Mischief from an earlier time

"So what's up, Mr. Francis Stanley Pruett?" it read, her soft, elegant cursive out of place on the carefully folded notebook paper.

I looked over at her and listened as Ken Norton, our speech professor, droned on about persuasive and forensic speaking and the subtle difference between snooze and bore. I smiled as he scanned the class's eyes, including mine, then took my pen.

I scribbled as he took the chalk and turned his back.

"You know what's up," I replied, replicating her secret triangle perfectly and tossing it, letting it skip off her book and bounce off the wall into her lap.

She took it and read, then rolled her, eyes, looking at me and shrugging as if to say, "No I don't."

It grabbed my crotch and made a pained expression, then, making sure Ken was busy, let my tongue hang out of my mouth as I stared blankly at her and rocked my hips.

Her eyes went wide, her ears reddened with her cheeks and she bit her lower lip, glaring as if to say "stop" as I fluttered my eyelids in mock ecstasy. I heard the chalk hit the tray and returned to my note-taking posture.

"And Frank, if I were to say that enthymemes were employed..." he asked, his hands on his hips.

"We would be talking about a forensic speech in which certain key elements were left implied," I said.

He smiled, and I realized he was just asking his go-to student, not really after me, but Marcie smiled when he turned away again and pointed, mouthing, "ha ha," and squinting with her tongue at her teeth as if having a little laugh.

I smiled and listened to Kenn for a bit, then started to fold a piece of paper when the original hit me in the head.

"Everyone was watching you," she wrote. "Do something else."

I smiled and wrote back, "Sure," then folded it all back together.

I also finished my own little magic triangle and wrote, "So, what's up, Miss Marcelyn Ann Stoddard?" I tossed it back to her when he turned for a bare second, then waited. Ken started writing on the board and I stood, looked at her and thrust my hips before sitting down.

The classroom rustled a bit and Marcie hid her head in her book, her ears beet red. Ken stopped and turned. The chuckles subsided and he smiled as I adjusted interestedly in my desk.

My own came back and read.

"I have a bottle of wine for our picnic tonight... or not," she had written.

We drank it at the break, sharing only a few sips with out classmate, a Texan who had given us all a harrowing story of eating pork and developing worms in her brain.

How do you not give someone like that something to drink? Even if you're a bastard, she is bound to tell you something amusing.

It didn't matter at the time. We decided to finish class drunk after downing the whole bottle in 30 minutes.

It was the best day in speech class... ever.

Our One-Time Sod Anniversary

I made mention of a brief visit to the Ould Sod here. Last night was the anniverary of that little visit, and also corresponded to friend's invitation to go listen to some music. I have come to spend a couple nights a week, an hour or two at a time, in the Sod.

I have reviewed the Ould Sod on my Yelp page. They've been good to me, and I hope to make them the sendoff party location when I pack up and sail away from San Diego for good. We'll see.

I had an enjoyable time listening to the strains of Irish folk music, all instrumental, being played. I just pine for a Irish lass to belt a tune or two out along with the band. That would be something, now wouldn't it?

Of course, I would also settle for the off-key-but-adorable redhead wandering around the house and trying her best to sing whatever song was on her mp3 player at the top of her lungs. That would be something for sure.

On the Sod, I will post pictures later. I ran into my first professor of philosophy there last night, and he's a cool guy.

A little tiny moment

NOTE: Reference to fooling around (brief).

There was a muggy summer day in Humboldt County. Marcie had been to Wildberries, leaving without me and coming back in the misty heat. She slipped into the room as I toiled at the computer, pulling together a piece on The Dunes.

"Honey, are you hungry?" she asked.

I had heard her come in and kept working. But I stopped and considered the question. As was usual when I was working, my mind over-thought everything. Would this be a menu request afterward? Does she want to go have breakfast?

Her hand slid over my neck cool and soft and she began to massage me. I took a deep breath and enjoyed the sensation of her touch on me, the smell of her hair as she leaned down to read my work, and the smell of blueberries.

I saw in her other hand a little plate of blueberries, strawberries and bananas. A "donut stick," an unhealthful favorite of mine, was there, too. I smiled and licked my lips. She turned and kissed me, smiling.

It was a good, content, quiet kiss. Seamus did not even stir in my lap. Afterward, the story seemed clearer and I rushed through it with ease.

"You need to eat, Mr. Reporter," she said. She fed me the fruit and the donut playfully whenever I paused.

When I was done, she smiled as I saved and shook her head. I looked up quizzically.

"Oh, honey," she said. "It was a great story, I'm sure they'll like it. You're really good at this."

I was very proud, because she was a discerning reader. We fooled around, then bathed each other in cool water, and lounged the rest of the day in front of fans, watching television. It was just a simple, good day.

I miss those. I cherish that one in particular.

Where I run

Running has become my balm, my healing motion, my security blanket. I run like a fool, and I thoroughly enjoy it. I can start a run in a thoroughly depressed state and will finish it in a tired but elevated mood every time.

I have been running in my little neighborhood since before Marcie passed on and have built my distance from 2-3 miles all the way up to about 8, pushing to 13.1 every two weeks and dropping back down (to build speed) until I peak up again, adding a tenth or two each cycle.

Usually, I just run a little loop through places that I have walked with her. I am going to make little tours of our neighborhood, adding places to visit and some sound files. My hope is to let people walk in our footsteps a little and give them things to discover on the way.

You'll know when it happens, of course.

For now, here is my running path, replete itself in Marcie's walking haunts and as-yet unlabeled kitty pal stops.