Story of the Moment

Bryce comes to this issue of The Black Widow & The Brown Recluse after a long, roundabout journey. You see Bryce was one of the original members of the Locker Room Writers & Thinkers Workshop, his first published work showing up in our first anthology “Silent Man of the Highway”. After his graduation from high school we lost track of him. Coincidence brings us together again. After a stint in the U.S. Navy, Bryce returned home, married, had twins, and is now a freshman student at Schreiner University. And he's working on a writing career. I was speaking to a class for Dr. Kathleen Hudson -- and who's there? Glad he's back, glad he's writing, and glad we can showcase several of his stories. With no further ado then, the work of Bryce Umfress.

Stretching out my legs I head out the front door and down the street toward my friend Jackie's house. I don't stop, but I proceed to walk through a few of the resident yards and a small cluster of homes. Passing a particular house, I veer far away from it, because the black beast of a dog tied to a small cedar tree has been known to eat pre-teen boys. I'm headed for the ditch, a castle, campground, and pathway to another place.

When I first enter the ditch, I have a sense that I am going to a completely different continent. The roots of the trees that line the edge of the ditch gouge their way out to the air from the sides of the dirt wall. Balls of mud cling to these roots like a mountain climber hanging on to his tethered lines. Great mounds of rock and caliche gather at the foot of the incline where kids and water have forced them to fall.

The bed of the ditch is covered with stones of all shapes worn smooth from occasional floods that drench and fill the ravine. Spots of grass try, with futile attempts, to grab hold of the rocky soil and take root. As I walk down the naturally worn path, I notice that little pools of water have collected and now harbor signs of life. Tadpoles, water spiders, and tiny minnows make their home in these watery prisons. Slowly, as the summer wears on, I can be sure that all that will be left is crusty cracked earth, where I knew water had once been. Further down the trail the cedar trees begin to take over the landscape; little patches of water plants push up like the short children trying to be seen in a school picture. Lush, green broadleaf plants sprout, emanating a musky odor that soft indoor people would find offensive. Poison ivy grows heavily around the tree trunks giving me a sneaking suspicion of an itch that isn't there. The giant gray cypresses slowly replace the cedar trees for domination of my view. All around me a transformation is happening, from arid desert scenery, to one of a rain forest.

The chatter of the birds and cicadas begin to hypnotize me like the hum of the tires on a travelling car. I tread forward in spite of the humidity that dampens my pores like every drop of moisture is leaving my body. The trail narrows to a point that I cannot see the ground anymore, just the tall grass that pulls at my sweaty legs and arms.

The sun is disappearing, being pulled behind the veil of treetops, and a cool breeze lets me know that wet running water is close by. Under the symphony of wildlife, I hear the small roar of the rapids growing louder and louder like a train ready to cross an intersection. As I focus my eyes ahead, I see the cypress tree trunks marching in a line like well-trained soldiers, with broad bodies willing to take an assault. Some of the massive trees show signs of being wounded in their battle against the elements. One old veteran stands ripped open by a bolt of lightening which has left a charred hollow inside that I can easily fit into.

Then as suddenly as it vanishes, the trail reappears, this time, however, as a flat stone paved road, with mortar in-between the joints. The twisting of the stone path leads several directions; some disappear under the ground hugging bushes, while others lead directly to the water. As I head for the deep green water's edge, I find myself hopping over and on the smoothed roots that twist their way above the surface of the dampened and moldy soil.

One tree in particular has a perfect fit to my bottom, with a large flat stone right in the center of the root armrests. As I take my seat I inhale, slowly taking in the coolness the river offers in spite of the heat. I let my toes float in the water while the minnows consider them a feast, tickling me with their toothless mouths. Across the water on the other bank I can see a nice shaggy oak tree with heavy leaves hanging in the water. I'm confident that there will be fish today, so I make my cast.

