Ask not what you can do for CGI, but what CGI can do for you!

**11,000 page views!  Thank you.  Seriously.  Wow!

Looks about right

The birds are chirping.  Just outside of my open window.  They sound so happy – especially considering that their primary food source is worms.  They’re annoying.  I’m trying to write and at random, yet highly frequent intervals, they chirp.  Sort of like the lady on my train last Tuesdayfriday that was all upset about her weekend plans being messed up by someone not wanting to come see her.

You know, the birds aren’t so bad.

In fact, I kind of like them.

I went to see Godzilla last night, on a whim and against my better judgment.  But I kind of had to.  I like movies, that one is extremely popular right now, and I had to see what the fuss was about.  I also had the chance to go socially without forcing my wife to watch a film she really wouldn’t care for.

I’ll go into length in a “Tales From the Script” post but will leave you with this, if you are curious.  It was much, much better than I expected.  It’s a monster movie, make no mistake, but there was a story and while there was CGI everywhere, the special effects served the story not the other way around.

Submission is not always a bad thing.

I noticed that I'm down to three stories out and one script.  I'll never get a sale with numbers like that so at some point today, between baseball games and boat launching, I'll have to carve out some time to write query letters and send out my work.

And revise.  I won't be able to resist the temptation to do another pass before sending it out, whichever story it is.

Does sitting in a field make you profound?

I’m sitting at the park on a beautiful Saturday morning listening to birds chirping and old men yelling at young boys to hurry up.  What I don’t understand about baseball is the rush of it all.  Nothing happens fast in baseball except moving the players from place to place.  So they can wait.

I remember being in boot camp and double-timing it the long way around to the other side of the post so we could sit in an empty building for half an hour.  It’s the same with baseball.  Run, run, run so you arrive fifteen seconds earlier and can stand in line longer.

I see the same thing on the road.  Light turns green.  Zoom, zoom, zoom 500 yards to the next red light.  Cut and weave for a car length because the light will change and after 20 such maneuvers you might be first in line and have the chance to cut though on a fresh red.

I’m not saying my way is best, but rather if you see my truck, or lawn chair, you should probably switch lanes because I’m just not in that big of a hurry.

For some reason, nobody interrupts me.

Goodbye, Denver.

I’m sure that you have been wondering about the pictures this week.  They haven’t really been especially related to the posts and seem sort of random.  If you haven’t been wondering that don’t tell me, I have this fantasy that you, my faithful readers, carefully analyze my work and seek hidden meanings and such.

Let’s review, shall we?  What’s the commonality between Good Luck Charlie, Last Man Standing, Doctor Quinn Medicine Woman, and Things to do in Denver When You’re Dead?  (Mork and Mindy wasn’t really a good choice, but is still sort of connected.)

I’ve been on the road.  And today, as I write, I’m sitting at DIA waiting for my plane so I can say, “Good bye.” to Denver.

Hey, look!  Denver is saying Good bye back.

ROCK!

Saturday as summer becomes just visible over the horizon.  Baseball.  Ikea.  Dogs and horses that roll in the dirt just so you have to clean them again.  Birds are trying to use the netting that held our sod from last summer for their nests.  It isn’t working for them any better than it did for us.

This is a different sort of April.  It’s the April that #1 is a senior.  I’m picturing a man in a kayak shooting rapids on a river in Idaho.  He can’t stop.  He can’t go back.  And it’s a blast.

Who is Honi?

I’ve put off the writing today.  Not because I don’t want to write but because there have been other things calling louder.  It is a glorious day outside and chores that usual seem like… chores have the allure of warm sunshine and fresh air.

My wife picked up a book this week that grabbed my attention immediately.  It’s called, “The CircleMaker” by Pastor Mark Batterson.  Something tickled my memory.  Then she said it was about somebody named Honi.  I wrote a story about Honi in 2006.  I had never heard of him until I researched the story, nobody I talked to had heard of him, and I haven’t seen a reference to him since.

Until Mr. Batterson’s book.

