

I don’t think the illegal aliens here will go for it. I don’t think they’ll show up for a program that gives them three years, when, staying hidden, they can be here forever. They already think they can stay hidden, or they wouldn’t be here trying. And the fact that they have stayed hidden probably encourages them. I don’t think they’ll show up. Probably nothing will change.

But I wonder what it’s all about.

I’d guess the new legal-illegals are supposed to provide us with a new lower class, so that the old lower class can move up the ladder of prosperity, becoming the “Priviledged Poor.” You know, the folks collecting welfare and unemployment as a way of life.

I collected unemployment once. I lived on it while I started my first business. I’m very grateful. I can also see how you could, if you were frugal, live on it eternally.

It’s against human nature to stop collecting free money. It pays. People will continue to collect for the same reason that other people will continue to show up for work. It pays. Even a bear or a coyote will go back to where he’s found food before. A bear will do this for 30 years. So why wouldn’t we expect a guy to go back to the welfare office?

It’s human nature. It’s not going to change.

Someday the legal-illegals will move up the ladder, too.

Someday … I wonder who will pay?

Knowing how interested many folks are in Telemarketer Calls, here is a short list of general-purpose responses, for those times when you’re just too busy to make up a fresh line of BS for your telemarketer friends —

1. I’m sorry, but what does this have to do with human sacrifice?

2. Seriously, will you still be this interested in me after we’ve dated for a while?

3. Would you be able to tell if I were defecating right now?

4. I am French. Your money means nothing to me.

5. I can smell your panties through the phone.

This list of five is just one of many at Merlin’s List of 5ves.

Schoolyard, New Hampshire, 1954: Adrienne was in first grade, and the other little girl smelled like dog poop.

“You smell like doog poop,” Adrienne told her.

It didn’t go over very well.

In fact, later that day, the little girl’s mother confronted Adrienne out in front of school. Forty or fifty children and teachers were watching. The little girl’s mother was angry.

“Did you tell my daughter that she smelled like dog poop?” the woman demanded. Adrienne looked up at her.

“No,” Adrienne said, “No, I didn’t.” The woman was flustered.

“Are you sure you didn’t say that?” she demanded again.

“No,” Adrienne said, “No, I didn’t.”

As the woman stalked away, Adrienne became aware of three things. First, that what she’d done, telling a lie, was really bad. Next, a kind of triumph that she could fool them all. Last, a kind of pity that they could be so easily duped.

I can remember telling a lie, in my grandmother’s house. I’m no longer clear what it was, but I remember the bitter-sweet feeling of being able to mislead the grown-ups, but anxiety that I’d need to remember to keep this story straight … forever.

As it turned out, time erases the need.

This morning I’m driving to some doctor’s appointments in Marin, where we have Kaiser coverage. It’s a days drive, and we need to change our insurance, but for now, I must drive. Adrienne told me, “If Celina (her daughter) wants you to bring presents up, it’s OK.”

I looked at Adrienne in puzzlement.

“I mean,” she said, “I won’t peek. I would never peek.”

Since only yesterday afternoon, she’d peeked inside the wrapping on a present from one of her ex-clients, I was dubious. On the other hand, this was great teasing material.

“You’d never peek?” I said, “When you were peeking just yesterday?” It didn’t phase her. Not one bit. Women. Made for deceit.

On the other hand, I can remember, at age eleven, how badly I wanted the little plastic spacemen figures, and how this one box rattled just like plastic spacemen. I couldn’t wait; in secrecy I peeled the wrapping open, slid out the end of the box, and pried it open. Plastic spacemen!

Aha! I thought. But then, the anxiety of wrapping it back up so my mother couldn’t tell. Then, wondering if she knew. Then, on Christmas morning, opening the spacemen, trying to act surprised and pleased.

It ruined the pleasure of plastic spacemen. I’ve not peeked since. Peeking, I decided at age eleven, carries its own punishment.

I can recall, earlier, perhaps at age four, standing in our miniscule living room. My mother’s brother was Dr. Hurn, she was his nurse, and we lived behind the doctor’s office. We had a large kitchen, small bedroom and bath, and this tiny living room recaptured from a storeroom.

There I stood, hardly older than an infant, perhaps four years old, startled because I’d just got a strange picture in my mind. I’d suddenly imagined that all grown-ups were a kind of dark angel, and that they could see me, even when they weren’t there in the room. It was a startling and frightening realization.

I could see them, somehow, even though they weren’t there … and they could see me.

When we’re very young, and have so little judgement, we make decisions that affect our lives all down the stream. But they’re not exactly like decisions. They’re more like perceptions. We see that life is a certain way. And all our subsequent thoughts and beliefs are built on these primitive building blocks, these decisions that happened as perceptions, made with so little knowledge. And because they’re so basic, it’s eternally difficult ever after to find our way to question them, because life just looks that way.

You can imagine that, given my perception at age four that grown-ups can always see us, it was a great relief at age eleven when I discovered that I could mislead them. And the wonderful thing was … they didn’t know.

Now, as an adult, it’s clear that neither perception was exactly right at the time. Times I thought they knew, they had no clue. Times I thought them ignorant, they surmised. Still, both realizations were turning points, of some kind.

Adrienne tells me of her friend Jenna, now nearing ninety. Jenna says that one Christmas when she was young, sitting beneath the tree some days before Christmas, she was overcome with curiousity, and unwrapped every package under the tree. She just couldn’t wait. Of course, she was quite unable to wrap them up again.

I don’t know what happened then, but she said that from then on, she just accepted that she couldn’t wait, and would unwrap presents before Christmas. Her husband Maurie worked out a Christmas solution.

Every year he found her two presents. One to put beneath the tree, which she’d invariably open before Christmas. And another which he’d hide, so she had something to open, come Christmas morning.

Mount Shasta: A couple of days ago, Adrienne (recovering from her deadly Komodo Kitty infection) and I were sitting at our dining room table. This table overlooks a shallow bay window above our front yard, which lies above the streetcorner.

The house diagonally across the corner — what my mother called “Catty-Corner” — has a couple with two children and a springy young black lab who was galloping wildly up the street, prancing like a playful pony. In their window, we could still just see their eight-foot Christmas tree, harvested up on the mountain, and still lit up.

“You know,” Adrienne said. “I’ve been wondering what it would be like to be their kid.”

She saw my surprised expression, and went on.

“I know that sounds wierd,” she said, “to be my age, and wonder what it would be like to be their kid, when they’re younger than us. But I do.” She had a faraway, wistful look on her face. “I think it would be nice. To have a house like that, and that dog, and those parents, and live in this place.”

I said nothing. Sure enough, she went on.

“I guess I’ve been feeling lonely,” she said, “and I’ve been missing our life back in Marin.”

“What?” I said, because this place is lots nicer than where we lived before. She nodded.

“Well, I don’t miss the life we had,” she said. “I miss the life we didn’t have. The life like my millionaire clients who lived in mansions in Ross, with pool men and gardeners, and vacations in Italy.”

I gazed at her in stupification.

“Yep,” she said. “I miss that life, there in Marin, that life which we never had.”

The odd thing was, I knew exactly what she meant.