Caution: Watch Where You're Walking

Last night the dogs were restless, waking me throughout the night with dog tag jingle jazz, percussed with hocks hitting the wooden floors as they scratched. Not very restful, and I gave up about 7:30 and got up, thinking I'd have some breakfast, see how I felt, maybe just come back to bed in a few.

Breakfast eaten and dogs fed, I sat down to catch up on what my friends were doing on Facebook. There's always something that makes me laugh, and I needed a better start to the day than I was getting from my own tired spirit.

One of my friends consistently posts the best music, often with stunning videos. She's a visual artist, and I love how she finds unusual video with different subjects.

Today's choice* was exceptionally beautiful, shot in B&W, with some clever speed effects in the movement of the dancers. I was enjoying the art and flow, until at 3:10 there came an image I've spent most of the last 18 years avoiding.

A graphic scene of a gunshot wound to the head.

I was stunned to say the least, and very glad for B&W film at that moment. Though when I watched the video the second time, I could see I might have had an inkling that there would be the possibility of something like this. I mean, after all, it does start with a young man deliberately falling backwards off the roof of a camping trailer onto the roof of a car, the possible imitation of a suicide.

What my friend didn't know is that it's only a few days until the anniversary of my father's death by self inflicted gun shot wound. (And even if she had, I would not expect her to avoid putting this or any other video up for others to enjoy. I'd only hope she'd give me a wee warning.) So this reminder of the destruction of him and the house of cards that was my family was particularly disturbing for me. I've come to refer to this time of year as "flashback season", even though I was spared finding my father. But there are things about that time that I'll never be able to wipe out of my mind, but also cannot bring myself to share with my family or friends.

One of my favorite poets says that everyone has their story that no one can know. Everyone suffers. I try to remember that when the person in front of me is being unkind to the clerk, or not paying attention, or looks like the last time they smiled it was so painful they vowed never to smile again. Remembering that they may be suffering a loss, whether it be of a loved one, their health, their job, their peace of mind, helps me practice compassion for them. Maybe share a smile with them, if I can spare one that day. A kind and encouraging word.

But the part of my story that you can know is that today, for the first time, I did not let that image effect the rest of my day. I was able to let go , to start the healing wave again. Our wounds are often too immense to recover immediately; like the sea, healing rocks in ragged rhythms. Cresting in high and low tides, every seventh wave threatening to take us under in its powerful grasp, working with the abrasive sand to chip away our sorrow, barnacle by barnacle.

Let me also share the outstanding experience of the day before. One of my friends was journeying to Florida, and I asked her a favor over a month ago when she announced her plans. "While you're there, would you write my name in the sand, so Mama Ocean can kiss me?" She's a busy lady, so I figured it wouldn't happen.

But it did. She'd been back a couple of days when she posted the pictures of her writing my name in lovely script on the beach. Staying with it until the waves came in and smoothed my name out of the sand, bearing part of my spirit back out to sea with them, where peace, hope, and joy float.

I am so blessed.

*you can find the video here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BrZTNhW44-o

Quirky or Spooky?

One more thing, and I'm done for the night.

After starting the Floodgaps blog, I joined AuthorNation to showcase my poetry and fiction, which I felt needed a place of its own. This blog is for remembering and laughing, for sharing the stories of my life; the AN page is for the wild fiction and poetry that litters my mind until I get it on paper.

I needed a profile picture for the AuthorNation page, so I googled "images of floodgaps". Imagine my surprise when the first entry was :
http://www.floodgap.com/retrobits/ckb/secret/lorraine.html

Go ahead, click on it. You know you want to find out!

As you can see, not exactly the images I was looking for, but I found it a fun read!

. . .Ms. Taken. . . or Ms. Diewreckted?

My last post dealt with how I'm frequently mistaken for my friend Olive by folks here in southeast Kansas. I left everyone with the knowledge that Olive had never been mistaken by me. . .until the arrival of a letter for Olive, addressed to my house.