The world is full of material for art – and odd connections.  Look everywhere.  Remember everything.  I’ve added the text of the story I wrote to this post.  If you read Batterson’s book you’ll find they have nothing in common except Honi.  There are still a million different stories to be told about Honi.  What's yours?

No Rain
by Jon Stark, 2006

I was blessed by Honi at my birth that no rain should fall upon me for the length of my days.  He drew a circle in the sand, took me in his arms and danced, whirled me above him and laughed.  The sky opened and rain came to the parched desert but I was not touched.  Once the Passover had come and he was killed, my mother took me and returned with the spice caravan to her own land far to the east.

The Poet told me rain is like a lover’s kiss.  Its gentle caress eases care and worry.  The cool touch of it upon your skin is a balm against the intrusion of the world.  He said that the rain would make things new, wash away the pain and sins of my past.

My mother chased me away whenever the rain would come and then stood in it, let the falling water soak her tiny form, shivering and shouting to the Naga that she was not cursed like her son.  She warned me that Honi had kept me from the Celestial Kingdom with his curse and that the Dragon would never come for me.

The Musician told me rain is like a symphony.  It is quiet and soothing.  It comes in a violent wave that crashes against the world and make a noise like the singing of angels.  It is percussion and strings, winds and voice.  He said that the opera of nature would reach into my very soul and I would be awash in the chords of life.

I have begged Tianlong my entire life, haunted by my mother’s prophesy of damnation, to let me know the touch of rain.  I have longed for the experience of it myself, for more than just lusting after it as a parched voyeur peering at Eden through lush shadows.  I have hungrily consumed the aromas of petrichor and geosmin, searching the world for the purest essence to feed my obsession.  I have wandered the earth inhaling the scent of that which I cannot feel and imagining the sensation of droplets running down my skin.

Now, as the rain falls gently upon my face I am disappointed.  Not with the rain which is all they said and more than I have ever dreamed it could be. I am disappointed with myself, with what I have not done with my life, what I’ve left unfinished.  I was blessed by Honi at my birth that no rain should fall upon me for the length of my days.

"Our daughter is famous, Helen. You're the only person who doesn't know it."

It’s sort of like Christmas Eve right now – not a creature stirring.  Actually, I think that’s the only way it’s like Christmas Eve.  There’s no tree inside of the house, no decorations, no wrapped packages.  Today is just a typical “first Saturday of Spring.”  Of course it isn’t completely devoid of expectation – I’ve got two boys who are waiting to find out which baseball teams they are going to be on.

 

Anyone else "Pottering" about the garden today?

Today got here just like every other “first Saturday of Spring” and I expect that if I’m patient, there will be a next “first Saturday of Spring.”  I can’t have them all at once.  I can’t get a “first Saturday of Spring” in December.  I have to wait.  I have to go through each day to get there.  Once it’s finally come I am free to enjoy it – which I shall – but then I’ll have to work my way through to the next one.  No shortcuts.  No easy way forward, or back.

This “first Saturday of Spring” I’m writing (before everyone is up and I start in on the yard).  I expect I will be writing next year too.  Putting in the time, practicing, waiting, working – and with thousands more pages under my belt. 

"Not six, Seven!"

I've read a few articles over the last year that all speak to the importance of knowing the ending of your story before you start to write.  I read them, nodded sagely, and moved on.  Then I read a quote from an interview this week.

“I always write the last scene first.”

The very successful author went on to say, “Then I work my way backward from how I want the audience to feel when they get there.  But I always know my ending.”

Micheal Arndt wasn’t talking about “knowing where you’re going.”  He was talking about literally writing the last scene before anything else.  I don’t read the last page of a book unit I get to it.  This is not something I’m especially comfortable with.

But when I told my wife about it, she immediately said, “Yes!  That’s brilliant.”  (Actually, she didn’t use the word brilliant, but it’s what she meant.)  (Okay, that’s only sort of what she meant.)  What my wife really said was, “Yes!  That’s exactly you’re problem.  You get going just fine, stories that I want to hear, but then you sort of wander off and just stop.”

 

This is photo-shopped.  Mr. Monk would never have 11 utensils.

