The F-Troop Makes A Move

"Oh, man," Bob said as he set the box down, "look at this."

"What is it," I asked.

"It's an old captain's trunk," he said and began to pick out small treasures that clearly meant something to him. There's nothing like moving all your earthly belongings to cause you to pause throughout the day and take a small mental trip down memory lane.

"Check this out," Bob said and held a small silver medal out to me. It looked like something from the civil war. I half expected a revolutionary story about a great-great grandfather or something.

"What is it," I asked again.

"It's Bear's first tag," Bob said. Bear is a Chocolate Labrador. Bob held up the dogtag and smiled like a proud father.



The Farrgintons, or the F-Troop as we call them, moved from Tenino, Washington this past December, but had been renting Jane's sister Bern's house. Bern's summer house is less than a quarter mile down the street from us, but since she spends all but the summer in Zurich, Switzerland, she rented it out to old friends. Actually, the funny thing about this, is that this is how we met the Farringtons in the first place.

Many years ago, when Bern was married to her first husband Allen, they had a house in Cape May but were spending the winter down in St. Croix. Bob and Donna had just moved to Cape May and needed a place to stay. They rented Bern's house and that's how Donna and Jane met. For the next few years, they had babies at nearly the same time, one after another. They went to the beach together, trips to the woods to go camping, or just hanging around the backyard pool, all the while dragging along nursing newborns. Of course, I was not yet in the picture. That would come later.



But back to this move. For Bob, this would be his fourth move from coast to coast. He was born in Belgium, but grew up on Long Island. There's saltwater in his veins, and he's never been too far away from the coast, although in Washington, they lived more in the mountains than at the beach. But here they were, once again, back in Cape May County, living in the lowcountry.

The house they found is in the village of Woodbine, NJ, an historic old town that still retains a certain amount of small-town charm. It's a little bit country, especially compared to the hustle and bustle of the coastal shore towns like Stone Harbor, Avalon, and Cape May. This is farm country, where you're more likely to pass a horse than a multi-million dollar beach house. The house is old, meaning it has some history, and the street is lined with trees that have been there longer than anyone living in the homes.



Max and I had gone that morning to get the truck. Technically, Max is Bob's mortgage broker, but in reality, he's more like a lost puppy Bob found and brought home. He's been following Bob around ever since. Of course, they'd been feeding him daily so he's had good reason to come around. Typical stray.

This isn't all that unusual for Bob. He collects stuff: tools, loose screws, old chairs, and every once in awhile?people. According to Donna, he doesn't throw anything out either, and after helping him move, I'd have to agree with her.

At one point, on the second day of the move, he commented on what a shame it was to throw away all these good boxes. We all just looked at him.

"What?" he cried. "They're good boxes."



But say what you will about Bob, he's got the energy of a sixteen-year-old, and according to him, the mentality as well. Bob works hard, plays hard and nearly always has a smile on his face. His enthusiasm is contageous, and his excitement about whatever he's doing is undeniable.

I'd like to believe that this is Bob's last move for awhile, and until his kids finish school, it just may be. But I also know enough about Bob to know that one day, and I don't know when that day will be, he'll sell everything, buy a boat and sail off into the sunset with his wife and his dog. I just hope they stay around for a little while.

Mornings

It's Good Friday. Zoë, our scrawny excuse for a barn cat, sits on the arm of my chair and Seamus, the dog, lies beside the chair on the floor. Jane is still upstairs sleeping. It's quiet.



They tell me spring is here, and I guess I believe that winter is finally fading, but it's cold and damp out, so I have a fire going. Or as Jane likes to tease me, "I have a fire in the fireplace." Where else would I have a fire, she'd like to know? As opposed to the one on the dining room table, or in the laundry room, she guesses. We'll come home from being out and I'll announce that, "I'm going to start a fire in the fireplace." She's got a point.

I have come to love mornings. I love being on my own in the house before anyone else gets up. It's only Jane and I this morning anyway as Ricky and Julia are both staying at friend's houses. It's more and more that way. Kind of a sneak peak of what it will be like when everyone's moved out. The other day, Ricky asked, "Where is everybody?" There is only Jane, Julia, Ricky and myself these days, since Jessica is off at school. Ricky was asking Jane and I this question, so Julia was the only person not there. "Where is everybody?" he asked and we laughed. But we all knew how he felt. Some days it feels like we're missing a few people. Like, we used to have quite a crowd around here, and now it's just us.

