Put out that cigarette I keep saying
even though no one is smoking
and you look at me strangely
and put out your nonexistent
smoke, realizing that you must
humor this strange anti-smoking
creature, and besides what’s the harm

And you there slouching on the couch
blowing smoke rings at the sign above the TV
that says NO SMOKING, you there
Put out that cigarette, and you, Kevin,
jerk your head up towards the ceiling
glare out beyond your house, you
almost catch sight of me, you growl deep
in your throat and snuff the cig in a Budweiser
ashtray, or drown it in a cup of cold coffee
or stamp it out with your boot on the hardwood
floor, and your wife throws a not insubstantial
serving spoon in your direction, disturbing the cat
who, of course, has never smoked, although she
does sometimes miss the litter box on purpose

And you slam your way out the front door,
saunter over to the rosebushes, unzip and take
a leisurely pee, under a sign that says
NO PEEING IN THE ROSEBUSH!
And your neighbor walking by thinking to herself
Doesn’t he know how to read, as she flips her
cigarette into the street, and her dog walking beside
sniffs and thinks, Can I eat this? And of course, he can’t

It is best to not let it get
around
He even hesitated to think it
to himself
For the Horse did indeed talk
to his Tail

And it is even well known
in certain circles
Horsefly circles
That the horse’s tail
was a remarkably talented
conversationalist
Although probably lacking
the proper invitations to the smartest
and most anticipated parties
and social events

But the Tail didn’t mind
at all, because he was connected
to the Horse, of course
And that was good enough

They whiled away the hours
in lively conversation, telling tall
tales, and of course, very reluctantly
Keeping the horseflies
entertained

You know those letters you get saying Do Not Discard, those that you, we, automatically discard, in the trash immediately, don’t even open, we know what they are, it’s a social imperative, and how about Don’t Fold, we can’t wait to fold once, twice, three times, we go for the folding record, and if we are creative perhaps turn them into clumsy origami!   But wait, I think, what if I am wrong, I asked myself this years ago, I’ve asked most of my What If I’m Wrong questions years ago.   Shouldn’t I follow directions, save these fragile letters with their precious cargo, whatever it may be, even opening them, quite possibly disruptive, and Folding, an act of dangerous defiance.  The Universe will run more smoothly if I just put them all in a nice safe place.  A lockbox!  I’ve always wondered what those are really good for.  A nice big lockbox with a combination lock.  Not for my Tax records, phooey, I put all my tax records in shoeboxes at the bottom of my closet, some of them don’t even make it into a shoebox, just the bottom of the closet, somewhere.  But these letters. Do Not Discard!  Don’t Fold!  They are all safe in the lockbox, and only I have the combination, and what about you, Dear Reader, what about your Do Not Discard letter lockbox?  You have one too, don’t you?  Of course, you do.  But don’t worry. I won’t tell.

It was around Halloween or just after, so perhaps a trick or a tall tale.  A very tall tale.  About a very tall man, Big Jim, out walking an Armadillo?  Or was it?  An allusion or delusion that I was sure wouldn’t be mine.  Until  …

… one evening at twilight I was walking along the Mill Creek trail, absorbed in my thoughts when there appeared a man?  Or so it seemed.  A man and yet, insubstantial.  Very tall, thin, almost skeletal.  I approached him from behind, afraid that a big gust of wind might  just blow him away.  I turned to look back they way I had come, thinking that when I turned back he would be gone.  He wasn’t.   I then noticed something to his right that was somehow even stranger.  Some kind of animal.  An  Armadillo, in Walla Walla, Washington?  It couldn’t be and yet as I got closer, it turned and raised slightly and looked me straight in the eye.  It definitely was an Armadillo.  The man turned also, almost in unison.  No, not almost.  They were somehow linked.  Strange, macabre, and yet somehow appropriate dance partners.  The most striking thing about the man was not his height, but his hands.  Fingers so very long, and yet like leaves in a breeze.  I looked up to his face, into his eyes, and then, had an almost overwhelming urge to look back down at the Armadillo.  I thought better of it.

