My Friend Brownie

The Gentlemanly Farmer has always enjoyed a nice holiday. You know the kind: warm Caribbean seas, warm Caribbean air, warm Caribbean sands, warm Caribbean food, warm Caribbean people…warm everything.

My nice big American wife, however, likes to do nice big American things. Soaking up the local culture, soaking up the local hideaways, soaking up the local natural trails…soaking up everything.

It was therefore with much trepidation and unwillingness that I decided to accompany her on our ascent of the higher of the two mountains on our idyllic Caribbean isle. Paradoxically (or was that ironically?) the shorter of these two mountains was apparently harder to climb given that you needed to scale it, literally. Whereas the higher mountain was an easier walk to the top. How something higher was meant to be easier escaped my meagre grasp of reasoning, but given how little mental effort I was exerting in semi-retirement, perhaps this was to be expected.

In any case, on a beautiful warm Caribbean day, when the beautiful warm Caribbean seas looked particularly inviting, my nice big American wife and I set out to scale a nice big Caribbean mountain.

Our first stop was the small village that served as the Base Camp. It was a protected settlement, and we were required to take a guide with us on our ascent. Naturally I was opposed to paying for what I believed was a redundant service, but NBAW insisted on following the rules and supporting the local population so I acquiesced. We met our Polite But Stern Guide who took one look at me and informed us politely, but ever-so slightly sternly, that many tourists did not make it all the way to the top and that I should not feel disappointed or emasculated in case I was unable to complete this journey. I was ready to give up right there and then. I knew that the journey of a thousand miles always began with a single step, it was just that I was not necessarily inclined to, you know, actually walk those thousand miles.

NBAW would have none of it.

So we set out in the early morning hours, as I took another tentative step in that journey of self-improvement that was to be such a major thrust of my semi-retirement. Those first steps were relatively flat as if the Earth itself was providing me with a false sense of self-confidence, because the trail became much steeper shortly thereafter. Again, this Earth provided just enough visual stimulation in the form of lush green flora to keep one’s mind off the burning that was beginning to stealthily build up in one’s calves.

Perhaps my semi-retired eyes were playing tricks on me, or perhaps it was the burning that was stealthily beginning to play tricks with my mind, but it looked to me as if there was a strange rustling in that lush green flora that the Earth was providing to keep us distracted from the task at hand. The rustling re-appeared, and before I could investigate the cause of these hallucinations a beast sprang forth, let loose from the very depths of H*ll, and stood in front of us, its eyes glowing with the fire…

…it was a dog.

A brown mutt. A white stripe along its chest was matched by some white “socks” around its toes (very fashion-forward). Brown eyes, a strong face, alert ears, muscular haunches, and perhaps most importantly, kind eyes.

I am by nature a fearful man. Failure, success, heights, murky depths, sharks, ghosts, snakes, even cats at one time, I feared them all. But I have never, ever, feared dogs. In fact, I had envisaged much of my semi-retirement would be spent in front of the hearth, pipe at the ready, loyal hound at my feet (hopefully having fetched the slippers that all of his training had taught him to do). Sans pipe, hearth, and slippers at the moment I decided that the dog was, in fact, a sign from the very same Earth, and that it was my destiny to scale this mountain.

Brownie. That was the dog’s name according to PBSG. He lived in the village and often accompanied those wretched souls who dared attempt this ascent. PBSG said that she could shoo Brownie away if he bothered us. No, I said, that’s quite all right, we shall make this climb together.

And thus we set off with renewed purpose and with some of that vim and vigour that had begun to desert my burning calves. Brownie would scurry on ahead and then would double back, all the way back, and walk behind me (I was bringing up the rear of our little group).

Finally, we stopped for a rest to catch our literal breaths. PBSG informed us that we had just completed the easy part. The easy part!

Every step was becoming that much more difficult. The sun shone through, the lush greenery gave way to the “dry forest” and we were surrounded by cactus and the kind of brown, thorny, muddled surroundings that perfectly reflected the state of my wretched soul. Over the edge I could see a river drunkenly make its way to the ocean, which was good because it was called the Drunken River and it, too, perfectly reflected the state of my wretched calves and hamstrings (the Achilles tendons were next). I stopped for drinks of water from my canteen, being careful to take small sips (a survival technique gleaned from a childhood of devouring Commando Comics). Every time Brownie would look expectantly at me and every time I would pour a little bit into my palm from which he would lap it up. Every time PBSG would disapprove (he’s a dog, he can find his own water), but every time I would defy her, accepting the fact that if I were to perish in these desert climes, it would be with Brownie by my side.

PBSG and NBAW walked on ahead, and I straggled behind with Brownie. He was not the talkative kind, which suited me just fine given that every ounce of expelled air was better used for operating those burning calves, hamstrings, quadriceps, Achilles tendons than for chit-chat.

My heart stopped, perhaps figuratively, perhaps literally (at this point it really was impossible to tell), when I saw what awaited me after the next turn.

An almost vertical trail (again, it really was impossible to tell just how vertical the trail truly was, but considering that my knee ligaments had now joined the conversation, it certainly felt as vertical as a trail could possibly be) disappeared into what appeared to be an Amazonian rainforest. This was the Cloud Forest.

This was the hardest part of the climb. PBSG and NBAW told me that if I wanted to I could wait for them here as they continued their ascent. There was no shame in defeat. I had fought valiantly, but it was foolish to carry on in the face of such literally insurmountable odds. Perhaps it was the light-headedness, perhaps it was the fool-hardiness that seems to come with semi-retirement, or perhaps it was the edifying presence of Brownie, but whatever the reason, I to decided to make my way into the Cloud Forest.

It was agony.

My knowledge of anatomy (much like everything else) is rudimentary at best. All I did know is that every single muscle, tendon, tissue, and whatever-else had not only joined in the delightful back-and-forth between myself and my surrounding, but they were screaming bloody murder at every single step. Breathing had become exceedingly difficult and the tropical rainforest that had sprung up without any regard to logic or decency impeded my progress at every opportunity.

Brownie, bless his little heart, never left my side. I stumbled onwards, and ever-so slightly upwards, fighting against this frightening spectre of semi-retired atrophy. And then, I could go no further.

I sat down heavily, sadly even, right in the middle of the trail. Brownie cocked his ears and looked quizzically at me. Then he stepped around and took his first tentative steps without me. I was thoroughly defeated. I did not blame the poor chap. He had kindly accompanied me this far, and how could I in good conscience hold him back from achieving his own personal goals? Go on, I whispered, and may G*d himself lift you up as you…

…but it was useless. Brownie just stood there and looked back me, the eyebrows raised, the ears cocked. In my life up until that moment I had managed to disappoint everyone and everything, but d*mned if I would not allow myself to disappoint Brownie.

