Bought earplugs yesterday...

Bought earplugs yesterday and had one of the best night's sleep in a long time. I'm crashing at my buddy Wilder's place here on the peninsula. He lives near the freeway and there's a constant flow of traffic. I suppose a person could get used to the noise after awhile, but I've been here for a couple of weeks now and that's not happening. Perhaps I'm hypersensitive to my surroundings.

Had a few interesting encounters today with prospective landlords. The first place I checked out, the elderly couple were really nice people. They wouldn't have been trouble at all. The accommodations just didn't suit my needs.

My next interview was... well, it was a small cottage in a beautiful garden setting and had a magnificent view. I found the rental advertised in the local newspaper and phoned when I was having coffee earlier in the day. A woman answered. "Yes, I was calling about the cottage you have for rent."

"Hold on," she said. A man answered and provided details about the small house, his wife in the background telling him what to say. Then I asked for directions. He began to explain and she chimed in, "Tell him..."

A few hours later, an elderly fellow who was very warm and friendly greeted me at the gate. After a brief introduction, he immediately showed me where I'd park, as if he was welcoming me home. Then he led me up to the cottage and invited me inside. It was rustic, but very nice, and I could easily see myself living there. The ol' boy was proud of the home and spoke of how he'd renovated the place, extended the walls out and raised the roof to make it more accommodating.

We visited a little more, talked about the rent. "Is it a month-to-month rental, or is it a lease?" I asked. "Oh, it's month to month. A lease isn't worth much anyway. If you decide to leave, you're gonna leave. No point me holding you here if you want to be elsewhere..." and then he shifted away from the rental details and began to tell me how he was on his second marriage, to his high school sweetheart. He was drafted and went to war years ago. Upon his return, he learned that his sweetie had taken up with another guy and married. He took up with another woman. Then, while in his forties, his high school sweetheart tracked him down. Her old man had left her for a younger woman.

"How's that for luck. She phoned me up after all that time and now we've been married for more than thirty years," the ol' boy explained. "Now, let me show you the laundry room," he said, and led me down a path toward their home, which was just twenty or thirty feet downhill from the cottage. As we walked down the path, ten or more wild turkeys made their way across the roof of the landlord's home and then flew off into some trees.

The path led around the back of the house. He opened a gate, we stepped through a breezeway, and into the laundry room. After going over the washing machine and dryer controls, we walked back over to his garage and workshop, to show me where I could store any of my goods that wouldn't fit inside the cottage. He had a nice shop, had once restored automobiles. He told me all about his projects and how the wife suggested that he sell his showpieces, because if something ever happened to him, she wouldn't know how to dispose of his toys.

We talked about cars, airplanes, and tractors for a while, mechanical things and then he announced, "Come on, let me introduce you to my better half." We walked to his house. We stepped in and his wife got up out of her armchair, and walked over to meet me. We made small talk briefly. I explained that I once sold tractors and had been spoiled, dealing with farmers, their word being good as gold. Then I told her how I owned a couple of homes and had recently rented to a woman, gave her the keys and trusted her to pay the rent and deposit in a few days. Three months later, she hadn't paid a dime and had to be evicted.

"Where do you live now?" she asked.

I just finished cleaning the home up and rented it out. Now I'm staying with a buddy and looking for a place here on the peninsula. I don't care to live over in the Valley, air's polluted and it just doesn't suit me..."

"Well, how long do you plan to stay?"

"Well, if..."

"Because it takes a lot of work to clean and paint and we only want to rent to someone who's going to stay for at least a year."

"Well, I can't promise you a year..."

"How long do you plan to stay?"

"I don't know. I may stay for more than a year, but I don't know what it's like here and you may not like me and..."

"Oh, what you see is what you get here. You won't have any problems with us," the ol' boy explained.

"Well, my other concern is that my girlfriend is flying out for a few months and she'll need to stay with me until she finds her own place. I know you're renting it to one person, but I'd like to be able to give her a place to stay until she can find her own home..."

"Well, why don't you stay with your friend and get a place with her?"

"We haven't been going out that long and I believe that might be a bit premature."

"Well, if that's the case then maybe she's the wrong woman. You just fill out that application there on the table and we'll get back to you in a few days."

I looked her hard in the eyes. "I'm not filling out an application. I don't know if I even want your place." That set her back some. She had the oddest look on her face and then the phone rang. End of round one, before either of us had a black eye. Saved by the bell you might say.

"Don't you like the place?" The ol' boy asked while his wife took the phone call.

