Julie R Fricke

I gazed fondly at my Prince Charming over the flickering golden glow of the candle. It was our one-month wedding anniversary and he was treating me to an intimate dinner at “our” restaurant. What a whirlwind romance it had been!

“Yes, Darling, what were you saying?” I swirled the ruby liquid in its crystal glass. I guess I better not let myself get swept away in my real-life fantasies, I mused.

“Do I want to jet away to the Bahamas tomorrow? …an impromptu celebration?” My new husband’s gorgeous brown eyes twinkled at me. “It’s a surprise,” he said. That adorable dimple developed in his left cheek as his smile grew.

My heart, if possible, melted just a little bit more. “Absolutely,” I replied. What a catch!

“We’ll be leaving LAX tomorrow at 8:00,” he continued. “I hope that’s OK.”

“Bahamas? I’ve never been there.” I could hardly think of anything else. Tropical Beach? Sign me up!

“We’ll need to leave the house at …”

But I was already wondering if I needed a new bikini.

***

La la la tra la. The musical tinkling of the alarm punctured my sleep at pitch black o’clock. WaaaH!! That innocuous sound couldn’t fool me! This mid-slumber disruption was not in my wheelhouse!

“C’mon, dear. The Bahamas are calling.” Perfect husband appeared in my blurry vision already shaved, showered, and dressed. What the? That smile didn’t sleep?

Like an automatron, I sat up in bed. In synchrony, so did my hair upon my head.

“Hurry, dear, we need to leave the house in thirty minutes.”

If I had been able to think straight, I would have murdered him with my death glare. But it was far too early for such strenuous calisthenics. I ran the toothbrush over my morning-mouth teeth (was mine the red or the blue toothbrush?) climbed into the outfit I had set aside last night, (wondering how that tag ended up poking me in the throat,) and shoved a hat over my disheveled hair. Did I have my ID for the plane? The boarding pass? The snacks I had conscientiously packed? Yep, yep, and yep.

“Good to go,” I mumbled.

Thirty minutes later, as we parked the car, I tucked the bar-coded parking receipt into my purse. Ten minutes after that, as we were checking in, a small part of my brain woke up. “Um Darling? I left my phone at home.”

“What?!” Darling exclaimed. “How will you get by?! Well, too late to go retrieve it now.” He continued checking our bags in. As a reaction to my muddled mind, I was compelled to clear my purse of all the extraneous grocery lists, used tissues, and expired coupons. I dumped them in the large airport trash can. Whew, that’s a little better, I mused. Unnoticed, the parking receipt fluttered into the bin with the rest of the dreck.

We hurried through Security. I made sure to pick up my car keys out of the doggie bowl TSA provides for random objects like that and carefully stowed them into one of my jacket’s six pockets. We sat and waited for our flight to board while eating the tortilla cream cheese wraps I had crafted last night. We’re getting there. I was still smarting about the forgotten cell phone but at least we were in the right place.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we’re sorry to announce that this flight will be delayed by two hours due to an issue with the jet stream…”

Hubby and I turned distraught eyes upon each other. He jumped up to go attempt to make changes in our flight itinerary.

Thirty minutes later we watched our original flight begin boarding while we waited for our rescheduled flight. Again, we turned our suffering eyes upon each other. Oh well.

***

At last! On the plane—squeezed, of course, between two strangers. Darling Husband is three rows back. That’s what comes from last minute rescheduling.

I had packed so carefully! But I realize my personal seat allotment is more like a vacuum cleaner shoved into the middle of an already over-stuffed coset. I begin to pull my diversionary materials out of the backpack with the five zippered compartments. I know where the laptop is. I extract it and place it on top of the jacket and sweater on my knees. This seems inconvenient so I move it to the tray table. I fish out two crossword magazines and place them on top of the laptop and then turn the whole pile by 90 degrees, hoping to miraculously create a smidge more space. I wonder into which hidey-hole I had tucked my red pen. Bent over jackets and twisting around the tray table I grope through the backpack which is keeping my storage scheme a mystery. Aha! There’s the pen. I eye it with mild trepidation. It seems like last time…

Gotcha! Red ink blurts out of the pen coating my hands like blood. Uh-huh, that‘s what happened last time. This pen’s plumbing is no match for the changing air pressure at thirty-thousand feet. I use the hand sanitizer wipe helpfully offered by the flight attendant as we boarded to clean up the ink carnage on my erstwhile pen and try to remove the evidence from my fingers and palms.

I set to work the nearly dead pen on the crossword until it totally gives out, crossword 90% done. OK, now what shall I do?

I carefully remove the iPad from zippered pocket #1 (or would that be #5) and attempt to open the Kindle book I had purchased yesterday to pleasantly pass the interminable hours on the plane. Am I doing this wrong? Where’s the kindle book? Nada, no luck, ingenting. Ok, so much for that; what else can I read on this thing?

The flight attendant comes by offering beverage service. I perk up. “Could I please have a decaf coffee?” I implore him.

“It’s just instant,” he replies with some chagrin.

“That’s fine.” I’m aware that’s the way it usually is for us decaf folks. Ten minutes later he shuffles back with a creamy mixture. I take a sip with anticipation. Cool! No, COLD! This stuff has been brewed with cold tap water! Not my fault but certainly par for today’s course.

I glance back at Hubbs, perhaps seeking some long-distance sympathy. I get a little tremor of apprehension seeing his exquisitely cute seatmate chatting him up. How dare he give her his winsome smile?! My smile! Now that I’ve finally woken up, why is my day turning out like this?

***

The soft black tropical night envelopes us as we chink our glasses together. We’re finally here! Between the soothing sounds of gentle waves and the glistening stars over the cabana, I feel the possibility of rejuvenation in spite of the harrowing day.

“Can you believe they almost couldn’t find our luggage?” I remind him.

“Or your missing hotel reservations left at home on your phone?” he counters.

“Oh my God, how could I forget?”

“What would you like to do tomorrow morning?” my beloved asks. “I was going to suggest a sunrise champagne breakfast, followed by surfing lessons. Or there are samba lessons we could sign up for at 9 am. Your choice.”

I almost choke on my Kahlua. I have no words. No words at all.

“What’s the matter, Honey? Don’t those things sound fun?”

“I guess I’m not a morning person,” I reply. “But don’t they have samba lessons tonight? I’m ready to rumble!”

He turns his wrist to look at his watch. He makes a tiny little grimace but then says, “Why not? Let’s go!”

I love this guy. I think it’s going to work out.

Jaz smoothed the maroon shirt smartly across his chest. Fortunately, it was Lycra, so this wasn’t difficult. He spent a full five minutes affixing his Mars Force officer’s badge in precisely the right position.  Definitely wanted to look sharp when meeting the boss this morning.

The e-mail had come in yesterday evening, right before dinner. He had been looking forward to contemplating his plans for the next day’s holiday. Instead he was staring at the e-mail, not sure what to make of it. It read, “Have important things to discuss with you. Can you meet at ten tomorrow morning?” It was from the boss.

What could he want to talk about? wondered Jaz.  Dread trickled into his thoughts. Is it about the dent in the PEV we sustained while escaping that rockfall last week near the Marianas Rift? That totally was unavoidable. In fact, I should get a medal for getting us out of there without loss of life.

A new thought entered his mind. A thin smile crept up over his face as he considered the new, cheerier idea. A medal! Could it be? Had they finally recognized the talent that they had right under their noses?  He jolted with this better possible outcome. He tried to bury the sour feeling of apprehension in the pit of his stomach and concentrate on the positive. He HAD saved the crew that time!

