Stop! You're under arrest! © by adrian

"Stop!" I commanded. Quickly reaching inside my suit jacket pocket I pulled out an official looking wallet. I flipped it opened and flashed the enclosed card at him. Across the top of the card in bold letters was the word PRESS. I was holding in my hands the fake Press Pass I had printed just a few weeks earlier.

"You're under arrest." I said. He dropped some tool he held in his hands and as he rose to his feet from a crouching position between two cars he put his hands in the air and quietly surrendered.

It was just about now that I realized I hadn't really thought past this point when I earlier played this little drama over in my mind. I didn't have the foggiest clue what I should do next. It was now very obvious to me that I should have prepared a tiny, tiny bit more. I hadn't understood how easy it was going to be to arrest someone with a Press Pass and I guess I thought he would just get scared and run away and that would be the end of it. Well, apparently not, and I was now the proud holder of the prisoner I had just arrested. I had made my first "collar" as is said in police circles.

It was eleven o'clock on a summer's night and the events that led to why I had just arrested my first criminal with a fake press pass and why I was now desperately trying to decide what to do next began a few weeks earlier.

Let me explain.

A few of my friends and I often parked our cars in the corner of a service station's parking lot near my apartment. We had permission from the owner to do so, but lately somebody had started taking the air out of our tires or opening the car hood and disconnecting the distributor cap wires whenever we parked there, making the cars temporarily inoperable (this was back in the 60's, long before they had locks on car hoods).

I felt this required an intervention I was easily capable of handling. I would park my car in its usual spot so I could see it from my balcony and sit there for however long it took and wait. As soon as the culprit appeared, I would then run downstairs and make a citizen's arrest. What could be simpler? Well, who knew? Apparently nothing could be simpler, but as I said, now what?

He stood there staring at me with his hands in the air and I couldn't believe how stupid the situation I had so carefully plotted was becoming. I do remember a slight moment of relief as I realized he wasn't much bigger than me. I don't know why that struck me as important, I was hardly going to do physical battle with him, but up to that moment I had no idea who or what would emerge from between the cars. I was glad to see I hadn't "arrested" King Kong. The local police station was four blocks away and I remember muttering something to him like, "The boys with the cruiser are out on another call right now so we will have to walk over to the station ourselves." I should add that because I rarely seem to miss any opportunity in life to turn stupid situations into really stupider ones, I then found myself adding, "You can lower your hands now and if you promise not to run, I will give you a break and not handcuff you." My prisoner then promised not to run as he lowered his hands. Sigh...

So, start walking we did, on our way to the police station. I wasn't sure, but I thought I could feel a song coming on. Where was my top hat and cane? Surely I had somehow trapped myself in a piece of musical theater and now was the time for my dance routine. Why had I forgotten to wear my spats? As we walked along together I tried my best to sound official and authoritative. At twenty five years of age it wasn't an easy task as mostly all I could think of at the time was what a complete idiot I was. As we started to get closer to the police station, I suddenly remembered one other small detail I seemed to have forgotten till now. I wasn't a policeman at all. I also realized I didn't know how I was going to handle that bit of sticky news once we got to the station. Maybe I could just march the culprit into an open cell and call out to the staff sergeant to "book him" as I'd seen done in so many movies and then I could be on my way before anybody noticed I didn't belong there.

To all appearances we were just a couple of guys out for an evenings stroll. Nothing particularly unusual except for the fact that one of us was assumed to be a cop and the other thought he was under arrest by the aforementioned pretender. In case you've never considered it, I can also tell you right now that it's really difficult to make small talk when you have just arrested someone. As we walked along I casually explained to him that many people had made complaints to the station about his actions and none of us could imagine why he would do such a thing. Surely he understood that disabling cars the way he did was completely illegal and caused many innocent people great difficulty. He said that he hadn't really thought about it much and as far as he was concerned, people were parking in what he regarded as "his parking spot" and he felt if he damaged their cars everybody would stop doing it and find someplace else to park and he could have his parking space back. I continued to lecture him and explained that all the boys at the station and I thought he was very misguided.

Five minutes later and there we were at the steps of the local police station. I guess if I was capable of panic, this would have been the perfect time for me to explore that side of my personality to the fullest. In that moment I felt at the very least I should have had enough sense to flee. Even back in my younger days though, I mostly always wanted to hang around when I was being a fool so I could get to watch how I would handle my predicament and what I was going to do next.

Anyway, up the steps we went and walked right in. I went directly over to the desk sergeant as though I had done this a thousand times before. He casually looked up from his typewriter and asked, "What can I do for you fellows tonight?"

I knew right off that there was no turning back now so I calmly explained that I had just made a citizen's arrest of this chap and wanted him booked and locked up for malicious damage to my and other peoples cars. Not surprisingly, the sergeant thought that was pretty funny and I understood by his chuckle that he knew right off this was turning out to be a much better night than he originally thought was in store for him.

It was just about now my prisoner realized that I wasn't a cop at all and he became extremely agitated about that detail. He started sputtering that he wanted the desk sergeant to arrest me for impersonating a police officer and false imprisonment. I explained that I never at any time said I was a policeman and hadn't imprisoned him as he had been able to leave any time he wanted. I even pointed out that in fact I had simply invited him to walk to the station with me and he had joined me of his own free will. He then insisted I had falsely shown him a police identification card otherwise he never would have complied. The staff sergeant looked from one to the other of us with amusement as he waited to hear what either of us would say next. I pulled out my press pass and showed it to the sergeant and explained that was what I had shown my prisoner and if he decided it said Police that was his problem.

Various verbal exchanges went back and forth for a bit longer and then the sergeant explained to the other fellow that I hadn't broken any law so there was nothing he could do. He then told me that what I could do if I wanted was go to small claims court and go after him for damages but he pretty well thought that was a lost cause and he wasn't going to lock him up either. He then suggested that at this point the offender had probably learned his lesson and we should both see to it that none of this went any further and he sent us on our way.

I can't remember what we talked about as we went back to the scene of the crime, but we stayed walking together all the way back to the cars. He never did anything to any of our cars again and every time we saw each other on the street we forced ourselves to wave friendly greeting to each other.

I continued to use my fake press pass to get into events I wanted to photograph but I never again tried to arrest anybody.

