Question mark magazine vol 0 number 0 by RickBaber

Question Mark (?) Magazine is published monthly, free to online subscribers, by J.A.R. Publications, P.O. Box 6382, Springdale, AR 72766 Acceptance of advertising does not carry with it endorsement by the publisher. Opinions expressed by Question Mark Magazine or any of its authors do not necessarily reflect positions of our advertisers.

? Magazine September, 2015

? Will Write For Food From “Dinner with WT, 10th Anniversary Edition” by Rick Baber I was only six years old. Walking back up 57th Lane with Tony Dillon after our four-hour excursion along a winding brook through the woods, I could see her standing up ahead in the street. In the distance, her image appeared to dance with the heat rising from the asphalt. But I knew she wasn’t dancing. She was angry with me because she didn’t know where I had been. I didn’t tell her where I was going for a couple of reasons. One was that she wouldn’t have let me go. The other was that, not having explored that particular creek bed before, I didn’t know where I was going. I knew what lay ahead for me, but, at six, there was nothing I could do but keep walking. All the way back there, I could see the black leather belt dangling from the hand on her hip. That familiar lump formed in my throat. As we came to Tony’s house, he split off to the safety of his room, and left me alone to face the music. There had never been a time when that last half block had been traveled in such a short period of time – especially for one so small, walking so slowly. Suddenly, I was there. And she was there. And there was rage in her eyes. I wasn’t an only child. There was my sister, and the new baby. But I was the oldest, and the first to give her any real trouble. Now I would pay the price. Here in the street. Again. It didn’t matter who among the manicured rows of tiny houses was watching. In 1960, a mother in Fort Smith, Arkansas could do what she would with her problem child. Nobody would say anything. Nobody ever did. Tears rolled down my sunburned cheeks, and my chin quivered as I begged, “Mommy...I’m sorry! Don’t do it! Please don’t do it!” It had never stopped her before. It would not stop her this time. Almost in slow motion, she took the belt and wrapped it around and around her trembling hand. Her fist clinched down tightly. Then, she raised the belt up to my face and shook it at me, and

said, “Don’t you ever run off like that again! Now, go to your room!” So I did. Well, then, I guess writing a story about being an abused child is out. I suppose I wouldn’t be famous enough for anybody to care anyway. What then? There has to be something. I have to come up with something that these magazine editors will look at and say “Gee. I think we can use this.” And once you get one published, they say, it’s all down hill from there. Then I can quit working for a living and start a rewarding career as a short story writer. I hate working. I mean, sometimes I’m right in the middle of a really interesting dream, and the damn alarm clock goes off, telling me to get up to go to work, and I never find out how it ends. And sometimes I flip through the TV channels just one more time before I should be going to bed and come across a movie on cable that I’ve been wanting to see for a long time, and it’s just getting started, but it won’t be over until, like, two o’clock or something. If I didn’t have to go to work I could stay up and watch that without worrying about it. As it is, I have to worry the whole time I’m watching it that it’s going to cause me to sleep too late in the morning. Then I see all these people on street corners holding signs saying “WILL WORK FOR FOOD,” and I realize what a wonderful thing I could do for humanity if I could only become a full time writer. I could quit work. Somebody, somewhere, could move up one rung on the ladder into my job. Somebody below them could move up to theirs, and so on – all the way down to that kid at McDonalds who keeps forgetting to put the salt in my bag, even though I mention it about nine times while I’m waiting for him to figure out how to count back my change. Then, that guy on the street corner could move into his job, and his pregnant wife and three small children could move into some low-rent apartment somewhere, instead of taking shifts holding up that little supplemental sign that says “PLEASE LET MY DADDY WORK FOR YOU” while the others sleep in that beat up old station wagon. See? It’s a humanitarian thing. It’s just that Editors don’t see it that way. They gotta have something flashy or intellectual or informative. Or

? Magazine September, 2015

? something revealing or scandalous about some dead movie star, or a sports celebrity. Nooooo! They don’t care if that guy’s wife gives birth in the back seat of that Rambler. So, the only thing left for me to do, in the name of humanity, is to swallow my dignity and write about my sexual exploits. Wilt Chamberlain had 20,000 women. Ha! So what? Is that supposed to be unusual or something? I had fewer women than that in a single year, when I was singing with a rock band. And many of mine were famous and beautiful. Not some dirty-legged basketball groupies. Remember when Kim Basinger was in “My Stepmother Is An Alien”? One month, almost to the day, after that videotape was released to the rental stores, I didn’t have her. When Ivanna Trump and Donald split up, do you think she spent the night alone, pining away in some Motel Six outside Atlantic City where they left the light on for her? I wouldn’t know. I never met her. And I can remember all the way back to the sixties – those Elvis movies. The entire female casts of “Girl Happy” and “Kissin’ Cousins”? Never had a single one of them! As a matter of fact, you can name any date in American history and, given a little time, I can prepare you for a list of ten (10) beautiful and/or famous women with whom I didn’t have any sex at all on that date. An even longer list of men and animal species. And several brands of vacuum cleaners. Now, what does all this mean? What is the social or literary significance of such revelation? Nothing. Nought. Zilch. Like I said, I’m nobody. So who cares who I didn’t have sex with? The thing is, it makes for mindless, time-killing reading while people sit on a plane, or in some doctor’s office waiting room. And, reading this, they don’t notice, so much, that little blonde kid with green stuff running from his nose, barefooted, his little jeans riding halfway down his cheeks like some junior refrigerator repairman, his right hand rammed down there – scratching something. They don’t notice his baby sister (over there – under the chair of that old lady, wheezing and sneaking little pinches of snuff out of her purse) eating some unidentifiable debris

off the floor, as her mother flips through the pages of a slick cover magazine – bypassing the serious and informative articles for something entirely stupid and meaningless, like this. They don’t notice everybody coughing and hacking and sneezing – except that teenage girl over there in the corner with the peculiar looking sore spots on her face. Or the denim-clad guy with the dangling ear rings and his head shaved on the sides way up above his ears, that keeps walking by the window, peeking if from outside to see if she’s still in the waiting room. They don’t notice that the old man with the cane just went across the room to get another “People” and slipped on something one of those kids spit up, and now he’s fallen and he can’t get up, and the little boy with the green stuff thinks he wants to wrestle, like dad, and now he’s beating the hell out of him with a toy truck that he keeps rolling to the side of the old man’s head while making a rumbling noise blowing air through his lips. If they’re reading this, they don’t care, so much, that they didn’t have an appointment, and they had to come in as a “walk-in,” and they’ve been here for thirty seven hours, and there’s no light on down that hall where the nurse took the last patient so long ago. They don’t care, so much, that the lights in here have gotten steadily dimmer, and now there’s nobody back there in that glass cage where they usually keep all the rude people. Still, it would be better if it had some real sex, or imaginary sex, or real violence, or imaginary violence in it. But, what can they do? This is the doctor’s office. They can’t read here about Sweet Sweet Connie’s near encounter with Governor Bill because they don’t allow magazines in here with pictures of beautiful naked women – all of whom, by the way, I have never had. They’ve got “Highlights” and “The American Medical Journal” and “Modern Maturity,” and two “People” – but the old man’s got both of them rolled up into a big paper club, trying to defend himself against the little truck monster. And they’ve got this one. If only because somebody like you brought it in here and forgot to pick it up when they left, because they wouldn’t actually put it out there on purpose because it’s got

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? dirty words in it, and everybody knows dirty words are the work of the Devil. And you have it, and you’re glad, because you read all those other ones when you were in here a year ago with that nasty sinus infection. The only thing better would be if you hadn’t forgotten to bring your word-search book. For you, this article has something a little special. A surprise. Get your pen. Circle the first letter of the second, fifth, and sixth words of each line of this entire article – up to this period (.) On a separate sheet of paper, list those letters in order. Go ahead and make your list now. (If you’re not the first person to read this article, and the letters are already circled, go ahead and make the list from the circled letters). Next, take those letters and add three consecutive letters to each one. For example: A=D; M=P; R=U; Z=C; etc. Make a separate list with the “de-coded” letters on it. Now, black out every seventh letter that is the first letter of your first name. Now, black out every third letter that is the first letter of your last name. Now, substitute your entire first name for every “Q”. You’re done. Of course, you’ll still have to figure out where to put your punctuation. Since I have not, personally, taken the time to put myself through such an idiotic ordeal as this, just to kill a little time, I have absolutely no idea if this procedure will produce anything that will make any sense at all. I would be tremendously surprised if it did, since nothing like that was planned. But, wouldn’t it be cool if some secret message appeared? I mean, it would be cool, but don’t take it too literally or anything. You know, if the thing says “GO YE TO THE RIVER AND STICK YOUR FACE UNDER THE WATER UNTIL YOU DIE,” it would be nothing more than a really weird coincidence. Don’t go and really do it. It’s not a message from God, it’s just me trying to come up with something different enough for the magazine editors to take a second look at so that man and his family in the Rambler can get something to eat. I have to go now. The doctor’s ready to see me.

? Magazine September, 2015

Adventure

? Magazine September, 2015

Adventure

Every adventure usually starts with, it seemed like a good idea at the time, and this one was no exception. At the end, it was a great idea, but there were a few surprises and what we have come to call our Mis Adventures along the way. In an effort to introduce our readers to something affordable, fun and within close proximity, taking the five-mile hike from Blanchard Springs to Gunner Pool seemed appealing. So, I talked/coaxed/begged my friend Aulanda McFarland into tackling it with me. Seasoned hikers had warned us that unless we were up for a 10-mile round trip we would need to park one vehicle at the entrance and the other at the exit. We did that. Our backpacks held necessary items, such as a phone that would have no service, frozen bottled water as well as plenty of snacks, but was void of anything such as a first-aid kit or personal identification.