Jaz glanced at his watch. He realized that if he concentrated, he could get the account of the rockfall journaled in the thirty minutes he had left before he had to leave for his meeting. Just one more of the endless assignments this general was always demanding. He hustled over to his computer. Madly, he began cranking out his account of the incident. It all would have been done in good time but he kept thinking of more important details to add. There was the time where he had to leap across a chasm to save Dax, and then…

Jaz cricked his neck to relieve a cramp that was developing. And his thumb had a new, painful ache. Work related injuries, he mused. There was the clock glaring at him. Oh No! Now he was oh-so-close to being late! He pushed ”SEND” and hustled out the door.

“Permission to enter, sir?” Jaz appeared at the office door and made the requisite courtesy request.

“Please come in,” Captain Eurystheus replied grimly after returning the salute. “Have a seat, please.”

Jaz thought about the encounter so far. None of the language was unusual and yet, and yet. Somehow it didn’t feel like he was invited there for commendations.

But then the captain surprised him. “Corporal, we’re looking to select an Officer of the Year. You are among eight we are considering. One officer has already declined the privilege, claiming family responsibilities. I warn you, there will be some further trials. Are you prepared to submit to the tests? I believe you are aware of the usual tasks that our officers undergo in these situations?”

“Yes, I am willing to do additional tasks, sir,” replied Jaz. “And yes, I am aware of the character of those tasks. It’s actually pretty similar to our usual workload, am I right sir?”

“That is correct, Colonel. Because of protocol, I must ask you to sign these waivers before you proceed. Simply sign your name at the bottom and initial these three other locations.” The captain passed some forms across the table to Jaz.

Jaz reached for the proffered ballpoint and then fumbled it as he grasped it to write. “Ow,” he said softly, but then quickly squelched that ungentlemanly groan. His painful thumb made it hard to pen the resolute, yet rakish signature he had so carefully crafted in practice sessions at home.

“Something wrong, Corporal?” the captain inquired.

“Oh, just a bit of a sports injury, sir.” Jaz wryly thought back to his pounding out his report just an hour ago. “Oh, by the way, did you receive my reports about the Marianas incident? I sent it over to you this morning.”

“Yes, I did, Corporal, though I haven’t had much chance to read it yet. Thank you.”

The captain continued, “For your first task, I need you to place some antennas at the peak of Olympus Mons. As the tallest elevation on this planet, it will greatly aid our communication possibilities. You may take the PEV, the planetary exploration vehicle, and a crew of three, but you’ll also have to carry the heavy materials and reconstruct them at the top. Oh, and the closest landing area for the PEV is 12 kilometers from the peak. You all will need to hike that last bit.”

“Yes sir,” answered Jaz. He considered this a pretty big task, but it truly was not that much harder than previous projects they had done. Three days ought to take care of it.

“And then,” the captain continued, I want you to contact the Alpha Centaurians at their colony over there by Pavonis Mons. You remember the pikas, those furry looking aliens. We need to set up a workshop on technology. You know they have tech we could only dream of. As usual, you’ll have to set up the cross-galactic measures for safe cross-species interactions in a non-survivable environment. Call General Takeda's department, she’s worked on these things in the past.”

“Yes sir.” Jaz began to sense a tidal wave was engulfing him. A drip of anxiety began in his gut.

“And when do these projects need to be finished sir?” Learning the deadline was always a formality, but an important one.

“48 hours, Corporal. Not a minute later.”

Jaz blanched. Just setting up flight plans took a couple hours. Recruiting the best crew members generally ate up a few hours of e-mail back and forth. Maybe he could do those two things simultaneously. Heck, the flight out to Olympus Mons was a minimum five-hour flight and that wasn’t even counting the return trip or the time required to complete the actual work! Throw in the twelve-kilometer hike both out and back, at elevation, never mind the unknown hazards of some new discovery of aliens or toxic gases. This project could kill him!…Jaz began to turn green.

Interacting with the pikas? Now that could take days. They never were the most cooperative of creatures. More than one of their crew had died in those previous encounters. What was he going to do?

Now this all sounds impossible, like cleaning the Augean stables. Jaz considered. Does he think I'm Hercules? What a conundrum. Do I go all out for the glory? I doubt I’ll get a pay raise. Or do I do the sensible thing and withdraw my application? Can’t be a quitter! Oh, the humiliation I would feel if I had to tell all my supporters that I couldn’t handle this.

Jaz stood a little shakily. Probably better get on all this right away. “Thank you, sir,” he forced himself to say. He saluted, then turned toward the door.

But the captain wasn’t finished. “Of course, once those things are finished, it will be back to the proverbial salt mines the next day. Did I mention that our next project will be a doozy? No rest for the wicked!” The captain laughed humorlessly at his own joke.

Jaz wondered if the captain took perverse pleasure in his control over the enlisted men and women.

I smiled and sat back in satisfaction. I lifted the cup of tea to my lips and savored the combined aromas of Earl Grey and slightly burnt toast wafting gently through the kitchen. In fact, wasn’t that smoke I could see rising from the toaster? The morning sunshine did cast a homey cheer upon our morning routine.

“Boy, I’m still relishing being nice and warm,” I looked at Alex across the breakfast table. This may have been a slightly mean comment; he still felt awfully guilty about my being stranded in Antarctica, however briefly.

“I’m glad you’re here, too, Janie. What do you want to do today?” Alex refused to be perturbed. “Fancy a hike somewhere?”

“As long as we don’t have to travel past Antarctica to get there.”

“Well, yeah. But you know what I’ve been thinking? I’m feeling a little homesick. In fact, through all my travels, homesickness has been one of the abiding emotions I’ve dealt with. Travel is great, but sometimes you just want to visit your old haunts. Your old friends. Your parents for gosh sakes.”

“I was just enjoying the comforts of home,” I replied. “YOUR home. But I know our parents certainly miss you. We could make them really happy if we stopped by for a visit. I just hope they won’t launch into some ‘friendly reminders’ that you’ve been missing for a long time or that I need to attend to my studies.”

“True. Is it possible we could just take a look?”

“Maybe. You want to leave this morning? Let’s take some extra food, you know, just in case.”

An hour later we were clutching the two colorful feathers and suddenly found ourselves in the leafy backyard of our family home in Southern California. While winter was creeping in on tiger feet back in Oz, in California it was a beautiful, delicate spring day.

We went up to the back door to the house and tried the door knob. Locked. “That’s weird,” commented Alex. “When did they ever lock the back door before? Let’s look in the window.”

We cupped our hands around our eyes as we peered into the dark recesses inside. Nothing happening.

“I wonder what time it is. Here, I mean,” I pondered.

“Drat, I kinda wanted to go inside.” Alex was bummed. We sat there silently for a few minutes just gazing at the yard.

Alex started to say something. He was pointing at the geraniums growing in profusion over in the corner behind the sycamore tree.

“Wait!” I hissed. “I thought I heard a noise from the house.”
We both turned to look. There was Dad at the window staring at us. Then Mom appeared behind his shoulder. She didn’t look so great. Both had very concerned looks on their faces. Dad bent over and began scribbling a note. He then held it so we could see it. We walked up close to the window to read.

“There’s a shooter loose in the neighborhood. Armed and dangerous. We are sick. Don’t come in. Covid-19. Go hide. Love you lots.”

“Gosh.” I breathed. We looked at each other in alarm. “We better get out of here,” I said, “but first we’ve got to give them a greeting through the glass.”

We pressed our palms up to the window and then mouthed the words, “I love you.” Then Dad started shooing us away.

“Hurry!” he mouthed. “Be silent!”

Alex grabbed my arm and we started darting from bush to bush to stay undercover.

We heard a helicopter circling overhead several blocks from our house. It seemed to be coming closer!

“I know the perfect place to hide,” hissed Alex. “You know the creek?”

“Brilliant,” whispered as enthusiastically as possible without raising my voice. I also gave him a thumbs up, though he was still pulling me through the shrubbery so I doubt he saw it.

Whack! “Ow!” I yelped. That branch just nailed me in the face!”

“Sorry,” muttered Alex. “Put your arm in front of your face to protect yourself.”

