Plotjuggling

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Switchfoot, "Gone"

Time: Night.

I go through periods, periodically, where I find myself immersed in more than one book at once.

Come tomorrow, I may be up to three. By the end of the week, it could be four.

The other day, I misplaced my copy of Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. (It went missing at a critical time in the plot, too. Frustrating.) So I picked up John Knowles' A Separate Peace, which two of the kids have already read and which I started a few weeks back but had let lapse.

Finished Knowles. Still no sign of Pratchett/Gaiman. So I started in on Christopher Moore's A Dirty Job (yep, one of the Barnes and Noble Christmas books). It's utterly engrossing (see also hilarious, touching, menacing and brilliantly written) -- so, of course, once Moore had his latest hook in me, Good Omens turned up.

At about the same time, I found another mislaid book: Darryl Tippens' Pilgrim Heart: The Way of Jesus in Everyday Life, which was loaned to me by a friend. I need to read and return it. So it could wind up going on tomorrow's church trip with me.

I also want to return to a long-distance shared reading of Diane Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses, which likely will resume on New Year's Day. There will be, of course, some rereading required to catch up.

I tell people "Words are my life." This verges on the ridiculous ... but it's a pretty good sort of ridiculous.

Wherever two or more are gathered ...

Tea: Jasmine Vanilla

Music: U2, "Gloria"

Time: Night

I went to bar church tonight. No, really. Sometimes, on Sunday evenings, I go to church in a bar.

A couple of my friends from my regular church also went, after more than a month of my urging them to come and check out the proceedings. So, of course, there was hardly anyone else there tonight.

It was the three of us, the pastor and his wife and their two children, and the song leader. So while the meeting went on as scheduled, the format changed. We retired into the side room to talk.

One of the church's main emphases is on social justice -- including doing what it can to raise awareness about human trafficking (which goes on, sad to say, even here in the heartland). On other fronts, there are monthly collection drives (food last month, coats this month, food again in January). There is a plan to launch a ministry where the church will partner with a laundromat to do laundry for homeless people -- and no one will have to convert to leave with clean clothes.

There are those within the faith who would label all this vaguely leftist. With all due respect, they're wrong. We're not just encouraged to take care of the hungry, the cold, the imprisoned and the stranded -- we're commanded to do it as though we were taking care of Christ Himself. While "The Lord helps those who help themselves" has taken on the weight of scripture, it's not.

(In this respect, many of other faiths, or no faith at all, act more Christian -- in the best, "love thy neighbor" sense of the word -- than we who would claim the name.)

So what are we to do?

Nothing more than all we can, really. None of us can end poverty, or trafficking, or any other human ill on our own.

But if we really want to be God's hands on Earth, then which use do you think he'd prefer: patting ourselves on the back for being among the Elect, or reaching out to do whatever good is given to us to accomplish, whenever we can?

Same Store, Different Tastes.

Tea: Matcha.

Music: Sweet, "Ballroom Blitz"

Time: Night.

Family outing to Barnes and Noble today, to spend the Christmas gift cards.

I wound up with Christopher Moore's "A Dirty Job" (Yes, I've turned into a Moore junkie.) and C.S. Lewis' "Till We Have Faces." (I still have more card to redeem. They weren't that expensive.

The 17-year-old got three classics, and won't let me tell you what they are.

("There's this thing called privacy," she called over her shoulder as she headed to bed.)

The 16-year-old picked up "The Spiritual Brain: A Neuroscientist's Case for the Existence of the Soul," by Mario Beauregard and Denyse O'Leary.

The 14-year-old got music. (And no, I didn't browbeat her to get words. The card was hers, to do with as she pleased.)

It's more than interesting, seeing them develop their own tastes as they grow. There are influences, of course -- from teachers, from peers, from travel companions and (occasionally) from their parents. But none of them is a carbon copy of anyone -- and that's a good thing.

From Grumbles to Gratitudes

Tea: Mandarin Orange with Honey

Music: Radim Zenkl, "Last Supper"

Time: Night.

I really hadn't intended to take this much time off for the holidays. But ... I'm back, even if not entirely coherent.

I suppose I can blame part of it on the Christmas whirl, another part on the bug I picked up a few days ago (which waited until last night to slam me and kept me in bed for most of today) and a third on the caffeine withdrawal headache that is only now going away.

But as someone wiser than I once said, the times when one feels sorry for oneself are the times to remember (and be grateful for) the good things.

So, I'm grateful tonight for the gift of the tea, which took away my headache; for a bed in which to sleep while I shook off the bug and for the message of peace that still manages to make itself heard if one can just turn down the carols and commercials for a bit.

Fourth out of three: Food, which I've had in abundance this holiday season and which a good deal of the world has to go without on a regular basis. A few rounds on Free Rice won't make all the hunger go away, but it's a step I can take right now while I'm thinking about it.

Not to nudge, but so can you ...

The Gift of Letting It Go

Tea: White Garden Aria

Music: The Pretenders, "2000 Miles"

Time: Night.

I ran into a former pastor at my church today, while we were both out getting some late-hour (not quite last-minute) Christmas errands done.

His departure was not a shining moment in the history of the church. There were factions and accusations, resigned memberships and broken friendships.

It was a sad thing to see. He's a decent, caring, intelligent man.

We talked for a few minutes, then I got called to another register to make my purchase while he continued checking out.

His wife came to the front of the store, and they left together. I remembered her as a smiling, gentle woman. Now, she looked angry, pinched, drawn-in. She looked at me, and I smiled -- and then realized that she was (or so it seemed) looking through me.

They left, a study in emotional contrasts. He had let go of whatever angers and pains (many of the latter unjustly afflicted) he might have taken from the split. She had not.

It makes me wonder what grievances I still hold that I would be better served to fling away. I have recently yanked out a deep-rooted anger -- and while the site where it grew is still healing, I know I am better (and can be better still) for it.

There are other grudges, small and not so, which remain to be uprooted. Seems as good a time as any to do it. Healing is a fine Christmas present to the self -- and to the ones we care about.

And the Caffeinated Ripples Spread ...

Tea: Pu Erh Poe with Mango and honey

Music: Robert Fripp, "Silent Night"

Time: Almost midnight.

Strange day today, hot drinkwise.

My youngest shares my -- let's say "fondness" -- for caffeine. Today, on Free Coffee Monday at Morning Glory Espresso, she went for decaf.

(A friend says it doesn't matter, that this particular daughter is self-caffeinating. She could be right.)

Then, tonight, my son -- ordinarily a fan of neither tea nor coffee -- decided he'd have first some chai, then the second steeping of my flavored Pu Erh Poe.

And he liked both.

I already have one child hoarding a stash while raiding mine. Soon, it seems, I could have another.

Oh, well. I can still take both of them at Scrabble. Maybe we'll start playing for bags of tea.

Solstice

Tea: Orange Chocolate

Music: Unto Ashes, "Winter Born"

Time: Night.

On the longest night of the year, I offer one short wish: for light and warmth, in all good forms.

And if you have extra of either to give, by all means share it. It doesn't have to be financial, or even tangible. A warm word can go a long way in a cold world.

Let the lengthening of the days begin.

Jump, George, Jump!

Tea: Oolong No. 18

Music: UK, "Time to Kill"

Time: Night.

Call me a Grinch. Call me a Scrooge. (Both pre-enlightenment, that is.)

But I've had it up to here (indicates heart, three sizes too small) with heartwarming holiday specials.

I need something that doesn't involve someone learning (to the appropriate swelling music) that the True Meaning of Christmas is (a) Family; (b) Giving; (c) True Love (either with someone you've just met or someone you've known for years but never thought of that way.)

Not that family, giving or true love are bad things. They're just not the true meaning of Christmas, in my book. That's a longer, preachier post than I've time for here, though.

Ah, well. It appears I'm not to be spared. I'm being called to the living room, where "White Christmas" awaits.

Maybe this will be the year it doesn't snow, and the Big Christmas Show falls through, and ... yeah, right.

I'm telling you, the day after Christmas I'm popping "Night of the Living Dead" into the DVD player and it's not coming out for at least twenty hours straight.

Better yet, "Mad Monster Party." It was made by the Rankin/Bass same people who made all those Rudolph specials (which at least have some redeemingly creepy parts).

Couldn't go wrong with Godzilla, either. Atomic breath vaporizing entire army divisions?

Now that's heart(and everything else)warming ...

Two Painting as One

Tea: Christmas

Music: Queen, "You're My Best Friend"

Time: Night.

Short Third Friday tonight. None of the galleries in Columbus Park were open.

However, Eljay's Coffeehouse in the River Market had some works I've seen before and always enjoy seeing again. They're by Chuck Hoffman and Peg Carlson-Hoffman, who are collectively Doghaus Arts.

I do mean "collectively." They paint together -- on shared canvases. One might think that would be a dicey undertaking, given the inherent individualism of the creative processes.

But they make it work, in large part because each respects the other's vision and neither holds a power advantage during the painting process. There's a larger lesson in that -- and they teach it in Belfast, where they use artistic collaboration to help bridge the Catholic-Protestant divide.

That's art for more than art's sake, I'd say.

The Polenta Bridge

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: Potato Moon, "Let's Ride"

Time: Almost midnight.

Mrs. Steep and I went to a Christmas party tonight, despite all the predictions of ice and freezing rain and whatever else the ratings-hungry weather-blatherers were yammering on about before we changed the channel.

Late in the evening, when most of those remaining had repaired to the living room to sing Christmas songs (a familiar moment in heartwarming holiday specials on the Hallmark Channel, but a new -- and enjoyable -- one for me), I wandered back into the kitchen to refill my cup of hot cider.

The woman who prepared the main dishes for the party (coq au vin, butternut squash polenta and Caesar salad) was there, putting away the last of her serving dishes.