Dating is a challenging and sometimes heart-breaking job, but somebody has to do it. Suave men and beautiful women rarely have trouble finding a date. However, there are men and women just like me, who look like their heads were beat-up with a pitchfork and left to die. Chances of any of us not so beautiful people finding the best looking mate are slim. Therefore, I have come up with a perfect solution, gator dating. Gator dating is a concept that goes back in time to the ancient Egyptians, you can tell that they had a lot of respect for a gator dater by the complex series of hieroglyphics dedicated to men and women who chose to break the traditional roles of dating. Finding the perfect gator can be a challenge, but I a have a solution to the problem.

The first and most paramount step is locating your prospective date; the alligator must be above the eight-foot limit imposed by the ADS (Alligator Dating Service). The Florida Everglades is a prime location, full of nice fat green alligators and their pointy teeth. Finding the proper reptile requires swamp skill and savvy cunning, if survival isn't your forte then a khaki covered Australian guide, known as the Crocodile Hunter, will be necessary.

Once the scaly creature has been located the utmost caution is advised. Please do not immediately try to ask for a date. Size up the situation and weigh your options. I prefer the female variety as opposed to the males; lady gators are more likely to succumb to pillow talk. If the gator is female, walk slowly towards her with your hands outstretched holding a bouquet of raw meat, most likely this will not work but it is worth a shot. Do not try roses, alligators are carnivorous and could take your gift as offense and require one of your limbs as a peace offering.

As the lady gator is being warmed up to your presence, offer to buy her a drink at Swampie's Bar and Grill, a quality beer joint that serves genuine Bloody Mary's. The lady gator will be absolutely thrilled about the offer and will readily agree. Give the green beauty plenty of time to prepare herself, this will include cleaning the rancid flesh from previous dinner engagements still lodged between her pointy meat cleavers. Swampie's offers a wide variety of reptilian artists on the jukebox so a dance or two will be in order. You must be in top physical shape to dance with an alligator, as you know they are not two legged creatures, so dancing will require all fours.

A word of caution -- if the lady gator wants to do the new craze dance called the death roll politely decline using any available excuse. The death roll will only result in a broken heart on your part, not to mention amputation of your bodily extensions.

Now is the time to make good on that drink you promised the river goddess you have chosen as your potential girlfriend. One drink will absolutely not do, you must keep them coming. The reason for the alcoholic experience is two fold: you have to be able to get the intoxicated gator alone, and you would be sick in the head if you wanted to date a lady gator while you were sober.

If you have gotten this far in the dating game with no problems then you are very close to having the new love of your life. Keep the small talk interesting. Be polite when she mentions her sixty-five children, cry when she tells you how her ex had eaten fifteen of them because he wasn't able to catch lunch. Most importantly though, don't tell her you're trying to date a gator because no human woman will date you.

By midnight the tipsy lady will begin to ask you if you want to go back to her log on the riverbank. Agree whole-heartedly and recommend a cab because the both of you have been drinking. The gator will be impressed by your caring yet responsible attitude. Once you have made it to the female's water-logged home offer her all the things she desires, which isn't very much more than a fresh supply of game and water. Lady gators are known for low-maintenance, a definite plus for anyone lacking in the financial arena.

Plan the wedding immediately, gators are very fickle with their mates and tend to leave if any children are involved. Finally, if it isn't in the stars for you and your new found love just go home and count your blessings because she probably would have eaten you anyway.

During the hot, dusty summers of my childhood, I spent the vast majority of my time with my two best friends. Robbie and Larry were constantly in my company. Robbie was the kind of friend that every caring parent cringed about when hecame over. Robbie was constantly looking for trouble, and he had no trouble finding it. Larry, on the other hand, was the cool level-headed character of our trio. Larry was also a twenty-six pound ball of the feline persuasion.