Little Red is in love with me © by adrian

The squirrel whisperer, Episode #5

I should probably say she might be in love, I just can't be sure. Honestly though, maybe it's just a crush. I hope that's all it is, but I assure you, infatuation can be just as demanding as love. She's definitely in love with my nuts (lord knows, been there, done that!). I know it's entirely my fault, but I swear I had no idea things would get so far out of hand and turn out like this.

Let me explain how she and I got into this dreadful cross species predicament.

My bride bought a cottage in the Laurentians with her step-sister a few years ago (see my story, Little Adri’s big adventure) and during the summer we now spend some of our dotage there.

There, by the way, is full of hills and trees and water and oh yeah, adorable tiny red squirrels (or irritating, depending on your viewpoint). Previous readers of my ramblings know that I spend some of my time communicating with squirrels (or thinking I do). I love the constant state of perceived Italian excitement they seem to be in and I like talking to them. Even when they lie out with me on the back porch at home, I just know their minds are constantly busy thinking about when or from where their next adventure will appear.

Grey and Black squirrels definitely have an identifiable form of communication and I'm sure most readers have heard them squawking and yelling at each other or at us two legs. There is also much that can be stated or implied by flicking one's tail, as any woman would know. Some of the sounds they make are very bird like, so they often go unnoticed but they always definitely have seemingly important things to say to us and each other. Red squirrels on the other hand, apparently don't have the need to deal with us two legs much and mostly flee whenever they see us coming. They seem to be constantly in motion and the only sounds I had ever heard them make were a loud almost barking sound that I just assumed was their way of squawking at us. I'd never bothered trying to communicate with them because among other things, I presumed that squirrels of the Laurentians would use some local French dialect I wouldn't understand anyway.

A couple of years ago, we encountered a red whose name was Big Red and he was under the impression that the cottage belonged to him. He was obviously quite angry that we were squatting in his home.


Every time we would go inside the house he would jump to a ledge in the porch and yell at us as though we were the intruders. He would stand up and defiantly bark at us without moving an inch until we were able to finally shoo him out the door. I would bark back at him and explain that he was mistaken and wild animals were required to live outdoors, whether they liked it or not. He didn't agree with us and would be casually resting on the sofa every time we got home.

One day when we came down the hill to go inside the house he decided to confront us outside. He was twenty feet up a tree and started yelling at us to stay away. So I started yelling back. My form of rodent speak is really just to mimic as best I can the sounds they make, so we had a yelling contest.

All of a sudden he went very quiet and then after a few moments of silence he began to make the most unbelievable throaty cooing noise and then began a high pitched trilling sound while constantly running up and down the tree in obvious excitement. I had never heard anything like it in my life. He would coo and trill at almost the same time and was obviously beside himself with excitement. He then came down the tree to within a foot of my face and just stayed there staring at me while constantly cooing. I swear he looked at me adoringly. I had no idea what I had said, but he immediately decided that whatever I wanted, he would do. Now I need to quickly add that I don't think in that little bit of time I learned to speak French Canadian red squirrel. I honestly think the language breakthrough is really more about effort than actual squirrel speak. I believe the little dears at some point simply decide that if a two legs is going to make that much effort to talk to them, they should be allowed into the circle. From that moment on, Big Red never bothered us in the house again and would trill and coo at me whenever I showed up.

Later on, we met Little Scruffy.

Generally speaking, reds are very fastidious and tidy looking. Always immaculately groomed and clean. Little Scruffy was the exception and was the messiest unkempt back alley looking rodent we'd ever seen. He was full of swagger and obviously tough, a true street urchin. You just knew by looking at him that he was a mischievous terror. Whenever he showed up Big Red and all the other squirrels immediately fled.

One day I was conscripted to take down a large backyard galvanized metal shed so I got my sledge hammer and started demolishing it. Little Scruffy got into a tree above me and started watching. To pass the time I started to talk to him and made my usual goofy sounds in order to pretend I knew the secret language. Well, it didn't take long before he started to run up and down the tree, trilling and cooing like crazy. He got an immediate crush on me and wouldn't leave the area all day even though I was making a tremendous racket smashing at the shed. Every time I would stop to relax he would come down the tree and lie on the ground nearby staring at me affectionately, continuing to coo all the while. I saw him on a few other days after that and every time he saw me he would run over to me like a puppy and start cooing.

Now Little Red, well, she is something else again.

She lives in an old wooden shed near the house and has been in crush with me since we first met a few years ago. A few days after I first arrive every spring she always realizes I'm on site and starts calling to me. It must be love because she bats her eyes at me now and has on occasion brought pine cones from her secret stash over to me and drops them at my feet when I go outside.

If I don't see her nearby I call to her and she will be on the roof of the shed in no time at all cooing and making her trilling call. Some mornings she will sit outside and call to me and won't stop until I go out and give her a peanut. My bride Linda is amazed that Little Red has trained me so well in such a short time. She has asked Little Red to give her some pointers, but so far to no avail. When other people stay at the cottage they say they see her maybe once or twice but I see her almost every day and we always have time for a little chat together.

I've set aside an area of the shed that we've marked as hers and she's filled it up with shreddings, leaves and pine cones so I know she's looking forward to a comfortable winter. She has asked me to stay the winter but runs off in a pique screaming at me when I ask her if she has any ideas on where I could find a large fur coat so I could be comfortable living in the shed with her.

I will be going back to close up the cottage in a few weeks and have one more chance to spend a bit of time with her before winter sets in. Then it's back to waiting for the spring so we can get together again and share stories of what we did in the long dark months of winter.

Little Red doesn't seem to care too much that I'm married and I have to confess, when I look at how beautiful she is and listen to the alluring things she says to me, I don't care much either.

Long distance love affairs are always fraught with difficulties but when you add this cross species business to the mix it's almost downright impossible. I think next year I will try to set her up with a computer so we can email each other during our absence. She has such exquisitely long paws so I'm sure she would master typing in no time at all.

Road Rage! © by adrian

As I reluctantly come to a stop, a passenger from the huge black Cadillac beside me jumps out and pulls open my car door. Startled, I look over to him and notice a rather large hammer rapidly descending toward my head. I have a brief moment to feel really disappointed about the way this evening is turning out before realizing I better do something quickly or I may never have the opportunity to feel really disappointed again. Everything is happening, as us old photographers say, in a flash.

Let me back up a few minutes...

It's just past midnight on a warm summer's night and I'm casually driving along Bloor Street. I'm thirty-three years old and feeling just fine in my little 1968 Cortina, thank you very much.

