'Dobby and Mom,' a painting

'Dobby and Mom' for my giraffe loving daughter.  

Metal work by Jural Atencio

Beat St.

In this week's Greenbelt, Andy the Petulant Squirrel becomes Andy the Petulant babysitter.

This year's tulip crop

This episode of the The Greenbelt takes a look at flight. Also, a bonus story about the irresistible Madam Leftenright. And a bonus baby picture!

The Husbands of Madam Leftenright

One night, before going to sleep, Madam Leftenright’s new husband, the suave Anatoly Nocturne, made an announcement. He told his wife that he no longer wanted to sleep in their bed. Since they just shared the most passionate of love, Madam Leftenright was rightfully baffled.

“Nocturne,” she said, “why should you wish to leave our bed? I don’t understand.”

“I don’t wish to leave our bed at all, my little dove. But rather than sleep on the bed with you, I wish to sleep under the bed beneath you.”

“Why that’s insane,” said Madam Leftenright. “Who would do such a thing?”

“I would and I will,” said Nocturne. “You see, I need the absolute darkness. I need the shadows and I need the quiet. I need to retire and I need to think.”

With that, Nocturne rolled off the mattress and settled himself under the bed. At first Madam Leftenright was much dismayed. But then, stretching herself out on the bed, she didn’t think the situation was all that bad. Nocturne still made appearances on the bed to share love with his wife. But he soon retreated to the closets, then the attics, then the basement, and then he was never seen at all. He had seemingly vanished. 

One fine day an equestrian appeared on the scene. He jumped the fences, the shrubs, the fountain, and then, once invited inside,  jumped Madam Leftenright herself. He’d introduced himself as Randy Luminaire. He was tall and blonde and beamed in the sun upon his mounted stallion. In time he proposed marriage to Madam Leftenright. “But I’m already married to Anatoly Nocturne,” she protested.

“But where is this Noctrune then?” asked Luminaire. “I don’t see him. Do you see him? We will go to see the judge. How can anyone expect you to be married to a man who isn’t here?”

Madam Leftenright agreed.  She’d fallen in love with Luminaire and wanted to be married to him instead. The couple soon met with Judge Flubert and pleaded their case.

“Madam Leftenright, how can I let you marry Luminaire?” asked the judge. “You’re already married to Nocturne.”

“But he’s gone,” said Madam Leftenright. “He must be. I tell you, I haven’t seen him for ages.”

“But what if he’s to return? I would be made a fool of.”

“Judge Flubert,” said the Madam, “you remember when long ago we too were once lovers. If Nocturne were really alive, don’t you think he would be in my bed where a husband belongs?”

“I do remember well,” admitted the judge, “and it is the same now as it once was. I can deny you nothing, my dear. You are forever in my heart. As judge, I declare Nocturne a dead man. You are free to marry Luminaire. I only wish it were me.”

The two lovers rejoiced and soon married. Luminaire jumped his new bride with great frequency and all was well with Madam Leftenright. But one night, midnight precisely, with Luminaire spent and slumbered by her side, a dark figure in a cape appeared at the end of the bed. It was none other than Anatoly Nocturne.

“Madam Leftenright,” stated Nocturne, “there is another man sharing our bed. What is the meaning of this?”

“Nocturne, where have you been? I gave up on you long ago and married another.”

“But I’ve been here all along,” Nocturne replied. “As I told you, it was necessary that I retreat into the shadows for a time.”

“Oh Nocturne, how can a woman expect to be married to a shadow? Look at Luminaire. He may be a man of leisure, a towheaded dandy in jodhpurs, but at least he’s a real man, certainly not some sulking silhouette lurking in the cellar.”

“Regardless, your legitimate husband has returned, and I insist this imposter leave our bed.”

“Never!” screamed Madam Leftenright. 

But Nocturne persisted. He proposed that he and Luminaire engage in a duel, the winner becoming the one true husband of Madam Leftenright. Luminaire agreed -- with one caveat. “I will duel with you, Nocturne, unless you are a vampire. I admit that I am very afraid of vampires. Please state that you are not a vampire.”