Robbie and I had particular quirks to our personalities that stuffy old adults tried, as best as they could, to rectify. For instance, one of our greatest bouts of mischief involved the neighborhood propane tanks that became our space vehicles. One of our spacecrafts was much larger than the typical launch-and-return type that we saw on television; it was of space-station proportions, allowing us adequate room to conduct experiments along with the physically demanding routine of an astronaut. There was just one minor problem with our craft; it was strategically placed within enemy territory.

Mr. Gardner was the local old geezer whose life ambition was to torment little boys who played spaceship in his backyard. What added to the severity of our plight was the fact that Mr. Gardner was the neighborhood landlord, this gave the crusty old smoke-aholic immense control over our liberty, namely, our ability to leave our houses without being harassed by our parents. Robbie and I found it very disconcerting to see our parents in cahoots with the local Klingon commander.

One day in particular, one that I will never forget, revolved around the artificial life simulator accidentally detaching from the main hull of the ship. To this day Robbie and I debate as to how the gas regulator fell off the tank, but I still believe that Robbie did it. When the simulator came loose, it struck the propane tank with a resonating clang, like a church bell being struck at noon. At that moment Mr. Gardner charged out of his back door with a mercenary of terror. The old man's words still haunt me to this day, “Killer, kill,” was all he had to say to send a wet stream down my leg.

Then like a whirlwind filled with black rich soil, the largest, blackest, and toothiest beast of a dog came flying by Mr. Gardner's leg towards Robbie and me. Petrified and sensing death at my door, I knew that Larry the Cat was our only hope. Larry the Cat was usually never far from my side. I believe this is because God knew that I was a little boy who found getting into trouble fascinating and that I needed a guardian angel. Well, the next few events that happened sped by so quickly that I didn't have much time to react, and I had barely enough time to watch.

The reason for my lack of time was probably that I was busy hauling my chunky frame up the nearest tree. What I did manage to see was Larry bolt from underneath the spaceship toward the one-ton rottweiler and mount him like he was tuna casserole, Larry's favorite dish. Larry's divine intervention sent that mean old beast to a screaming halt and a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn back towards Mr. Gardner. The dog, because he was not able to sink his foot long fangs into Robbie or me, decided that the landlord's leg was the next best thing to our young veal-like bodies. Mr. Gardner let out a yelp of unimaginable pain.

Beating the animal off of his lower body, Mr. Gardner hopped around like an Indian trying to make rain and fell backward off of his steps. With a sickening thud, Mr. Gardner landed mere inches from Larry, who was efficiently cleaning his now dog-fur-filled paws. This caused Larry to become somewhat unhappy and he decided that the old man needed a refresher course in proper etiquette around grooming kitties. Mr. Gardner jumped from his reclining position and commenced to run around the yard screaming like his head was on fire. Of course it did look like the old grump's head was on fire with Larry sitting on top of it. Larry was, after all, a long-haired orange cat. When Larry finally decided to dismount, the old man collapsed into a pile where he exhaled deeply and mumbled, “I need a cigarette.”

In the Hill Country we have a saying, “Don't share your table with pigs.” My old man modified that bit of wisdom to fit our situation. He said, “ don't share your table with cats.” Larry the Cat had a peculiar habit, which involved dining with the family at the family table. My Mom found this peculiar habit very cute. Dad, however, did not. On more than one occasion my Dad had words with Larry. Larry, of course was undaunted by my dad's tirades. He would listen with a sleepy look and then politely yawn.

To make matters even worse Larry would not eat the most gourmet of feline cuisine. Dinner for Larry was what was dinner for us. Usually, it involved some variation of hamburger helper. Mom had a delightful way of making dinner less boring. She would open a can of peas, corn, or green beans and pour the contents on top. This she would call a delicacy and state that people pay good money to indulge in a meal like this. Of course, we would have never known because restaurants were not on the weekly to do list. Mom did on occasion whip up her famous tuna casserole. This dish was by far my favorite, not to mention Larry's also.