Now, when I first saw the return address of somewhere in Idaho, I remembered Olive's story of visiting family and llamas there. Understandably, I assumed the letter to be from her relatives, but I couldn't figure out: a) why they'd sent the letter to my address; b) how did they even know my address; c) why didn't they know Olive's address? weren't they family?

Finally got in touch with Olive, who said, "I know it's a royalty check. Open it up and tell me how much it is. I know it's not going to be much, but I can't wait!" So I opened it up, read her the letter, and put some of the pieces together.

Olive, and her father, the esteemed Dr. Victor Sullivan (retired from PSU) had both written stories to be included in the book of aviation tales: "Flights of Adventure" . (www.flightsofadventure.info) It was published earlier this year, and Olive and Victor have done a "meet the authors" book signing at the local library. They sold books. When you sell books, you get royalties. Not much sometimes, but you get enough to go out to dinner. Maybe.

Apparently, "Flights" had sold enough that it was time to divy up the proceeds. This was done, and checks mailed out. Olive and I are still trying to figure out how the two people in charge of this effort, who have never even met me, ended up with my address and thought it was Olive's.

For now, the relatives and the llamas are off the hook. But if Olive and I ever figure out how come that royalty check got addressed to come to my house, we'll let you know!

Just Call Me "Ms. Taken"

I have one of those faces. You know, the one where no matter where you go, people say, "I think I've met you before. You look so familiar."

I also have this friend, Olive. She's got long, fairly straight, medium blond hair and green eyes. I have short, generously salted and curly brunette hair and brown eyes, hidden behind glasses. She's more of a pear shape; I'm a definite pineapple. She's pretty much always in jeans and sneakers; the only denim I own is a tank dress, and I only wear sneakers to work in the yard. She's rarely seen with a handbag; I am usually leaning to the left from my tote bag. She has a nice smile, but mine comes with a side of dimples.

In other words, we don't look that much alike. The only trait we have in common is that we're short and . . .um. . . .rotund. Yeah. Plump. (Okay, I have no trouble saying I'm fat, but I'm not sure how Olive feels about the "F" word.)

So why is it that I frequently get mistaken for her, even when we are sitting at the same table, eating breakfast? There's one young man, a visual artist who knows both of us, who looks at me, nods, says, "Hello, Olive." to me and ignores Olive. He's done it at least 3 times that I know of, and each time, Olive and I dissolved into laughter. He had to know something was going on, but he never bothered to take a second look. I wonder if ever he talks about looking for detail in his classes, or if his students tend to be as oblivious as he appears to be when it comes to telling women apart.

He's not the first person to mistake me for Olive. The first time it happened, it was with a young woman who had just met me the week before. I was at an art opening when she came up to me, gave me a huge hug, and said, "It's been forever since I've seen you! I've missed you so much." I was a bit startled; after all, I generally don't make such a deep and lasting impression the first time out. But I gladly accepted the hug and chatted with her for a few minutes, until I saw the realization creeping across her face that she had the wrong person.

"Oh, my gosh, I'm so sorry, I can't believe I thought you were Olive." She blushed, then said, "I hope you didn't mind that I hugged you." When I assured her I didn't she apologized again and made her escape.

And I didn't mind, really. I've been in training for being a perpetual walking case of mistaken identity since that day in the park during Little Balkans Days, when a woman walked up to me and said, "How are you? Are you still teaching at the university?"

I looked at her and said, "I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else. I've never taught at the university; I don't even have a college degree." What I really wanted to do was fall on the grass and roll around laughing. Me? Teach? College students? I'd barely gotten the dogs through obedience school!

"Oh, but you did. Don't you remember me? I sat on the front row in the printmaking class." She waited, looking for my remembrance of her.

"I'm sorry, I've never taught at the university, much less taken a class in the graphics art department. You must be looking for someone else."

Now, most folks who are told that you've never taught, don't have the degree to teach at university level, and that you don't know them from a text book usually realize they've got the wrong person.

Not this woman. For the next 4 years, every fall at the Little Balkans Festival, she would go through the same routine with me. And every year, except the last, I tried to convince her that I was not her printmaking professor.

