Mountains and Islands

Speed bumps. You know them, those jolting bars of raised blacktop placed across roadways or in parking lots to control drivers' speed. Today, I traveled a long, lonely road to my pal Steve's farm. He wants me to write some copy for his new website. I've been buying his jams and jellies for a couple of years now. Anyway, I couldn't help but noticing the placards warning motorists along the way of those sharp rises in the pavement. Diamond shaped and yellow, they look like yield signs but say, "speed hump." That's what they call them here. Speed humps. What an image. There are some in things in life that should not be rushed and humping is one of them. Steve has tiny dogs that dart around in front of the car as you pull in through his gate. I stopped, of course, for fear of hitting them, and the gate closed on my car door. It's a thrash and bash mobile, so no harm was done. He waved me in, shouting, "Don't worry. They're fast.

The tradewinds are dead, dead, dead this morning and the vog , like Old Man River, just keeps on rollin ' alo -o-o- ong . Our zucchini leaves will be fried before noon. Cilantro? Fugettaboutit ! It's history. Lettuce? No chance. On Saturday night, Ron was watching something on the History channel while I was, as always, parked on the couch, legs crossed Indian style as we used to say (though I'm sure that's no longer PC) with my laptop, believe it or not, on my lap. The announcer made a reference to Casanova . Ron rose from his spot and headed to the kitchen to get himself a beer. This was an anomaly , since that's typically my job. He stopped en route , right in front of me, and stuck his gut out as far as he could, swaying his back just a bit for added effect. I looked up. "What do you think? Could I be a Casanova ?" he asked, a goofy grin plastered just below the mustache. "Maybe a casse role ," I said. Yeah, it was hilarious

We were on our way to town the other day - we needed beer and wanted papayas - listening to that venerable radio news source, NPR. They're professional. They're knowledgeable. Master journalists. The two anchors talked about the exploits of a firm owned by Blackwater , the company doing work in Iraq. I'll admit I tuned out for a moment, mentally that is, my mind somewhere far away. As I stared through the window, the woman's voice faded, to become vague and distant, obscured by the whir of passing trucks with over-sized mud tires. Then, a single word wrangled my attention away from the buzz of traffic, the passing foliage, the dashboard squeaks. "Did she just say, ' subsiderary ?'" I asked. "Yes, I think she did," Ron said. "Un-f#$@%^ believable," I said. I didn't say that out loud of course, because that would be crude and classless, but I thought it. OK maybe I said it. The male voice followed, using the same w

When I told Ron I would become a writing tutor, he said that was impossible, since I'm not English. (I have so rubbed off on this guy.) Together, students and I hammer home thesis statements and smooth paragraph transitions. We identify possessives and the need for those pesky apostrophes that go with them. We ensure proper tense and article usage, fix sentence fragments and run-ons; you get the picture. It's satisfying to see the lights come on when they recognize the errors themselves and craft fine sentences right before my eyes. There is, however, a dark side to the tutoring trade, a sordid element, a seedy underbelly. On Thursday afternoon, a girl approached the desk while I was working with another student. She waved a paper in front of me, interrupting our session. I recognized the form. Some lower level English course instructors require that students review each assignment with a tutor. The tutor checks off each element reviewed, then initials the sheet. &

I am standing at the kitchen sink washing dishes when I hear Ron get up from his nap.   "What do you want for dinner tonight?"  He asks.  This is the first and most important question we address most days. "I don't know.  Anything," I say.  This is my customary answer.  (It's our version of, What do you want to do?  I don't know.  What do you want to do? )   "We can have that masala sauce we bought the other day with some chicken and stir-fry vegetables," he says. "We have stir fry vegetables?" I confirm.  "Yep.  I bought some," he says.   "Sounds good to me," I say.  "Are you getting up?" I ask, dishes rumbling in the sink. "No. I just had to pee," he says.  (Are you riveted yet?  I swear to Pele, this is how boring we really are.) "OK. Have a nice nappy," I say.  That's what we call it.  A nappy.  I resume with the dishes. Left to my own, inner mental devices, it's