Approaching the man, I held out my hand.  We shook.  It was like an adult shaking hands with a child.  And yet completely normal, comfortable.  Not gentle, but totally without any malice or ill will.  He could crush the bones in my hand like kindling, but never would.  It was outside the laws of probability.

I said, “Is your name …”

He said, “My name is Big Jim.”

I asked, “What is your last name?”

He repeated, “My name is Big Jim.”

I then did look down at the Armadillo.  He looked straight up at me.

I asked Big Jim, “What’s the Armadillo’s name?”  He looked down and the two traded something, a look, a thought, a desire.  And from Big Jim’s mouth came, “Arthur.”

Arthur turned and started up the trail, as did Big Jim.

I was going the same way, and yet I hesitated.  I felt that if I followed them I might end up where they were going and I didn’t feel that I was ready to end up there.  So I decided that my walk was at an end.  And started back home.

I was left with a lingering question, was Big Jim walking Arthur or was Arthur waking Big Jim?

And even a more significant question, Did it matter?  I didn’t know.  Yet.

“Why are you just standing there?”

Ghost Detective looked down at his shoes. They were comfortable but not stylish.

“Well?” The woman continued. She was carrying an umbrella. It was not raining.

Ghost replied, “It’s not raining.” He was a connoisseur of weather, especially rain. It was a valued asset for a detective. Or at least for his kind of detection.

The woman didn’t reply.

Ghost folded his arms about his chest and decided to wait. A black cat appeared from the direction of the river. She was completely unimpressed by the surroundings.

“Well?” the woman said, nothing if not persistent.

“I’m waiting.” He said.

“No one comes here,” she said and then noticed the cat. “Whose is that?”

The cat, who was moving towards Ghost veered toward the woman, her tail held high, eyes shining and raised.

Neither the cat nor Ghost answered.

“I’m of a mind to call attention to this trespass!” She twirled her umbrella.

“This is a private cemetery,” Ghost said. “Are you a relative?”

“No.”

“Then who is trespassing?”

The woman folded the umbrella, shook out non-existent rain drops, and pointed it toward Ghost Detective. She said, “Who are you?”

“Ghost Detective, ” he said.

“What’s been keeping you!” She waved the umbrella at him, as if it were a magical sword.

“I’ve always been here.” The cat now sat at Ghost’s feet, her tail twitching as if some overly hyper garden snake.

“How can that be so?”

Ghost said, “Ms Trellis, I presume.”

“Yes. How can that be so?”

“You have a ghost, and called me. What more is there?”

“All right we’ll talk about it later. What’s with the cat?”

The cat, who was now entwining about Ghost’s feet, ignored the ill mannered comment. He answered, “What cat?” He chuckled almost silently.

She stabbed the umbrella into the soft earth savagely and almost hissed, saying, “We’re not playing here!” The umbrella quivered, as if some Arthurian challenge.

“We are playing. You’re just not very good.” Ghost tossed his hand at the cat as if throwing invisible magic dust, and said “Be off.” The cat, who had a name but kept it to herself, came to attention, glanced dismissively at the Ms Trellis and marched off after her own typically mischievous feline pursuits.

“Can we please get down to business.” Ms Trellis barked. She looked after the cat and knew it would be back.

“The ghost is here with us now.” He said..

“What? How do you …”

He did not reply. Simply stared fixedly ahead at seemingly empty space.

“Oh.” Ms Trellis said. “Why can’t we see him or her?”

“Ghosts are not normally exhibitionists.” Ghost replied. “They are usually scared and, of course, dead.”

“So I’m really dead,” announced a mostly disembodied female voice.

“We can only see your bottom half,” said Ghost. “It’s a very nice half though,” he added.

“Jeez!” the girl ghost replied. “I’m not very good at this.”

“Just give it time,” said Ms Trellis. Ghost glanced warily at her.

“There. Am I all here now?”

“Yes,” Ghost and Ms Trellis harmonized.

