Where the mushroom grows is not a given, but he does put his pants on, one leg at a time before he leaves the house. Chains have links and Harry doesn't wear them on his cuffs or on his ankles; he eats them for breakfast lunch and dinner, even on Sunday mornings when Clara comes to call carrying knitting, accolades, and a toothy grin he pretends to find so unappealing but no longer says so in front of their ailing mother.

"Why can't you be here more? Your kids are in school all day. Just because I got laid off from the mill doesn't mean taking care of Mummy is my new occupation. Start stepping up to the plate Clara, before I break one over your head!"

Harry lurched his tide of uneasiness toward her, lusting to spook them both into normalcy between the walls of the narrow dying damp hallway they travelled since birth. She didn't flinch. She mirrored him. Veracious love stepped on lashes of sardonic eyes struggling to paint away the smile belonging to other faces. His idle threats were harmless, meaningless, an attempt at humor to nibble the mood down the death stair, before the mouse under the floorboards would also be seen snagged by a lethal trap.

Harry was his mother's son, the apple and the core hanging from branches refusing to acknowledge an impending fall. "She's driving me up a wall Clara. Up the wall around the bend and just about over the cliff." Harry bit his tongue on his P. T. Barnum hijink. "A free Sunday morning is not enough Clara. And by the way, wipe that shit-eating grin off your face. You're up. I'm outta here." Clara remained silent, stoic, suppressing her familial smirk. To each his own family rule. For them, the bigger the joke, the smaller the reality. Patting him gently on his right shoulder with a cupped hand, her slender fingers signaled him clocked out; it was time for a dog to shed. Puzzle pieces remained in their box when he left through the back door, and waited for his return.

Car keys in a pocket can be as idle as feet. Walking past his car, he chose the the later to occupy his fleeting floundering freedom, soil over asphalt, cardio over speed, one foot by two, venturing into the back forty where generations of his forefathers had previously planted, hunted and played. He'd finally taken to mushroom foraging. His father's passion had primarily gone unshared and under appreciated by Harry before his demise. He had even taken an online course, studying intermittently in between spoonfuls of food and pharmaceuticals, scrubbing bubbles, and the sound of a bell that he could hear in his sleep, even with the pillow over his cheeky curly brown head.

Not one hundred feet in, if it wasn't a little birdie, his dead father could have called from up above, "Look! Look behind the dead hemlock to your right; not that one; the other one!" And Harry obeyed without alarm, sticking his neck out to see, never assuming or considering anything supernatural in his midst.

"Well would ya lookie here. A doggone patch of reishi!" He knew the genus. Ganoderma tsugae. The cure for cancer. Or so they say.

His Daddy had searched this same path on his quest for a tincture cure when his beloved wife of 40 years was first diagnosed, praying upon spores in the atmosphere continually missing his plea only coming to rest at their own pace, for whom the bell tolls. For Harry's father, it had been an honor to do so in her hour of need. There was no tit for tat between them; never an empty cup, or an unwalked mile, just love and laughter.

Neither of them knew of an itch, but a love deeper than blood comes with consequence. A massive coronary put an end to his quest. The worry over her diagnosis and the stress of it all would become the last shovel of dirt upon his coffin.

It was Harry here now, not but a twinkle in their eye when his parents said "I do;" "to have and to hold, in sickness and in health," attempting to carry that load for his father and without thinking who he was speaking to, he spoke out loud without echo under the cloak of hemlock with another face.

"Do you think it's too late for her Pops? Should I pick them and cook them for her? Or sell them? I'm outta work ya know. I read on the blog I could fetch up to $35 a pound. This hear patchy's gotta be at least a few pounds. What am I babbling about? I don't care about the money! I'd do anything to save her Pops. Anything. I'm glad you are not here to see how frail, how weak, how sick she looks. She talks to you all the time. Thinks I'm you and I don't tell her I'm not when I kiss her goodnight. Clara and I, we've done right by her. You would be proud. Mostly me Pops. Mostly me. Yeah Pops. I stepped up to that plate you always chided me about. The plate. Me. Imagine. I'm up. Wish you could see me now Pops, and I you, Pops."

