When Wooly Worms Disagree

I love this time of year in the North Carolina mountains.  The leaves have fallen in a blaze of color, the air is crisp, and the wooly worms are out.

You’re familiar, of course, with the legend of the wooly worm.  The woolys have alternating bands of brown and black on their furry bodies, and from ancient times, folks have studied the bands to predict the coming winter – black bands for cold and wet, brown for milder and dry.

In the mountain town of Banner Elk, there’s an annual Wooly Worm Festival in October.  One of the features is a wooly worm race, in which the entrants climb up a length of string.  The winner is proclaimed to be the champion predictor of what’s ahead.  More about that in a moment.

So I’m out for a walk in the mountains and wooly worms are everywhere.  The first one I spot has bold black tips front and back and a length of brown in the middle.  So, a tough start to the winter, a mild middle, and the usual nasty February and March.  Great.  Now I know how to plan my wardrobe.  But wait, the next wooly I spy has all brown.  Not even a hint of black.  So this guy is telling me the entire winter will be mild.  The longer I walk, the more woolys I see, the more confused I become.  They have every color combination imaginable.  Alas, my only sartorial choice is to layer.

What’s going on here?  Do wooly worms communicate with each other?  Do they get together and have a convention and over-indulge in wooly worm libations and decide to play a fast one on humans?  Okay Charlie, you go all brown and I’ll go wild with stripes and maybe even a little fuschia thrown in.  Then we’ll watch these hapless humans from the underbrush and laugh our butts off.

Another possibility is that the wooly worms could care less about predicting the winter, and are more attuned to finding a good place to hibernate.  And finally – and I think we have to give this careful consideration – is that this year, the woolys were too much distracted by the political campaigns and got thoroughly confused.

My friend Delbert Earle says his great uncle Orester (an avid amateur meteorologist if there ever was one) puts no stock whatsoever in wooly worms.  He consults his bunions, which he claims are a wildly accurate predictor of weather in the offing.  Orester will sit barefoot in front of the TV, watching the folks on the Weather Channel, and mutter, “That’s not right.”  Occasionally, Orester is right, which, unfortunately, encourages him.

Now, about the winning wooly worm at the Banner Elk festival?  His name is Hans Solo, which gives him a certain panache, and here is his prediction: a normal start to winter on December 21, followed by a couple of weeks of cold and snow, then 7 weeks of above normal temperatures with little or no snow, and finally a couple of weeks of average temperatures with light snow.  Somewhere out there is another wooly with the same markings, but I didn’t see him on my walk.  There are a couple of them in the underbrush laughing their butts off.  And I’m layering.  When all else fails, I’ll go see Orester.

Robert Inman's novels -- Home Fires Burning, Old Dogs and Children, Dairy Queen Days, Captain Saturday, and The Governor's Lady -- are available on Amazon Kindle and through Amazon.com.

Delbert Earle's Perfect Yard

It is a warm Spring afternoon, the kind you can have here in the Carolinas even before the first of May. 

My friend Delbert Earle is sitting at his kitchen table, next to the window that looks out on the back yard.  He can feel the warm breeze on his face, smell the scent of nature budding and bursting, all full of herself. 

He can hear the chattering of bird couples, fussing with each other over their redecorating plans:  “Shall we put the twig here?”  “No, silly, over there.”

            Every once in awhile, Delbert Earle leans toward the window and calls out, “Green side up!”  His boy Elrod is planting sod in the back yard.

            “Aw, Daddy,” Elrod calls back in disgust.

            Delbert Earle laughs.  Even Elrod cannot diminish his feeling of well-being this Spring afternoon.  This will be the year Delbert Earle has the perfect yard.

            Only fescue and ornamentals will sprout from his ground.

            Chickweed and crabgrass will move down the street for the summer.

            It will rain every third day – a warm, gentle rain.

            And Wal-Mart will run their best fertilizer on constant special.

            There will be no leaks in the garden hose, no pigeons in the eaves, no fungus in the photinia.

