I’ve been called a “Crazy Fuck” several times in my life, most recently this morning by my wonderful wife Maria, who was laughing when she said it (I think.) I was doing something dumb.

This brought back memories.

The first time I was called that was in Philadelphia when I, as a reporter, set out to cover a race riot in the northern part of the city. My editor warned me not to get too close or far from the police.

I did not, of course, listen. I was young and immortal.

(Photo above Attention animal rights warriors and the Spelling Police: this is a photo of Zip being abused on our farm. You might want to see it; his belly is rubbed in the pasture every morning. He is no Dumb Cat.)

But I had to get closer to understanding what was happening if I was going to write a good story about the ugly and frightening riots.

(More abuse of Zud, or is it Zip?)

I pulled my little old Volkswagen over amid a mob fighting with the police, and I looked in the rearview mirror to see a young man stuffing a Molotov Cocktail into the gasoline latch at the rear of the car.

My editor had warned me not to be alone or get too close to the trouble. As a young and ambitious reporter, that was precisely where I thought I should be.

I jumped out of the car and ran, and the vehicle caught fire and eventually exploded. I was not hurt, and no one came chasing after me. No police officer came running over, either. Nobody likes reporters.

When I hitched a ride back to the paper with my story,  I told my boss what had happened, and he called me a Crazy Fuck, the first time I had heard the phrase but not the last.

How, I wondered, was I going to get around?

He shook his head and said I shouldn’t consider the paper reimbursing the car.

Life goes on, and I go on; I see my life as a distinct series of chapters and passages, and I guess I am still a Crazy Fuck; that might be one of the phases that never goes away or one thing that never goes away.

I did, after all, move up abruptly to live in the country on a farm, even though I had never set foot on one. Lots of people called me names for doing that.

Still, I laughed this morning. Today, the equivalent of that term, I told Maria, is Dementia. People tell me I am brainless and demented when I misspell a cat’s name. The bar for insult is getting lower.

I had to smile when I thought of all the things I’ve been called over the years. I know I am different, which attracts nasty flies and mosquitoes.

I am off to the Mansion Meditation Class. I will see you later.

Windowsill gallery, kitchen, African Violets

Windowsill 2, Kitchen, Calla Lilly, and Wonder Woman.