I am now trying to deal with the finality of working from my last scene.  Where do I want the audience to be?  Which of my characters will get them there?  It’s harder than it sounds.  Imagine Mr. Monk getting a ‘9’ tattooed on his body.  Or better yet, a ‘9.5’

Is it all a lie?

It’s a typical Saturday.  Typical Saturday schedule.  Prepping for company arriving tomorrow afternoon.  Down to the last couple of basketball games for the season.  Had a wonderful day out with my Wife yesterday.  We opted for the Valentine’s lunch instead of dinner and it was a good choice.  Cheesecake and Ikea.  The great thing about an uncrowded Ikea is that it lets you consider how to rearrange what you already have into something you want.  (Sort of like getting into a second draft.)

I found the perfect home office.  I was absorbed.  And she stopped and then said out loud everything I was thinking.  I even took a picture.

This morning I read a great essay by Herbert Gold asking “What’s the difference between a lie and a short story?”  My children have asked me that.  I’ve pondered that.  We put a very strong emphasis on honesty in our home.  It is, perhaps, the single most important character trait to us.  We don’t like fake and we don’t like lies.  So how is that I can write fiction?  That we can enjoy good movies?  I was very pleased with Mr. Gold’s reasoning.

In short, he said that a short story is a lie that teaches you about the world.  It isn’t for gain, isn’t for avoiding what’s due.  It’s a tale that people want to listen to.  It’s a lie that different than a dream.  He humorously suggested that the number one reason for divorce in our country is the recitation of the previous night’s dreams at the breakfast table.  Who cares?  His point was simply that a well told story is a fiction that we can relate to.  We can put ourselves in it and we can find out about ourselves.  He went further and said that for him, when reading about divorce or alcoholism – things he’s experienced – the story become cathartic for him.  A chance to commune with the characters and find a bit more peace in his own life.

Maybe that’s why I love “The Wedding Singer”, “Notting Hill”, and “Music and Lyrics.”

I laughed, I cried, it was better than Cats!

We saw "Stomp" at the National Theater last night.  Quite a show.  There was no intermission, they just went for nearly two hours straight.  Banging things.  And it was interesting.

Actually, it was more than interesting.  It was amazing.  They danced, but it wasn't really dancing.  They drummed, but didn't actually use drums.  Sure, there were a few things that were pretty drum-line, but mostly, what they banged were the sorts of things we bang on all the time – without rhythm.  They, of course, had lots of rhythm.  And humor.

And energy.  I told my date that I would never complain about a workout again.

They took the ordinary and re-envisioned it.  Familiar, yet remarkably different.  Are you bored?  Look again.  From pens to brooms to shopping carts to the kitchen sink (full of water), you are surrounded by music and poetry just waiting to be discovered.

If you have never seen a performance of Stomp, I encourage you to do so.  It’s not one big long drum solo.  It’s a kaleidoscope of color, motion, and rhythm.  Melodic and dynamic.  I never checked my watch and only yawned once – that was because I ate a piece of “The Great Wall of Chocolate” and not that the show was dull.

"I used to pick that as the worst movie ever made."

We had quite the collection people at our house last night/this morning.  Both #1 and #2 had people over.  But #1’s friends all drive so getting out of the driveway and down to the barn for chores and my weekly read of TCGTWF (see last week’s post) required a bit of maneuvering.

I’ve decided to change up the format of the Blog a bit.  I will be combining the Wednesday/Thursday posts into a single post about the film media – either TV or Movie.  I haven’t figured out what I’m going to call it yet so the schedule page hasn’t been changed.  That post will appear on Thursdays.  Maybe “Thursdays with Gene?”

On Wednesdays I will post excerpts from Washington Orville Hampton’s diary.  He was an extraordinary gentleman and I do not wish to keep his secrets secret any longer.  I hope you find them as educational, and entertaining, as I have.  Again, I have failed to come up with a clever name for series.

