The House of the Rising Sun

The House of the Rising Sun

More than anything, it was the quiet bamboo clacking of the shishi odoshi, in my Japanese garden out back, that let me know that I was really home again. Of course, in the taxi on the way home, I had phoned ahead, to signal the automated systems of my impending arrival. As usual, the house security system had a full pot of fresh coffee on the counter, a roaring fire going in the virtual fireplace, and dozens of other small details had been attended to – it was the house's way of welcoming me back home. It had set me back a pretty penny to have so many custom touches added to the basic security/automation package, but it was worth it for the peace of mind. Besides, with my latest Ruby Alsace novel still hovering near the top of the best-seller list, I could finally afford a few of the creature comforts.

The trip that the house was so diligently welcoming me back from was my book-signing tour for my latest thriller, Ruby Alsace: Intrigue in the Outback. Together with Ruby Alsace and the Kimberlite Cathedral, and Ruby Alsace: Emeralds and Empire, this little gem of a novel had paid for the house, the gardens, and all the little security-system automation gadgets that had made my life a lot more comfortable in recent years. I had just settled in and started to unwind from the trip. Don't get me wrong, I love those little book-signing tours and talk show promos, they had helped get me where I am today; but being back in front of the hearth, with a decent cup of java, was definitely inspiration for writing yet more stories concerning our favorite international jewel thief.

I had no more than settled in and started to think of some possible settings for Ruby's next adventure, when one of my butler-bots had startled me back to reality by bringing me a packet of my accumulated mail. It's funny to think in this electronic age, that I was still getting so much dead-tree snail-mail. After all, my bills were all electronic, and even my latest novel was selling more briskly as an e-book rather than in hardcover or paperback. Still, it was often amusing to look through the junk mail pitches for such must-have items as the Salad Shooter 3000. Besides, all that paper made good scratch paper to doodle on, before throwing the whole lot into the recycle bins. I guess Ruby's save-the-planet conservation attitude was inherited from me after all.

As I suspected, the whole packet of snail-mail, save the penultimate piece, was pure advertising hype that would have made Billy Mays proud. I almost didn't notice the letter before I pitched the whole mess in the blue bin. It was only one letter, but it made all the difference. I opened the letter, and quickly discovered it was from Ruby Alsace herself, that is to say,it was from the real-life lady who had been my influence for developing the Alsace character nearly five years ago. When I saw who I was hearing from, I set the rest of the snail-mail aside. Just to be on the safe side, I instructed one of the nearby butler-bots to put any meetings or phone calls that might be on the schedule, on hold for at least the next hour.

I settled in to read Ruby's letter, for Ruby is what I'll call her throughout this tale, as I had promised long ago, to never reveal my contacts real name, not even in my private journals. So, as I said, I started to read Ruby's letter. She was all excited about some event or tour. At first, I thought Ruby was talking about one of those murder-mystery dinner-theaters; you know, one of those entertainments where you and your fellow literati can sit down to a world-class seven course meal, and some where between the appetizers and the digestif, one of your fellow dinner guests will be discovered to have been “murdered.” You spend the rest of the evening, at one of these shindigs, trying to piece together clues to the murderer's identity. Of course you still sit there chowing down on the dinner; at these prices, nobody's going to walk away from world-class cuisine just because there's a faux killer on the loose.

So anyway, after reading a little farther, Ruby's letter was not about one of those murder-mystery dinners; she was talking about a Magdalene tour, looking at real estate that had once been, shall we say, a House of Ill Fame. Ruby was inviting me to go on the Magdalene tour with her, and not just to any brothel, but the world famous mother-of-all-brothels, The House of the Rising Sun. For those of you who may not be familiar with the property of which I speak, allow me to regale you a little further concerning the history of the place.