The journey begins We decided to start our excursion at Blanchard Springs and end at Gunner Pool. The brochure said it would be at least a four-hour hike through the hills and hollows, that I would later deem mountains and valleys, so we packed a late lunch, swim suits and reclining lawn chairs to relax at Sylamore Creek when the journey ended. The actual trek got under way around 10:30 a.m., because we couldn’t agree on the actual entry and spent a good 30 minutes in the parking lot debating our version of the map since neither wanted to be wrong. Deciding on my way, we headed for the steps. It soon became obvious these wandering women were not in the best of shape. A few minutes into it, I said my first four-letter word, “Bear!” She froze, and squeaked out a “where?” It had just hit me that there were bear, mountain lions, bobcats and some really large snakes we might encounter and the only weapons we possessed were a couple of flimsy walking canes. Learning there was not a real threat, she blew off the whole notion with, “I’m not too concerned with a bear.” There was still a good four, possibly more, hours of unknown ahead of us and it was obvious we were the only humans in this portion of the Ozark National Forest. ? Magazine September, 2015

Adventure By the time we reached the two-mile marker we realized the next three were going to be slow going.

“Do you think that’s a bear?” Aulanda asked, placing her hand over the large print. My mind thinks, “Google this as soon as you get home, if you get home,” and how my mamma told me not to go to Stone County. But, her reasoning had to do with moonshine, men and motorcycles, not the four-legged animal kingdom. She interrupts my thought process with, “and there is a cave.” At that exact moment I wished we had floated the river, but she had been adamant we stay away from water after dreaming -that — and this is the Reader’s Digest version– — I drove us off a mountain into rushing water, two men jumped in to save us, one saved her, she didn’t know about me. But, this hike was an excellent choice. Yellow, red and purple wildflowers lined both sides of our path and the mountains were such a vivid green that even the boulders stood out in their magnificence. We were both in awe of the untouched beauty.

The path was well marked, but as we got further over the mountain it was becoming more difficult. At one point, the trail takes you from the wooded area down along North Sylamore Creek making a refreshing change of scenery. A large group of butterflies was perched on the massive rocks and we stopped to snap a couple of photos and enjoy the breeze off the cool water.

Wildlife possibilities We

talked non-stop making it easy for any woodland creature to find us, but coming upon a couple of tracks, much larger than our hands, made us rethink the bear, mountain lion and bobcat conversation. 6

And, yes, there was plenty of poison ivy, which sent my trailblazing buddy into a “Look at this! You look at this! I think this is poison ivy,” panic every time she saw it. “You can get a shot for that,” I said without turning around.

A little off trail There was no trail. Zilch. Nada. Nothing. We were lost. Apparently, we had ventured off the wellmarked trail and landed up a steep mountainside that even I knew was the wrong way and off course.

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Adventure two rocks and my heart sank. Not only were we lost, I was terrified this meant I would have to leave her and go for help. This little adventure was just going from bad to worse. She pulled her foot out slowly and broke the news, “It’s not broken, I’m OK.” After backtracking through briars and bringing first blood, we soon found the trail — our bad, not the forestry service’s; I was working up a real “these people are so gonna hear from me” attitude — we then paid better attention to our surroundings.

A silent reminder And then right in the middle of nowhere was a headstone. My first thought was, “Oh great, people do die out here,” but on closer inspection it read: “In

“The only thing we can do is go back the way we came if we can’t find the trail,” Aulanda reasoned. Standing on my lost ground I refused to accept that idea. “They will have to send a search party before I go back!” I yelled, although I had no idea who they would be since only three people had any knowledge of our location. “Besides, if you know what is around every corner then it’s not an adventure!” She snaps back, “Isn’t it about this time someone should ask, ‘whose idea was this?’ We’re old. Maybe we should just sit on the couch and watch TV like everyone else.” Snap! I looked back to see her foot wedged between ? Magazine September, 2015

Adventure memory of Arkansas State Trooper Jimmie White. He died in the line of duty on June 1, 2002. Jimmie enjoyed the outdoors. He especially loved this trail. He thought it was the most scenic trail in Arkansas. Part of him will live on as long as people continue to enjoy this picturesque trail.” It was a somber moment as we took note of how previous hikers had stopped to honor the 32-year-old fallen trooper and placed additional stones on and around the memory stone. Our path continued on to dilapidated buildings and abandoned campsites. At one point we had to walk single file around the edge of a bluffline where we could see the water far below. Peering over the edge Aulanda said, “This kind of looks like my dream.” The terrain, in places, had been so rough it would have been hard to maneuver without a walking cane and by the last leg of the journey those never-used muscles were aching, our feet were sore and our walk was at a much slower pace.

Living the dream The five-mile hike took four hours and we were more than happy to see the gravel road that would lead us to the Gunner Pool campsite. Within a few days, the popular site would be filled with people of all ages, but today we had it to ourselves so we consumed lunch and decided to partake of some rest and relaxation in the water. We then unloaded the lawn chairs and lunch and changed into our swim suits. The warm sun and the sound of the moving water soon lulled me to sleep, but a scream, “You have to help me!” brought me fully awake when my sidekick’s chair tossed her 8

backwards into the freezing water. It was my Proverbs 31:25, “She laughs,” moment. Her dream of a car crash, water rushing over her and being rescued by a man ended up being a lawn chair she couldn’t disengage from. Hysterical and wiping my own tears I couldn’t resist, “Looks like the only person here to save you is me.”

Reflections A

couple hours later we packed up and headed back to Blanchard to retrieve the other vehicle. We enjoyed the first leg of the journey so much we will consider the four-mile hike from Gunner Pool to Barkshed in the future. So, if you are looking to see rugged terrain, some interesting wildlife possibilities, nature at its best along the North Sylamore Creek, then consider the hike from Blanchard Springs to Gunner Pool. You won’t be disappointed. We are going to add this to our 2015 Wonder Women Adventures that kicked off with a January trip to the historical old mining town of Rush (Marion County) where we generated lots of interest with our photo of “look, we found Big Foot,” followed by our first hiking trip to the Glory Hole near Ponca. Follow us on more Mis Adventures as we see what Arkansas and the surrounding area has to offer. And just to show that sweating, whining over sore muscles, dodging poison ivy and braving unknown territory has its own rewards, this text came at the end of the night, “I had a great time. Plan another adventure.”

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Editorial

By Camille Nesler I woke up this morning, and as usual, I turned on my laptop to check the weather, my email and the latest headlines. As par for the course these last few weeks, my social media newsfeed looked like the Confederacy was going to war with a bag of Skittles. You know, catch the rainbow and all. Now mind you, I’m not for banning anything. I think it leads to a slippery slope, one that we may not be able to recover from. After all if you start banning the red flag because it’s offensive to some, what’s next? Humans in general are a fickle species, and it doesn’t take much to tick us off or even to find offense where there is none. If the television show the Dukes of Hazard is banned, what about The Jeffersons? Or All in the Family? Or Hogan’s Heroes? There are some pretty racist undertones in those shows, too. Are we going to take all of them off the air? Are we going to call “dark” chocolate and “white” chocolate racist? Hey what about Marshmallows? And I guess we should move right on to banning the American Flag, too, because after all it represents the pillage of Native Americans. And if we are going to change the name “Confederate Blvd” in Little Rock, we darn well better change the name of Washington D.C. too, because good old Geroge was a slave owner himself. Do you see where I’m going with this? All this hoopla began with South Carolina and the flag it displays on the grounds of the capital. Is it time to take that flag down? Yes, it is. No reason to ban it from stores and such, or to remove it from the tombs of Confederate soldiers, but it’s high time South Carolina realized it is part of, well, the United States, and not ? Magazine September, 2015