If you have any suggestions, or are curious to see if Washington commented on any particular topics or events, please drop a comment.  You’ll get kudos for a good name and I’ll be happy to peruse the journal to see if you topic of interest has been addressed.  (I assure you it has, as I’m making the whole thing up on the fly…)

The last change is one I have already implemented.  Posts (with the exception of fiction) will be limited to 300 words.  Plus cushion.  If I can’t say it in .3k, I’m either being unclear or trying to tackle too much at once.  Hopefully this will make the blog easier to follow and increase the time available for me to work on the bigger projects.  Making up words now just to land at three hundred.

Danielle who?

2 basketball games this morning, back to back like last weekend.  I never understood it when I was in school, but I love watching it now.

I’m writing with my border collie this morning.  (Not literally, he’s just sitting with me.)  In many ways, he’s like the cat I had – always trying to use the keyboard.  The cat would walk on the keys.  The pooch uses his nose.  Not so bad today, but when I’ve only got five minutes to write a story, his errant strokes are quite disruptive.

Mine's in mint condition.

Is you may recall, I first began taking writing seriously when I was a senior in high school (busy not being interested in basketball).  Before that died away, I collected a few books, one of them was “The Complete Guide to Writing Fiction” published by Writer’s Digest by the founder of the Santa Barbara Writers' Conference.  I read about half of it.  I’d like to say that I stopped because reading about writing is not writing, but actually it was because I didn’t think I was learning anything.

That was probably true.  I’ve picked it back up and now read from it when I am waiting at the barn for my daughter to finish her chores.  I’d like to share two things that I have pulled out of the 20 pages.

“Plot and story are 2 different things.”  This is probably obvious to you.  But it made me put the book down.  Plot is the structure that the story hangs on.  I tell the same story all of the time, but change up the plot so it feels fresh, or at least is entertaining.  This is what Blake Snyder was talking about with his 10 story types.  So succinct.  I’ll never forget it.

I’ll leave you with the other, especially encouraging to me.  James Michener didn’t start writing until he was 40.  James Michener.  40.

Intense, Dude.

I had a very busy morning.  And because it was Saturday, I didn't want to start it especially early.  Therefore, instead of rising at 6 to write a blog post, I got up at a quarter past 7 and ran financials before heading out to a planning meeting.  I had to duck out of that to make the first basketball game and left that game early to make it to the 2nd game -- transporting a player with me.

Now I'm home.  I've eaten.  I'm being wracked with guilt for wanting to just skip the post today, after all, it's past 3pm (2pm central).  But by golly, I'm going write.

Seriously, look at their eyes.  Intensity.

It's about intensity.  And building skills.  And knowing you can do it.  It's like basketball.  You get out on the court and it doesn't matter what time it is, how tired you are, or whether or not you feel like playing.  You have to play.  If you want to succeed.

I saw a couple of players who didn't really care about the game.  They sort of went after the ball, they sort of shot at the basket, and they sort of played.  Great for a neighborhood pick-up, not so much for the league.  Other players were intense.  Some more than others, some more skilled than others, some just plain lucky.  One really stood out during the second game.  But his stand-out performance didn't take away from the success of anyone else who was all-in.

Writing has a handful of superstars.  Great.  We won't worry about them.  Writing also has a whole lot of folks looking for a neighborhood pick-up game.  If you want more than that, you need intensity.  You need to be fully in the game.

And when you're not in the game, you need to practice.  That takes discipline.  If you're a writer, that means you attach your butt to the chair and write the blog post.  Even if that post admits that this thing is a bit harder and not always as much fun as everyone thinks.

Of course, I'd be lying if I told you that I don't check my email twice a day anxiously waiting for an acceptance letter on one of the 10 stories I've got out there.  That's the shot at the buzzer that goes in.  That's when all the practice is totally worth it.

I can't wait to tell you about it.

"Even Nostradamus didn't see him coming!"

We're over 7k page hits, thank you.  That's a nice way to start a very dreary day.  And it is dreary.  Foggy, raining, and cold.  It's the sort of day that would be fun in the woods, if you were dressed appropriately, because the daytime fog is wispy and hides things and you can imagine anything from an alien invasion to the zombie conversion with stalking secret agents and hobbits in between.

But I don't live in the woods.  And my joints hurt.  Not badly enough to complain, just enough to make me prefer boating weather.

