I have an unsavory fact for you. It’s not the kind of thing I trot out in polite company, but it’s essential to understanding what follows. Here it is: I have four younger brothers because my mother wanted a girl.

There, I’ve said it.

My brothers weren’t mistakes. (Goodness knows, I’m not suggesting that.) But they were disappointments. (I’m pretty sure of it.)

Joey arrived on this planet eighteen months after me. My mother—we call her Coco—lay on the delivery table at Vanderbilt Hospital, bare feet in cold metal stirrups, exhausted after 17 hours of labor, but still her normally cheerful self.

“Nine months plus seventeen hours of hell and I’ve got another darn boy. Lucky me,” she said.

Then Ricky came along.

“Boys, I’m wandering around under a dark cloud—a very dark cloud.”

Then Harry.

“Dear God!” she said, looking up at the dining-room chandelier. “I know You’re punishing me for something.  Maybe You’re still mad about that late-night walk with Jimmy Lee after the high school prom. I don’t know. But I’ve racked my brain and can’t come up with anything else. I already said I’m sorry and I meant it.”

Along came Mikey.

“It’s another boy,” Dr. Kettle said.

“Darn,” Coco said.

“He’s a healthy one.”

“Tell me about it,” Coco said. “Darn! Darn! Darn! Quadruple darn! Doc, that’s it for me. I’m throwing in the towel.”

And she did.

Coco raised all five of us boys, almost single-handedly. My dad was a doctor. He went to his office and the hospital every day—seven days a week—and brought back money. That was a good thing, but he wasn’t much help around the house.

“I’m a saint,” Coco said as we toasted her 86^th birthday with whiskey sours. “That’s all there is to it. I’m tootin’ my own horn, I know. But if I don’t blow it, nobody else will.”

Coco’s right, of course. If there’s any justice left in this universe, she’ll be canonized as a saint when she dies.

“All you have to do is die,” I told her. “You’ve led a virtuous life, except for the late-night walk with Jimmy Lee.”

“You leave Jimmy Lee out of this, young man. That’s none of your business. One measly little slip…”

“You’ve performed numerous miracles with Mercurochrome,” I said, trying to get us past Jimmy Lee.

“And Syrup of Ipecac. Don’t forget the Ipecac. I saved a lot of lives with vomiting,” Coco added.

“Yes ma’am, you did, and if you can perform miracles here on earth, you can undoubtedly orchestrate a few from heaven. After that, you’ll qualify for sainthood.”

“Maybe I better join the Catholic Church,” she said. “I’m not sure being Methodist is good enough. You think those stuck-up, holier-than-thou Catholics have a lock on sainthood like they say? Doesn’t seem right, does it?”

“No, but there’s no reason to take chances. Somebody told me it’s easy to get into the Catholic Church these days. And I read somewhere you get your own feast day if you become a saint. The Feast of Saint Coco, they’ll call it.”

“Really? My very own feast day? Didn’t know about that. Has a nice ring to it though.”

Coco thought for a second, tapping her cheek with an arthritic finger.

“Meatloaf!” she spouted. “If I’m going to be Saint Coco and have my own feast day, folks should serve my meatloaf, don’t you think? And my barbecued chicken! Everybody loves my barbecued chicken. And my turnip greens, of course. And…will they be serving alcohol?”

“Don’t know.”

“Well, if they’re serving alcohol, tell ‘em about my whiskey sours.”

“Will do,” I said.

I have a problem. I have nothing to write about. This column is due. My head is empty. It’s a caseload of bad timing.

My editor can get a little churlish if I don’t get my columns in on time—as churlish as a possum with its wormlike tail caught under a wood pallet loaded with hundred-pound bags of chicken feed. (Just FYI, that’s seriously churlish.)

But what can I do? My mind is a blank slate.

“You’re saying that like it’s something new,” Annie said. “That’s not anything new.”

“Well, engage that over-active feminine brain of yours and come up with something for me to write about,” I replied, churlishly. “I have to get this column written today or my editor’s gonna…”

“I know, I know,” Annie said. “Get churlish as wet possum. You’re about to wear that word out.”