Larry did not make it known to us that tuna casserole was his most desired meal. Partly because he could not talk and also because when he first entered our home we were going through a lean time. Beans and cornbread had a fight every night in my belly. Larry would have nothing to do with that metabolic monster. Mom did manage to find a job and with her first paycheck came all the ingredients for Tuna Surprise. We were going to celebrate and live it up a little.

Mom began her skillful manipulation of cheese, noodles, crackers, and one eight-ounce can of tuna. My sister and I watched with yearning eyes as Mom's wooden spoon spun in long loping circle around the bowl. Larry also noticed the activities and quietly sat beside us. His giant fuzzy head began moving with the rhythm of Mom's hand. Larry, who usually portrayed the look of disinterest, was quite intent on what was happening. I could almost see the sinister plan brewing inside his little cat mind. I knew that something was going to happen.

After Mom had set the oven temperature and put the contents of the bowl into a baking pan she gave me the honor of making sure that the casserole was all right and to take it out in about twenty minutes. I of course, being the legendary chef of the south, happily agreed. Mom cheerfully left the kitchen to take a shower. My eyes never averted from the oven. I would even flip the oven light on to watch the juices bubble through the cheese and make little vapor craters. When the timer dinged I rushed with my potholders to the cooking feast with an eager anticipation of what was to come. Little did I realize that what was to come wasn't tuna casserole. Larry, while sitting on his haunches, had hatched a virtually infallible plan to get me into trouble.

Mom had always told me to let any dish cool for at least ten minutes. So being the obedient child that I was I pulled the steaming hot pan from the oven and sat it upon the stove burners. After my chore was finished I had planned to sit at the table waiting on the family to eat. This was not what happened. Larry had managed to pull dads seat cushion from his dinner spot and began chewing it up. I was terrified. Frantically, I gave chase to Larry who bolted into the living room. Larry then strategically ran behind the couch, dropped the cushion, and then rushed out. I was not worried about were he went -- I only cared about getting the cushion.

Our couch was heavy. It was a solid oak-framed couch that Mom picked up at a garage sale for next to nothing. The job of pulling out the oppressive fixture was going to require every ounce of my twelve-year-old strength. I was determined. Painfully, the couch lurched away from the wall. One inch, two inches, a foot it was enough. I could now reach the cushion. Doing an army crawl I carefully maneuvered so as not to bang my head. From the kitchen came a shrilly scream. It was my Mom's. What had happened? God only knew.

Running into the kitchen, I prepared myself for the worst. Maybe it was a burglar. Maybe Mom had seen a mouse. Maybe Larry did something. My worst fears came into view; Larry with an engorged tummy was sitting in empty tuna pan. I couldn't have been out of the kitchen for more than five minutes and Larry had decimated dinner. Mom's hands covered her pale face and angry red eyes. Larry was very relaxed, stuffed, and swaying as if the tuna had somehow intoxicated him. Boy was I in trouble.

Miraculously Mom's cool demeanor returned. “ Clean the kitchen, I am going to get something for dinner.” Exhaled Mom in a single breath, “And you, you fuzzball the next time you do something like that you are going to be kitty casserole.” Larry actually looked miserable, probably because he was unable to move. I was forced to pick up the now five-pound-heavier cat and put him outside. Dad was on the way home.

When Dad made his larger than life entrance, as he always did, everyone had their game face on. We were all sitting at the table happily awaiting Dad to join us. “Wow, Chinese food, what happened? Did we win the lottery?” chimed the cheerful man. Holding the smile on my face, I glanced at Dad as he neared the table. “Hey, where is my cushion?” I panicked, "Larry did it Dad."