Editorial the Army of Northern Virginia. Because you know something else? That particular flag they were flying was never the official flag of the Confederacy. We could have avoided all this mess and all this banning nonsense if we’d simply validated the facts that it’s a symbol of rebellion; it has been used in the past as an emblem representing hate groups; it is viewed as racist by a large percentage of the population, and it has no business being flown over the capital. But did we? Nope. Society, in general, never wants to validate the feelings of the “other” side. Instead, we threw a big ol’ hissy fit. So all the liberals decided, “Hey! You don’t want to compromise? You don’t want to take that flag down? Ok then. Watch what else we’ll get taken away!” And here we go…now it’s on to merchandise in stores, television shows, markers on tombstones and the names of streets. What really cracks me up is all the idiots hollering about “Southern Pride.” What exactly are you proud of? The civil war was a dark time in United States History. The people who insist the war was about “states rights” seem to forget that fact that the main “right” the south was fighting for, was the right to own slaves. So don’t try and paint it into something it wasn’t. Now was the south up in arms about their rights? Sure. But it started long before the Civil War. The south first became indignant when the Tariff of Abomination was established in 1828 by John Quincy Adams. Officially known as the Tariff of 1828, it was designed to protect industry in the northern United States. These northern industries were being driven out of business by low priced imported goods. So, they decided to tax these goods. The south, however, was harmed directly because it had to pay higher taxes on goods not produced in the south. It also made it difficult for the British to pay for the cotton they imported from the south. The reaction to this tariff, particularly in South Carolina, led to the Nullification Crisis that began in 1832. This occurred during Andrew Jackson’s presidency and involved a confrontation between South Carolina and the Federal Government. Basically, South Carolina declared the tariff to be “unconstitutional” and it refused to honor it within the state boundaries. I guess at some point South Carolina forgot that the United States is a democracy. So on March 1, 1933, Congress passed the Force Bill, authorizing the President to use military forces against South Carolina. Wow. Seems like South Carolina was always causing trouble, wasn’t it? Anyway, luckily the argument was finally settled with the Compromise Tariff of 1833 without any bloodshed. But that was, in reality, just the beginning. Jackson himself wrote, “The tariff was only the pretext, and disunion and southern confederacy is the real object. The next pretext will be the negro slavery question.” And guess what? He was right. So you can holler all you want about the Civil War being about state’s rights. You are absolutely correct. The RIGHT to own SLAVES. And if it’s not the two sides of THIS issue going at each-other all over the media, it’s the whole marriage equality situation. The Supreme Court passed a law. It’s pretty simple. If you are in a state office, your job is to serve the public. If you feel that issuing marriage licenses to same sex couples will go against your religious convictions then you have one option. Quit! Obviously you can no longer fulfill the obligations of your job. But to flat out refuse to do your job is ridiculous. Why should you be any different than any other employee? If I went to work tomorrow and refused to do what my position entailed, I’d be fired, plain and simple. The discord over marriage equality seems to be getting worse and worse. I’ve even seen one minister put up a sign in his place of business which read, “No gays allowed.” Really? How exactly is he doing to determine the “gayness” of two people who walk in? What if I go in with my sister? Or my husband goes in with his best friend? Is the guy gonna actually ask, “Hey, are you batting for the other team?” Seriously? And while we’re on the subject, he stated the reason he put up the sign was because “Gays were sinners who didn’t follow my religion.” Man I gotta tell you, I kept looking, but I just couldn’t find the sign that also stated fornicators weren’t allowed. Or liars. Or adulterers. So I guess it’s quite safe to assume he’s fine and dandy with serving all those other sinners, right? I just don’t understand humanity anymore. How hard can it be to be kind to one another? To be a little understanding and compassionate?

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Editorial But just keep it up America. Keep stirring the pot. All I saw this morning on Facebook were people who have turned their profile picture into an American Flag in response to all the profile pictures with the Battle Flag or the Gay Pride Flag. It’s all just an act of rebellion and nothing else. So are we as a nation all ready to rebel again? I mean, it went SO well for us that last time. But hey, I can just see good ol’ Bubba hollering, “Bring it on! After all, I’ve got my AK 47! It’s my Constitutional Right! They can’t take that away till they pry it from my cold dead hands!” You know, while he’s facing down some nukes. And a TANK. And when it finally runs him over, well, I guess he’ll be proven right. God Bless America! ooooooooooooooo

Camille Nesler has lived in Arkansas most of her life, an original transplant from the windy city of Chicago. She frequently works as a freelance writer for online publications such as Livestrong, USA Today's Travel Tips, Trails and eHow. Her weekly columns appear in a variety of Arkansas newspapers and her first book was published in 2012. Camille lives with her husband Nick and three children in Benton Arkansas. When not writing, she enjoys marketing for a large Healthcare Corporation, cooking and traveling, traveling, traveling!

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Editorial

Streams of Consciousness with Frank (Frank Wallis) Hoarders get a bad rap, dang it. Sooner or later, and probably sooner, everyone will know how it feels to go from packrat to hoarder to Obsessive Compulsive Disorder afflicted. Hang around long enough and whatever it is you're doing will be called a disease and given a name. Like "hoarder". It's a clinical subtitle nowadays in the OCD chapter of most books on Abnormal Psychology. Beware. It has its own 501 (c)(3): http://www.adaa.org/understanding-anxiety/obsessive-compulsive-disorder-ocd/hoarding-basics So you thought you weren't sick? Barbara Streisand made a hit of a song with this line: "People. People who need people are the luckiest people in the world." Then modern medicine called them unlucky narcissists and codependents and gave them toenail fungus reuptake inhibitors. I grew up around hundreds of people who didn't throw anything away. We didn't think they were sick. We were bigots. We thought they might be lazy or stupid or retards, but not sick. Disclaimer: I may have been a hoarder all my doggone life. The malady is coming on strong in my old age. But when I was a kid, the adage: "One man's trash is another man's treasure," was explanation enough for even the most cluttered folk. Guessing this all started with the man who discovered rocks. Stacked together they form a wall. Walls are good for defense. Rocks thrown over the wall at your enemies were good for offense. That guy couldn't have enough rocks. And there's a rock quarry every 50 miles. People know when to cut the crap about hoarders. We don't poke much fun at 14

people who hoard money, especially those with obscene piles of it. They will sue you. People who hoard small sums -- misers -their just stupid. There's nothing wrong with being stupid. The U.S. Constitution was written for stupid people. People who cull their hoards for items that are cleaner and prettier than other items in the hoard also get a bye. They're collectors. That's the civilized, even admired version of hoarding. See Jay Leno. But any item owned in abundance can make you a hoarder. How many pairs of underwear does a guy need? I can make a case for two -- a pair to wear while the other is in the wash or on the line drying. I've got at least 20 pairs of undies. I have good underwear -- undies suitable for occasions when you might be caught in public in your underwear. Say you're captured by ISIS. They could put you on their website in your underwear. They could cut your head off and you'd be flouncing around on the ground. Your toenails might be orange with fungus but you'd be wearing your good underwear. I sort the hoard. I separate. I segregate.

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Editorial I discriminate. I have underwear that will do in a pinch and underwear I almost never wear. Almost. I have underwear I will never wear but I don't throw them away unless I'm on a rampage. The rampage is a whole other stream of consciousness. Truly bad underwear are more likely to be transferred to a hoard of cleaning rags -- a chest-o-drawers full of cleaning rags. When does a number become an illness? I'm not prepared to make that call. I've got about 40 pairs of socks. Some are more than a decade old. The elastic is gone and they fall down around my ankles. They're still good for a day when I might be standing all the time. They're all wrong for ISIS captives. I have at least two dozen socks without mates. I own two Hawaiian shirts that I've had for at least a decade. I don't like to think about being without them. Altogether, guessing, I have 50 shirts. I married a hoarder. She owned every single issue of Ms Magazine ever published when we married. About three dozen ream boxes full. I persuaded her that keeping that collection was abnormal. She gave the collection to the Humane Society -- dog and cat hoarders who will judge you and then kill you for throwing teakwood salt shakers at cats. Pretty sure I've been reported. We have three cats -- a set of three. Two are as big as beagles. "Feel free, kitties, to pee and crap in this box of dirt in the dining room. "Deal?" "MEEEOW."

Cat owners. Sicko stuff right there. Yeppers! Crap in the kitchen and make us proud Miss Kitty! My spouse is still mad about the Ms Magazines. The U.S. Humane Society knows who I am and where I live. I deserve this angst. I deserve it because, you see, I own 95 percent of the fishing tackle that I've ever owned, which makes me one of the most harmless people in the South. Invade my home and I will hit you with a Zebco. There's two bedrooms, a garage and a back porch full of it. I'm not about to throw it away, which makes me a sexist, a bigot and hypocrite. It started back in the day when eBay was an infant. I bought an old spinning reel like one I'd fished with as a youth. I opened the bail, turned the crank and heard the "clack" of the bail closing. My Serotonin reup took uninhibitedly. I was young again and fishing the pit at Lock and Dam No. 1 at Batesville. In July, I will travel to Springfield, MO, to hang with about a thousand dues-paying psychos who collect fishing lures. They're lure collectors by title only. They will bring the entire spread to the show. Rods. Reels. Spools of fishing line. Floats. All of it. It's the National Fishing Lures Collectors Club. http://www.nflcc.org/ They have a discussion board: http://www.joesoldlures.com/wwwboard/ I worked once for a corporation that collects newspapers complete with reporters, editors, printers and readers. One of the corporate-own reporters had written a story about the banana industry allowing laborers to die in the banana fields to be eaten by vultures and other banana field workers. The story wasn't entirely true. The banana

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Editorial people threatened to sue. Lawyers settled out of court with terms to include bananafriendly news copy wherever a news-hole could be found until the banana people weren't mad anymore. The reporter was branded in his forehead with the numerals 666. Then they fired him. OK. It was Gannett Corporation, owners USA Today. The people who sold The Arkansas Gazette for $150. As a special sections editor for one of those Gannett newspapers, I found myself pasting up all kinds of stories about the positive attributes of bananas. I wrote at least one sidebar to the greater banana stories. Lo, I found a group of people who collect banana labels, the little stick-on thingies bearing images of black-haired women smoking cigars and carrying banana blossoms on their backs. They're the most harmless people I know. They have websites: http://www.banana-label.net/ http://americanprofile.com/articles/coolcrazy-collections/ At least one bonafide hoarder: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article2749000/Has-gone-bananas-Formergreengrocer-collected-30-000-stickerspieces-fruit-wife-complains-spends-timeher.html Politicians and insurance companies hoard people. They are not harmless. Wars are fought when they start to sort the hoard of people. The Christians go here. Jewish people go here. Black people go way over there. Fat people are out. People who once had a heart attack are out.