With one final push, I raised myself up, shook my fist at the cosmic forces that had conspired to defeat me, and set off boldly to conquer all that lay in front of me.

Which, as it turned out, really was right in front of me. A few more steps and the Cloud Forest gave way to the summit. PBSG and NBAW were sitting there chatting, nibbling on some snacks, taking the kinds of big gulps of water that Commando frowned upon, looking sceptically at me as I stood on the precipice, my trusty Brownie by my side, grandly surveying the world below. I looked out at the warm Caribbean green valley off to one side, the warm Caribbean beaches off to the other, the expanse of the warm Caribbean seas extending to the horizon.

Fair enough, so I was not technically the master of all that I surveyed, but after all that I had been through I was due a few delusions of grandeur. I am sure Brownie agreed with me and I looked down at him to see if he understood my point of view.

My heart sank. Brownie wasn’t there.

Ever-so briefly I panicked, thinking that perhaps like those stories one hears, Brownie wasn’t real at all, but PBSG just shrugged and assured that me Brownie was real, and was probably on his way down the mountain, looking for other tourists.

I sighed. It really was not the same without Brownie, and a melancholy descended upon our, um, descent. PBSG and NBAW had struck up what seemed like a fast friendship, engaged in excited conversations about all manner of things, the exertions of the day apparently not affecting their air intake in the slightest. I, on the other hand, was still feeling the effects of the climb, and without my trusty hound by my side, my mind was no longer reaping the euphoric benefits of the adrenaline rush that my feeling of accomplishment had triggered moments earlier.

It was then that the ground gave way from under my feet. Quite literally this time, and while I felt my ragged body tumbling through time, space and memory, I apparently skidded down the trail a few feet. I realised that I was going to leave a piece of myself behind in this warm Caribbean isle, a rather long piece of skin along the front of my right shin.

Both PBSG and NBAW tried to comfort me. I was bleeding, well if not profusely, then just enough to make me feel a little light-headed. After PBSG (who really, was not quite as S anymore) assured me that my death was not quite as imminent as I had initially feared, I saw some of that familiar rustling in the flora.

Out sprang the familiar brown mutt, my faithful hound, Brownie. He had come back for me!

I set off with all of that familiar vim and vigour. I raced down the mountain towards Base Camp, seeking out the First Aid Kit that I had been informed lay there. Brownie was now jumping by my side, excited at this new-found pace. I am not sure if it is physically possible for dogs to smile, but it sure looked like Brownie had a big smile on his face all the way down.

The rest of the warm Caribbean descent passed in a blur. There are very few things in life as satisfying as a semi-retired old man and his trusty hound bounding down mountains, and for as long and torturous the ascent had been, the descent was mercilessly quick.

We came upon the Base Camp and I told Brownie to wait for me as I went in search of this all-important First Aid Kit. There was some urgency in my quest as I did not want to give Brownie a longer window of time within which to disappear again. I managed to search and procure the FAK with surprising efficiency and my heart rose to see him sitting outside as I had instructed. I sat down and dressed my wound (which I was disappointed to see was not terribly impressive once the thin film of blood had been wiped away) and then felt a weight on my left leg.

Brownie was resting his head. I patted his head. Good boy. This warm Caribbean adventure really was turning into something else. I turned to get some water for Brownie.

And just like that he was gone.

I called out a few times, but he was nowhere to be found. PBSG and NBAW came by and assisted me in my search. We walked through the village, but Brownie had disappeared (and once again PBSG assured me that I was not in the middle of one of those stories). It was no use. Brownie had returned to the warm Caribbean Earth from whence he had sprung.

We said our good-byes to PBSG, who really had turned into the Chatty And Friendly Guide by now. I left some biscuits behind for Brownie so he would know just how much he had assisted me long after NBAW and I made our way home.

As I sit here half a world away I know that I will never see Brownie again. But there is no sadness in that realisation, for I also know that somewhere out there, on a warm Caribbean island, some poor, wretched semi-retired soul is conquering his limits on that mountain with a trusty hound by his side.

And that is quite enough to make me happy.

Have Gun, Will Tremble

One would expect The Gentlemanly Farmer to be practised in the manly sport of hunting, but one would be incorrect in one’s assumption (ergo, that age-old adage about assuming and donkeys).

No, if truth really should be told, I have never fancied myself a hunter, nor have I ever been drawn to ammunitive paraphernalia of any sort. Not that I am not a man’s man, but the kind of man’s man who would much rather polish off a nice big American piece of meat without thinking too carefully about where this said piece of nice big American meat was coming from. This was the kind of blissful ignorance that allowed me to cut a wide swath through the animal population devouring with rare abandon and gusto even all that their life had to offer me.

Now that I was attempting to gently settle into a semi-retired kind of life, I was forced to re-evaluate this blissful ignorance. A man’s man who does not hunt the meat that men’s men polish off is probably not much of a man’s man for men’s men everywhere. And any good hunter must begin at the beginning: the gun. A major component of this semi-retirement was to be my striving for self-improvement. If I was serious about continuing this journey of perpetual self-improvement then I would have to confront my fears head-on, my manly manliness depended on it.

It was with trepidation and much hesitancy that I asked my friend, a decorated, celebrated even, Law Enforcement Officer if he would teach me how to shoot a gun. Since he had never seen me slice a golf ball, or dump a serve into the net, or attempt other horrifying acts of aggravated in-athleticism, he acquiesced to my gentle demands.

I was nervous as we approached the shooting range. Being that I was in the business of assumptions, I was pre-intimidated by what I thought the denizens of the range would be like. My mind travelled the backwoods of my imagination; images of nice big American men with nice big American bellies with nice big American beards with not-so nice not-quite American small minds with nice big American assault rifles flooded my already weak heart, my knees were either trembling from fear of were already tired out by the long walk to the entrance.

I gently entered the large space and the pre-intimidation turned into full-on intimidation. Foreboding men stood behind a large counter, muscular arms threatening to burst from their shirt sleeves, guns holstered to their sides, taciturn and menacing.

LEO asked me what kind of gun I wanted. I was still in the throes of post pre-intimidation, and weakly replied that I would go with his recommendation. Well, he said, I use a forty-five. A forty five, is that how much it weighs? No, he sighed, a .45, that’s the calibre. I do not care about the high moral standard of a gun, I just want to confront my fear and take an important next step in this continuing journey of self-improvement that is a major component of my semi-retirement.

LEO sighed, let me handle this. He turned to the taciturn and menacing men and whispered something, pointed at me, they turned to look at me, their expressions betraying nothing, and then handed him a tray filled with bullets and a strange-looking hunk of jet-black metal. It was a gun!