Imagine, if you will, being back in the era of the post Civil War reconstruction. Furthermore, we find ourselves in the French Quarter of New Orleans, talking to a gentleman named Reuben Green, who is trying to establish a business in that locale. Our Mr. Green is hampered with not only being a damned Yankee, but he is also completely of that social class known politely as “New Money.” In other words, our Mr. Green is a carpet-bagger, who has swept down from the North, to make easy profits during the fast-flowing money era of the Southern Reconstruction. Our Mr. Green is further saddled with a Boston accent, no knowledge of French what-so-ever, and not even a shirt-tail relative who would give him ties to the land in this Parish.

Reuben Green being nobody's fool, quickly surmises that he needs to lend credibility to himself and his dreams of business prosperity, and as quickly as possible. So he gathers what capital he can get his hands on, and builds a respectable-sized town-house in the heart of the French Quarter, at 1614 Esplanade Avenue. Green lays out his town-house in the manner common at the time; a store-front on the first floor, private offices on the mezzanine, and living quarters on the top floor. Using his charisma, and a passably-faked accent, Green convinces a few established businessmen to invest in him, to open a store for imported ladies' clothing on the store-front. Using some of the investor's money, Green imports some fashionable furniture from Europe, a few convincing fake paintings, and Voila', our Mr. Green's riche suddenly doesn't seem quiet so nouveau any more.

The import market for ladies' garments really takes off, and Green starts making money hand over fist. In order to really seal the deal, Green decides to go personally on his next import trip to Paris, with the intention of bringing home a cultured French beauty as his blushing bride-to-be. Green succeeds on both counts; the latest Paris fashions stun the folks back home, and Green courts and wins the heart of a mademoiselle Marianne LeSoleil. Green's Miss Marianne turns out to be his ticket to the cream of New Orleans society. Not only is is the young (some would say too young) woman a stunning beauty with a charming wit, she is also well educated in the subjects a lady of culture should be: wine, cuisine, art, music, poetry. Not only that, but the LeSoleil maiden name hinted at a possible tie to Louis XIV, the Sun King. Speculation at the time was that Marianne was perhaps a great-great-grand-daughter, although not legitimately recognized of course.

Having made all the right moves, Green's life goes on auto-pilot. He enjoys business success, his lovely wife, his social status, and eventually, a house full of young daughters, all equally as beautiful as their mother. But, the one constant in life is change. Soon, the fickle whims of ladies fashion start to change faster than Green can import new merchandise. Green ends up with warehouses full of garments that are all too passe' to wear. Green can't make enough sales to cover the costs of his useless inventory, and secretly, he starts to go heavily into debt. At first, Green gets a brainstorm; he has Marianne and his daughters alter the clothing to suit the current rage. After all, remove a few bits of lace here, sew on some ostrich feathers there, and who can tell the difference ?

Green's fashion juggling act works for a while, but soon, the fashion whims are just too different from the clothes he has in stock. Sales fall, debts pile up, and Green is out of fresh ideas. They say that to drink as a result of bad business is unfortunate, to gamble is fool-hearty, but to do both is disastrous. Green develops a taste for the then-fashionable Absinthe, and soon starts to get drunk every night. Encouraged by the Absinthe euphoria, Green starts to gamble heavily in an attempt to win enough money to turn his business around. Well, if the old carpet-bagger Yankee ever had any poker skills, the Absinthe madness robbed him of them. Green's bar tabs mount up, his gambling debts mount up, and he even foolishly tries to keep a mistress or two on the side. Green's business, lavish home, and social climbing are all supported by a financial house of cards. One angry partner, calling in a note, was all it would take to bring it all crashing down.

Being a man of noble persuasions, and not much real moral conviction, Green takes the easy way out; he is found dead in his private office, the apparent victim of a “gun-cleaning accident.” Ms. Marianne LeSoleil (who had kept her maiden name at Green's request, due to the “Sun King” connotations) quickly composes herself in her grief, and sets about to save her and her daughters from being put out into the streets. Madame LeSoleil changes her name to LeSoleil-Levant, or “Rising Sun.” The implication being, that like the legendary Phoenix, she and her household would rise out of the ashes triumphant. So, the town-house at 1614 Esplanade Avenue, in the heart of French Quarter New Orleans, became know as Chateau de LeSoleil-Levant, or the House of the Rising Sun.