You had a wreck? Goodbye. Got a lousy credit rating? Go stand with the arsonists, forever. Gay people and atheists go stand with the black people and forget get about the catering. The hoard of dead and why they died make up a thing called a "mortality table" used to index the value of your life and the amount you get to insure it for. Seven billion people on this planet is ample evidence of chronic horniness. We're addicted. I know, there's not a few evangelistic atheists who insist it's all about a primordial desire to pass along our genetic material. I thought it was about feeling good. Praise the Lord and pass the lithium. Bottom line: If you've read this deeply into this column, you're a sick SOB and you know it. You have multiple cans of soup in your pantry. By universally accepted norms of shoe ownership, you have too many shoes. You eat too many comfort foods. Drink more water, but beware of water toxicity. That anal retention thing, you're going to have to stop it, if only for a few minutes, sooner or later. I know. I know. I know. The disease starts when people hoard things with little or no apparent value in mass quantities. Perception of value is still another stream of consciousness. The billionaires and millionaires who hoard congressmen ... they think a $10 bill, thereabout, is the fair value of an hour of your past life. Go figure.

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Photography by Rick Baber Copyright ÂŠ 2014 by Rick Baber

All images contained in this ad are the property of Rick Baber Photographic Services, aka Digital Arts 1, and may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author. All rights reserved.

Printed in USA

Contact Information: Rick Baber Photographic Services P.O. Box 6382 Springdale, AR 72766 Ph: 479-466-9691 E: Cybermouth@hotmail.com Web: www.DigitalArts1.com

Digital Arts 1 *

Photography by Rick Baber

Digital Arts 1 *

Photography by Rick Baber

Digital Arts 1 *

Photography by Rick Baber

Digital Arts 1 *

Photography by Rick Baber

Digital Arts 1 *

Photography by Rick Baber

Digital Arts 1 *

Photography by Rick Baber

Digital Arts 1 *

Photography by Rick Baber

Digital Arts 1 *

Photography by Rick Baber

Digital Arts 1 *

Photography by Rick Baber

High School Seniors, about to step out into the cold, cruel world, want their

pictures to reflect who they are at that pivotal moment. We like to take

our time with these shoots and make sure this particular point in their

life’s journey is accurately documented. As with all of our shoots, we go where the job takes us (as long as we have permission to be there), and get the shots our client wants. We like for the parents to be present, if possible, but won’t require it if we have the parent or guardian’s signed authorization to shoot the photographs in their absence.

Digital Arts 1 *

Photography by Rick Baber

Digital Arts 1 *

Photography by Rick Baber

Things have changed since the age of film photography.

Our clients don’t have to look through “Proof Books” and make

the tedious decisions regarding which pictures they want to pay for. We provide a CD of all the salable images from every shoot, effectively

giving you the “negatives.” You then have the power to print the

pictures you want (at any 1hr. processor) as you need them.

We find this to be a much less expensive and more customer friendly method for delivering our product.

Digital Arts 1 *

Photography by Rick Baber

Digital Arts 1 *

Photography by Rick Baber

Digital Arts 1 *

Photography by Rick Baber

Since all our photography is done on location, there’s really not much difference in a Senior shoot and any other Portrait shoot. We still go where the client wants us, and we still provide the CD of the images. These aren’t per-person

events, as far as we’re concerned. Bring the family. We can photograph them as

a group, and then individually, etc. There’s no extra charge for extra people – as long as we can get all the pictures within the allotted 3 hour time!

Oh! And we don’t have to do it all outside. We have a “portable studio” – lights & backdrops – that we can bring and set up anywhere there is electricity. So…

Digital Arts 1 *

Photography by Rick Baber

Digital Arts 1 *

Photography by Rick Baber

Pricing Following is our current pricing schedule, as of February 10, 2014. Of course, this is subject to change. You will be able to confirm pricing when you view the Agreement form we require with every photography job. All pricing is based on locations within 30 miles of Springdale, Arkansas. Additional Time & Expense applies to areas outside of this radius.

WEDDINGS: $750.00 Includes up to 6 hours for travel, pre-wedding, ceremony, reception, etc. Requires a $350 Deposit when the job is booked. Requires a Wedding Photography Agreement. You get: 2 CDs of all salable photographs we shoot. Balance due when the CDs are received. We do not provide prints. You have those made from the CD, which includes a copyright release. Additional time (over 6 hours) is billed at $60/hour. Additional mileage (over 60 miles round trip) is billed at 60c/mile. Allow an average of 3 weeks post-event to receive the CDs. For Special Rates on distant location Weddings, email us: Cybermouth@hotmail.com

SENIOR PHOTOGRAPHY/LOCATION PORTRAITS: $299.00 Includes up to 3 hours for travel, on-site preparation, and photo shoot. Requires a $175 Deposit when the job is booked. Requires a Portrait Photography Agreement. You get: 2 CDs of all salable photographs we shoot. Balance due when the CDs are received. We do not provide prints. You have those made from the CD, which includes a copyright release. Additional time (over 3 hours) is billed at $60/hour. Additional mileage (over 60 miles round trip) is billed at $60c/mile. Multiple locations, within the time/mileage limits, are allowed. Allow an average of 3 weeks post-event to receive the CDs.

Adventure

THE ORIGIN OF THE JOURNEY can be traced back easily enough. It was Robin’s birthday party at the Fayetteville home of her son, young Matthew, designer extraordinaire. As the family sat in the shade at one table in the back yard, somebody brought out a bottle of Fireball. It was a big bottle. Being the designated driver, at least between Bec and me, I did not partake. I’m a simple man with simple desires. Just give me a cold beer, and I’ll be fine. It didn’t take long. Within thirty minutes, somebody brought up the subject of bucket lists. In that thread, Robin I believe, mentioned that Jimmy Buffett was going to be in concert in Kansas City. Somebody said we should go. Several agreed. It was idle talk, similar to many conversations we had shared before, Sitting around some table or another. I was again, stone sober, and didn’t really give it a

second thought. But Beeper had recently settled a lawsuit and had money, just burning holes in his bank account. And Huey Lewis was the opening act. As an aspiring harmonica player, this was the deciding factor for Beeper. “Get online and order tickets!” he commanded. “Front row if you can get ‘em!” There were some chuckles, mostly from me. Then, there was Robin and Nancy, trying to navigate a cell phone. Next thing I knew, Beeper was the proud owner of eight 14th row floor tickets to the June 6 concert at the Sprint Center – roughly 240 miles (one way) from that back yard table where the idea was conceived. Originally, the plan included taking our 82year-old mother, we call her “Nana,” who we have molded into a fan of our favorite entertainers, including Mr. Buffett, James

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Adventure

Taylor, Jackson Browne, Bob Seger and others. She was there and excited about going. Papa, not so much. Even though he does like Buffett, mostly through his relatively recent associations with modern country singers, what he’s not big on are road trips that don’t end at a casino. So Beeper came up with this idea to secure a party bus. We could play cards along the way. I could bring my guitar and perform pseudo entertainment to help pass the time. Anybody who was cramping up from sheer age—meaning all of us—could get up and walk around. It was a perfect plan designed to lure Papa along, so we wouldn’t have to get a date for our mom, because that could be awkward. I didn’t think it would work, but it was worth a try.

trying to find a way for the limo to get in there and turn around. Before I could park up against the trash dumpster, as instructed, that guy showed up and just pulled that long Escalade in there like a boss. We had no idea how he was going to get out, but he didn’t seem to be worried about it. We loaded up all our daytrip necessities, including four coolers, a guitar, phones and chargers, purses, bags full of adult beverages, an extra pair of walking shoes to replace my flip-flops once we got there, and we piled in for the ride. Dude, we’ll call him “Rob” for reasons you’ll understand later, backed that rig out on the blind Bella Vista hill and managed to get going forward again before somebody came over it and cut us in half, and we were on our way.

COME MONDAY, Beeper had the party bus lined out. Plan was for us to meet at Nana’s townhouse in Bella Vista at noon on the 6th, which was then almost three weeks away. There was still no word as to whether or not Papa had given in, but by then we all had our doubts about him going. But the gig was set. Somebody within our sizeable family would take the remaining ticket if he balked. As it turned out, Matt—not really what one might call a Parrot Head—made the sacrifice and agreed to embark on this adventure with all us old folks. Young people sometimes make bad decisions. It’s a part of the maturing process. A rite of passage. Fast forward to the day before the concert. Beeper forwards an email he got from the limo company, explaining that the air conditioning in the party bus had gone out, but they could put us all in a stretch Escalade if we still wanted to use them. What choice did we have? He was a little upset, but the rest of us were anxious for the experience and were still all in. Everyone responded that we were good with that. The trip was still on. Fashionably late as always, Bec and I pulled into the small cul-de-sac, just a few minutes after noon. Papa was out there directing traffic,

Before we were back to The 49, it was becoming painfully obvious that somebody was going to have to tinker with the air conditioning. That long black land yacht was beginning to feel a little more tropical than we had envisioned, especially with the sun roof not having a shade we could close to block off the radiant heat. There was a digital panel by the left rear door for all the fancy features, so Willie and I started trying to cool it down. It wasn’t working. The fan was blowing hot air. So we tried to turn the fan off but couldn’t. One feature on the panel was the intercom, to communicate with the driver. We could just call him and have him take care of this problem. Didn’t work. And he was up there on the other side of some barricade. There it was, the control to open the divider. Didn’t work.