“Well, I mean, I knew deep down that I was dead, but this is the first official confirmation.” She probably had been in her late teens or early twenties. More cute than pretty.

“I’m hardly official!” Ghost asserted.

The two women shared a look and both said, “Yes, you are.”

Ghost nodded as if he had confirmation of something he had suspected.

Ms Trellis asked, “Girl, do you remember your name?”

“Of course,” she responded and then hesitated. “My first name is Olivia, but my last name … it’s gone!”

“It happens,” said Ghost.

“How long have I been dead?” the girl ghost asked.

“Two years, 7 months, and 3 days,” answered Ms Trellis.

“My God!” Said Olivia. “What have I been doing all this time?”

“Don’t you remember?” asked Ms Trellis.

“Some of it. But mostly I’ve just been. Here.”

“Why here?” Asked Ghost.

“I don’t know. Obviously I was buried here. But New York City is my home. I’ve never been out of it. Why would anyone bury me here? It seems about as far from New York as you can get.”

“Yes.” Ms Trellis continued, “Do you remember how you died?”

“No. The last thing I remember from my life was walking in the rain. I wasn’t wearing a raincoat or carrying an umbrella, so I was soaked almost to the bone. And there was something following me. It didn’t seem like a person. And not an animal like a dog. But it scared me. It was dangerous.” She paused and gazed down the hill to the cemetery gate. “I’m buried down close to the gate. I don’t go there anymore.” If only ghosts could cry.

“Would you like my umbrella?” Ms Trellis asked.

“I don’t need one. The rain doesn’t affect me now.”

“I know. But umbrellas are good for more than just keeping the rain off. Please accept it.”

Olivia reached out her hand tentatively, knowing that her hand would pass right through the umbrella. But it didn’t! She grasped it like a life jacket. Or a lover’s hand. Her face exploded in amazement. “How?”

“Don’t you know?”

Olivia felt as if the umbrella was somehow hers … as if … “This is my umbrella.”

“Yes, ” said Ms Trellis. “You will find that umbrellas make good companions.”

Ghost thought that it was about time that things got back on track. He asked, “I think it’s about time you told us who you really are, Ms Trellis?”

“Rebecca,” she said, and smiled. With the smile ten years vanished.

Olivia laughed and twirled her umbrella. And then she looked hard at Ghost, and said, “I don’t know your name.” Then she looked even harder, his black fedora hat, dark brown raincoat, and his eyes, dark deep endlessly deep eyes. She said,” No, I know you, you’re a ghost, no, you’re Ghost Detective. You …”

“I divine ghosts. Like a dowser finding water. I find ghosts or more accurately they fine me.”

“And then what?” Olive said, frowning.

“And then what?” Ghost said, turning to Rebecca.

“Back to me, I see! It’s almost like a dance isn’t it.” Somehow she had an umbrella spinning upon her shoulder and, yes, was almost dancing.

Olivia now had her umbrella open, spinning, almost perfectly choreographed to Rebecca. They could be sisters. Olivia said with little surprise, “Oh, you have another umbrella.”

“I always have an umbrella! By the way Mr. Ghost I play the game very well.”

Ghost bowed. For she did. He waited.

Rebecca said, “I’m a kind of guide or guardian. I help people who have died uncover things buried.”

“Like what’s in the rain.” Olivia said.

“Or the last name on the grave stone by the gate.” Ghost added.

“But, why can’t you just tell me?” Olivia said.

“Because buried secrets are buried for a reason, and you must dig them up yourself. But you need someone at your back, and that’s where I come in. Plus two umbrellas are always better than one.” Rebecca said.

“Maybe we should go down to my grave now?”

“I think we should take a more circuitous route. Maybe all the way round the world. Are you with me?” Rebecca reached out her hand.

The two women clasped hands firmly and warmly without any spectral complications. Olivia asked, “Are you a ghost too?”

“That’s a long story, but I think we’ll have plenty of time.”