Ms. Marianne makes inquiries about her dearly-departed husband's debts. She manages to sell the dress inventory at fire-sale prices, and sells the warehouse as well. She auctions off some of the art-work and furniture, and manages to pay off the mortgage on the house. By playing the grieving widow part to the hilt, Madame LeSoleil-Levant convinces most of Green's creditors to either forgive the debts, or extend her more favorable terms. She seeks out letters-of-credit, so she can start fresh, and perhaps seek proper suitors for her now marrying-aged daughters. She gets only one letter-of-credit, but that one letter made all the difference. Green's first investor takes pity on Ms. Marianne, and finances suitable dowries for the of-age daughters. He also provides some fine jewelry for Ms. Marianne, for which she was suitably appreciative to be sure.

Madame LeSoleil-Levant instructs her young brides-to-be in the finer arts of entertaining gentlemen callers, and sees to it that young men of suitable upbringing (and bank accounts) become properly introduced to her lovely daughters. Unfortunately, the young men of the day were loathe to leap into untested waters, as it were. There were plenty of evenings entertaining gentlemen callers, but scarce few proposals of a matrimonial nature were produced by such efforts. Eventually, Madame LeSoleil-Levant took it upon herself to inform the young gentlemen, discretely of course, that flowers and candy could be left at home, for young ladies of culture appreciated more substantial tokens of affection. She even went so far as to instruct, on more than one occasion, that young men who were confused as to what to offer their young lady, could whisper in Madame's ear what “exercise” they had in mind for the evening, and they would be instructed as to appropriate objects of endearment to provide.

Thus, after a time, The House of the Rising Sun became the most famous, and some would say the classiest house of ill fame in the entire French Quarter, and its legend would be one day be celebrated in the song of the same name, nearly a century later.

So, that is how Ruby ended up asking me to New Orleans, on the Magdalene Society tour of one of the most famous brothels of modern history. Of course I said yes, if no other reason than to perhaps gain some inspiration for the next Ruby Alsace novel. We exchanged a few e-mails, checked some travel web sites, and soon our trip to New Orleans was all set. We took in some of the more famous sites, then worked our way in to the French Quarter. Ruby surprised me, by being able to get us seated for luncheon at Antoine's on such short notice.

After the Oysters Rockefeller, a Caesar Salad, and warm baguettes, we finally decided to make our way to Esplanade Avenue. After some searching up and down, we found the house at 1614.

True to its origins, The House of the Rising Sun still had a plate glass store-front windows, only now the name of the place was emblazoned in red electric lights, the penultimate letter of which, appeared to have been sans neon for quite some time. The gingerbread decorations of the house were still intact or recently restored, but the color scheme of the paint was no longer in keeping with the fashions of its original heyday. We were pleased to know that the current owner still lived on the top floor, had offices below, and ran a business on the street level. The street-level establishment appeared to be a bar of some sort, which was disappointing, since the place would likely be empty for several hours, so we would have to do other sight-seeing then come back in order to catch the full ambiance.

Ruby and I had started to go, when to our surprise, people from the neighborhood started to file into the street-level establishment. We watched from across the street, until a good number of folks had entered, then we decided to go in as well. The bar was dimly lit, but smoke free, and there was a grill area, specializing in “Po' Boy” sandwiches and local seafood. The clientele, for the most part, all seemed to know each other and all of the wait staff. Many folks ordered “the usual”, and the waiters knew what each person meant by that. Most of the patrons had lead-crystal high-ball glasses in hand, and all the seating faced a stage of some sort. The locals munched on the deep-fried fare common to the locale, and many gentlemen could be heard calling for “another round for the whole table.”