“The possum wasn’t wet. It had its tail caught.”

“Then write about the possum,” Annie suggested.

“It bit its own tail off and ran away. End of story.”

“Then write about your fishing trip—the one where you spent too much money on a new fishing rod, and that stupidly expensive reel, and those silly trout flies, and the ugly hat, and didn’t catch a single fish. That should be good,” Annie said.

“I already wrote about that. Don’t you read my columns?”

“Then tell ‘em about trying to wade across the Boulder River when the water was too high and how no fool in his right mind would have tried it and how you fell in numb-cold water and cut your arm on a slimy rock and had to go to the clinic in Big Timber and get patched up and how the doctor said you were too old to be wading in that kind of water and should have learned better by now.”

Annie was not being very helpful.

“I think I’ll go to my office,” I said, churlishly.

I’ve been travelling a lot lately. I knew what I’d find at my office—a stack of bills and a hefty list of errands. I was nervous about my column deadline and grumpy about the bills and errands. (Note that I did not use the word “churlish” again even though it would have worked well as a replacement for “grumpy.”)

While I drove toward town, Yoda the Corgi sat in the passenger seat looking out the window.

“You should be wearing your seatbelt. You know that don’t you?” I said.

Yoda acted like he didn’t hear me. He does that a lot. He watched a guy toting irrigation pipe across a field as we barreled along.

“We’ve had this conversation before,” I said. “But you never listen and you never put on your seatbelt. A dog of your questionable breeding should be smarter than that.”

Yoda caught sight of an elegant, long-limbed setter nosing her way across a wheat field. Her hair was the color of cinnamon and well groomed. Her tail was long a purposeful. She had graceful way about her.

Yoda put his front paws up on the passenger-side door and stuck his head out the window to get a better look. “Arrrrooooo!” he said.

“Yoda, there’s no future in it. She’s three times your size. The logistics would be impossibly difficult. Plus, we had you fixed. Remember? Now get your head back in this car and put on your seatbelt.”

Yoda lay down in the passenger seat and trained his moist eyes on me. He looked sad and a little defiant. He did not put on his seatbelt.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to raise my voice,” I said. “I’ve been away too much—book tour, vacation, that trip to Seattle, all those summer visitors. Lots of distractions. And I’ve got to get a column written and I have nothing to write about. And the bills and the errands.”

Yoda rested his head on my knee and closed his eyes.

I took a deep breath, counted to three (I never get all the way to ten), exhaled, and forced a smile. I felt slightly less churlish.

“Enough churlishness, ” I said. “We’ll get back on track. That’s what we’ll do. Get a cup of coffee. Maybe go for a walk. Settle down. Check for mail at the Post Office. Pay the bills. Get you a dog treat and a fresh bowl of water. One foot in front of the other, they say. It’s gonna be good. We’ll get back on track. You’ll see.”

“Arrrrooooo,” Yoda said. He jumped back up in the passenger seat and looked out the window as we took the off-ramp onto Second Avenue.

“I think you’re right,” I said.   “And once we get back on track, we’ll think of something to write for this column.”

I went fishing on Rock Creek yesterday—near Missoula, Montana. It’s a world-famous trout stream full of colorful cutthroats and feisty browns, or so they say.

Before I made the six-hour trek from Walla Walla, I checked in with my Montana fishing consultant, Matt. He always catches fish, or so he says.

“Fished Rock Creek a few days ago,” Matt said. “Caught fish all day. They’re eating gold-ribbed, pink-flossed flipsy doodles in sizes 10 and 12.”

“Gold-ribbed flipsy doodles? I don’t think I have any of those.”

“They’re the latest. Stock up before you come over to Missoula. You won’t find one in a fly shop over here. All sold out. They’re killer flies! And check out the new flexi-fluorocarbon leaders. They’re killer! And get that new fast-action fly line with the kryptonite imbedded in the butt section. That line almost casts itself. It’s killer!”

“Really?”