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Adventure

“Probably because he had it sitting still for so long,” I told them. “It’ll get cooler once we get on the highway and wind the engine out.” We could handle a little initial sweat. Somebody told us to turn on the radio. We tried. Didn’t work. Nothing on that control panel seemed to be working, but the inside of what was now beginning to feel like a large casket on a sunny day had the coolest changing-light panels on the side walls and ceiling. We waited patiently for the limo to get out of Bella Vista onto open highway so we could breathe. IT’S 5 O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE. Having pre-determined that I was going to remember this adventure—and might possibly end up taking care of seven other individuals in a big city that I had never even set foot in before—I was not intending to drink much along the trip. But beads of sweat were rolling up on my ample forehead and dripping off the end of my nose, so I decided I had to take a slash. Then another, and another, and another. The cold Rolling Rock was helping me make the best of an uncomfortable situation. By the time we got to Anderson, Missouri, Beeper was growing tired of listening to everybody’s complaints and gasps for breathable air, so he pulled out his cell phone and called Rob. As I expected, the driver told him the thing should cool off shortly now that we were on open highway. Pop another top. Somewhere up the road, about half an hour into the trip, the air shooting from those vents changed from merely hot to something more akin to a blast furnace. I took one of Nana’s empty Miller cans and propped open the window on the sun roof – because the thing to keep it open didn’t work on its own. The gasping and moaning turned to sighs and pleas for relief. Beeper was getting hot in more ways than one. “We’ve got two damn choices! We can turn the damn thing around or we can tough it out!”

Willie and I had a third option. We suggested he call Rob back and insist that he stop at an auto parts store and put some refrigerant in the A/C, so he did that. After only ten more minutes, and several gallons of collective perspiration, people shedding clothes like claustrophobics trapped in an elevator, we took an off-ramp. Joplin, I think, now considering the possibility that we were going to survive. Rob navigated the limo into an Auto Zone parking lot, pulled to a stop along the edge, and we scampered out like rats released from a cage. While Beeper and Rob went inside, I pulled out the Fender, sat on a curb playing Jimmy Buffett songs under the relatively cool 90 degree sun. People were slowing their vehicles as they drove by rubbernecking, surely thinking we were somebody famous having car trouble. Two guys walking down the adjoining railroad track stopped to listen. I left the case open, but the only dollar bills I collected were from our crew.

The Auto Zone guy came out and went to work under the hood. But a few minutes later,

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Adventure

Beeper signaled me to his meeting with Rob. “It’s got too much pressure to take any more refrigerant. This is the best we’re gonna get.” “I can take you on,” Rob said, “or we can go back. I’m so sorry. There’s nothing I can do.” Beeper looked at me. “Whattaya wanna do?” “I say go for it. I don’t think the hot stuff’s gonna come down for quite a while now.” Besides, I had just previously discovered that one of the two back door windows would roll down. “Let’s do it,” Beeper told the driver. “There’s no ‘I’ in ‘Quit!’” “Endeavor to persevere,” I confirmed. “Are you sure?” Rob asked. “Maybe while you’re at the concert, I can arrange for a bus to pick you up and bring you home.” He apologized again. “We won’t worry about that yet,” Beeper told him, “Just get us there. I got a race to catch before the concert!” BREATHE IN. BREATHE OUT. MOVE ON. With that one window open, the beer can holding up the sun roof, and the driver/passenger divider lowered to allow direct communication with our pilot, we proceeded through the streets of Joplin, expecting to get back on I-49. Then we proceeded some more. Then some more. Eventually, we noticed that we were on some lonely, unfamiliar highway, but best we could tell, we were going north, so all was good. It was better than before, but the wind inside was blowing the tops of coolers off into people’s faces and requiring us to scream at each other to be heard. Then, around 3 p.m. or so we noticed that we were no longer on a highway at all. It was a narrow, albeit paved, county road with fields on both sides. “Anybody ever go to Kansas City this way?” Beeper screamed to the group. Nobody really said anything. Just a few shrugs and requests for ice and tequila. One thing was imperative: We had to stay hydrated. I suggested that we might be victims of some

human-trafficking scam, not really considering the concept that all of us, except Matt, were probably too old and useless for such a role. “Maybe we’re going to Shanghai.” Nana didn’t seem to see much humor in that. Beeper made me shut up about it.

Then, miraculously, we were back on some major highway, zipping along at about 70 mph. I opened Google Maps on my phone and there we were northbound on Hwy. 69 in Kansas. All we had to do was take a right up there somewhere, and we would end up in Kansas City. But I still had in the back of my mind the idea that we could also go left, toward San Francisco where the boats to Shanghai were waiting. It wasn’t long until we starting seeing street signs, out in the middle of nowhere: 330th Street, and such. And then, Overland Park! We were arriving. DOOR NUMBER THREE. Joe’s Kansas City Barbeque was the place little brother had picked out for our pre-concert meal and to watch the Belmont Stakes. Winding our way through some seedy parts of town, with one window down, come Hell or high water, we pulled into the crowded parking lot to find a line of waiting customers winding halfway around the building. Some of the girls said they wouldn’t mind waiting in line but, you see, Dr. Beeper is not known for his patience. He asked Rob if he knew of any other nearby barbeque

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Adventure

spots in Kansas City and of course, he did not. It was decided that we would just have him drop us off downtown, near the Sprint Center, and we would find a place. There was no scheduled time or place for a rendezvous after the concert. We were just going to call Rob and have him meet us some place to pick us up. One important thing to remember here is that, up until this point, nobody had charged their cell phones. Out of that hot car, Bec, Nana and Robin took off in search for a place to relieve themselves, as the rest of us were climbing out. We lost them instantly when they ducked into some bar. I called, but got only their voice mails. Matt and I started walking in the general direction where we had seen them before their disappearance, and then Becky called me back explaining that Robin had to “go,” but Bec was dehydrated and empty, having perspired away all of her bodily fluids. We found them coming out, Beeper and Nancy caught up, and we saw Willie wandering aimlessly down the other side of the street. The place the girls had come out of was too packed to seat eight people, so we embarked on a search for someplace that could. Somebody, from home I guess, who knew Willie yelled at him, and he stopped at his sidewalk table long enough for us to catch up with him without running. When we got there, he was telling them about the biker at a rest stop back up the road who believed him when he told him he was Jimmy Buffet on his way to a gig. That was true. As the bearded guy was getting off his Harley to go get Willie’s autograph, I told him that he was really a mental patient we were taking home from the institution. The guy was really upset about it. “Man!” he said to me, “he really does look like him!” Our third attempt to eat was at Bar Louie, where we somehow found nine empty barstools, with sports channels on the TVs. We took eight of them, leaving the one on the corner empty. There was a full margarita and a

bottle of cucumber vodka parked there, so apparently somebody had just gotten up for a moment. Nana was the only one who wasn’t hungry. We ordered drinks and food, even though we were warned by the bartender that the food was going to “take a while.” It did. But the drinks were pretty readily available. And I met a nice lady, Jaymie, who agreed to be the cover model for this edition of ? Magazine. So that was nice. By the time the American Pharoah screaming had subsided, Beeper losing God only knows how much money, and consuming our dinner, it was determined that we should go across the street to the Sprint Center and figure out how to get in and where our seats were. Willie picked up the tab. This thing wasn’t costing me much at all. EARL’S DEAD. CADILLAC FOR SALE. Willie and I are just small town boys. We thought everybody carried pocket knives. Apparently, they’re not real big on that at the Sprint Center. When we complied, and placed our knives in the little baskets at the airportlike security checks going in, they told us they don’t allow such weaponry inside. We could either take them back to the car—which we had no idea where it was—or surrender them, never to be returned. Mine had been a gift from my dearly-departed neighbor, and I was quite fond of it, but there was really no choice. Willie got to keep his metal “church key,” which, as he explained to the lady at the ticket counter, he could use to kill somebody if he wanted to. She didn’t care about that. Somewhere, I’m sure, they have a monthly knife sale, and all the employees have a big party with the proceeds. I hope whoever ends up with mine cuts their finger. The seats were great! 14th row, on the floor, right in front of the stage on the left aisle. Beach balls were flying in the crowd. Those guys who worked there were busily trying to catch them so they could deflate them and lay them in a pile, spoiling everybody’s fun. Huey

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Adventure

Lewis and The News opened and rocked the place to its knees. Then (the opening act) they had to come back for an encore. When Jimmy Buffett and the Coral Reefer Band came out it was as if the roof was going to come off. Nana stood up for the whole show up to her ankles in spilled beer and anxiously awaiting her favorite “Margaritaville.” Beeper, who loved Huey Lewis, wasn’t too thrilled about JB’s set. He had expected a more intimate performance, one that didn’t pander to the rowdy Parrot Heads, and played the more subdued, folksy Jimmy Buffett music that we had been fans of long before this new breed. After the first few songs, Beeper got up from his aisle seat and went to the back, assumedly to get a beer or something to eat. He seemed to be gone for about half an hour and then Nancy got up and left. Maybe the bathroom? With the beach balls flying, I wasn’t surprised to be hit on the head from behind, but something about the impact didn’t feel quite right. Then I realized that the nice lady standing behind me, complete with the nuclear

family, including a young girlchild, had dropped her full beer, which landed upsidedown, still full, on the center of my head, soaking me and Nana and Becky to the core. A few moments later she offered an obligatory apology. About ten minutes after that, Beeper returned, without Nancy, carrying a hot dog he had bought for her. But the show ended and people were cheering for an encore, and she still hadn’t returned. During the first encore song, Nana got a text from Nancy, saying she was waiting “out front and that she had texted Beeper’s phone, but he didn’t reply.” After that song, we left, to beat the crowd. Back at the front of the center where we had come in, Nancy wasn’t there. And we didn’t know where our car was. Little did any of us know that the trip was only now about to get interesting. To be continued…