Sure I like it, but I don't make decisions that quickly, I explained as I stepped toward the door. "I got plenty of money and damn good credit, I don't need nobody, you see," I said loud enough for his sweetheart to hear.

The man walked me out to my truck. He was very nice, thanked me for having a look. He wanted to talk about machinery some more, but I'd seen and talked enough. We thanked each other for our time and then shook hands, looking one another straight in the eyes, while I thought, You're wife, she's a real bitch. You and I would have got on just fine, but you're wife...

"Don't mind the misses, now. You know how women are," he said, as if he was reading my mind.

"Who is she to say if I'm with the wrong woman or not? She hasn't even met my lady. We haven't been seeing each other long enough to move in together, but that doesn't make her the wrong woman."

"You been married before?"

"Yes, I have."

"Take your time," he explained and then went on to tell of how he'd married his first wife years ago, how she pushed to have children right away, and how she turned into an alcoholic after having three kids. He was upset with himself, still, for how dumb and naïve he'd been. "After she had the first child, she was still nursing... Damn I was stupid. She told me she couldn't get pregnant while she was nursing the baby and I believed her. Hell, she gave birth to the second child three days after our firstborn's first birthday.

The old boy continued telling his story, telling about how after having three kids, she turned to booze. "Hell, she'd stay out all night and early in the morning, different guys would dump her off in the yard. I'd have to go out and carry her in. I finally left her, but damn, that was hard on the kids. I had full custody because she really was an unfit mother. But she was still their mother and... one day, I got a phone call from her neighbor where she was living. The newspapers were piling up outside and they were worried something had happened to her. I went and found her in the bedroom, sicker than hell. I hauled her to the hospital. She was there for a week. When she got out, I took her home to my place, to care for her. What could I do, she's the kids mother and I couldn't let her waste away... She quit the booze, but then it was pills and... I finally left, moved out of state for several years..."

As he was telling me his story, his sweetheart walked outside, over to a car, preparing to leave. She didn't bother to say goodbye, which was just as well, as I might have told her to stick it in her ear. "Well, looks like the boss is on her way to the store, so I guess you're leaving too," he explained. I was parked in the driveway, blocking her exit. I wouldn't have minded listening longer to the poor fellow, hearing what he had to say. He was a kind man, a good-hearted man, a man who had been taken advantage of a time or two. Perhaps he'd taken advantage of a few in his days, but for the most part, he had a decent spirit about him, that I could see.

As I was getting into my truck, he asked, "Will you leave me your phone number so I can contact you. In case I want to call you and tell you to go to hell, or something like that," he grinned. I handed him a card with my contact information and then backed out of the driveway, so that his wife could make her way to the grocery store.

I drove away slowly; she was right on my tail as we wounded through hills. I didn't pull over so she could go pass, and I didn't speed up to accommodate her impatience. I stayed true to my own pace. I wasn't in a hurry.

I made it back to Wilder's place, checked my email and tended to a few other things. Wilder went out for the evening. He'd had a cold for the last few days, but he went out anyway. I was hungry so I drove down to Wholefoods for a few things. I decided to pick up some Echinacea, just to boost my immune system.

"Can I help you find something?" asked the woman who worked the vitamin and health supplement section of the store.

"Yes, Echinacea?"

"Right over here." She announced, leading the way. "So, does it feel like you're coming down with something?"

"No, I'm staying with a friend and he has a cold."

"Oh, then you're doomed! Do you want the capsules or the tincture?"

"I'm not doomed and I don't know what I want until I see what you have."

A bit set back, she suggested, "Well, just make sure you wash your hands really good and don't rub your eyes. You see, a virus passes through the eyes and the nose. You could actually kiss him and you won't get sick, but if he sneezes or coughs and you breathe the air..."

"Well, we don't have to worry about that," I told her.

"What, sneezing or coughing?"

"No, me kissing him," I answered in disgust. "That would make me a hell of a lot sicker than the common cold, lady. You haven't got enough herbs in this place to cure that kind of bellying aching dis-ease," I explained. I reached for a small bottle of Echinacea and Goldenseal tincture. "This ought to do it," I said, turning to look her dead in the eye, "And I ain't doomed."

Mel Mathews, is the author of several novels, including the Malcolm Clay Trilogy (Fisher King Press). His books are available from your local bookstore, a host of on-line booksellers, or you can order them directly from his website at: www.melmathews.com or www.malcolmclay.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. ©2007 Mel Mathews

There's something to be said for the simple life . . .