The Cadillac, before becoming interested in me, was originally going in the opposite direction of my travel. There were a few girls on my side of the street (the recurring story of my life, it seems) and the fellows in the Cadillac made a u-turn directly in front of me so they could converse with said ladies. Because of that, I needed to swerve and quickly stop in order to avoid a collision. I voiced my displeasure by blasting my horn and then continued on my way. The chaps in the Caddy were immediately rejected by the girls they sought (probably a recurring story of their life) and so they were now mad at me because, as far as they were concerned, by being in their way I had destroyed any chance of a blissful night for them. So they decided to pursue me. After all, boys will be boys.

They kept trying to maneuver ahead of me as they chased me and my car along Bloor Street, but the little Mario Andretti I keep bottled up inside me reared his ugly head and refused to let them pass. Up the road a bit I could see a car double parked ahead of me and with a sinking feeling I knew that no matter what I did, I was about to be boxed in by the Cadillac cruising to my left. I have to admit that just before I came to a full stop, I had no idea I was on the cusp of a new fad called road rage. I mean, after all, this was the friendly 70's. We didn't even bother locking our car doors in those days. Even if I had known, I really had no time to appreciate that once again in my life, I was a trend setter.

As I was saying, the door flew open and there it was, plain as day, no mistake about it. A full sized hammer was being swung toward the non-existent nail in my head. The holder of said hammer was definitely determined to cause me serious injury. Sigh…

I kicked both my legs out the open door as I twisted my body sideways. I thought I might have time to push him and his hammer away from me and my head. In the same moment I summoned an enormously loud scream from the depths of my being. I hit a high C that would have made Pavarotti, had he been nearby, weep with envy and bow to the power of my lungs. Loud as my scream was, it wasn’t quite loud enough to diminish or drown out the crack of breaking bone I heard as the hammer connected with and shattered my left kneecap.

Then they were everywhere.

Five, ten, a dozen perhaps, young, strong and swarthy men appeared from nowhere and dragged him off me. He was on his knees now, in the middle of the road and a few of them held him as others kept hitting and yelling at him to drop the hammer. I have to confess that as I watched him being pummeled, I wasn’t able to muster the slightest bit of compassion towards him. To be really honest, I kind of hoped he wouldn’t drop the hammer, now that the tables had turned. While all this was going on, two police cruisers, with sirens blaring came roaring to a stop nearby.

"Whoopee!" I thought, "We're going to have a party."

Police jumped out of both cars with guns drawn screaming at everybody to stay where they were. Sitting in the car with blood gushing from my newly broken kneecap, I found it surprisingly easy to accommodate their demand. The crowd parted as the police charged into the middle of the melee, but the fellow with the hammer still kept his grip on it. I suspected by now it had become his Linus blanket and he was determined not to part with it. A loud "drop your weapon!" order from a policeman with his gun drawn seemed to bring the fellow to his senses. As he let the hammer fall, he was quickly handcuffed and pulled to his feet.

"All right, who's going to explain to us what the hell is going on here." one of the policemen shouted. The gathered crowd all turned in one silent motion and looked towards my Cortina and me, as none of them knew the answer to that question. They had apparently been summoned by god to save me, but didn't have the faintest idea why. In fact, all of them had been minding their own business hanging out in the all night pizza joint I ended up stopped in front of. The double parked car belonged to another who had simply run in to pick up his pizza. My cry for help had produced the testosterone spike needed to have their collective adrenalin drive them all outside ready to do battle.

As the assailant was led away and placed in the back seat of one of the patrol cars, the other policemen came over to me to find out my version of what happened. At the same time, everybody became aware of the Cadillac's driver hanging about and he was also taken to a police car.

As the policeman started taking notes, we both quickly became distracted by the blood seeping through my pants. I wasn't in any pain yet and had briefly forgotten why we were gathered there myself. On his insistence, I pulled up my pant leg in order to see what I had won. Well, my kneecap was a mess. It didn't look anything at all what I remembered it had looked like earlier in the evening. Bits of bone sticking out, torn, loosely flapping flesh and lots of blood, I obviously needed some serious medical attention. The policeman went back to his car and brought back a large roll of gauze that he helped me wrap around my knee.

As I said, I was not in any pain yet and so we decided that seeing as my right leg was fine I could drive to the hospital myself rather than wait for an ambulance. He also decided that he would lead the way and finish taking his notes when we got to the hospital. The assailant and his driver were both secured and being interviewed by the other policeman. The gathered crowd was in such high spirits chatting amongst themselves about what a great time everybody was having, it seemed a shame to leave them, but I obviously needed to get my kneecap glued back together (or whatever it is they do in such circumstances) so, off we went. Because I arrived at the hospital with my very own police escort, I was immediately whisked away to a private area and didn't have to wait in any line... Believe me, if you have to go to a hospital emergency clinic, take the police with you, I guarantee you will get quick and attentive treatment.

X-rays were taken and as a doctor tucked everything back inside my knee and started stitching it all together again, the policeman continued to interview me and take notes. I was given a tetanus shot, sleeping pills and some pain killers. I was told to stay off my leg as much as possible and come back in three or four days so they could see how successful the sewing had been. After instructing me not to leave town because I was now a material witness in any potential criminal proceedings, the policeman wished me well and I was sent on my way.

It was about four o'clock in the morning by the time I got my weary body home and into bed. As the medication helped me drift off to sleep I remembered I needed to get up early so that I would have time to ready myself for a first date with a lady I met just a few weeks earlier. I didn't even know if I would be able to walk the next day and my last thought before sleep won over was, "Boy, I bet that should work out really well."

As it turned out, my date did indeed work out really well. This was, as I mentioned, the early 70's and she was part of the first wave of women who a few years earlier had decided to return to university to explore their options and become more independent.

She lived in the suburbs with her husband, two cars, two teenage children and a house complete with a swimming pool in the backyard. I originally met her at a job I was shooting pictures at and suggested we get together for a harmless cup of coffee on the university campus some time. Of course she said no. After three weeks of phoning her every day to chat about how her life no longer looked the same as it used to before she went back to university, she said yes.

Now, the reason I mention all this is because in some small bizarre way, my newly acquired broken kneecap helped contribute to the theatrics of our first date. Dating, after all, is foremost about presentation, you know.