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Living

Knowing that I had a flight scheduled to Los Angeles the following week, the children ask if Insert image here Stanley could tag along. Being the adventurous soul Settling into one of the vinyl chairs at gate 9 I am, I tell the children that I’d be honored to have waiting to board my flight to Los Angeles, I watch Stanley as my travel partner. I mean, how much the sun rise through the big glass window. Vivid Shadow man??? trouble could I get into with a paper doll? orange and yellow streaks illuminate the sky, The class has done this to others by sending breaking up the darkness that slowly and willingly seventy of Stanley’s brothers across the United acquiesces to the light. States for a project to learn writing, geography and This early morning trip from Little Rock to LA technology skills. Everyone who received a Flat is one I take often, but this time it’s a little different. Stanley took him places and documented his I usually travel on business alone, but this time I activities and snapped photos to send back to the have a travel partner – a guy whom I just met. class. I think Stanley would be a great partner with Normally I don’t go on trips with strange guys – whom to celebrate life. by strange, I mean guys I don’t know and not Before we board the westbound plane, I prop strange guys, because and I know many – but this Stanley up in the chair next to me and take his photo guy is interesting. with my Nikon. It’s the second photo of our trip. A few days ago, I was speaking to first graders The first photo was of us packing. Stanley packs at a local elementary, and there he was lying on a light, but I don’t. desk. Actually, he was a young boy, but there he The flight is pretty standard. The perky flight was looking all dapper in his little blue suit and red attendants pass out sweet rolls, juice and coffee to power tie. the sleepy passengers. I pass on the plastic-wrapped “I’m Stanley, Flat Stanley,” I imagine he’d say pastry, but the coffee sounds good. After a quick if he could introduce himself to me. Even though he stop in Houston, we are on our way to the City of was flat as a pancake and made of paper, he seemed Angels for a meeting with my agent. People look at more mature than most of the guys I’ve been dating. me quizzically when I tell them that I’m not an By Jeanni Brosius

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Living

actress, but a writer. Most writers have agents in New York, but mine is in LA. I was introduced to Sam at a conference two years ago, and it has taken that long to land my second book with a publisher and to get my column printed in 12 newspapers across the country. It almost embarrasses me to tell someone I’m a syndicated columnist and an author. It sounds so much more glamorous than saying I’m a reporter or a journalist. And people expect me to be smart and funny and to be able to spell any word they throw at me, because writers are smart, right? And humor writers and funny and smart. I wish it were that simple, and I’m thankful for my team of editors who help make me look smart and funny. Sam is waiting for us at LAX, and because I’m just staying a few days, I packed everything in my carry-on bag. This always makes for a quick getaway from the airport terminal. After a quick meeting at Sam’s office to discuss the upcoming book tour, he drives me to my hotel to rest up from my long flight. I can’t wait to change into my swimsuit and lounge by the pool. It always makes me feel important to wear my wide-brimmed straw hat and my huge sunglasses and read classic literature while others splash in the water pondering who I am. Inwardly, I pretend that I’m a famous starlet who is incognito just trying to avoid signing autographs and posing for photos with strangers. Hey, it’s possible. After a good-night’s sleep, Stanley and I begin our first full day in LA with a workout. Sam has partnered us up with a personal trainer, who once competed in the Mr. Universe pageant. Pageant? I’m not sure that’s the right word for this beautifully perfect man, because he sure doesn’t look like a beauty queen. Stanley outdoes me on several areas of our workout, especially because his stomach is much flatter than mine. Then Arnold suggests that we take a drive to Palm Springs for lunch and a hike at Mount San Jacinto State Park. His name really isn’t Arnold, but from the neck down, that’s who he reminds me of. His face is actually much nicer than Arnold’s, and his accent is different. After nearly two hours in the car with Arnold, I’m ready to get out and stretch my legs. This is my first time to visit Palm Springs, and as we arrive at 44

Mount San Jacinto, I wonder how in the world I am going to survive hiking up that majestic mountain. It makes Pinnacle Mountain in Little Rock seem so small. Arnold walks around his blue Toyota Prius and opens up the back. Retrieving two jackets, he extends his arm out toward me. The jacket dangles from the end of his index finger. “What’s this?” I ask. “It’s a jacket,” Arnold says with a chuckle. “It may be 100 degrees down here, but it’s a different world up there.” Looking up at that world in which he speaks, I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. So I take the jacket and tie it around my waist. Stepping into what looks like a glass pod hanging from a wire, I eagerly accept this adventure. The 10-minute journey up the mountain on the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway to one of the hiking trails is breathtaking. I’m so excited that Arnold let me tag along with him. He is right about it being a different world. He tells me that we are at an elevation of 8,516 feet, which is almost the altitude where I’d jump from a plane. The temperature at the top is noticeably about 30 to 40 degrees colder than it is on the ground. The air is quite a bit thinner, too. As we hike around the trails, I quickly become short winded. I try to hide it because I don’t want Arnold to think I’m too out of shape to handle a simple hike up a mountain trail. He laughs. “The oxygen is low up here, huh?” I gasp, and try to respond, but my words are cut short by my lack of breath. “Yeah, it is.” But it is well worth it when we perch on a large stone and gaze out at the vastness of California. It’s breathtaking in more ways than one. Arnold smiles at me and then looks back over the edge of the mountain. I pull Stanley out of my pocket and Arnold holds him next to his face, their backs to the mountain’s edge, while I snap a couple of photos. We find ourselves back on the tram, and of course, Stanley poses for a few more photos as we descend back to Palm Springs. “Are you hungry?” Arnold asks me. “Are you kidding? I’m starving!”

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Living

My stomach rumbles at just the thought of nourishment. “I know a place downtown, so we can stop for lunch before heading back,” he says as he opens the car door for me. Our table is situated on a brick sidewalk and surrounded by hovering palm trees. I look down at my lunch, and I can’t wait to dig in. But before I do, I make sure that Stanley gets a photo taken next to the ahi tuna steak on my plate. At the next table were friends of one of Stanley’s brothers. They had taken their Flat Stanley on a hiking trip through wine country, and then he posed with Marilyn Monroe’s star on Hollywood Blvd. After lunch, my Stanley sports Arnold’s shades and poses with a bronzed sculpture of a grinning Sonny Bono on Canyon Drive. Before I realize it, we are driving back to the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles. I am sad that this day is over. At the hotel, I clean up and dress for dinner. I can’t believe I’m actually in LA as I step into the car Sam has sent for me. My dinner meeting goes well with Sam in Santa Monica to finalize my book tour and the particulars of starting my next project.

to New York with me in a couple of weeks. I can’t wait to show him the Big Apple. Reflecting on the strange guys I’ve dated over the last couple of years, I believe that Stanley is the type of man I need. He doesn’t question what I tell him; he never complains, and he is always smiling. If he were to ever argue with me, I would just fold him up and tuck him into my purse. After all, how much trouble can I get into with a paper doll?

**** After a few days in California, Stanley and I are happy to be on our way back to Arkansas. Stanley is quiet while we wait for our flight at LAX. Thinking back at how perfect Arnold looks, I realize that he isn’t much better than Stanley when it comes to conversation. I look down at Stanley and think that he may just be the perfect man for me. Just when I’m thinking my relationship with Stanley could go somewhere, he causes a stir as we board the plane at George Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston when he insists on having his own seat. Although the plane isn’t full, the flight attendant refuses to allow Stanley to have his own seat. She also refuses to serve him any more root beer. Stanley and I bonded on our trip, and we have many photos and stories to share. In fact, we enjoy each other’s company so much that I’m taking him

Jeanni Brosius knew she wanted to be a writer when she was in fourth grade, but she became a professional journalist by accident. After a number of years as a stay-at-home mom, she began working in the newspaper industry almost 20 years ago as reporter and photographer for a regional newspaper. She later had a syndicated column for seven years and served as membership chairwoman for the National Society of Newspaper Columnists. Over the course of her career, she has held positions such as section editor, managing magazine editor, publicist, author, speaker and features writer. She currently has the best boss she could possibly imagine: herself.