The last time, I said, "Why, yes, I remember you! What are you doing these days?" and left it at that. It was the last time I ever saw her. Makes me think she might have been stalking me at the festival, determined to make me admit she was my student.

Being mistaken for Olive has happened often enough that I've decided that I need a button. A picture of a green olive in one of those red circles with cross hatch signs. "No(t) Olive." I'd get one for her of a rain drop in the red circle, but she doesn't need it.

You see, she's never been mistaken for me.

Or at least I didn't think so, until today. Today, I opened the mail box and got a letter addressed to Olive at my house. I'm still waiting to unravel this one.

Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion! I'm sure we'll get it sorted out soon. I hope. :)

Wondering. . .

. . .how things would have turned out if I'd been reading Rumi in that bathroom line at the SunCo Station. (See "Look Out Jane, I Have Boots!" post.)

Or would there have been something more appropriate to read? "Les Miserables", perhaps?

Things would have definitely been different if I'd been listening to the soundtrack of "O Brother, Where Art Thou" on my iPod.

Isn't it amazing and wonderful and fabulous how changing the tiniest detail can completely alter a whole structure? And how each of us brings a different view to the same event?

So now I'm wondering what story my Illustrated Muscle Men are telling about meeting me. I hope it's one that makes them laugh, and gives them hope on their journey.

Go create your own story, or help someone change theirs (if they want you to!). The world's full of possibilities!

Line, Please!

This was inspired by my friend Eve's poem "Early Morning Buzz". Seems like waiting in line is another of my writing themes. Time put to good use twice: once using it to read; twice recreating it in my own words.

Line, Please!

6/7/2010

You touch me gently

on my silent shoulder, wanting

only for me to pay attention

to the pharmacy tech calling

my forgotten name.

I've been lost in the Beloved

again and again and again

there under those florescent lights,

humming under respirations

so feeble as to be undetected.

You may treasure a lost reader

in your own family, to have

touched me with such care,

to speak in soft tones,

unwilling to startle the strange

woman with her miniscule book

and word saturated mind.

Wish I'd taken a better

look at you, noticed something more

than the emptied pocket

of your blue/grey/white plaid shirt,

when I realize too much

later you're the first man

in far too many painful years

to touch me without permission.

But for someone subsumed

in the grace and glory of

a passionate and well spun phrase,

I fail to capture even one whirling word

among those gleaming pearls

on a tender shoot of flaxen thread

to recognize your simple gesture.

Tales From a Therapy Dog: Family Photo

Rimba, Dulcie, and Shani:
The Three Dog Opera and Theatre Company
(around 2006)

Shani left us in January 2010 after 16 years
of loving and devoted companionship.
The Diva Duet and I miss him so very much.

People often ask me,
"How did you get them to sit still for this?!?"
To which I reply,
"Two words: obedience classes!"
(It also took 10 shots to get 1 good picture of all 3!)

Dulcie and Shani both earned their AKC Canine Good Citizen titles;
Rimba would probably have, too,
if I hadn't gotten tired of driving to dog classes all the time!
Take your dog to obedience classes,
it'll be fun for him and educational for you.

All of these dogs were adopted:
Shani from a private party;
"The Diva Duet" from the Joplin Humane Society.

Please spay or neuter your animals;
there are too many here needing homes already.

Adopt your next pet from the shelter instead of buying--
You'll never regret it;
their love is unconditional AND infinite.

Tales From a Therapy Dog: CockleShell (1)

You could say that Santa brought Dulcie into my life, that Thanksgiving weekend eight years ago. And you wouldn't be far from wrong, but the truth is, I'm still blaming the media.

I already had two lovely dogs at the time: the marvelous Shani, a black and tan cockapoo; and the quiet Rimba, a black accented with white SchnauTick (schnauzer and blue tick hound mix). They were my Black Brace, two adult dogs who'd finished at the top of their obedience class. More than enough well behaved dog for one woman.

Or so I thought.

But I'd always said my next dog was going to be a cocker with its tail undocked, and there she was, in all her curly, golden coated glory, big brown eyes and maundy nose checking me out. Her tail and butt never stopped wagging, but I steeled myself and walked on by. After all, the last thing I needed was another dog, much less a puppy. I was here to play Santa, have pets come get their picture taken with me, perhaps raise some much needed funds for the Humane Society.