We had never gotten on all that well in the past. Nothing hostile, mind you, but little that could even be called cordial. But I had enjoyed the dinner -- especially the polenta, which was lighter than any I'd ever had before -- and I told her so. No sense in withholding a compliment where one was due, after all.

She lit up, and talked animatedly of her search for a fluffy polenta recipe (which, when she found it, was simple: four cups water, one cup cornmeal and one 12-ounce package of cream cheese). I later learned that she had been a professional caterer but had to give it up. She seemed a bit sad about that.

The exchange wasn't a huggy holiday special moment, but it was a good one -- and it reinforces my belief that sharing food (both physically and verbally) can be a way for people to get to know each other better, to build bridges rather than walls.

Someday, I'll try the recipe. And it will be a reminder that whatever our relations with others, sometimes it doesn't take a grand gesture to make them better.

Real Men Read.

Tea: White Song Yang

Music: Bozzio Levin Stevens, "Black Light Syndrome"

Time: Night.

It's cold and snowy outside. I have the makings of (even more) hot drinks here.

And I have new books -- one of which is calling louder than the others. (No, it's not the Moore.)

Love you all dearly, but I'd be wasting a perfectly good reading night if I spent any more of it on the computer.

The Moore I read, the more I like.

Tea: White Grapefruit

Music: Johnny Cash, "Hurt"

Time: Night.

A few weeks ago, someone asked me to name the best book I'd read this year. My answer: George MacDonald's Phantastes (a book I should have discovered long ago, by an author I should have discovered long ago.)

Had someone asked me to name the author whose work has given me the most pleasure this year, though, I'd have blurted out Christopher Moore's name in a heartbeat.

I hadn't heard of him until this year, either -- but that was before I was given several of his books (Bloodsucking Fiends, Lamb and The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove, followed later by Fluke) by someone far more generous than I deserve. Now, Moore is among my favorite writers -- and people are still giving me his work.

With members of the extended family in for a visit, we had early Christmas at the house last night. And in one of my parcels, I found a copy of Coyote Blue.

I suppose tonight's song should have been "Give Me Just a Little Moore Time" or "More, More, Moore" ...

Nahhhh. Can't go wrong with Johnny Cash, either.

The Spice Must Flow

Tea: Blood Orange (herbal) with cloves

Music: Kimberli Kircher, "Baby It's Cold Outside"

Time: Night.

After drinking a quart and a half of free coffee today at Morning Glory Espresso (where a local electrician pays for everyone's house brew on Mondays), I've had quite enough caffeine, thank you.

Besides, I feel inspired to try a little seasonal sipping tonight -- and the combination of blood orange and cloves sounds intriguing. (It's still steeping as I type this part.)

And ... the first steeping's done. Time for a sniff.

The spice (a generous pinch, six whole cloves) is noticeable, warm against the sharpness of the blood orange.

Sipping ...

I could have used more cloves, perhaps -- but it's not half bad at first taste, and it gets better after that. The spice comes up through the mix as the tea cools, warming the back of the throat. The sensation continues down into the chest (Pleasant, that.), and the aroma of the cloves lingers well beyond each sip.

Second steeping coming up.

Lots more clove at first sniff this time. First sip, too. And as before, it grows as the tea cools -- but still plays nicely against the citrus.

All this warmth is making me sleepy, though. So I'm going to finish this cup, read a little Merwin as I do so and then turn in.

Orange tea, Green Knight ... good night.

Yummy Yellow Yips

Tea: Vanilla Jasmine

Music: Relient K, "Santa Claus is Thumbin' to Town"

Time: Night.

I cook, but I don't bake ... much. Not enough opportunities for tinkering during the "apply heat to food" stage, which doesn't sit well with my ADD.

There are exceptions, though -- although one of them is still in the future.

I made a sweet potato pie (from scratch, I'll have you know) for Thanksgiving. It turned out pretty well.

There's an Irish soda bread recipe I want to try this winter.

And until this past week, I was a whiz at skillet cornbread.

Then, the other night, I put in too much milk (not too too much, just a sixth of a cup over, but it did make the batter noticeably runnier). The result was lighter than usual -- and pretty darn good for a mistake.

Tonight, I melted the butter ... and then, of course, forgot to put it in. (I wondered why the batter didn't want to spread in the skillet.)

The result was thinner and crisper than usual. And again, it didn't taste half bad (especially with butter and honey).

There's no hiding it. I've got the cornbread yips.

Then again, if I'm going to screw up what little baking skills I do have, I suppose it doesn't hurt to be dealing with quite possibly the most forgiving foodstuff on the planet. (Salmon's a close second, although it tends to get a bit peevish when left on the fire too long.)

I can't wait to see what mistake I'll make next. It's sure to be delicious ...

Not Every Story Gives the Whole Picture

Tea: Mango Strawberry with milk and honey

Music: Don Henley, "Not Enough Love in the World"

Time: Night.

A few weeks ago, I read what appeared to be a badly reported newspaper review of an art show at a local gallery. (No names in this one. I deal with parties on all sides, you see.)

The show is controversial, thought-provoking and a fascinating combination of reverent and edgy -- and yet there was no mention of the personal views the artist holds on the subject at the heart of his works.

I used the word "weak" to describe the review. "Sloppy," too -- and, by extension, I thought of the writer as also possessing those (dubious) qualities.

Then, today -- while talking to the director of the gallery in question -- I found out I was wrong.

Oh, the story as presented was weak -- but only because an editor cut out two-thirds of it, something that left the writer heartsick and frantically calling people to explain.

And suddenly, I was the one who hadn't done his legwork.

It's a nasty thing, presumption -- especially given that I've had editors cut out key points or even insert mistakes into pieces I've written. (I should not here that I have had far more good editors than bad.)

I used to joke that it was better to assume the worst about people, because pleasant surprises are always better than unpleasant ones. I think it's time to scrap that attitude, even in jest. This is another case where it hasn't served me well.

The Crunch of Loose Leaves Underfoot

Tea: Christmas

Music: Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble, "Pride and Joy"

Time: Night.

I walked on some perfectly good jasmine tea tonight, and I didn't get in trouble.

The tea is an integral part of printmaker Heinrich Toh's exhibit at the Kansas City Artists Coalition. (It runs through Jan. 16, so go see it. No, I'm not explaining why I didn't get in trouble for stepping on the tea. Some things you have to check out for yourselves.)

The scent is still with me, in memory as much as in the physical sense.

I associate jasmine with the first time I discovered loose-leaf tea (I was eight) ... with the Hong Kong Restaurant (which no longer exists) in my hometown ... with an early spring visit to Arizona ... and now, with one of the many artists whose work enriches my current home city.

Not a bad set of associations, that ...

If at 42nd you don't succeed ...

Tea: Mango Strawberry

Music: Nik Kershaw, "Human Racing"

Time: Night.

I had something I wanted to say.

I can't remember it now. It's gone into the ether, the same place my missing emails and postcards go.

My only hope is that the reason my thought's gone is that the postcard I sent today has slipped through the net and will actually reach its recipient. This, of course, would anger the Lords of Bad Communications Karma ... but I can live with that.

Now if I can just think of what I wanted to say here.

Nope.

Nothing.

Oh, well. Watch this. It's better than my fumbling rambles (frambles?) ...

Flights of Paper Angels

Tea: Chinese Melon Seed

Music: Missing Persons, "Words"

Time: Night.

I'm going to invoke proud father's privilege and brag on my teenagers.

Year after year, they race to an artificial Christmas tree in the church lobby and scrutinize the paper angels hanging from its branches.

Each angel bears a child's name and age, something the child would like for Christmas (or that the parent would like to give, if the child is too young to speak for himself or herself). There's also a message from the parent to the child -- messages the parents can't give in person because they're behind bars.

The Angel Tree program is not unique to Prison Fellowship International, of course. Other Angel Trees benefit children of poverty, or families facing severe financial hardship. But this is the one we know best.

It's a lean year here, too. But my teenagers weren't about to give the Angel Tree a pass. They saved up money they'd been given, they each picked a paper angel -- and tonight, we dropped off the wrapped gifts at church. They'll be opened at a party for the children on Saturday.

(The kids and their parents won't be forced to profess any faith to take part and receive the gifts, by the way. I wouldn't support the program if they were.)

Occasionally, there are grumbles that we shouldn't "reward" convicts by purchasing Christmas presents for their children -- as though somehow the kids deserved to be punished for their parents' misdeeds. (Do people really think, "Hey, that's a great idea! Let's further isolate these children and convince them they're not worthy of Christmas! What better way to show Christian charity?")

Anyway ... they'll never brag on themselves. They just do it because they love doing it. And that's another reason to be proud of them ...

The minor fall, the major lift ...

Tea: Lapsang Souchong.

Music: Jeff Buckley, "Hallelujah"

Time: Almost midnight.

Yesterday was warm enough that a quilted jacket over a long-sleeved knit shirt felt like too much.

Today, it snowed. Somewhere during the afternoon, the wind kicked up -- and it's still blowing.

Tonight, it feels as though the cold is something not quite alive but also not entirely dead, something that wants to drape itself around my shoulders and dig in its claws.

But the warmth will return. It always does ...

Doesn't it?

Eurocravings

Tea: Christmas.

Music: The Steve Miller Band, "Serenade"

Time: Night.

It didn't feel like the leading edge of winter today. It felt like my first few days in Germany for the 2006 World Cup ... and that was in June.

Made me wish I were back there ... and I'm craving some of the things I haven't tasted since I got back (although I have found a local source for sulze and leberkase.)

Funny thing is, several of the things I'm craving weren't native.

The Bismarckbrotchen (cold herring sandwiches) and maetjes (cold fried herring; do you sense a theme here?) are German, as are the meat dishes cited above. But I also miss Croatian food and drink from Balkan Sonne, and the doner sandwiches (somewhat like a gyro, but with different bread and toppings) from the late-night places run by Turkish immigrants.