Today is #4's first basketball game.  We're pretty excited about that.  I fueled him up with biscuits and gravy this morning (actually, #3 and I had the biscuits -- #4 had biscuits and chicken).  Why do I always want to spell biscuits with a 'q'?

I've been working on a short story -- a real short story (>4k words) -- on the train this week and when I got home last night I was almost done so I hammered out the last bit.  I wanted to see how it ended.  That may sound funny, it was my story, but it's true.  I've read more than one professional writer say that if you don't have an emotional reaction to your writing, nobody else will too.  Other pros have written that, as the author, you're the first person who gets to hear/read/see the story.  What they are all saying is that when we sit down to write, there's an idea -- sort of an image of the story and characters or scene -- but it lacks definition.  The act of writing brings it into focus and creates a narrative line rather than a tangled ball of string.

That's what happened with my story, working title of "Intention".  I've had this idea for a bit of technology and a very rough idea of how it might be used, but no setting or plot.  Then I was told about an interesting encounter IRL and that served as my inciting incident.  With that, the rest just unraveled.  It was a very neat experience.

"Well, that's because he is Handsome Rob!"

Today is a cold day of basketball practices, kettlebells, and eating chocolate chip cookies.  My wife baked about eight dozen of them yesterday.  There are three left.  Not three dozen.

This may be the cookies talking, but I'm going to go on record as saying that the remake of "The Italian Job" is about as perfect as a caper movie can be.  It has aged remarkably well -- actually looking as fresh as some of the films that came out this year.  The soundtrack is classic rock and fusion jazz -- both genres that don't age.  It was flashy, well plotted and acted, and while you might miss some of the humor (especially Seth), you could actually watch it without any dialogue and follow the story -- especially if you were able to still hear the music.

That's how a movie is supposed to work.

I keep reading about films (scripts mostly, to be more precise) with too much dialogue.  The usual snipe against them is that if you want to write dialogue, write a play instead of a movie.  I'm starting to get that.  And I'm understanding that, all else being equal, I'm the sort of person who prefers a movie to a play.  Probably because of the music, and the fact that I can see everything better.

In a play, the dialogue has to carry pretty much everything.  You'd need four lines to convey the interaction between two people.  In film, you could have the sound of one person speaking -- perhaps a single word -- but show the reaction of the other, face, body, hands, eyes -- and we'd all know exactly what was being felt.  Stage doesn't really do that.

You also get perfect lighting, more scene changes, and music that -- hopefully -- builds the mood.  Out of balance, any of these things ruins the story by reminding you that it's a movie.  But when they all work together, it's magical and that's why we love film.  The problem for writers is laying the foundation without any of the rest.  We can't write in the score, or the camera angles, and wrylies are just going to get you tossed into the wastepaper basket.  Feeling powerless to convey the scene, we're afraid to write just that one word and trust that the director will get it.

So we fall back on the dialogue crutch.

Movie writers need to listen to Toby Keith.  He gets it -- "A little less talk and a lot more action."

So which is it? Early or fast?

We are having an interesting discussion at our house.  It centers around my alarm clock, but is probably not the sort of discussion you are thinking of.  But if you are, please tell me I'm not alone...

When every other clock in the house displays 9:30, the clock in my room shows 9:34.  When making note of this discrepancy I commented that our clock was early.  You would think I'd suggest that the Pope was Buddhist.

Apparently, the proper nomenclature is that the clock is fast.  But I don't think it is.  Day after day, week after week, when every other clock in the house displays 9:30, the one in my room shows 9:34.  If the clock was fast, it should say 9:42 by now.

Ergo, it is early.

No question, this is an 'early' clock

Think about it for just a minute.  The clock in my room reaches 9:30 four minutes early.  It doesn't get to  9:34 faster, just sooner.  To be fast, it would have to keep adding to its lead but since it keeps the same distance from normal time we know the clock works fine and does not run fast.

Now, the clock in the van shows 9:37 when the clock in my truck shows 9:30 but that's because my truck's clock is actually slow (I've lost three minutes this year) and may also be because the van goes faster than the truck.  But then, the speed of the van shouldn't impact the speed of the van's clock, and in thinking about it, I know that it actually doesn't since on numerous occasions, the van goes fast but arrives late while the clock remains early.