	The Black Widow & The Brown Recluse \| home Locker Room Writers and Thinkers Workshop \| Poet of the Moment \| Poets from the Past \| Story of the Moment \| Stories from the Past \| Info about Submissions \| Other Events \| Related Links \| The Kerrville Book Festival \| Contact the Magazine \| Index to Issues Online Story of the Moment The Story of the Moment comes from: Bryce Umfress, Kerrville, Texas Bryce comes to this issue of The Black Widow & The Brown Recluse after a long, roundabout journey. You see Bryce was one of the original members of the Locker Room Writers & Thinkers Workshop, his first published work showing up in our first anthology “Silent Man of the Highway”. After his graduation from high school we lost track of him. Coincidence brings us together again. After a stint in the U.S. Navy, Bryce returned home, married, had twins, and is now a freshman student at Schreiner University. And he's working on a writing career. I was speaking to a class for Dr. Kathleen Hudson -- and who's there? Glad he's back, glad he's writing, and glad we can showcase several of his stories. With no further ado then, the work of Bryce Umfress. -- tony gallucci 30 september 2001 The Ditch by Bryce Umfress Stretching out my legs I head out the front door and down the street toward my friend Jackie's house. I don't stop, but I proceed to walk through a few of the resident yards and a small cluster of homes. Passing a particular house, I veer far away from it, because the black beast of a dog tied to a small cedar tree has been known to eat pre-teen boys. I'm headed for the ditch, a castle, campground, and pathway to another place. When I first enter the ditch, I have a sense that I am going to a completely different continent. The roots of the trees that line the edge of the ditch gouge their way out to the air from the sides of the dirt wall. Balls of mud cling to these roots like a mountain climber hanging on to his tethered lines. Great mounds of rock and caliche gather at the foot of the incline where kids and water have forced them to fall. The bed of the ditch is covered with stones of all shapes worn smooth from occasional floods that drench and fill the ravine. Spots of grass try, with futile attempts, to grab hold of the rocky soil and take root. As I walk down the naturally worn path, I notice that little pools of water have collected and now harbor signs of life. Tadpoles, water spiders, and tiny minnows make their home in these watery prisons. Slowly, as the summer wears on, I can be sure that all that will be left is crusty cracked earth, where I knew water had once been. Further down the trail the cedar trees begin to take over the landscape; little patches of water plants push up like the short children trying to be seen in a school picture. Lush, green broadleaf plants sprout, emanating a musky odor that soft indoor people would find offensive. Poison ivy grows heavily around the tree trunks giving me a sneaking suspicion of an itch that isn't there. The giant gray cypresses slowly replace the cedar trees for domination of my view. All around me a transformation is happening, from arid desert scenery, to one of a rain forest. The chatter of the birds and cicadas begin to hypnotize me like the hum of the tires on a travelling car. I tread forward in spite of the humidity that dampens my pores like every drop of moisture is leaving my body. The trail narrows to a point that I cannot see the ground anymore, just the tall grass that pulls at my sweaty legs and arms. The sun is disappearing, being pulled behind the veil of treetops, and a cool breeze lets me know that wet running water is close by. Under the symphony of wildlife, I hear the small roar of the rapids growing louder and louder like a train ready to cross an intersection. As I focus my eyes ahead, I see the cypress tree trunks marching in a line like well-trained soldiers, with broad bodies willing to take an assault. Some of the massive trees show signs of being wounded in their battle against the elements. One old veteran stands ripped open by a bolt of lightening which has left a charred hollow inside that I can easily fit into. Then as suddenly as it vanishes, the trail reappears, this time, however, as a flat stone paved road, with mortar in-between the joints. The twisting of the stone path leads several directions; some disappear under the ground hugging bushes, while others lead directly to the water. As I head for the deep green water's edge, I find myself hopping over and on the smoothed roots that twist their way above the surface of the dampened and moldy soil. One tree in particular has a perfect fit to my bottom, with a large flat stone right in the center of the root armrests. As I take my seat I inhale, slowly taking in the coolness the