Are You Fragile? “Crazy!” Huh? I just spoke with one of my regular readers at the supermarket, and his words shocked me. “I read your crazy articles every week,” he said, grinning from ear to ear like a Cheshire Cat. And that’s not the first time a reader has called my articles crazy. What is going on? I write a serious column about household pest management. And I’m a classically trained writer, well-read in Chaucer, Lord Byron, and Shakespeare. Are some of my readers misinterpreting something? Missing something? Are my articles a mirror that reveals the cracks in their own fragile psyches? No, dear readers, none of my articles are crazy. If you don’t believe me, just ask my imaginary companion since childhood, a pet rat named Skeeter. Hey, Skeeter, do you think my articles are nutty? “Negatory on that, good buddy.” You see, he agrees with me! This is just your typical small-town pest advice column—nothing nutty going on here. “10-4 on that. Breaker, breaker, there’s a smoky in the granny lane on the I-5 near the Grapevine.” Uh, sorry folks, Skeeter is obsessed with trucker’s slang. Just ignore that. But what you shouldn’t ignore is Skeeter’s advice on which company you should call when pests become a problem. Take it away, Skeeter… come on, Skeeter, tell the people who to call when they need help with problem pests. “If critters are putting a burr up your backside… then… roll on down to Bobby’s Big Rig Emporium and chrome shop, serving the tri-state area since 1952!” Darn you, Skeeter!! For once in your cursed life, could you do what you're told and tell the people to call Home Defenders! Shape up, buster—or ship out! Uh, sorry about that outburst, folks. Skeeter just drives me nuts. Anyway, be sure and check back next week when I outline—in painstaking, sadistic detail—how to get rid of a problem rat. “Negatory on that, good buddy. You’d go crazy without me.” (Long sigh.) 10-4 on that, Skeeter… 10-4 on that, good buddy. Have a burr-up-your-backside free week, everybody!
Hey, reader, I have a question. How old were you when you felt you knew everything about life? Eight? Ten? Personally, I was a first-class know-it-all by the time I was twelve. Having crowned myself the earthly lord of time, space, and knowledge, I stopped listening to adults giving out warnings. Warnings did, however, sometimes squeeze through my thick skull, perhaps by divine intervention. God protects fools and babies. I remember the sunny morning on our grandparents’ Illinois farm when my brother Dave and I told Grandpa we were heading to Bear Crick to hunt Indian artifacts. We would walk across the “north forty” cow pasture to get there. No big deal. We told Grandpa of our plan. “Listen, boys,” he said with a grim stare. “I moved the bull into that pasture yesterday. Never turn your back on a bull—he’ll kill ya dead.” Ten minutes later, we climbed the rusty barbed wire fence and jumped into the cow pasture. Walking toward Bear Crick, I kept my eyes locked on that black bull peacefully munching green Illinois grass. He was the most powerful animal I’d ever seen, and I had no doubt he could kill me dead. When it came to matters of life and death, Grandpa knew best. Since I (usually) don’t like uninvited warnings, I avoid giving them out. When homeowners need help, one phone call brings my company to their rescue—no warnings given. But, once in a while, like Grandpa, I dish out a warning. Listen, folks, never let branches touch your home. Ants live in trees, and branches are their gateways to the fertile pasture that is your kitchen. I’ve treated thousands of houses, and sometimes, the only way to eliminate ants—despite my arsenal of 21st-century products—is to grab my ladder, climb to the roof, and cut branches. If you can’t safely cut your branches, call a professional tree trimmer. The sooner, the better. Lastly, if I come to your home and see branches touching your roof, well… I recommend you avoid cow pastures. Have a bull-free week, everyone!
A Ripping Mystery! Have I done it? Have I, Dr. John Watson, bested the great Sherlock Holmes? Can I now take my place alongside him, not as his storyteller, but as his colleague? The facts are these: While on holiday visiting my cousin William in the mountain community of Big Bear Lake, California, we experienced a strange phenomenon. Every evening, as we returned from our daytime excursions, we found a live bird in the home, a jay of some sort. We secured the cabin daily, but the bird returned, which we released outside. This pattern repeated for a week. I cabled the pertinent facts to Holmes in London and awaited his response. None came. Had an ordinary bird puzzled the man who outwitted the brilliant Dr. Moriarty? Receiving no aid from Holmes, I applied myself to the problem. First, I examined the cabin’s exterior, high and low, looking for clues. In Big Bear, mountain cabins are covered in wood siding, and woodpeckers make many holes, but I found none. On the verge of giving up, I glanced skyward. Eureka! Upon returning to London, I rushed to 221B Baker Street. Holmes sat in his settee, smoking his favorite cherrywood pipe, casually blowing smoke rings to the ceiling. I hastened to speak, but he spoke first. “The metal screen at the top of the chimney, called a spark arrestor, was faulty or missing entirely. The feathered intruder tried to build a nest on the chimney ledge and, in its labours, fell down the flue, landing inside the cabin. I trust your cousin had the spark arrestor repaired.” “But Holmes, why didn’t you telegraph me with the answer?” “And deny you a splendid mystery to solve while on holiday!” Thus, my dream of working as an equal partner to Sherlock Holmes came to a sudden and humbling end. I must remain content to pen his adventures for all the world to read. No, readers, I, John Watson, am no Sherlock Holmes. However, upon reflection… I would love to see Holmes take the bits and pieces of human folly and weave them into a ripping detective yarn!