Am I being too precise?  I decided to ask Google.  Google was no help.  The only place I found that actually addressed the issue was Yahoo!Answers and they are notoriously untrustworthy and filled with profanity.  And disagreed with me.

Vanity, all my spam these days is vanity

Basketball season has started for our county league.  That means #3 and 4 will think, and speak, of little else for the next couple of months.  It's okay, they spend a lot of time outside shooting and dribbling and we enjoy the games.  It's also a focus that I understand.  After all, last month I was hammering away for Nano.

And, much like basketball season, now that the contest is over I am still writing but the urgency has subsided somewhat.  (I just started a paragraph with 'and', must be still a bit undertheweather.)  Nano offers a "chest full of prizes" for winners and some of them are pretty good -- you could get storist for 50% off -- but there's nothing I need, or even especially want on the list.  What I want is more time, and the shiny new packages on offer promise just the opposite -- less time writing, more time poking around.

There are also several self-publishers that are offering "prize packs" and I'm not interested in those either.  I have nothing against self-publishing (okay, Vanity Press) but it isn't for me.  I do suspect, however, that they get a lot of business following Nano, after all, people put in a lot of work and the story always seems great when you are writing it.

I get a lot email these days from Vanity Press representatives.  Most of them remind me of the old "drawing contest" ads in the back of Car and Driver.  I got a new one today -- an outfit in Pennsylvania spotted my copyrighted piece and thought it might be the perfeect fit, I just needed to submit it and they'd get back to me.  There were a few things wrong with the email, and after a brief internet search to confirm my gut reaction, I deleted it, but it got me thinking about the power of playing to ego.  By suggesting that there was a submission approval process, that particular company was implying they were selective and better than the folks that offer 75% off deals.  But really, it's a vanity press, does anyone think they would actually turn down any customer?  It would be like a diner turning away a customer because he wanted a turkey salad sandwich on toast but could only pay in cash.  Nonesense.

Lights, Camera, AKTion!

I'm writing a bit on the late side today not because I was allowed to sleep in -- I wasn't (Pony detail) --but because my wife and I were members of a team competing in the "First Annual Kettlebells for Food" tournament.  We did well.  She rocked.  Big time.


The kettlebell meet was run in a series of heats called "flights" and two teams faced off.  Totals were tracked for each individual as well as the overall team score.  There were four exercises available, each with a different point value, and you were allowed to transition between them at will.  One of the competitors on the winning team actually only did three of the exercises, skipping the heavy weight (despite each rep being worth 3 pts.) and focussing instead on high rep rotations of the others.

It was very interesting and I learned quite a bit about the world of compettivie kettlebelling.  I also got to watch normal people and not-so normal people (as in super fit scary people) face the same challenges and how they handled it.  Great as a character study.  Also great as a work out.  My arms are so tired I can barely type.

Pressing Leaves

I missed yesterday's post.  I was on the road early (driving, not riding) and tied up for the rest of the day.  But never fear, Friday's fiction is here... on Saturday.  And I did get a little bit of writing in at the very end of the day.

Pressing Leaves

Shelly was vacuuming.  It had to be done.  And it had to be done without dirty little feet pattering all over.  That's why Andrea and Gomer were outside.  The little girl had a rake but it was taller than she was and the piles were not especially neat.

Pile, singular, to be precise.  6 year old girls don't clear their yards of leaves.  They make castles and forests out of giant piles -- leaping in with wild abandon -- and then thrashing about, making angels with their arms, or pretending that they are resting on one hundred mattresses and that uncomfortable pebble is a pea.

Andrea was pretty sure that she liked fall the best, not counting Christmas and swimming during the summer.  She threw handfuls of leaves into the air and ran through them.  She burrowed underneath them.  All the while Gomer barked and jumped, chasing her and scattering the golden yellow memories with his tail.

Shelly looked out of the window as she finished in the living room and unplugged the vacuum to move toward the back of the house.  She smiled, watching the two of them.  You couldn't help but smile, they were adorable together and there's something about watching a black lab playing with a child that forces contented happiness.  He was two but still acted all pup and his barking was as energetic as his lunging and leaping.