river offers in spite of the heat. I let my toes float in the water while the minnows consider them a feast, tickling me with their toothless mouths. Across the water on the other bank I can see a nice shaggy oak tree with heavy leaves hanging in the water. I'm confident that there will be fish today, so I make my cast. Gatordater by Bryce Umfress Dating is a challenging and sometimes heart-breaking job, but somebody has to do it. Suave men and beautiful women rarely have trouble finding a date. However, there are men and women just like me, who look like their heads were beat-up with a pitchfork and left to die. Chances of any of us not so beautiful people finding the best looking mate are slim. Therefore, I have come up with a perfect solution, gator dating. Gator dating is a concept that goes back in time to the ancient Egyptians, you can tell that they had a lot of respect for a gator dater by the complex series of hieroglyphics dedicated to men and women who chose to break the traditional roles of dating. Finding the perfect gator can be a challenge, but I a have a solution to the problem. The first and most paramount step is locating your prospective date; the alligator must be above the eight-foot limit imposed by the ADS (Alligator Dating Service). The Florida Everglades is a prime location, full of nice fat green alligators and their pointy teeth. Finding the proper reptile requires swamp skill and savvy cunning, if survival isn't your forte then a khaki covered Australian guide, known as the Crocodile Hunter, will be necessary. Once the scaly creature has been located the utmost caution is advised. Please do not immediately try to ask for a date. Size up the situation and weigh your options. I prefer the female variety as opposed to the males; lady gators are more likely to succumb to pillow talk. If the gator is female, walk slowly towards her with your hands outstretched holding a bouquet of raw meat, most likely this will not work but it is worth a shot. Do not try roses, alligators are carnivorous and could take your gift as offense and require one of your limbs as a peace offering. As the lady gator is being warmed up to your presence, offer to buy her a drink at Swampie's Bar and Grill, a quality beer joint that serves genuine Bloody Mary's. The lady gator will be absolutely thrilled about the offer and will readily agree. Give the green beauty plenty of time to prepare herself, this will include cleaning the rancid flesh from previous dinner engagements still lodged between her pointy meat cleavers. Swampie's offers a wide variety of reptilian artists on the jukebox so a dance or two will be in order. You must be in top physical shape to dance with an alligator, as you know they are not two legged creatures, so dancing will require all fours. A word of caution -- if the lady gator wants to do the new craze dance called the death roll politely decline using any available excuse. The death roll will only result in a broken heart on your part, not to mention amputation of your bodily extensions. Now is the time to make good on that drink you promised the river goddess you have chosen as your potential girlfriend. One drink will absolutely not do, you must keep them coming. The reason for the alcoholic experience is two fold: you have to be able to get the intoxicated gator alone, and you would be sick in the head if you wanted to date a lady gator while you were sober. If you have gotten this far in the dating game with no problems then you are very close to having the new love of your life. Keep the small talk interesting. Be polite when she mentions her sixty-five children, cry when she tells you how her ex had eaten fifteen of them because he wasn't able to catch lunch. Most importantly though, don't tell her you're trying to date a gator because no human woman will date you. By midnight the tipsy lady will begin to ask you if you want to go back to her log on the riverbank. Agree whole-heartedly and recommend a cab because the both of you have been drinking. The gator will be impressed by your caring yet responsible attitude. Once you have made it to the female's water-logged home offer her all the things she desires, which isn't very much more than a fresh supply of game and water. Lady gators are known for low-maintenance, a definite plus for anyone lacking in the financial arena. Plan the wedding immediately, gators are very fickle with their mates and tend to leave if any children are involved. Finally, if it isn't in the stars for you and your new found love just go home and count your blessings because she probably would have eaten you anyway. Mr. Gardner's Black Dog by Bryce Umfress During the hot, dusty summers of my childhood, I spent the vast majority of my time with my two best friends. Robbie