And the strawberries, whose sweetness remains unmatched ...

It's a mixed blessing, having a vivid sense memory. I can taste all of those things in my mind ... which just makes it harder not to be able to have them in real life.

Now More than Ever

Tea: Mandarin Green with ginger and honey.

Music: Elvis Costello and the Attractions, "Almost Blue"

Time: Night.

I know ... we're in a recession, and every nickel counts.

But now is not the time to stop giving, even if the form the gift takes has to change.

I don't mean Christmas presents. I mean the things that keep people fed, warm, clothed.

No spare change to drop in a kettle? I'm not going to call you a liar. I've been there.

But you -- we, I, whoever -- can volunteer to serve meals. We can donate clothes. We can help each other look for work. Sometimes, we can just listen to someone who's facing a first holiday season without a job or a loved one -- or both.

It's a different and more intimate investment, giving yourself along with -- or instead of -- your money. But in the book I hold sacred, we're asked to give what we have ... even if all we have to give is ourselves.

Inside, Outside, T-E-A

Tea: Oolong No. 18

Music: Holly Cole, "River"

Time: Night.

I made the tea just before leaving the house late this afternoon, because I hadn't had any caffeine yet today and I could feel a withdrawal headache coming on.

The travel mug I chose wasn't as insulated as some others I have, and I could feel the heat from the tea seeping through to my hands. As I was riding on a bus with a bum heater, this was a good thing.

The warming was more than physical, though. There was the warmth of gratitude for small pleasures, for the things (clean water, electricity) that went into making the tea -- things I take for granted, but which much of the world cannot ... and for the generosity of the giver not only of the tea, but of the teakettle and the infuser.

In cold times, it's good to be warmed that deeply.

Back and Out and Back Again.

Tea: Pu Erh Dante

Music: UK, "Night After Night"

Time: Night.

Back after an early winter bug hiatus. I envy those who can will themselves well.

First Friday tonight, which began as a work obligation and ended with good conversation.

It is easy, I think, to see artists as only artists, writers as only writers, editors as only editors -- and forget that there are other facets as well. Tonight was a good reminder that at heart ... some of us just like to talk about food and play Scrabble.

(Well, we didn't actually play tonight. But we talked about it.)

Several cool things seen, but it's late and I need to sleep. More later, I'm sure.

Awaiting a message on a message

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: U2, "A Sort of Homecoming"

Time: Night.

I have the worst postal karma of anyone I know. Things get to me from other people, but getting things to other people from me ... remains problematic.

(It's one of the reasons we went to auto withdrawal to pay bills. Seriously.)

Hope holds on, though. Tomorrow, I find out if I managed to get a postcard through the Postal Triangle.

Fingers crossed ...

Another Candle is Lit

Tea: Mandarin Orange

Music: Leonard Cohen, "Everybody Knows"

Time: Night.

Until today, my son's involvement with tea consisted of reading Steep Thoughts over my shoulder.

This morning, he was milling around the kitchen looking for something hot to drink with his biscuits and preserves.

"Want some tea?" I asked.

He thought.

"Got any subtle tea?" he asked, cracking himself up at his own pun.

I refused to bite.

"This is green tea," I said, indicating the Mandarin Green (which you might remember from earlier posts as "candletea," because it makes me think of festive holiday gatherings and never fails to lift my mood). "It's pretty light."

"So it's ... subtle tea?"

"Yes," I said with a sigh. "It's subtle tea. I was about to make some, but you can have my first steeping and I'll take the second."

Even without honey, he likes it. Great. He already takes my socks. Now I have to keep an eye on my tea stash, too.

A minor case of the icks.

Tea: Stomach Soother

Music: Chaka Khan, "Through the Fire"

Time: Night.

My insides have gone a bit squirrelly. All of the holiday indulgence, I'm sure. Between the big turkey dinner (and all the leftovers) and tonight's traditional putting-up-the-tree spread of summer sausage and cheese, I'm reminded that my stomach capacity isn't what it used to be.

("Squirrelly" seems an apt word, in conjunction with overeating. The squirrels in my neighborhood are fat this year. At least the economy hasn't affected acorn and black walnut growth.)

Hmm ... maybe I should put out a bowl of this tea for them.

Maybe once I'm a bit less dyspeptic myself ...

A Black Friday indeed ...

Tea: Chinese Melon Seed

Music: James Taylor, "Shower the People"

Time: Night.

Yet another sign that the world continues to spin upside down.

It was horrifying enough that people would put saving a few dollars over the life of a human being, so much so that they ran over workers trying to save the trampled man and then kept on shopping while store officials tried to shut down in the wake of the tragedy.

This man wasn't a part of the machinery. He went to work trying to keep body and soul together in a tough economy, and had them separated by a mindless mob bent on snapping up cheap (in every sense) goods.

It's also disconcerting (although not so much as today's death) that people were so desperate to feed the economy of a frenemy country that they lined up Thursday morning -- a day before the "bargain"-hunting orgy that is the Friday after Thanksgiving.

God save us from the madding crowd ...

Thankful to be Back

Tea: Berry Blush herbal

Music: Vince Guaraldi, "Charlie Brown Thanksgiving"

Time: Night.

For the past week, Blogger has been telling me my browser's cookie functionality was disabled. It wasn't.

Oh, well. I'm back -- and on Thanksgiving day, no less.

So, before my cookies disable themselves again, here's my trio of immediate gratitudes:

1. I and mine ate well today, and we have leftovers. So many in this world didn't and don't.

2. I have been able to renew several connections that had lapsed through no one's fault. Life just gets in the way sometimes -- but it's good to be back in touch.

3. I am not alone in the world -- and I have a chance every day to reach out to others so that they know they aren't, either.

I know that's four out of three. I can be greedy about gratitudes if I want.

But as Mick and Keith would say ...

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: Poe, "Haunted"

Time: Night.

Suddenly ... out of somewhere ... I want a Chicago dog.

I mean, really really really want one. With the celery salt and the nuclear green relish and everything.

That's all. I just thought you should know.

An Odd Sort of Growing Season

Tea: Chocolate Cherry

Music: Heart, "Treat Me Well"

Time: Night.

It turned cold and windy tonight. Goodbye, Indian summer. Hello, pre-winter.

It's not entirely a bad thing. I seem to be sort of an anti-plant (which might not make sense outside my own head).

To wit: When the days get shorter and cooler, that's when I tend to grow the most -- and not merely in the "pack on the winter pounds" sense.

Autumn has always been a season of change for me, a time of doing something new (sometimes shedding something old in the process). It's when I feel most productive, most in tune with the world around me -- in short, most alive. Paradoxically, it's also when I tend to rent a room in my own head and live there for long stretches. The sense of engagement with the world is no weaker and no less real -- it's just that the definition of "world" is particularly fluid this time of year.

What will this year's change be? I don't yet know. I believe that I'll be shown, somehow, and that the sign will be unmistakable.

Here's hoping for a good harvest ...

Swedish Jesus and the Stubborn Flat Tire

Tea: Christmas

Music: New pieces for solo flute

Time: Almost midnight.

It's late. I'm tired. So rather than go through the night blow by blow, I'll just answer your questions before you even have to ask them.

Trust me, it'll save time.

Swedish Jesus is a composer, who looks -- well, like those church pictures which look nothing like the real Jesus. Long blond hair, trimmed blond beard. I heard his name, but I don't remember it.

Yes, he was one of the composers of the ten new flute pieces I heard tonight at Pi Gallery, where I went to hear said flute music and see Maria Creyts' artwork again.

My favorite painting from the show? In this moment, Serena. Love that green.

My favorite flute piece? Probably "Continental Divide," composed by Chris Wu and performed by Rebecca Ashe. It would have been a great addition to the score of a Hitchcock film -- near the climax, where the villain (Robert Shaw) and hero (Paul Newman) move toward a fateful rendezvous -- neither knowing that they are both being stalked by someone even more villainous (Rod Steiger).

Yes, the art show is still up. It runs through Nov. 29. Go see it.

The flat tire was on a car belonging to two of the flutists. I helped to change it. The old tire and wheel didn't want to come off. It took a good seven minutes of prying (with intermittent tire-iron taps) to get it dislodged.

No, I don't know why. Maybe it was just evil.

It takes two flutists, three composers, one highly amused artist and one writer to change a flat tire.

And yes, "Swedish Jesus and the Stubborn Flat Tire" would be a great name for a band.

Simple Pleasure Complex

Tea: Mandarin Green with Honey

Music: Cheb Tarik, "L'Histoire"

Time: Night.

One cup of spiced tea, flavored with honey. Three minutes to heat the water, three more to steep.

Six minutes to happiness, right?

Far ... very far ... from it.

Someone -- more precisely, a series of someones -- had to plant and tend the tea plants, harvest the tea, dry the tea, season the tea, package the tea, ship the tea, purchase and send the tea (the last step involving an entire sub-series of someones.)

Other someones planted and nurtured orange trees, picked the fruit, peeled the fruit, dried the peel and added it to the tea.

Still more someones harvested the cinnamon, ground it and put it into the mix.

Meanwhile, somewhere else, flowers grew. Bees visited the flowers, went home and made honey. A beekeeper harvested it. Someone else bottled it. Other someones packed it, transported it and stocked it at the market.

Think we're done yet? Hardly.

The electric teakettle, from inventor's spark to yet more shipping someones, passed through who knows how many lives. How many people built the water treatment plant, built and laid the mains, designed and manufactured the fixtures and hooked up the plumbing? How many more put together the power grid, ran the lines, wired the outlet (and made the tools that made that task possible)?

And we haven't even talked about the mug ...

Simple pleasures don't just magically appear out of thin air. They have roots reaching eons deep. All the more reason to appreciate them, I'd say.

Gratitude is always free-range.

Tea: Double Orange Chocolate Truffle

Music: Redbone, "Come and Get Your Love"

Time: Night.

