MORE COLUMNS BY MARIANE HOLBROOK

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THERE IS HOPE

I wish I’d been more sympathetic to my mother.

I wish I could flip back the dog-eared pages of time to Mother’s life when she was bent double with the torment of unending, unrelenting chronic pain. I would tell her I love her and I understand.

Because now I do.

I was diagnosed at Wake Forest University Medical Hospital with a rare disease known as Erythromelalgia, a condition for which there is no effective treatment nor any known cure. It manifests itself in severe burning of the feet which can only be relieved by plunging the feet in ice water many times a day. The illness is progressive and unless a cure is found or God chooses to perform a miracle, the burning will eventually envelope my limbs and the trunk of my body. at which time I’ll need to wear a body suit with tubing full of ice water, attached to a machine.

Oddly, I am not in despair.

There are three things necessary for sustaining meaningful life: something to hope for, something to do and someone to love. I make sure every day I have all three.

Hope is the expectation that some desire will be fulfilled. I have hope: hope in God, hope for eternal life and hope for more effective treatment for this disease.

I am not a saint nor do I know many. But I have found that hope gets me through the mind-numbing hours of pain, the restless nights when sleep stubbornly eludes me, the days which leave me exhausted and uncomprehending.

My friend, Dee, describes hope in her eloquent poem: “Hope is our tomorrow, and God’s strength for today.”

To cope with pain, I make sure I also have something to do. I fill my days with writing, with painting, with music, with worship, with anything that will give meaning and joy and vibrancy to my life.

Further, I always have someone to love: my heavenly Father, my kind husband, John; my son, Johnny and his wife, Susan; my younger son, Tim and his wife, Heather; my five darling grandchildren, Dena, Ella, Alex, Abby and Jackson, my extended family and many friends. They give me reason to live.

It’s true that no one knows our future but God. I like what one person wrote about the unknown tomorrows that face us all:

When we walk to the edge of all the light we have, and take that step into the darkness of the unknown, we must believe that one of two things will happen: there will be something solid for us to stand on or God will teach us how to fly."

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UNDER THE KNIFE

My mom always said I shoulda been a Shakespearean actress. Pathos and drama were always my tour de force, part of my carefully constructed arsenal for coping or getting my own way.

One morning I dragged my fourteen-year-old self to the bathroom to perform my ritual of underarm shaving and nearly bleeding to death. You’d swear I used a machete. I mopped my underarm dry with a clean towel and decide to blame the bloody terry cloth on my 7-year-old brother’s feeble attempt to shave the imagined fuzz off his cherubic face. Hey, it worked the last time I blamed him.

While I was shaving, I noticed a bump in my armpit. I squinted in the mirror, then hurried to find a magnifying glass.

“Oh wow,” I whispered, then peered again. “This is REALLY, REALLY, REALLY something I should worry about.”

I decided not to tell anyone. Not even my sister who dragged every secret out of me even before it had a chance to take root. She’d pin me to the floor regularly, demanding, “Do you know any secrets?” So, to escape her visor grip, I’d make up a few out of thin air and she’d be satisfied. For awhile.

Every day I washed my underarm area and shaved with precision around the bump, using my Dad’s finest razor. (He’d have killed me if he’d known where his razor had been.)

And every day I worried a little more.

One night after climbing into my blue jammies with yellow smiley faces plastered on them, my sister pinned me to the floor and hissed, “Tell me any secrets you know and do it now.”

I decided to tell her THE BIGGIE. I even SHOWED her the bump under my arm which by now was the size of a small protruding marble.

“OMIGOSH. YOU’RE GONNA DIE,” she screamed, spreading her fingers across her face and jumping back in horror.

My sister was always the one I turned to in times of big trouble (like when I locked my little brother in a dark closet and ran off to school leaving him still yelling and pounding on the door.) I seemed to give new depth and definition to the word “BRAT” at every opportunity. I thought it was my life’s Mission Statement.

My sister looked again at my lump and ran immediately to my mother, who pulled up my shirt to take a look for herself.

“Oh, it’s probably nothing. Don’t worry about it,” she said, then raced to the phone to call our family doctor who was also a surgeon.

Mother began secretly calling her friends to request prayer for her little girl with the lump under her arm. Soon it was all over church that I was scheduled for surgery to have the lump removed. The big “C” word was never mentioned in my presence, though it rolled off everyone’s tongues in private conversations. My teenage friends became overly solicitous and pared their pranks on me down to just a few a day.