Shelly was in the back of the house, running the vacuum cleaner over the throw rugs in the bedrooms, when the red truck stopped along the side of the road.  Andrea didn't see it at first, her eyes were closed and Gomer was tickling her with slobber.

"That's a cute dog you have there." said the man in the truck.  She sat up and pulled leaves from her hair.  She missed quite a few.  "What's his name?"

"Gomer." she said carefully.  This man didn't look like someone she knew.

"That's a fine name." said the man, nodding.  "Is he yours?"

"Yes." she answered.  She cocked her head sideways at him.  "Who are you?"

"I'm sorry." he said.  "I'm Tim."  She still looked puzzled.   "I work with your Dad."

"My Dad's not home." she said.  The man smiled.  "Do you want me to get my mother?"  Gomer wasn't leaping and playing anymore.  He wasn't barking.  His tail wasn't wagging.

"No, that's okay.  I can just talk to you." Said the man.  "I used to have a dog like that.  Do you think it would be okay for me to pet him?"  He opened the door of the truck and climbed out.

"I guess." said Andrea.  Gomer wasn't so sure of that.  He growled softly, a deep, low sound that, after he did it, made him look around wondering where it came from.

When the man started to come across the ditch Gomer barked.  The man stopped for second and then continued.

"Stop, Gomer." said Andrea.  "He just wants to pet you."  But Gomer didn't stop.  And neither did the man.  He was moving quickly now and when he reached out it wasn't to pet Gomer.

Shelly thought she heard the phone ring and shut of the vacuum cleaner.  The phone wasn't ringing, but the sound of Gomer's bark had changed and she responded to his urgency.  The truck on the road barely registered as she flew out the door to her daughter.

The man looked up at her.  "Who are you?" demanded Shelly.

"That's Tim." said Andrea.  "He works with Daddy."

Shelly stared at him hard.  Her expression equal parts, “The hell you do” and “Get away from my daughter.”  The man backed away from her toward his truck, slipping in the ditch and nearly falling, but not slowing.  When he pulled away she started shaking.  Gomer came over to her and she patted his head.

Andrea wanted to jump in the leaves, wanted her mommy to rake them for her.  Shelly shook her head.  "Let's go inside for a while, okay?"

"But I want to jump!" said Andrea.

Shelly picked up one of the discarded leaves, a giant deep orange one bigger than her hand.  Andrea stopped and looked at it.  She found one like it and held it up, beaming.

"That's very nice.  Let's press them."  said Shelly.  Her little girl was confused.  "In wax paper.  Then we'll always have them."  That satisfied Andrea and she followed her mother into the house.

But Gomer didn't come in until much later, after the truck that had been parked at the end of the road finally left.

"You've got red on you."

At some point yesterday we crossed the 5k page view mark.  Thank you for clicking by!  It's very encouraging to me that this project has not withered and died for lack of attention.  I don't know exactly when we crossed the line -- likely when I was wrestling with the new fridge or leveling a camper.

The fridge.  My goodness.  I usually have good experiences with Lowe's but this fridge was not quite so wonderful.  I haven't had so much trouble getting someone to take my money since I moved to VA and tried to transfer my license - DMV made me work very hard for the privilege of paying their exorbitant fees.  The fridge is nice, but I had to pick it up and install it rather than take advantage of their "Any day, anytime you want it" free delivery because they weren't available to do it on the days I wanted it.  They didn't know how to load it into my truck.  I should not be the guy saying, "Let's try lifting it this way."

Our house guests were very helpful for getting it from the truck to the kitchen.  It involved stairs, doors, and both the dismantling and reassembly of the major appliance.  The easiest part (not counting plugging it in) was connecting the water line.  Not that the doors were complicated (not very) but it did take a long time.

Now, though, we have a cavernous fridge that makes ice regularly and (for some reason this is important) matches our other major appliances.

Today we're off for some paint balling.  Keep your head down.  And if you're writing Nano, don't take a day off.  It's painful to get back into it.