And so we went. We stayed off the paved trail because that was too visible from the air. We stayed off the beaten track as well, because, yes, that was also too obvious. So, it was through the wild thickets we went, brambles or no. We were both accumulating scratches from branches and getting leaves down our shirts. “Now I know how a racoon feels,” I grumbled, “though I doubt they’re ever in this kind of hurry.”

Eventually we came to the steep slope that led down to the creek. We could have taken the utility road down, a much more easily traversed route, but we didn’t dare—too exposed. Instead, we plunked ourselves down on our bottoms and tried to make a quick, but cautious, descent down the dry, grassy slope without stirring up a dust storm as we slid. Two hundred feet below, shielded by a lush canopy of oaks and sycamores, we knew our riparian hiding place awaited. "I hope we don't surprise any rattlesnakes," I commented as we slithered down through the tall brown grass.

Hundreds of foxtails in the socks later, we picked ourselves up to clamber through the trees to the water. I brushed off the seat of my pants. “Good thing we wore jeans today,” I commented. “But I’ll be needing new ones after this.” I ruefully noted that there was a large rip that would only be hidden if I were sitting down.


“I think these trees will hide us for now,” Alex commented. “Look, there’s a path through the canes.” We picked our way through the bamboo-like thickets that crowded the water’s edge. We ducked and crawled straight into the dark lairs underneath their canopy.

“I usually imagine that this is where the mountain lions hide,” I muttered.

“I’m sure you’re right,” answered Alex. “This Arundo is normally a pest but useful for us now. Let’s just hope the kitties are somewhere else today.”

Suddenly sunlight sparkled in front of us, glinting off the sparkling, burbling water of the creek. Success! We grinned as we stood up straight to stretch our hunched backs. We stepped right into the coursing water and it swirled magnificently around our ankles.

“Aahhh,” we sighed with relief.

“It’s not even cold!” Alex exclaimed with delight.

“And it’s bubbling loud enough we can talk again!” I remarked. What a relief to walk without ducking and talk without being afraid of discovery.

“Well, I think we should still try to be quiet. Who knows who else is down here? Try not to plunk your feet too loudly,” cautioned Alex.

“Let’s keep moving upstream,” I urged. “Let’s put some distance between us and that bad guy.” I had a theory that bad guys were universally lazy. Don’t know if it’s true, but…couldn’t hurt to move further away.

Soon our adventure morphed from being the great escape from danger to the great escape from city life. The sunlight was dappled and the shade was comforting. The creek serenaded us every step of the way. The cool water soothed our hot feet.

“C’mon, Janie, what are you waiting for?” Alex urged me to take another step into the water. “Are you afraid you’re going to fall?”

“I don’t want to step on any polliwogs!” I called out. Indeed, they were so thick that I had to take a giant step to get past them all. “I wish I had a jar so I could collect some! Look! I can scoop up handfuls of them.”

We continued upstream. The best place to walk was often right through the middle of the creek. There would be a basketball-sized boulder and lots of fine gravel would be deposited just downstream from it, providing a more stable footfall that the smaller boulders in the water.

Again and again we’d come to a wide, slow place in the river and Alex would wax nostalgic about building dams back in his youth. “If we could stay a bit, I would definitely build another one.”

“Yeah, I know,” I agreed with him. “I keep picturing having a picnic on one of these banks. I would bring chocolate bars and crispy apples.”

As we put distance behind us, we relaxed mentally. We were actually thoroughly enjoying ourselves. As the day grew later, we sat on a solid sycamore trunk that formed a bridge across the water.


“Well, Alex, I’m sorry you didn’t get to visit home today.” I put my hand on his back to show sympathy.

“You know, Janie, going back home is not always about actually going back home. I’ve had a wonderful visit back to my youth today.”

“Me too!” I agreed. “This has been totally awesome.” I hesitated a moment. “Too bad about Mom and Dad being sick and that awful shooter. But coming here has been a great way to put that out of our minds.”

“You said it,” Alex agreed. “Do you suppose we could come back here another time, under happier circumstances?”

“Oh, I hope so,” I concurred. “And next time, let’s bring Mom and Dad. I think they’d like it too.”

Alex chimed in, “And have a picnic!”

“With chocolate bars…” I added.

“And apples!” agreed Alex.

“OK, ‘til next time. Ready to go?” Alex pulled out his feather and I pulled out mine. “Feather,” he said, “Next time I say ‘The river,’ this is where I mean. Got it?”

Alex and I put our arms around each other and said the magic words: ”Alex’s house.”

And just like that, we were back where we started.

Though I did note that my jeans were still ripped and I had a very soggy foxtail or two stuck in my socks. I decided I needed a chocolate bar both to celebrate our successful excursion and to raise a toast to Mom and Dad's speedy recovery.

Previous Episodes:

Episode 1 Janie begins the serch for Alex..........................https://furzicle.livejournal.com/458629.html
Episode 2 Alex gets the enchanted feather in Guinea........https://furzicle.livejournal.com/459027.html
Episode 3 The Mysterious Russian....................................https://furzicle.livejournal.com/459502.html
Episode 4  Wild Goose Chase............................................https://furzicle.livejournal.com/462960.html
Episode 5  The creek may rise...........................................https://furzicle.livejournal.com/463491.html
Episode 6  The Way Back from Antarctica...................... https://furzicle.livejournal.com/463756.html

The Author:



Note, all the risks mentioned in this piece are very real except, thankfully, for the shooter.

Betty was on her hands and knees yanking at the weeds that were constantly popping up amongst her dahlias. The sunshine had started out as a welcome warmth after the chill of the house but by now was growing too warm. When a rivulet of sweat trickled down her forehead into her eyes, Betty sat up and cursed. “Drat these imposters! Do they think I’ll mistake them for my flowers?”

Betty thought about how a nice icy glass of lemonade might be just the ticket now. She gave her pile of pulled weeds an exasperated glance as she hauled her bulk up to go back inside. Besides weeds, the other thing her flower beds seemed to grow so well were kinks in her knees and stiffness in her back. “I didn’t used to have so much trouble standing up,” she winced.

She kicked off her muddy clogs outside the door, then went immediately into the laundry room to scrub her grimy hands. She kept an old toothbrush there to go after the stubborn black lines around her nails. As she lathered and wrung her hands together, she looked up to survey herself in the mirror.  With dismay, she noticed a new line across her forehead. Her hair wasn’t looking too good either. She stared, hoping to see some of the remaining dark chestnut that used to be her crowning glory. Maybe it was time to finally change that description on the drivers’ license. Oh! And her neck! She had known ancient tortoises with smoother skin than hers!

Suddenly she remembered that she had hot water gushing out of the tap. By now it was nearly scalding. Typical, she thought. There I go forgetting what I’m doing again.

Betty decided that maybe it was actually time for lunch. Ten-thirty wasn’t too early, was it? She sat down to enjoy a large piece of cold fried chicken along with her lemonade. It did feel good to sit.

I wonder how Shirley is doing? Betty reached for her phone to call her twin sister. Rarely a day went by that they didn’t chat.

She didn’t even waste time with the formalities. “I’ve got a new wrinkle!” she wailed. “I feel like a gray Jabba the Hut!”

“Tut, tut,” soothed Shirley. “I guess that’s the blessing of living a long life. Wrinkles are proof of advanced wisdom.”

“Blessing my …” Betty was so upset she almost used that impolite word. “Everyday I see new evidence that I have lived every one of my eighty years. And the wisdom would be more helpful if I didn’t keep forgetting what wise thing I was doing!”

Hoping to turn Betty’s mind to something more pleasant, Shirley interrupted. “Oh, have you decided what you’ll wear for our sixtieth high school reunion?”

“Maybe a tent? With sequins?” Betty was discouraged. “Do you have any suggestions for a hairdresser genius?