Anyway, I like to be alone in the house in the morning. Have turned into quite the morning person, despite all evidence to the contrary in my youth. Used to be that I would stay up to all hours watching TV or reading, or whatever, and then sleep in. But now I'm in bed by 9:30pm most nights and I rise early. Of course, during the week, I have to get up early for work. But even on the weekends, I enjoy being up early, regardless of when I went to bed.

Mornings on the weekend have become quite valuable to me. I generally feel that anything that gets done before noon on a day off is a bonus. Like if you get up and go for a run, or do errands, or write an essay,and you do it before noon, you're one up on the day and still have the better part of it to do something else. It's like free time, literally. In fact, I'm only one step away from setting my alarm for 5:30am just so I can feel like I got my money's worth.

When you're up and out, especially on a weekend, you feel special. Like when there's a heavy snow, and you're one of the few cars out. You pass another lonely soul on the road and you tip your hats to one another knowingly. "It's just us," you seem to say to each other. It's an explorer spirit. Not so much to have gone where no one has gone before, but at least to be where so few are.

Jane and I used to get up and run on New Year's day. After an amatuer evening of drinking, you could be fairly assured that most people were still under the covers, nursing hangovers. It was almost an act of aggression on our part. To fly in the face of convention. But then, it was also nice to know that we were the only ones out.

The Wawa is where these restless souls converge. On the islands, you'll see men in their weekend clothes-khaki shorts, docksiders, baggy shirt, and a baseball cap-come in and buy a paper and a coffee. This is a different crowd than you see in the mornings during the week. During the week, it's much more crowded, but with men in work boot, paint-stained coveralls, and dirt under their fingernails. Every other purchase comes with a pack of cigarettes. There's also a lot more camaraderie, as this is a fairly small community and these men know each other. They call each other by their first names, and they flirt with the women who work the counter.

The weekend men are different. They don't know each other, nor do they know anyone else. This isn't a social call, but simply a pit stop in their morning. They enter quietly, not making eye contact, and go about their business. They wear Tommy Bahama and Eddie Bauer; loafers and golf shirts. Weekend clothes.

But this morning, I'm not out and about. This morning, I sit in front of the fire, and think about a time when I'll be picking up coffee and heading to the beach to surf.

To Bellplain With Bob

We'd been hearing for several days about the snowstorm. They made it sound like it was going to be quite a doozy. Of course, if it's going to be more than a few inches in our neck of the woods, they start calling it a blizzard. It comes complete with graphics and a name. As in, "The Blizzard of 2005" or "Storm of the Century."

So, everyone was out buying snow shovels, salt, milk and bread, like we were all going to be holed up for weeks. But while everyone else was hunkering down for the storm, Bob had different plans. He wanted to go cut wood.



My friend Bob just moved here with his family from Washington State. Where he'd been living for the past ten years, it's a little more wild than our little corner of South Jersey. The land is harder, the trucks bigger and the people tougher. Or at least that's the impression I get. The night before, we'd been standing outside looking up at the night sky, when Bob commented that he didn't think it was even going to snow.

"Really," I said. "What makes you think it's not going to snow?"

"Well," he said, "Look at that moon."

I looked up at the moon. It was a clear sky and the moon was full, but other than that, I didn't see anything unusual. Bob turned and looked at me, pointed his beer at me and said, "And my knee doesn't hurt." He smiled and gave me a little wink, took a pull on his beer, and looked back up at the sky.

"Come on," he said walking back towards the house, "We're going to go get wood tomorrow."



The voice that answered the phone was groggy, "Hello?"

It was Matt, Bob's son. I was always waking him up on weekend mornings because he'd take the phone to bed with him so he could talk to his girlfriend back in Washington.

"Go wake your dad up," I said.

"Okay," he said. I could hear him rustling around then heard him say something unintelligible and hand the phone to someone else.

"Yeah," answered Bob. He answered the way you do when you've just been woken up but want to sound like you've been awake for hours.

"I thought we were going to cut wood," I said.

"We are," Bob said.

"You were supposed to be here at eight," I said.

"What time is it?" Bob asked.

"Quarter after," I said.

"I'm ready," Bob said.

"Did I wake you up?" I asked.

"Ummm." he said. "Yeah, I'm good. It's all good. Come on down, I'll be ready."