I was prepared to unleash some serious snark when I saw this post on WalletPop's "Fantastic Freebies" blog.

This big smelly corporate poultry concern (A Yahoo! search using the keywords "Tyson chicken pollution" turns up ... wait for it ... 189,000 results.) was going to teach people how to be thankful for their food?

But I took a look at some of the examples posted -- everything from the flippant (Bart Simpson's "Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub" to the beautiful ("Now that I am about to eat, O Great Spirit, give my thanks to the beasts and birds whom You have provided for my hunger, and pray deliver my sorrow that living things must make a sacrifice for my comfort and well-being. Let the feather of corn spring up in its time and let it not wither but make full grains for the fires of our cooking pots, now that I am about to eat.")

And I thought, "Why not take a longer look?" So I clicked.

Reminding people that each meal is a grace and a cause for gratitude won't undo years of abysmal stewardship. But disliking the messenger is no reason to disregard the message.

Attention Deficit ... what?

Tea: Earl Grey Smokey

Music: Counting Crows, "Round Here"

Time: Evening.

Much typity-typity today, writing to artists I met last night and laying groundwork for an arts site I'm launching in January (which means I have to get the thing designed by late December -- good thing I don't have to do all the design work myself.)

Anyway ... um ... so ...

I looked outside for a while, and it was snowing. That's pretty much my extent of leaving the house today.

(I should also note that I smoked the son's brisket at Scrabble, after we collaborated on making some pretty darned good cornpones for breakfast. A hundred-point margin, baby. Okay, so I got a little lucky and was able to play "T-W-I-S-(Blank)-E-R" for 73 points, counting the 50 I got for using all my tiles at once. But we shall not speak of luck, only of my glorious triumph and all that sort of thing. Strike up the musicians.)

The ADD is kicking in again. Time to make some more tea. Caffeine helps with -- oh, yeah, and I made fried potatoes with supper. They were ... um ... yikes, I forgot to hang up my clothes ... and so the bartender says, "What is this? Some kind of a joke?"

You Call That Art, Then?

Tea: Stomach Soother

Music: Blue Oyster Cult, "Godzilla"

Time: Night.

Keeping it short. Late, and I'm going to watch a cheesy monster movie with my son.

I was at the Review Studios Group Exhibition tonight, watching a couple of older guys (no wisecracks about me being an older guy, please) react to James Woodfill's Approximate Object, Quasi Effect.

(No, I'm not going to describe it to you in full detail. I'll just say that it spins, it squeaks, and it's made of wood, steel, motors and hardware, plaster gauze, acrylic media and gesso. You want more, either call me or go see it yourself.)

Anyway, it was clear that these two Did Not Approve. I didn't hear the entire conversation, but I heard all needed at the end: " ... and they call it 'art.'"

Ah, yes ... the mysterious "They." You know, the same ones who say things. Apparently, They are now in charge of determining what's art and what's not.

Granted, Woodfill's work isn't all that accessible to everyone at first look. When I reviewed his Relative Field (which is still up, by the way), it took me more than one visit to find a hook.

"I don't get it" is understandable. "I don't get it, but I'm going to give it another look" is commendable. "I don't get it, so it isn't art" is laughable.

That's what They say, anyway ...

Cup, Mug and Glass

Tea: Hot Cinnamon Chocolate

Music: Endusk, "Four"

Time: Night.

It has been a long, productive day, marked by a triad of most excellent potables. The wellspring was the same for all three.

The "hot" in this morning's tea -- a hand-blended gift from a friend -- was more than temperature and more than cinnamon. It's seasoned with Szechuan peppercorn, which becomes more pronounced as the tea cools. It's the sort of heat one feels around the edges of the tongue, in the soft palate -- even in the teeth.

This afternoon's coffee, from Homer's Coffeehouse, was chocolate Irish cream. The same friend who sent the tea bought me the coffee, long-distance.

And tonight, after a walk that ended just as the rain began, I broke out something porty, a gift received during an impulse stop at Holy-Field Winery, and raised a silent toast to the giver.

Leaf, bean, grape ... all testaments to things that grow, take root and produce wonders. Not everything is a metaphor -- but then again, from time to time, everything is a metaphor.

Salut.

Goin 'Gnuts

Tea: Christmas:

Music: Fleuma, "Eternal Drowning"

Time: Night.

(Yeah, I know. Cheerful music the last couple of nights, huh? It's a good song, though. And wherever possible, I'm going to start posting links to the music so you can hear for yourselves.)

So I was going to write about the gnats, or midges, or whatevertheheck those little insects were that kept buzzing around me (and into my ears) while I was bagging leaves this afternoon. Then it occurred to me that I had twice as many encounters today with even more annoying creatures: People Who Are More Important Than You.

By "You," I don't mean you personally. But they do. In their world, "You" means anyone who's not them.

Case 1: I was driving to the bank, to cancel an automatic withdrawal (long story). I was in the parking lot, about to pull into a space, when a woman drove straight across my bow on her way to the drive-through lane. Never mind that I had to slam on my brakes -- which was, of course, only right. She was More Important Than You, and by "You" she meant me.

Case 2: On my way to pick up the two youngest from their (successful) drama callbacks at the high school, I saw a woman jogging down the sidewalk. The light ahead of her was red, and there was cross traffic. Rather than running in place until the light changed, however, she darted ahead, forcing a mini-jam as people (kinder than I might have been) let her cross. And well they should have done; obviously, she was More Important Than You ("You," in this case, meaning them.)

Gnats, you can swat. People, you can't -- not without incurring the wrath of weapon-bearing people in blue polyester. Pity. Any politician who can push through a "He Needed Swattin' Defense" would get my vote.

Law Enforcement Officer: "Did you swat this man?"

You (and by "You," I mean everyone within a hundred-foot radius of the Person Who Is More Important Than You): "Yes, I did. He took a full cart through the express lane."

"Never mind, then. He needed swattin'."

That's some change I could believe in.

Trailed by Paper

Tea: White Grapefruit

Music: Black Tape for a Blue Girl, "Across a Thousand Blades"

Time: Night.

I am surrounded by business cards, gallery price lists with scrawled email addresses, coffee-stained notebooks also bearing same. At nine o'clock, there's a pile on the floor, sorted only in the sense that I have weeded out everything that's already in my electronic address book. At eleven o'clock, a stack of cards filched from the pile. The information on these is to be entered into said address book, after which the cards are moved to a stack at one o'clock. Once all the information is secure, they're recycled. (I'd love to keep them all, but I need the storage space for tea -- which, unlike email contacts, cannot be stored online.)

Each time I think, "There. I've caught up on my correspondence," I find I haven't -- not because people keep writing to me, but because there are those to whom I have not yet written.

A card, used as a bookmark, falls from between the pages in a collection of ghost stories. Worse still, a jacket pocket yields a scrap with a name and an @ symbol -- and no context. Who is this person? Where did I meet him? Is she an artist or an editor? Am I supposed to be sending images for a possible photo show?

As Charlie Brown would say, "AAAAAUGGH!"

I know people who are expert networkers. I envy them that gift. Oh, I'm fine at meeting people. Keeping track of all the threads after that? (Pause for rueful chuckle.) Not so much ... yet.

I'm working on it, though. Patterns, though long-held, can be altered -- and in this case, must be.

So, back to the pile.

I'm going to need some more tea ...

Freebies for You, Food for the Hungry

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: Mellodog, "Zombie Beach"

Time: Night.

We've all seen the banner ads: "FREE $25 GIFT CARD TO (INSERT CHAIN RESTAURANT HERE)! CLICK NOW!"

Of course, there's always the tiny asterisked disclaimer, something along the lines of:

*must complete offers (translation: jump through hoops and buy stuff) for eligibility

And, of course, it's printed in something that blends neatly into the background color of the ad. Thanks, but no.

But as we also know, there's legit free stuff out there on the web. No, this isn't another plug for Hulu, Horror Masters or Download.com, although all three are incredibly cool. This one's for Walletpop's "Fantastic Freebies" section.

Tonight's haul: One free movie rental, one free wall calendar and -- coolest of all -- one free tote bag. (Hey, at least one grocery store here cuts a nickel off the total for using your own bag. I'm not proud. I'll take it.)

For two of the offers -- the bag and the calendar -- I didn't even have to sign up for email alerts.

Best of all? Walletpop has a heart as well as a nose for bargains. One of their links isn't to free stuff for yourself; it's to freerice.com -- which, as with Kiva and Heifer International, I'm always happy to promote.

I hope Walletpop keeps Free Rice in heavy rotation. It would be a good thing, I think, if people "paid" for each freebie by making enough correct clicks to rack up 500 grains of rice. And if you get on a roll, by all means keep going.

Beats Solitaire any day.

Elsewhens and Otherwheres

Tea: Caramel Lapsang

Music: The W's, "The Devil is Bad"

Time: Night.

I like all sorts of visual art -- painting, drawing, sculpture, ceramics, fiber art, metalwork, you name it.

Within each medium, I like a lot of different styles -- from the hyper-realist to the utterly abstract.

But there is something about art that evokes a sense of familiar place -- and right now, in this moment (and knowing it could change tomorrow), that's what sticks with me most from the First Friday outing of two nights ago.

I'll go in reverse chronological order here. We'll begin at a later stop: Barkley (formerly the TWA headquarters), which hosted an opening for Harriet Bigham. She lives in the Crown Center area, and much of her work reflects that. I worked in that part of the city for a decade, and still find myself there at times. So in her paintings, I see places I've not merely passed by, but bonded with in some way. And somewhere inside, I'm there again.

Now we backtrack to Unit 5 Gallery, which is now featuring paintings by Richard Mattson. There's a good deal of work featuring the Flint Hills, which is well-traveled territory for me and mine -- and a lot depicting the Brookside/South Plaza area.