The day of the surgery, my sister and my mother accompanied me to the doctor’s office and stayed with me. I had lost all pretense of bravery by then and was enjoying my martyrdom and the expressed concerns and well-wishes of my friends. I even managed to fight back some tears.

Dr. Paul stretched me out on a small operating table in his office and looked at my lump. Then he began to laugh. Loudly. In fact, nearly hysterically.

“My dear girl, you have the largest blackhead probably ever recorded in medical history.” With that he pinched it and a large mass of disgusting white stuff propelled through the air and smashed through his office window. Well, not quite. But you get my drift.

I was deflated. More than that, I was worried sick. What would I tell my friends and all those people at church who had prayed for me? That I had nurtured a blackhead for half a year until it grew as big as an NBA basketball?

When I arrived back home, the phone rang. I answered it weakly and told my friend the only honest thing I could think of and still save face.

“Well, my surgery is over. You’ll be glad to know it wasn’t malignant.”

Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

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VALENTINE'S DAY DILEMMA

We're a couple of worriers. John has worried for a week about what to get me for Valentine's Day and I've worried about what to do with (or to) Saddam Hussein.

I think we've found one common answer to resolve both thorny issues.

Admittedly, John's dilemma isn't as difficult as mine. I'd be happy with a Cartier emerald, a Breguet watch or a pale blue Maserati Coupe GT. Whatever. I'm just not that hard to please.

Since Valentines Day is celebrated in the United States, Canada, Mexico, the United Kingdom, France and Australia, it wouldn't even be hard for John to find an antique valentine among the over one billion valentines that are sent each year worldwide.

But John wanted something different. Chocolates are passe, roses die in two days, and a coffee mug with "Pucker up, Sweet Mama" seemed, well, gauche.

So, he ended up buying me real estate on the moon.

At first, I did a double-take. I knew he didn't like the Italian goulash I cooked last night, but hey, isn't this reaction a little drastic even for him?

Here's what "The Last Of The Big Time Spenders" is including in his awesome Valentine gift to me from Lunar Registry, Earth's Leading Lunar Real Estate Agency:

The registered deed and title to my acre of land on the moon. Printed on 100 percent cotton stock paper with a silver ink border. Wow. And guess what? It comes in a black heavyweight linen folder embossed in metallic foil with the full moon logo of the Lunar Republic. I mean, life doesn't get much more elegant than this. I wondered where all my aluminum foil has been going.

I get to see the exact location where my acre is located (latitude and longitude) on the regional map John selected for me: the Sea of Tranquility.

I also get an actual digital photograph of my acre. (I notice they use the word "actual" a lot, ostensibly so I won't be tempted to drive up there next Saturday just to verify whether my acre is actually where they say it is.) This document is printed on glossy photo stock and includes my name as property owner. I peered at my acre through my little trusty magnifying class and can you believe there's a little wooden property owner sign pounded into the moon dust with my very own name on it and a mini chain-link fence around my acreage? Wow.

I also get an information sheet detailing the geographic features on which my property is located including craters, mountains and valleys and lunar landings in the area. I admit to some disappointment here. Through my trusty magnifying glass I don't see a Food Lion, a Wal-Mart or even a Home Depot. There's something wrong with this picture. I don't wanna go up there and claim my property and have to drive back home just for a hammer or a can of tomato soup.

I'm beginning to wonder about this place. Can I really trust their slogan, "Nothing could be greater than to own your very own crater"? It's eerily similar to, "Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina…" See what I mean?

Maybe I shouldn't worry; I'm in good company. Two former presidents own lunar property (probably Warren Harding and Franklin Pierce, with my luck), as well as movie stars, television personalities, clerks, doctors. Before long, I'll have loony, I mean, lunar neighbors running outta my ears up there.

And this is where my big, generous heart kicks in. I'm gonna offer my one acre of moon property to Saddam Hussein. No strings attached. He doesn't even need to thank me. With great personal sacrifice I give it to him as his home away from home, his retreat, his personal oasis. He can drill for oil, build an ornate mosque or fill a crater with water and erect a sign, "Courtesy of Lambeth Swimming Pools." I don't care.

He just can't come back home.

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VIOLETS

Quietly, Mother picked up her purse and closed the front door behind her. Walking slowly down the street, she tried to pace herself for the long hike ahead. Our father was recovering from surgery in the local hospital and would be eagerly awaiting her visit.