Immediately, a jackhammer appeared inside my chest, a tub of gelatinous dessert in my knees, and a windtunnel in my lungs. LEO looked at me with concern, I waved him away, I’m fine.

I gently followed him, a little uncertainly, up to the big metal door separating us unmanly men from the Valhalla that surely lay beyond. We walked through only to discover another door. Before I had a chance to think about those sounds coming from the other side of the other door, LEO pulled it open…

BOOM!

I was almost physically propelled backwards by the sounds of cannons being fired, rattling my skull, loosening my teeth, metaphorically removing my spine from my body.

BOOM!

It took every ounce of self-pride and remaining manly man-ness to keep myself from bolting the scene (the other door was closing, but not closed, I still had an opportunity to escape). LEO placed a pair of large headphones over my ears, the kind you always see aeroplane pilots wear in the cinema, and the BOOM!s gave ways to thwoks, the kind you hear in the middle of the night hoping to the Lord above that it is your drunk neighbour stumbling around in the dark after a rather brutal night of carousing, and not, you know, something else. The thwoks, oddly enough, began to comfort me, the metronomic regularity (of the neighbourly, not something else, kind) paced the chest jackhammer down to a manual hammer, swung by a very weak man.

Once the gelatinous dessert and windtunnel had been dissipated, I began to notice my fellow manly men aspirants. This time it was not the BOOM! that nearly propelled me backwards, it was that age-old, um, adage, about assuming, and assumptions, and donkeys and you and me and whatnot. No, the backwoods of my imagination were indeed mistaken. These were not the sort of nice big American men with nice big American bellies and nice big American beards and not-so nice not-quite American small minds that I had expected to be here. Instead, we had people of every type, gender, age, height, ethnicity, colour, creed, musical preference, dietary restriction. The intimidation, once in the post pre stage was now slowly moving past every stage.

LEO took out the something called a magazine (it certainly did not look like any glossy publication I had ever seen before) and began stuffing bullets into it. Bullets! Real bullets. Not some abstract concept I had seen in countless action films that had been the vice of my ill-spent youth, but real pieces of metal that could at any point take away a man’s life. And there he was, my friend LEO, stuffing them into this metal cartridge, this magazine. I took the first bullet, held a life in my hands, and slowly, reverently put it inside this magazine Okay, that was not terribly awful. I followed that with the second bullet, and the third, until I could no longer put any more bullets in. No matter how I tried, how much force and effort and will I expended, I could not put another bullet inside this magazine. I showed this magazine to LEO, he sighed, and proceeded to fill up the rest of the magazine. I was not off to a good start.

Words were useless at this point. Not because of the enormity of this moment in time, but due to these headphones one could not hear anything beyond those metronomic thwoks. LEO indicated that I should place my feet shoulder-width part, my left leg slightly in front of my right. My knees (ever-so-slightly beginning to fill up with gelatinous dessert) bent. I placed my right hand on the handle of the gun (the gun!), but LEO made sure that my index finger was out of the trigger guard and placed along the barrel (unless I was ready to shoot, I should never, ever, not in a million years, have the index finger anywhere close to the trigger). My left hand was to go over my right, steadying it, the left thumb up against a little notch in the barrel, the two thumbs lined up side by side, like old friends at a bar, a black metal bar with a man’s life at stake. I was to close my left eye and line up the notch on the top of the back of the barrel with the sight on the top of the front of the barrel. My arms were extended, with a slight bend at the elbows. Take a deep breath, LEO, said and exhale when you press the trigger. But, he cautioned, do not press the trigger unless you mean to take a shot. The chest jackhammer was back, the gelatinous dessert, the windtunnel, I did not want to be here, I wanted to be far away, a manly man was not in my destiny, I could not hold the power to take away life in my hands, I was not up to this task, I was ready to run, run away as fast as I could, leaving every last shred of manly dignity behind me, and before I could stop myself, I squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

LEO pointed at the strange little button near the trigger guard, the safety. I took it off.

The jackhammer, gelatinous dessert, windtunnels all returned, destiny, life, everything swirled around me, I squeezed the trigger.

Pop.

Okay.

I lowered my gun. I could see a hole in the target sheet. I looked over at LEO. He seemed concerned. I was a little confused. There was a Pop, sure, but it was not a BOOM! The gun had recoiled, sure, but it hadn’t flown out of my hands and into the ether. There was a hole in the target sheet, sure, but no one was dead. It was a strange feeling that overcame me. You see, more than the jackhammer, the dessert, the windtunnel, more than everything, I saw the hole on the target sheet and realised that I had missed what I was aiming for.

That was not acceptable.

Before jackhammer, dessert, windtunnel, everything, had a chance to lodge a formal protest, the gun was back up again, the sight and notch were aligned, the trigger was squeezed, Pop, and another hole appeared on the target sheet, closer to where I intended. Another squeeze, another hole, this time much closer to where I was aiming. Squeeze, hole, squeeze, hole, now my Pops were becoming metronomic. Eventually, I squeezed, but there was no hole. I looked at LEO.

My magazine was empty.

He pressed a lever, and my target sheet made its way back to me. We looked over the holes littering the sheet, the majority of which were in the target area. Now, in another time and another place, the fact that the target “area” looked suspiciously like a human being may have given me pause, and perhaps even made me question what it was that we were doing there, shooting at a “human being” on a target sheet. But this was not that time and it was certainly not that place. No, what I was considering was the pattern on the target sheet and how I could hit what it was that I was aiming for.

LEO seemed impressed. He took another target sheet (another “human being,” but like I had stated earlier, this was not the time, nor was it the place) and this time he sent it further away. Once again, I took my stance, but this time it was bereft of the jackhammer, dessert, windtunnel, everything, instead I was filled with this overwhelming urge to make sure I hit the “chest” twice, and then the “head” (not the time, not the place) once. I squeezed the trigger, three times in succession, and the holes appeared where I had intended them to appear. I followed the pattern. Squeeze squeeze squeeze. Pop pop pop. Hole hole hole. I improvised. I targeted the “shoulders,” the “stomach,” finally the “wrists.” Magically, the holes appeared everytime.

The target sheet came back to me. LEO was impressed. He placed another one on the line, and this time he sent it away, far away, into the distance, back beyond everything, it kept receding, until it was but a speck in my imagination.

This was the Law Enforcement distance, everything before had been but mere practice.

I could feel the jackhammer, dessert, windtunnel, everything begging to creep back again. I would not allow this to happen. I squeezed, the pops popped, but the holes, the most important part of this whole process, they did not seem to appear.

The target sheet came back, the closer it got to us, the more it seemed that my manly manliness receded, beyond even the LE distance.