I drove into the university grounds and saw her sitting on a small hill under a tree. It was a beautiful sunny day and she had arranged herself so the backlighting sun cast a shimmering halo around her body. After parking and struggling out of the car I reached inside to pick up an old gnarled cane I had brought along as a necessary prop. As I limped up the hill towards her I swear I could hear angels singing. Certainly at the very least, some hokey, mushy sound track from any romantic movie you could think of. I was ten years younger than her and had very long hair, but the cane and the limp gave me a certain maturity and serenity I could never have pulled off on my own. Both of us succumbed to the intoxication of that first meeting. Six weeks later, after many more daytime rendezvous, she left her previous life and moved in with me and we set out on a very happy next ten years chapter of our lives.

Anyway, back to my damaged knee. I did need to return to the hospital again to get some more stitches and a few times after that for more examinations but after a month or so it finally started to slowly heal. Walking up and down stairs sometimes is a challenge and it never was quite the same old knee it used to be, but I'm sure if he had connected with my head my knee would have been the least of my worries. I also had to attend a preliminary hearing so the police could determine what to charge the perpetrator with. As it turned out, a few months after that he was charged with assault with a deadly weapon and I received a summons to go to court to testify against him. The driver was not charged with anything, as he claimed he had absolutely no idea his passenger would do such a thing.

Facing him in court was certainly a very frightening and surreal experience, but having guards everywhere gave me the illusion of security. He had been out on bail since the incident and his trial ended up taking far less time than the assault itself. He was convicted and sentenced to six month in jail and then immediately removed from the courtroom in handcuffs. After all, if he had hit me on the head as he originally intended, he could very well have killed me and I would never have been able to tell you my story.

Into the Witness Protection Program © by adrian

Well, not exactly. I mean after all, would I really be writing a public blog if I was in the witness protection program? Actually I ended up not quite in and not quite out (a not unfamiliar position for me).

What I actually went into was a mostly unknown plan in Canada that is quaintly named the Voluntary Disclosure Program. For some strange reason the many government tax ladies and gents I eventually ended up dealing with (they called themselves my handlers) just seemed to think it was thigh slappingly funny whenever talking to them I referred to the program they let me into as the witness protection program, so I'm sticking with that name. Believe me; making government tax officials laugh and slap their thighs is a lot of fun...

I've mentioned previously that I was a hermit. I more or less dropped out of society many years ago and have lived a Spartan life by choice ever since.

Here's how it all came about.

Around 1975 or so in my career, I worked as a personnel manager for a large chain of camera stores and was paid oodles of money (see my story In praise of Bill Gates). When I quit that job I just bummed around and took it easy for a year and didn't work at all. I vaguely remember something about smoking a lot of dope, but I could be wrong on that one. I guess if I could remember that part, it wouldn't be true at all...

The year after that, the government of Canada noticed I hadn't filed any tax return for the missing year and so they assessed me for taxes owed based on what I earned earlier. I didn't notice this though because next to answering phones and responding to doorbells, opening mail has never been high on my list of things I must do.

So, I found out about the assessment when it was too late to file an appeal. Even though they eventually did acknowledge that I was unemployed and had no income that year, they still insisted that the incorrect tax assessment had to be paid in full because I had missed the appeal deadline.

There were letters back and forth, threats and demands made, but nothing that made any sense to me so I ignored it all. Then they started randomly garnisheeing my bank account. Government garnishees stay in effect for ninety days, so even if you have no money in the bank when they hit it, any deposits made in the next ninety days after that get automatically sucked up by them too. This presents a rather difficult obstacle in meeting other financial obligations like mortgage and car payments.

I started making visits to their office which was on Front Street in Toronto. That didn't produce any more results than the mail did and they just insisted I had to pay even though everybody agreed I technically shouldn't owe any money. Appeal filing deadline rules were unshakable. So, at my last appointment with them I explained that I was leaving now. I told the rather shocked tax agent that I would happily hang around in the laneway downstairs for five minutes. If they wanted to send the guys with baseball bats down to talk to me that was fine, but after five minutes I would be gone and they would never find me again.

Just like that, just like in the movies! All balls and bravado, nothing frightened me when I was in my thirties. So I dropped out and became invisible. Hiding, as is said, in plain sight.

I ordered a phone in my dog's name and used that to start building an identity. I almost tripped up when the Bell person taking the phone order unexpectedly wanted to know my first name. I quickly thought "Furry" but stopped myself in time and chose "Harry" instead, (I also resisted the temptation to spell it Hairy). I became a new man (or puppy, as the case may be) and quickly disappeared from the tax records.

Now, for all you moralists out there who may think it's atrocious and unpatriotic not to pay the tax man (person?), try getting hit with a tax bill for a few thousand dollars you don't owe and then let me know how moral you feel about it.

I'd also like to clear up a potential misunderstanding. It is definitely illegal to file a false tax return, but there is nothing illegal in simply not filing a return. The tax people will get mad at you, but no laws have been broken; lie in a return you file though, and you're in trouble. I always filed and paid my business Retail Sales tax every month and even though I used my real name for that (not my dog's) nobody ever noticed that I didn't file anything else.

From that day more than thirty years ago till now I've kept all my receipts, T4 slips and miscellaneous tax information in what has now grown to be many, many large boxes. I always felt if they kicked my door in I would be able to point to the boxes and insist I had all my records available. Pick any day or year from the past thirty and in no time I will be able to produce a receipt of how much I earned or spent that day.

When it finally came time for me to apply for my old age pension I thought the jig was up. I just knew that as soon as my forms arrived on some official's desk they would reach for the red phone they all must have and let the guys with the baseball bats know that they had finally found me. Surely they have been driving around Toronto night and day looking for me for the past thirty or so years. This was finally the big chance they'd been waiting for to get their revenge.

Well, it didn't happen.

Instead, a few months later I got a lovely letter from the government thanking me for living such a long life and promising to send me five hundred dollars a month from then until I fell over dead. They even said that I was going to also receive a second cheque from the Canada Pension Plan. I had applied for CPP but seeing as I had contributed such a small sum in my documented working career I thought I would be lucky if I got anything more than $1.69 a month (I thought old Harry the dog was entitled to more than me). As it turned out though, once again they put me on the fast track to riches and hooked me into an additional monthly cheque.

I was curious as to how they arrived at the number they had for the CPP amount, so I went over to their office to inquire. I explained I didn't object, in fact I loved what they were going to send me, I just wanted to know how they got to that number. Was a scientific formula used or did someone simply throw darts at a board with numbers on it? The clerk took my information and went to one of their office machines. A moment or so after punching in my data a printout was discharged from the beast. She stared at it for a minute and then she came back and handed me a printout of all the money I had paid into the system, (not much, as it was). She leaned over the counter and whispered to me "If I were you I would just shut up and go back home, I have no idea how they decided to even give you a penny." So, I shut up and went back home.