Olivia looked back at Ghost and said, “Oh, there’s a Kitty Cat!” She was sitting just in front of Ghost and her black fur was all on end, as if she was about to meet her match.

“Yes, the cat with no name.” Said Ms Trellis. “Should I tell?”

“Yes, do!” Said Olivia.

There was a hair raising hiss from the cat.

“Myrtle. It suits you.”

“Too a T.” Added Olivia.

And from the cat, not a hiss, not a meow. She sat straight, tall, and it was as if she represented the very Sphinx itself. And there arose such a purr that it promptly levitated half the cats in Egypt.

“Well, I’m afraid we must be off.” Said Ms Trellis.

“Yes. We’re off to see the Wizard!” Timed in Olivia.

And so they were. Their umbrellas seemed to lead the way. At times walking sticks, at times pointers, and sometimes wands of companionship. As they descended from his view they wavered, shimmered, and were seen no more.

“Quite an exit, wouldn’t you say. Thus begins a beautiful friendship. Don’t you think, Myrtle?” And he reached down to pet her. And she let him, for the first time in their travels together.

“Don’t worry your secret is safe with me.” He said, standing, his gaze off into the coming twilight.

“Well, it’s our turn now. It’s been a while for me. But for cats this is second nature.”

Ghost strode off after the women, his stride long and steady. First his feet, then his legs disappeared, until there was only the fedora, and then not even that.

Lewis Carroll had it all wrong. The grin is not last. Cats don’t grin. It’s always the tail. Myrtle’s tail was last, and then the tip of her tail, and then not even that. Just the twilight. And the anticipation.

Dogs will bark at anything

A leaf falling from a tree
bark

The sun rising
BaarrK

The moon
BbaaarkK

Their tail
barK

The force of gravity
bbbbarrrkkk

Their own bark

Bark!
Dog, “What the heck was that?”

Bark
Dog, “What the …?”

Bark?
Dog, “Whaaa …?”

What the hell was that?
Cat, “Who cares. I’m grooming!”

Now be honest.  Aren’t clowns scary.  Forget the propaganda, the hype, the hyperbole.  They are weird, strange, bizarre.  They are walking corpses with a lipstick fetish.  They are morbid, heavy footed zombies who have a psychopathic compulsion to stuff themselves into tiny automobiles.  They have big red noses that beep.  This is not Dr. Seuss.  It’s Dr. Demento.  And they always seem so sad looking.  Face painted blood red tears even.  Funny?

Now give them even just one balloon, and suddenly they are not quite so scary.  Their sadness has a certain buoyancy.  Give them three or four and they are the hit of your kid’s birthday party.  As long as the party doesn’t last too long.
Enough balloons and you can imagine the balloons lifting the clown up, up and away.  Perhaps to balloon school or a heavy date with a Red Skelton look alike.

Blow up some balloons.  The time is ripe.  Organize a clown boycott today!

An old codger once said, “You don’t turn 60. You hunt it down and kill it, or Vice Versa!”

Young Sir, always eat all of your porridge.
Porridge! I never eat porridge, I said, as I ate my porridge. Oatmeal
maybe, porridge, Never! It’s gruel.

Young Gentleman, you may find girls and kissing of little interest
now, but soon.
Girls and kissing, I thought, while kissing Marcia, who was 12
and a grateful kisser, but chewed grape bubble gum, yuck. Juicy Fruit,
now Juicy Fruit and kissing go together, like Hoagy and Carmichael.

Young man, it is of my opinion that if you play your cards right
the World is your oyster!
Oysters, what do they have to do with the world, as I ate my Oysters
Rockefeller. No, not oysters or Rockefellers, but marbles. The Big
Blue marble, the ultimate shooter, for all the marbles.

Sir, beware the mid-life crisis!
Mid … life … What? Shit, I said as I stalled the Vette at the third and final stoplight. I pulled it to the curb and killed the engine. Not, unfortunately, with a gun. I am, after all, a liberal. So much for Route 66!

