Bigfoot, my foot: I’m hunting Little People

Like Fox Mulder, I want to believe.
I'd love to see proof that there really is a Bigfoot, Sasquatch, Yeti, Hairy Man, whatever you choose to call him. I'm intrigued at the idea of a 7-foot hominid living previously undetected in the woods north of here. Anything to bring tourists to the area now that the lake's turned into a muddy pond with nothing but an adolescent alligator to inspire stories around the campfire.
Imagine for a moment, if you will. You've just made one of the most significant anthropological discoveries of the century: an unknown species, the missing link, the evolutionary Rosetta Stone.
So what do you do? You call a press conference and charge a couple of bucks a pop for reporters to see what looks a lot like a picture of Willie B. in a Westinghouse. Has anyone checked on Willie B.? I think I remember reading that he was cremated but it couldn't hurt to be sure.
Then you set up a poorly spelled Web site peddling Bigfoot tracking tours and T-shirts promoting Bigfoot for president. President? I guess creativity isn't a prerequisite for a marketing job with this outfit. Just chutzpah, lots and lots of chutzpah.
The international Bigfoot tracking community was subsequently shocked (SHOCKED!) at the revelation that the Bigfoot remains were not the first cousin of the GEICO Caveman but, rather, a frozen rubber ape costume. What I don't understand is how they can act blindsided and astounded with a straight face. Stop the presses, everybody.
Now that Bigfoot's been taken out of the equation, I think I'll buy the domain name littlepeopletracker.com.
Most folks around here have heard of the Cherokee Little People. Ancient legend holds that they're a race of tiny people, about the size of a Cabbage Patch Kid. They live in rocky caves in remote locales like Blood Mountain and Mount Yonah.
They love music, and sometimes the sounds of their flutes and drums can be heard late at night.They don't like to be disturbed, and if a hiker comes across them they will cast a spell on him, causing him to become confused and wander aimlessly throughout the woods. Even if he does eventually make his way home he will remain dazed forever. So that's what happened to my cousin, Elmer. And I always thought it was the Southern Comfort.
Within the Little People species, there are subspecies.
The Laurel People are merry tricksters. When a baby laughs in her sleep, it's because she has been tickled by a Laurel Person.
The Dogwood People are helpful, sometimes performing farm chores under cover of darkness and then slipping back into their rocky caves as the sun comes up.
The Rock People are evil, stealing children and confusing hikers so they become hopelessly lost in the forest.
And if all that weren't enough to get the cable news outfits interested, it's also been rumored that they guard a vast treasure.
So here's the plan. First I'll build my Web site peddling poorly illustrated Cherokee Little People for elective office T-shirts and baseball hats. I'll offer Little People tracking expeditions for four-figure fees and promote myself as the Greatest Little People Tracker on the planet. I figure the field is fairly limited so the claim is not hyperbole. I just won't mention that I'm also the only Little People Tracker on the planet
If interest starts to wane, I'll borrow my daughter's Cabbage Patch Kid, Ivy Elizabeth. She's the one I was forced to purchase for a tidy sum back in 1991 because I didn't realize if a 5-year old is allowed to name a newly delivered CPK at Babyland, no way is she going to go off and allow said baby to be adopted by just anybody.
I'll snap a picture of Miss Ivy in our Igloo Cooler and make a YouTube video swearing up and down that it's a gen-u-ine Cherokee Little Person. For the soundtrack, I'll use Pink Floyd's "Money."
Then I'll just sit back and wait for the calls from CNN and Fox News to start pouring in.

(Originally published August 22, 2008 in the Gainesville Times)