I was rich, the money just started pouring in and all I had to do was stay alive. Then in 2007 the government decided that they would now allow income splitting to apply between spouses (one of which I am). However, seeing as I still hadn't filed any tax returns since 1976 my bride Linda thought it best if I just "shut up and went back home."

By 2008 the potential savings for Linda's taxes if we split our incomes was just too large to ignore, so I decided to turn myself in.

The Voluntary Disclosure Program is set up so that the only way in is to write a confession to the government listing your tax crimes, declaring why you did it, and get this... you also need to tell them what you think would be the appropriate penalty they should impose on you for your wrongdoing. If they like your submission they will let you in and if you're honest and disclose everything you did that was bad, they potentially might forgive you. If they don't like your confession, now that they know everything about you, I guess we get back to the guys with the baseball bats (I mean after all, they need to earn a living too).

Linda and everybody I knew insisted I shouldn't do it. When I looked up information on the Web every opinion available also insisted that if I did it without legal assistance, I was a fool and would loose everything I ever owned and spend the rest of my life behind bars. Of course, all those opinions came from lawyers. So, what the hell, with that much encouragement, I just couldn't resist writing up my confession and sending it in.

Now, it may come as a surprise to you my treasured readers, but I'm not very respectful when I get presented with idiotic things and this struck me as very idiotic indeed. So I wrote my confession and extensive list of crimes with the light touch of insanity I felt was befitting such silliness. How could I not?

About two months later I got my welcome aboard the Voluntary Disclosure Program admission letter.

My composition had been accepted. I had supplicated myself in a manner that was deemed worthy. My confession was adequate and I had passed! I now had my own ID number and was given temporary government immunity and the names of my handlers in the St. Catherines tax office to which all future communication was to be directed.

Seeing as I now had government immunity, I filed my 2008 return, the first in thirty years and we split Linda's income. The tax office promptly thanked me and sent me a large tax refund cheque. I convinced Linda that she should re-file an amended return for 2007, I would also file and we would again split our incomes. Sure enough, I got another thank you and a larger tax refund cheque this time. I had tapped into the mother lode. Life is good!

Eventually my handlers decided that just filing the past ten years was more than enough... oddly, they were starting to loose patience with the sarcastic new nutbar they had inherited.

I phoned the Ottawa tax office and ordered up fifteen years of tax forms prior to 2007. I felt filing the extra five years would be an extravagance worthy of my effort. While I was waiting their arrival I got all my old receipt boxes together. After taking them outdoors and cleaning the mouse droppings and spiders out of them I started sorting fifteen years of T4 slips and related stuff.

Originally I had been granted ninety days immunity from any prosecution. I thought that was not enough, so I wrote them explaining that I was an old addled man that needed more time, so they gave me an additional sixty days to complete my class assignment.

When everything arrived from Ottawa we tossed all the boxes in the car and drove to the Laurentians where I sat naked in Linda's cottage and had an extremely sacrilegious and fun time filling out my tax forms. In fact it went so smoothly, we both started to feel disappointed I wasn't doing them all the way back to 1975.

When I had them finally completed I put them all together and mailed them in a large priority post box to my St. Catherines handlers.

About a month later I got a terse official notice from the team leader of the enforcement branch of their office stating they found from my recent tax filings that I had not been bad enough to be punished. I quote from their letter:" therefore a penalty would not be appropriate in your situation" (I detected a note of disappointment) and they had decided to just send all my crap on to "the appropriate taxation centre for regular processing".

So, my stay in the witness protection program was terminated. Linda and I are still waiting for the letter that says I can finally throw away all those old receipts.

Ah, but it was all worth it. I have finally redeemed myself and am now an upstanding and up to date, I might add, member of society.

Getting into the swing of things © by adrian

Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice

I swear this is how it happened. I still insist I was totally innocent...

Up till the mid eighty's I lived a quiet monkish life in my studio without much regard for the outside world. During that time there were about a half dozen or so lovers who would occasionally drop by. Some white, but mostly black women. Long time holdouts from the black period of my life, (see my story Accidently black) who still liked to drop in for what my ego referred to as tune-ups. There were also new ladies along the way who would become interested in me and start dropping by. Just enough sex so that I was always able to keep my nose in other peoples business, as it were. Overall though, nothing too complicated.

As usual, it all started with a simple photo session. When she came in I had no idea this was the beginning of a new phase in my life. I thought she was good looking, but she didn't arouse me much at all. She had a delightful girl next door charm and that was about all I felt about her during the photo session. Until then I had been mostly drawn to dark, mysterious and exotic women. Yet somehow, that casual photo session managed to turn into twelve years of almost constant sexual arousal.

Every person I've ever dealt with had a story to tell me, some explanation or reason for why they ended up in my studio instead of the Sears portrait studios. Hers was a little different but not unique. She was leaving her husband and the fellow she was leaving him for was getting nervous. She wanted some sexy pictures to help remind the new fellow of her charms.

After the session I gave her my standard impersonal hug and told her I was sure we had made some great shots in the sitting.

I always phoned my clients the day after a sitting. This call served more or less as an "I still respect them in the morning" sort of call in case by the next day they felt they may have gone a little too far during the shoot. As a bonus, of course, this also kept the client firmly connected to the excitement of the sitting.

So, as was my fashion, I called her the next day to let her know how delighted I was with the way her session had gone. This was just a brief call, but I knew immediately that there was something a little different happening here. A nervous tremor in her voice suggested some future promise. Some excitement I hadn't noticed or paid any attention to the night before.

I should mention that I never made a sexual pass at anybody who interested me until the business end of our transaction was completely finished. Not necessarily out of any moral principles, simply that I find it difficult to extract money from someone I'm carnally involved with (unless we're role playing some game that involves my partner leaving money on the dresser to pay me for my services). My landlord, to whom I needed to pay my rent every month, totally endorsed this very practical business approach.

Her photos were ready a few weeks after the shoot and she arranged to come in and pick them up. I thought when she came by I would make my move and ask if she had any interest in getting together. Disappointingly, I had to scuttle my plan when she looked through the shots and decided to order a couple of 16 x 20 enlargements from the sitting. She gave me a deposit for this new order and went on her way.

