A CAVE STORY

Trips never go as planned, and my Arkansas adventure started out with a big twist last Thursday when great neph Luke got sick before we ever got out of town. I took him back home, stat, but would this stop The Flaming Bore? Oh, no. I've travelled alone before and I can travel alone again. Onward. There are three caves awaiting me.

But the first one just about did me in--located in a godforsaken hideaway that I have since dubbed The Bates Motel of Cave Operations. A few cars were in the parking lot, but no one was around except the owner, a middle-aged oddball whose mother, "god rest her soul" (his words, not mine) lurked behind him at the check-in desk via a large, colored chalk drawing. His voice sounded similar to Riff-Raff's in Rocky Horror Picture Show, and one eye was askew...but I am not one to pass judgment (much) on strange appearances that one cannot help, so sign me up for the tour.

I'll skip over the circumstances, but this ended up being a cave tour personally guided by "Norman," mono y mono since no other tourists/fools arrived. But first, he must get his hammer and a board. "I need to replace an area where a 300-pound woman busted an area over a bridge yesterday," so says he. Immediately, I was suspicious. He could bust my head with that hammer, dump my Saturn in the river, and no one would know that The Flaming Bore had met a dire ending. Onward!

We hadn't been but maybe 5-10-minutes into the tour when: Ka-thump!! What the #$@! I saw stars! Was that the hammer? No. I'd been so diligent watching my steps that I'd failed to see the low overhang of rock in the passageway. "Watch your head," Norman, steps ahead of me, said a moment too late. Thanks for the warning. I checked for blood, and feeling none....Oh, to hell with it. Onward!

Eventually, we came to a metal ladder. "You climb on up. I'll meet you over at the other side," said Norman.

I had no clue what I was climbing up to because I couldn't see my destination, even from the top of the ladder. The going was rather steep and slippery, but it was better than being next to my creepy, "guide," so I was game. Hands and knees. Keep the head low. Onward!

Eventually I met up with Norman, who was on lower ground, hammering the new board into place. Steps led me down to where he was working. Across the bridge we walked to the final destination, a larger room where he told stories of finding human bones, all the while a shadow appearing to be a man hanging from the ceiling. Please, God, just get me the hell out of here alive. Where's the hammer?

I'd had enough of Norman and my imagination, so I feigned a headache from the earlier collision with the rock overhang, told him I was ready to go, and he led me back to the entrance. He hadn't locked it, so I was safe in that respect....but before we made it made it back to the office, the weirdest of the weird, out of the blue, shot out of his mouth.

"You know the Oklahoma bombing and the World Trade Center collapse was all a government conspiracy."

"Oh, really." Where in the world did that come from? Norman, now no longer walking, gave me his theory about how the conspirators had set off various explosions in the buildings. The jet planes that blasted into the World Trade Center were just decoys to cover up the plot.

Okay. Whatever. I didn't argue with him, even though the intelligent part of me was thinking, "You are full of some crazy shit, mister." Just put away your hammer and let me move along, thank-you very much for the lovely tour. Is this episode of The Twilight Zone over yet?

Now, you'd think this hairball experience would have totally wiped away any desire to continue on the next day's caving plans on down the road, but I immediately knew I'd be safe when I pulled into the parking lot and saw who would be accompanying me on this next tour--four Harley riders from Illinois. My kind of riff-raff, for sure! Onward!! It was a fun tour, and I didn't hit the lump on my head once.

I AM CAVE WOMAN

The Flaming Bore is heading out later today for a little adventure with great neph Luke. We have three caves in Arkansas on the agenda, plus a cool pool to soak in at the end of the day. Luke is too young for the wild cave tours, and I suspect by the time he is old enough for one (in three years), my own body will be too old to want to subject itself to another one. But they are fun in a sadistic sort of way, and I recommend them to anyone who is young, up to the challenge, and not claustrophobic. Back in a few.....

THE GOOD HOUSEKEEPING SEAL OF DISAPPROVAL

You can always count on a little kid to be blatantly honest when it comes to humiliation. The other night the neighborhood 4-year-old was over at Casa de la Flaming Bore with his sweet sis, and out of his mouth blurted, "You need to clean your house!!" He surveyed the living room with his critical, big brown eyes.

"Yes, I do," I admitted in shame. "There's cat fuzz everywhere." I wasn't going to argue with him.

"You need to clean up after those cats," he said, sounding like an admonishing father.

"I try, but I just can't keep up with Fluffy shedding so much." Excuses, excuses.

"Where's your broom?" Good grief! Does he have to get so personal?

"Out on the back porch. Do you want to sweep for me?"

Suddenly, he lost interest in de-fuzzing the place.

The next evening, he saw me out in the yard. "Hey, Nancy!! Whatcha doing?"

"Well, Double-Trouble, you'll be glad to know I got my living room swept up."

"Let's go see!" Geez. This kid won't give me a break.

"Oh, not right now. Fluffy has probably shed some more fuzz since I swept, and you'll point it out to me again and make me feel totally inadequate."

Thank god he didn't protest because he suddenly became more interested in a dead locust on the ground than in picking apart my housekeeping standards, or lack thereof.

"Ooooohhh!! It has ants all over it!!" he rolled in excitement. This from a kid who was repelled by cat fuzz the night before.

