THE PLAN

"Why do things always come in threes," he thought to himself.

Three kinds of girls always scared him away. The ones who were so confident in their abilities. The ones who were so easy to talk to. The ones who were so nice looking.

This was the third time he had tried the strategy. It was a simple strategy. But it hadn't worked yet.

He carried his package covered up with a new cloth bag that they sell at the grocery store. The green bags, rather than paper or plastic. Inside was his own creation.

He went to the Minneapolis International Airport, rode the tram to the area that allowed him closest access to the gate where she'd be getting off.

He'd see her. She wouldn't recognize him. He'd hug her. He'd call her by name. She'd be puzzled. They'd talk. They'd connect. He'd give her the bag. And its contents.

There was one glitch in the plan. He wouldn't know her. But he'd act as if he did. Then after they connected, he'd reveal that it was coincidental that the woman he was looking for was not she. But he'd let her keep his masterpiece. With hope of a continuing relationship.

"Shelly," he said after surveying no wedding ring. The hug. She pulled away almost immediately.

"Excuse me," she was startled but not scared. Not pleased either.

"You're not Shelly from Flight 33?"

"Nooo." She started to walk away.

"Just a minute. Was there anyone else on the plane that looked like you?"

"I have to go."

"But where's Shelly?"

"I wouldn't have the slightest," she added, none too politely.

"But I made this butterfly house just for her," he took it out of the cloth bag.

She kept on walking.

The loser reinserted the butterfly house into the bag.

"Maybe four." Maybe fourth time will be the charm.

He headed for Gate 17A. There was a flight due in from Portland. He will be looking for Allison.

CLOTHESLINES

What a contrast. The darkness of a cave pierced by rays of light, one intensified in the middle of the cave floor. Th contrast of staleness the cave holds to the outburst of radiance from the sun.

The colors, prismatic almost as they dart and imprint the cave ceiling Forming a geometric design just calling out for a new theorem. Something about concentric lines and vortexes.

The cave cathedral would ironically call out for silence for those who stumbled upon it. Or who owned it and charged for such magnificence. Open it up for scientific study and you'd get a lot of hooey about how old it was and how it was formed when the glaciers of the Pleistocene era sans mammoth appeared 1.7 billion years ago. Proof: carbon dating.

I'd rather just experience it. Admire the beauty. Thank God for allowing me to see another marvel of His creation.

And think of clotheslines. You know, how much better clothes drying on a line smell than those dried in a dryer, even with Bounce or some lavender softener. I would think the same kind of smell the sun would make when concentrating on such a small cave hole opening.

THE SOUND OF CHILDHOOD

That's what the picture is entitled. Of course that got me thinking. Simon and Garfunkel explained the Sounds of Silence, but what about the sounds of childhood.

First, for us Boomers our childhoods were in black and white. I know, this entry is about sounds, but I had to add that right off. I once explained to a class of mine that there was no color in the world until 1957. Rather like that movie Pleasantville, I guess. Or The Wizard of Oz in Kansas at the beginning.

On to sounds. Playing. That equivalent of adult work. And we were all workaholics. Honestly, many, many days we played from just after breakfast until bedtime. Only checking in at meal times. So sounds of laughing, sounds of balls hitting bats, of kid games from hopscotch to board games could be heard at any hour.

Bicycles were so big, too. That sound of a rattling chain against the chain guard, the burning of rubber as the bike skidded sideways to a sudden stop and an equally sudden jump off of the rider. The slamming down of the bike in the front yard as you returned home and had to hurry. And yes, the baseball cards clothespinned to the spokes to make a real sound like a motor scooter. Also, the jumping of small curbs and hills to land Evel Knievel-like maybe five feet away.

The ice cream man who preceded the snow cone truck. Some played carnival music. Others the bell. Someone would hear it first. "Joe's a-coming." Joe, the Bowen's Ice Cream Truck driver was known to all, and he knew all the kids names and what their order was to be. A dime, yup, I'm that old, would score you a single dip cone toppled over ice cream dripping and melting in Summer sun.

The only other significant sound was the unique sound of our mother's yelling. "It's time to come home, Teddy." Or after the third time. "You better get home now." When I heard the last one, I knew the sounds of that childhood day was over.

GINGER

That was the name of a cool dog I had as a kid. It's also the name of this flower: Hawaii Torch Ginger.