            The lawnmower will crank every time on the third pull.

            And the day the “Yard of the Month” committee shows up in front of Delbert Earle’s house, everything will be lush and green and exploding with color.

            As Delbert Earle ponders horticultural perfection, he can almost hear the song of the turtle-dove out in the yard where Elrod is planting sod.

            “Green side up!” he calls again – the call of the American Dreamer.

            After all, what’s Spring for, anyway?

Wretched February -- A Permanent Solution

Pardner, I don’t want to cause you overmuch distress, but February – that most wretched of months -- is bearing down on us like a runaway buckboard, and this year, I am taking defensive action.  I am circulating petitions to get rid of the month.  Yes, wipe it from the calendar, as it deserves.

January is statistically the coldest month of the year, but for the most part, that’s all it is: cold.  If you have a warm coat, earmuffs and a good battery, you can survive January just fine.  But February?  A depressing abomination of snow, ice, freezing rain, and presidential primaries.  Enough to drive a strong person to drink, and that, in fact, is one of the best antidotes I know for February.

So let’s just do away with it.  I got the idea from a character in my novel The Governor’s Lady.  It’s January.  Mickey Spainhour’s daughter Cooper has taken office as Governor of her southern state, while her son-in-law Pickett is running for President.  Mickey’s in poor shape in the hospital, crotchety because nobody will bring her a cigarette.  She says to Cooper, “I hope I make it to March.  I would hate to die in February.  It’s a miserable month.  If Pickett gets to be President, I want him to outlaw February.”  The minute it came out of Mickey’s mouth, I said to myself, “Huzzah!”

Now, you ask, how would we outlaw February?  Simply change the calendar to go directly from January 31 to March 1.  February no longer exists.  But, you protest, what about Valentine’s Day, the only redeeming feature of February.  Move it to January, when the cold weather invites you to stay inside snuggling with your honey-bunch and roasting chestnuts on an open fire.  The details can be worked out.  We’ll form committees.

My friend Delbert Earle is in total agreement with me.  He hates the dismal drearies as much as anybody.  And here, in January, the gloom has already set in at his house.  Old Shep the Wonder Dog is holed up under the house with his head between his paws, refusing to come out even to chase the garbage truck.  His boy Elrod broke up with his girlfriend and spends all evening in his room playing Everly Brothers records: Teen angel, teen angel, woooooahhhhh.  And Delbert Earle’s wife has that wild look in her eyes that says, “Time to shop!”

Delbert Earle, even before hearing of my petition campaign, has taken matters in his own hands.  He has written to the President, urging him to work for a new treaty called the “I-F-B” which stands for International February Ban.  Make it worldwide and total.  Delbert Earle imagines that it’s just as cold and dreary in Russia in February, and Putin might just as well skip the month too.

I’m afraid to tell Delbert Earle about the rumor that the President will take February off and spend it in Hawaii, leaving weighty matters in the hands of Congress.  And that doesn’t bode well either, does it.  Somehow, February and Congress just seem to go hand in hand.

So, we may be out of luck this year, but if enough of us get fed up enough next month and our petition drive gains steam, a February ban might be a good prospect for 2017.  We’ll have a new President and new Presidents like to make a splash.  That would be a goodie.

Now, about your question of whether Mickey Spainhour makes it to March?  In a gesture of crass commercialism in the true spirit of February, I say, “Read the book.”

Delbert Earle's Halloween Obsession

Here, another Halloween has come and gone, and my friend Delbert Earle still doesn’t have a workable definition for a goblin.  The dictionary says a goblin is a “grotesque, elfin creature of folklore, thought to work mischief.  But Delbert Earle says that sounds a little too much like his mother-in-law.  He’s looking for something a bit more specific, and has been, in fact, since childhood.