LEO was about to shake his head, about to render this entire endeavour meaningless, when something seemed to catch his eye. He looked at me, I looked at him, and then I looked at a single hole in the sheet.

It had caught the very edge of the “head.”

I looked at LEO and smiled. Another target sheet was flown out there, at the LE distance, and I swear I could see just the very beginning of a hint of my manly manliness begin to appear.

I looked around me at the other manly men aspirants, these souls of varying type, gender, age, height, ethnicity, colour, creed, musical preference, dietary restriction. In the lane next to me the young woman in her sandals, jeans, dark nail polish, and nonchalant insouciance nodded at me. I nodded back at her, turned to my target sheet out there in the LE distance, took my position, raised this small piece of metal in my hand, this destroyer of worlds, this machinery, this everything…

I squeezed.

My Ph.D. In Swimming

The Gentlemanly Farmer has always fancied himself a bit of a swimmer.

Not the Mark-Spitz-Munich-Eight-Gold-Medals kind, but probably the Jason-Lezak-Pretty-Good-In-His-Own-Way kind. I always pitched in at school, almost always in the top three (even on those medley relay teams when I was forced to go up against the best swimmer in school because I was the only one on the team that could do the true dolphin kick in the butterfly, only I did it very slowly compared to this best swimmer, and even though I would get crushed by him, often entering with a length lead and leaving behind by a length, the team itself almost always finished in the top three). My only regret was that I never fully learned how to execute the flip-turn with the requisite amount of insouciant panache expected of someone like myself.

Now that I found myself in the middle of semi-retirement, I decided to give swimming the old semi-retired try, and proceeded to sign up for my “Introduction to Swim” class. I was told by the nice big American person at the nice big American front desk at my nice big American sporting club, that since I was going to be swimming after a long time I should take the class. Perhaps I was labouring under the misconception that all one needed to swim was a body of water and a swimming costume, or perhaps I was too intimidated by my nice big American sporting club, but whatever the reason, I took her up on her offer, and decided to gently try this “Introduction to Swim” class.

Since I had this fair amount of time in my semi-retirement, I decided to do some gentle research to make sure I had the proper equipment. In my limited experience nice big American leisure activities usually needed nice big American pieces of equipment, even if said nice big American leisure activities looked deceptively simple on the surface (including such apparently not-quite commonplace activities like running, bicycling, and, um apparently, swimming).

I was correct. In order to even begin swimming I needed a pair of performance swimming shorts, a specific blend of materials that descended directly from the Gods themselves, Lycra, Nyla, Spandex. After which I needed eyewear, what are referred to by the populace as swimming goggles, with a low profile to reduce my drag as I cut through the water like those sharks I am deathly afraid of, an ultra-mirrored coating to reduce glare (and wrinkles), all topped off with a carbon-neutral footprint (and environmentally-friendly goggle solution, anti-fog spray, a small waterproof bag to hold it all in). Finally, I needed a swim cap (one that set off a debilitating John-or-Paul type decision between Silicone and Lycra).

Lo (and perhaps even behold) I was ready to venture forth into the nice big American summer day, armed with the equipment and the requisite self-confidence (and knowledge necessary to operate such complex equipment like swim shorts, goggles, and cap gleaned from careful research and internet instructional videos) required to take up the fine sport of swimming and continue this journey to my improved self. I checked in with the nice big American person at the nice big American front desk, changed into my spiffy swimming ensemble in the nice big American changing rooms, and strode out into the nice big American swimming area.

This was going to be easy.

In front of me lay a gaggle of retired professionals. They may have been (semi) retired like me but they also had a few decade headstart on me. I ambled over to the instructor, and nonchalantly (blithely even) introduced myself, ready to be wrapped up in the warm embrace of her amazement as I outswam, outshone, and outeverythinged the gaggle of elderly retired professionals gingerly dipping themselves in the nice big American swimming pool.

I was unprepared for what happened next.

The instructor looked at me with an expression disturbingly akin to contempt (distaste even). Do you have paddles?

I was taken aback. Paddles? Madam, I do not plan to canoe, I told her firmly, I plan to swim.

Yes, definitely, contempt and distaste. Swim paddles, do you have swim paddles?

No, I said, my self-confidence (and knowledge) beginning to retreat from the nice big American pool, I did not realise that I needed swim paddles to swim in a swimming pool.

The Contempt And Distaste continued, unabated by my weak parry (or was it a thrust?): Do you have a pull buoy (Pool Boy? Do I look like I own a pool, much less a Pool Boy?)? Do you have nose plugs? Do you have ear plugs? Do you have fins?

Fins? Do I have fins? My dear Madam, I may be many things, many, many things, the one thing I am not, however, is a fish. Therefore, I am sad to say, I do not have fins.

She sighed and directed my attention to the nice big American whiteboard beside the nice big American swimming pool under the nice, big American sunshine. It was filled with all manners of notations. Little acronyms, followed by numbers, followed by letters. You see the “p” (lowercase, subscript), CAD asked, that means “paddles.” The “f” is for “fins,” “b” is for “buoy.” Boy? No buoy, as in pull buoy. Pool Boy? And so on, and so forth.

I was shrinking faster than all those jokes about men hitting cold water dressed in nothing but swim shorts. This is an introductory class, am I correct? Yes. Perhaps you can introduce me to the flip-turn? No. Why? Because you don’t have the nose and ear plugs to keep the water from getting into your lungs.

Sigh…

I had to salvage some shred of my self-dignity now that the self-confidence (and knowledge) had disappeared. At the very least I knew that I could swim. I was always Top Three, that couldn’t disappear completely, could it? I looked over at the gaggle of ERPs and didn’t see anyone with the kind of pure dolphin kick butterfly stroke that haunted my boyhood swimming dreams, and decided to show CAD that she had perhaps underestimated me. I was going to do this little exercise, the one with all the nice big American notations on the nice big American whiteboard, beside the nice big American swimming pool, underneath the nice big American summer sky.

Sure, she said, knock yourself out, but…

There is always a but.

…you have to swim over there.

Over there?

Yes, in the beginner lane.

SD, too, was beginning to disappear, and I dove into the lane before it could abandon me completely. I cut through the water like the sharks I was terrified of. I purred along, barely leaving a wake in my, um wake, determination, anger, resilience fuel in my tank against the gaggle of ERPs. Surely CAD would change her mind after she saw me eat the ERPs up? Surely she would be amazed at my raw talent, my Top Three potential, take me under her wing and teach me the flip turn? Surely…

And that’s when the taps began.

Gently at first. Then more insistent. Finally a tidal wave engulfing and drowning SD.

The ERPs tapped my feet, as one by one they passed by me, like those sleek European performance machines sliding past my nice big American car.