Suddenly, the neons and rope lights were brightened, and the house lights were brought down to a dull twilight. The owner of the establishment, a young man barely in his mid-twenties, took the stage. He offered up a short prayer, almost like saying grace, except that half the entrees were already well tuckered into. Then a spot-light was shone on the young man, and he started to sign. The old familiar sound of an electric organ, just like how the rock-group The Animals used it in 1964, started to belt out the tune of The House of the Rising Sun. The younger singer, in a soft voice surprisingly gravely for his slender frame, began to sing:

There is a house in New Orleans

They call the Rising Sun.

And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy

And God I know I'm one.

My mother was a tailor --

She sewed my new bluejeans;

My father was a gamblin' man

Way down in New Orleans.

Now the only thing a gambler needs

Is a suitcase and a gun;

And the only time he feels alive

Is when he's on the run.

Yes, my Momma was a liar --

My Daddy was a thief;

This is a house of sinners, Lord

Of who, I know, I'm chief

Oh mothers tell your children

Not to do what I have done;

Don't waste your lives in sin and misery

In the House of the Rising Sun.

Well, I got one foot on the platform

The other foot's al--ready on the train;

I'm goin' back down to New Orleans

Tear down that house of pain.

Well, there is a house in New Orleans

They call the Rising Sun

And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy

And God I know I'm one.

After the soulful rendition of the song, almost like a hymn, the young motioned to someone offstage. He said, “here is someone we thought we had lost completely to the streets, in fact, we thought he might be dead. I am pleased to welcome to you tonight, here all the way from Chicago to tell you his story in his own words, my Little Brother . . . . . .”

The emcee's introduction was interrupted by thunderous applause when the crowd saw who was walking onstage from the wings. The new face on the stage was the spitting-image of the emcee, except for about six inches shorter. The younger boy, barely out of his teens, toe-headed, pale with freckles, lanky and thin; was dressed in a suit two sizes too big for him. His shoes, though worn-out, had been carefully polished with about twenty coats of Parade Gloss, until they sparkled like mirrors. The lad had the tell-tale look of someone recently snatched off the streets, his pale skin had red blotches, like someone who had soaked in a scalding hot bath to get rid of the street-funk. Slowly, the lad reached out for the microphone, and spoke, barely audible at first: “Hello, My name is Cyle, and I'm an Alchoholic . . . . . . .”

Suddenly, it dawned on me, all the details I had noticed about the place, I had interpreted it all wrong. This place, this once famous house of ill repute, stuff of legend and song, had not been changed into a bar. This was an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting house, and probably a church rescue mission as well. The brown drinks in the heavy high-ball glasses was just iced tea. Even the red neon sign in the window, when properly lit, could be seen to read “The House of the Rising Son.” It was only one letter, but it had made all the difference. I leaned over to my travel companion and whispered, “I think we have the setting for the next Ruby Alsace novel.” She replied, “yes we do,” as she started dialing the number for the taxi to take us back to the airport.

The End.

Notebook Mary

Once in a while, when the thundering silence of the empty room is too much to handle, I walk the downtown sidewalks, hoping to run into a familiar face, you know – sort of accidentally on purpose. Walking the grimy broken walks at the odd lonely hours, one has occasion to meet the local characters, the alone, the lonely, the misunderstood people who seem more comfortable going by a nickname rather than a name.

There is Bill-Bill, the stuttering set of twins who share a single name, and Flower Danny who gives out wilted roses because he can’t stand to see such beauty thrown away because of slight imperfections. Then there is Notebook Mary, who spends hours writing in her notebook, unconcerned by the fact that her pencil has no lead in it.

On this particular occasion, this group of lonely souls sits around the back booth at the all night diner. The conversation turns to the subject of Notebook Mary, who is seated by herself across the diner. In low whispered tones, the gang discussed whether Mary might have gone around the bend, since she is still sitting at her table, scribbling away at pages that are still as blank as the day she bought the notebook. Each person at the booth has his own opinion; some suggest that we take Notebook Mary to the free clinic to get evaluated. The only one who hasn’t spoken up yet is Blind Willie, although he seems like he sure would like to. As we are being served, the conversation dies down a bit, and Willie gets his turn to speak.