Be sure and take advantage of our senior discount.
Senior! Discount? Did I hear right? Where’s the camera?
Isn’t that Allen Funt, behind the potted palm?

Yes, I really used to like oatmeal, but now I am growing to rather like
porridge. It reminds me of my childhood in the orphanage, isn’t that Tiny …
Tim, as I stare into my spoon of gruel, and see swirling down deep within
the very beginnings of the Cosmos, and perhaps within the next spoon full, the very …

no, not endings. It’s only a number. Einstein is having good laugh somewhere. General Relativity indeed!

Only a number.

He always awoke five minutes before the alarm was to sound. He then turned it off and remained in bed for those five wonderful minutes. Even more wonderful, if it was chilly and he could stay under the covers, warm and cozy. But right at 5:35 AM he was up, no matter what.

This particular morning he was staying at a bed and breakfast in an out-of-the-way town, well not so completely out-of-the-way. He relished the road less traveled, but needed community. So here he landed, an acknowledged denizen of the road. He walked down the hall to the shared shower – there was no line. He shaved and showered. He never showered and shaved. After finishing his toilet, he made his way back to his room, knowing if he ventured downstairs there would be know one about. So he read some poetry. Usually in these little byways in the time stream he read Billy Collins, but his morning it was e.e. cummings. Lack of capital letters seemed to suit this particular b & b. After about an hour he heard movement below, and so ventured down.

As he made his first step into the main floor realm, he knew that something was afoot. Something with a tail, a rather long tail. It vanished just as he recognized it’s disinterest. Where was that woman? “Oh, Miss …” he said. He thought he had just glimpsed her, just after the tail or the cat? He trailed. What was her name. Something Victorian, he thought. Wasn’t that her just off on a tangent. He croaked, “Oatmeal!”

There was an echo, Oattttt . . ., but where was the meal? He followed his nose. Which was not that difficult to do. It seemed to lead forward. Quite by accident he found the kitchen, or perhaps the other way round. The Victorian woman was nowhere to be found. Nor the cat. He debated rummaging through the cupboards, when a woman’s voice commanded, “Sir!” He replied, “Oatmeal.” The owner and grand dame of the establishment said sharply “Breakfast is at 7:30 sharp,” He countered with not insubstantial dismay, “What about my oatmeal?” She closed the matter by saying, “A hostel this is Not!” Tying up the not with an ultimate finality.

He was about to strike out in search of someone who might have a stash of oatmeal, when he was almost bowled over by a mid-teen girl who obviously wanted to be elsewhere. The girl actually exclaimed, “It’s much too long!” She was much out of breath and seemed to peer in all directions at once. “Victoria, please calm yourself at once.” The anti-oatmeal woman commanded. “But it’s true,” Victoria said, “Buffy’s tail is much, much too long!” The woman with a Victorian name that wasn’t Victoria, said, “Nonsense, young lady, a cat’s tail doesn’t grow.”

“Not only was it too long, but the tail and the cat seemed to be traveling in opposite directions,” Victoria said, snapping the conversation to an end. She wondered off, bedazzled, wide-eyed, obviously wanting to be somewhere the cat was not. He was awed by the girl’s reaction. To him all of the best cats had tails that were too long. He would have to find this cat, Buffy, and her tail. But before he got far, he heard a screech, and the words, “He’s moving so very, very slowly!”

“Oh, come you must see!” A woman’s voice sounded from upstairs. “It’s Mr. Carmichael, he was … now, where’s he gotten off to, he was just in the library.” The gentleman thought, how odd. He was of the opinion that moving slowly was the optimum in human achievement. He often practiced it himself, and sometimes fantasized that if he moved just slowly enough he … might … “Where’s he gotten to? How could one who moves so slowly manage to travel so far!” The upstairs woman was now downstairs, and had stopped before our oatmeal loving adventurer, shook her finger at him and said, “I ask you, how?” It was a good question and he decided to give it some serious thought. To serious evidently, for the woman whirled and stalked off without getting his answer. And what was his answer? “Perhaps,” he said to no one in particular, “if you moved just slowly enough you simply disappeared and reappeared somewhere else or perhaps nowhere at all.”