When Delbert Earle was seven, he announced to his big sister Imogene that he wanted to be a wooly booger for Halloween.  Delbert Earle didn’t know any more about wooly boogers than he did about goblins, but he had it in his mind that anything like “wooly booger” must be a fearsome creature.  And at seven, he wanted more than anything in the world to be fearsome.  So Imogene made him a coat out of a burlap sack and a hat out of a gourd.  She covered the whole business with Spanish moss and then, for good measure, spray painted it purple and green.  From all accounts, Delbert Earle looked like something that might emerge at midnight from your local waste treatment plant.

Thusly attired as a fearsome wooly booger, Delbert Earle went trick-or-treating.  He would go up to a house and knock on the door and a lady would come to the door and invariably say, “Why here’s a cute little goblin.”

Delbert Earle would get hopping mad.  “Naw lady,” he would snort fearsomely, “I ain’t no goblin, I’m a wooly booger.”

“Well, do you want some candy?” the lady would ask.

“Naw, I don’t want nothing from nobody that don’t know a wooly booger from a goblin.”  And he would stomp off.  After about an hour of this, he gave up and went home, his trick-or-treat sack empty and his fearsomeness in disarray.  That was, in fact, the very last year Delbert Earle went trick-or-treating on Halloween.  After that, he just stayed home and made fearsome faces at himself in the mirror.

Ever since, Delbert Earle has been trying to pin down this business of goblins, and he’s having no luck.  Folks just don’t seem to know much about goblins, no matter how freely they use the word.  He conducted an informal poll at Cheap Ernie’s Pool Hall and Microbrewery, but none of the guys or gals had a clue.  Sure, they’ve heard the word, but ask for details and you get blank looks.  Now ghosts, they know.  Ghosts wear sheets, moan a lot, and disappear through the wall.  Some of the folks at Cheap Ernie’s could probably qualify as ghosts, but there’s not a goblin expert in the bunch.

Last Halloween, Delbert Earle hit upon the idea of bringing Old Shep the Wonder Dog into the business.  He found his long-ago wooly booger costume in a trunk in the attic, got his uncle Fitzwaller in Louisiana to send some fresh Spanish moss, decorated Old Shep, and put him on the front porch with a sign that said, “Goblin Dog.”  He figured he would at least get some opinions from the kids that came up trick-or-treating.  Problem was, Old Shep – normally the gentlest of dogs -- got it in his mind that he was fearsome, and remained so after Halloween was over.  Neighbors began to complain about Old Shep’s rude and obnoxious behavior, and the postman threatened to stop home delivery.  It took six weeks of watching soap operas to get Old Shep back to normal.

So Halloween comes and goes, and Delbert Earle remains on goblin quest.  Next year…well, he’s written to Uncle Fitzwaller for more Spanish moss, and he’s mentioned to his mother-in-law that he has an idea about her Halloween costume.  Given the experience with Old Shep, I shudder to think what could happen.

Delbert Earle and the Sound of Spring

Oh ye who are weary of Winter, take heart.  It’s Spring already!

Or, at least it is in Glendale, Arizona where the Los Angeles  Dodgers have started Spring Training.  Pitchers and catchers reported February 8, and the full roster encamped last week.  The Dodgers and the Arizona Diamondbacks (the only other team now in Spring Training) will open the major league season March 22 in Australia.  My friend Delbert Earle believes that one or both will try to sign a kangaroo as a base runner.

Spring is that time when the earth awakens and flowers, never more so than in the souls of baseball fans.  If you are a fan worthy of the name, Spring is the time when you believe that your favorite team’s best pitcher will win 25 games in the coming season, the cleanup batter will hit .400, and some guy who has been laboring in obscurity in the minors will be called up to the big team and hit 50 home runs.

Baseball, of course, is a sport that never quite goes away.  When they’re not actually playing baseball, they give out awards and trade players and sign insanely mega-buck contracts.  But it’s not really baseball season until the weather turns warm, as it has in Glendale.  When the crack of the bat is heard in Glendale, Winter is truly over.

I say crack of the bat in deference to my friend Delbert Earle, who is a Dodger fan worthy of the name.  Delbert Earle is of the old school that believes that real baseball is only played with bats that crack.  He has no truck with bats that clank.  As in aluminum.