The day was slow, not many folks were thinking about having their pet's portrait made for the Christmas season. So when the local TV reporter showed up with a group of kids to do a promo for the event, Santa needed a dog to complete the picture. A child was promptly sent to choose a puppy for Santa. I called after the child, “Bring me that black and white terrier.”, knowing full well that I'd be able to resist that wriggling bundle of bristling fur and razor teeth. Instead, with a child's unerring sense of cute, a happy Dulcie was deposited in my arms, where she promptly tucked her head under my chin and licked my neck.

I was a goner.

So, “Curly Sue”, who had been born prematurely to a cocker mama and an unspecified papa, came home with me that day. Her mama, brother, and she had only been returned to the shelter from their foster home only a few days earlier, so the trauma of living in a world of anxious, barking dogs was minimal. To my delight, I found that Dulcie was already housebroken, and though not interested in learning tricks, had a heart of gold and loved to be with me every minute she could, preferably in my cozy lap.

While papa's pedigree remained unknown, I came to believe that surely he was a Sheltie. Dulcie has the thick, plush coat and coloring of the Sheltie breed. She also had the ability to spring straight up into the air, bouncing high enough to look me directly in the eye. She would complete this aerial feat by wagging her entire body in joy. I began to call her the “Doglin”, since she resembled a dolphin dancing on its tail.

As she grew, it became apparent that she could easily be referred to as “The World's First Miniature Golden Retriever”, though I had to stop telling people that when they insisted on knowing where they could get one for themselves. For awhile after that, if someone asked what kind of dog she was, the standard answer became, “She's a rare breed: a CockleShell.” Recently, I've just been saying, “She's the sweetest cocker mix ever!”

Since the first moment I met Dulcie, sweet and gentle have been the two words that best described her. She's never met anyone she didn't like, although after her first set of shots, poor Dr. Mickey was demoted to a merely tolerated and bothersome necessity. Dr. Mickey always asks that you let him and his staff handle your animal during shots, so that your companion knows you don't have anything to do with that stinging poke in their shoulder. That first time, Dulcie shot across the exam table and up onto my shoulder when Dr. Mickey released her. Burying her head in my neck like a small child, she refused to look at Dr. Mickey. I coaxed her into looking back at him as he extended his hand, holding a delicious puppy treat. She shot him the most baleful look I'd ever witnessed on a puppy, and whipped her head back into the shelter of my neck.

We all had a good laugh at it—that is, all of us but Dulcie. She'll go to the vet, patiently let them poke and prod her, but she doesn't like it. Even after all these years, she still won't willingly go across the room to greet Dr. Mickey, even if I've given him her favorite treat of cooked chicken to entice her.

Her sweet and gentle nature meant that she never met a stranger. She especially loved babies and children from the first. If a baby was crying, she would come to me, then go to the baby, looking at me for assistance. Children could do just anything with her, although I always kept a watchful eye on them as they played together.

I enrolled Dulcie in dog obedience classes at Kloud K9 in Joplin around her first birthday. Everyone always commented that she never stopped wagging her tail; there was a steady thump, thump resounding even through some of the quieter exercises. The instructor nicknamed her “Velcro Butt” because once in a sit/stay, she didn't leave it until told to do so, no matter the distraction. She graduated and earned her Canine Good Citizen title from the AKC, which was all we needed to join a local group who took their dogs to nursing homes in Joplin.

I'd already started looking into therapy dog registration, but was unable to find a program and evaluation that fit my time schedule and budget. While I kept looking for a program, I thought it would be good experience for Dulcie and I to go on some visits with this group. It would be provide Dulcie with some much needed experience with older folks, and many things she'd never encountered before: wheelchairs, meal carts, beeping and shrieking alarms, etc. We were set to start our journey as a therapy team, not knowing how much it would enrich and change both our lives.