With no car of her own and no public transportation, Mother walked this considerable distance every afternoon, forcing her own pain into the farthest recesses of her mind. Every step added new agony to her arthritic hips and shoulders, back and legs. Indeed, every part of her body screamed for relief but none was forthcoming.

Passing the halfway mark on her walk, she stopped briefly to admire a young girl playing alone on her lawn. They exchanged greetings and Mother continued toward the hospital.

Soon, pausing to chat with the child became a daily ritual that Mother began to anticipate. It was a treasured few moments in her otherwise long and painful errand every afternoon.

On the last day of Mother’s walk to the hospital, the blonde child was waiting. Her hands were behind her back, a bright smile highlighting her flawless face.

“I have a present for you,” she said shyly. “Take these to your daddy in the hospital.”

In her cupped hands were a freshly-picked bouquet of lavender and white violets, gathered from the wide expanse of her lawn.

Mother held the violets, bending her head while her tears fell in droplets on the delicate petals in her grasp.

Hugging the child, Mother whispered, “As long as I live, I will look on this as one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me.”

She continued her long walk, momentarily forgetting her pain and inhaling the sweet fragrance of spring in her hand. There was indeed a God and He had chosen a caring child to tenderly apply the balm of grace and healing to her tired, hurting heart.

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VOTE, VOTE, VOTE

In 3500 B.C. some peasants got together in a field and said, "Hey, maybe we oughta invent a wheel or something." Which they did. Their only disagreement was whether to make the wheel round or square. It was a monumental decision "Round" won. The whole process involved four people for about thirty minutes. More or less.

In 2002 A.D. the makers of M&M chocolate candies got together and said, "We need to select a new M&M color." It's a monumental decision. The whole process is currently involving millions of voters in 77 countries world-wide for two months.

Go figure.

I'm one of the lucky people selected to vote in this historic election. (So are you, if you're into trivia big time like moi.) In February I even preregistered, (that's how seriously I took this thing). Gave my name, address, age (something I don't usually do, but hey, this is a world-wide election of mind-numbing significance that might even affect my Social Security check. What there is of it.)

I couldn't wait for the online polls to open in early March. I drummed my fingers on the desk and willed the days and hours away. Finally, I received an Email from Head Honcho M&M saying, "Hurry to your 'puter, cast your vote, give your sorry life some validity today."

Which I did. But now I'm overcome with guilt. I was offered three color choices (purple, aqua and pink) and I've changed my mind three thousand times so far.

I didn't vote for blue in the last M&M election but blue won, anyway. Blue is not a food color, even though Ore Ida is coming out with blue French fries to make tykes early and long-time consumers of potatoes. (Not that kids need any encouraging; when was the last time you saw any French fries left on the kids' plates at McDonalds?) But I couldn't consider voting for blue. Blue is a Windex color, a seat cushion cover, a bedspread color, a laundry detergent color, your grandma's hair color. Blue isn't meant to be consumed. Not in this lifetime.

So for this election I considered voting for aqua. But it's too near blue. It's the color of swimming pools or your baby's little flannel blanket. Aqua isn't a viable food color, either.

I thought about purple which is favored to win. I always vote for the underdog which is why I said no to purple. There were other reasons, but we won't go there.

That left me with pink. It's feminine, it's sorta the color of shrimp or peaches. Yeah, pink would be a good choice. So I clicked the pink button on the online M&M voting machine and voted for pink. There. Finis. Good job.

Now I'm sick about it. All I can think of is Pepto-Bismol pink. I can't eat Pepto-Bismol-looking M&Ms. And because M&Ms are my favorite candy, I'll be staring my wrong decision in the face for years and years.

I went back to the online site and tried to rescind my vote. I sent an Email to Hizzoner, the president of M&Ms, asking permission to cast another vote. No reply. Zilch. I feel like a peon. I get no respect.

We take M&Ms seriously in our house. John prefers plain and I prefer peanuts. I love the crushed, the bulging, the misshapen, the broken. John thinks I'm a cross between Mother Teresa who during her lifetime picked up the wounded and weary, and Attila the Hun who exploited and scavenged among mankind's debris. Whatever.

When I purchased a package of M&M peanuts not long ago at a local mart, the smart alec kid behind the register handed me some change and chuckled, "Does your husband own stock in the M&M company? If not, he should, with all the packs you buy." I replied, "I think I hear your mama calling your name. Be sure to use your training wheels riding back home."