“Oh, hey, gotta run. I hear Dick coming in the garage. Talk to you tomorrow.”

An hour later Betty was strolling down the lane wearing her comfortable avocado green caftan and carrying the voluminous tote she had embroidered herself. She was purposefullly making her way toward the nursery to buy a new trowel. But what was that? Parked in front of that Hippie store that always reeked of incense was a beat-up camper van.  Betty nervously gave it a wide berth. It looked rather dubious.

But she couldn’t help noticing a crude sign taped to the inside of the window of the van.

Just then a middle-aged woman dressed in an ochre-colored sari emerged. “May I help you, Ma’am?” she asked in heavily accented English. “I give you good discount. I am here to deliver special soaps to this Nirvana Specialty Shoppe. Since I’m in the area, I can fit in a reading right now.”

Betty shuddered a little, but suddenly decided, Why not? She wondered what Shirley would think. Well, she just doesn’t need to know, Betty vowed.

“Why yes, I think I will,” replied Betty. I’ll just have to really wash my hands again when I get home, she thought to herself.

Stepping into the hippie van (which Betty had begun to call it in her mind) was like stepping into a different world. Indian batik fabrics swooped across the ceiling and even blocked off the view to the sleeping section of the cramped space. The air held reminders of last night’s curry dinner as well as what was probably a permanent heavy scent of exotic incense.

“I am Bashalli, Ma’am. Or you may call me Shirley. That is my American name.”

“Oh, Shirley? That is my twin sister’s name. How ironic. Usually when you meet a Shirley, it’s someone closer to my age.”

Bashalli responded, “You might say it is a long story. But many of my clients have trouble remembering the Indian name. So for them Bashalli becomes Shirley. Sit here. May I see your hand, Ma’am? I must read your palm before I recommend any potions.”

With some trepidation, Betty extended her open palm. Bashalli gave it a look. Suddenly, she leaned in closer and began to squint. “Excuse me a moment,” she said. She then reached into a basket and pulled out a magnifying glass and peered through it at the map of criss-cross lines marking Betty’s palm.

“So very unique,” she muttered under her breath.

Oh right, thought Betty. Here comes the scam.

Sure enough, Bashalli went into quite the extensive story about kindred spirits and special karma and previous lives. “You are meant for special things,” she said earnestly to Betty. “You must anoint your body with this potion every day. It is like youth potion. Ma’am, I guarantee you will be amazed at the results.”

Well, this had been fun, but Betty was beginning to feel the need to get on with her day. The vial that Bashalli had pressed into her hand got shoved into the tote. A five-dollar bill was floating around loose in there, which Betty also grabbed and shoved at her seeress.

Bashalli stared at the bill and said, “Thank you for the tip. Normally my fees are higher and I sell the potions. But you are marked for a special destiny. My conscience does not allow me to accept payment for these things.”

Once Betty was home again, she realized that she had totally forgotten to pick up the trowel. She had been too busy cogitating on everything Bashalli had told her. But Betty wasn’t so naïve to fall for that fantasy. So, she left the vial in her tote along with all the other detritus she never bothered to remove.

That evening, as usual, Betty surveyed her face as she brushed her teeth and applied lotion to her face. “Hmmm,” she muttered.

The next morning, she rubbed moisturizing lotion onto her face. “Special destiny…” Betty wondered.

That evening she toweled off after her shower. “Another NEW wrinkle!?” Betty was truly taken aback. This was happening way too fast! She didn’t really feel that old. (Betty seemed to conveniently forget those stiff knees and joints.) As she moved her tote bag to grab her bathrobe, she remembered with a pang the vial from Bashalli which was still buried deep inside. Maybe I should give it a try, she mused.

‘Like a youth potion.’ Betty tapped her chin as she considered the possibilities. Afterall, it’s bedtime. No one will be looking at me for over twelve hours.

Resolutely, and almost secretly, Betty dabbed the vial contents over the right side of her face. She would do an experiment to see if it reacted to the ointment. If it happened to go badly, she could keep that side covered with a scarf. She hurried to be finished before Dick came to bed.

Betty popped right out of bed in the morning and hurried to look in the mirror. She thought maybe she had forgotten which side she had put the cream on. But, try as she might, she could not see the wrinkle on the right side of her face. Had it worked?

That night she treated the left side of her face. The following morning her whole face looked pretty good. She felt a swell of happiness begin to fill her chest. “Like a youth potion,” Bashalli had said.

On the third night, Betty smeared the potion over her neck as well as her face. The next morning, she positively leaped out of bed to check the results.

She just had time to quickly glance in the mirror. Amazing! Betty’s gloating was abruptly interrupted by the phone ringing. “Really?” Betty wondered. Who would call so early?

It was Shirley. “You’re not going to believe this,” cried her sister. “In just a couple days my face has smoothed out. I thought at first it was bloating, but it’s definitely not. I’m actually getting thinner! What do you think is happening?”

Now Betty was really confused. She turned to look at her image in the full-length mirror. By George, she thought maybe she was looking a little slimmer, too. Could it be?

She had been stunned when the ointment seemed to work on the wrinkles on her face. But now it appeared to working on her sister! What was this, some kind of twin synthesis, a blood harmony?

“I may have a story for you. Let me test it out more and we’ll talk about it in a few days,” Betty spoke quickly. Maybe she was a little superstitious about voicing her suspicions about Bashalli’s ointment.

Even Dick complimented Betty on her appearance that morning. He usually wasn’t all that observant. But clearly the changes were starting to become obvious.

Betty checked the vial. It looked like she would need a refill soon. What would happen when the ointment ran out? The thought was too frightening. Betty resolved to walk to town today to try to find Bashalli again. This time she would bring more money. And hopefully she would remember to get the trowel that she had meant to buy last time.

Betty had a healthy breakfast of plain yogurt and raspberries. Might as well support this slimming process!

Soon enough Betty was marching down the road toward town. Did she have a little more spring in her step? Betty wasn’t sure, but her confidence definitely felt buoyed up.

Alas, Bashalli’s van was no longer there. Dejected, Betty turned back towards home. But she took just ten steps when she remembered the trowel. Well, I may not have more ointment today, but at least I can get back to digging in the garden. And, maybe my memory is better! Betty glowed with happiness all the way back home.

Betty slathered the ointment all over herself that night. The next morning, she swore that a miracle was happening before her very eyes. Though she was sure she needed to replenish the dwindling vial of youth cream, as she had begun calling it, somehow it never seemed to really run out. Nevertheless, Betty vowed to walk to town everyday to look for Bashalli.

Never really a morning person, Betty found it easy to leap out of bed every morning now to check her image. And now, when she looked in the mirror, a very familiar sixty-year-old face gazed back at her.

She and Shirley got together and oohed and ahhed at their new physiques. Betty told her about Bashalli’s ointment. Shirley vowed that she would like to get some too.

“But why?” queried Betty. “What I use seems to work for both of us.”

So the two decided that today they would both meet in front of the hippie shoppe.

When they got there, they found no hippie van. Once again, Betty felt disappointment fill her eyes with tears.

But they were surprised to see a beautiful teenaged girl approach a shiny new van parked by the curb.

“Excuse me, we’re looking for a middle-aged woman named Bashalli who used to be here.” Betty knew it was probably hopeless to talk to this stranger, but she was desperate to find her.

The young woman turned suddenly to look at her. “Oh, you must be Betty. Bashalli told me about you. She told me to expect you.”

Betty looked closely at this young woman. She was somehow quite familiar. “Bashalli, is that you?”

“Er, yes, I am Bashalli. Wow, Ma’am, you look so fabulous. You have lost weight. You look beautiful. I would even say you have lost years.”

Betty clutched Bashalli’s arm. “Please Bashalli, I want more ointment. I am so afraid that I will run out. This is my sister, the other Shirley. She would like some, too.”