I finished the workout and gathered my things. CAD walked over to me, and asked me if everything was all right. CAD was beginning to give way to the dreaded FSFY (Feel Sorry For You), and I managed to mumble something along the lines of I thought this was an Introduction to Swim class.

Masters Swim, she corrected me.

I’m sorry?

Masters Swim, this is an Introduction to Masters Swim class.

It all fell into place then. It was a mistake, of the honest kind. CAD had no right to fling her dissatisfaction at me. In fact, I was to be commended. I had not used her fancy little letters (lowercase, subscript), I had not utilised these paddles, and fins, and pool boys? no pull buoys, and I had somehow, against unspeakable obstacles, managed to complete the workout. SD, SC (and K) had all reappeared, like magic, and were standing tall underneath the nice big American summer sky.

In that case Madam, you may as well give me a Ph.D., because I just completed your little Masters workout.

And it was then that CAD finally gave way to FSFY. She shook her head and walked away before delivering the final blow.

That was just the warmup.

By George!, Or: When Louise Called Butch

The Gentlemanly Farmer has led an interesting life. As a result, I have often felt like the nice big American comedian Jerry Seinfeld in my own life, the straight man surrounded by all manner of craziness, lucky to just be a part of it all. An incident occurred recently that drove this point home quite forcefully (and perhaps even literally).

As a semi-retired non-professional I have often found myself loitering in my nice big American home. It was on just such an occasion that the phone rang. Since I was deep in thought, ruminating about the philosophical complexities of semi-retired life, I neglected to answer it.

My nice big American wife returned from her hard day of work, and her being the kind of efficient person one would expect nice big American wives to be, she immediately listened to the message on our answering machine.

As soon as I heard a presumably dotty old Englishwoman enquiring about someone named Butch, I knew that I was dealing with something that should not be dealt with, and made a move to delete this message and to expunge all record of its existence from our lives.

However, my nice big American wife is (as Americans tend to be) a nice big American person, and thought that it a simple matter of courtesy to call PDOE back and inform her that she had the wrong number. Perhaps I was getting softer in my old age, perhaps as a semi-retiree I had empathy for a full-on retiree, or perhaps I knew that I did not possess the requisite intellectual capacity to win an argument with my nice big American wife, in the end I acquiesced (knowing full well that I had no actual acquiescing power).

So, my nice big American wife called PDOE to inform her that she would need to continue her quest to find this Butch because this Butch did not live in our nice big American house. PDOE was touched by this display of uncommon courtesy and proceeded to converse with my wife.

And this is when things became interesting.

PDOE was in reality a kind old Englishwoman named Louise. She was looking for Butch because she wanted to invite him to her birthday party. She had missed two numbers when he left her his phone number and was now calling the different extrapolations hoping to find Butch. Thanks to my nice big American wife, she would be able to find Butch after all.

And they carried on conversing.

Louise, our KOE, was Louise Harrison. There are a lot of Harrisons in this world, there are fewer English Harrisons, and fewer still are the Harrisons of George.

You see, she was George Harrison’s sister.

Yes, that George, as in The Beatles!

There are many Butchs in this world. There are fewer Butchs of Patrick.

You see, the Butch in question was Butch Patrick. Yes, that Butch Patrick, the one who played Eddie Munster on the classic TV show The Munsters.

Therefore, ipso facto, QED, net-net, bottom-line, at the end of the day: George Harrison’s sister called my house looking for Eddie Munster.

I mean, seriously, I don’t think I could make up my life even if I tried!

A Little Less Breath

The Gentlemanly Farmer had a fine time in Corporate America. It wasn’t an incredibly fun-tabulous time, granted, but it wasn’t a horrifically Brazil-like mind-numbing shoot-my-brains-out time. It was a fine time, not much more, and certainly not much less (perhaps a wee bit less, but not much less).

Of course, when I started it was very much closer to the fun-tabulous end of the spectrum and over time, as these things usually play out in the winner-take-all world of CA (I mean Corp. Am., I cannot confirm, nor can I deny, that this is what happens in sunny Calif.), it moved to the Brazil end of the spectrum.

The reasons were many. They were both at the macro level, and at the very mini-micro level. They involved both institutions and individuals. They were both sinister and simple. You get the idea. That is not what is important (not now anyway). No, what is important is that one day when I decided that I had had enough (not a spelling error, there were two hads in that sentence) and then proceed to have that rare transcendent experience in a cinema (you know the kind, the one that has been mythologised in numerous films).

It really was one of those days. You know these days, I will not waste your time rehashing the circumstances of that fateful day. I did not have a Peter-Finch-slash-Howard-Beale-in-Network moment. Not too long in the past I would have had a PFSHBIN moment, but I had become too circumspect and responsible in the intervening years.

I made sure my work was finished for the day. I made sure my colleagues did not require anything immediate from me (as had become the case of course they wanted more from me, but as had also become the case, I demurred given the lack of immediacy of what was required, the work could wait for another day). I made sure that my supervisors had left early (as my immediate supervisor sometimes did, and as my immediate supervisor’s immediate supervisor often did) in their fancy automobiles. After having made sure of all this, I then decided that yes, enough was indeed enough, and I too decided to gently leave for the day.

It was a beautiful day. I could have done anything. I could have gone for a walk. I could have gone to the beach. I could have run into the ocean. I could have done anything.

So naturally I went to see a film.

It was small, somewhat drab, and independent, the movie menu I mean. The cinema too was SSDAI. Given the potentially life-altering adventure I found myself in the middle of, this was not quite in keeping with my ebullient mood. The adrenaline began to wear off, I feared that I had made a mistake, that my life as I knew it would not change, and I would spend the rest of my days having a fine time in CA.

It was then that my eyes came across something strange. It was a black-and-white film poster. It was for an old French film. All right, I am being coy, I admit it, it was for the French film, perhaps the Frenchest of all French films.

It was Breathless.

Yes, the Breathless. The one. It was being re-released in glorious 35mm black-and-white (and I do mean glorious, this SSDAI cinema dared to have film projectors, the old-fashioned kinds that projected actual film, not those horrific new digital ones they use in the multiplexes these days). I had no choice. This could be it, the beginning of something new. You know those films, the ones that have the dewy-eyed protagonist (there really is no other kind), the misunderstood, obviously brilliant lonely soul that somehow always manages to find him/herself in the kind of single-screen old-fashioned cinema that only seem to exist in the cinematic imagination, taking in some old black-and-white film (sometimes foreign, sometimes something with Humphrey Bogart, rarely something with Cary Grant), mouthing the words, taking refuge from the uncaring world outside? You know the films I am talking about? Now I was going to be in one of those films.