“You cats have got Mary all wrong”, Willie says as the others are digging into the mashed potatoes and fried chicken. “Mary may or may not have a lead in her pencil, I have never seen it. But these fingers of mine have felt the dents made in the paper by the tip of the stylus.” Willie turns toward the table where Notebook Mary always sits, and calls her over to join the rest of us. “Mary, let me see your notebook a second, please” After a moment’s hesitation, Mary offers her precious notebook Willie. With subtle movements of his ultra-sensitive fingertips, Willie glides across each page, reading aloud the words that only the blind man can see written there.

Willie reads on and on, long flowing poems that Mary has written about grokking her new friend at the subatomic level, about the patterns of the stars in the sky, about the beauty of the sunset reflected off the ocean waves. This lonely, broken lady, who never speaks and who writes poems that only the blind can read, has somehow managed to work the names of each of us, each lonely twisted one of us into her poems. Notebook Mary calls us by our real names in her poems, not the public handles that we go by on the streets. This poor girl, who many of us have described as the weirdest one among us, has not written one unkind word about any of us; in fact her poems describe us a heroes, defenders of the poor and the weak.

I turn to Notebook Mary, no I mean just plain Mary, and start to offer my apology. With trembling voice and tears in my eyes, I try to say something, anything to salve my own guilty conscience. Mary gently lays her hand upon my trembling hand; she says, “You didn’t know, how could you have known. You judged me by what you could see of me, by what I chose to show you. I have never let you see my poems until now, have never let you run a gentle hand across the worn and tattered pages. You live your life day by day, trying to run more scam to score another meal for your earth suit. I do those things too, I need my daily bred as much as anyone, but when I write in my journal with my leadless pencil, I do it as my way of practicing the invisible.”

The sound of forks being laid at the edges of plates fills the air; seven hungry diners are now too ashamed of themselves to eat. As wallets are drawn out to pay the checks, I am pleased to meet for the first time, the familiar faces of Bill, Mary, Willie, Travis, Nevin, and Cyle; I will no longer need or want to use street handles for my friends. As we each pay and leave, going our separate ways, Mary quietly hands me a page torn out of her journal. My eyes can’t read the poem, and my fingertips can barely distinguish the outlines of the letters dented into the paper by the well-worn stylus. As I stand there, running my fingers across the pages to try to make out the meaning of what is written there, I find myself thinking that I will soon have to learn how to practice the invisible.

FINIS

In the little white house at the end of the lane

In the little white house at the end of the lane, by where the farmers put the corn into the big long train, Davonte was waking up from a nice sleep at Grandma’s house. Without evening thinking about it, Davonte used the shower like a big boy, and then he got dressed all by himself. He put on his Superman boxers, then one red sock and one blue sock. Then Davonte put on his Spiderman T-shirt and his Hawaii jam-shorts. Finally, he put on one white tennis shoe and one black cowboy boot; “I got dressed all by myself” he said as he was coming down the stairs.

Uncle Ricky said, “Hey Dante, what’s Good?” when Davonte came down to the kitchen. Dante went to look at the calendar; he noticed that the picture was still Elmo on a Picnic, so the month was still June. Then little Dante pointed to each of the days that had already been crossed out; when he saw the first day that didn’t have an X in it, Dante said “One. Eight. That’s eighteen. Today is June 18^th.” Ricky smiled when he asked Dante, “what happens on June eighteenth, little Buddy?”

Dante giggled, “Four. Four. Today is my birthday. Today I am Four.” Grandma asked, “Dante, how many slices of toast do you want?” “How many eggs do you want?” Little Dante said, “Four. Four. Today I am four, so I want four. Not less, not more, I want FOUR!” “Four, Four slices of toast, ha ha ha.” Dante said, sounding just like The Count.

Grandma knew that Dante couldn’t eat four slices of toast and four eggs. Grandma gave Dante his breakfast plate; it had one toast with peanut butter and FOUR banana slices on it.

Grandma asked Dante, “What’s up with the one shoe and one boot?” “I got my style going ON!” Dante said with a smile.