That includes Loose Park, a place dear to me for a number of reasons. One is a stand of evergreens, on the west side of the park (near the Narnia Lamppost, about which I'll write more later). I have been there in each season of the year, and each time I step under those trees I feel as though I'm in a sanctuary. (Snow heightens the effect, but nothing diminishes it.)

One of Mattson's paintings is of those trees. So, of course, that was the one I kept coming back to.

I'm a "try new things" person, sometimes to a fault. But at the same time, it can be good to go back to touchstone places -- even when they're hanging on a wall in 2-D.

Hello, I must be going

Tea: Wild Berry Green

Music: Phil Collins, "Through These Walls"

Time: Night.

I'm still going through my notes on the art I saw and the artists I encountered last night at First Friday. I covered a lot of ground, making sure I saw (a) everyone who sent me an invitation to an opening and (b) everyone who will be included in the art stories on my "to write" list.

That kept me on the move, although I'm not complaining about the walking (a little more than two miles, all told). It was cool but not bitter, and being able to park and rove saved gas.

The only bad thing was that I had to breeze through some of the galleries more quickly than I would have liked, and I had to cut several conversations short to move on to the next must-see location.

On the other hand, having to be so many places in not a lot of time kept me from glomming onto anyone for an extended time. It's easy enough to do -- I find artists and their work fascinating (probably a good thing for an arts writer), and wow, do I love to talk to people. (I did get the "Don't Talk to Strangers" memo, but I blew my nose on it.) But First Fridays are for the artists, who need to be able to circulate through their openings, talking to potential buyers and making other contacts. Having someone attached at the hip can't help.

And, to borrow a phrase from several songs on a single theme, how can people miss me if I never go away?

More tomorrow on the art itself. It's the night that keeps on giving.

Running Late

Tea: Chocolate Cherry

Music: The Beatles, "Come Together"

Time: Almost midnight.

It's been a long First Friday and I need to crash. I'm going to beg a 24-hour indulgence before I start sorting it all into words.

For now, let's just say I missed the Arts Incubator for the first time in 14 months -- but found a lot of new places. Much more of this, and I'm going to need to be twins. (No jokes about us both being evil.)

'Night ...

Back in Bible Black

Tea: Mandarin Green with Honey

Music: Robert Fripp, "Starlight I"

Time: Night.

As you might have noticed, I like mismatching musical references. If I quote a song in the post title, there's no way I'm using that song as the soundtrack for the post. This is sort of an unusual situation, though.

Tonight's title is an AC/DC - King Crimson mashup. Why? Eh. Just felt like it. Did you know, by the way, that Crimson's "Starless" -- whence comes the lyrical line "Starless and Bible black" -- isn't on the Starless and Bible Black album? It's on the subsequent album, Red. And to add to the confusion, "Starless and Bible Black" is also the title of an instrumental on Starless and Bible Black -- and sounds nothing at all like "Starless."

Sometimes I am a bear of very little brain, and the ways of prog confuse me.

All of which, to keep the musical theme going, is just so much vamping until the caffeine from a third steeping of Mandarin Green (It's been a long day.) kicks in, and some sort of groove takes shape.

Fripp recorded "Starlight I" during a performance in St. Louis. I wish I could have been there. Anyone who's ever been in Crimson is on my "to see before I die" list, but Fripp and Adrian Belew co-head it.

The solo piece incorporates the melody from the guitar intro to "Starless," which was performed live well before it went onto vinyl as the closing track of Red. (That line was originally played by violinist David Cross, who quit the band between Starless and Bible Black and Red. He came back as a session player on the latter album, but by then Fripp had made the intro line his own.)

(Yes, I like trivia, if you hadn't figured that out by now.)

Anyway ... I wish I could have heard this live, but part of me wonders if I would have been disappointed. Would it have been enough to hear those opening notes -- and then not hear the rest of "Starless," which is one of my favorite songs of any genre? Could I have appreciated "Starlight I" for its own sake, right out of the gate?

I don't know. I suppose I would have been ambivalent -- multivalent, even.

Yes, I'd love to hear "Starless" live -- ideally with the 1974 lineup of Fripp, John Wetton, Bill Bruford and guests -- all former members -- Cross, Mel Collins and Ian McDonald (part of King Crimson's original lineup and later a cofounder of Foreigner.) But there's no chance of that happening. Still, I have to give props to Fripp for not playing the laurels card, for continuing to move ahead and make new music that actually sounds new.

I wouldn't want my writing or photographic style to be frozen in time. They have grown, through solo work and collaboration, and -- Lord willing, as they say, and the creek don't rise -- they will continue to do so for years to come. I can't, without being a hypocrite, expect my own work to evolve while demanding that my favorite artists stagnate.

Sure, the paychecks are probably better for nostalgia acts. They're safe. But so long as I can keep a roof over my head and food on the table, I'd much rather keep evolving. And someday, if I'm able to drop in a snippet of something I did more than 30 years ago -- and it still resonates with people -- well, how cool would that be?

Crank it to Eleven and Twist Off the Knob

Tea: Blood Orange with Ginger

Music: GVSU New Music Ensemble, 4'33"

Time: Night.

Sorry, I know I've been away for a few days. Contrary to what you may think, I haven't been hiding under a rock during the election homestretch. My guy didn't win, and I still think we've committed the political equivalent of putting a 14-year-old with a learner's permit behind the wheel of a Formula One car, but the sun still came up this morning and I'm willing to give the new guy a chance. I'll pass on the Kool-Aid, though.

I've been away because, quite frankly, clickety-clackety sounds are just a bit much for me right now. Something nasty has settled into my left ear and jaw, and it won't go away. As a result, most sounds are -- well, painful.

I have discovered a new appreciation for one particular piece of music, however.

I kind of like this version of John Cage's classic. Yes, I know it was written for piano, as performed here by Armand Fuchs, but the ensemble treatment works really well for me, too. That's the beauty of the composition: It lends itself to covers in all sorts of genres and is especially appropriate for boy bands, polka ensembles, death metal quartets and yodelers.

Its simplicity also makes it the perfect piece for beginners. I know I relished hearing my next-door neighbor's rap group rehearse it, back when I lived in a townhouse with tissue-paper walls, and I have suggested it to several garage bands in the neighborhood. A friend of mine who flies frequently would appreciate it, I'm sure, if more parents taught their children to hum the piece over and over -- for the duration of the trips, if possible.

At present, 4'33" is my favorite piece of music. I listen to it whenever possible. In fact, I've just discovered a ukulele version that completely blows me away. The toy piano interpretation is daring but suffers from rough transitions between movements. This guy's guitar version isn't bad to listen to, but it's clear he's not all that engaged in the piece. Fortunately, there's a Guitar Hero track that should make a great practice tool.)

If you're feeling edgy, here's a remix (although it's been shortened by more than a minute, probably to make it more radio-friendly). It's got a great beat, and you can dance to it in any step you choose. (No pogo for me, though. All that bouncing ... ow.)

Okay, I'm out. I'm going to try something. My son gave me a miniature didgeridoo when he came back from Australia this past summer, and I'm betting 4'33" will sound killer on that. Who knows? Maybe I'll do the second movement on sleigh bells and the third on a zither.

Just let the neighbors try to tell me to turn it down. I'm feeling like a rebel tonight. I may do an encore on rainstick and mountain dulcimer, just to show them. Heck ... I may play it all night. Not like I can sleep, right?

All Treats, No Tricks

Tea: Vanilla Jasmine

Music: King Crimson, "The Devil's Triangle"

Time: Night.

Mmmm ... jasmine.

Give readers a link to a story, you scare them for a night. Give readers a link to the whole site, you scare them for a lifetime.

So, here you go. Happy Halloweirdness.

Engage Ears, Disengage Thumbs

Tea: Blood Orange

Music: Peabo Bryson, "Pretty Women"

Time: Night.

The drama department at the local high school put on Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street tonight. The venue was tiny, the set (which my son helped to build) outstanding and the production thoroughly enjoyable.

Imagine my (insert word conveying baffled, bemused anger) when I noticed that the high school girl in front of me was sending and receiving text messages during the second act.

You wouldn't do that on Broadway or the West End. (You wouldn't do it off-Broadway or even off-off-Broadway. You wouldn't even do it during an overblown, check-out-my-acting-for-Jesus production of, say, The Screwtape -- or, if you will, Ska-Rew-uh-Tay-Puh -- Letters.)

I share the belief that you learn how to play a big house by playing a small one -- and I believe that to be true not only for performers, but for what Robert Fripp would call the audients. Practice courtesy and respect for the company in a community theatre, and it will carry over should you ever score tickets to something big. And trust me, the more people pay for a show, the more they're likely to want you tossed out if you're disrespectful and disruptive.

I hope the young texter gets that message.

Here endeth the rant.

Tonight's story: Lord Dunsany, "The Unhappy Body"

It's All Coming Back to Me ...

Tea: Moroccan Mint

Music: Jamiroquai, "Virtual Insanity"

Time: Night.

Yesterday was a bad day for hanging onto things. Today was a great day for getting them back.

First, I left my cell phone charger at Homer's. Or at least I was pretty sure I'd left it there, even though nobody could find it when I called last night. Then I lost my bright orange Arts Incubator stocking cap, which serves the dual purpose of (a) keeping my head warm and (b) making me more visible to drivers when I'm out walking.

(I thought about saying something glib on the visibility front, but after the events that prompted last night's post I don't think I will.)

I found the hat this morning, in the middle of the sidewalk alongside a busy street. It lay there all night, and nobody took it. This was a happy surprise.

I put it on and continued walking to Homer's.

The barista rang me up and asked, "How are you doing this morning?"

"I'm doing okay," I said. "I'll be doing wonderfully if anyone has found a cell phone cord. I think I left it here yesterday."

It wasn't in the lost and found drawer. I resigned myself to an excursion to get a replacement.

