a dream - The Visitor

Hovering above me as I slept in my bed he scratched out, "You don't want to forget this." The somehow familiar hoarse whisper. He set a small box on my nightstand. I woke up slowly, without fear and with too slight an annoyance. In hindsight I wonder how this could be. A looming figure in our bedroom in the middle of the night, three children asleep just across the hall.

Lean and disheveled, his unkempt greying beard disguised leathery sunken cheeks under deep set dark eyes. Well worn khakis two sizes too big were heavily cinched at his waist. His soiled t-shirt fell over them smelling of stale cigarettes, sweat and beer. The faint blue moon illuminated the silence through sheer shades gently wafting. I glanced at my unstiring wife, and scanned his hands for weapons. A gaunt yet imposing visage belying a wiry strength, I knew he didn't need any. So I rolled out of bed gently sliding his clandestine delivery off the nightstand and holding it protectively to my gut.

We stood together in my grandfather's pristine garage with plastic flowery curtains hiding the clean work bench and well sharpened gardening tools. All around was the comforting warm sweet aroma of lubricating oil mixed with grass clippings. Our only illumination from the half light side door spilled askew across the space. His half lit disturbing presence juxtaposed against the light in stark angular vertically. He turned to face me.

"I don't want this," I said, holding the box out to him. I felt like a ghost outside of myself, like I should be fearing for my life, but I am beyond fear of pain or injury. No! Like I should be fearing for my soul, and a nauseating tingle rose up my spine.

"That's fine," he offered slowly through a pursed frown, shaking his head and casually swinging his sinewy arms in a wide gesture that he really couldn't care less. He took a step away from me, his gaze sweeping across the painted concrete floor.

"Then take it back," I thought to myself.

In the driveway now, his dark junker of a work truck, bent and rusting, overflowed with debris and filthy tools. The driver side door was open and an empty beer can fell out, bounced twice and then rolled with a hollow tinkle out toward the street. He stood there pacing in the glow of the orange sodium street lamp where the well trimmed lawn met the sidewalk.

I watched empty handed next to the house as he unzipped and took a leak on my grandfather's roses. "You're going to want it back," he intoned, hostile.

"I don't think so," I offered calmly confidently, controlling a wired alertness ready to react - to run or to fight. He stared right through me, throwing all of his energy into that piercing gaze, penetrating my soul. There he met an outside strength that bolstered me and allowed me to stand despite my fear. A strength that assured me the battle was uneven in my favor.

"Oh, You're going to regret that," he threatened as he undid his belt and let down those two sizes too big khakis and began to defecate on my driveway.

I turned and went inside.

Play House Follow up

Here are a few pictures of the different playhouses from the gala. The night of the gala was overcast and rainy. A shame, because there was low turn out. All told they raised around $20,000 for their non-profit.


The week of wear and tear from being on display at the children's museum did minor harm to most of the houses. The only thing we couldn't touch up: They had removed the bell cord, and try as we might we couldn't get it re-threaded inside.


Our steering wheel survived though!


I got a lot of compliments for SPOT. In the end our firehouse was the biggest dollar bringer at auction, though in my opinion, it wasn't best of show...

This beauty was dubbed an "artist's studio," and had a chalk board inside. The week at the museum left it completely covered with chalk tags and names. It looked fantastic. I thought it was a shame they hosed it down for the gala. If I were to buy one of these playhouses, this would be the one. It now has a home in the backyard of a posh 1920's mansion near Cheeseman Park in Denver.


"Chia House" photographs better than it looks in person. Construction wise I doubt it will make it through a winter.

Act now and your child could have the COOLEST lemonade stand on the block...


This "space station" was completely covered in zinc panels! We are speculating that the price it fetched at auction wouldn't even cover the cost of the siding.

All in all, working on the playhouse competition was a fun experience. I think we can do a much better job, much more efficiently next year.

Three Fires

This economy is getting the best of me

I wish I could say the sweet scented smears of sunscreen and the whistling slightly over-seared dogs being snatched from certain fiery death by my tongs just in time for dinner has been occupying my carefree mind this summer, keeping me content if not slightly too full and a wee bit sticky. But truth be told, I've been sinking. sinking... sinking...

Going under. Glancing up far too calmly at the swirling immense complexity of it all clicking and whirring away without me. "Isn't that interesting?" I think to myself. Down. down... down...

Here I sit, Monday through Thursday, earning what feels like too much pay for this... this... sitting.

Grateful to be employed, but with lack of good meaningful work to do a curious little battle for my self worth is being waged. As if I was a genteel spectator at a civil war battle, I watch the flying darts and arrows of occupational malaise pierce my own soul. Lethargic - almost disinterested. Their seeping poison making me sleepy.

One more lap around the empty office? Another cup of coffee? What am I doing here? Isn't there something more important I could be doing? Is this pay check worth it?

How did work get all tied up with money anyway? Work is good for the soul. But money without work has me caught like a greedy monkey with his clenched fist in a jar.

Hey! I would listen if You told me to let go. I thought you should know.