Green Ink (c6/4/2010)

Written on a deli napkin, when I found myself dining alone, and the pocket Rumi had been left at home. I resorted to cleaning out my bag, where I found a business card from the tattoo artist who'd done my niece Reya's last tattoo. Reya wanted me to see a tat being done, hoping it would help me see that it really didn't hurt to have one. It still looked like it hurt to me, but I think I understand better now why people return time and time again to get their bodies illustrated.

Green Ink

You let the iron

tiger nibble on

your pale leg

tender lamb

to him

though inside

you're screaming

for his needle teeth

to stop! cease! desist!

because it tickles

so.

Tales From a Therapy Dog: 3/24/2010

Today, I lost someone who'd touched my life with barely saying a word. She did it with her face, a face remarkably unlined for a woman of her age.

When I first met her, she had two black eyes and a bump the size of a hen's egg on her bruised, sunset colored forehead. She was lying listlessly in her bed, until she saw what I had to offer.

“Hi,” I said, “This is Miss Dulcie. Would you like for her to get up on the bed with you? I'll make sure she doesn't step on you.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. So up went 25 pounds of strawberry blond cocker mix to lie beside her. The rec director helped pull a stiff and resistant hand out from a layer of blankets to touch the silken fur spilling out from under Dulcie's work harness.

And there it was; the magic of a face lit by the lamp of pure pleasure. That first visit, the woman couldn't take her bright blue eyes off of Dulcie, though her spasmed limbs often snatched her hands off the satin of Dulcie's coat.

For most of our visits, our new friend was heavily medicated and unable to respond to much talk. But it was understood that Dulcie was always welcome on her bed. So after I settled Dulcie carefully on the bed, tucked as close to the woman's hands as possible, I sat on the floor beside the bed. Gently, I would take a hand and place it on Dulcie, and every time, I saw that miraculous facial transformation from dullness to radiance.

Dulcie spent a blissful fifteen minutes a week, lying on that bed, looking at the woman with the adoring look she had previously conferred only upon me. With grace and delicacy, she would slip her maundy nose under the woman's hand, nudging for a pat. If she didn't get one after a few tries, she would sigh and lay her head on the woman's chest, big brown eyes blinking sleepily in the quiet, warm room.

Sometimes I suspected the woman and Dulcie were sharing a laugh; Dulcie would sit up on her hind legs, slowly collapse backwards onto the woman's abdomen, all the while panting merrily and making chittering noises.

Mostly it was the woman, Dulcie, and me sitting in the relative silence of the room, but staff would drop by and fuss over Dulcie, who continued to be enthralled by the woman. As the weeks passed, and the woman got weaker, touching Dulcie became very difficult. But that luminous look of joy always appeared when she felt the weight of Dulcie come to rest on her bed.

The past few times we came to visit, I found myself reaching to take the woman's hand, not to guide it to Dulcie, but simply to hold it. She had long, strong fingers, and as I held her hand, I felt the lingering power of a determined woman. It gave me courage to face my own life, those fifteen minutes watching my dog and my friend enjoy each other. I found myself seeking and finding joy in circumstances that before I'd only expected to yield pain and sorrow.

A couple of weeks ago, I meant to find the rec director and ask her to call me if our friend died; I sensed the end was near, and I wasn't sure I wanted to be surprised by the news a week after the fact. But she wasn't to be found that day, so Dulcie and I went home.

Last week was spring break, and I was busy taking care of 2 houses full of animals in addition to my own. I'd told the nursing center residents the week before that Dulcie wouldn't be coming to visit because I wouldn't have time to bathe her. I didn't even take time to run by our friend's room and say hello.

The evening before our next visit was fraught with wrought. I was chatting with a friend online, and we were talking about some painful things which brought tears to both of us. But I could not seem to stop crying, and the longer I cried, the more my whole body ached. The night was spent crying, a great sadness filling my heart and causing Dulcie to velcro herself to my back as I lay in bed, tears filling my ears and swelling my eyes. If I slept at all, it was snatched time. I was still crying at 7:30 when my niece called to talk, and got her incoherent auntie instead. She pulled me out of the salt water abyss and sent me on my way.