"Wait," the other barista said. He went over to the coatrack, took a hat off the shelf ... and pulled out my cord. (Beats a rabbit any day.)

On the walk back this afternoon, I found a notebook near the high school. There's a name in the notebook, which means I can leave it at the office in the morning when I drop off my kids.

I'd say that not doing so would be a shame and a sin, in light of getting back my hat and my cord in the same day. But really, wouldn't it be inexcusable no matter what?

Two scary stories tonight, as promised, and they're both from the master. That's right, two scoops of M.R. James:

"The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral"
"Lost Hearts"

Pack, Books and Candle

Tea: Blood Orange

Music: Dan Papirany, "Autumn Leaves"

Time: Night.

I did a lot of walking today -- five miles' worth, at least.

During the morning portion of my purposeful rambles, I came upon a makeshift memorial at the base of a lamppost. It had been there a while. Two of the three potted plants were still alive but drooping, and the candle -- the scented sort that comes in a jar -- was tipped over. The wax part, about three fingers deep with some serviceable wick still running through it, had come out and lay a few feet away from the glass.

I walked by ... then stopped, about fifteen feet down the sidewalk. Don't ask me why. It just nagged at me, that candle. So I righted the jar, put the scented wax back in and walked on.

Tonight, I looked up the story. That spot is where a 15-year-old high school sophomore named David J. Lengle was hit and killed by a car in August. He was the same age as my own son.

I can't imagine the pain of losing a child, especially so suddenly. I can't imagine what the driver feels, either. That can't be an easy thing to bear.

Anything else I could write would be inadequate. So tomorrow, or the day after, I'm just going to light what's left of that candle.

Two stories tomorrow. I've had enough of death for the night.

myTunes

Tea: Christmas

Music: Arizona Amp and Alternator, "Bottom of the Barrel"

Time: Night.

My music collection (which is causing my hard drive to sag in the middle) should, by rights, belong to five or six different people.

I have rock, pop, country (most of it alt-), classical, jazz, blues, Celtic, world (whatever that means), folk, funk, old-school hip-hop ... pretty much everything but death metal, polka and gangsta rap.

(That said, anything that combined those last three -- heck yeah, I'd listen at least once.)

A good chunk of the collection came from download.com's music section. For free. And before you howl "Piracy!" ... the artists like having their music on there, because it introduces them to new fans. I know I'd never have heard of Arizona Amp and Alternator -- or Autumn's Grey Solace or Alabaster Theatre, for a sampling of A's -- were it not for that site.

The Internet has been a mixed blessing. It delivers messages from friends ... and gives racist pinheads a worldwide audience for their venom. It lets artisans sell their wares to far-flung markets ... and helps spammer/scammers fleece grandmothers. It links people with something extra to give and those who desperately need that help ... and gives the gullible a way to spread urban legends faster than you can say "Turn me on, dead man."

But on this cold night ... listening to good music and preparing to read Grant Allen's "Wolverton Tower" (Pretty smooth way to introduce tonight's scary story, huh?), I have to say: "You did okay, Al."

Hitting the Books Again

Tea: Gunpowder.

Music: Holly Cole, "Onion Girl"

Time: Night.

I used to go out to eat (alone and with others, both family and friends) a lot -- and by "a lot," I mean "way too often for the bank account's health."

True, money was steadier then than it is now, but the pattern wasn't a good one.

Nothing in the fridge or the pantry speaking to me? Got a bit extra from an overtime check? Nobody felt like cooking? Off we went.

Money's tighter now. It's the 27th of October, and (not counting a couple of church dinners, a couple of pregame media meals and the Friday night arts refreshments) I've been out to eat twice this month.

I've enjoyed both times, but I've also enjoyed rediscovering my cookbook collection.

I never gave up cooking entirely, but I'd gotten into a frittata/carbonara/chili/throw something on the grill rut. (No, not all at once. That'd be ... uh, no thanks.)

I'm not giving up the old favorites, but it's fun to see what's on hand and start scouring the shelves for recipes. Who knows? Maybe the next turn of the page will produce another tradition.

Okay, that was reaching. I'm tired and rambly ... but you know I'm going to break out a couple of cookbooks and check out sweet potato recipes before I turn in.

Your bedtime wordgift from me: Jack London, "Local Color"

Seasoned with Change

Tea: Jasmine Vanilla.

Music: UK, "Night After Night"

Time: Night.

The farmer's market nearest me is shutting down for the season. Today was the final Saturday, although there's one more session on Wednesday. It seems too early for that, but there it is.

We bought a few late tastes of summer -- eggplants and bell peppers -- but mostly stocked up on hardy foods that should last well into the cold months.

There are sweet potatoes, still in their coats of dirt (they keep better that way.) There are turnips, which I used to loathe -- but now seek out as soon as I feel a fall chill. There are winter squash, awaiting loving treatment with sweetness and spice.

Eating seasonally was once the norm. We've gotten spoiled as a culture, though. Want strawberries in January or asparagus with Christmas Dinner? You can get them -- but at what cost?

The cost, I'm coming to think, of connection with the rhythms of the places where we live, and appreciation for what each season brings us.

I've had Molly O'Neill's cookbook The Well-Seasoned Palate (which is as desirable for the essays as for the recipes) for years. This may be the year I finally internalize it.

At the very least, I'm going to get outside some Turnip Bisque ere long ...

Tonight's story: Frederick Stuart Greene, "The Black Pool"

I've Just Seen a Place

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang.

Music: SixMileBridge, "Cunningham's Waltz"

Time: Night.

Went to an opening tonight (because it's Friday) at the Greenlease Gallery at Rockhurst University. Got to meet the artist, Clay Deutsch, who was kind enough to discuss his work with me.

On the way out, I noticed something I'd missed on the way in (probably because it took me forever to find the gallery, and I was preoccupied by the search): There's a lovely, almost cloistered space outside the building that houses the Greenlease.

Circular walk, tree in the middle, bench under the tree: It would be a perfect place to sit and read, sit and write, sit and just be.

There's a story, in a book sent to me by a dear friend, about a young man who was fond of going to the woods each day. His father asked why, and he said there was a place in the midst of the trees where he would go to talk to God. The father said, "But God is the same everywhere."

To which the son replied, "Yes, but I am not the same everywhere."

There's not a lot I could add to that, beyond a wish for everyone to have at least one space (I am blessed with several) in which you feel that connection between your innermost self and something -- or some One -- immeasurably great.

Tonight's stories, since I promised you two: Charles Dickens, "The Haunted House" and (Why didn't I think of this one before?) Maxwell Struthers Burt, "A Cup of Tea"

Brought to You by the Number L

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Big Rig Jackknife, "All Night Truckstop"

Time: Night

Upfront disclaimer: No scary story tonight. I'll do two tomorrow, I promise. But tonight's all about life, not chain-rattling returnees from a Victorian afterlife.

Good things came in 50s tonight.

As I type this, the Chicago Fire are leading the New York Red Bulls 4-1 in the second half. That means the Kansas City Wizards -- barring an utter collapse by Chicago -- will make the Major League Soccer playoffs. For me, that's a much-needed extra 50 dollars for covering the home leg of the first round.

(Update: The final score was 5-2, Chicago. Seven goals but no punch-up, so Nick Hornby wouldn't have called it perfect.)

And earlier tonight, I was the recipient of a random act of caffeine -- a 50-dollar gift certificate to a coffeehouse I really like. I was there, getting some work done on an art show review, when the barista came up to me with a happily baffled (henceforth to be known as "happled," which is a much better state than "hapless") smile.

"Someone just called in with a credit card number and asked me to give you this," she said, as though she still couldn't quite believe it.

The giver has been thanked. Ordinarily, I would do so publicly, by name, but I have the feeling I would get a bit grumbled-at if I did that in this instance. The giver didn't do it for a mention in a blog.

We had a bit of a discussion about what Christ would think about many of the things that go on in His name today. (Upshot: He would not be pleased.) That made me think about the admonition in Matthew: "When you give, do not let the right hand know what the left hand is doing." In other words, don't give in order to get the approval of others. Don't even do it to feel better about yourself.

Do it because it's the right thing to do.

And if you're in the mood to do so right now, whether by 50s or any other amount, might I suggest Heifer International? Every gift there helps people sustain themselves ... and isn't that one of the things we're here for, to help others to live?

I've Been a Distant Cousin ...

Tea: White Leaf Song Yang

Music: Jacky Terrasson, "He Goes on a Trip"

Time: Night.

My high school senior daughter got a dictionary tonight. Big deal, right? Yeah, it was.

Each year, through the Kansas Scholars program, the University of Kansas awards certificates and dictionaries to seniors who are in the top ten percent of their graduating classes. The ceremony for her district, which includes five high schools, was tonight. (For the record, I wasn't in the top ten percent of my class. I had the test scores. But homework? Couldn't be bothered.)

Late in the presentation for the last high school, I saw a young man in a blue shirt hurry into the line. I knew it had to be my cousin's son, who I hadn't seen in more than ten years. I was right. He almost didn't make the ceremony, because his soccer team was playing a makeup game (in a cold rain, I might add).

I think my grandparents would have been proud, to have two great-grandchildren at the same academic awards ceremony. I think it would have saddened them, the way I've lost touch with a lot of my relatives.

My cousin lives 15 minutes from me, and I've seen him only a handful of times since I moved here.

I know ... it's inexcusable. But it's correctable.

As I get older, more and more time goes by between blinks. Kids become fledgling adults. Friends find themselves at the threshold of grandparenthood.

And we have the best of intentions -- to keep in touch, to get together, to keep weeks from turning into months from turning into years. But we fall down.

As long as we have breath, though, we can get up again. We have chances to close the gaps -- or, at the least, to build bridges over them. It isn't easy, but it can be done.

Tonight's scary story: Christopher Blayre, "The Book"

Happy with What I Have to be Happy With II

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: U2, "October"

Time: Night.