He decided that if he found Buffy and/or her tail, Mr. Carmichael was sure to reappear soon thereafter. So he set out on a search, but before he could get far, there came a pounding on the front door. It shook the whole house. What next, he thought? He did not have long to contemplate when the door was wrenched open and a tall red haired woman shot in and banged the door shut behind her and leaned back heavily against it. She panted and all the color had drained from her face. She said, “Nothing is right out there. The angles are all wrong somehow. And the color of the sky is too blue. Nothing is straight and as it should be.” Finally she ran down, and looked around herself with some embarrassment but still a good deal of fear. Eventually she slogged away toward the stairs, moving very slowly. Perhaps, he thought, she would discover Mr. Carmichael’s secret and they might find each other and develop a very slow moving relationship.

Everything a little crooked. That sounded just about right to him. He had always been a little off center, not quite a right angle. This might be just the town for him. He started to the front door, when a woman behind him said, “So you’ve finally chosen, have you.” Her name was not Victorian. It was a name only to be whispered, and then only on certain ceremonial days. He thought he caught her in a smile as he turned to leave, but probably not. He opened the door and stepped out into a bright brisk October morning. The colors of autumn had reinvented themselves.

He said to no one in particular, “Just another ordinary day!” He smiled a smile that was just a little too wide and tilted more than a little to the left.

I often mused as I let fly my lariat on how much of who I am depended on Richard Milhous Nixon.  How many law abiding citizens could say that?  I would let the lariat loop close on nothing and bring it back, and then out again.  I became a wandering trick roper and horse companion all because of our 37^th president.  I have traveled the world with what some might call a circus, but what I think of as a traveling roadside attraction.  I make my living with my lariat.  Roping for me is akin to fly fishing.  Out and back, out and back; and sometimes something would jump into the loop and catch itself. Those somethings put food on the table.

It was 3 AM, and I was standing in an empty corral.  I did my best roping in the wee hours.  A thunder storm approached and I would would probably get drenched; but it didn’t worry me because I owned the best rain hat in the world.  It wasn’t actually black and certainly wasn’t white. It was the color of in-between things.  This hat, which you wouldn’t call a cowboy hat, because I’m definitely not a cowboy, and to prove it I wore red boots.  In fact, I’m not even a drugstore cowboy.  I am in the neighborhood of fifty.  It’s a big neighborhood!  By the way, the hat was given to me by Warren G. Harding.  There’s a story there, but we may run out of time.

George Stinky Feet would often say that I was, “The best man I ever saw at roping nothin.”  George had a way with words.  His feet didn’t stink any more that any other human.  But because of a cruel childhood prank, the name got foisted on him.  As he grew into manhood, he got to rather like the name.  In fact, now whenever he introduced himself, he would always give a extra emphasis to that particular word.  He would say, “Hi, I’m George STINKY Feet.”  Often, that man or more likely woman, would glance down, for just a split second, as to test accuracy.  I imagined that George smiled as they glanced down, but I didn’t really know.  No one one had ever seen George smile. He did.  Everyone knew he did.  But somehow George always managed to smile when no one was looking.  This was miracle, because he got around a lot.  His stony face, of indeterminate age (somewhere between 40 & 70), always appeared just on the outskirts of any truly interesting social gathering in and around the rodeo town of Pendleton, OR. People would often ask George what he did for a living, and he invariably reply, “Breathe.”  The questioner would generally expect a smile, but the world is full of disappointment.