So, please go to your 'puter and log onto: http://gcv.mms.com/us/index.jsp. Vote your conscience, but vote. Wall Street and other world markets are watching through their distorted lenses. Our sound fiscal policy depends on it. Our ability to balance the federal budget depends on it.

God bless America.

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WAS NOAH’S ARK MADE OF FRUITCAKE?

Fruitcake is an anomaly. It’s neither fruit nor cake. It’s main ingredients are dark, rotted barn boards and tar. Science hasn’t yet identified those hard, little chunky things in a fruitcake; likely, they’re parts of a meteor that crashed and burned somewhere in an Idaho pasture in 8,000 B.C.

If you still have a gift fruitcake sitting on your breakfast bar, let me offer a suggestion. Don’t eat it and don’t toss it out with your other garbage. Treat it like what it is: hazardous waste material which needs to be disposed of with care so it doesn’t further pollute the environment.

Needless to say, I didn’t get a gift certificate this year from any major fruit cake companies. The only time I purchased one of their fruitcakes, I returned it for refund with this note attached: “If I promise to eat your fruitcake, will you promise to roto-root my tummy?” I didn’t receive either their written promise or a refund.

Fruitcake has been around since Roman times when the recipe included pomegranate seeds, pine nuts and raisins mixed into barley mash. Legend tells us Queen Victoria received a fruitcake for her birthday and vowed not to eat it for a year as a sign of restraint. I suspect she made that promise to the donor, but secretly had the cake pounded and packed into bullet casings to destroy Briton’s enemies. That’s how the Brits won the war. Don’t ask which war.

I was shocked when I read that Harry and David (my favorite fruit company) marketed a fruitcake confection this Christmas that got the top recommendation from Consumer Reports magazine resulting in sales of nearly 100,000 fruitcakes. But that hardly makes a dent in Claxton Fruitcakes which sells over 4 million pounds of fruitcake a year. I suspect they also hold the patent on Pepto-Bismol.

I guess I could look more favorably on fruitcake if it weren’t for the citron which comes from a thorny evergreen shrub in India, known for its large lemon- like fruits that have thick, warty rinds. Nobody on earth has a passion for thick, warty rinds which is why you find them in fruitcakes. Citron is used in fruitcakes to fill in the spaces between the small chunks of fossilized coal and sodden, decomposed grapes. In any other bakery product, those grapes would be called raisins, but they lose every recognizable property in fruitcakes.

I checked the web and was startled to see 9,580 sites about fruitcakes. Most were passionate pleas to give fruitcakes their just due. One web site was named “The Society for the Preservation and Promotion of Fruitcakes.” It was a desperation survival attempt by a group of bakers about to lose their collective shirts.

During Christmas, several million fruitcakes are unwrapped by groaning recipients who inwardly vow to get even with the donor. If you were one of the unlucky ones, here are some things you might do with your fruitcake: Use it for a door stop, a home plate, a hammer, a paper weight, for landfill, bricks for a bomb shelter, a foot rest, a manhole cover, an anvil, an anchor for your large Hatteras yacht, or liquefy it and power a Boeing 757 passenger plane.

About 7500 years ago, a massive flood occurred which was recorded in minute detail in Genesis 6. Noah and his family escaped the flood by building an ark and sequestering themselves in it for the duration. I know this isn’t exactly scriptural but I’ve wondered if that ark was made of fruitcake. I mean, the ark was thick, compressed, and durable (just like fruitcake). It was dark and moist (just like fruitcake). It was impenetrable and inedible (just like fruitcake). And here’s the kicker: The ark might still be around (just like thousand-year-old fruitcake).

On October 18, DigitalGlobe launched the world's highest-resolution commercial imaging satellite. This QuickBird satellite will take several shots of what many consider to be the remains of Noah's ark. This should finally resolve whether there’s anything man made on Mount Ararat.
Aha. Fruitcake, anyone?

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WHERE IS MARTHA STEWART WHEN I NEED HER?

In a sudden burst of consumer advocacy, I penned the following: Dear President of the Largest Cereal Company in the World:

Recently I purchased a box of your Cranberry Almond Cereal because I have this thing about almonds. I'm nuts about them (forgive the pun). So, for breakfast I poured a bowl of your cereal and guess what? No almonds. I just couldn't believe it.