"You've got to pick me up," I reminded him. "We're not taking the Audi to pick up wood. You're driving."

"Right," he said. "Be right there."



Fifteen minutes later Bob showed up with a coffee cup in hand and his dog in the truck. He had a camo colored stocking facemask that he was wearing on his head rastafarian style, and a glint in his eye. Even though I had obviously been up longer than he had, he was rearing to go. He added a shot of the Captain into his coffee, a little hair of the dog, and we were ready to go.

I grabbed my backpack into which I had already packed an extra sweatshirt, two bottles of water, a couple of packs of peanut butter crackers, my camera, an extra pair of gloves and Seamus's leash. I was dressed head to toe in camouflage, not because I needed to blend in, but because it was the warmest, dryest clothes I owned. I looked like a poster child for the NRA. Bob, on the other hand, was wearing old jeans whose back pockets were both ripped out, a sweatshirt, and a insulated vest. Nothing more.

Seamus was ready to go the minute his paws hit the floor. He travels light.



Bob had heard that you could get a permit to cut wood from Bellplain State Forest. This is the kind of person Bob is, or at least the kind of information he has. Truth be told, I think his wife Donna found called and got the information.

So here we were at 8:30am, driving down the road, looking for the Bellplain State Forest Headquarters. Fortunately for us, we found it, since both Bob and I thought the other person knew where it was. It's on Route 550, West of Dennisville, if you're wondering.

No great trick to the permit. You go in, tell them you want a permit, pay your fifteen bucks and they tell you where you to go. They have a section of the forest with the boundaries marked in red, and the trees that you can take marked in blue. Easy enough. The thing is, it took us thirty minutes to find the section we were allowed to cut from. Bob kept looking at other trees saying, "Hey, that one looks dead."



I kept reminding him that we needed to find the area where we were allowed to cut from. Bob reasoned that since we had gone to the trouble of getting the permit in the first place, we should be allowed to cut anything we wanted, since we were already more legit than he'd ever tried to be in the past. But I was firm. Bob kept driving, but continued to look at trees longingly. Finally we found the section we were looking for and began to search for trees marked with blue.

The problem was, while they were nice trees, none of them appeared to be dead and Bob was looking for firewood he could burn now. Again, he began looking at trees that not only weren't marked, they were on the other side of the road from where we were supposed to cut. He even tried to convince me that one particular tree, that just happened to be sitting right on the road, was dead and would make particularly good firewood. I reminded him once again, that A, it wasn't marked blue, B, it was on the wrong side of the road, and C, that if we did cut it down, it would fall in the middle of the road and would certainly attract undue notice from anyone else driving down the road.



"Want a beer," Bob asked, lifting a six-pack from behind the front seat.

"Not yet," I asked. I hadn't finished my coffee yet. I hadn't eaten any breakfast. I wasn't quite ready for beer. Bob put the beer back down and went to get the chainsaw ready.

We chose a few trees that were marked, and even though they weren't dead, Bob began cutting and I began hauling. Pretty soon, we had the truck half full and I was getting pretty warm. So when Bob declared that it was time for that beer, I agreed.

"You wanna be the bartender?" he asked. I agreed and went to get two beers.



Again, we had a little problem. It seems that Bob had left the beers in the car overnight and seeing as it was hovering in the teens at night, the beers were nearly frozen solid.

"Ah, dude," said Bob.

"Man, I was all about that beer," I said. "I didn't even want one until you offered it."

Bob took one of the bottles and turned it upside down. An inch of liquid swirled around the top.

"Oh," said Bob, "it's not completly frozen."

"Give me a break," I told him. "We'll just have to stop on the way home."

"Nah, we can just put 'em on the defroster," said Bob. "They'll be good in no time."

In the end, we stopped at a package store on the way home and picked up some beer. It wasn't directly on the way home because we took a few different routes to get home. We weren't exactly lost, I'd been there before, but I wasn't entirely sure where we were either. We made it eventually.

But here's the thing. There we were on a beautiful, snowy Saturday, out in an old truck with our dogs, a load of wood in the back, tunes on the stereo and a beer in hand. It just doesn't get much better than that.