“Water’s come down on Rock Creek. The stream is wading easy. Temperatures have finally warmed up. Those fish are hungry. You can’t miss, Sam!”

Why did he have to say that?

Before a trout fishing trip, I spend a little time with catalogues.

“Hours,” Annie says. “Maybe days…”

I read them at bedtime and dog-ear the pages that offer “essential” new gear.

“Every page,” Annie says.

The catalogues offer the latest in fly rod technology, the lightest weight reels, the fancy new wading boots and chest waders, the hexagonal-mesh fishing vest with 48 pockets (including 12 hidden ones—why you need hidden pockets is beyond me), the newest foam-body flies (including the new gold-ribbed, pink-flossed flipsy doodle), fluorocarbon leaders and tippet, ventilated hats, SPF 741 sunscreen, and polarized sunglasses that spot fish for you.

I have bags full of this stuff.

“Why in the world are you wasting time with those catalogues?” Annie asked, a little irritated.

“This is the latest stuff,” I said.

“But you’ve got bags full of that stuff.”

“Not the latest stuff. This new stuff is way better that the stuff I have. Can’t go fishing with the old stuff.”

“If it worked last year, why wouldn’t it work this year?”

“You women don’t understand anything, do you?”

“Sam, every year you look at those catalogues and you buy a ton of new stuff and you go fishing in Montana and you never catch anything. Honey, you’re wasting a lot of money.”

“And every year, you look at those women’s catalogues and order a bunch of new clothes when you’ve got a closetful of clothes already.”

“That’s different,” Annie said.

I ordered a truckload of the new flipsy doodles and called up my friend, Barney, to see if he’d come over and help me haul my fishing gear to the car.

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll be right over. Hey, you’ve got those new flipsy doodles, don’t you? I hear those things are killer!”

Yesterday morning, I drove up the pot-holed road that runs along Rock Creek looking for the perfect fishing spot. There were fishermen everywhere.

“Having any luck?” I yelled from the car.

“Unbelievable fishing,” one fellow yelled back. “You got flipsy doodles, don’t you? These fish are nuts for flipsy doodles. I had to switch over and catch fish left-handed for a while. My right arm is wore plum out.”

The day was perfect—warm but not too hot, blue sky, light breeze. I watched a guy battle a big cutthroat downstream from me as I pulled on my new waders, put on my new wading boots, hauled out my new vest with the 48 pockets (I’ve only found six of the hidden pockets), rigged my new fly rod with a brand-new gold-ribbed, pink-flossed flipsy doodle, and went fishing.

“How was the fishing?” Annie asked last night.

“What kind of question is that?” I huffed.

“Didn’t catch anything, did you?”

“They quit feeding on flipsy doodles about the time I got on the stream. But I went to the fly shop after I got back into Missoula tonight.  Got a bunch of new flies-fuzzy, orange-striped whimpering waddlers with the yellow bug eyes. I’ll try them tomorrow. Everybody says they’re killer.”

“Lordy, Lordy, Lordy,” Annie said.

I’ve been out hawking my new book.  It’s tough work.

I spent the entire month of June in shameless self-promotion. I wore out my welcome in 12 cities across the South. Everywhere I went I met people who asked penetrating questions.

“Did you write this?” the gray-haired lady asked, holding up a copy of my book. She’d caught me just inside the front door of the bookshop where I was giving a talk. She peered at me from the other side of thick lenses while repositioning her dentures with her tongue.

“Yes’m, I did,” I said.

“Is it any good?”

“Yes’m, it is. It’s really good. It’s my favorite book.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s about my childhood—growing up Southern, my family, the old neighborhood, kids’ adventures, quirky characters, strange doings, conflict, reconciliation, love, hate, envy, greed, war, peace, poverty, wealth, deviled eggs, and the meaning of life…”

“Lotsa people written books like that,” she interrupted.

“Yes’m, they have. This is just my take on things.”

“Well, what’s it like?”

“Fair question,” I said. “You ever listen to Garrison Keillor on the radio?”