Forget the fact that I had to mortgage my house to afford the high price of cereal. But I was willing to risk my home for the pleasure of having some almonds in my cereal.

So, hiding my disappointment, I poured all your cereal out on a cookie sheet, took my trusty magnifying glass and a pair of tweezers and came up with three tiny, flat squares which looked promising. Using the famous Morehead Planetarium 24-inch Cassegrain reflecting telescope at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill, I might be able to verify these objects as almonds. Or not.

Isn't there some "truth in advertising" law that insists if you print an ingredient on the front of the package, that ingredient should show up somewhere in the box? At least stuck in the seams of the waxed paper or something?

If Raisin Bran boasts of having two cups of raisins per box, couldn't you at least include a few almonds in my favorite cereal? I couldn't even find one single nut.

Wanting to be fair, I then purchased a second box of Cranberry Almond Cereal and poured it out on my cookie sheet. This time, I actually found two slivers of an almond. Big whoop! I haven't done any recent research on how many paper-thin slivers of almonds equal one whole nut but that's high on my "To Do" list. I'm guessing about 15. Tell me if I'm close.

Not only that, but I found some microscopic white crumbly thingies which might be identified as almond dust. I am scotch-taping the two transparent almond slices and the tiny white thingies to this letter for your careful consideration.

And how come the picture on the front of the box shows 6 slivers of almonds in the cereal bowl when only two slivers or none at all are included in each box of cereal?

In the words of my best friend, Martha Stewart, "Now, go and do the right thing.".

Dear Mariane:

Thank you for purchasing our cereal. We have used only the finest ingredients in our products since our company's first Paleolithic cave man pounded out whole wheat flour on a rock in the Swietokrzyskie Mountains of Poland 50,000 years ago. In other words, we're not the new kid on the block.

We strictly follow the law of fair advertising. Just because the word "Almond" appears on the front of the package in the same size type and font as "Cranberries" doesn't necessarily mean there are as many almonds as cranberries in the cereal. More specifically, please note that we used the word "Almond" (singular) rather than "Almonds" (plural). Therefore, we are only legally and ethically required to include one almond per box. The three slivered almonds and the white flecks in your cereal equal one whole almond. Product settling may account for some disintegration of the almond sliver. If jostling of the box during shipment causes cereal, dried fruit and nuts to turn into dust, is that our problem?

The picture on the front of the box does indeed show six almond slivers. However, this is an enlarged picture to show texture only and is not representative of the number of slivered almonds found in each container. Our original cover pictured 187 almond slices but we decided that was a slight exaggeration since only one almond is ever included in the cereal. See? We do have a merchandising conscience.

Additionally, not every item printed on the front of the box can be included inside. Otherwise, you'd be pouring a kitchen table, linen tablecloth, cereal bowl, spoon and a Bali-woven basket of cranberries onto your cookie sheet, also.

Because customer satisfaction is our highest priority, we are mailing you one free coupon for our Banana Nut Crunch Cereal. Please be advised that the two whole bananas still in their skins and the glass pitcher of milk shown on the front of the box will not be included in your cereal.

In the words of Martha Stewart, "You've got too much time on your hands."

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WHERE WERE MY FRIENDS?

I was in a hurry. A big hurry! My son had called from the mall where he was employed to request that I bring his lunch pronto. He only had a few minutes between customers to grab a sandwich and get back to work.

Dutiful mother that I was, I made his favorite pastrami on rye, pulled a navy sweater from the dryer to throw around my shoulders and drove hastily to the mall.

It was a lovely day. The kind that makes you sing whether you want to or not. After parking the car, I hurried into the mall which was busy with shoppers and office workers who were headed to their favorite restaurant for lunch.

Everyone was in a good mood. What a delightful crowd. Several men directly behind me were laughing uproariously, probably sharing some inside office joke. It was a great day to be alive. God was in His heaven and all was right with the world.

I hummed quietly to myself as I walked through the mall:

“Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh, what a beautiful day, I’ve got a wonderful feeling, everything’s going my way...”

After handing the bag lunch to my son, I headed back down the long mall corridors, stopping to look in the windows at shoes, at new spring outfits, and in the pet store window to wave to the puppies who scrambled over each other vying for my attention.

I still heard lots of laughter and wished someone were along to laugh with me. For some reason, people take a dim view of those who laugh aloud by themselves. My spirits were high as I finally headed back toward my car.