Remembering two souls who inspired life, laughs

The other morning I woke up early, splashed awake by a wave of sadness. At first I couldn't identify where the feeling originated.
I did a quick inventory. I was OK. My husband and kids were OK. None of my friends were experiencing any more crises than ordinary. Why the despair?
Then I remembered. Randy Pausch and Jose Simon were dead.
By now almost everyone knows who Randy Pausch was. A stellar college professor, he was a standout in his field of computer animation and virtual reality. He was largely unknown outside of his academic sphere until September 2007 when he gave his "last lecture."
He had been diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer but the speech was not about dying. It was a reminder of how life ought to be lived, about how to achieve one's childhood dreams. Someone had the foresight to film the talk and the video went viral. To date it's been downloaded more than 10 million times.
I evangelically forwarded the video link to everyone in my address book. I wrote a column about it. When the book inspired by the lecture was released, I bought the CD version and eagerly played it in the truck as I went about my day.
For a while, Randy was a daily companion, a cheerleader encouraging me to "break down the brick walls. They're just there to stop people who don't want things as badly as you do."
If anyone was deserving of a miracle, this was the man. I halfway convinced myself that maybe he'd beat the odds or there'd be a medical breakthrough. Something.
But no, this was real life, and on July 25, Randy Pausch, age 47, father of three, lost his heroic struggle with cancer. A person I had never met had enhanced my life and the lives of so many others.
I never met Jose Simon, either. I only spoke to him once and that was about something mundane like selling Seabiscuit racehorse memorabilia on eBay. That doesn't mean I didn't know him, however.
Jose's wife, Gail, owns a wholesale clothing business in San Francisco. I started shopping with her more than 10 years ago, purchasing in bulk to sell in my shop and on eBay. She has one of those delightful phone voices, the kind where she doesn't have to identify herself. By the third syllable, you know it's Gail on the phone.
Over time, we became friends and I learned all about her family. Her husband, Jose, was a comedian.He had come to the U.S. from Mexico as a teenager and initially worked as a musician. He performed with Four of a Kind, which featured future Tower of Power vocalist Rick Stevens and a founding member of Santana, conga player Michael Carabello. Early on, he established a pattern for his life, unselfishly helping others achieve success.
Comedian Robin Williams was quoted in the San Francisco Chronicle: "Jose was a gift. He was the Chicano godfather of comedy. He will be missed."
A search of quotation Web sites reveals that he's the originator of the line, "In Mexico we have a word for sushi: Bait."
Each year, Gail would invite us to San Francisco for Comedy Day, a daylong free festival of humor held in Golden Gate Park. It was founded by Jose in 1980 and now up to 50,000 people attend the annual event. What a wonderful legacy. At last year's celebration, Jose was presented with the Stand-up Comedy Legend Award.
There was always a reason why we couldn't make it. The airfare was too expensive. It takes place in September, making a cross-country trip difficult right after the beginning of the school term. Each year I said the same thing. Maybe next year.
I didn't talk to Gail for a few weeks and then one day in July she called with the news. Jose had died. Another remarkable life claimed by cancer.
So there I was, sitting in the predawn darkness, feeling bereft at the loss of two people I'd never met. They were gone but their message remained: Life's meant to be enjoyed. Laugh a lot and help others every chance you get.
As Randy Pausch said, "If you lead your life the right way, the karma will take care of itself. The dreams will come to you."

(Originally published in the Gainesville Times August 8, 2008)

Being crafty just a work in progress

This morning I put a newspaper clipping about my daughter in the family scrapbook. Actually, scrapbook is a pretty glorified title for what we have. It’s really just a binder that contains any piece of newsprint with the name of one of the Glazers on it. It has always been my intention to someday organize it into volumes dedicated to each family member.

Our older daughter Molly’s book will be filled with programs from her high school plays bordered by red and white gingham ribbon and cutouts of trumpeting Red Elephants. Ensuing pages will feature the Gamma Phi Beta crescent moon and pictures of Uga VI, rest his soul.

Rachel’s volume will have green and white stripes and head shots of an intrepid Trojan warrior. Wait a minute. Didn’t the Trojans lose that war? Yeah that’s right. They chose not to listen to Laocoon when he said, "Do not trust the horse, Trojans! Whatever it is, I fear the Greeks, even bringing gifts." But after all, who can turn down free presents? Oh, well, I guess it’s too late to change the team’s name to The Greeks.

I’ll make a scrapbook for myself, surrounding clippings of my eight years of community columns with appropriate images. I’ve come to realize all of my columns generally fall into one of four categories: First, there’s my long-suffering family. Bless their hearts, they never know when their latest adventure is going to turn up on the Times’ editorial page.

Next there are the animal columns. I write about our critters, mostly, but also possums and rent-a-dog programs, too.
Third is mankind’s vast capacity for stupidity. I almost wrote this week’s column about the guy who traded naming rights to his unborn child for a $100.00 gas card.

Last, there’s that ambiguous category known as "other." "Other" ranges from the Hurricane Katrina relief debacle to garage sale etiquette and Dr. Seuss. Everything’s fair game. What fun I could have choosing clip art for that scrapbook.