Everybody had a good breakfast, and Ricky, who is 14, started to clean up the table. Dante said, “I can help you Ricky, I am a big kid now.” Dante carried plates, one at a time, to the kitchen sink. “Four. Four plates washed and put away, ha, ha, ha” Dante said. When all the dishes were washed and put away, Dante and Ricky were allowed to play out side.

Pretty soon, the boys saw their good friend, the janitor, coming down the street. “What’s Good, Janitor Man?” Ricky said when their friend stopped to talk to them. Janitor Dean pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to Dante. It was the invitations to Dante’s birthday party. “Hey thanks for printing up the invitations, Dean”, Ricky said as he was looking at the cards. Dante said, “Me and you get to hand out the cards, and whoever gets one, gets to come to my birthday tonight”.

Of course, the boys gave an invitation to Dean. Then they went down the street to see who else wanted to come to the birthday. Soon the boys were at the corner, so Dante sat on the steps while Ricky went into the tap to get a soda for them to share. As they were walking along drinking the soda, Dante saw mama’s friend K.D. Ricky called out to him, “K.D., what’s up?” K.D. stopped, so the boys could catch up to him and talk. Dante handed K.D. one of the cards, “You want to come to my birthday tonight, K.D.?” K.D. asked, “Is your mama going to be at the party?” Dante said, “Yeah and grandma and …”

“Then I’m there”, K.D. interrupted. Ricky smiled when K.D. said that.

Soon the boys were downtown, and they saw a lot of people that they knew. Dante asked Karlmone if he wanted to come to the birthday. Karlmone said, “I can’t come to your birthday, but Ricky can stop by later and I will send a big slab of ribs and sauce home with him. I will come see you tomorrow, after I close up the rib shack.” “Four. Four big ribs and sauce, ha, ha, ha” Dante said. Then the boys ran into mama’s friend Ann. “Please come to my birthday”, Dante asked. “Yeah, please, please come to the birthday”, Ricky giggled. Ann said, “Of course I will be there, I am helping your mom put up the balloons”. “I see that you have one white shoe and one black cowboy boot on, Dante”. “I got my style going ON”, Dante said.

It was very hot out, so Ricky took off his shirt and tied it around his waist. “See you at the party Ann” and the boys both waved goodbye as they were walking further down the street. “Single file, Injun style”, Ricky teased. “Please be quiet”, Dante said with a smile. Soon they were at Union Dairy, so the boys stopped in to get ice cream cones. Dante had a dip of Superman, and Ricky got a grape sherbet so his tongue would turn purple.

When they were walking along eating their cones, the boys saw Jason and Trevor. “Man, your tongue sure is purple, Ricky”, Jason said with a grin. “Yeah, grape sherbet will do that”, Trevor said. The boys talked and joked for a while, and then Dante gave each of them an invitation to his birthday party.

“Man, I am burning UP with this HEAT”, Ricky said. Trevor said, “Your back looks a little sun-burned Ricky”. Luckily, Jason had his pegs on his bike, and Trevor had a big basket on the handle bars of his bike. So, Ricky rode on Jason’s pegs, and Dante rode in Trevor’s basket with a helmet strapped on. “Four. Four boys riding bike ghetto style, ha, ha, ha” Dante said, sounding just like The Count. It looked a little weird, but all four boys managed to ride back to their neighborhood without any problems.

When they got home, Ricky went in to put on some sun block and a clean shirt. He came back out wearing his blue jersey and his new black fitted. Ricky also had a hand full of quarters, he said, “Let’s get some icy cups!” “Four. Four cool dudes riding off to buy icy cups, ha, ha, ha” Dante said. Soon they were all back on their bikes, headed off to the arcade to get icy cups at Frieda’s house. Trevor and Jason got cherry, Dante got lemon, and Frieda gave Ricky an extra large grape icy cup. Ricky made SURE that Frieda got an invitation to the birthday party tonight.