I took special care to get Dulcie groomed, carried her to the car (mud season!) and she arrived at the nursing home well swathed in my sweater to keep her dry. She always protests at this, but even a clean dog is stinky when wet. We visited our first resident, and as we walked down the hall toward our friend's room, the rec director stepped in front of me. One look at her reddened nose and eyes said everything. Our friend had passed that morning, after two days of struggle.

My first reaction, after the emotional night I'd had, was to sit down right then and there, clutch Dulcie to my side and howl a memorial. But they train you in therapy work to be professional, and so I swallowed my tears, put a smile on my face, and went to visit another resident, the tail scratching woman Dulcie liked so well.

I realize now that part of the outpouring of pain and sorrow the night before was because I had unwittingly tuned into our friend's last hours on earth; that in some way both Dulcie and I were on her mind as she crossed over. It didn't make my loss any easier, but it helped to remind me how we are all so very connected.

It's hard enough to have to go to WalMart when you feel good. When you're hoping you can still put one foot in front of the other, it's pure hell, perhaps one of the inner rings. As I stumbled around getting food and phone cards, I remembered one of the things my chat friend had said the night before: that I must always be ready to see an angel when s/he appeared to comfort me.

My particular angel that day was a gorgeous Hispanic man near my age, neatly dressed in new jeans, a cream and caramel long sleeved plaid shirt, with beautiful white teeth. Most importantly, he looked me directly in the eyes, and generously gave me the smile I so desperately wanted and needed.

Perhaps it was also the woman's way of reminding me to keep looking for the joy, no matter how many times pain tries to bury it out of sight.

Crushed Petals

I saw the lavender creeping phlox today and remembered my wild writer friend, Beth. The first time I met her, she asked me for a ride home from a party. It was about 1:00 in the morning, the misty cool streets silent as only small town streets are at that hour. When Beth suddenly screamed, "Stop!", the obedient girl I am hit the brakes, downshifted, and stopped. Seems she wanted to pick some of the phlox in the turnaround flower bed because she loved how it smelled. But she overestimated her strength (she was a wee drunk!) and pulled up the whole plant, leaving a tremendous gap in the elegant border. She jumped back into the car, now screaming, "Drive! DRIVE!". I was laughing so hard I could barely shift gears, but I somehow managed to get us out of there. The whole car smelled of fresh dirt and injured phlox.

I never looked back.

With Beth, anything and everything happened. When she moved out of town, she called me at Thanksgiving, asking me to go to her old house and see if the present residents would let me go into the basement and get her box of Christmas ornaments. This is the kind of friendship she inspired in me, because walking up to a stranger's door and making such a request is possibly one of my inner circles of hell. But I did it, and I still remember every crease and crack in the well worn cowboy boots of the young man who answered the door. (I had a hard time meeting his eyes; wouldn't you?) But he was kind, and helped me load up a huge shambles of a box that held Beth's traditions and memories. I often wonder if he remembers that encounter. How many times does a stranger show up at your door, asking for a box of Christmas ornaments left by the last tenant?

But Beth was too much for the small western Kansas school where she'd landed, and soon she'd moved back to Tallahassee to be near her sister. She called often, making me laugh with her tales of working in an office. Once I laughed so hard at a story about her adventures with a condom that I fell out of my hammock.

Beth fell ill shortly thereafter. I made plans to go see her, hoping that there was enough time. She passed 3 days before I got there, but her sister wanted me to come anyway and bring Beth's ashes back to Missouri to her children. I remember being in the rental car, driving from Tallahassee to Santa Rosa Beach to see other friends, and stopping for a rest. All at once, I was sobbing on the steering wheel, finally aware that my friend, my writing buddy, my editor, and encourager, was gone. It must have looked like a major meltdown, because for the one and only time in my life, a stranger walked up and asked me if I was all right, did I need help? I'm not even sure how I got rid of him, but he went, and I stopped crying and got back on the road.

In Santa Rosa, my friends left me on the beach to say goodbye to Beth. I wrote poems in the sand for her; I cried over the shortness of her life; I mourned over her writing that I'm sure her sister threw away. Beth taught me so much about living life; I didn't think it was fair she didn't get to live a long, long time, writing and loving and making people fall out of hammocks with her humor.