“Oh, I love Garrison Keillor. I listen to him every Saturday.”

“Well, I think you might like this book then, because these stories are sort of like his, except they’re about a real place.”

“You trying to put yourself up there with Garrison?” she asked.

“No ma’am,” I said. “I’m just saying these stories are sort of like his.”

“Interesting,” she said.

“You ever watch Paula Deen cook Southern food on television?” I asked.

“Sure. I watch her all the time. That woman’s a hoot.”

“Well, you might like this book, because there’s a lot about Southern food in it.”

“You ain’t claiming to be Paula Deen, are you?”

“No ma’am.”

“Well good, ’cause you clearly ain’t no Paula Deen.”

She opened the book and thumbed the pages—a positive sign.

“You ever watch the Little Rascals on TV?” I asked.

I was working hard, moving along toward closing the sale. She nodded her head.

“I loved the Little Rascals when I was a kid.”

I had her right where I wanted her.

“Well, I think you’ll like this book. It’ll remind you of the Little Rascals. Want me to autograph that book for you?”

“Hmmm,” she said. “Let me think on it. I read a book about kids once.”

She handed me the book, turned, and wandered off.

Undeterred, I walked toward the back of the bookstore where a small group of people had gathered. They were drinking white wine from plastic cups and eating watermelon. I met Charlotte the events coordinator.

“We’ve got you set up right here, Mr. McLeod. And you’ve got a nice crowd,” she said pleasantly.

Life was looking up. I had a glass of wine and chatted with the assembled for a while before Charlotte announced it was time for my talk and people should find their seats.

Several folks bolted down their wine and made mumbling noises about why they couldn’t stay. An elderly couple sat down in the front row. So did Charlotte, trying to encourage others to join us. Two more ladies sat down in the back row. They whispered to each other for a while before they got back up, waved to me sheepishly, and hurried to the door.

I started my talk, trying to make eye contact with the audience—all three of them. The old man in the front row closed his eyes and snored peacefully.

I stopped talking and looked at him.

“He’s old,” his wife said. “It’s not you. He sleeps through every book talk we go to.”

That’s when he started humming “Silent Night.”

Yesterday morning I had a cell phone. I could call people on it. That was yesterday morning.

“You’ve got to tweet,” my editor said. “And Facebook. All day long. All night long. All the time.”

“But I don’t like to Tweet or Facebook,” I said bluntly. “I hate it. It’s shameless self-promotion.”

“Do you like writing books, Sam?”

“Sure.”

“Do you want us to publish them, Sam?”

“Of course.”

“Then you’ve got to sell books, Sam. To sell books you must engage in shameless self-promotion. These days that means you’ve got to Tweet and Facebook. It’s simple.”

“But my phone doesn’t Tweet or Facebook, so I can’t. We’ll have to find another way.”

“Get a new phone, Sam.”

“But…”

“No buts, Sam. Get a new phone.”

New York people can be difficult.

So yesterday Annie and I took my phone to the Tri-Cities. (I can’t tell you which one.)

We went to the cell phone store and told the phone people I needed a new phone—one that Tweets and Facebooks. Annie had to go with me because she’s the account holder. They weren’t about to deal with anybody but the account holder.

“You’ve come to the right place,” April said. “We’ll get you all fixed up, Mr. McLeod.”

April was adorable. I’m guessing 21—maybe 22. Beautiful smile, blonde curls, big blue eyes, dimples—the whole deal. She was bubbly, too. She talked really fast.

April took one look at my cell phone, rolled her eyes, and threw it in the trash. She pulled a little black rectangular thing off the shelf. It didn’t look like a phone.

“This is our new 14G Mega-47 WhizPixel with SimSync Sizzlers,” April said.

“Is it a phone?” I asked.

“That and a whole lot more, Mr. McLeod. Look right here. Press that button.”

“I don’t see a button.”

“Just touch right there.”

“Not her, Sam. The phone,” Annie said.

I touched the place on the black thing where April pointed.