 

 

I nervously bought my ticket, irritated that the cashier was so oblivious to what was unfolding right in front of her (it was right in front of her!). I bought myself a small bag of popcorn and a small cup of flat soda (the protagonist is always absent-mindedly rooting around for some popcorn and soda in these films aren’t they?) and made my way to the theatre. Success! It was mostly empty, and had just the right number of lonely souls for it to seem like a scene right out of one of those movies. The theatre was in bad shape, but not too bad that it felt creepy, but bad enough to seem like a scene right out of…well you get the scene.

The trailers started, and they had one of those old-fashioned title cards with the old-fashioned music announcing the start of the trailers. You could even hear the faint sound of the projector, you could hear it (the fancy new digital ones are silent, deathly silent perhaps?)! You could see the scratches on the print, you could see them! Fantastic! And then another title card, and some more old-fashioned music, and my heart skipped a beat (yes, you know what I mean, you know exactly what I mean). It was starting, the rest of my life, it was happening and…

…cue the sound of the record needle coming to a screeching halt (sure, why not, it is all one big cliche anyway).

The framing was off! I couldn’t read the subtitles!

I looked around me. The other lonely souls just stared at the screen as the impossibly beautiful Jean-Paul Belmondo and Jean Seberg became our wish-fulfillment fantasies as they had for generations of precious (twee even) lost souls before us. No one got up to inform the manager. No one got up to ask for their money back. No one mouthed the words as they did in the movies, perhaps content to keep that French interior monologue private. I had never been one to rock the boat (okay, that is, how do my nice big American friends say it?, so not true, but like I said, I had become more circumspect and responsible in the intervening years) so I too just sat there. Now, I am not sure if this was the case for those other lonely souls, but I did not understand French. Not a word of it. Nope.

A chilling thought went down my spine (in my world thoughts can, indeed, go down one’s spine). Perhaps this was all for nought. Perhaps I would not have my scene in the film (you know, that scene). Perhaps my life was not about to change after all. Perhaps I was doomed to gently go back to my fine life in CA, gently living out the rest of my days in a fine manner. Perhaps…

So there I was, another lonely soul in a lonely cinema at a lonely time watching a lonely film without understanding a single lonely word.

And it was glorious.

Forgive me if this precious (twee even) scene veers into even more precious (definitely twee) territory, but it was a pure cinematic experience. It didn’t matter that I didn’t understand what was being said or follow the dialogue or read the subtitles. No, I just let it wash all over me. I was swept along as Jean-Paul Belmondo and Jean Seberg skipped along the impossibly beautiful streets of black-and-white Paris, so impossibly beautiful in everything they did, so beautifully full of life and rhythm and possibilities, so beautifully effortless, so beautifully liberating, so beautifully insouciant, so beautifully everything because they knew the whole beautiful glorious 35mm black-and-white world lay in front of them.

It was happening. I was having my scene (yes, that one).

And when it was over I gently skipped out of the cinema, free, ready, willing to go on the glorious 35mm black-and-white adventure that would be the rest of my life.

The Egyptian Doctor, Or: Never Play Against The Old Guy

Back in my post-graduate days, the Gentlemanly Farmer was mainly sedentary. But once in a while, the fancy would overtake me, and I would gently make my way to the old post-graduate gymnasium to give exercise the old post-graduate try.

I quickly realised that I wasn’t much for serious exercising (I ended up proving the old theorem that lifting 4kg weights in front of human colossi is, in fact, rather emasculating), but enjoyed playing the odd game now and then.

Now, I wasn’t much for the odd game, but I could pick up a squash racquet and not embarrass myself too much. The trouble was that this was a nice big American gymnasium full of nice big American colossi, and not a lot of them played squash.

So I stood there at the courts, waiting for someone to appear, and lo (and perhaps even behold) someone did.

It was the Old Egyptian Doctor.

OED shuffled in slowly, two knee braces, two elbow braces, two wristbands, a headband, a pair of protective goggles. He was exceedingly polite, and I was wondering how many points I should “give” him so he wouldn’t feel too bad as he lumbered to his inevitable defeat.

I let him serve first. I didn’t want to go down the backhand rail (that would have embarrassed him right off the start) so I gently hit the ball up the middle and stood behind him waiting for the weak reply, ever so graciously letting him have the T.

Except his weak reply never came. No, the ball just died a quick, merciless death in the corner.

I was a little shaken, not quite comprehending what had happened. I put it down to a mistake, so when he served to my forehand side I once again put the ball back in the middle, and once again it died a swift death in the corner with nary a sound.

Finally on the fourth point I had had enough and I sent the ball down the rail, moving instinctively to the T expecting him to rotate over to retrieve the ball off the back well. Instead, he reached out before the ball even had a chance to get by him, and again, the poor little round thing was dispatched to the corner.

Now I was upset. And you wouldn’t like me when I’m upset (no, really, you wouldn’t, my old coach in college had me forfeit a game because I threw my racquet around with all the reckless abandon of callow youth).

I blasted the return down the wall, expecting OED to relinquish his T-position, but he didn’t. He just plucked that little thing right out of the air, like he was out skipping dandelions, or whatever it was that people his age did in the springtime. This time I was ready for the corner-death. I just about managed to dig the ball out, but before I had the opportunity to luxuriate in my handiwork, I was sent to the opposite corner. And again, I just about managed to dig that out, only to be sent to the other corner. And this went on for a bit, before I decided that enough was enough, and I sent the ball on a low-percentage suicide mission to that tiny spot right above the bottom tin, and it was perfect! I had won the point! Incredible! OED looked at me and smiled, obviously impressed by my superior athleticism and go-for-broke/devil-may-care nonchalance. And then I realised, while I had been been running to the four corners of the court, coming up with expert digs and that one final incredible shot…

…he had been standing at the T the whole time.

And so, when he returned my serve, I sent the ball into that spot above the tin, only this time the suicide mission was unsuccessful, and the ping echoed around us, a stark reminder of my failure.

Just like that, he was back on serve. And so on we went. We played furiously, the rallies were long, except, somehow, more often that not, I was the one running around, and he was the one standing at the T, actually winning the points. I was mashing the ball, I was going for winners, I was angry, and he just quietly, efficiently, kept hitting the angles. I was pounding away like a sledgehammer, and was killing me with a thousand quick, silent strokes like a modern-day Scaramouche.

When it was all over, I gave him a sheepish handshake, and he gave me a hearty pat on the back, complimented me on my tenacity, and suggested we meet up again for another game. I told him I would love to battle with him again. I walked out of the gymnasium, my pride carefully tucked between my legs.

I never saw him again.