Delbert Earle deeply regrets that in our schools and colleges, they play baseball with aluminum bats.  His boy Elrod plays high school baseball after a fashion, and like any good father, he goes to the games.  But he winces every time he hears a clank.  He is about aluminum bats as he is about cars with diesel engines.  Delbert Earle has a hard time listening to an engine that sounds like it has termites.  I have tried to tell him that modern diesel engines are quiet, but he says I’m just not listening hard enough for the termites.

Delbert Earle hopes they don’t have many diesel cars in Glendale, Arizona, where he plans to retire one of these days.  He wants a small bungalow in Glendale, preferably within walking distance of the Dodgers’ Spring Training site.  He hopes Elrod will come to visit every Spring to hear what real baseball sounds like.

Delbert Earle vows to be a purist in his old age.  He doesn’t even plan to drink soda pop from aluminum cans.  Beer?  Well, maybe.

In Search of the Elusive Goblin

Here it is almost Halloween, and my friend Delbert Earle is on his annual quest for the meaning of the word “goblin.”  It has become an important part of our Halloween vocabulary, something we toss around as if we really knew what it meant.  But Delbert Earle says if you try to pin down your average person on exactly what a goblin is, you’re likely to get a lot of hemming and hawing.

The dictionary says a goblin is a “grotesque, elfin creature of folklore, thought to work mischief or evil.”  But Delbert Earle says that sounds a little too much like his mother-in-law.  He’s looking for something a bit more specific, and has been, in fact, since childhood.

Delbert Earle says when he was seven, he announced to his big sister Imogene that he wanted to be a wooly booger for Halloween.  Delbert Earle didn’t know any more about wooly boogers than he did about goblins, but he had it in his mind that anything with a name like “wooly booger” must be a fearsome creature.  And at seven, Delbert Earle wanted more than anything in the world to be fearsome.  So Imogene used her imagination.  She made him a coat out of a burlap sack and a hat out of a gourd.  She covered the whole business with Spanish moss, and then for good measure, spray painted it purple and green.  From all accounts, Delbert Earle looked like something that might emerge at midnight from your local waste treatment plant.

Thusly attired as a fearsome wooly booger, Delbert Earle went trick-or-treating.  He would go up to a house and knock on the door and a lady would come to the door and either scream or laugh.  Then when she recovered, she’d invariably say, “Why here’s a cute little goblin.”

Delbert Earle would get hopping mad.  “Naw lady,” he would snort fearsomely, “I ain’t no goblin, I’m a wooly booger.”  And he would stalk off.  After about an hour of this, Delbert Earle gave up and went home, his trick-or-treat sack empty and his fearsomeness in disarray.  That was the last year he went trick-or-treating on Halloween.  After that, he just stayed home and made faces at himself in the mirror.

Ever since, Delbert Earle has been trying to pin down this business of goblins.  He conducted an informal poll at Cheap Ernie’s Pool Hall and Microbrewery, but none of the guys had a clue.  Sure, they’ve heard the word, but ask for details and you get blank looks.  Now ghosts, they know.  Ghosts wear sheets, moan a lot, and disappear through the wall.  Some of the guys at Cheap Ernie’s would probably qualify as ghosts.  But there’s not a goblin expert in the bunch.

Last Halloween, Delbert Earle hit upon the idea of bringing Old Shep the Wonder Dog into the business.  He found the old burlap sack and gourd from his long-ago wooly booger costume.  His uncle Fitzwaller from Louisiana sent a supply of Spanish moss.  Delbert Earle decked out Old Shep in the get-up, applied purple and green spray paint, and put Old Shep on the front porch with a sign that read, “Goblin Dog.”  He figured he would at least get some opinions from the kids who came by trick-or-treating.  The problem was, Old Shep got it into his mind that he was fearsome.  He’s normally the most gentle and loveable of animals, but wearing that get-up, his personality changed.  He growled and snarled and scared away all the trick-or-treaters.  It took six weeks of watching soap operas for Old Shep to return to normal.