Often I find myself tangled up with the craziest fools. One fellow, he really needs to get a life. For fiction's sake, I’ll name him LeRoi. He's getting divorced and he's read all my books and somehow he tracked me down and got my phone number. For some reason, LeRoi thinks we're best of friends, calls all the time, says he wants to come hang out with me in Firenze. That’s all I need, him showing up on my doorstep, announcing "Honey, I’m home," give me a great big hug and dump the boring saga of how his ex-wife is screwing him over, when in fact, he’s the one putting the screws to her.

He’s loaded, one of them trust fund babies that hasn’t worked a day in his life. He's actually soaking her for alimony, and honestly believes he's entitled to this! Sure, he’s pretended to work, made it look good but never showed a profit. It's all sheltered in the business he'll inherit one of these days. That's right, he's still dangling from Mother's tit and Papa's billfold.

Anyway, I quit answering his calls, so he actually contacted my parents, and asked them for my phone number. Mom emailed, asking what to do. I told her not to worry, told her to give him my phone number because he already had it anyway, and then I told her to tell him I was in Venezuela. Mom thought that was the funniest thing she’d heard in a long time. And to tell you the truth, I thought it was a pretty good one myself!

Hell, I'll lie to people whenever the need arises. People deserve to be lied to when they go asking impertinent questions and sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong. They also deserve to be lied to when they want to use me as their shrink, when they should be enlisting the help and paying a professional. You hear that LeRoi, if you need to piss and moan, go hire a counselor and dump all your crap off at their doorstep. They get paid for this sort of thing, and that way you don’t have to go and spread your goodwill out onto the rest of the world, you selfish buzzard, you!

Fifteen minutes after sending the email to Mom about saying that I was in Venezuela, I received another call from LeRoi. “Hey, Mel, heard you’re in Venezuela. Send me some pictures of the hot babes down there. The ex-wife bought out my half of the house, so I’ve got lots of cash. Do you think I’ll need a visa for Venezuela…”

He ought to be ashamed of himself! Making his ex-wife pay him for half the house. Hell, she’s raising his three children and working full-time and a half just to make ends meet. With as much money as LeRoi's got, he should have given her the house, or at least put it into a trust for their children.

A few days later, another phone call, “Hey, Mel, hope you’re not starting a revolution down there in Venezuela. I’ll have internet in a few days and I’ll send you an email…”

Keep calling, LeRoi! Send all the emails you like, 'cause I’m not gonna answer a one of them and I'm gonna write about your rotten ass self, that I promise to do!

Another kook… well, she bought and read my books. She's a real stalker, and crazier than a loon to boot! Ah, heck, I’ll save that story for another time. I suppose this sort of attention goes with the trade, but… well, they serve me just fine when I'm writing a book. Bring on all the kooks you can find, I'll find a place for them in a novel, or most certainly in my blog. Other times... well, there's something to be said for the simple life.

If you'd like to buy my books, check out my website: www.melmathews.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. ©2007 Mel Mathews

Hemingway, Chocolate, and Firenze - aka: The Marriage of Matter and Spirit

Hemingway, Chocolate, and Firenze
aka: The Marriage of Matter and Spirit...
By Mel Mathews

It's not an oil on canvas painted by one of the old masters, not a five or six hundred year old fresco, not a famous piece of literature nor a towering monument left from an era gone by. In the heart of Florence, Italy, at Piazza Piattellina, the true essence of Firenze still remains. On ‘the other side' of the Arno River in the San Frediano neighborhood, where this magnificent city hasn't lost its identity to capitalism and globalization, stands a sanctuary where matter and spirit truly meet.

Yes, the Hemingway is filled with a variety of decadent treats that you won't find anywhere else in Firenze, let alone Italy or many other parts of the world, but this comprises only half of the soul of which I speak. There's something else about this location, the building, something that I can't quite wrap my mind around. Perhaps it's in the stones or even the ground on which it has been built, but wherever its essence lies, this 'place' certainly has a heartbeat of its own.

Of the many mystical experiences I've had at the Hemingway over the years, one remains quite clear in my mind. Around five-thirty one afternoon, while I was sipping a coffee and eating a chocolate spoon, a very old woman, cane in one hand and an assistant at her other side, stepped in. After being seated only a few tables away, her attendant left to tend to matters unknown, and the elderly woman ordered a hot chocolate.