I had my own colour lab so I immediately went down to the darkroom and started to print them. I was becoming quite interested in the possibility of getting some more of her and the sooner I could get our financial dealings out of the way I would be able to find out if she had considered or would consider exploring any future contact with me.

When she came to pick them up the following week I suggested that if she needed a temporary refuge from the demands the current changes in her life were making, she was more than welcome to call me and we could have a quiet dinner together if she wanted. As it turned out, she wanted! A few weeks later she came over for dinner and ignited the beginning of a long, new chapter in my life.

For the next few months or so, whenever she found the time she would call me and drop over to the studio if I was available. We would spend a few hours exploring each others bodies and then she would go back to work or disappear into the night. During this time she was still looking for a place to move to with her young daughter so they could start living on their own and she could make the final break from her husband. I had seen some photos of him and he was a big burly bear of a guy who drove a Harley Davidson bike. She was also still seeing the boyfriend who was now becoming less important to her.

As luck would have it, the apartment above my studio became available to rent. At the time we both thought it would be great fun to have a fuck buddy nearby and would be kind of neat to have an available lover living upstairs or in her case downstairs, so she decided to move into the apartment.

During this time my lifelong friend Bill did his best to convince me that there must be an easier way to commit suicide than the path I seemed to have chosen. He was sure the biker dude who was twice my size would inevitably try to kill me. Rational thinking has rarely gotten in the way of mankind's sexual interests, so naturally I helped her move.

After moving in she continued to see her husband. They hadn't become enemies, they just didn't want to live together anymore. He never presented any difficulty to our relationship and in fact turned out to be a gentle prince of a guy who I got to know a bit over the next dozen years.

During this time her boyfriend set up a threesome for her with another girl and himself. This was more about his fantasy than anything else and although it didn't excite her much, it did pique her interest. So we started talking about trying out things she and I could do together that would interest her more.

After months of talk and debate about what we wanted and might like to try, as well as exploring how we felt about the concept of jealousy, we joined "Club Eros" which was the only swingers club in town at the time.

As far as jealousy is concerned, that part for me was easy. I simply have never felt jealous about any companion I've been with. I always enjoy that the woman I am with is coveted by other men. I also never compare myself to others; I know there will always be many smarter or richer men with bigger dicks or more adept tongues than mine, so I just don't care. On the other hand, it has always proved to be much more of a challenge for my companions... I dealt on a daily basis with gorgeous women that were scampering around my studio with their clothes off, so the women that sign on for a trip with me have to be pretty sure of themselves to be comfortable with that.

Anyway, the club ran weekly theme party dances at a private bar that many people would frequent. It's not quite as archaic as the old "key clubs" from the seventies, but swinging is certainly a unique and alternative approach to sexual activity. At the bar people mostly swim around each other (just like singles bars I would imagine) and zero in on couples that appeal to them for whatever reason. If interest proves mutual then arrangements are made to meet somewhere "off premises" for those that are in a hurry or to get together at another time for the more patient in the crowd.

I have this theory that your partner can actually be thought of as additional bait in the swinging culture. If that's true, then it's no wonder that I was originally an extremely useless piece of bait. I can't dance, am totally tone deaf, couldn't find a beat if my life depended on it. I hardly drink at all, and hadn't been in a bar in about thirty years. So I sat there rather somberly trying without success to look cool and casual. There's little doubt that I was not exactly viewed from across the room as the most comfortable choice to get together with. My features are fairly angular and I have deep set dark eyes, so even at the best of times when I'm my playful child self, I look pretty severe. I eventually learned from people I got to know that many were surprised I didn't have a chainsaw resting on my lap. The overall consensus was that I just didn't look very inviting. So after a few unsuccessful visits we tried ads in adult newspapers instead.

When you run an ad with unusual requests, this is what you can expect to get in the way of replies... About one third will be thigh slapping funny and utterly impossible to consider, one third can be put in a pile that you will call if nothing else works out and a third can be considered possible. We started with about sixty replies, so initially we had about twenty potential victims, ah, I mean couples, to meet with and sniff out whether we wanted to get together on a more intimate level.

We started filtering what we could by phone and had a few casual meetings at coffee shops and bars, but nothing really clicked for us. We were getting pretty fed up with it all when we finally met with a couple who seemed to be exactly what we had set out to find in the first place. They were novice swingers and because we were too, nobody felt intimidated. We all decided this would be the ideal way to start off and satisfy our curiosity. We set a date for dinner at their place a few weeks down the road.

The whole idea was very exciting for us and thinking and talking about it for the next few weeks proved very horny indeed.

This could be where I interject some anecdote about how the evening went awry, but it didn't go wrong at all. The whole evening turned out to be a spectacular success. We got together and sat around on the floor in the living room chatting about everything and nothing. This was late nineteen eighty but it was just like being in the sixty's or seventy's again, the only thing missing (fortunately) was disco music and the fondue pot. We then had a comfortable dinner and talked about everybody's expectations and needs. After dinner we returned to the living room floor and continued with a lot of verbal foreplay.

I don't know which one of us proposed the obvious, but I think it was probably me. I'm generally the first one in any crowd to remind everybody why they got together and in this case I suggested that this would be a really good time for everybody to get naked and start exploring the possibilities. Well we did, and everything was far better than we had hoped it could be. The experience was very exciting, sensual and exploratory. It would not be misleading to call the whole evening intensely exotic.

I found it extremely horny to watch my companion blow our new found friend and she too was turned on watching me explore his partner. There were some confused amateur moments when nobody knew what to do... it was sort of like being in a candy store that you owned. It seemed the choices were unlimited and sometimes it was very difficult to decide what to do (and to whom) next. Although we were lost in the excitement of these new people, we also remained very aware of our own partner's needs. We both had agreed before we got there that we would not abandon each other, no matter how much fun we were having with the others.

Fatigue eventually got the best of all of us and by about four in the morning we decided we were satiated and couldn't take (or give) anymore. When we went home that night we talked about how we were so used up that we would probably need a month to recover before we could be able to enjoy each other again.

Well, were we ever wrong about that! It turned out that evening of exploration made us so horny that we couldn't stop talking about it or keep our hands off each other over the following months. Over the next year or so we continued to have dates with that first couple. In the next dozen years we made many new intimate longtime friends as we became converts and proponents of the swinging lifestyle. We eventually even held seminars at some Club Eros and other swinger conventions.

Last I heard she and her new partner were still very involved in swinging and although I now live monogamously I still advocate for the lifestyle. I don't miss it, but still think it is a great alternative for those who have strong relationships and are willing to be more adventurous in expanding their circle of friends in such an intimate way.

