I like to support local merchants.

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In our case, it would have to be a yard sale, that’s for sure. Our 1940’s wooden garage door has never been replaced—and it’s so out of kilter you’d need the “jaws of life” to get it horizontal, and half-a-dozen 4-by’s to keep it there.

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Maybe I should go over there and share the joke with him. Or maybe not. You never know who you can trust these days.

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So okay, now we’re standing there, scrutinizing the huge tree that’s way in the back corner of Bud’s lot. Some kind of spruce or pine thing. It’s dying—even I can see that. Probably dangerous. If it fell in some odd direction, it could certainly endanger life and, well…limb. Rex and Bud nod without speaking.

Now it turns out that the still-strapping Rex was, at one time, something of a formidable lumberjack—if he said so himself. He offered to cut the thing down. His eyes glinted once more at his forty-foot adversary, and he pinched them down a bit. He said it would land right there. He pointed.

Bud studied on the idea. I shut up. Over there was the tree. Over here was his best friend who drank to much, slept too much, and watched too many game shows because he thought he’d lost his purpose in life. Bud silently weighed things. Weighed fifty years of trust. Weighed Rex’s beaming face. He weighed me not at all. Then he said okay.

Rex pounded off and returned with a bunch of large, rusty wedges; a couple of pry things; and a double-edged axe that looked like Paul Bunyan might have used it. Once more he took the measure of his opponent, then marched over and began attacking the trunk. Moments passed, as he gradually loosened and came alive to his task, swinging high and free, as though he were thirty again; whacking and wedging, wedging and whacking. Maybe two wedgings in a row once a while.

Then he stepped back and looked over his handiwork; looked up into the thick bower of branches. He considered things one more time, then whacked one of the wedges in another inch, side-kicked the stump, and—oh, my Lord!—the whole thing began to topple. Crack!! Gaaaaa!!… …Whomphhh!! …It’s down.

To be fair, it landed about five feet to the right, on top of the camelias. Rex shrugged it off as being a consequence of atmospheric conditions. Then we spent the afternoon chopping up the remains, piling them up; before going around to the front porch for a drink in the fading sun. Bud and I had Coors from the can. Rex had a whiskey sour.

And that’s as true a story as you’ll ever get from me.

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Inside is warm. Check one bag, easy. Get a Starbucks. Then Security. Taking me through is always iffy. With my smart-aleck mouth and caustic wit—see, there I go already! You can’t say the “C” word in an airport! …Into the scanner, Pops. Face left. Feet to the marks. Arms up with fingertips touching, like this, no, like this.. Hold it 10 seconds, Pops.…

“Hey, slick, you ever consider a career in—”. …10 seconds begins again. Move on. Very funny, Pops. Next. I shuffle over to where my now-irradiated belongings are slowly emerging from the machine, and rolling gently towards me. I re-fill my pockets. Do up the belt. Shoes. Watch Kathy.

…Who is involved in a very spirited discussion with a security supervisor—concerning something in her bag. Scene reminds me of an argument with the umpire, where the umpire always wins. It’s over toothpaste. 7oz tube exceeds the 3oz limit. Kathy points to the tube, which is only a third full. TSA agent points to the label. I point to my grin. Kathy concedes that excess toothpaste might indeed be a flight hazard, and we move on—sans conversation, sans toothpaste. I remain my usual cheerful self.

I qualify for pre-boarding so we politely inform the boarding agent at the small counter. She says fine; wait over there. Then she calls everyone on the flight but us, and leaves. Our little group straggles ahead. Woman needs work on her prefixes.

The 737 is spacious, in a 1920’s U-boat kind of way. I get a window seat by the wing; I hope I don’t see a gremlin out there. Ready, set, go, go, go—I like this part.

The flight goes smooth. Except for the sneezy guy behind me. And the screaming kid. And the stuck seat belt. And that thing with the orange juice. I remain my usual cheerful self.

We arrive just before the rush hour begins. Kathy dashes us down the escalator, hooks our bag from the roundabout like a pro, and hustles me out of the terminal toward the rental car.

The drugs will wear off soon.

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I see they’ve kind of moved things around on the power poles to accommodate their needs. And apparently, keeping the telephone line as pristine as possible is not one of them. So they’ve come up with a “make-do” solution. I can see why I’m having trouble with my connection.

On the opposite sides of the gap they’ve nailed two Del Monte cans and stretched a piece of string between them.

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I’m not safe in airports. I don’t know how to act. I know, I know. Don’t mention anything about the gum in your pocket. Just say Juicy Fruit. Do not holler a greeting to your friend Jack, no matter how long it’s been. Once you’re cleared to go in, don’t channel De Niro, point at the TSA agent and say, “You da bomb!…”. Neither he, nor anyone else in that bright little windowless room, will think it’s funny.

Last time I went through airport security was a while back. My metal knee set off the alarm of course, as I told them it would, and immediately every armed guard within fifty feet unsnapped his sidearm. They culled me out of the crowd and waved a wand up and down and around. Guy called me “Pops”. Can’t tell you how much I like being called Pops. Inspected my cane like it might contain a surface-to-air missile.

They say it’s a lot worse now. Great. I’ll probably wind up being dragged down the concourse in shackles. Keep watch for the viral video.

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Who is this guy? I’ll watch.

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Sure, they had better prices on airline seats, just as they promised. Hey, why call the airlines when you can get stuff like this from us, huh? Such as a flight that, get this, is not non-stop. Wait. Did you say San Diego?!  Where you gonna stop? Fresno? Maybe zip over to Albuquerque to collect some luggage you forgot last time you went there?

Now Kathy found an even better deal through someone else. We leave at dawn minus one-hour. Seats on the wing.

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This afternoon I was walking Rufus jauntily down our street—I’m always jaunty for the first half block—and came upon a large gathering of adults and small children tossing a foam football in the street during Super Bowl half-time, shrieking gaily, dashing about. One of the fathers was capturing all this for posterity, from a cozy beach chair along the curb.

As I passed, I smiled at the goings on, nodded to the cameraman and immediately stumbled over one of the thousands of cracked sidewalk pieces that populate our neighborhood. Foster Rufus started to the side as I catapulted forward and just barely regained my balance, if not my dignity.

I looked over to see that the father was pointing his camera right at me. I’ll bet I make the highlight reel.

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