“There. Wasn’t that easy? You’re a quick study, Mr. McLeod. So here we are at the online app store. I’m going to click on this icon and download ProShopper. See? It shows you every store within four blocks. So if you’re looking for new shoes, or a place for lunch, or you need a manicure…”

“Cool,” Annie said.

“I just need a phone that Tweets and Facebooks,” I said. “And I’d like to call people with it.”

“See this here, Mr. McLeod?  If I press this button, we get a map that shows us where we are this very minute…”

“But I know where we are…sort of…which Tri-City is this anyway?”

“And this window here tells you what time it is, and the temperature, and the barometric pressure, and what constellations you can see in the sky tonight after sunset, which is at 8:17 pm.”

“Cool,” Annie said.

“Can you call people on it?” I asked.

“You can download your email, check for app updates, reschedule your dentist appointment, set the alarm for your afternoon nap, and there’s a bell here to remind you to take your medications…”

“Who told you I take an afternoon nap and medications?” I asked.

“Don’t all old people take naps?” April wanted to know. “My granddad takes naps.”

“She’s got you there,” Annie said.

“And here’s a short movie we can watch while we buy some music, check your prostate, and order a vegetarian tofu spinach wrap. Do you want sprouts?” April asked.

“Cool,” Annie said. “I’d like sprouts, please.”

“How do you make phone calls?” I asked.

“And it comes with this starter kit which includes a free coffee mug, a free ProShopper T-shirt, and this cute little box of dental floss. If you purchase the 2-year nonrefundable text bundle upgrade with insurance and annual retrofit, we’ll throw in a free family-size box of Stove Top stuffing mix.”

“Cool,” Annie said.

“Can you show me how to make a phone call?”

“Sure, Mr. McLeod, but first let’s check your phone contract because if we’re lucky, I may be able to offer you a discount. Let me see. Yes. We’re in luck, Mr. McLeod. With a ten-year contract not cancellable for any reason whatsoever ever, I can get you $9.99 off the purchase price of $893.99.”

“Well…”

“And, Mr. McLeod, today is the last day of the month. You’ll be getting our new taser phone app—absolutely free! Once I download it, your 14G Mega-47 WhizPixel will stun up to ten people without recharging.”

“Cool,” Annie said.

“Just sign right here, Mrs. McLeod.”

Annie took the pen, signed the papers in five places, and initialed everything else. (She’s the account holder.)

“There. All done,” Annie said. “Your phone is so cool, honey. I might have to get one myself…”

We left the store. April put on her cutest smile and waved good-bye.

“Remember to call your doctor about that little prostate problem,” April yelled from the door.

“She’s sort of cute,” I said.

“Bench it, Sam. She’s young enough to be your great-granddaughter,” Annie said. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going back into the store for a second. I forgot to ask April how to turn this thing on. Do you remember what she said about making phone calls?”

That was yesterday afternoon.

Hope you like the new book!

Best

Sam

I arrived at SeaTac Airport last Friday afternoon, an hour or so ahead of my flight back to Walla Walla. I sat down to wait at the gate. An old lady sat across from me. She was knitting. There was a big ball of lime-green yarn somewhere deep in the bag at her feet. It was a very large bag.

I sat, watching the little old lady and listening to the voice in the ceiling. The voice warned me repeatedly not to leave my carry-on bag unattended and it wanted me to report any suspicious activity.

Now I’ll admit that I am somewhat suggestible. I have a vivid imagination. It helps me think up worst-case scenarios. Anticipating disaster has kept me out of a lot of trouble.

“You’re not just suggestible, Sam. You’re certifiably paranoid,” Annie said. “Paranoid schizophrenic, if you ask me. And a hypochondriac. And sort of claustrophobic. There’s no end to your phobias. I keep saying you need therapy. Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, what’s it gonna take to get you to listen to me, honey?”

Annie exaggerates, but she’s got a point. I didn’t need the voice in the ceiling to encourage my paranoia.

That’s when I started studying the little old lady—not just looking at her.