The chocolate soon arrived, and she spooned a taste as her drink cooled. My writing efforts continued, a vain attempt to report on, and at the same time escape, yet another one of those boring dramas that never seems to end. Then I looked up to find the old woman raising the cup, then taking in this delicacy as if it were a sacrament.

Bouncing back and forth between the old woman and my notebook, I finally acquiesced and set the pen aside. There I sat, worrying about words, worrying about a cough or a sneeze, a silly piece of dust that was certain to be the cause of my demise. And there she sat, the Great Mother, sipping, savoring that cup of chocolate like only a wise old woman could. Perhaps a person must arrive at this stage in life before they can relish in the divine, be it in a cup of hot chocolate, a cone of gelato, the passing clouds, the laugh or cry of a child, or even the dawning of a new day.

The assistant returned not long after the woman had finished her treat. She was already standing when Massimiliano walked up to check on his elderly patron. He kissed her and she touched the side of his cheek, an ageless reverence and respect was exchanged between the two. He then saw the old woman to the front door. After she had left, Massimiliano walked back inside to return to his duties. I was still caught up in rapture when he found me staring off in his direction. With a spark of magic in his eyes, he drew me back into the moment with these words, "Isn't she marvelous? She is my grandmother. One hundred years old, and still she counts the donations at Santa Maria del Fiore, the Duomo..."

Upon returning to the Hemingway the following spring, I was saddened to learn that Massimiliano's grandmother had passed away. Pinned to the bulletin board next to the kitchen door is a magnificent photo of her standing in the piazza near the Duomo. Although she no longer visits in person, her spirit remains a bold and vital aspect within me, and even more so within her grandson and this sacred cloister of Piazza Piattellina. On your visit, perhaps you too will partake of the mystery and share the joy of living in the moment while sipping away on one of those exquisite Hemingway's delicacies?

Hemingway is owned and operated by Massimiliano Cantore, and from amongst a host of specialties, including a superb variety of quality coffees, teas, liqueurs, spirits and desserts, the cafe is famous for Chocolate! And let me tell you... ah, words just can do no justice to what you'll experience at Hemingway: Chocolates delights from such famous names as Luca Mannori, Claudio Pistocchi, Paul De Bondt, and Andrea Slitti. Chocolate crepes, chocolate cakes, hot chocolate - forty to one hundred percent real pure hot chocolate made fresh by the cup, chocolate martinis, chocolate gelato, chocolate... well, I'm sure that by now you can taste what I'm getting at. Chocolate or not, if the Hemingway has it, you can be sure that it is produced and served to perfection.

Here's the link to Hemingway: www.hemingway.fi.it While in Florence, the first three places to visit should be the Duomo, the Uffizi, and Hemingway. Then, if you still have time... well, it takes a good year to properly enjoy this wonderful city. For more info on Cafe Hemingway and Florence, be sure to send an email.

And by the way Massimiliano, thanks for all those place mats that have stood in for a notebook on so many occasions over the years. The ink flowed so well onto the backside of your official parchment and I wasn't about to taunt the Muse.

Mel Mathews is the author of the Malcolm Clay Trilogy (Published by Fisher King Press): LeRoi ISBN 0977607607, Menopause Man ISBN 0977607615, & SamSara ISBN 0977607623 - all available from your local bookstore, a host of on-line booksellers, or you can order directly from www.melmathews.com. But buyers beware, for along with the sacred comes an equal amount of the profane, as one can't exist without the other!

An absorbing and reflective saga...

An absorbing and reflective saga about how difficult yet ultimately rewarding it is to improve oneself.,
October 6, 2007 Midwest Book Review

The sequel to "LeRoi", Menopause Man is a novel starring a "quasi-rake" male protagonist Malcolm Clay, divorced, middle-aged, disdaining the religious heritage of his childhood, and generally self-absorbed... though sporting some significantly redeeming qualities. Harsh reality has stripped away his previous charmed fairytale life; he has spent fruitless years searching outside of himself amid an ephemeral world for internal reconciliation. Menopause Man is ultimately a novel of growth, and learning to evolve above being ruled by desires and how to let go of the false idols of meaningless money, indulgence, or sex without love. An absorbing and reflective saga about how difficult yet ultimately rewarding it is to improve oneself.

Mel Mathews is the author of the Malcolm Clay Trilogy (Published by Fisher King Press):
LeRoi ISBN 0977607607, Menopause Man ISBN 0977607615, & SamSara ISBN 0977607623 - all available from your local bookstore, a host of on-line booksellers, or you can order directly from www.melmathews.com.