and Larry were constantly in my company. Robbie was the kind of friend that every caring parent cringed about when hecame over. Robbie was constantly looking for trouble, and he had no trouble finding it. Larry, on the other hand, was the cool level-headed character of our trio. Larry was also a twenty-six pound ball of the feline persuasion. Robbie and I had particular quirks to our personalities that stuffy old adults tried, as best as they could, to rectify. For instance, one of our greatest bouts of mischief involved the neighborhood propane tanks that became our space vehicles. One of our spacecrafts was much larger than the typical launch-and-return type that we saw on television; it was of space-station proportions, allowing us adequate room to conduct experiments along with the physically demanding routine of an astronaut. There was just one minor problem with our craft; it was strategically placed within enemy territory. Mr. Gardner was the local old geezer whose life ambition was to torment little boys who played spaceship in his backyard. What added to the severity of our plight was the fact that Mr. Gardner was the neighborhood landlord, this gave the crusty old smoke-aholic immense control over our liberty, namely, our ability to leave our houses without being harassed by our parents. Robbie and I found it very disconcerting to see our parents in cahoots with the local Klingon commander. One day in particular, one that I will never forget, revolved around the artificial life simulator accidentally detaching from the main hull of the ship. To this day Robbie and I debate as to how the gas regulator fell off the tank, but I still believe that Robbie did it. When the simulator came loose, it struck the propane tank with a resonating clang, like a church bell being struck at noon. At that moment Mr. Gardner charged out of his back door with a mercenary of terror. The old man's words still haunt me to this day, “Killer, kill,” was all he had to say to send a wet stream down my leg. Then like a whirlwind filled with black rich soil, the largest, blackest, and toothiest beast of a dog came flying by Mr. Gardner's leg towards Robbie and me. Petrified and sensing death at my door, I knew that Larry the Cat was our only hope. Larry the Cat was usually never far from my side. I believe this is because God knew that I was a little boy who found getting into trouble fascinating and that I needed a guardian angel. Well, the next few events that happened sped by so quickly that I didn't have much time to react, and I had barely enough time to watch. The reason for my lack of time was probably that I was busy hauling my chunky frame up the nearest tree. What I did manage to see was Larry bolt from underneath the spaceship toward the one-ton rottweiler and mount him like he was tuna casserole, Larry's favorite dish. Larry's divine intervention sent that mean old beast to a screaming halt and a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn back towards Mr. Gardner. The dog, because he was not able to sink his foot long fangs into Robbie or me, decided that the landlord's leg was the next best thing to our young veal-like bodies. Mr. Gardner let out a yelp of unimaginable pain. Beating the animal off of his lower body, Mr. Gardner hopped around like an Indian trying to make rain and fell backward off of his steps. With a sickening thud, Mr. Gardner landed mere inches from Larry, who was efficiently cleaning his now dog-fur-filled paws. This caused Larry to become somewhat unhappy and he decided that the old man needed a refresher course in proper etiquette around grooming kitties. Mr. Gardner jumped from his reclining position and commenced to run around the yard screaming like his head was on fire. Of course it did look like the old grump's head was on fire with Larry sitting on top of it. Larry was, after all, a long-haired orange cat. When Larry finally decided to dismount, the old man collapsed into a pile where he exhaled deeply and mumbled, “I need a cigarette.” Both Mr. Gardner and I learned a valuable lesson that day: stay away from mean old men and their dogs, but more importantly, stay away from little boys and their mean old cats. Tuna Casserole by Bryce Umfress In the Hill Country we have a saying, “Don't share your table with pigs.” My old man modified that bit of wisdom to fit our situation. He said, “ don't share your table with cats.” Larry the Cat had a peculiar habit, which involved dining with the family at the family table. My Mom found this peculiar habit very cute. Dad, however, did not. On more than one occasion my Dad had words with Larry. Larry, of course was undaunted by my dad's tirades. He would listen with a sleepy look and then politely yawn. To make matters even worse Larry would not eat