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Literary

I Thought I Was a Child By Rhonda Leigh Crone This essay was first published in “Grokking the Fullness,” TigerEye Publications, 2014. Used with permission. When you’re a child, the older people in your life seem worldly and wise. They have it totally pulled together, and they know exactly what they’re doing. Don’t they? They are adults, after all. Your parents, teachers, older brother, they all have the right to act as irrationally as they please— they are adults. You hate them, but you love them just the same. But then you become an adult, unwillingly, inevitably, and your eyes open to a frightening new reality. Nothing is as it seemed in childhood. Holidays suck, your parents’ house is no longer a mansion, and your grandma’s back yard is no longer an enchanted forest. In hindsight, your Aunt Rosey was just plain crazy, not eccentric; your teachers were average, and your big brother wasn’t as brilliant or tough as you thought he was. And all these people that you once held upon a pedestal, now they all make mistakes. And you are disappointed because you’re smart enough to realize it. It really pisses you off. They say, “The family that drinks together sinks together,” but I’m not so sure about that. We’ve had our ups and downs, but we could never be accused of being mundane, or a failure as a family. I have been fascinated by my family since I was old enough to sing along to the James Taylor songs my brother Steve strummed as everyone sat around, drinks in hand and smiles on their faces…sometimes I can still feel the energy, the presence of all those people, just as they were back then. I love that feeling. It is at the very core of my being, that feeling. It was 1976, and Steve and Jenny’s house was reminiscent of a hippie commune. It was hidden under the trees on a gravel road in a small, southern town. Under a big magnolia tree was a pond with frogs and lily pads. Music poured out from the windows. Inside, there was red shag carpet

and a room named “The Doom Room” after a friend whose spooky painted portrait hung on the door. I slept in that room when we spent weekends there, and I was certain it was haunted. In the den next to it, where all the living took place, were a built-in bar, an old piano, and a slot machine, the kind that rang up lemons and oranges and cherries. Downstairs was dungeonlike, with a small bed built into the wall, curtained with hanging beads, where I also liked to sleep when none of their friends had passed out drunk there. The house was full of music and laughter, and though I was the only child in the family, I felt a part of it, and I gazed admiringly at my family as if they were the coolest and most interesting people in the world. I thought Steve and his wife Jenny were Sonny and Cher, as Jenny harmonized to the cover songs he sang. One of my favorites was a Jackson Browne song: Let the music keep their spirits high. Let the buildings keep their children dry. Let creation reveal its secrets, by and by. By and by. ~ from “Before the Deluge” It all started to change when Steve and Jenny had a baby and moved to Skyville, where our parents and I moved when Dad was relocated as an insurance adjuster. It was time for Steve to surrender his dream of being a musician and join the family business. He was a father now, after all. Time to face reality. When everyone met at home on weekends, it was all about playing cards, dominos and music, and drinking. Late in the evening, we sat around on the living room couches and floor, with Steve playing and singing for hours. Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays were nothing less than perfect. And I was the center of it all. The baby. I could do no wrong. I loved it when all of them were there, sleeping on mattresses and couches. They drank lime-green daiquiris and made virgin ones for me. They stayed up until early in the morning at the kitchen table, while I lay nearby on the floor, wrapped in my little blue quilt, struggling to not fall asleep for fear that I may miss some fascinating

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Literary piece of their conversation. Eventually, someone lifted me up and unsteadily carried me off to my Holly Hobbie white canopy bed. I worshipped them all. I couldn’t predict all of the heartache and change to come. I never, ever thought it was anything less than perfect. As time went by, Steve became reluctant to play, but he could be persuaded with persistent begging and a few drinks. Even when the only music played was Kris Kristofferson records, those times were still magical. That world could and never will be replicated, but it’s still there, in my mind, in the 1970s. Soon, my older sister and other brother married, and more children came. I was an aunt at eight years old. I was no longer the baby. I resented it deeply at first, and then began to love those babies, and feel as if I was finally the big sister. But each year, the holidays became more and more about gifts, and who couldn’t afford this and who didn’t do that, who had to go to the in-laws, and all of that grown-up married shit. The spirit we once had was fading away. There was anger and hostility. The end of an era that I now know was fuzzily taking shape. I’m not ungrateful. I’m thankful that I still have my parents and all my siblings, miraculously, but the family I knew back then, that one is almost gone. On our dad’s 76th birthday, Steve played guitar and we all sang like old times, only my kids are the babies now. I know that in the future, those times will be few, but through divorces and bankruptcies and near-deaths, somehow, we’ve made it this far. But our family home on Ridgeview Drive, it was our rock, and it seems like we lost more than just a brick house when we lost it. Now after some wandering, I live only twenty minutes south from that house on Ridgeview Drive, and my parents moved thirty miles north to a retirement village — a condominium with no yard for horseshoes, no five o’clock happy hours, no nights of couples slowdancing to Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings, cans of Miller High Life and Budweiser in hand. It’s set on a golf course but my dad, he’s never played golf. 48

No one is exactly sure why they did it. The move. At one point, it was that my mother was sick and tired of the happy hours and the drop-ins and the constant flow of drunk people. After 25 years, maybe she just needed a change. Some goddamn peace and quiet. My dad used the excuse of his gimp leg and that he couldn’t take care of the lawn any more, but the funny thing was, he had a riding lawnmower. I lived out of town when they made the move, and it didn’t really affect me until I settled down and had kids of my own, and realized the value and wonder of my childhood, right there in that brick house in that subdivision. Sometimes, I get the urge to drive over there, and I just circle the block in my car, and see who is still there, and what houses have not been kept up and how our old house looks. My next-door neighbors Kent and Katie’s dad died last year, and their mom is still there right next door. A couple of other neighbors are still there, too. I can tell because they drive the same cars that they always did, or they have the same silly yard gnomes or whatever it was that made the house their own. I look at my best friend Beth’s old house, which is now some sort of retirement home, and I think of the years I spent running up and down that long hallway inside. I go back toward our house and past twins, Kent and Katie’s house, and I see the yellow fire hydrant on the corner of our old yard, and the spot on the sidewalk where all of the kids wrote our names and made our imprints in the fresh, wet concrete, and I cry. I heard that a younger boy, now 32, who grew up down the street from us, actually bought our house, after a couple of people before him. So one day I was nearby, and I went there. I had my two-year-old with me, and I walked right up that steep driveway and pulled open the same stained and peeling white wooden door with the same torn screen, and I knocked. I looked up and saw the rigged garage door-opener button my father had made. The fingerprints, our fingerprints, are still beside it. I looked down at the same copper and speckled black doorknob with the push-button lock as it opened. Behind me, the screen door made the same noise it always had. The girl and her husband

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Literary had bought the house a year or so ago, and not much had changed. Nothing but my mother’s touch. Our house was always furnished beautifully, and I loved the many weekends when my mom got the urge to rearrange the furniture and paintings all by herself with Neil Diamond or Joan Baez albums blaring on the stereo. Now, there was a poster on the wall and a small square table pushed up against the window where our round table and all of those afternoon happy hours had taken place. The wallpaper we left, the carpet and the vertical blinds on the sliding glass door were still there. The same dated 70s green kitchen appliances, cabinets with copper hardware, and the same tile floor was there. Even out back, my dad had hung white Christmas lights on a trellis covering the patio, and they were still there too. In the bathrooms, the same sink faucets with diamond-shaped knobs that said “Whirlpool” in the middle were there, and the marbled countertop, and the shower rod. In the foyer, the very same faux-brick floor and fogged glass windows on each side of the door, they were there. And the same copper doorknob that never locked right, that I still dream about, along with the deadbolt that my father finally installed sometime in the ’90s, were still there, too. From there, I thanked the girl who was living in my house and I exited, crying, looking down at that same crack on the concrete porch, and at what remained of my mother’s tulips around the light post. I walked down the front slope and stopped at the end where the two steps met the street, where I had spent hundreds of hours just sitting, being a child. I looked at the street where I learned to ride my bike and where I burned a Bee Gees record and where I later bent over into cars to flirt with boys. I looked at the lady’s house across the street, the one with the one silver spot on her big head of black curly hair, the one that hated my friends and I as teenagers and who still lived there. I wondered if she was happy now that we were gone. But really, we were still there; we’ll always be there. I carried my two-year-old down the sidewalk and to the corner where the yellow fire hydrant was. I let him down and took his picture

standing next to it, and I can see my beloved red brick house in the background. I’ll cherish that picture. It may be as close as he or my daughter ever get to a childhood like I was lucky enough to have. My wonderful, angstless, subdivision 1970s childhood.

Rhonda Crone loves to write about food, local culture and travel and secretly has a lifelong dream to write for Rolling Stone. When not working as Edible Ozarkansas Magazine's ad salesperson, promoting her regional cookbook Local Flavor of Northwest Arkansas, dabbling in screenwriting or writing her blog rhorhosbistro.squarespace.com, she drinks and cooks, taxis kids, does hot yoga and bikes Fayetteville’s city trail system with her family.

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Living only thing more powerful than a mother’s touch.” By Angelia Roberts

They got that right.

If you had been part of our family circus, you would have been a stinky kid too. It all goes back to my Grandma Rand who was a firm believer that Vick’s Vapor Rub could cure anything and the majority of her grandchildren never went to bed without a “poultice.” This may be a new concept in medical technology for some of you, but ...for the Sanders/Rand kids, we grew up with a cloth soaked in the stinky concoction. And if you were out of Vick’s then Bengay took second place. I always made a big deal out of getting plastered, although Grandma always won. She would take a soft cloth and pin it so that the darn thing was permanently attached to our outer clothing. It was her version of an ankle monitor, because the little woman had some kind of built-in sensor and would know immediately if we attempted to take it off. That was usually after she had a melt-down because my mom did not dress me in the mandatory undershirt. In Grandma’s world, an undershirt was to be worn nine months out of the year and she was always checking to see if we had the proper attire. My cousins Arleen, Colleen and Gayleen were the model grandchildren (aka favorites) who were always properly dressed. Even Tina Marie wore her little white undershirt. Cousin Elaine lived in Kansas, and was given a little more leeway and didn’t get in quite as much trouble if she backtalked. That never worked for me or Colleen. Come bedtime, it was nothing for us to all be lined up like little monkeys with one or more of us smelling like a medical facility.