My husband’s book will feature all of his computer columns (published twice monthly here in The Times) with little pieces of old motherboards and other geeky flotsam and jetsam cleverly pasted around the edges.

Yeah, that’s gonna happen.

I wish I could be crafty like that. I aspire to it. I try, I really do. It just never turns out like I envision it. The garage holds box after box of half-finished projects. Recently I sifted through them with almost anthropological detachment.

Here were the supplies from my Crochet Period (circa 1984) when, pregnant with my first child, I decided to make a baby blanket. I bought enough yarn to create a boat cover and ended up with a piece the size of a tea towel ... if tea towels were shaped like trapezoids.

Next came the Quilt Age (1986-1988) when I created dozens of lopsided patchwork squares but lost interest before I actually sewed them together. I’m leaving that task for my heirs.

The Grouting Busted Pieces of China Dishes to Clay Pots to Make Really Ugly Mosaics Era was thankfully short-lived (1989).

Next came the Dark Ages dating from 1990 to, well, now. I tried my hand at hair bow making. Every picture of poor Molly in her elementary school days features a ghastly clump of ribbons clipped to her head. There was bread baking, cross stitch, bead work, calligraphy. Nothing clicked.

I’ve had to finally face the sad fact that no one’s ever going to accuse me of being right-brained.
It doesn’t help that I’m married to a man who can wander off into his workshop and emerge a few hours later with a stained and leaded glass sidelight for the front door or triple matted and framed photos of all of the major waterfalls in North Georgia.

So I’ve decided to let the scrapbooks become perpetual works in progress. I figure as long as I don’t actually complete them, I haven’t failed completely.

(Originally published in the Gainesville Times, July 25, 2008)

Nigel lives, wiser for his brush with danger

It looks as though the tale of Nigel the possum is on it's way to becoming a saga.
Back in December, I wrote a column about a baby possum who showed up at our house four years ago, ingratiated himself into a litter of kittens and has been coming back every evening since for his helping of cat food.
We had been feeding Nigel on the front porch so there'd be no chance meetings with Lola, our Australian shepherd. Lola ruled the back yard and seemed to consider Nigel a potential chew toy.
We ran into a problem with this arrangement when some free-roaming neighborhood dogs discovered there were snacks available at our house. Their owners seem to feel leash laws are mere suggestions and couldn't possibly apply to their little darlings. These mutts began raiding Nigel's bowl each night.
One evening, I heard a curious banging out front. Peeking out, I saw Nigel bumping his empty bowl against the door. My husband thought he was simply foraging for stray pieces of cat food around the bowl. I prefer to think he was voicing his complaint at the poor service.
With reservations, I moved his bowl to the back deck. I was careful to fill it only after Lola was in for the night. This arrangement seemed to work for a while. Then one evening Lola needed to go out after bedtime. I checked outside and there was no sign of Nigel.
When I opened the door, Lola morphed from a big lovable pup into something from a Stephen King novel. Every muscle tensed and she was out the door, moving faster than I've ever seen her run. There was no barking, no snarling, just pure focus on her mission. That's when I realized what was happening. She was in a dark corner of the yard. I could hear muffled sounds and the rustle of leaves. I ran to her and saw she had something in her mouth: Nigel.
I yelled for her to drop him and she did. He lay in a furry mound at her feet. For the first and only time, I touched him. The fur that I had always thought would be coarse and greasy was actually heartbreakingly soft. I ordered Lola back into the house and spent the rest of the night in an uneasy sleep, dreaming of baby possums and dogs that suddenly became wolverines.
The next morning, my husband and I went out to bury Nigel. We had everything we needed: gloves, a plastic bag and a shovel. What we didn't have was Nigel.
It never crossed my mind that he might have done what possums do best: play possum.
That night changed everything. I still love Lola, of course. It's just now I've seen her feral side. I've seen the wolf, the hunter, that lurks inside every pampered house pet. Now I see her for what she is: a dog, not the third Glazer girl.
Nigel seems to have recovered from his encounter with the hellhound. He still comes around for his food but now he waits until much later, after the porch light is out and the house is dark. I miss watching him gobble down his dinner and then waddle off into the night.
While the lion may indeed lie down with the lamb, when it comes to the Aussie and the possum, well, I don't think so.