the most gourmet of feline cuisine. Dinner for Larry was what was dinner for us. Usually, it involved some variation of hamburger helper. Mom had a delightful way of making dinner less boring. She would open a can of peas, corn, or green beans and pour the contents on top. This she would call a delicacy and state that people pay good money to indulge in a meal like this. Of course, we would have never known because restaurants were not on the weekly to do list. Mom did on occasion whip up her famous tuna casserole. This dish was by far my favorite, not to mention Larry's also. Larry did not make it known to us that tuna casserole was his most desired meal. Partly because he could not talk and also because when he first entered our home we were going through a lean time. Beans and cornbread had a fight every night in my belly. Larry would have nothing to do with that metabolic monster. Mom did manage to find a job and with her first paycheck came all the ingredients for Tuna Surprise. We were going to celebrate and live it up a little. Mom began her skillful manipulation of cheese, noodles, crackers, and one eight-ounce can of tuna. My sister and I watched with yearning eyes as Mom's wooden spoon spun in long loping circle around the bowl. Larry also noticed the activities and quietly sat beside us. His giant fuzzy head began moving with the rhythm of Mom's hand. Larry, who usually portrayed the look of disinterest, was quite intent on what was happening. I could almost see the sinister plan brewing inside his little cat mind. I knew that something was going to happen. After Mom had set the oven temperature and put the contents of the bowl into a baking pan she gave me the honor of making sure that the casserole was all right and to take it out in about twenty minutes. I of course, being the legendary chef of the south, happily agreed. Mom cheerfully left the kitchen to take a shower. My eyes never averted from the oven. I would even flip the oven light on to watch the juices bubble through the cheese and make little vapor craters. When the timer dinged I rushed with my potholders to the cooking feast with an eager anticipation of what was to come. Little did I realize that what was to come wasn't tuna casserole. Larry, while sitting on his haunches, had hatched a virtually infallible plan to get me into trouble. Mom had always told me to let any dish cool for at least ten minutes. So being the obedient child that I was I pulled the steaming hot pan from the oven and sat it upon the stove burners. After my chore was finished I had planned to sit at the table waiting on the family to eat. This was not what happened. Larry had managed to pull dads seat cushion from his dinner spot and began chewing it up. I was terrified. Frantically, I gave chase to Larry who bolted into the living room. Larry then strategically ran behind the couch, dropped the cushion, and then rushed out. I was not worried about were he went -- I only cared about getting the cushion. Our couch was heavy. It was a solid oak-framed couch that Mom picked up at a garage sale for next to nothing. The job of pulling out the oppressive fixture was going to require every ounce of my twelve-year-old strength. I was determined. Painfully, the couch lurched away from the wall. One inch, two inches, a foot it was enough. I could now reach the cushion. Doing an army crawl I carefully maneuvered so as not to bang my head. From the kitchen came a shrilly scream. It was my Mom's. What had happened? God only knew. Running into the kitchen, I prepared myself for the worst. Maybe it was a burglar. Maybe Mom had seen a mouse. Maybe Larry did something. My worst fears came into view; Larry with an engorged tummy was sitting in empty tuna pan. I couldn't have been out of the kitchen for more than five minutes and Larry had decimated dinner. Mom's hands covered her pale face and angry red eyes. Larry was very relaxed, stuffed, and swaying as if the tuna had somehow intoxicated him. Boy was I in trouble. Miraculously Mom's cool demeanor returned. “ Clean the kitchen, I am going to get something for dinner.” Exhaled Mom in a single breath, “And you, you fuzzball the next time you do something like that you are going to be kitty casserole.” Larry actually looked miserable, probably because he was unable to move. I was forced to pick up the now five-pound-heavier cat and put him outside. Dad was on the way home. When Dad made his larger than life entrance, as he always did, everyone had their game face on. We were all sitting at the table happily awaiting Dad to join us. “Wow, Chinese food, what happened? Did we win the lottery?” chimed the cheerful man. Holding the smile on my face, I glanced at Dad as he neared the table. “Hey, where is my cushion?” I panicked, "Larry did it Dad."