If she’d stood up, she might have been 5 feet tall—or maybe not. She was so old that her hair had gone from gray to light blue. She looked like a grandmother, maybe a great grandmother. But she wore bright pink sneakers—not quite what you’d expect from a great grandmother. After I thought about it, those pink sneakers seemed a little suspicious.

The knitting bag at her feet was unusually large—or at least it seemed so to me. It was suspiciously large. I began to wonder what might be in her bag.

Occasionally she looked up from her knitting. When I made eye contact, she looked away—furtively, I’d say. That seemed a little suspicious.

When she tugged on her ball of yarn, I could see a pair of thin wires wink into view from the top of the bag. That seemed a little suspicious.

I started to put things together and thought to myself, “Better safe, than sorry.” So I summoned the airport police. I reported the little old lady and her suspicious behavior.

Well, two police officers arrived on the scene and looked at me like I was some kind of kook. There for a while, I thought they were going to cart me off and leave the little terrorist to complete her nefarious deed. Heck, I was just doing my duty. Obeying the voice in the ceiling. Trying to be a good citizen.

About that time, the old lady inadvertently kicked her knitting bag. (Thank goodness.) The wires came into view.

“See there, officer,” I said.

The police officers asked if they could search her bag. The little lady nodded her head. They found two giant metal knitting needles—sharp ones—and a mini IPOD. The officers looked at the IPOD and then at the old lady and then at those sharp needles and then at her pink sneakers. You could tell things were not adding up.

“Told you,” I said.

They hauled her off, kicking and screaming. She yelled all the way to the interrogation room about kooks, and injustice, and getting to Walla Walla to visit her grandkids.

As you might imagine, my fellow travelers were shocked at first, but once I explained what had happened, they were relieved. Folks clapped me on the back and thanked me profusely. I felt proud to be an involved citizen. I felt proud to be an American.

I boarded the flight. The little old lady was nowhere to be seen. I sat in my assigned seat and watched seats fill up around me. There was only one empty seat—the seat right next to me. And because the little terrorist was not sitting there beside me, I got an extra bag of pretzels—a small reward for the great service I’d performed.

On Saturday morning, I came into town to drop off some stuff at my office. As I got to the front door of my favorite coffee shop, two little kids came barreling through the door with their parents behind them and a little old lady right behind the parents. She looked vaguely familiar.

She took one look at me, raised her handbag, and battered me about the head and neck while she raged about the indignities she’d suffered, the plane she’d missed, and the inconvenience I’d caused. Her son grabbed her arms and held them. They stood and leered at me—especially the kids—before they stalked off.

I was baffled. I went home and told Annie about it.

“Lordy, Sam. You’ve outdone yourself this time, honey. Sullied the McLeod name for sure. I’d be embarrassed to show my face in town if I were you. Now, how about that therapy? Lots of therapy.”

“His name’s YODA,” Annie said, all puffed up with satisfaction. “Just look at those ears.”

His ears were extra-long and pointy. His nose was extra-long and wet. His back was extra-long and slightly bowed from holding his belly off the ground. His legs were extra-short.

“Looks like somebody put the wrong legs on him,” I said. “What kind of dog is he?”

“A Corgi,” Annie said. “Isn’t he the cutest?”

“Looks sort of funny. Where’d he come from?”

“He’s yours,” Annie said. “I got him for you.”

“Like you got that new bedspread for me, and the curtains in the guest bedroom for me, and the dining room rug for me, and those chickens for me, and…”

“Yep, just like that,” Annie said.

YODA came into our lives completely laid-back. He never barked. He seemed perfectly happy to wait at the door until somebody let him in. He was okay with my scratching his ears—or not. He was delighted to eat if filling his food bowl wasn’t too much of a bother for us. He carried his empty water bowl around, flipping it into the air every now and again, hoping somebody’d notice. He liked to ride in the car, preferring the front seat, but okay with the back.

He wandered the farm, checking things out in a detached, unhurried YODA-like way. BC the Barn Cat took a swipe at him. No big deal. He waddled on to the next thing. Nothing seemed to surprise him.

“He’s the perfect dog,” I told Annie. “I’m starting to like him.”