Our little four-foot-something no-nonsense grandmother was a believer in doing things her way. I can still hear her screaming at me because I was always trampling something in her beloved garden or telling me she didn’t care how much I hurt after jumping out of the barn loft. She didn’t like it very much when we laughed over her inability to say the word “shut” and it always came out “shet.” “Shet the refrigerator door,” “shet the front door,” and “shet your mouths,” would send us into a fit of laughter. She didn’t share in our humor. Now that is all behind us, I’d love to relive those summer days when we ran roughshod over the backside of Rodney and drove our grandparents crazy. I bet she’d get a lot less flack if we could all go back one more time and listen to her groan and grumble about how much trouble we could be. We’d all be happy to pile into one of those old cold bedrooms with handmade quilts piled so high it was hard to move in any direction. Once we were all tucked in, we would giggle all night long. In the morning we’d wake up to a big hearty breakfast and the rest of the day was ours to do whatever we could dream up. Ah, to just be able to relive one of those days all over again. It would be worth putting up with a little stinky.

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Living

Springtime shopping A day at the market through the eyes of a child By Jeanni Brosius A few crocus peek out from beneath the cool earth giving me the heads up that springtime is near. When February meets March, the air begins to warm and lovely greens are fresh at the local farmers markets. My daughter Madelyn and I moved to Little Rock in the fall of 2009. It was the following spring that we discovered the glorious bounty of locally grown foods. She had recently turned three, and one Saturday morning in March we visited two markets within the city. Her long curls bounced over the back of her bright pink jacket as she skipped down the sidewalk toward the tent-covered farm stands. Stopping to ask a man if she could pet his yellow lab, Madelyn smiled like I had not seen her smile in months. Genuine happiness flowed through her small body, from head-to-toe, this little city girl finally seemed at home. At our first stop, we tasted odd jelly combinations from the small glass sample jars that were lined up

on the edge of the table. Ginger, lavender, lemon and thyme were listed in some of the names of the different jellies. Lemon Drop turned out to be my favorite. The farmers seemed to be just as taken with Madelyn as she was with them. They took the time to talk with her and answer her questions, and one lady even gave her a few herbs to take home and plant. Between visits with the farm-stand vendors, Madelyn took slices of her morning to visit with the dogs who were leading their owners up and down the sidewalk, allowing them to stop from time to time to purchase a bag of radishes or spinach. There were big dogs and small dogs, they were all friendly and loved the attention Madelyn gave them. By the time we reached the end of the line of covered stands, I knew this would turn into a Saturday morning ritual for this mother-daughter duo. Several springs have come and gone since that first visit to the farmers market in 2010. It remains a Saturday morning tradition for us, and now that Madelyn is seven, she still looks forward to talking to the farmers, trying their fruits and vegetables and bringing fresh flowers home for our dining table. Some of the regular farmers know Madelyn now and seem to miss her when we don't make it on a certain Saturday. They've even inspired her to plant her own garden. She even

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saves seeds from apples, lemons, pumpkins and watermelons for future gardens. I'm so thankful for the hour or two that we take on Saturday mornings to visit the farmers markets in the city. Each year when springtime comes around, and the jonquils poke their lovely yellow heads out from beneath the soil, I know the redbuds, dogwoods and roses are not far behind. And I look forward to the abundance of fresh foods that Arkansas farmers bring to town for those of us who may live in the city but are still country girls at heart.

Living

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Living Not easily rationalized “Don’t call me. Don’t call me. Don’t call me.” I kept repeating those words over and over in my head, but after a couple of names were drawn, I heard, “Anngeleeiah Roberts.” Ugh. This was a dilemma. My first trip, and the cynic non-believer was selected to ask a question of John Edward, the psychic, who connects with dead people. For a lot of those in ...attendance having their name called would have been like winning the lottery, but not me. I didn’t really need to contact anyone and was pretty sure to be labeled a complete lunatic if I brought up something that happened to me years ago. I just wanted to toss out some safe topic, but, instead found myself babbling about that particular incident, and here is where it gets really squirrelly/dicey/you ain’t gonna believe what I’m fixing to tell you. … It was by phone! It’s a little hard to make people understand that you are just home minding your own business and you get a call from a dead person. (Actually, I haven’t told that many people … with things like … court-ordered evaluations.) Too busy trying to process why I was holding my phone and how a man who had been dead for several years could be on the other end, my first thought was this was some really cruel joke, but I knew that voice. I didn’t hang up. Who would? Old boyfriends have been known to reconnect with me from time to time, but not dead ones. He said he had been trying to get in touch with me for a long time and wanted me to come and see him. He even gave me directions to where he was living. The call was short, sweet and to the point. “I just want you to know, I am doing really good. I will be here when you get here and I can’t wait to see you.” Right then, without a doubt, I knew I was dying. The next few days (maybe even weeks) were spent in a fetal position. My poor brain kept trying to rationalize the most shocking thing that had ever happened and I would keep checking in with the man upstairs to make sure we were still good. That incident happened more than 10 years ago and it is still as vivid today as it was then.

Telling that crazy story to a room full of strangers, it all came rushing back. As the night went on I became more and more aware that I was supposed to be at this event, but it took some time to process everything that was happening. There are some who believe in unexplained occurrences and there are those who don’t. I fell right into the Doubting Thomas category who only went to write some tongue-in-cheek column about how my X came and said, “Chub, quit kicking my headstone,” say hi to Grandma or to tell my friend her dad was missing one of her mom’s Apricot Nectar cakes, but, no Bruce, no Kennard, no Grandma, so it didn’t go the way this control freak had planned. Somehow, I felt my presence at this event was linked to a friend whose daughter died 14 years ago. So, I told her about the experience and how there might be a bond to her, but no idea why. Now for the icing on the cake. It seems she had been contacted by someone years earlier who also had gotten a phone call with a specific message attached that her daughter was OK. Far-fetched? Unbelievable? Down-right crazy? Yes. Yes. Yes. Apparently, there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of people who report they have had phone calls from deceased loved ones. After attending the John Edward event, I came away with the affirmation that our loved ones have the ability to connect with us and it can come and go so quickly that you are not sure it happened at all. It was like an “a-ha” moment. I now believe that long ago incident was to comfort me, because at the time I was in a really bad place, physically, mentally and spiritually. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if something as simple as a phone call/text/unexpected letter could bring us peace of mind? It would be a lot less painful than all the times I’ve kicked a granite headstone. But, no matter what our beliefs, we should all be able to agree that we need to communicate, appreciate and validate the people in our lives who are here, which is Edward’s message to us all. I feel so strongly about the experience and what transpired afterward that you won’t hear me saying, “Don’t call me. Don’t call me. Don’t call me.”

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Meet Rick Baber: Publisher

Rick Baber was born to poor Hungarian immigrants in the back of a sod truck, along a dirt road in Yucatan, Mexico on New Year’s Eve, 1954. He survived, grew up in Batesville, Arkansas, fathered a son, got old, and now lives with his lovely better half, Becky, in tropical Springdale, Arkansas. He sometimes writes fiction, or embellished truths. He has been an insurance adjuster & private investigator and a professional photographer & digital artist since before most people were able to read. He is the publisher of TigerEye Publications, which he founded following his first novel, Purity, in 2010. Other books of Rick’s include Dinner with WT, Darker Tales, and “unrighteous god,” – which nobody will buy because they’re afraid they’ll go to Hell. Rick’s interests include colonoscopies, mowing wet grass and occasionally playing music with other old rockers. He can be reached by email at cybermouth@hotmail.com , or sometimes located behind the dumpster at the Elm Springs Road Kum & Go.

Meet Angelia Roberts: Publisher Angelia Roberts is an award-winning journalist who has spent the past 25 years cataloguing the truth, half-truths and fictional lives of others. She lives in Melbourne with her neurotic dog, Andre, who demands she cook his favorite meal of spaghetti regularly and keep plenty of ice cream on hand, just in case Sonic is closed. In addition to the spoiled dog, she is the mother of four interesting adults, Nanna to five grands, ring-leader of some adventurous Wonder Women and more than one significant other refers to her as “my favorite or lovely X wife.” She is easily bored and always in search of some new adventure. From time to time she wanders off the reservation, but always leaves a trail of bread crumbs in order to find her way back home. She can be reached at angeliaroberts@hotmail.com .

Columnist: Frank Wallis

Frank Wallis, 60, of Mountain Home is a retired Arkansas journalist. Career stops included newspapers in Batesville, Little Rock and Mountain Home. He's an avid collector of old fishing tackle and a member of the National Fishing Lures Collectors Club. Frank is a notorious hoarder.

Editor at Large: Beth Arnold

A JOURNALIST AND award-winning writer who for a decade (2002-2012) made her home in Paris, Batesville native Beth Arnold has written for Rolling Stone, GQ, InStyle, Self, American Way, Premiere, and Mirabella. Online, besides her regular blogging for The Huffington Post and for www.betharnold.com (where she published her acclaimed â&#x20AC;&#x153;Letter From Parisâ&#x20AC;?branded column and podcasts), she has also written for Salon.com, Vogue.com, and Marco Polo Quarterly, among others. Her prime journalistic topics are culture, politics, travel, and people.

Jim Carpenter dba ASAP - Arkansas, Delivery Services 501-765-8806 or 1-800-895-5514. 1 envelope to 4 pallets. Same day In State. Dallas on Tuesdays. Nationwide by appointment. Facebook Jim Carpenter North Little Rock, AR

? Magazine September, 2015

Next Ish

? Magazine September, 2015