“Oh no, Ma’am, I cannot give you more. And I especially cannot give any to your sister.”

“Why ever not?”  Betty was distraught.

“You see, with only one of you having the ointment, you can use it in a controlled manner. If I give it to you both, the reaction could end up being doubled. You might end up both using it at the same time. That could be disasterous.”

“Oh, I see. But what if I run out?” Betty sniffed, trying to hold back tears.

“Oh, never fear,” replied Bashalli. “You see, it is regenerating, not only to you, but also to itself. It should never run out. You will be fine, Ma’am.”

Betty and her sister Shirley bid Bashalli adieu and turned to go back home. “Wow, what a delightful young girl,” gushed Shirley.

Betty turned to face Shirley. “You do realize she was definitely in her forties when I met her just a few months ago.”

Betty and Shirley stared at each other in astonishment. The implications were unbelievable.

“Well, let’s think about that reunion, then,” said Shirley. “I think we’ll both need to go shopping. I don’t think any of our caftans are going to do the job.”

“Will anyone even recognize us?” Betty asked.

“You’re right. Maybe we shouldn’t even go. It will raise too many questions.”

“You may be right,” answered Betty.

And the two looked at each other and giggled.

Frank sat on the brown plaid sofa and stared at the noisy TV. The meatloaf was finished. It was time to relax.

“Bring me a beer, will ya hon?” shouted Frank to his wife of thirty-eight years. Ethel dried her soapy hands on the pink dish cloth and reached into the Frigidaire to grab Frank his Bud.

“Ethel, sit down. You can catch up on the dishes later. We gotta watch the news. I need to listen. How else are we gonna know what’s going on?”

“Yes, dear,” murmured Ethel.

“Good evening,” the anchor smiled. “I am John Vanity. Tonight, March 6, 2020, we begin with the stock report. They were down today. All told, the Dow gave up 970 points, the S & P surrendered 106 points, and the NASDAQ lost 279 points. After the Super Tuesday primaries bounce, I’m afraid we’re looking at a rather precipitous drop.

Ethel looked with alarm at Frank. “Are we going to be okay, Frank? You know, we have that one stock. It’s our retirement.”

“Shh, let’s keep listening,” Frank replied.

John Vanity continued, “Hoping to keep people optimistic about the economy, our president is reacting to this grim financial news with some encouraging words on the corona virus, also known as covid-19. Let’s listen in.”


The president appeared, “Now, this is just my hunch, and — but based on a lot of conversations with a lot of people that do this, because a lot of people will have this, and it’s very mild. They will get better very rapidly. They don’t even see a doctor. They don’t even call a doctor. You never hear about those people. “

Ethel shuddered. “I’ve heard about this. Mabel across the street says we need to buy hand sanitizer.”

Frank shook his head, “Nah, she’s just getting all worked up about this. She’s probably watching too much TV. Listen to him. See? It’s going to be fine.”

“Shhh,” hissed Ethel. “I want to hear this.” She focused her attention on the orange- glowing image on the flickering TV.

“…because a lot of people will have this, and it’s very mild. They will get better very rapidly. They don’t even see a doctor. They don’t even call a doctor. You never hear about those people.

“…of people that get better just by, you know, sitting around and even going to work — some of them go to work, but they get better…

“I want you all to know that we have this well in hand. There is nothing to worry about. It’s all perfect. Just like the letter…”

‘I’ve heard enough,” snorted Frank. “It doesn’t sound like a big deal. I think our stock will be fine. What else is there to see tonight?“ He started flipping channels away from his beloved Pox News.

“Ah, a game show! I love those!”

A slick studio stage came into view.

“Hello! Welcome to ‘This is Your Choice, Your Life.’ I am Johnny." The host’s shiny shoes were only exceeded in gloss by his wide, bright smile “Tonight we will be talking about Corona virus, also known as covid-19. We all need to be aware of the initial symptoms of this disease, a dry cough and a fever. Listen carefully as we explore this topic.”

“Crap! This again?” Frank was about to switch off the TV. But the game show held his attention.

“You see before you two doors. The red door represents our experiences if we aggressively tackle this disease. The green door will show us what will happen if we do nothing. Which response do you think will be the best choice?

“You there, on the couch… Pick a door, any door.”

Frank eyed the garage doors on the set with a intense gaze. He would win this! Hadn’t he just gotten the official word from the prez? Had he been worried?”

“Green” Frank blurted.

“You picked green,” Johnny gave a broad grin. “We’ll see what happens if we do nothing. It’s all natural, right?”

Johnny carefully set a huge dial to 1 month.

The gre door swung open to the image of busy crowds at an amusement park. Lines for rides snaked like caterpillars.

The image switched to a typical hospital. The floors shone like mirrors. Doctors and nurses in white coats walked purposely through the hallways.

“Looks pretty good, doesn’t it?" commented Johnny. "Let’s move our clock to two months.”

Again, the scene was the amusement park. This time it was empty. A discarded paper cup was blowing down the walk.

Next, the view showed the hospital, mobbed with moaning patients and frantic staff. Temporary beds were parked in the hallways. You could identify the medical professionals by the haz-mat suits they were wearing. Many were running from one patient to another.





A person dressed head to toe in a haz-mat suit could be identified as a reporter only by the microphone she was thrusting in front of the doctor she wanted to interview.

“We have here Dr. Ramirez, head of this metropolitan hospital. Dr. Ramirez, how are things going here?”

“We are overwhelmed! First, we didn’t have testing kits in the community so people got sick--but didn't feel sick-- and shared their illness with everyone. At school and at work, at church and in synagogue, at the malls and at parties. Remember, once you contract the illness, you can feel fine for as long as two weeks. People who feel good continue their regular habits, meanwhile they are exposing their families and friends.

"Then, about a week ago, patients started pouring in. We just have no more room. We have the most critically ill patients in the rooms with the ventilators. We are not even able to isolate patients anymore. Perhaps most frightening of all, we are down to fifty percent of our staff because they are all falling ill as well.

"Even our coroners are overwhelmed. We are experiencing a fifteen percent mortality rate among all the patients over eighty who are under our care. We can’t even let their families in to mourn their loved ones.”

The reporter turned to face the camera. “After just two months it is estimated that 50% of the world wide population has come down with the corona virus. Cases are spreading like wildfire.”

“Dang, this sounds terrible,” cursed Frank. “Maybe the president is unaware of this. Hey Johnny! I want to choose the red door. Isn’t there something we can do about this?”

“Ah, now you picked red,” Mr. Shiny Teeth responded. “Let’s see what’s back there. The red door represents your choice if you choose to aggressively step in to try to prevent the spread of the virus. Let’s see where that takes us.”

Johnny turned the ten-foot-wide wheel. Again, he carefully set it for one month.

This time it was the red garage door that opened further to show a large video screen. “Here we see precautionary measures being taken at every turn.”



“Hand washing is promoted from every side.

“In the airport you see that people are having their temperatures taken as they walk down the jetway to their flight. Fair enough. Probably all good efforts to minimize the chances of someone coming on board carrying the virus.”

The view changed, showing dozens of empty tennis courts surrounded by perky palm trees. “Here we see the Internationally renowned tennis championship in Indian Wells, California. Notice, no one is here to watch because tourists’ tickets were cancelled. The effort is to eliminate group events that attract masses of people.”

The view slid out to the plaza before the arena. Hundreds of tented booths were set up. A lone vendor stood forlornly in front of his empty booth.

“How are you sir? And what is your name?” A reporter stuck his microphone in front of the man.

“Hola. My name is Hector. I sell hot dogs at these events. I have no customers. Nobody is here. I don’t know what I’m going to do. This is the biggest money maker I have. I don't know how I'll manage without it. I have a big family at home.”