There's litter everywhere © by adrian

The squirrel whisperer Episode #4

I assumed when I started writing this blog that I would regale my hoped for audience with many titillating stories of travels behind the spotlights and in the darkrooms of the world. I foresaw lust and sexuality dripping from as many pages as possible. A few readers who have written me with comments have suggested they also looked forward to that very same thing.

Alas, this photographer and current writer-poser has become stuck in the rodent trap, as it were. What I am serving up for now is another visit with Rusty and her six baby squirrels from my previous story A lot of litter The squirrel whisperer Episode #3. This will be more along the lines of what used to be called a photo essay, with a lot of pictures and not much, as the squirrels would say, squawking.

Like juveniles and adolescents everywhere, the squirrels already seem very independent and quite full of themselves. At the same time they have developed an extremely affectionate and apparently loving relationship with each other. Whenever they meet up with another of their siblings they poke noses and hug as they pass each other on their travels. It's not uncommon to look out and see one with their arm around another.

They occasionally tumble and wrestle briefly together and then go on their own way.

Sometimes brushing noses seems so boring and commonplace so the only sensible thing to do is just grab the other guy and plant a big sloppy kiss on them.

Once in awhile they follow another to see what treasure they might find together, but mostly they move about on their own now.

As we watch the squirrels lay about in a pack on their house porch it's apparent they have perfected the art of hanging about and doing nothing. Their porch sometimes looks like someone from the prop department of Walt Disney's studio has come by and sprinkled a bag of miniature squirrels all over it. More like caricatures of squirrels rather than the ones we're used to seeing scurrying about everywhere.

The laying out is always punctuated with one of the crowd starting to groom another.

Judging by the look on mom's face, she seems to be a big fan of having her ears chewed. I have occasionally suggested that her and I get behind the tree and give it a go, but so far she has declined. When I remind her I used to scratch her dad's ears and he loved it, (see my story The squirrel whisperer, Episode one: Lurch) she insists that as far as she's concerned that would be carrying this cross species thing way too far. I think she's just playing hard to get, so I will persist.

Ear chewing and cleaning is certainly a favorite, but occasionally one will roll over on his back so the groomer can give his feet a good going over.

Leaping to and from the bush is also great fun and they never miss an opportunity to experience the thrill of flying through the air.

The raccoon I mentioned in my previous story did manage a mini raid on the house one night but she must have been driven off quickly by the activity of so many bodies and she didn't get to inflict too much damage. The children were able to immediately turn the pulled out bedding into a new toy.

Rusty spent all the next day moving everybody out to somewhere else, sometimes carrying the children on her back.

The baby that I mentioned in episode three who I thought might want to eventually stay living in the house refused to leave, really pissing mom off. She tried dragging, pushing and pulling but the baby has a mind of his own and refused to go with the rest of them. He ended up sleeping over in the damaged house by himself that night.

The next morning we watched as the little one who wouldn't leave made up with mom when she came by for a visit and all was forgiven.

Rusty then moved all the others back to the house. They spent the rest of the day tidying up the remaining mess (overturned lamps and end tables I would guess) and have been living together in the house ever since.

The children are now quite comfortable coming to our porch to get a drink of water from the dish we leave out for them.

Occasionally they do stop to ask if this is also the peanut house, and if so, would it be too much trouble for us to get them one.

Anyway, that's about all I can tell you for now, but the children did want to send out a big high five from the rodent clan to all you two legs.

A lot of litter © by adrian

The squirrel whisperer Episode #3

I've never heard the Mermaids sing, but I have talked to the baby squirrels.

Rusty has finally begun to display her litter to us. She is now allowing her infants out of the drey (a squirrel house) so they can start hesitantly exploring life on their own.

Rusty, you should understand, comes from the finest rodent stock in our valley, so we are very excited to see her reproduce. She is the progeny of Lurch (see my story; The squirrel whisperer © by adrian Episode one: Lurch) and Missy who was the squirrel that lived with Lurch and helped care for him after his accident with the big wheels.

Squirrels have very pragmatic names in general and because of her colour, she insisted on being called "Rusty". I remember one of our visiting squirrels who was the most adorable rodent we had ever seen. His name was "Tiny Perfect", but after he had an accident and most of his tail was ripped off he quickly explained to us that he had decided to change his name to "Almost Perfect".

Most two legs don't realize that squirrels lead very tragic lives. Not only must they remember not to play in the street with the big wheels, but they are constantly pursued by a myriad of predators. As well as dealing with the children who love to chase them, they need to stay alert for dogs, cats, raccoons and large birds that all seem to be constantly on the lookout for inattentive squirrels. They are also not averse to having some fairly serious squabbles among themselves.

We knew she was pregnant at the beginning of the year when she started hanging out for hours on her porch. At the time she seemed very reflective and rarely left the drey. She always had a look that seemed to suggest she didn't quite understand how this had happened to her. A sure sign to a squirrel whisperer that there is definitely something in the wind.

She is living in our backyard in the same house she grew up in a few short years ago. She was just an infant and now she has become the grande dame of the valley.

During the past few months we would occasionally see her stagger out the door onto her porch where she would then spend the next twenty minutes trying to clean the spittle from her belly and now huge teats. As soon as she was finished, she would lie down exhausted and doze off to sleep.

Until just the other day we had seen no other signs of life. And now the infants are everywhere.

A tiny face and then a small body emerged hesitantly from the opening one day. A bird chirped and the tiny ball of fur threw itself back inside immediately. A few minutes later the face slowly started to push out onto the porch again but a gust of wind startled her and she was back inside in a flash. This was repeated over and over... slowly emerging and then running back inside in an instant. She was determined to get out and look around and apparently filled with wonder, but at the same time everything she saw or heard terrified her. Every time she emerged a bird would fly overhead or a car could be heard on the street below and she would scramble back inside. Now of course, she would be armed with scary stories about the outside world she could share with the others in the house.

Soon another face and tiny body joined the first on the porch. Immediately a third stepped forth and they began to frolic with each other, then a gust of wind resulted in a flurry of tails disappearing into the house. Hours later we looked up and saw another we had not known was there. Rusty had been hiding four babies from us, and today was the day for them to start their squirrel journey.