My L.A. Moment

Just before the holidays, I was waiting in line at LAX when I had an honest to God, L.A. Moment. I had gotten to the airport early and it was a good thing too, since the line to go through security stretched out the door, down the sidewalk and almost to the next terminal. I asked the woman at the ticket counter how long she thought the line was. She looked up and out the door past me, looked back down at her computer and said calmly, "Fifteen minutes."



Once I got out there, I was sure she'd been mistaken. The line snaked on forever. I was walking past people in disbelief with the knowledge that they were thinking, "That's right, buddy. Get to the back of the line." The line literally ended about fifty feet from the entrance to the next terminal down. It was the longest line I'd ever seen at an airport. There must have been a security breach or something. I just couldn't imagine that this was in any way normal. Not to mention the fact that I'd been through this airport, and this very terminal, dozens of times and had never seen anything like this.

And then I remembered it was three days before Christmas and that everyone who lives in LA is from someplace else. They were all going home for Christmas. I had inadvertently gotten caught up in a mass exodus to parts unknown.

So I get to the end of the line and end up sandwiched between two young guys who begin to talk. The guy in front of me turns and asks us where we're going, assuming that we're together since we arrived at the same time. The guy behind me answered and I didn't feel the need to correct the other guy's mistake.

It started innocently enough. Where are you from? Where are you going? This was LA, it was the holidays, and we were at the airport, so everyone was on their way somewhere. But then we got to my LA moment. What do you do?

Guy one was an actor, and what do you know, so was guy two. But guy one was also writing a screenplay and guy two had a small startup production company with another guy. Blah, blah, blah. I stood there silent as they tried to act more important than they actually were, and talking about getting together. They would have exchanged business cards I'm sure except they both seemed to be fresh out. Probably at the printer.

Finally, realizing we weren't together, one of them asked what I did, and I told them I worked I worked for CAA. They both stared at me so I said, "Creative Artists Agency."

CAA is the largest talent agency in Hollywood and boasts some of the biggest names in the business. Some of the top power brokers in the industry work for CAA. This much, these two neophytes knew.

Next, they both tripped all over themselves introducing themselves to me; laughing, making jokes and trying to make a good impression. It was really sad.

Finally, we realized that one of the guys hadn't gotten his boarding pass, so he had to get out of line. We were alone for a moment, then the other guy turned and asked me, "So, do you really work for CAA?"

"No," I told him.

"Yeah," he said wistfully. "I figured that was too good to be true."

He wasn't mad that I'd lied to him. He understood that they'd been going on about the movie business and had deserved it. He was more upset that he'd almost had a brush with stardom and it had evaporated before his eyes.

"So," he said after a moment, "What do you do?"

"I'm a fourth grade math teacher," I answered.

This was the least impressive job I could think of on such short notice. Ditch digger or garbage man wouldn't have flown, but I wanted something that held absolutely no power. If I'd told him that I was the Creative Director for an advertising agency, he'd have wanted to talk about that.

It worked. Within minutes, he was talking to the people in line in front of him and I went back to listening to my iPod.

The woman at the ticket counter was right. It took about fifteen minutes to get through security. No big deal. Eight hours later I was home for the holidays.

Sometimes, you've got to love L.A. I just wouldn't want to live there.

Pig Not Degraded

An episode of The Farm in which Rebecca Loos pleasured a pig has been approved by TV watchdog OFCOM who ruled that the boar did not feel degraded by the experience.

Viewers of the British reality show watched as David Beckham's former PA stimulated the animal for 10 minutes to extract a flask of semen.

"The task performed by Rebecca Loos is one that occurs regularly on UK farms. We don't believe that the scene was degrading or harmful to the boar."



Well thank God the pig didn't feel degraded. For a minute there I thought they'd stepped over the line.

Dangerous

DENTON, TX (October 21, 2004) Two men are being held in Denton County Jail after being arrested early Tuesday on aggravated robbery charges. Two other men, told Denton police that the pair robbed them at knifepoint at about 3 a.m. Monday. Police said the two victims were on their way from Montana to Baton Rouge, La., because they read on the Internet that a medical school there was paying $100,000 for testicles and they planned to sell theirs.



You just have to love Texas.

Of course, you have to look at this as a perfect example of why you can't believe everything you read on the internet. Also, that owning a computer is not always a path to knowledge. And furthermore, that if you're on your way to Baton Rouge to sell your testicles, don't stop in Denton, Texas and offer rides to strangers.

See, that's three things you can learn from this story. Remember kids, a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.