So, Halloween comes and goes and Delbert Earle still doesn’t know what a goblin is.  But he’s undaunted in his quest.  He’s written to Uncle Fitzwaller in Louisiana for more Spanish moss, and he’s mentioned to his mother-in-law that he has an idea about her Halloween costume.  Given the experience with Old Shep, I hate to think what could happen.

Elrod's Summer Job

My friend Delbert Earle was telling me the other day about this great summer job he found for his boy Elrod.  Now, Elrod is a good kid, not inclined toward serious mischief.  But Delbert Earle is a firm believer in the notion that if you wear a kid out with work, he’s less likely to stray.

Delbert Earle read in the paper that the state had decided to let private contractors do some of the mowing on roadsides, instead of state crews, figuring it would save some money.  So Delbert Earle submitted a bid on Elrod’s behalf for a stretch of Highway 16 between Charlotte and Newton.  And the bid won.

Delbert Earle figured that a summer of mowing 50 miles of both sides of a road would be an all-season project.  One big, endless lawn.  So he dropped Elrod and his lawnmower off right outside Charlotte in early June and plans to pick him up in Newton about the middle of August.  Elrod is responsible for grass, equipment, food and lodging.  It’s a nice contract, so Elrod is easily able to take care of his expenses.  It is, by the way, a riding mower, so there's no problem with transportation.  Delbert Earle is available by phone in case of emergencies.

So far, the only call about the matter was from a state trooper.  Elrod had flagged him down when he figured out what was going on.  The trooper heard Elrod out, called Delbert Earle, and asked him if he thought there was still time for his own kid to get a contract.  Maybe Ashville to Hickory.   

 Robert Inman's fifth novel, The Governor's Lady, will be published in September by John F Blair Publishers.  See home page for details and tour schedule. 

Delbert Earle and the Author

“You don’t work,” says my friend Delbert Earle, “you’re a writer.”

My friend Delbert Earle has always had a jaundiced view of this thing I do to make a living.  His idea of work is anything in which you lift, tote, fetch, hammer, dig, explode, or stand around a hole in the ground watching somebody else do one of those things.

“But writing is hard work,” I protest.  “I sometimes sweat profusely when I’m writing.  I have occasionally broken down in tears.  Have you ever had to use a jackhammer on writer’s block?”

“Have you ever shed blood in the course of your work?” he asks.

“Paper cuts,” I answer defensively.  “Paper cuts can be painful.”

“Have you ever filed for workmen’s compensation?”

“No.”

"Well, then.”

So it was with some trepidation that I told my friend Delbert Earle about this new novel, which I’ve finished after years of sweat, tears, and paper cuts.  “I have even found someone to publish it,” I announced.  “In September.”

"What’s it called?” he asked.

“The Governor’s Lady.”

“What’s it about?”

“A feisty woman.”

“Like your wife?”

“Feisty,” I repeated.

“Does she get some of the profits?”

“All of them.”

“Okay,” says Delbert Earle, “what happens next?”

“I shall go forth and ask people to buy it and read it.  It’s where art meets commerce.”

“Shameless hucksterism,” he says.

“Yea, verily,” I say.  “Where two or more are gathered…”

Maybe I bear some responsibility for Delbert Earle’s notion of what it takes to write.  He once asked me, “How do you write a book, anyway?”

I replied, “You stare out the window until you think up something, and then you write it down.  Then you stare out the window some more until you think up something else, and then you write that down.  You keep doing that over and over until you’ve thought up everything you can think up, and then you write THE END and send it off to your publisher.”

Did I oversimplify here?

At any rate, Delbert Earle is my very good friend, and despite his misgivings about my profession, he is pleased by my good news.  He promised to buy a book in September, and says he might even find it interesting to read, since we are both married to feisty women.  And he has decided what he will give me as a congratulatory gift: a box of band-aids.

Robert Inman’s novels are available on on Amazon Kindle, Barnes & Noble Nook, and Kobo.