The last view was of the president, standing at his podium, announcing that the government was succeeding wildly at their mitigation efforts. “Things are so much worse in Asia and Europe,” he said. “We are the greatest nation on earth…”

The closing view was of a newscast for March 9, 2020. “Stocks have plummeted to new lows. The closing bell for the Dow Jones average was 23,851, an alarming 7.8% drop since February 12.

Johnny reset the wheel to three months.

“Oh no! What is this? Now we see airlines being closed down tonight. People are no longer allowed to go on their flights! Look, there is Ezme who can’t travel to her own wedding! And over there we see Bradley who can’t get to Iowa to visit with his dying father.”

The camera zoomed in on a dapper gentleman in a pin-striped suit standing in the middle of the chaotic crowds. “Hello, I am Arthur. I am the CEO of this airline. I’m afraid we will lose millions of dollars through this action.”

The screen began to scroll through several channels. On every channel a reporter was intoning “The markets fell again today. This is their greatest loss since 1929.”

Frank simply stared at the TV, his mouth agape. “Surely, this is all a hoax,” he managed to squeak out.

Then Johnny resolutely turned the dial to four months.

Hector reappeared once again. “I haven’t been paid in weeks,” he lamented. He pointed to a tiny frail woman gasping for air on a narrow bed. “My abuelita is very sick. I can’t afford to take her to the doctor. My wife and kids have all had it. How will I take care of everyone?”

The scene changed to Arthur, the CEO, selling hot dogs on the street. He grimaced and shrugged.

"At least I can eat," he said, "At least I like hotdogs. Oh, and remember to wash your hands. Sorry, I wasn’t able to get any hand sanitizer.”

Johnny stepped in front of the big dial. “How do you think this all plays out?" he posed. He set the dial one more time, this time to ‘Summary.’

Both the red and the green garage doors were open. Somewhat oddly, Hector appeared in both scenes.

From the green garage, Hector spoke, “When society was relaxed about their approach, people continued to gather at events. I was able to sell hot dogs at the tennis tournament and made a lot of money. But after the huge crowds there and other places, people quickly became sick in droves. My abuela died anyway. She couldn’t avoid being exposed. But then I also got sick and I ended up having a heart attack.”

Arthur stepped in. “My airline lost a lot of money anyway. Too many people were too sick to travel. We ended up declaring bankruptcy. This happened to so many companies, that a new depression was declared. The only businesses that seemed to thrive was the hand sanitizer business and the toilet paper industry. Go figure.

“After that, everyone blamed the economic slump on the president and he was not re-elected.”

Hector from the red garage then spoke up. “With stringent anti-viral mitigation actions, life was very different for months. All large gatherings were cancelled, even schools. Most people became hyper-fastidious about hand washing. My grandma came down with something serious but she was able to get into the hospital and get the treatment she needed. Now she’s back home and back to nagging me.

“The stock market tanked anyways. Government bailed a number of industries out after their losses. So, the country’s is not as rich as it used to be, but we’re slowly improving. I think I’ll invest in that new vaccine they say is coming out.

“Here’s the weird thing. With everyone going nuts washing their hands all the time, world-wide illness actually dropped for all other infectious diseases. Cases of measles went down, common colds diminished, strep throat was cut in half.

“People began to enjoy outdoor activities they could do in small groups, like biking and hiking.

The numbers of people working from home skyrocketed. They discovered they liked it. They also appreciated spending less on gas for commuting.

“With that, plus the avoidance of air travel, the domestic oil industry became much less dependent upon foreign oil suppliers.

“In short, life is different now. The pace has slowed, but people are happier.“

Frank was mesmerized by the undulating image on the TV.

Ethel broke through his reverie, “Would you like dessert, dear?” she asked.
.
"Oh, yeah. But let me wash my hands first."

"Are you OK, dear? That's not like you." Ethel raised the back of her hand up to feel Frank's forehead.

"You don't have a fever, do you?".

Barn, noun: child. Standard Norwegian, Swedish, Danish. Example: "Jeg har tre barn," "I have three children."
Barn Raising: colloquial American usage: when an entire community comes together to complete a job quickly that would take one individual a very, very long time.



My middle child has always had the wanderlust. Indeed, it has stepped out in front of him to catch his steps from the very beginning.

One of his high school dreams was to become a lawyer and then a diplomat and solve problems in war-torn Bosnia and Chechnya or famine-riddled Africa. Diplomacy was appealing because he knew it entailed moving from posting to posting around the globe.

Knowing that one of the first steps toward becoming a lawyer was to work in the lawyerly environment to try it on for size, he took a job as an assistant in a law firm. It was great! He would deliver important documents to court as the lawyers were arguing their cases. He could sit in and see law at work. He would get benefits after three months! I watched him leave the house dressed in slacks and a tie and thought He’s on his way! He’ll be all right!

Unfortunately, the lawyers were just too clever. They knew what they had wrought. He was let go on trumped up excuses within a few days of the end of his three-month trial period. Benefits? Gone. Presumably they hired another trusting schmo to take his place. We can all perfectly imagine just how long that innocent lasted.

Undaunted, he applied to work for a temp agency that supplied law firms with office helpers. It was great! He would get to meet many lawyers in various firms. He would get insight into all the different kinds of law that were out there and choose the one that he found most interesting.

This time it was the stapling and photocopying that brought him down. Employers would reassure him that by and by there would be a permanent opening. He would think to himself that the only thing keeping him going was knowing that he was there for only a finite, brief time. Two weeks to go, he would whisper with relief in his mind.

While riding the elevators in the sleek office buildings he would break the awkward silence by posing the question to the highly paid lawyer riding with him, “Living the dream?”

“Ah ha, ha, ha, hah,” they would chortle. “Ah, actually, No.” They would give a wry, ironic grin as their face would take on a dark look.

Then the Middle Son received a phone call one day. How would he like to work on a 108-foot, square-rigged, traditional sailing vessel plying the waters of Puget Sound? He leaped at it. No more photocopying! Oh well, he’ll enjoy it I thought, knowing full well that it wasn’t going to pay much. And sure enough, it didn’t.  Eighty hours a week at $20 a day was a mere step above slavery. But enjoy it he did.

Now and then while standing in a line-up with other crew members to heave on lines to raise sails he would turn to a mate and pose the question, “Living the dream?”

They would ponder the question briefly, then their face would transform into a wide grin as they replied, “Yes! Actually, I am!”

Children riding the ship would cast wide eyes upon them as they sailed and ask, “Are you a pirate?” It was that kind of ship.

After completing his six-month contract, he was looking for new work and found himself back to working with honey bees. The money was only very slightly better but he was free to hang out with bees in the open fields with nary a copier in sight. As his expertise grew, his finances didn’t. His parents wondered, Will he be all right?

A new opportunity presented itself. He was posted to Africa to teach beekeeping in tiny rural villages of round, straw thatched huts and wandering chickens. Africa! we thought. Is it even safe? (I mused I’d have to alert Gary that the Middle Son was off the grid and would be unable to submit an LJI entry due to lack of electricity and wifi.)

He was getting the multiple postings he had always wanted. And while his USAID organizations paid for all his expenses while travelling, he wasn’t earning anything. Not to be deterred, he was as happy as could be. But his parents still waited to see him get that solid footing in the world.

And then he wrangled a job in Australia. He’d be setting up a beekeeping operation. It would be great!

But this was more permanent. His parents by now were used to him gallivanting off to far corners of the world and doing quite well, thank you very much. But this was pretty far away from home in California. Who would pick him up when the car broke down? Who would watch out for his well-being?

First to step in was probably Lynn, the keeper of the geese on the farm. She was an early confidante and friendly ear.

Middle Son moved into a quaint but saggy Victorian house in a very small town near the farm. Some might see it as a lonely existence, isolated out in the sparsely populated ranch country. But he is thriving. It turns out that keeping bees can be a very social activity.

