01/03/01

I should point out I’ve had notions of doing detective work since I was a boy. I was actually a deputy sheriff for a time though for the duration of about a single eye blink. That was just before I was drafted into the Army. I was only hours away from shipping out to ‘Nam when Dad got caught up in the PTO shaft of the hay baler and got thrashed centrifugally to a bloody pulp. He survived as a minefield sweeper in World War II, prayed a medieval prayer to St. Joseph everyday from a prayer card he kept with him at all times to protect himself from sudden, unexpected death--- even named his only son in honor of St. Joseph--- and look what it got him. I know it sounds kooky, still, sometimes I wonder if maybe in a karma sort of way he took away the violent death that may have been destined for me in Vietnam. I say this because his death certainly became my rescue. . . .

I was discharged from the Army as a hardship case shortly after Dad’s demise to return home to take care of mom and the farm, which was considered her only source of livelihood. My uncle Hank (short for Henry David Thoreau, a real fucking hoot on my grandparents part, I know) had predicted at that time that land values in Orange County would skyrocket in twenty five years. He convinced me it was better to take a pass on becoming a cop again and hold on to the farm as long as I could. Told me the simple path to riches was to make due with whatever machinery and buildings I had and just keep qualifying the place for the farm exemption year after year. He told me to compare my fortunes to that of a retired deputy twenty five years down the line. He said I could count on him on this prophesy. Thirteen years later, the bastard died too, the way of Rock Hudson as I understand it. That was back when there was nothing much they could do for you for that shit. The old fucker sure was right though. Land values have sure gone crazy. Got assets now like an ass-scratching cop could never imagine. I never thought I would have such a hard time at this stage seeing things to the finish. I’ve been told my 5 million dollar asking price is about 3 million too high, but maybe in another 5 years it’ll be snatched up at 5 or 6 as a bargain. Phebe’s not keen at all on selling, but she said she’s not at all worried that it will happen at the price I want. She says I’m either delusional or attention-seeking. Yeah, who cares if I turn out to be both. You know, fuck anybody who says I set my price too high because deep down I don’t want to sell. Good fucking gracious. I wouldn’t keep replacing that big ass sign out front all this time if I didn’t intend to sell, and they damn well know it! My only obstacle has been getting my rightful price. I didn’t work as hard as I did all these years just to give the damn place away! Phebe keeps saying she’s going to find a way to buy me out and then I can be on my merry way without her if I want. Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it. The buying me out part, I mean, not the part about me being on my merry fucking way.

I could be on my merry fucking way anytime I want, don’t worry.