JUST HOW IS A CATTAIL A CATTAIL?

A corn dog, yeah, it looks like a corn dog. But a cattail? Why is it not cat's tail?

It's all pretty mysterious to me. But I really like them. One of the first that I saw was in the woods behind the Little League field where a friend of mine and I went to throw his boomerang. We didn't get it to boomerang much then. Years later in Australia, I didn't do a whole lot better. But I was awesome with a spear. I didn't just chuck it; I had to use a kind of bow and fire it at animal targets.

But in my youth, we didn't have any of those kinds of things. My friend Blaine was the only one I knew to have a real boomerang. So we tossed it for an hour or so until we got tired of chasing the sickle down. That's when I discovered the cattails.

Cattails or bulrushes (I also don't see how they are bulrushes) fascinated me in those days just like lily pads. It must have been a dry Spring when we boomeranged (boomerrunged?) because I was able to extract a couple to take home. Actually, I think I had a handful, but all of them didn't survive the afternoon. A few did and my Mom placed them in two small flower pots that connected to a mantle clock, big and green and loud. They survived for years if I'm not mistaken, but when you're a kid, time drags its feet so slowly. Who coulod know. But it seems to me that every time I looked at that clock, those cattails were still there.

So whether it was the newness, the adventure, the corn dog similarity, I don't know what attracted me to the cattails in the first place. But whenever I see them, I still like them.

A BETTER SWIMMER

I wish I were smarter, taller, more musical, more athletic, more of service, and more to keep things to myself. And I would like to be a better swimmer. Is there anything more stress-relieving than a good swim?

I definitely need to be a better diver. I'm really way down on that scale. I've pulled out more needles from my chest for lousy dives than I can count. I think a good old belly flop is less painful than the ones I've had at about an 80% level. Somehow our youngest grandson is able to pull those off without pain. But not me.

My next flaw is endurance. Lap pools? What a waste for me. I could only do two laps before fatigue would set in or lungs would burn. Now what kind of strong swimmer is that?

Life saving techniques? I suppose I should have placed that numero uno. Fortunately I've never had to save anyone from drowning. When they'd resist my help or struggle mightily, I don't know if I could bring them in or not. I'm certain I couldn't handle someone my size who was panicky. I'm just not that adept.

Since I haven't had swim lessons, golf lessons, music lessons, any kind of Summer camp, I guess you could say I have more wishes than just swimming. Deprivation leads to inadequacy. I'm living proof.

I'M JUST SAYING

As a public service, I offer hygienic tip number 1 in today's entry. Feel free to skip this one and check back tomorrow for a different topic. (I love doing that because now I know I have your complete attention. Kind of like when the tv news announces that they're about to show something pretty graphic, so sensitive viewers may want to turn their heads away for just a moment. Yeah, right. If you were only half-heartedly into the evening news, now you're focused with eyes widened.)

Enough suspense. Today's invaluable tip. Use a satin pillow cover. That's it. The total secret to better hair. It also seems to keep the pillow a little cooler, but that's a by-product.

As one in the blow dry generation, I used to wash my hair and blow it dry every single day of the year. No more. I can get a two, maybe three days reprieve if I simply follow that rule. Some mornings I awaken and with just a few comb trips through the hair, I'm set for the day. All because of the satin pillow case.

Others days after particularly rough tossing nights may require a little water on that comb and a twenty second blow dry, but those usually happen on the third day sans wash.

I'm glad I don't have to get into the position of the girl in the picture or I'm afraid I might be a once a week greasy hair guy.

Now when you guys get your gals to buy you that satin case ( you don't have to; in fact until only recently I don't think they'd sell satin to guys) be sure to stress an animal print or something neutral. We do have appearances to keep up before we keep up our appearance with unwashed hair, you know.

Anyhow. Try it. Say it's a green thing. Whatever it takes to get that satin pillow case, it's worth it.

STINGER

He drank in the cigar smoke deep into his nostrils. The stogie reeked that acrid yet sweet smell that emanated from the dried, rolled Cuban tobacco. He wasn't the smoker, but he had been there before.

Crisp elm leaves that curled before accepting the radiant heat, but somehow defying the good burn, they weren't quite as bad as their wood, but their incomplete burning left the same kind of hint of pleasure, but leftovers, like all leftovers fell short. Anticipation was many times better than reality anyway, he supposed.

But that's what got him through the drudgery of Spring yard work. Left over late autumn leaves rotting away in part through the Winter only to be torched in April. Determined to hang on, they'll make it difficult. They won't go without a rebellion. Some swirl away with a gust of wind, but those were the ones, the few on top. The rest were way too decomposed to take flight.

Their once brilliant oranges and yellows had been reduced to a pile on, hang on state where familiarity bred security. They had quite simply formed a line of demarcation. Twigs and broken branches. moss, lichen, and what can only be described as mung commingled forming a glob of yard waste. Refuse that refused to leave their domain.

But soon it would be denouement for the yard worker. When all the raked up leftovers would be in flames. Smolder if they must, but some would go willingly and the flame would burst high and emit a stinky phosphorescent hue that would go though all phases from ignition to a long slow burn that lingers, that hovers.