After the icy cups were done, the boys all headed down to Trevor’s house. “I hope nobody’s got crusty drawers, ‘cause we all getting into the pool today!” Trevor shouted. Soon everybody was splashing and shouting and having a good time in the pool. “Four. Four boys splashing in the pool, ha, ha, ha” Dante said, sounding just like The Count.

After a while, Frieda came by, she had changed into her new pink one piece bathing suit. “Key Ute”, Ricky whispered to Frieda as she got in the pool. Dante was having a good time, floating on the inflatable float chair in the pool. Ricky was showing off for Frieda; diving under and jumping up, doing back flips and such, and making lots of waves and splashes.

After one great big splash, Ricky was standing there laughing, “Wasn’t that a great dive?” he asked. “Four. Four people laughing at Ricky, ha, ha, ha” Dante said. “Boy, you are working on my last nerve” Ricky said.

Pretty soon, every body was tired from splashing around, so each kid decided to go home and rest before getting ready for the big party tonight. When Ricky and Dante got back home, grandma asked them to change into dry shorts, then go rest up in Ricky’s room, so she could get the surprises ready for tonight.

When Dante woke up again, it was dark out. Ricky was already dressed up, and he helped Dante get his new outfit on for the party. When they came downstairs, the living room was all decorated with tons of balloons and streamers. There were red, green, blue, and purple balloons. “Four. There are four colors of balloons at my party, ha, ha, ha” Dante said, sounding just like The Count. Besides the balloons and streamers, there was also a pile of presents, a big cake, and ice cream. There were ribs, and burgers and hot dogs. Frieda brought a tray of icy cups. Grandma and Grandpa were there, so was Mama and K.D. Ann was watching TV on the couch. Jason and Trevor stopped by, with a present with Spiderman paper on it.

And Dean was there in the corner chair, sitting at the computer, typing up the last page of this story book.

Everybody played musical chairs, and then we cut the cake and ate. Then Dante got to open his presents. There were four Spiderman comic books, and four new pairs of shorts. Four DVD movies and four new action figures. Ricky read the comic books to Dante, while the kids played action figures with him. Ann picked out a DVD to watch on the big TV, and Dean found out that the computer could play DVDs too. Frieda sat next to Ricky, helping him make funny voices for the comic book characters as they read aloud. K.D. helped Mama clean up the kitchen after the snacks were done. Grandma kept asking Dante to go try on his new outfits, while Grandpa just said “Now, just let the kid play and quit bugging him”.

Everybody had a good time, and Dante was laughing and playing action figures. Even Russell and Karlmone stopped by to say Happy Birthday to Dante on his big day. The DVD movie was a funny one. Ann asked Dante what his favorite movie was, Dante said “Chucky” as he let himself fall backwards onto the edge of the couch. Grandma said, “No, we are not watching ‘Bride of Chucky’ again, I don’t know who let you get a hold of that DVD in the first place.” Ricky just sat there quietly, with his hand over his face, hiding his smile.

When all the snacks and dishes were cleaned up and all the new toys were put away, people started saying goodnight and getting ready to go home. Pretty soon, it was quiet again at the little white house at the end of the lane, by where the farmers put the corn into the big long train. Dante had had a big adventure today, now that he was one of the big kids. Dante was glad that everybody had a good time on his special day. But the best part was that he was home with his mom and grandma and grandpa. And especially that he knew that his Ricky loved him very much. And when everything was quite and all the people had said good night, Dante fell asleep on the couch with a big smile on his face. Ricky carried his little buddy upstairs and put him to bed.

Well, that’s all for now, until next time.

Tell Me If I'm Right”

Laraine: “Tell Me If I'm Right” is a good beginning plan for starting from zero and working towards that first $300 paycheck. Modern public libraries make almost every piece of equipment and every service needed for a virtual office, available for free. Faxing documents back and forth still requires equipment and a fax over internet service. Perhaps even the faxing fee can be eliminated, if both parties have access to a scanner and can attach the scanned pages as an e-mail attachment, perhaps as an Adobe PDF file.