In the parking lot, an elderly lady approached me, took my arm and whispered, “My dear, I don’t want to embarrass you but did you know a pair of your white silk underwear is spread all across the back of your navy sweater?”

I died. Right there in the parking lot. My humiliation was so great that a giant hole appeared in the concrete and an unseen force pulled me through it, never to be heard from again. In my dreams!

This kind lady peeled my underwear from my sweater and handed them to me, whispering two words now forever carved into my memory with the excruciating pain of a rusty, jagged knife: “Static cling.”

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WHERE’S THE BIG YELLOW BOAT?

If there’s one thing Huggy Bear Thornton of Carolina Beach doesn’t have to worry about, it’s the Coast Guard asking him to enlist. They may even have his name on a Wanted Poster. Or wish they could.

Cap’n Huggy Bear has been in some tight spots with his fishing boat, fondly named “The Big Yellow Boat,” but he’s a good captain and his friends trust his knowledge of the sea. What his boat lacks in a creative name, it makes up for in dependability and a touch of notoriety.

Ask my husband John and his friend Harry G. They know all about Huggy Bear’s Big Yellow Boat. They were treated to a Perfect Storm experience about twenty miles out on the ocean last summer when twelve foot high waves, rain, thunder and lightning threatened to send Cap’n Huggy Bear and his companions to a very deep and very watery early grave.

Promising to offer his friends better protection or at least let their relatives know where to locate his boat should it ever sink, Huggy Bear purchased an EPIRB on Ebay. For the uninitiated (which is ninety-nine percent of the world), an EPIRB stands for Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon. When this small device is activated, it emits an emergency signal which is picked up by satellites and transmitted via land-based receivers to the Coast Guard.

All EPIRBS are a last resort safety measure for Mayday use only by boat captains who fear they are going down and want the little woman back home to know where to toss flowers after the memorial service.

At 4:00 pm on a recent Wednesday afternoon, the Coast Guard received the emergency signal indicating that a boat was in distress and likely to go down. Its EPIRB registration had not yet been filed with the Coast Guard, giving the owner’s name and other vital information, though the boat’s owner was working on the registration.

Revving up their helicopters and boats, the Coast Guard raced toward Carolina Beach for an urgent search and rescue mission. Up and down the coast the helicopters flew. Back and forth from the beach to several miles out on the ocean the Coast Guard boats carefully searched. They found nothing. But the EPIRB kept beeping its steady, unrelenting signal and the Coast Guard was ordered to continue its search.

For eighteen long hours this went on with zip results, the pilots and boat captains working feverishly, searching with spotlights all through the night.

At Steve’s Bait and Tackle Shop the next morning at 11 a.m., owner Steve watched a man emerge from his car carrying a hand-held directional finder, a device resembling a divining rod. Ignoring Steve, the man followed the signal which slowly led him to the parking lot behind Steve’s store.

“I found it.” the man said tersely into a cell phone.

What he found was The Big Yellow Boat on its trailer parked in its usual place behind Steve’s where it had rested for several days.

On board was a malfunctioning EPIRB, beeping a steady distress signal to the Coast Guard receiver.

Steve immediately phoned Huggy Bear who had been unaware of the search and was as innocent as the proverbial lamb. The night before, he had had a quiet dinner with his wife, stretched out for an evening of television, then moseyed on to bed. He didn’t hear about the search until it was over the next morning.

Huggy Bear hasn’t asked the Coast Guard how many thousands of dollars were spent on this futile eighteen-hour search. As big-hearted as Huggy Bear is, he just plain doesn’t wanna know.

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WHO WOULD STEAL CHOCOLATE?

I was first charged with grand theft when I was only eight years old. My sister and I snitched a giant Hershey bar from my father who had carefully hidden it inside a coat pocket in his closet, away from the sticky fingers of his seven mischievous kids. We 'fessed up and were given a reprimand.

After that, we stole regularly from our sister, Evelyn, who received heart-shaped boxes of chocolates and Hershey bars from her boyfriend. We figured she was a sharing, caring person and we wanted to give her many occasions to share and care.

So, chocolate played a larger-than-life role in my unregenerate childhood. Even though I no longer steal from my parents or siblings, there are days when I'd kill to have a cold Yoo Hoo, a Godiva truffle, or a Russell Stover Almond Cluster.