He set up Trevor across the street with his own box of bees. Trevor, a lifelong hairdresser, returns the favor by cutting Middle Son’s hair. Trevor’s wife shares their bountiful harvest of rosy plums and succulent nectarines.

He helped Joe with his beehive and now Joe comes over to help Middle Son keep his lawn and shrubs trimmed. Joe also provides him with freshly roasted and ground coffee from his own business.

Joe’s In-Laws take Middle Son under their wings for Easter dinner and summer barbecues. They even provide bikes and bike rides when we come to visit.

We go out to see a flower farm and the owner knows Middle Son and is happy to entertain his parents with a tour…because she appreciates the beehive that Middle Son keeps on her property. She also returns the favor by leaving fifty percent of her banksia flowers uncut for the bees to enjoy.

Middle Son’s bank account is not bursting at the seams. But he’s getting an adequate wage, enough to afford his quaint little rental house and plenty of his favorite snags (sausages) to throw on the barbie.
But his social wealth is beyond measure. The town folk have come together to provide him with the richness that all parents hope for their children.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. As Middle Son has contributed to this village, it has given back in full measure and more.

Is he living the Dream?

You bet!

The continuing story of Janie and Alex...

The first dim light of morning pried open my sleepy eyes. Jeesh, where am I? I thought. The ceiling soared some ten feet above me in a very unfamiliar room. Definitely, not home in my own tiny bedroom, I thought.

I remembered the drenching rain two days ago when I helped Alex and Duncan (sigh) rescue all those people from the rising waters. The next day ended up being rainy, too, but It seemed as though today, finally, was a different story. I tip-toed through the house to peer out the back door.

Cobwebs clinging to the porch eaves glistened with raindrops but the sky glowed with an irrepressible blue. In response, swarms of white sulfur-crested cockatiels wheeled overhead squawking their pleasure in the warming skies. There must be hundreds! I mused.

Alex must have heard me creaking through the house for he stuck his head out the door. He could have croaked out, “Good morning.” But instead I merely answered his unasked question.

“Look at that glorious beacon of a sunny day,” I said, indicating the radiating sun.

“Mmmm, bacon,” he mumbled. “Let’s get us some bacon.”

The say some people wake with coffee but Alex is the very embodiment of waking for bacon.

“You have bacon?” I inquired.

“Nahh,” he replied. “But the Corner Grocery is just two hundred meters away. Let’s go.”

Ten minutes later we had made ourselves presentable enough to make the trek. We emerged out onto the main road through town and then into the old-fashioned Corner Grocery store. While Alex negotiated the bacon, I looked around.

“Say Alex, do you have bread?” I asked.

“Yeahh, I have white bread in the fridge.”

Suddenly I remembered his appalling preference for squishy white bread. “Do you mind if I pick up some grainy bread?” I asked. I grabbed some star-anise blueberry jam while I was at it.

Shortly thereafter, we were back in his roomy, farm-style kitchen. He brewed up coffee strong enough to raise the spirits. Likewise, the bacon sizzled and popped like it was possessed. Finally, we were happily digging into our soul-satisfying toast and crispy pork.

I was not done talking about the strange blue-black rooster feather that had seemingly brought us both so much remarkable adventure.

“Say, how did you get that feather, Alex?” I asked.

“It all started when four-year-old Mamamdou de Baro stepped on a thorn,” he answered. “That was in Guinea. We had to take him to Mama Owusu, a witch doctor. She brewed up a concoction and a spell involving a rooster sacrifice. I’m sorry to admit I found myself irresistibly drawn to holding on to one of its feathers. Well, sorry, not sorry,” he added. “I’ve certainly had an interesting life ever since.”

“I guess. What else have you done that wouldn’t have happened without the feather?”

“I figure that was ten years ago. I’ve been to Australia twice before, the Slovakian Tatra mountains, China, Ireland, and Russia. Gosh, I can’t even remember all the places. Oh, and of course there was that time I was living in that old Russian’s body. That alone amounted to several years.”

“Ten years!” I exclaimed. “You’ve only been missing from home for about two or three months!”

Alex had a perplexed look on his face. “I’ve had ten birthdays,” Alex countered. “Though, as I told you the other day, my hair doesn’t grow. It’s the strangest thing. Though I did have the body of an old man when I became Alex Morsky. Another curiosity.”

“Of course, I guess it roped me in one time,” I responded, “though I didn’t even have the feather. The other oddball thing is no time whatsoever seemed to elapse while it had me in its grip. I always returned back to my own life precisely at the same time I had left.”

“Hmm,” Alex paused with his coffee cup raised halfway to his lips. “I wonder how Mamadou is doing. He’d be about fourteen years old by now.”

I shook my head. “No. He’s probably still four years old. Remember, as far as I’m concerned, it’s only been three months since you disappeared.”

“Hey Janie. I know we talked about us taking a trip back home to California. But what do you think about us going together to Guinea? I really miss that beautiful, lush place with its charming round huts and the friendly people. I could check on Mamadou.”

“We could try that.” I answered. “We’d probably still get home in time for me to turn in my homework. What could go wrong?

“Do you suppose we would travel overland, like a plane?" I mused. "Or is it like being beamed aboard somewhere, like in Star Trek? What’s in between here and Guinea?”

“I have a globe,” responded Alex. “Let’s check it out.” He disappeared into his office and came out moments later with a globe and a tape measure. “It’s kind of dusty. It’s been sitting neglected on the shelf for too long.” He used his T-shirt to wipe the North Pole.

“Whoa, how about that? Whether you travel to the west or the east, we are exactly halfway around the world from Guinea! It looks like if you go to the west, you travel across Australia and Africa. If you go east, your only stopping off spot is, get this, Antarctica!” Alex was intrigued.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” I groaned.

Nevertheless, we filled backpacks with things we wanted to take to the village in Guinea. Because the backpacks were getting pretty full, we donned our jackets, though Alex complained that we really wouldn't need them. "Guinea is pretty warm," he reminded me. Alex also found a few miniature plastic toy animals for Mamamdou and then scoured his bathroom cabinet for some triple antibiotic ointment. “In case the thorn wound didn’t heal,” he explained. “Oh, and be sure to bring an umbrella. It rains there a lot.” We wrapped up our leftover bacon and some bread and jam. Who knew if we would find ourselves near any food?

“I’d bring along some coffee, but Mamadou’s dad is the master at making tea. I think we’ll be fine.”

“What if we don’t land right in his village?” I asked.

“You’re right. Better safe than sorry.” Alex poured the small amount of leftover coffee into a jar. “OK, ready. Let’s go.”

“I’ve never really done this before on purpose,” he admitted.

“Me neither,” I concurred.

We decided to both grip the feather at the same time and to hug each other tight. Then, we had to simultaneously think about Mamadou and Guinea.

Together we intoned, "Mamadou in Guinea, Mamadou in Guinea."

Keep in mind, normally, one is transported instantaneously to the new location. Often, one doesn’t even know that they are about to go somewhere. So all this was something of an experiment. We did realize that once the trip started, there was no tweaking it.

It worked!

Or did it? The first thing I noticed was that it was cold. Very, very cold. “I though Africa was warm,” I complained.

“Open your eyes, Janie. We’re not in Australia anymore.” Alex’s voice sounded strained.

I unburied my head from Alex’s jacket to peek about. Except icy wind was stinging my eyes. And as far as I could see, there was nothing but a frigid expanse of white.

“Antarctica,” we both swore at the same time.

“Scotty, you goofed.” I said.

“Scotty?” Alex was confused.

“You know, beam me up Scotty?” I replied.

“You sci-fi nerd,” scolded Alex.” Now, what do we do?”

“Do you suppose the feather pulled us here because of the magnetism of the South Pole?” I posed.

“Or it can only carry one person at a time?” suggested Alex.

“Well we can’t do anything about the magnetism,” responded Alex. “But we could try travelling only one at a time. Here, Janie, we’ll send you.”