(Originally published Thursday, February 10, 2005 in the Gainesville Times)

Reach deep to help those our nation forgot

In even the most satisfying of lives, there are regrets. Lord knows, I have my share.
I wish I'd stuck with piano lessons. I wish I'd listened to my friends before I dived into that ill-advised first marriage.
I wish I'd jumped at the chance to buy a Clarks Bridge Road lake lot for $10,000 back in 1980. And I wish I'd lived, at least for a while, in New Orleans.
My roommate at the University of Alabama was from Bay St. Louis, Miss. It's about an hour from New Orleans and when we'd visit her family, we'd inevitably end up in the Big Easy, strolling down Bourbon Street with a "cup for the street" in hand.
There were beignets and chicory coffee at the Cafe du Monde and mufellatas at the Central Grocery Store. I once had my fortune told by a doughy old woman in a dim storefront off Canal Street. She dealt a few bent and grubby playing cards and told me I'd have a long life, two daughters, two husbands and would travel the world over. Three out of four is pretty good.
New Orleans spoke to what little artist there is in my soul. I could see myself in a tiny apartment three floors above a street named something like Dauphine or Ursalines, writing free verse and running a little gallery or maybe buying a deck of cards and going into the fortune business myself. New Orleans is my road not taken.
It breaks my heart to see what's happened to New Orleans. Like anyone who's ever spent time there, I'm taking this disaster personally.
I worried about Fats Domino. I watched scenes of desperation and looting until I couldn't stomach anymore. I had nightmares of being trapped in a stuffy, stifling attic with water rising around my ankles.
I watched my president give a speech that wouldn't have taken third place in a middle school oratory contest, a dismissive frat-boy smirk on his face as he tried to explain his administration's policy of too little, too late. Quit smiling, buddy. Ain't nothing funny about this.
I wonder what's happened to the albino alligators at Audubon Park Zoo. I wonder what's happened to the ashes of Everette Maddox, the gloriously drunken poet laureate of the Carrollton District who's buried beneath a flower bed at the Maple Leaf Bar on Oak Street.
We were students together at Alabama and I always meant to pour a scotch on Rette's grave the next time I was in New Orleans. Someday I will, if it's still there.
As I write this, New Orleans has degenerated to the level of a "Mad Max" movie. It's not like we didn't see this coming. Anyone with a National Geographic subscription knew what could and probably would happen if a hurricane like Katrina hit New Orleans. The first four paragraphs of the October 2004 article "The Incredible Shrinking Bayou" were eerily prophetic. Would someone please send a copy to the director of FEMA?
It's time for everyone to step up. We naively thought we could depend on our government to look after its own people on its own shores. We were so wrong.
There are plenty of charitable agencies that will use your money to help the refugees from Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama. Pick one and figure out how much you can comfortably afford to donate. Then double that amount. Right now. Put down the paper and pick up your checkbook.
Consider it a debt of gratitude for the fresh water you drink and the dry bed you sleep in, for having children who aren't nasty and hungry and living in a stench-filled stadium, for not having to worry about alligators and crazed looters when you step out onto the street. It's the price of admission to the human race.

(Originally published Monday, September 5, 2005 in the Gainesville Times)