“While I may be dark, brooding, and covet the night, I assure you that I am not now, nor have ever been, a vampire. We shall duel at dawn, dear Luminaire.”

The next day were gathered Madam Leftenright, Judge Flubert, Nocturne and Luminaire. Neither of their guns fired so they were forced to duel at close quarters. Nocturne was thought to be the favored, but Luminaire put up quite surprising of a fight. Their fisticuffs lasted until near noon, when an exhausted Luminaire finally became prostrate in defeat. Nocturne raised his hands in victory, but he too was thoroughly spent and dropped face first into the mud. Both men perished. 

Later in the week, the gravedigger had nearly finished the task of burying the rivals side by side. He gazed up at Madam Leftenright when the last shovel of dirt had been cast. “Well, Madam, it appears that you’re a single woman again.” 

“Don’t get any ideas,” Madam Leftenright curtly replied. “I’m through with husbands. If I want drama I‘ll go and see a play.”

“Oh, I’m just a humble gardener, Madam Leftenright. Your station is well beyond the reach of a common man. But your fields do need tending to, and I’m plenty good enough for that.”

“That they do, sir, that they do. Tell me, what’s your name?”

“Gardener. Sam Gardener.”

And so Madam Leftenright took on the gardener, Sam Gardener. And in the spring they planted, in the summer they danced, in the autumn they harvested, and in the winter they made love by fire light. The years went by as they should, and soon enough there was even the patter of little feet on the floor. They all lived happily ever after. 

The end. 

As promised, a bonus baby picture.

This episode of The Greenbelt takes a look at March Madness. Plus, a bonus book review of an upcoming novel that's getting a lot of buzz from booksellers.

*This novel is due to be published May, 2017

I could hear a true crime podcast being played from another room in my house. I couldn't get the specifics, but understood it was about a long ago, unsolved murder. I thought about that as I was reading 'Broken River,' a novel about a nearly forgotten double murder in a little house by the edge of the forest. Of course it's difficult to sell a house with that kind of baggage, so it becomes a teenage party house, a drug den, a place for hobos to crash, a den for squirrels. Years later a little family from New York City is looking for a fresh start. The mother is a novelist, the father an artist, and neither is that put off by the history of the house. In fact, they're quite curious -- especially their 12 year old girl. Meanwhile, the internet has not at all forgotten about the cold case murder. Clues are still being posted, and one new clue hits a nerve with the killers, who'd thought they were free and clear of their mess. Will they again have to pay a visit to the little house by the edge of the forest? 

I would recommend 'Broken River' to anyone looking for a terrific mystery/thriller, or just a gritty novel that gets you into the heads of a motley crew of characters. I'm sure happy that someone put this book into my hands.         

In this episode of 'The Greenbelt,' there is No Doubt who Andy's favorite band is. Also, a bonus short story about a man who is kindly asked not to sing at a birthday party.

Rockin’ Bob at the Birthday Party

Bob Romaine felt himself to be a lucky guy. It was the second year in a row that he’d been invited to a birthday party at the Cutter home. Mr. Cutter was Bob’s boss, and it was always good to be close to the boss. 

At the party’s apex, the guests began gathering around the large dining room table in anticipation of singing the birthday song to the Cutter’s five year old son. But just before the singing commenced, Mr. Cutter tugged Bob away from the table and the other guests. “Oh Bob,” said Mr. Cutter, “I remember you telling me all about the exploits of your college band. What were you called again?”

“Yes sir, we were ‘Rockin’ Bob and the Bestie Boys.’ Those were the days all right. My gosh those days…”

“Of course,” said Mr. Cutter, “of course. Rockin’ Bob and the Bestie Boys. Well, Rockin’ Bob, I don’t mean to insult you because I know you were in a band, a real band. But the thing is, this year we’d rather you didn’t sing the Happy Birthday song along with the rest of us. Is that okay with you, Bob? Are you horribly insulted?”