I did, however, learn an important lesson, one that I have tried to impart to those young bucks raring to go on the squash courts and golf courses and tennis courts around the world. You see that old guy standing there? The one with the horrific half swing, and weak serve, and knee braces? The one that comes up to you and suggests that you play for a little money, just to keep things interesting, and then plods along with that metronomic half-swing, hitting every fairway and every green along the way as you outdrive by him 50 yards, only it’s 50 yards to the right, and you end up having to fork over all your life savings to him because you wouldn’t humour the old man and keep things interesting? The one that sends you crashing to the four corners of the squash court? The one that always comes to the net when hitting the slice approach shot to your backhand? Yes, I am talking about him.

Take it from me: never, never ever, ever, not ever, not now, not tomorrow, not at any point in the future, near or distant, and trust me on this, never play against the old guy.

What Do Comic Books Have To Do With Self-Improvement?

The Gentlemanly Farmer has always believed in self-improvement.

All right, fine, I’ll come clean. I have not always believed in self-improvement; in fact, I have always believed that the less one improves oneself the better. It’s always easier to just lower expectations. However, my nice American wife leads a just and moral life, and she suggested that I use all this time that had fallen into my lap during my semi-retirement to try and gain some new skills.

Now, I gently visit a local establishment now and then that specialises in the sale of picture books, what is commonly referred to (by commoners) as a comic book store. It started innocently enough, I asked them to save some special issue for me, but quickly grew into a expanded “pull list” that I bought every month, but never read. They were always nice to me, never talked down at my complete lack of understanding of the artform, and therefore I always felt bad about telling them I actually didn’t need any of these co-called comic books (honestly, they really should be called comic pamphlets, given the small number of pages present in each issue). So, I would come into the store every month, be greeted warmly by the staff, talk to them for a few minutes, feel like I was in a family, part with my (in retrospect, I do realise that it was, in fact, hard-earned) money, pick up these comic books (or pamphlets), go home, and put them away, vowing to read them one day.

So when I saw that one of the owners of the establishment was giving on talk on creating these comic books (or pamphlets), I decided to listen to my wife, and head on over for some self-improvement (acquiring a new skill that I had no apparent use for still counts as self-improvement, correct?).

It was a bright, sunny, warm, summer afternoon as I struck out into this new world of nice big American self-improvement. I felt full of brio and vim and vigour as I entered the nice big American public library (and I do mean big, everything is bigger in America). I blithely dismissed the librarian’s shocked expression when I asked her about this crash course on creating comics (CCCC). I whistled (silently, it was a library after all) as I made my way up to the second floor (everything is bigger in America, even the floor numbering system), looking forward to this new life of improvement.

I realised something was wrong when the owner of the store stopped mid-sentence and stared at me. He quickly recovered, gave me a warm hello, and told me to join them.

I slowly made my way to the only empty seat in the room. You know that feeling that everyone is looking at you, silently judging you, perhaps even mocking you? I can say with little equanimity that you must heed that feeling should you ever be unlucky enough to experience it, and run, run as fast as your little legs can carry you.

You see, sitting in that nice big American room, within the nice big American public library, listening to a crash course on creating comics (CCCC), were a bunch of nerds.

A nice big American nerd gathering. A very multi-cultural/ethnic/gender (yes, even I was fairly surprised at that last one) nerd gathering.

And they were all ten years old.

It had been staring me in the face all along. The weekday afternoon timeslot. The public library setting. The large colourful fonts.

This was an after school program.

The owner looked at me brightly and said that they were discussing creating characters (the first C in CCCC, I suppose), and if I had such a C in mind that I wanted to discuss.

I didn’t want to break the owner’s heart, especially after he had always been so nice to me when I visited his store, so I managed to mumble something about a television character, a notoriously cantankerous medical practitioner who was a genius at solving mystifying medical cases, but inept at handling human relationships. I then lowered my head back down to the notebook I had brought along with the intention of taking notes.

The young man sitting next to me (it just feels better to call him a man) looked at me from under his mop of unruly hair cascading down his forehead only to be miraculously swept away before it spilled over his brow (a very popular hairstyle among these men, as I observed) and sensed my discomfort. He tentatively raised his hand and expertly analysed the shifts in this character between Seasons 1 and 2. Immediately this elicited a disagreement from the young woman sitting next to him, who said that the shift occurred between Seasons 2 and 3. This was met with contempt from the other young man sitting next to her, and so on and so forth. Soon, all these young men and women were locked in an urgent, cogent discussion about character development in the CCCC.

The young man looked over at me and smiled reassuringly. He had reached across the aisle and given comfort to a confused old man.

And this was how I took the first gentle step in my self-improvement with the help of a nice big group of 10-year-old nerds.

Miles (And Miles) Of Shopping Aisles

A Gentlemanly Farmer goes off gently into the sunset. A Gentlemanly Farmer sits in his nice big American leather recliner, smoking a nice big pipe (filled with organic tobacco, please get your mind out of the gutter immediately), reading the, um Utne Reader, his trusty nice surprisingly-un-big (and therefore somewhat un-American) pet by his side, pondering the nice big existential dilemmas that his gentle life has to offer.

What a Gentlemanly Farmer does not do, however, is go shopping at a not-so nice somewhat-small generic grocery store.

Such are the vagaries of a semi-retired life that one must listen to one’s nice big American wife, and chip in with the day-to-day running of the household (how terribly droll).

So there I was, coupons in hand, heading out into the bright mid-day sun, ready to tackle this challenge gently, but firmly.

I was obviously not prepared for what lay ahead of me.

This was supposedly a somewhat-small generic grocery story, but (of course) it was huge, massive, potentially large. And this was supposedly a not-so nice store, but (of course) it was filled with one gleaming aisle after another, stocked full of every imaginable thing ever created in the entire history of humankind. I realized then that the nice big American leather recliner was no place to ponder one’s existential dilemmas; there is absolutely nothing like being dwarfed by the sheer scale of consumer packaged goods to get a perspective on the smallness of one’s own life in the universe of commerce.

I clutched my small stack of coupons, realising now that they were not about to be of much assistance in navigating this labyrinth of temptation. I had a list, but it was obviously not much help in this situation. Radishes, fine, but which kind?, where were they sourced?, what were the fertilisers used?, what was the carbon footprint of transporting the vegetables to the store?, and, radishes? What? Why? Perhaps more importantly, there was a sale on cilantro, but only for the store’s card club members, and any club that had the Gentlemanly Farmer as a member must be a very exclusive club. Of course, there was a problem, the cilantro was not on the list. I beg your pardon, not on the list?! Please! The Gentlemanly Farmer is not bound by anything as terrifyingly common as a list, and just like that, in defiance of all the cosmic forces bearing down on one gentle man, I scooped up the cilantro, and since it was on sale to a small exclusive group of card members, I grabbed two bunches.