Law of the bus is worth preserving

Since they started kindergarten, my children have ridden on county school buses. At first, I assumed they would prefer to be driven by me. Molly set me straight in a hurry when she said, "I'd rather ride with Miss Diane, mom. She doesn't listen to National Public Radio."
So there it was. My girls spent about an hour each school day on buses.
I soon learned there was a method to all the early morning and late afternoon madness. Little kids were required to sit up front near the driver. The seat directly behind the driver was reserved for the rowdy kids who weren't yet considered trustworthy enough to behave at the back. It was a badge of honor and maturity to be allowed to sit in a seat of one's own choosing.
I've always had a problem with the whole "gold star" concept of rewards for kids. My girls would often come home bearing work plastered with stars and smiley stickers. There were exhortations of "well done!" and "good try!" penned all over even the sloppiest of efforts.
Rachel once proudly displayed a sheet covered in happy stickers and "good try" even though she'd missed most of the questions. When I asked her teacher about it, I was informed that children were rewarded for their efforts, even if the resulting answers were wrong.
Hmmm ... maybe it's just me, but I can't recall the last time I received an "atta-girl" for effort alone. In the world I live in, it's mostly results that matter.
That's how it is in school bus world, too. Some of the drivers reward good bus etiquette with a Friday afternoon prize. It's usually just a piece of hard candy or a small trinket, but it's hard-won and proudly displayed.
Molly's driver had an unerring memory for who was loud on Wednesday and who stood while the bus was moving on Monday. No amount of whining and pleading produced a prize for those offenders. They were just encouraged to try harder next week. Now that's how the real world works.
For the past 20 years, I've operated a resale clothing store. On many occasions, I've had bus drivers come in looking for warm coats or sturdy sneakers for some of their needy charges.
The most touching incident occurred on an icy January day. A driver noticed a stoic little third-grader trudging off to school in his big sister's puffy lavender jacket. It was the only coat available to him. Thanks to his driver, he was soon the proud owner of a like-new Spiderman jacket complete with a hood and those most prized of all embellishments: lots of pockets and zippers.
The recent vandalism at the county bus shop was especially disturbing to me. Windows were smashed, electronics destroyed, scores of seats slashed and graffiti (probably misspelled) sprayed throughout. What a slap in the face to the kind people who work so hard to keep our children safe.
The cost of repairs and the resulting rise in insurance rates will have to come from somewhere. I resent seeing my tax dollars go toward correcting damage propagated by a bunch of pea-brained losers.
There's a reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of these reprobates. Anyone stupid enough to commit an offense like this is also stupid enough to brag about it. Someone knows who did this. Come on, drop a dime and collect $1,000. It's easier than a scratch ticket.
In the meantime, if the county decides to have a work day to help clean up this mess, just let me know when and where. I'll be there with a bucket and a Brillo pad.

(Originally published Monday, June 25, 2007 in the Gainesville Times)

When it was ‘jackass’ day at the zoo

Looks like there's another contender for the Darwin Award.
The Darwins, for those who don't know, are tongue-in-cheek awards given each year to those who do the most to improve the human gene pool ... by leaving it. There are idiot crooks who try to creep in via chimneys and are discovered months later.
My personal favorite is the guy who tried to steal gas from a camper but hooked his syphon hose up to the waste tank instead. I'll bet he's still trying to get the taste out of his mouth.
On Christmas Day, two young men were mauled and one killed by a Siberian tiger at the San Francisco Zoo. The tiger was subsequently shot and killed. Gradually, the rest of the story is emerging. One of the surviving victims has admitted that they climbed the enclosure fence, taunting the tiger. A partial shoeprint matching one of the victims was found atop the fence railing.
A witness has reported seeing two of the victims roaring and making aggressive motions toward the tiger, so much so that nearby children were frightened. And, for the coupe de grace, a vodka bottle and marijuana was found in the victims' car and all three had both substances in their bloodstreams. Liquid courage, anyone?
Well, you don't have to be the sharpest crayon in the box to realized that it's not a particularly good idea to antagonize a full-grown tiger. I contribute it to the whole "Jackass" mentality that's become part of youth culture. You've probably seen the YouTube videos of kids doing incredibly stupid stunts: dancing atop moving cars and performing fiery antics in attempts to imitate the MTV show "Jackass." Me, I think the name says it all.
We've had our Amazon parrot, Spanky, for 12 years. The first question visitors always ask is "Does he bite?" The answer is always, "Yes, he does. He's a parrot. That's what parrots do."
He's sweet and talkative but he also has an innate need to periodically chomp down on something pliable like a finger or an ear. Multiply that need by about a million and the you have the danger presented by the big cats. Anyone who doesn't respect that is, well, a jackass.
I know I sound callous toward the human victims in this case. It's tragic, certainly, but it's also the result of man's bottomless capacity for stupidity. Forrest Gump was right: "Stupid is as stupid does."
The tiger was being ... well, a tiger. The humans, it appears, were being alcohol-addled, testosterone-fueled idiots. Also, the officials at the zoo seem to have failed to bring the enclosure up to current industry standards. There's plenty of blame to go around.
We all know how this is going to play out. Mark Geragos, erstwhile attorney of wife and unborn baby killer Scott Peterson, has elbowed his way to the front of the lawyer line. There will be lawsuits upon lawsuits. All the victims, including the family of the young man who was killed, will get a little money and their 15 minutes of fame. There will be endless debates over the safety and viability of zoos.
And periodically some substance-impaired jerk will decide to show off in front of his or her friends by antagonizing an elephant or an alligator or a hippopotamus and the whole cycle will begin again. Jackasses, every last one of them.
(First published Jan. 25, 2008 in the Gainesville Times January 25, 2008)