“Certainly, Mr. Cutter, I won’t sing. It’s not a problem. But I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“See Bob, the thing is, Mrs. Cutter is very particular about the Happy Birthday song. She -- well, we really -- thought your voice sounded a bit off at last year’s party. It just didn’t blend in as well as we’d hoped. Although we like you, Bob, as a person, we just don’t appreciate your singing ability. Is that just an awful thing to say to somebody?”

“But sir, the child is only five years old. Do you think it really matters?”

“It matters to us, Bob. It certainly matters to us.”

Mrs. Cutter tapped on the side of her glass with a spoon and made an announcement to the gathered revelers. “Before we begin to sing to young Chauncey, could we have all the non-singers retreat into the kitchen. Once again, all the non-singers please retreat to the kitchen. Thank you!”

Bob made his way into the spacious kitchen. He was joined by two others. They were children, a boy and a girl. “So you can’t sing either,” he said to the girl. 

“It’s not fair,” she said. “I practiced months for this.”

“You practiced singing Happy Birthday just for this party?” Bob inquired. “Are you kidding me?” 

“Mother said to me, ‘Arabella, if you practice every day, Mrs. Cutter will let you sing.’ So I practice my guts out, sing a few bars for the lady, and I get banished to the kitchen. What gives?”

“So what’s your story?” Bob asked of the little boy. “What’s your name?”

“Stokley,” the boy replied.

“So how’d you end up in the kitchen, Stokley?”

“You don’t understand,” mumbled Stokley. “I coulda’ had class, I coulda’ been a contender. I could have been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am.”

Bob angered. “Listen to me, Stokley, you are not a bum, understand? You are not a bum. Hey, wait a second, were you just doing Marlon Brando from On the Waterfront?”

“So what if I was?”

“Nothing,” said Bob, “nothing. It’s just that you’re, like, two years old. How do you know Brando?”

“I’m not two, I’m ten!” answered Stokley. “And I’m more into drama than voice. That’s why I’m not that put out.”

“Still.”

The three non-singers listened grumpily as the others belted out Happy Birthday. “We should just leave,” said Bob to Arabella and Stokley. “I’m so insulted. This is mortifying.”

“I’m not leaving,” said Stokley. “Mrs. Cutter said we can still have cake and ice cream even though we weren’t allowed to sing. Don’t you want cake and ice cream?”

“I don’t care about cake and ice cream,” replied Bob, fuming.

“Well that’s a bad attitude,” said Stokley.

“What about you Arabella?” asked Bob. “Aren’t you at least miffed.”

“Indeed I am miffed,” she said. “But I can’t leave without mother -- and she’s still out there singing. But I won‘t let this break me. I still have a long career ahead of me.”

“Jeez, these people,” said Bob.

So Bob stayed on for cake and ice cream and decided to storm out right after that. But everybody else left after cake and ice cream so it wasn’t much of a protest. He walked home. 

Once inside his tiny apartment, Bob roused his bulldog, Robert, from a deep slumber. “Hey Robert, tell you what, I’ll give you a cookie if you let me sing Happy Birthday to you. How about that?”

Robert wondered if it was indeed his birthday. 

“I know it’s not your birthday, buddy,” said Bob, “but I’ve just got to sing to somebody.”

When is my birthday anyway, Robert thought as Bob broke into the song. If I start howling and moaning will he be insulted? I’ll just hold my tongue and hope he soon stops. 

After Bob finished singing, he regarded Robert. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Well…

“Or did you just stay for the cookie?”

Well…

Robert thought about it after devouring the cookie. Hey, Bob, that was no night at the opera to be sure. That said, I’ve heard worse. You should hear that terrier down the hall. I mean what a yap on that little beast.

Bob cheered up as he gazed upon Robert’s crumb-encrusted mug. “Happy birthday, my best buddy and bestest friend, happy birthday to you…”

The end.

Back in The Greenbelt, by unpopular demand.. it's Andy the Petulant Squirrel!

bonus baby pic

This week's Greenbelt takes a look at Pluto. Once a planet and now, who knows? Anyway, Pluto's sick of it all.

The 14er

Bonus baby picture!