So what are my thoughts? Mainly about how helpful ginger is. That's my drink of choice when I fly: ginger ale. It has a settling of the stomach. Not that I need it, having logged a ton of air miles, but old habits die hard, so I automatically order a cup of ginger ale.

Ginger is also supposed to be the best cure for sea sickness. Actually, I 've logged a lot of nautical miles, too, but never have I tried ginger. I really don't care for ginger chicken or the spice ginger at all, but I hear it's great for motion sickness. Most Europeans and Asians swear by its soothing effects. If I knew it would work, I'd put the whole root in my mouth, because sea sickness is no fun.

Ginger, my dog, was ginger colored. I think she was a fox terrier. At least we had a bunch of those dogs over the years. I also went to school with or taught a few Gingers in my day. Most looked like their name could or should have been Ginger.

Does gin have anything to do with Ginger? I really don't know. How about gingivitis? Ok, I'm done now.

OINKONOMICS

That's what one protester called it on his placard. The Obama economic spending plan. Finally, an outcry.

Of course, the media at NBC related affiliates and subsidiaries claim it as only those 5% affected by the proposed tax increase who were taking part in Tea Parties across the nation last week. TV footage indicated otherwise.

What I don't understand is the pork and earmarks. Well, and spending our way out of debt. Just where has that ever worked? Back to the earmarks. Scottsdale schools fired 250 teachers since the stimulus porkage, err.. package. You can't drive down one major highway or major access to the highways without construction barricades and cones blocking accessibility. Notice I didn't say construction workers because I've seen scant few in any locale around the valley actually working on the job. Or I should add job site because that's all I've seen now for a couple of weeks.

So it seems that streets are more important that students in this new admin. But come to think of it, if you're wanting autonomy maybe you don't want an educated populous. They might be able to discern a bow from bend. A denial from a bold face. Or even concrete and asphalt from a qualified, certified well-paid teacher. Go figure.

But, please keep up the protests. Everyone loves a good party.

HOW DO THEY DO THAT?

Not a big fan of ballet or opera, I can name a few and have only been to one of each, I must admit that I am a novice in these two arts. But how in the world these women stand that way, let alone walk and dance like that is beyond me.

When I was a freshman in high school I tried to kick a field goal the old fashioned banana leg, straight on style. I tried it with a regulation football and my regulation Keds tennis shoe. I thought I had kicked a brick. Without any kind of wrap or toe plate or stub toed shoe, I winced and was thankful I didn't lose a big toenail.

Maybe you need some kind of special toe wraps to do what the gals pictured are doing, I don't know. I just know that if I could do that for any length of time, say 10 seconds, I 'd probably have a charley horse.

Maybe they eat a lot of bananas. Maybe that's all they eat since most are petite. Except for the fat lady who just sings at the end of a ballet according to Yogi. Or maybe it's the opera. See, there I go again mixing them up.

BARBS

We have a cactus garden. We have one or two of these. I used to know their names but no more. I tried to pick a weed that was huddling up to one and the unnamed cactus stuck the heck out of me.

Where's the appreciation? The gratitude? But that's the way cactuses are. A bloody bubble immediately shot out from my finger. It was sore. For about five minutes. Then relief.

That's the kind of barb I like. The zinger. Like a one line put down. It hurts but doesn't linger.

The festering wound of a thorn from a bougainvillea is the worst. It hurts on impact. It breaks off relatively easy into the skin. And can hurt for days. The first cut, as the song says, may not be the deepest, but the collateral damage has sent people to the doctor.

That's the kind of barb I don't like. The fester. The slam you received and couldn't think of an immediate response. In Frost's "The Hired Man" one character years later was still thinking of a response to offer a young worker who had zinged him about building a load of hay.

Still the worst kind may be from the prickly pear or paddle cactuses. The unseen. Tiny bristles that you didn't feel that attached themselves to your fingers and buried will be discovered in a short time. It's like glass just under the surface. The trouble is, you can't see the bristles because they are so tiny. But they will get your attention. Kind of like that irritable, annoying person in the cubicle next to you, in the house next door, in your classroom. All it takes is a rub of the wrong way, and you've been pricked.

Are there any good thorns? Any good stickers? Bristles or barbs? None that I've found. It makes me long for Hawaii where I hear there are zero. But I think they were talking about the plants and not the people.