The library provides the office building itself, utilities, the cubicle and computer equipment, and all the needed high speed internet services. It is easy to sign up for free e-mail, some online file storage space, some type of fax replacement, online money exchange, and even space to make your own small web pages is often available free. The virtual office in the cloud is real now, not a futuristic concept.

Paypal is the most common way to exchange money online, but there are alternatives starting up, and most of them charge only a small percentage of the exchanged payment. One good thing about Paypal is you can send someone money even if you only know their e-mail address. Paypal takes care of e-mailing the recipient, asking him to enter his Paypal account or sign him up if he doesn't have one, and completing the money transfer. Other money exchange sites may require you to know the other party's credit card number or checking account, but they may be cheaper per transaction.

Microsoft and Google each have free word processors available online, they are part of hot mail or gmail respectively. In fact, both products are entire office suites: word, spreadsheet, data-base, and slide show documents can be made and exchanged with either online package.

One service most libraries lack is a way to record audio and video. So, making you-tube videos to promote affiliate products may involve equipment purchases. The other downside of the library is the one-hour limit on cubicle use. But if you are organized, it is not too much trouble to move to other stations as they become available.

I would like to see someone open a chain of virtual office locations across the country, many cubicles like the library, but they rent them to you hourly. Include more services and equipment: faxing, high volume printing with optional cover binding, cameras and microphones to record and edit professional quality lessons suitable for YouTube or other online sites. I saw one service where you can record in front of a green screen, then edit in a virtual desk/office that looks absolutely real.

I have already taught most of Microsoft Office in professional settings. I want to get more familiar with the newer versions, especially the online office suites. I can teach people how to set up a system of daily or weekly backing up all their computer files. Good back ups allow a business to resume after a disaster. If a fire destroyed your office building, you could rent space and equipment at a building nearby. But it is the backup of your correspondence, files, faxes, records of all kinds that make the difference between resuming business or being forced to close down.

The Calculus of Friendship

The Calculus of Friendship

I met you, and I was fascinated by the depth of your experience, the unique viewpoint of your spirit.  I was fascinated; I wanted to Grok you at the sub-atomic level, a quantum mechanical meeting of the minds.

You reminded me that in this corner of the universe, the concepts of “You” and “I” are still divisible, considered separate and distinct.  So I withdrew my tendrils and retreated for a time, content to understand you based upon such facets of being as you chose to reveal.

We communicate across the miles, exchanging tears and smiles; until slowly, steadily, through a process of step-wise integration, I get to know the area under your curve.

"Practicing the Invisible", at first might bring to mind an image of someone carefully practising that great new dance sweeping the nation, "The Invisible". Imagine the Prima Ballerina at center stage, executing the most amazing Pirouettes and Arabesques, only to be completely ignored by the other dancers, who do routines of their own, as if she were not there. They avoid making contact with her seemingly by pure coincidence.

Then again, "Practicing the Invisible," may refer hiding in plain sight, like a ninja warrior dressed as a lowly beggar. Maybe it means to be invisible to one's enemies, like a member of the Witness Protection program. I prefer to break the title down into two parts: "Practicing" and "The Invisible." I think of Practicing as in "going into practice" such an attorney who joins the bar and opens his own law practice. As for "the Invisble", I can't help but recall the phrase from -Antoine de Saint -Exupery, author of "The Little Prince": Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux.
Here is my secret. It is very simple. It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; What is essential is invisible to the eye.
 Here, we have finally touched upon what I think you mean when you say that your memoirs should be titled "Practicing the Invisible": it is that you have learned, you have studied long, and passed the bar exam, and opened your own professional practice. It is a practice that uses drawings, paintings, photographs, and especially word pictures to convey the essence of what cannot be seen by the eye: the beauty and ecstasy of communing with Him to accomplish His great plan. To practice the invisible is to study, meditate, learn, and grow in the common-sense wisdom found in the Beatitudes and throughout His scriptures. It is practicing these essential things that can not be directly seen by the human eye, to the point that you can "go into your own practice" like a professional doctor or lawyer.