Actually, I have a chronic medical need for chocolate. My doctor should scribble me a prescription for chocolate since recent research suggests it releases serotonin in the brain that serves to heighten our sense of well-being. And I think Blue Cross should pay for it since I need to keep close tabs on my heightened sense of well-being.

Every time something good to eat comes down the pike, there's a group of nay-sayers who want to spoil our fun. In an effort to make traditional brownies more nutritious, one misguided baker added steamed okra to the brownie mix. Oh sure. I'll eat that right after I eat Tofu Turtles.

We're advised not to eat oysters in any month without an "R" in it, so forget May, June, July and August. But there's an easy test when it's safe to eat chocolate: Any month that contains the letters A, E or U is the month to eat it. You don't believe me? Try it.

You never see a skinny person eating chocolate. They might smoke or tank up on whiskey but they won't eat chocolate because it's bad for their health. And they spread rumors which have no basis in fact. To wit:

Chocolate is high in caffeine. WRONG. A 1 OUNCE MILK CHOCOLATE BAR CONTAINS 6 mgs. of caffeine. A 5 ounce cup of instant coffee has between 40 and 106 mgs . of caffeine. See what I mean?

Chocolate causes acne. WRONG. Dermatologists in clinical studies have proved that eating chocolate has no bearing on acne. Teenage zits are likely caused by raging hormones. Or something.

Chocolate is high in cholesterol. WRONG. 1.65 oz. of chocolate has only 12 mgs. of cholesterol. A 1 oz. piece of cheddar cheese contains 30 mgs. of cholesterol. The American Heart Association recommends that daily cholesterol intake not exceed 300 mg. Why not pick on meat, dairy products and fried foods? We can do without them but chocolate is one of our basic food groups.

There is a minus side, though. Chocolate failed two crucial tests: Over the years, there were only five Jell-O flavors that didn't make the cut: celery, coffee, cola, apple and CHOCOLATE. Imagine that.

Another chocolate failure surfaced when Ben and Jerry's Inc. sent the waste from making ice cream to local pig farmers to use as feed. Pigs loved the stuff. Except for one flavor: Oreo chocolate. They wouldn't touch it.

Still, chocolate remains the universal food for lovers. Valentine's Day offers more opportunities to say "I Love You" than any other holiday.. Last year, chocolate sales reached $1.09 billion with 36 million heart-shaped boxes of chocolate sold for Valentine's Day. That could have been 36,000,001 if a certain unnamed husband had remembered on that special day. But I did get a little plastic box full of heart-shaped pink and yellow candies that said, "Be nice" and "U R Loved."

It could have been worse. I could have received chocolate Jell-O.

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YARD SAILING

If yard sales were held at docks up and down the inland waterway, these three amigos would set sail at 2:00 a.m. and put down anchor at every single one of them. For if there’s anything these guys like better than boats, it’s yard sales.

Around 6:00 every Saturday morning, Harry G., John and Huggy Bear meet at McDonald’s for their usual industrial strength coffee, chat and gossip with the rest of “the guys” and begin plotting their Saturday morning foray. With a newspaper spread over an already cluttered table, they underline, highlight and color code in a manner that would put the average housewife to shame.

Finally, they pile their husky frames into John’s Izusu and head out with their pockets full of loose change, and resolve in their scheming hearts.

Using their folded newspaper as a road map, they stop at a well-appointed house, park in front and head for the fold-up tables staggering under the load of assorted cast off household items and used clothing piled on them.

John sees it first, which puts Harry G immediately in a bad mood: a bright red jacket with an emblem stitched near the collar and a $1.00 sticker affixed to the front. John asks the bewildered lady how much she wants for this fifty cents item and if she’ll gift wrap it.

Harry G has never met a teddy bear he didn’t like. He buys every bear he sees, some with dried baby drool still on them. So far, he’s accumulated sixty. Although he hasn’t admitted it, Harry G’s dream is to discover among cluttered yard sale items an original 1950s $2300 Steiff teddy bear which he can purchase for about a dollar from an unsuspecting young mother who doesn’t know beans about Steiffs.

John finally picks up a winter jacket marked $1.50, inspects it and remarks, “This is a terrific buy. I don’t need it but if I don’t buy it , I’ll lose money.” He asks the lady to set up a time-payment plan. The guys fail to find the one item they’re still looking for: a 400 pound iron wrecking ball and hook to demolish cars and trucks.