“He’s sweet,” Annie said. “Doesn’t do much. Reminds me a lot of you.”

A few weeks later, daughter Jolie came home for a visit—all the way from New York City. She fell in love with YODA.

“That’s my dog,” I said. “Don’t even think about it.”

YODA is now my constant companion. He sits beside me in the car, sits besides me at my office, sits beside me in the car again, sits beside me on the porch in the evening, sits beside me while I read the newspaper and listen to a Mariners game on the radio, sleeps on the floor at the foot of our bed, even lies on the bath mat while I take a shower.

“We’re soul mates,” I told Annie.

“You’re starting to look alike, too,” Annie said. “Maybe we should put YODA on a diet.”

In human terms, YODA and I are about the same age now—old. We share lower back problems, creaky hips, and seasonal issues with post-nasal drip. As you may have surmised, we avoid movement, except when taking our daily exercise—a long walk up Main Street, past Whitman College, to the end of Boyer, and back.

YODA marks each and every tree along the way, making sure visitors to our valley know we want them to love our town but not get too attached to the shrubbery. He considers it a public service.

He likes menacing squirrels from the end of his leash. According to YODA, squirrels belong in trees where God put them, not on neighborhood sidewalks.

Folks—mostly women—stop us on our walk, ask if they can pet YODA, and throw themselves at his feet. He allows admirers to fawn over him for a few minutes even though they’re messing with our routine. YODA now accepts the fact that he’s irresistibly cute and must tolerate a certain amount of adoration.

“That dog’s a babe magnet,” Annie says.

Annie’s right, you know, and that has caused me to think about my next life—in particular, my sixteenth birthday—and what’ll I ask for. I’m thinking about a Corgi…instead of a fast car.

When I was a boy, we McLeods lived in a valley west of Nashville, Tennessee—a valley much smaller than the Walla Walla Valley.

Densely wooded hills peppered with limestone caves and free-flowing springs surrounded us. The springs were home to blaze-orange salamanders, thumb-size minnows, freshwater crawdads, and the occasional water moccasin. The prospect of treading on deadly poisonous snakes made the place sort of interesting.

Our red-brick rancher sat on the valley floor in a two-acre sea of dandelions and clover—ground that had once been planted in cotton and tobacco. There were no trees or shrubs to amount to anything.

On summer afternoons we kids hustled after dust devils swirling across our yard, blowing up great clouds of dandelion seeds. Sometimes the air was so full of dandelion we couldn’t breathe without getting the seeds up our noses. My friend, Possum, got one way up his snoot and bugs went to town on it like it was a picnic lunch. Before it was over, Dr. Pritchard had to go in there with a scraper and get the thing out. Possum ended up looking like he’d been beaten about the head with a stick—not pretty.

Clover attracted honeybees—lots of bees. When I tired of running down dust devils, I trapped bees in a jelly jar by inverting the jar over an unwary bee and scooping him into the jar with the jar top.

I poked a few holes in the top and fed my bees sprigs of clover and water. I set the jar on the cedar chest at the foot of my bed. The bees lived there for a few days and died.

Death meant little to me. Bees, salamanders, garter snakes, frogs, and garden spiders were all put on this earth for my amusement. Death prompted me to dump the dead bees and trap some more in my jelly jar. I trapped a lot of bees.

I didn’t get stung. I came to believe that I had some sort of special relationship with the bees. They landed on my arms or neck and flew away when they tired of me. Experience taught me the bees wouldn’t sting if I didn’t mess with them.

One day, acting on experience and stupidity, I figured I’d pick up a bee in my hand and put him in the jar. It was a lot easier than the trap-and-scoop approach. The bee I selected for this little experiment didn’t like my idea much. He skewered my thumb. I screamed like a banshee, flung the bee into the clover, and stomped on him.

My thumb swelled to twice its normal size—my hand, too. A rash broke out on my chest, arms, and legs. The itching was fierce. Mom hauled me to the doctor. The shot stung worse than the bee. It was a bad day.

That night, Dad asked what happened. I told him about the bee.