“But I don’t know any of those people. I wouldn’t even recognize them!”

“So you’re suggesting that I should go?”

I nodded dumbly. My teeth began to chatter. “Remember, the only thing between Antarctica and Guinea is the South Atlantic Ocean.” I was beginning to sob.

“Here take my coat.” Alex peeled off his not very thick jacket and draped it over my shoulders. “Oh, and all the food.”

I tried to put on a brave front. “Remember, you should arrive back here just exactly at the same time you leave.

“I’ll be fine.” I continued.

“I suppose we could just try to return back to Australia,” commented Alex.

“But it’s the same problem, either way,” I responded. “One of us is left waiting here. You go. Mamadou could probably use the ointment. “I’ll start building an igloo.” I looked around not too optimistically. Why didn’t we pack a sharp knife, at least?

I gave Alex a firm hug. I admit, I really didn’t want to let go. But then, I stepped back by ten feet to get out of range. “I love y….” I shouted.

But he was gone.

I scanned the snowy expanse.

“Better get right on that igloo,” I said to myself. There wasn’t so much as a penguin near me, so I didn’t have to feel embarrassed about talking to myself.

I gratefully push open our heavy oak front door and step with relief into the cool, dark living room of our house. The familiar smells alone are reassuring. It has been another school day with all its attendant trials. I have homework in algebra and a report in Bio. What a nice mental escape coming home is! Both my parents won’t be home for hours—Dad out doing his detectivey stuff and Mom still at her job teaching science across town. Of course, Alex is still missing, so my alone-time isn’t pure bliss. Still, I treasure these quiet moments.

I probably should start on that homework right away, even though I had hoped to take time to think about that feather we brought home from our case at “The Magick Sorceror” yesterday. But I will control myself. I should probably tackle that homework first.

OK, Bio report. “Choose a topic you find captivating from the avian world.” Like I would find anything from Bio class “captivating.” (Shhh, don’t tell Mom!!) What the heck does avian even mean? I reach for my phone and ask Siri, “What is avian?” Stupid Siri tries to tell me about Evian water.

Try again: Now it gives me matches for ”Alien.” D’oh!

Third time’s a charm? AH! Siri says, “Relating to birds.” I shoulda known that.

Suddenly I remember that I AM captivated about birds, at least that one bird feather in particular. OK, now I’m stoked. And now I can rationalize my activities with the feather!

I go get that evidence bag that Dad left on his desk. The feather is trapped inside. Kind of like how my brother Alex is trapped somewhere in the world but we can’t locate him. This feather is our only link to him.

I examine the blue-black feather through the not-quite-transparent plastic bag. I could ask Siri about feathers, but look how well she handled the ‘avian’ question.

Instead I admire the beautiful color and the long, slightly curved sweep of it. My mind slips back to thinking about Alex. Where in the world is he?

Suddenly I am no longer in the cool recesses of my house. Where am I now? The first thing I notice is how hot and dusty it is. And that I am standing in front of a row of large bird pens. Gosh, there must be eight to twelve of them. There is a horse in the field nearby and a small pack of assorted dogs roaming around.

As I am scanning my surroundings, an older woman with a pixie haircut appears. She seems quite startled to see me. Simultaneously, we fire questions at each other.

“How’d you get in here?” she asks.

“Why’s the sky so brown?” I ask her. “It looks like there’s a brush fire nearby.”

“You got that right!” she replies. “Surely you’ve been following the bush fire news.”

Not wanting to have to explain myself, I agree with her. And, on a hunch, I mention “Hey, I’m trying to find my brother Alex.” (As this feather seems to connect us to Alex, why not give it a try?)

“Oh yes, Alex. He’s out fighting the fires. You know, he’s one of the Volunteer Firefighters with the CFA. He’s not here this arvo and I’m not sure when he’ll return. Maybe in a day or two. You know, he was out fighting that fire near Heywood, you know, way out past Warnambool? They got it out and came home and then another one right next to it blazed up and they had to go back. I’m not sure where he is today."

Firefighting? I think. That's a new one.

"I’m so proud of him," Lynn continued. "There are so many of our animals dying in the fires. Of course, it’s a pity about the people, too, but I feel so bad for the innocent creatures, the echidnas and the koalas and all the rest. They had nothing to do with this."

“Say, I’m Lynn. I’m actually out here looking for Stacey. And you are…?”

I stick out my arm to shake hands. “Oh, I’m Jane. I’m Alex’s sister. That is if we’re talking about the same Alex. He’s been missing from home for a while. He seems to be traveling the world. I pull out a photo I have of him that I keep in my back pocket. I show it to her. In it, Alex is smiling at the camera with a small African boy beside him.

“Crikey, that is indeed our dear Alex. I’d recognize him anywhere. Especially in that khaki shirt and holding his bee smoker. He manages the bees here.”

Finally, I can’t hold my question any longer, “Where exactly are we, anyway?”

“Oh, why in Moddewarre.”

I guess I must have looked puzzled.

“You must know how you got here. We’re just down the Prince’s Highway from Geelong.”

“Oh, OK.” I reflect on this woman’s distinctive speech and her mention of koalas. And, of course, the fires. I’m thinking this is Australia but I’m hesitant to reveal more of my ignorance.

“Aha, there’s my Stacey!” Lynn suddenly plunges towards some thick grass and emerges clutching a plump white goose. “Isn’t he a dear?” she clucks. She puts him down on the ground. “Ever since the fires started, he’s been distraught. Hardly remembers his manners. Where’s your brother Michael?” she queries the bird with a sweet voice. Did he follow you out the gate?”

Not waiting for an answer, she continues, “Go to bed, Stacey,” she commands him.

To my disbelief, Stacey begins a quick waddle back towards one of the pens. He slips inside and wags his tail. “Honk, honk,” he comments quietly.

A matching “Honk, honk” answers from behind a board.

“Ah, Michael!” Lynn cries. “I guess he found his way home on his own. Lynn turns to me, "Say, where are you staying?”

“Oh, I just got into town so I don’t have a place to stay yet. And I got dropped off, so I don’t have a car.”

“C’mon, I’m about to leave. I’ll drop you off at Alex’s place." Lynn gestures toward a beat up old camry.

As we walk to her car, I spot numerous feathers littering the yard. “Oh, can I have some of these?” I ask her. “I’m doing a school report on feathers.” When she nods, I start picking up every cool feather I see.

“Oh, of course. I’ll just be burning them all otherwise.”

Half an hour later we pull up to a quaint yellow Victorian house that almost hides behind a trellis covered with overgrown roses. I admire the gingerbread trim and the wide front porch. Though it is only one floor, it seems tall because of the soaring peaked metallic roof. I walk down the tree-lined side of the house, step up onto a slightly creaky back porch, and slip in the unlocked back door. I walk down the unlevel floor and take a seat at the big, rustic dining table in Alex’s kitchen. It’s so cool! The floor’s even got black and white checkerboard tiles! I spread the feathers out: guinea fowl feathers, peacock feathers, and exotic chicken plumage. I gaze at them hoping for inspiration.

And a thought brushes through my mind. Every time someone deals with Alex’s blue-black rooster feather, he or she is transported instantaneously to an unknown faraway place. Birds all wear feathers. They’re famous for making long arduous trips, sometimes of thousands of miles, without maps. How do they do that? Is there any connection with the feathers? Have I discovered the answer to bird navigation?

Do you think my Bio teacher will accept my theory?

Naw, probably not.

How would I explain my sources?

Meanwhile I sit and wait for Alex. What a chase this search has been! Will I ever actually meet him again? And I wonder if I can get the feather to take me back home, along with all my new ones.

Will I arrive back home at precisely the same time as I left, like in my previous experiences? Will I have time to write my report?

I’m getting peckish. I get up and start examining the contents of the cupboards. I know Alex will have chocolate and tea here somewhere!