There's much more to this story (ask about the adventure of taking cremains on a plane); but the gist of it is that I came home and wrote. And wrote some more. It was the only way I knew how to remember her always, in poetry, in every pen or key stroke. There's a little bit of Beth in everything I write; if you lean in closely, you can almost smell the crushed flower petals.

Watch Out, Jane, I Have Boots!

About this piece: My writers group thinks I've found my voice. Yup, right there at the SunCo Station in Osage Beach, standing in line next to Illustrated Muscle Guy #1 and #2 as they try in vain to visually vaporize the beef jerky display. I should write a book called "Waitin' in Line: Desperate Tales from a Female Traveler".

Watch out Jane, I Have Boots!

I'm strung out on Cohen covers and lapsang tea, my sorrowing mind still in Fulton after an hour plus on the road. I've stopped for gas at the same quick stop that Amber and I used the last time we came back to Kansas, forgetting that it only has the one co-ed bathroom. Lack of sleep has also taken the last of my usual careful attention, so while I know where the exit is, it doesn't register at first that the line to the bathroom is going to take some time. I'm too enamored of the corner of the huge map I see peeking around the hallway corner, sharing the door trim with the bathroom. I understand the need for this kind of map in a metro area, but Osage Beach? How could anyone possibly get lost here? Of course, to me, Osage Beach is just another amber bead on the strand of road that leads to the true pearl: The Fulton/Columbia/JeffCity Triangle. Home.

The line is made up of three guys, all about the same size, and me. Prep Boy, dressed in a buttoned up, blood red polo shirt tucked and belted into pressed khakis is first. I forget Taylor's edict and miss what kind of shoes he's wearing; by the end of this encounter, I'm hoping that they were running shoes, and that he knew how to use them. His tiny, round wire framed glasses only emphasized his small stature and youth.

The next guy has pale, long hair streaming out from under his baseball cap, which he's at least wearing with the bill in front. His plain gray tank top gives me a glimpse of the many tats he has on his well muscled arms and chest. The tank is tucked into old but clean and neat jeans, lending him the look of college kid, vacationing as a construction worker. I check out his shoes. Well worn sneakers.

He's talking to his friend, who also has donned a plain tank, this one pale blue. Ditto on the jeans and sneakers. His hat, I will discover later, hides a nascent brunette mohawk and well shaved scalp. I'm so fascinated by the elongated skull tat sweeping from his shoulder to his elbow on the arm nearest me that I'm not even eavesdropping on his conversation with his buddy.

Which is a shame, as I soon discover. Apparently, Prep Boy thinks my tender, womanly ears needed protection from whatever Muscle Guys are discussing. My first warning of trouble ahead is when I catch, “. . .inappropriate for public.” What? Where? Did I miss something GOOD? are my first thoughts. But Muscle Guy #1 is glaring at Prep Boy, every muscle in his lithe and barely controlled body on edge. “What did you say?” he demands, and even from 4 feet away, I feel the ice in his voice.

“I said, that conversation is totally inappropriate to be having in public.” He hears the bathroom door open just in time, and ducks into the bathroom even as MG #1 says, “Why, I ought to knock your f**king head off!”

He looks uneasy, though, and I notice that both of them do stop talking, choosing instead to practice visual vaporization on a rack of innocent beef jerky. It's tough, it can take it.

In the past, this would be my cue to flee. I don't do confrontation with people I know, much less strangers, but my bladder makes the decision for me. Stay and pee in a few minutes, or get back in the car and suffer the consequences. Anyway, I reason, isn't it time I added “brave” to my list of assets? After all, I have turquoise hair and knock-Jane-Austen-off-her-horse boots. I'm up to this.

Besides, waiting for them to finish beating up Prep Boy so I can have a chance at the bathroom is not in my schedule, not to mention that I really can't stand to see anyone suffer. So, I take a deep breath and ask Skull Arm (a.k.a. “MG#2”), “Did you get your tattoos locally?”, figuring that he'll be like every other illustrated person I've asked about their tats: vocal, enthusiastic, and inclined to forget minor annoyances such as Prep Boy.