It's raining, and I do enjoy a good chilly fall downpour. But that drip you hear isn't just the water from the eaves.

Yes, I'm still stuffy. And my left ear is plugged.

But you know what? I have hot water. I have tea. And even if I didn't have those, I have a roof over my head to keep off the rain.

I know I've said it before, but it bears repeating: When things seem crummy, count your blessings. A dose of perspective -- whether regular or decaf -- is pretty strong medicine.

So is a good ghost story. Tonight's dose: H.F.W. Tatham, "The Travelling-Companion"

No More for Me. I'm Stuffed (Up).

Tea: Blood Orange with Ginger, honey added

Music: The Skids, "The Saints are Coming"

Time: Night.

Another short one tonight, folks. My sinuses are kerfuffled.

How about we all make ourselves something hot and citrusy, drizzle in some honey (see above) and read ourselves off to nightmareland with George MacDonald's "A Ghost Story"?

Night-night ...

Behind the Wall of Sleep; or, Technical Difficulties at the Dream Theater

Tea: Blueberry

Music: Fulton Lights, "Breathe In, Breathe Out"

Time: Night.

(First off, I want to say to the rubber duck abandoned to spend a lonely winter in a drained city swimming pool ... I really would have scaled the fence to save you if the cop hadn't been watching. I'm still having a hard time looking my own ducks in their beady little black eyes tonight.)

Sometimes I wonder if there's a correlation between creativity in the waking world and an utterly whacked-out dream life. The duck episode was real, but wow, you should have been in my head last night.

No, no tornado dreams -- not lately, at least. (In case I haven't mentioned this before, I have recurring dreams of tornadoes. I've never seen one in real life, which my dream self knows. So I dream that I've seen one, and I'm all excited -- until I wake up and realize it was only a dream, at which point I get cranky.)

But why in the world would my subconscious have made up a YouTube music video of Asia in which John Wetton (playing a 12-string bass and wearing a shiny gold suit) delivers an incoherent rant at the start of "Only Time Will Tell" -- and what was up with Steve Howe's ginormous gold-tone plastic double-necked guitar?

I don't know how I managed the segue, but all of a sudden I was driving a car up a street that was either Southwest Boulevard here in KC or Second Street in my hometown. People I know kept stepping out into traffic, so I swerved to avoid them, and a policeman decided I should pull over. (I know ... the snoozy injustice of it all.)

So I started to pull over, and then I realized:

"Wait. I'm dreaming."

And I woke up.

Now, my dreams are sometimes vivid enough that I wake up wondering if they really happened. How, then, do I realize -- always in moments of distress and/or duress -- that none of it is real, and I'm free to go? (If no one's taken the word "dreamnesty" yet, I'm calling dibs.)

And why, once I have figured out that I am dreaming, don't I stick around and have some real fun -- a high-speed chase, a shootout with rocket launchers, a daring leap across the Grand Canyon in my steaming pile of Honda?

Mysteries all. Maybe I'll dream up a solution tonight. Or maybe it'll be that weird one about the 2000-foot black tsunamis again. I hope not. I'm too tired to dodge sharks.

Maybe I'll get John Wetton to do it for me.

Tonight's scary story: Robert W. Chambers, "In the Court of the Dragon"

Back on the Board

Tea: Chocolate Cherry

Music: David Bowie, "Heroes"

Time: Night

Today, I played Scrabble against my 15-year-old son. Two games, won both. (The king is still the king.) That's only part of the point.

I used to play against my father, whenever I could -- and our games were epic. Scores of 302-301 weren't unheard-of. We scraped and scrapped and challenged for every point, so fiercely that nobody else would play with us.

He always hoarded the "Q" tile. Consequently, I held every "U" I could get my hands on. When he died, a little over a decade ago, I buried the "Q" with him.

And until today, I had played once since he died. But it was time. We've had a new Scrabble set for several years now (my son, if you'll recall, pulled it out of storage earlier this year) and I'd slowly been working up to the idea of playing again. When my son challenged me this morning, I accepted.

He has some of his grandfather's mannerisms. He fidgets. He takes forever to make a play. Even when he's about to score big, he never pounces. He gives the board one last look-see, to make sure he's not missing one or two extra points by playing something else.

And he doesn't want any help, from anyone. If he's going to win, he wants to earn it.

It was odd in ways, comforting in others, to be hunched over the board and the letters again. I have a feeling it won't be long before we're at it again.

Someday he'll beat me ... if I'm lucky. After all, great rivalries need winners on both sides.

Tonight's scary story: Lettice Galbraith, "The Trainer's Ghost"

Those as Can, Do (and Should Teach)

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Lynyrd Skynyrd, "Gimme Three Steps"

Time: Night.

Third Friday means hanging out with artists, which invariably means good conversation.

Tonight, I was at a reception, talking with an artist acquaintance who teaches at an area high school. He was bemoaning the fact that too many times, people who teach art at that level aren't producing artists themselves.

A writer friend has said the same thing for years, under another paw. He contends that to teach writing in high school, one should be a producing writer.

Granted, that is the case sometimes. There are artists who teach, writers who teach, directors and actors and techs who teach. And when that happens, it's a good thing.

But that should be the norm. Education should be a minor, not a major, in every case. Focus on expertise in the core subject, and it will be easier to teach it. And if someone knows the material-- has lived the material -- and can communicate it, why keep him or her from teaching?

In too many cases, though, the education degree is paramount -- and it shouldn't be. Would you rather have your kids learning from people who know how to do the work, or from people who have spent most of their undergraduate lives learning educational theory (much of which seems dedicated to the modern-day cult of self esteem)?

I'd better stop here. That last parenthetical could lead to a much longer rant, and it's late.

Tonight's scary story: Lafcadio Hearn, "The Corpse-Demon"

Mount Argyle

Tea: Jasmine Vanilla

Music: Beaver Nelson, "Minute Man"

Time: Night.

I don't always wear matched socks. Sometimes, I deliberately choose not to match. I do like to have the option, though.

And for several weeks ... okay, months ... my choices have been shrinking for no apparent reason. I put socks in the laundry. Sometimes I do the laundry -- and it still happens. My dryer is like the Thunderdome: Two socks enter, one sock leaves.

Today, I'd had enough. I rounded up every bag of unmatched socks I could find. (There were, for the record, five. There are five people in the house, but the unmatched socks were not divided by member. That would have been way too efficient.)

It started while the kids were at school and Mrs. Steep was at work. I made a pile in the living room and started pairing. As the others arrived home, they joined in.

I didn't count how many pairs we managed to get together. All I know is that I still have dozens of unmatched socks in what's now "my" sock bag.

Maybe I'm not meant to get them all paired off. Maybe my sock pile is some sort of cosmic trigger, a textile version of the monks' quest in Arthur C. Clarke's "The Nine Billion Names of God."

Then again, maybe the whole sock thing was just a cheesy way to set up giving you two stories tonight. No ghosties or monsters in the Clarke, I know. But the story is its own (albeit peaceful) brand of spooky, wouldn't you say?

You didn't read it? Go back and finish it. Right now. Or no literary dessert for you.

All done? Good job. Now you can move on to A.M. Burrage and "The Green Bungalow."

The Last Drop (or Not)

Tea: Yunnan Gold (morning)/ Oolong Pouchong (night)

Music: Yes, "City of Love"

Time: Night, as I type.

I finished a small bag of loose tea this morning. It was lovely, as passings go -- golden, warm, rich, Indian summer in a cup.

I got two steepings out of the leaves. They, in turn, got me through a cold, rainy morning.

Tonight, I pulled out another bag whose gauge is nearing "E." But the more I looked, the more I thought, "You know, I can probably make this last one more time past tonight, if I steep in a small cup."

It's not easy for me to do that. You know my predilection for veritable kegs o'tea. But sometimes, having just a bit of something excellent really is enough.

And I think I can get one more steeping out of tonight's portion ...

Scary story du nuit: Bernard Capes, "The Marble Hands"

Pans, No Flash

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: This Train, "Technology"

Time: Night.

I can't honestly say that I love my cast iron skillets and my woks. They are, after all, only worked metal, and could be replaced if necessary. But I am rather fond of them.

Part of it is remembrance of stir-fries and fish fries, of sizzling bacon and twice-cooked pork. Good meals nourish more than once. But there's something else.

These particular pans aren't low-maintenance. They require care. None of this dishwasher-safe nonsense. Put soap in a well-seasoned cast iron pan or steel wok, and you undo -- in some cases -- years of work. Try to wipe them dry, or let them air-dry, and they rust. Forget to oil them after they're dry, and you run the risk of losing the conditioning.

With all that work, why put up with them? There are electric woks and nonstick pans. And in certain situations, those have their uses. I wouldn't rig up a charcoal fire in the dining room for hot-pot, for example.

But when you want a crisp crust on your corn pones, you want cast iron. When you want concentrated heat at the bottom of the pan and a cooler place along the sides, so your beef cooks and your broccoli doesn't get mushy, you want a hand-hammered wok.

The really good stuff takes work, more than might seem reasonable to people who don't "get it." But it's worth it. And that's true in the kitchen, too.

Tonight's scary story: Algernon Blackwood, "The Wendigo"

Drizzlicious

Tea: Blood Orange

Music: Asia, "Without You"

Time: Night.

Ah ... wet, cool fall weather. My time is upon the world, and none too soon. I can only take so many beautiful Indian summer days before I get cranky.

Were I scripting the night, I'd have a bowl of beef and Guinness in front of me and see myself off to bed with something malty and peaty. (I have the latter, but I also have a bit of a sniffle and scratch -- which isn't a Dickensian law firm but certainly sounds like one, doesn't it?)