“Hmm,” he said. “Learn anything from that?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Bees will sting if you pick ‘em up and squeeze ‘em.”

“Anything else?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“Well, think about it,” he said.

I thought about it but didn’t come up with anything. Dad looked at me for the longest time. Then he said, “We all got stingers, son. We don’t tend to use ‘em unless somebody squeezes us too tight. You got that?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, but I had no idea what he was talking about.

Folks often ask me about my writing schedule. Well, not “often.” More like “occasionally.” Once or twice a year for sure.

This is what they say, “Since writing’s not a real job, I guess you can write whenever you want, right?”

Not a real job?

“Wrongo,” I say.

Thoughtful people know that writing requires great discipline.  I write every morning—except Saturdays and Sundays, of course. I take holidays off, and maybe a couple of days either side of a holiday. I tend to follow the national banking holiday schedule since bankers work about as hard as I do. (As you might imagine, we require a bit more time off than regular folks.)

Otherwise, I write every day—unless something important comes up, like a fishing trip or the grand opening of a new coffee shop.

On writing days, I sit down promptly at eight…for sure by ten…unless I get off track.

I’m afraid this morning was one of those mornings. You know what I mean?

I got up a little late. I’m normally up at six but I woke up in the middle of the night with some heartburn—probably the strawberry ice cream I ate before I went to bed.

I know I’m not supposed to eat ice cream before bed—at least that’s what my doctor says—but Irene from down the road made this fabulous homemade strawberry ice cream yesterday with Klickers berries she froze last summer. She brought us a quart. Annie hid it in the freezer in the barn. She didn’t tell me about it until we got into bed last night.

I lay there thinking about that ice cream for a while before I got out of bed and wandered out to the barn in my bathrobe and pulled that quart of scrumptious ice cream from the freezer, figuring I’d have a little taste. Well it was darn good. I left the empty container in the sink and went back to bed.

About three o’clock this morning I woke up with terrible heartburn and took a handful of antacids. (I particularly like the tropical fruit kind. The orange ones are the best.) It took a while before my stomach calmed down enough that I could go back to bed, and then I lay there tossing and turning till almost five, so I lost a couple hours sleep.

I’m the kind of person who needs his sleep. So I slept later than normal and got up at nine.

Knowing I was off schedule, I hurried to take my shower and, wouldn’t you know, I got a whole earful of water that I couldn’t get out no matter how hard shook my head.

I gave myself a heck of a headache, still had an earful of water, and was getting kind of dizzy, so I stepped out of the shower and grabbed a cotton swab.

Annie says that was my big mistake because everybody knows you’re not supposed to stick a cotton swab in your ear. But I said that never stopped anybody I know from sticking a cotton swab in his ear and I’d been doing it for almost 50 years without incident—until today when I went a little too deep with the swab trying to get the water out and hit my eardrum and suffered pain worse than childbirth.

Annie says that’s overstating things somewhat since there is no pain like childbirth. But I said that couldn’t be so, because if childbirth were more painful than ramming a cotton swab into your eardrum, there wouldn’t be any human beings on this earth to debate the subject.

I had to lie down for a bit until the pain receded. There was still water in my ear. Annie said here, let me pour a little alcohol in your ear, it’ll float the water right out. Well, she did and it did—get the water out, that is—but I darn near broke my foot as I came off my bed. Turns out alcohol sloshed onto a damaged eardrum hurts worse than ramming your eardrum with a cotton swab—way worse than childbirth.

I thought I’d broken my foot. It swelled up like nobody’s business, but it was only sprained. I put ice on it for a good hour and then took forever getting that foot into a shoe. I had to wear the clunky white sneakers Annie hates.

So, long story short, I didn’t get here to my office until a few minutes ago. And it’s just dawned on me that I haven’t had any breakfast and it’s nearly lunchtime, so I need to get something to eat and maybe a cup of coffee and settle down some before I try to write anything.

It is impossible to write in an agitated state.

Heck, maybe I’ll just wait till tomorrow and start fresh.