Heading up the road, they spot a house, set far back from the street with a “Yard Sale” sign nailed to a fence post. With no place to park, John drives across the side lawn, only to hear Huggy Bear’s rebuke, “John, get off the lawn, for Pete’s sake.” John replies nonchalantly, “Don’t worry; I got four-wheel drive.”

They rummage through shirts, tools, assorted cans of paint, leaving the tables in more disarray than when they arrived. Giving each other the “This one is a waste of time” signal, they pile back into the Isuzu and drive down the block to the next advertised sale.

This time they hit pay dirt: Huggy Bear buys a pair of shoes he’ll never wear, Harry G. adds another teddy to his collection, and John pays fifty cents for a shirt that’s too small but will fit once he loses forty pounds.

Collectively they have purchased a weed-eater that doesn’t work, some jewelry they hope to pass off as antique and therefore precious, a half roll of sandpaper, two candle holders made from sea glass, a vinyl suitcase with a broken zipper, a bronzed baby shoe, a box of greeting cards with no envelopes, and a toilet plunger with wedding bells, ribbons and a card attached reading, “We’ve taken the plunge.”

Wow. All this and heaven, too.

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YOU'VE GOT MAIL !!

To me, the three most beautiful words in the English language are AOL's "You've Got Mail." Every morning I sprint from my bed to my computer to see what goodies await me. Most of the time I can't believe my good fortune. I mean, it's unreal.

Take today, for example. I was sent a link to view thousands of photos of young Russian women seeking Western husbands. I'm not in the market for one, of course, but think of all the American men who'll eagerly wire $1200 to a Post Office Box in Podunkville, Russia to bring one of these Babushka beauties to America to fry Russian Salo, those thoroughly frightening slabs of pure fat which grace every Russian table. I'm definitely not showing this Email to John. The temptation for him would be too great.

I also received another urgent Email from that woo-woo Nigerian government official, Seku Mani Seku, offering me 30 percent of his $50 million inheritance if I help him get his loot outta Dodge and pronto. He verified that my banking practices and checking account are "honest, trustworthy and credible." (Is he talking about MY checking account with its $7.14 balance every month?) All he needs to put this transaction in motion is my checking account number, password, and bank routing number. No problem! I think I'll toss in my social security number, Email pass word, savings account number, VISA card number, and my husband's belt size for good measure.

While waiting for my millions to arrive next week, I'll begin placing my order for a bright red Lamborghini Espada GD convertible to the tune of a kazillion dollars. Does life get any better than this?

I also received an Email today from someone purporting to be a Honda representative promising they'll deliver a brand new Civic to my driveway if I'll just forward a copy of their Email to 15 of my friends. Can you believe my good fortune? A Lamborghini and a Honda Civic all in one day and I didn't have to even lift my sorry self off the sofa. Let's see, if I get one Honda for a list of 15 friends, how about if I forward that Email to 180 friends? Will I get 12 new Honda Civics parked in my now-cramped driveway? I mean, this blows my mind. Only in America.

Then, get this: all I have to do is forward some vague Emails and receive $1,000 from Microsoft, free tennis shoes from Nike, $6,000 from Disney, free clothing from GAP, free computers from IBM, free cases of M&Ms from Mars, free CDs from Columbia, cash from AOL Time Warner, free cell phones from AT&T, free drinks from Coca Cola, and even free gift certificates from Victoria's Secret. The fact that these companies know absolutely nothing about these offers present only a minor problem. Right?

So, I'm quitting my day job. This is just too incredible not to take advantage of all this free stuff.

Now I admit I was once gullible. I actually believed the internet hoax that artificial sweetener Aspartame is responsible for an "epidemic of multiple sclerosis and systemic lupus." And I forwarded Emails that bluntly declared, "Microwaving food in plastic containers releases dangerous chemicals into the food." I even told my grandkids that reliable studies confirmed that Bubble Yum chewing gum contain SPIDER EGGS. (how could I have fallen for that one?), that chocolate milk is made from "regular" milk rejected for containing too much cow's blood (I musta been "out-to-lunch" when I believed and forwarded that info), and that McDonald's is the world's largest purchaser of cows' eyeballs.

OK, OK, I admit I get carried away. Maybe I shouldn't have believed all those urban legends and admittedly ridiculous absurdities.

But I don't see how I can go wrong with this current Nigerian cash offer which will net me about FIFTEEN MILLION SMACKEROOS. I mean, what have I got to lose?

I know. Don't answer.

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