I'll never understand what makes guys tick. I don't even want to try. Whatever it is, it starts at an early age.

I'D LIKE SOME WATER, PLEASE

It's been a long while since there's been a drop of rain in our fair, dry town, so late yesterday afternoon, when clouds began forming to the north, I got excited--even though most summer storms approach us from the south. There was even an inkling of distant thunder, which pushed me into manic mode. This called for action.

"I'd better roll up the car windows," I told Big Bore, who was sitting out on his favorite front porch rocker conducting his own weather watch.

"No! Don't! You'll jinx us!!"

But I rolled up the one car window that was down and then tried so persuade the sky to open up.

"Please, God!" I shouted from the driveway. "Give us some rain!!" Then I went into Indian rain dance mode, making wild noises while patting my right hand to my mouth.

"Good lord!" Big Bore said. "You're going to scare the rain away! Or the neighbors are going to see you and call the authorities."

Next, I decided to go for a walk--with the idea that maybe I'd get a mile away or so from home and get caught in a storm. Soaked, but happy. That's happened to me before, but this time no such luck--other than a few microscopic droplets I felt on my arms. Or was that just a flock of birds overhead?

When I returned, a friend 30 miles to the north had emailed: "We just got a half-inch of rain awhile ago!!!"

Rats! Like I wanted to hear some water hoarder gloating over her rainfall accumulation. What show-off. Alas, before nightfall the clouds over our town had run away--no rain--but at least the temporary reprieve lowered the temperature to 88 degrees.

The good news is: later, around 11 PM, rumblings from the south arrived and we eventually got some bona fide rain--according to our gauge this morning, a whole two-tenths of an inch. Not much but that's more than we've had all month, so I'll take credit for my efforts earlier in the day regardless of how goofy I looked going through the motions. I had my clothes on, so I don't know why BB was complaining.

To God and the Indians: thank-you very much for listening.

THE UDDER TRUTH

There is a Supremely Satisfying Bathroom Reader next to the porcelain throne at Casa de la Flaming Bore, and I typically flip through the pages when I know my tour of duty is going to last longer than 10 seconds. This morning, I stopped on a page titled "Booby Prizes," all about the oddest bras on Earth. Fruit-scented bras, high-tech bras that measure heart rate, bullet-proof bras, and the like.

My favorite listed was the cow bra and, since the manufacturer was named, I went straight to the Internet for more information. That's what all inquiring minds do, you know. The cow bra is a triple-treat: used to protect udders that are extra full and tender, to prevent leakage, and to keep that full-figured gal cow from titty-tripping. I hate when that happens!!

But wait!! There's more!!! It also has warming capability! At just under $70.00, they come in four sizes and one color--barnyard brown. And based on the catalogue picture, I'd say these form-fitting cow bras are what every lactating, stylish heifer wants on her wardrobe accessory list, whether she's just hanging out in a pasture or working the runway on Fashion Week.

Once again, some genius has beaten me to the patent office with a moo-ving idea.

HOP TO IT

Last night I was out on the front porch checking our five flower planters to see if a second watering was needed. Impatiens aren't too keen about hellish days, even if they are in the shade. As I was feeling the soil in one of the planters, something suddenly moved among the flowers.

"What was that?" I said aloud.

Further inspection was needed. Or was I just imagining it? I got eyeball level to the planter and there it was...a little tree frog! I love them! Quick! Where's my camera? Isn't it cute? Well, not exactly cute--but interesting. I stunned it with camera flash and got some keen pictures. This morning, the visitor is no longer in the planter, but I'm hoping it makes a return engagement tonight. I'm all for free insect repellent.

A TALE OF THE TAPE...OR HANDLE WITH CARE

Prior to the recent sale of Mama Bore's house, she directed family members and helpers to take what they wanted and put the rest in storage. Surprisingly, there were no disputes over who got what. In fact, no one was all that eager to take anything. I ended up with a step ladder, a paper shredder, a small bookcase, and a few old dishes. Big Bore took some items that no one else claimed from the garage and utility room.

"Look what I got," he showed me after our final work session. It was a 6-foot metal tape measure...old but in good shape. You would have thought he'd found a buried treasure. "Be careful when you use it. If you bend it, it won't retract all the way back," he said.

"I know," I said, rather indignantly. I wasn't born yesterday. But then I got to thinking there was good reason for him to warn me about handling the tape measure with care. I have about as much manual dexterity as a cow and am famously known around our house for my tool accidents--the last one being a few months ago when I tried to saw off a finger.

The next time I talked with Mom, I told her how overjoyed Big Bore was with his tape measure find.

"Oh, that belonged to my daddy," she said fondly. She was a 16-year-old Daddy's girl when he was killed in a refinery accident in 1941. "He never let Meredith (her only sibling) or me touch it. He was afraid we'd bend it. You have to be careful when you use it or it won't retract all the way back in."

Gee, where had I heard this warning before? "Well, it must be a man thing," I told her. "That's exactly what Jeff said."

I don't know who's the source, but there's a good quote for this little story: "The true measure of a man is in how he treats his tools." William Evans, the grandfather I never knew, would be pleased to know his beloved tape measure is in safe hands.