That will get even with the smoker of stogies. At least twice a year it's payback time. For those cigars. "I may throw some old rags on the fire, just for good measure," he thought.

CHIPS AND AIR

I love cooking out. I love eating out. Outside, I mean. When I see pictures like the little one in this entry, it makes me smile a little from past experiences. A little outside cafe in Edz, France comes to mind.


There was something about the little cafe on the hillside in southern France. We were with good friends on a day trip kind of sojourn before heading to the French Riviera. Michael drinking that strong, strong really nothing outstanding little cup of European coffee, me trying to sip some, water some down to a palatable level. The curvy winding cobblestone streets so narrow that when two cars met, I thought one or both would scrape the old buildings. But that memory is etched there for some reason.

Great outdoor restaurants line streets in California, Arizona, and other places we've been to. One of my favorite pizza places in Scottsdale has a great little garden to sit and eat and observe others equally happy to dine outside. (Although some would argue that dine outside is oxymoronic.) It seems though that people are happier eating in the openness that being outside gives.

I think I convinced our oldest grandchild, soon to be grandteen, that potato chips taste better outside. When I first shared that bit of grandfatherly advice, she was dubious. Just as when I told her about the abundance of four leaf clovers in her yard. But when put to the taste test, she succumbed.

There are naturally certain disadvantages of eating outside. But I know my readers know the quirks of weather that on more than one occasion has sent us inside after we have been seated and before the food has arrived. Another hindrance is insects. We've all heard of or experienced ants at reunions. Ants on the ground (beef). Flies on buffet spreads. Bees on desserts. And of course the old saying "don't worry, they won't eat much," or "just some added protein".

For those times, I'd prefer the cleanliness of white napkins, mood music, forced laughter of dinner parties who couldn't enjoy the great outdoors.

FIGHTING WINDMILLS

Lots of things I never understood about Quixote. Most of it having to do with satire and irony in the novel made into Man of La Mancha. But the one most puzzling things was why he wanted to fight them in the first place. I love windmills.

There's just something about them. They're so worthwhile. Cutting through the sky, making use of the winds by harnessing them and using them for power. The old ones like the one pictured are by far the most nostalgic, most romantic.

But even the wind farms with the three arms that look like they're conserving appeal to me. I mean they just look industrial. Nothing aesthetic about them even when lined in formation independent of each other yet working in unison. "Hey you. Number 3. Why aren't your fan blades turning? Don't be a slacker," the pit boss of windmills must yell. But they still cause me to look long and hard at them. Maybe thinking of Cervantes' hero; maybe just enjoying the diversion of the California landscape. For after all, I was mesmerized not that long ago by the sand dunes. But somehow windmills are different.

Even on my FarmVille Facebook game I have 7 windmills. And they don't make me a dime. Let's see, I like owls, camels, and now windmills. But I'm a pretty positive guy; I'm sure by the end of the week I'll reveal more of my fetishes.

THE EMERALD CITY

Where the blue bird sings-- no that's The Big Rock Candy Mountain. Where angels are ascending and descending-- no that's Jacob's ladder. Benton, Illinois, where my wife got '"city sick" when she stayed overnight with an aunt when CQ was 4 years old. (only she was CG back then: we haven't been married that long, though if you asked her I know it must seem longer to her than it does for me.)

I wrote about The Promise (d) Land earlier this week, so maybe that's what The Emerald City is. A place over the rainbow. A place to find or make your fortune. Something, somewhere calling you.

I used to think St. Louis was it. When I was in junior high and high school, I thought that would be the place. It had the Cardinals and the Big Red, and the Hawks. Also of major importance, it had KXOK radio, 630 AM and it didn't lose its signal at night. Man, to listen to Johnny Rabbitt and the other DJs into the night, well that would be great. (We didn't use the word awesome then in that context.) As close as I got was working for a couple of weeks in the Gateway Emerald City when I was in college.

St. Petersburg, Florida, was the next stop on my Yellow Brick Road. The ocean, the Cardinals' Spring Training home, the obligatory sunshine and warm weather. One hour and fifteen minutes to DisneyWorld. Great seafood, what else could a guy want?

Next to last Emerald City was Marco Island, Florida. Deeper . On the coast. The West coast, more attractive at that time than the busier East Coast. No baseball. But even more sunshine and warmer weather. Also not as many old people as the celebrated St. Pete. Several vacations, all good, made it look as if that's where we'd land eventually.

Until 1991 when we first set our eyes on Phoenix, Arizona. Before then neither of us had traveled any farther west than Colorado. And we were hooked. Even warmer, almost never rainy and cold, that bright blue sky. The Big Red had made it here first. No baseball back then. Pro basketball, but than was waning in my eyes like the importance of a radio station. Although KYOTE, The Coyote 95.5 FM is a favorite. The beautiful desert with palm trees and cactus and blooms almost year round. Great restaurants. Arizona State sports. Lots and lots of golf courses. That did it.

So our Emerald Green City is Scottsdale, just 20 minutes from the airport, another 5 minutes to downtown Phoenix. An hour and a half drive to a Summertime cooler clime, and 5 1/2 hours to an ocean in San Diego. As an old Gerry and the Pacemakers song ends "And here I'll stay; here I'll stay". Lord willing.