Instead of the usual praise of his favorite tat artist/salon/studio, he looks at the floor and gives me a terse, “No.”

I'm a bit taken aback, having expected to do nothing more than nod and say “uh, huh” for the next 5 minutes after this query. Giving myself a pat on the back for having at least tried, I lapse into silence, wondering what reason he had for being so close mouthed about the beautiful art decorating almost every inch of his visible skin.

“We in Fulton yet?” MG#1 asks Skull Arm. He's fiddling with the packages of beef jerky now, perhaps checking to see if they're at least warm to the touch from his efforts to vaporize them. At that point, I realize how very young they are, tough as they are trying to appear.

“Nah. I don't think we're in Fulton, but I ain't got no idea where we are,” says Skull Arm, scratching his tat's septum. The black nasal holes twitch, and for a moment, I fully expect a ghostly sneeze to rend the air.

“You're not in Fulton,” I volunteer. “I just came from there, about an hour from here. You're in Osage Beach. Miles of tourist crap.”

Skull Eyes turns to look at me then. He takes in the turquoise freakstreak, the shell and flower lei bracelets, the denim dress, decides to smile at me. I give it one more shot.

“Coming home from college?” I ask, smiling back.

MG#1 answers me too quickly, and with real longing in his voice, “Don't I wish.”

“Hey,” I say. “You could be like me. I went to the University of Hard Knocks. You can learn whatever you want, wherever you want. Just go for it.”

Skull Arm decides it's time to clear things up, no tiptoeing around the dead pink elephant rotting in front of us. “We just got outta prison.” He looks at me, expecting what? Shock? Horror? Instead, he finds a middle aged woman, who, unknown to him, has a cousin or two of her own serving time. Getting out of prison/jail is almost a family coming of age rite on the maternal side of my family, so I'm not inclined to hold prison time against them. Instead, I said, “So, let me ask you something. I just went with my niece when she got her last tattoo, and she and everyone I talk to swears it doesn't hurt to get a tat. But it looked like it hurt to me. Did getting yours hurt?”

It does occur to me that it might be best to cut and run at this point, but I figure, I've come this far, why not see what happens?

What does happen is that the next few minutes pass as they usually do with illustrated people: prefaced with the standard, “Oh, it doesn't hurt, EXCEPT if you have it done (points to area) here.”, and followed by the pulling up/down/over/off of various items of clothing to better display the masterpieces they've had etched into their bodies. Stories flow of when and why and where and how they got them, permanent reminders of landmark events, or drunken foolishness carved in marbled muscle.

We're having a good time, chatting, when the bathroom door pops open, expelling Prep Boy. He plows right through our little group, muttering, “You guys are the reason women in America don't respect men.” He doesn't have enough conviction nor courage to stand still and say it, nor to say it clearly and loudly enough for me to catch it the first time around. I have to ask Skull Arm to repeat Prep Boy's exit line. I snort.

“Forget him,” I tell MG#1. “Get in that bathroom, there's women here who need to pee!” (At some point, the line has been augmented by another female presence.)

He laughed and headed into the john.

That's when Skull Arm decided to show me his freshly shaven head. He pointed to the ¼ inch tall baby mohawk and said, “When it gets longer, I'm gonna bleach it and dye it bright blue.”

“That's great,” I said, grinning at him. “That's my favorite color.”

“I know,” he said, pointing to my hair. “Nice streak.”

MG# 1 was coming out of the bathroom, so I shooed Skull Arm along with my hands, saying,“Hurry up, hurry up! I gotta pee! Just don't stand there!” Laughing, he went into the bathroom.

That's when I finally took my first deep breath in minutes. Turning to the woman standing behind me, I said, “I believe there's a little piece of good in everyone, don't you? It's just that sometimes you have to dig for it.”

She agreed with me, but then, why wouldn't she?

After all, I have turquoise hair, knock-Jane-Austen-off-her-horse boots, and the courage to help people find their own good pieces.