So I think I'll steep myself one last cup, stir in some honey and contemplate some old-school spookiness. As promised, I'm catching up and giving you three stories:

Beatrice Heron-Maxwell, "The Devil Stone"

William Hope Hodgson, "The Weed Men"

Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, "Narrative of the Ghost of a Hand"

Brutality Uncovered (and Un-Covered)

Tea: Chinese Melon Seed

Music: Bob Walkenhorst, "Primitivo Garcia"

Time: Night.

Missions day at church today. Pot luck (always a good thing) and presentations from missionaries, in fields as far-flung as Asia and Italy and as close as my home county.

One of today's speakers is a member of our church and a friend of mine. He and his wife work in Orissa state, India.

Orissa is home to a Hindu ultranationalist movement that aims to force the conversions of all Christians, Jews and Muslims. The alternatives: departure or death. The violence has been appalling, and it's still ongoing.

And for the most part, it's been ignored by the Western Press. (That may be changing. I found this from the New York Times and this from the Sunday Herald tonight. Now that the Pope has issued a condemnation of the attacks, I can only hope more coverage will follow.)

Darfur has gotten a lot of press, and rightly so. So, over the past week, has the political marginalization of Christians in Iraq. Any killing is a tragedy, and no one -- of any faith or none -- should have to worry about persecution for what he or she believes (or doesn't).

But where has Orissa been in the mainstream media? Buried, pardon the bitter expression.

My friend has a theory. The violence in Darfur has been committed by Islamists. Christians in Iraq are concerned about their place in an overwhelmingly Muslim country. It's safer to write about "bad Moslems" than about "bad Hindus," because Muslims are our officially approved boogeypeople -- the Other du jour, as it were.

(Please don't think I'm demonizing all Hindus, either. My friend and his wife are able to coordinate relief efforts in Orissa because one of their agency's local partners is a Hindu priest. My friend choked up today, relating the bravery of this man risking his life for -- well, for Others.)

We're not at the point of sectarian violence in this country, but we've been there before. There were atrocities on both sides in the early years of the Mormon movement, and in 1857 the prospect of open warfare between the U.S. and the Utah territory was quite real. That's an eyeblink ago, as history goes.

Somewhere, there's a notebook with one of my rare epiphanies (I get them occasionally). I don't remember all of it, but it runs somewhat thusly:

"If I hate in my own name, I am wrong but still within my 'rights.' If I hate in my country's name, I am wrong -- but still within my 'rights,' insofar as I have a citizen's stake in the matter. But if I hate in God's name, I am not only wrong but utterly in the wrong. One cannot hate in the name of One who commands us to love our neighbors -- and reminds us that everyone is a neighbor."

So tonight, remember not only the Christians of Orissa, but the Muslims and the Jews. And if you pray, say one for the persecutors, too. Hate hurts the hater. And there's too much pain in the world already.

Lighter post and three scary stories tomorrow. I promise.

Enough Already

Tea: White Grapefruit

Music: U2, "Angel of Harlem"

Time: Night.

I'm going to keep this short and simple.

It's beyond time to quit "othering" the opposition -- whichever side you're on -- in this election.

The people supporting the wrong candidate (or wronger candidate, if you will, as there doesn't really seem to be a completely right one) are still people. Misguided, perhaps, or merely with different priorities -- but people.

Ditto the candidates and their families. They're still people. Enough with the hating. Enough with the name-calling. Enough with "us vs. them."

As bad as things are now, we're all us. We can't afford a "them."

I'm skipping the scary story tonight. Two tomorrow. I'm in need of a little light right now.

Single-Region Courtesy

Tea: Chinese Melon Seed

Music: Norah Jones, "Come Away with Me"

Time: Night.

Being a freelance writer, just building a career, I am bound by a state law requiring me to be broke at nearly all times. So when arts events with free food and drink surface on my calendar, as they do nearly every Friday, I count them as gratitudes. It does get me wondering, though ... what do I bring to the table, besides a pen, a notebook and the hope of being written about?

A beyond-dear friend of mine is in the same leaky economic boat. Still, she takes good chocolate with her wherever she goes and shares it liberally -- not with the aim of getting anything in return, but because she is a sharer. It makes her happy to treat people to new tastes.

That's not why people are glad to see her, though. They're glad to see her because she treats people as people -- not as parts of the machines they operate, not as cogs in the engines they serve. In today's hurried world, that's a rare thing.

It's a lesson for me. I often have to go empty-handed, physically ... but each of us can offer the gift of interest in other people, the taste of respect and regard. It's both sweet and nourishing -- to everyone involved -- listen, ask questions, cut down on the use of the pronoun "I" unless it's absolutely necessary.

Best of all? No calories.

Tonight's scary story: John Kendrick Bangs, "The Spectre Cook of Bangletop"

Moderation in Moderation

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang

Music: Jayhawks, "I'm Gonna Make You Love Me"

Time: Night.

I'm trying to lose the phrase "It's the strangest thing," because -- well, really, how do you quantify that?

It's a strange thing, though: I'm becoming more efficient. I'm getting better at follow-through. I'm catching up on things I've been putting off for months.

Heaven help me, I may be growing up. Not that that's a bad thing, entirely. Has to happen sooner or later, I suppose.

It's not all bad, you know. Getting up early and staying up, for example, means I can get the routine things out of the way before they take over the day, thereby making me feel a little less guilty when it's time to slack.

What, you thought I was going all the way over to the Beige Side of the Force? No way. Sure, my inner child might have an earlier bedtime now -- but you can have my ratty Chuck Taylors, my cheesy monster movies and my rubber duck collection when you pry them out of my cold, dead fingers.

It's a balancing act, to be sure. Structure is good and necessary, but it can't take over my life. I need something of the random, the chaotic, the downright goofy -- or I'll die. Not physically, mind you, but the body is only a house for the self. And this self has to have the sparks, even if they must be a bit more controlled.

And now, time to hit the rack. Tomorrow, I get to organize the garage and make some calls on a shared story that's due next week -- and then I get to hang out with artists until well past dark-thirty.

I can live with that.

Tonight's scary story: Charles Collins, "The Compensation House"

Stray Cat Strut

Tea: Christmas

Music: The Archies, "Sugar Sugar"

Time: Night.

I often go on and on about being an animal lover -- if they're properly cooked. But I do have somewhat of a soft spot for living creatures, especially if they're in peril [well, the sort of peril that doesn't involve me hunting them.]

(A friend of mine will dart into traffic to save a stranded animal. I haven't done anything like that ... yet. Never know, though.)

While I was waiting for church activities to start this evening (I'm Baptist. We do Sundays and Wednesdays.), I took a short stroll in the park across the street. Suddenly, a gray-and-white cat pounced from behind a bush and started batting at my bootlaces.

"Okay," I thought. "I'll play." And so I danced around for a bit, and the cat pounced and rolled and seemed to be having all sorts of fun. Even had it not been wearing a collar with a nametag, it was clear this was no hungry feral stray. This cat belonged to someone -- or more likely, someone belonged to this cat.

But where was the owner? Nowhere to be seen, and it would be dark before long. So I finally got the cat to hold still long enough to ascertain that his name was Arnold and that his tag bore a telephone number.

I called it. No answer and no answering machine. I tried again with the same result. I pictured a family, most likely with one or more tearful children, out searching for a beloved pet. I tried again, and a man answered.

"Hi," I said. "Do you have a gray and white cat named Arnold?"

"Yes, we do."

"I found him across from the Baptist Church, by the water park."

"He's kind of a wanderer, but he's only a block from home. See the house with the white car? That's ours."

We exchanged a few more pleasantries, he thanked me for calling, and I hung up and gave Arnold one more scratch behind the ears.

Somehow, I have the feeling I'll be seeing him again.

Tonight's scary story: W.C. Morrow, "The Gloomy Shadow"

Bonjour from a Plongeur

Tea: Marron Glace

Music: Jacob do Bandolim, "Assanhado"

Time: Morning

I can't say there are no words for how I feel about doing dishes -- especially scrubbing pots and pans. There are. They just aren't very nice words.

Mornings? Ditto.

Yet here I am, steeping my first cup of the day after 45 minutes of washing, rinsing, drying (okay, so I dried the heavy pots on the stove) and stacking. And I'm fine with that -- and I'll be even better once the caffeine hits my system.

For one, it's in my jobs column and it needs to be done. But beyond that, I'm trying to move away from a place of doing things grudgingly and out of obligation -- and into a space of doing them because I want to.

Paul exhorted the Ephesians to do everything "as unto the Lord" -- with joy, with love and without complaint. Tall order, for we fallible humans ... but every time we manage it, I believe we will be changed for the better.

Wow ... preach much, Steve?

I'd say it's time to pass the plate, but it's going to be covered with potato pancakes in a bit. Time to break the fast and listen to the rain for a while ...

Today's spooky story: E.F. Benson, "The Horror-Horn"

I should have had it delivered by an African Swallow ...

Tea: Mandarin Orange

Music: Earth, Wind & Fire, "Fantasy"

Time: Night

My youngest daughter doesn't like mushrooms, but I can get her to eat shiitakes if I soak them in vanilla Lapsang tea and include them in spicy stir-fries.

Her older sister doesn't eat coconut ... until tonight.

I made Gobi Foogath (Spicy Fried Cabbage) as a side dish for egg curry, and the recipe (taken from my battered edition of Charmaine Solomon's The Complete Asian Cookbook, which can also be found online here) calls for two tablespoons of dried coconut, stirred in at the end.

It came time to add the coconut. I looked at the futon, where my unsuspecting daughter sat, blithely doing her homework. I looked at the bag of white shreds, back at my daughter ... and poured in a generous handful.

Of course, I told her. But I was restrained about it. I kept my dancing and chanting of "I got you to eat COconut ... I got you to eat COconut," to a meager thirty seconds.

Then she had to ruin the moment by shrugging and saying, "Oh, well. I couldn't taste it."

Sheesh. Waste of a perfectly good gloat.

Tonight's scary story: M.R. James, "Canon Alberic's Scrapbook"