I liked George because he knew that people were more defined by what they didn’t do, as what they did.  I often said, “My one claim to fame is not what I can rope, but what I haven’t.”  People would always shake their head at that, because I have roped some amazing things.  In fact, there is an epic story going around that on the fourth of July, in some small town in Oregon, maybe Echo, I’m not saying for sure, but some say a lariat miracle did take place.  It was the Fourth and it was hot; and people say I was doing a whole lot of roping nothin.  The audience was getting restless and so the story goes, I was in a kind of trance, and then, there came an annoying buzz, and then buzzzz again, and then zing went the lariat and zap went the loop.  And, yes friends, I roped a horse fly.  Admittedly, it was a atypically large horse fly, but horse flies could get pretty darn big, ask any horse.  Whenever anyone would ask me about this miracle, I would just shake his head and say, “It’s impossible to rope a horse fly.”  But then I would smile and maybe wink, leading them to believe that it was impossible for most people, but for me, well …

… and speaking of horses, my partner and best friend is a red Dun mare named Sophie.  My ex-wife, Annie, had just stolen her again.  Of course, Sophie always managed to escape.  If the horse could talk, she would want to be known as ‘Sophie, The Amazing Escape Horse’, instead she headlined as ‘Sophie, The Horse Who Counted’.  But I knew she could do more than just basic math. If I could build the right equipment she could learn Calculus. But I am a dreamer.  Annie never took Sophie far, because she loved her as much as I did, and knew that she would always escape anyway.  But she always hoped that for once, she want stay with her, but she never did.  Once Annie stole off to as far away as Walla Walla, WA, but Sophie escaped again and made her way back to Pendleton.  Annie worried herself into a state, and kept calling me until she heard Sophie was back home safe and sound.  So she never took her that far away again.  She would get riled about something I had said or done, and then plot another theft.  Hoping that this time, with enough sweet talk and sweets, she would win her over. She is still hoping.

The thunder storm had just finished it’s dance over the corral, and the earth smelled showered, shaved, and dabbed in cologne, ready for a night on the town.  I removed my hat, which was amazingly almost dry, but that was it’s nature.  I took a good deep breath and let it out slow, and marveled at the shiny new Ford 350 pickup I had just seen Annie riding in with her new bow-legged boyfriend.  All of her recent boyfriends were bow-legged, and drove bigger and bigger pickups.  I once asked her, “What’s with the legs on these guys?”  She would just shake her head, smile wistfully, point at me, and pull her trigger finger.  It turned out her new beau was a quick draw artist.  Unfortunately for him, Annie was not only a crack shot with a pistol, she was lightning quick too.  They met at a quick draw exhibition at the roundup.  She was his first challenger, and wouldn’t you know it the quick draw was a draw.  How embarrassing! But somehow he still managed to fall for her anyway.

Anyway, those in the cheap seats are probably wondering, how Richard Nixon fits into the story.  Every American has asked that question at one time or another.  I met President Nixon in Walla Walla in 1972.  Some of you Bozos are wondering, Walla Walla, Richard Nixon!  Well, look it up.  I was a tuba player in the Blue Devil marching band.  A mediocre tuba player, but the girls really went for tuba players.  Well, it’s a tall tale isn’t it!  Nixon landed at the airport for a short campaign stop, attended by some Washington State bigwigs, who shall remain forever shadowed in history.  Nixon gave his infamous V for Victory salute, and then a short speech.  He went on to slaughter McGovern in 72.  His last and only slaughter, as it turned out.  I and the band played Hail-to-the-Chief or some other presidential tune. I can’t remember now.  Maybe it was the Stripper song.  Anyway, some time later I wandered off from the band, perhaps to clear spit from my tuba, when I heard footfalls behind me.  I was just about to turn around, when a squeeze on my right right shoulder grabbed my attention.  I turned and there, his face inches away, was the 37^th president of the United States, Richard M. Nixon.  The next 30 seconds changed my life forever.  The President said, “Beware giant ants and talking armadillos.”  He wasn’t smiling.  There was no humor in his voice, and no wink of an eye.  He had to be joking, but it was Dick Nixon, a man who may have had a sense of humor; but only he knew where to find it.  I didn’t have a chance to respond, because a couple of secret service agents efficiently cornered the head of state and gently shepherded him away.  One of those strapping gentleman gave me a look that seemed to say, ‘Don’t take what he said too seriously.’  And for a few years, I didn’t.