And thusly (or is it thus?) my adventure began. Strawberries, hand-picked or not?, organic?, locally sourced?, genetically modified?, small? large?…Cereal, big brands or indie companies?, natural or laced with the goodness of high-fructose corn syrup?, expensive or cheap?, fiber or sugar?…Cheese, domestic or imported?, healthy or tasty?, small farmers or large conglomerates?, goat or cow?…Bread, wheat or white?, wait, I mean grain or wheat or multi-grain or seven nuts or artisan gluten-free wheat with a hint of rosewater?…and I hadn’t even gotten out of the food section…Tissues were next…

And so it went. One bewildering, maddening, confusing, exhilarating, [insert-your-own]ing aisle after another! The adrenaline was pumping, the coupons were surrendering, and the Farmer’s gentleness was being replaced by a nice big dose of American consumption.

Sadly, all adventures must come to an end, and mine did as well at the register. The metronomic little beeps (or are they boops?) of the scanner were comforting as the nice lady at the cash register ran my items through. There was a gentle feeling of accomplishment as I gazed off into the distance, the existential dilemmas replaced by the next set of goals that would be conquered gently…and then I saw the total…

…dear God in heaven, merciful, but unkind to my pocketbook!

How much was this going to cost me? Or, more accurately, how much was this going to cost my nice wife?

I enquired about the coupons. She looked at me blankly. The coupons dear woman, the coupons! Oh dear, she had forgotten to scan them in. She remedied the sticky situation forthwith and like magic, the numbers actually dropped, they dropped!

I had never seen anything like that in my life. Like magic, every beep (or boop?) caused a gentle reduction, like a petrol pump in reverse. I exited this now-quite nice perfectly big so-what-if-its-generic? grocery store full of the brio and bravado and beans of a vanquishing hero. I went home and unloaded the groceries, put them in their proper place (at my service!), whistling my worries away, ready to tackle whatever life could possibly throw my way, when my eyes came upon the list. The list, why not? Just to be sure, it couldn’t hurt, am I correct? So I audited myself against this terribly proletarian list.

And then the proverbial chill went gently up my proverbial spine.

My dreams, my hopes, my aspirations, my master-of-the-universe delusions of grandeur came gently crashing all around me, scaring my trusty nice surprisingly-un-big (and therefore somewhat un-American) pet.

I had flown too close to the grocery store sun, laughed in the face of the grocery store gods, and my wings had been burned off.

I had forgotten the radishes.

The Weak Wheat Harvest

The news is in: The First Organic Wheat Harvest…has been weak.

This was the report from my parents the other day. According to my father the current harvesting of our first crop of wheat grown with organic fertiliser and no chemicals at all had not been a very good harvest. But, as he is wont to do, he did throw in an optimistic note: But it is a start.

My mother, as she is wont to do, blamed it on the fact that she was not around for the threshing, which (naturally) means that someone lined their pockets with our organic wheat.

Then I was informed that it would take a few years of this sort of farming on our farm in order for, um our farm, to be certified organic. A few years! How extremely un-American.

On top of that the tractor that I had imagined myself atop gently farming the colonies had been reduced from a John Deere 1 Series Sub-Compact Utility Tractor to a mere Greaves Power Tiller.

Granted it was a Power Tiller, but it was nonetheless a Tiller, not a Tractor.

Look at this thing! It looks like it sprung up from the very depths of hell, overflowing with fire and brimstone and government-subsidised diesel to do some gentle organic farming:

Whilst this, this looks like I shall spend my time planting little strawberries in my little backyard:

Apparently, I will have to get down on my hands and knees (like everyone else), work the land (like everyone else), pray for the yields to increase (like everyone else), and then wait for the land to be certified organic (like everyone else).

How long does semi-retirement last again? Oh yes, I remember, the rest of my life!

Great, just bloody great.

The Case of the Crawfish Boil Or: Never Cheat On Your Wife

No one said that it was going to be this hard.

Sure, I thought, I would ease gently into semi-retirement in my nice big American neighborhood, do some initial research on organic farming, then head out to the colonies, ready to start my new adventure (though, technically, wouldn’t it be my second adventure since semi-retirement itself was my first?).

I never expected the bitter disappointment expressed by my nice surprisingly un-big pet at having to give up her MacBook Pro Bed. I also never expected my wife to express her disappointment at me constantly bothering her while she worked. So off I went to the gym.

The only problem was that I had gone to the gym the day before and I was not going to suffer through that agony two days in a row. Instead, since it was an irritatingly nice big day, I decided to gently walk around my nice big neighborhood. It was warm, people were out having fun, the sun was shining, naturally I was in a foul mood.

It was then that I saw the fateful sign: “Lunch Special: Crawfish Boil.”

Part of the reason I had tried to gently segue into semi-retirement was that the stress at my nice big American corporation was only contributing to my increasing levels of cholesterol. I had assured my gentle nice big, whoops!, nice wife that I would use my semi-retirement to get into shape and eat healthier. But how could I resist? It was a crawfish boil, as a lunch special. The wife and I had to re-budget downwards since the gentle beginnings of my semi-retirement, so luxuries like eating out in our nice big American neighborhood would have to be curtailed. On the other hand (is there ever any other kind?), I knew that the New Orleans economy was reeling, so I assumed that it was my patriotic duty to help get the region back on its feet by buying crawfish from its namesake restaurant. Plus I knew that my nice wife was out and I had a window of time within which I could discharge my patriotic duty and help those poor people back in New Orleans (the city, not the restaurant, which seemed to be doing just fine, thank you very much) and she would be none the wiser.

I kept the crawfish boil in its clear plastic bag, which I kept in the styrofoam container, which I kept on a towel, all the easier to dispose the evidence before the wife came home. About two minutes into my feast I realized that I had made a mistake. Just because the special price was listed by the pound, did not mean I had to, you know, actually buy it by the pound. The sweats started about five minutes in. Ten minutes and my whole mouth was burning, gently. Twenty minutes in and I realized to my horror that my once formidable gentlemanly appetite was now a shadow of its former self. Twenty-one minutes in and my whole life flashed before my eyes.

My nice wife opened the door and walked in, much earlier than anticipated (ever after all these years, I cannot believe I still underestimate her nice big efficiency).

I was expecting a scene. A few harsh words. Tears even. Instead, she just looked at me sadly, lowered her eyes, and gently walked away, before saying something that sent a chill down my spine as I looked gently at my little-eaten special of boiled crawfish:

“The sad thing is, I was going to take you out for cajun food because you had been doing so well…”

I had learned my first real life-lesson in my semi-retirement: It does not pay to cheat on your wife.