A Dream to Live For

No one has ever seen Annabelle in the physical, but I know her. She exists in the imaginations and dreams of my wife's mind. Since both Cindy and I want to get out of the city and move to a place where there's more elbow room, I believe that, sooner or later, we will meet.

Annabelle is a Jersey, one of that breed of bovines which looks almost deer-like and produces milk richer in butterfat than any other. She must be raised from a calf and will become a pet. She will be brushed and curried, washed and shined, tail combed, horns and hooves polished. There will be wildflowers braided around her neck alongside the bell collar. She will be taught to stand on command so she can be milked anywhere. Annabelle will dine on the finest of grains and hay, and when it comes to "bull" friends, only the BEST will do!

I love her already!

The Games We Play (on ourselves)

I wrote this spontaneously one day at Starbucks on a napkin in about fifteen minutes. Notice the time stamp. Since this was only nine months after 9/11, there was still a lot of discussion, hype, and hysteria about public safety. This piece has been sitting since then. I cannot make it better. It's time to make it known.


June 13, 2002, 06:10 p.m.

The heavy downpour of rain which occurred earlier this afternoon has ceased. The clouds are clearing, the sun is shining brightly, and it is hotter and more muggy than before.

I am lounging at Starbucks on my way home from work, enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee and cigar. The traffic flows smoothly through the intersection of University and San Jose. Everything apppears to be going well and I quietly relax from the pressures of the day.

Suddenly, however, I sit up straight. My feet, which had been placed in the chair across the table are now firmly on the floor. I have noticed a man with a camera in the median of San Jose Boulevard taking pictures in every direction. I think that's odd since there's nothing unusual or terribly important about the buildings or scenery here. Then I see his full beard and backpack and I begin to wonder. Is he a terrorist seeking a target? Should I walk over and inquire as to his intentions. The questions are rapid-fire now. Does he have explosives in that bag? Should I call the police? The FBI? What is my patriotic duty? Is it to question anything out of the ordinary or whatever appears strange to me?

Then my logical mind takes control and overrules my emotional thoughts. This man doesn't look like a terrorist. He doesn't fit the stereotype as I (and probably many others) have conceived it--middle-Eastern, swarthy, with long flowing robes and a turban. In fact, as I look at him more closely, with his sun-burned head and bib overalls, he looks more like a red-neck farm boy on a visit to the city.

So I sit still and watch curiously as he moves with purpose around the corner and out of sight, still snapping pictures. Maybe I'm completely wrong. Perhaps he works for a development company. He might be a professional photographer on assignment or an artist trying to develop a painting. He might simply be someone on vacation wanting to take some memories home.

The drama is over. The tension drains away and I begin to enjoy the atmosphere again, absorbing the sights and sounds of traffic, airplanes, and "My Girl" playing over the radio speakers. I relight my cigar which has gone out unnoticed, pick up my coffee cup, and prop my feet on the chair opposite. All is well. My world is at peace once more.