The tree house I built many years ago is wide, deep and very long, so we knew it could easily accommodate such a crowd, but it still amazed us that Rusty had been inside nursing four babies for almost ten weeks before we knew positively how many were in there. During that first day they would venture as far as the porch and only for the briefest bit of time. Anytime there were more than two on the porch, they would play wrestle with each other, but mostly the top order of the day was to pull and play with the others tails. If mom showed up she was groomed constantly by the infants. She would lie down on the porch and one would lick her ears as another sat on her back and a third would pull at her foot.

Suddenly Linda and I realized we were now watching the antics of five babies, another had added himself to the pack without us noticing.

It wasn't too long before we realized that the five had become six and it was now impossible to keep track of them or the constant flurry of motion... At times the tree was a beehive of activity with baby rodents constantly running everywhere in different directions. Rusty had been nursing a total of six babies during the past ten weeks! She produced one grey, three golden greys, and two black. Surprisingly, it's not unusual for black or grey squirrels to have black and grey in the same litter.

I've grown into the role of Jimmy Stewart in the movie Rear Window. I sit at our bedroom window with my camera and binoculars at the ready, minutely examining every move the infant rodents make, squealing to Linda to come quick and look at the cute things they are doing. This is how I spend my dotage now. Linda spends her time down the hall in her office on the internet. I hope she's looking for some place where we can rent an intravenous feeding setup for me so I won't need to leave the window area to eat.

There are long periods with no activity at all, and then all of a sudden they come out of the house and start running everywhere on the tree again. There is almost non stop activity for about a half hour or so and then they pile back inside for nap time. All of this is mixed with periodic bottlenecks at the door as they flee to safety if anything startles them. On a rainy day like today Rusty comes down for her handout but we don't see the babies at all. We assume mom keeps them inside and explains to them that days like these are craft days.

As far as predators go, raccoons are the worst. Since building the house it has been a constant struggle to outsmart them and at the same time let the squirrels have easy access to the tree. If a raccoon can get up the tree it will pull out all the stuffing (think pillows) that is in the house and kill the babies if it can get to them. Adult squirrels can easily get away, but of course the babies can't.

The latest invention that has successfully deterred the raccoons has been surrounding the tree trunk in those slippery flat plastic sheets that kids use for sleighs. The raccoons haven't been able to get past the plastic apron yet, but sooner or later they may, so our only hope is that we can hold them off until the babies can fend for themselves.

Grown squirrels and even the juveniles can easily leap to the hedge or back to the tree, but the infants have to be taught to do that. They haven't gotten to the ground yet, but they are practicing their leaping, something they will need to master before they can get off or back onto the tree. You have no idea how the neighbours carry on when they see me throwing myself off the tree to the bushes below yelling all the while, "follow me, follow me!"

Squirrels are just a nuisance to many people, but I find them full of excitement and curiosity. If you get to know a bit about them you can easily see they also often display a great deal of empathy to each other, (as long as it isn't feeding time). I've certainly had a lot to do with squirrels in my day, but I've rarely seen anything as fascinating as watching this litter develop in such an accelerated time frame. Over the years we've had other juveniles grow up in the house. Rusty, as mentioned, grew up there, but this is the first litter that was actually born there. All the others were brought from some secret place and moved in once they were large enough to travel on their own.

In another week or two they will start to go their separate ways and set up their own living quarters somewhere else. Some will make our back yard a stop along the way in their daily travels and we will see them every now and then. Sadly a few may not even make it past the juvenile stage, but they are here now and will be in this story forever. Rusty will probably move on soon too and maybe she will come back to live here next winter. Inevitably one of the litter will stay on to live in the house, usually the philosopher of the bunch chooses to stay. The porch lends itself to lying out and contemplating the world and being able to watch it go by from a safe distance.

After Rusty and her siblings grew up and went their separate ways, Rusty's brother Smudge decided to stay on and he lived in the house for about six months after the others left. We see him every once in awhile now, but don't know where he lives anymore. Occasionally we see him coming across the wires from the big Condo in the trees further down the valley, but we're not sure if he has an apartment there or not. Generally squirrels live communal lives in the winter; there is something fundamentally practical about a lot of warm bodies snuggled on top of each other in the cold. We did see Smudge up in Rusty's house about the same time we realized Rusty was pregnant, and we assumed he had just dropped by to pay his respects to his sister.

Anyway, I have my money on the greyest one of the group staying on, so far he seems to be the most reflective of the bunch. We often notice him just sitting there away from the others, daydreaming. It's still a bit early to tell yet, we don't know their names, but I suppose when they come down to formally introduce themselves the one who might be named Socrates will tell us he's decided to stay on for awhile.

Thank you, Leonard Cohen © by adrian

Linda and I started to watch an edited version of "Leonard Cohen Live in London" on television the other night.

Leonard probably wasn't even half way through his first song before we both realized that if he ever showed up at our front door, there would be an enormous skirmish in the hallway as we jostled each other to see who would get to him first.

This man has dramatically and single handedly raised the bar for those who would never have previously considered being intimate with an old guy.

As soon as we started watching the show it was obvious that he owned the crowd. Lord, I can barely imagine how many women later that night in bed must have accidently screamed out "Give it to me, Lenny!" For that matter, I'm sure even the occasional man (much to his own surprise) let bellow the same refrain.

I can picture younger guys rushing to make appointments at the dermatologist to have extra wrinkles injected into their face lines so they will have a chance to be able to compete with us old wrinkled up guys. As they stand waiting in long lineups going around the block they can work on trying to perfect his elegant stoop. His studied caressing of a microphone or anything else he touches.

I'm a mere sixty nine, (see my story; I'm a 69er © by adrian) and old Leonard has set a new benchmark for us all... He's five years older than me, so at least as far as age is concerned, I know I'm good now until I'm at least seventy four.

I've certainly got the wrinkles. I think if I scream out "Give it to me, Lenny!" often and loud enough, I may even be able to get a tiny bit of the raspy voice the man continues to delight us with.

Anyways, I must rush off and get to my vocal lessons. Oh, and by the way "Give it to me, Lenny!"

A little boxed in © by adrian

The re-construction of our house has finally been completed since the disastrous flood we had six months ago. (see my story; From the dumper to the dumpster © Part 1 of 2 and From the dumper to the dumpster © Part 2)

All the items that had been stored in the cube in our driveway were recently brought back into the house. The last construction worker left and we have been unpacking and sorting ever since.

If I ever find the box my computer is in I will get back to some writing. Come to think of it, have you seen which box the desk is in yet?

I will be back as soon as possible.