Harry bent down his life picking and picking the bright brownish red varnished creatures of death from the wood as if he was battling away a predator from swallowing him whole, without realizing he was too late to save her. Her last breath was taken with his best interest in mind, upstairs from where the comedy albums rested in their sleeves. Fragility collapsed into the cliff of a billowy cloud just minutes after he walked off from where he knew but didn't know she lay dying. They had already practiced a final good-bye with fiddly subterfuge. Death was not an egg needing to be flipped, it was a mother hawk protecting her nest, a structure well built for surviving a harsh winter and the decomposition of summer. It was she that had planted the conversational seed as she spread her wings, and the wind sprinkled mushroom spores into the atmosphere, salting love.

"$35 a pound is nothing to sneeze at son. Reap what you sow. There is a blanket for you in the closet. Cover yourself. Money does grow on dead hemlock trees."

They say silence is half of a language. You can learn more about a person through their silence than through the words they speak. People learned a lot about me the day that I stood by and watched as someone got harassed by our peers. The regret I feel for not standing up for this person weighs on me like the full weight of the Earth itself was placed on my back. There have been more instances where my silence has allowed victims to suffer at the hands of others, and I will never truly be able to forgive myself for my inaction.

One more time

Give it to me once more, just one more

Promised this was the last time, oh the last time

I’ll let the craving take over my body

Close my eyes and feel it all sink in

Lay me away from the desire

Does this make me a liar, oh I think it makes me a liar

Baby please listen, it’s time to apologize

Cause I’m stuck right here again

Trying to pull myself out, with more and more self doubt

Give it, give it to me one final time

I’ll say this is the last time

We both know it’s not the truth

I’ll lay down, just me and you

Another night dragging on, dragging dragging on

Another morning of growing weaker

So wake me when this addiction is gone

Call me when the this feeling isn’t sinking in

I’ll never get away from this same old sin.

Same old sin

Cold sweats on the floor

With another bag full of it, full of it

One last time, oh baby just one more time

Looking at myself in the mirror

Never saw myself any less dearer

Baby please listen, I’m here to apologize

Stuck right here for all of eternity

Trying to pull myself out, with more self doubt

Give it give it to me one final time

I’ll say this is the last time

We both know it’s not the truth

I’ll lay down, just me and you.

Just get me away from this life

Cause I’ve got no excuses for why

Why why I kept using

All my pieces broke down, left to die.

Sometimes it seems like the end is nearing

Sometimes all these thoughts haunt me

I’ll try to scream the words out loud

I’m an addict, finally ready to be set free

Set myself free free free

I don’t know why I keep using over and over

Hidden so no one else can see

Pretending there’s nothing wrong with me

Pretending there’s nothing wrong with me.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry

For falling back into the same old routine

I’m sorry sorry sorry

That I can’t stay clean

My dog, General Sherman, has been saving up his money to get a DNA test. He wants to see if he can up his value and desirability. If by some chance it turns out that he does indeed have some poodle mixed into his typically American mongrelization, it would be the doggy equivalent of having royal bloodlines. I mean, what dog doesn’t dream of being non-shedding, and hypo-allergenic?

With the chance that the test comes back positive, Sherman has been trying to come up with a name for his breed, ie “Labradoodle”, or “Golden-doodle“. He is fully aware that, being Southern and a bit hillbilly, it is likely that his options will be a bit different from the normal everyday doodle varieties. For instance, we know his Grampa Red was a Coonhound, and we cannot find a prefabricated name for a poodle-hound mix, so Sherman tried out “Coonoodle-Doodle” on me this morning. I must admit, it has a sexy ring to it.

There is also surely some Beagle blood. While “Poogle” is definitely out, Sherman thinks he could get away with telling people that his new breed is named after that most famous of Beagles, and be a “Snoopy-Doopy”.

The General holds hope that Cocker Spaniel is an option. I told him he would be a “Cockapoo,” which is decidedly bland, but he is determined that he will be the original, “Cocker-Doodle-Dude.” Sherman does have a flair for the dramatic. Or perhaps he will become a “Blue-Tick-a-Poo”, or even a “Pitbull-a-Poo-Poo”.

But whatever he might become, his hopes are high, so I hope the tests come back positive. General Sherman does not handle disappointment well. He was down for three weeks after his application form to Tulane’s Law School was rejected, even after I warned him that reading was a requirement. The poor pup was so hurt we missed the whole quail shooting season afterward.

I know that most of you won’t understand, but it is an extremely big deal for a hound to make it into the “Doodle Mafia.” If he gets in he will immediately become one of the dogs that the cashiers at the Home Depot flock around in admiration, rather than being the one left outside in the truck bed to howl his displeasure and shame.

As for me, I really don’t care about having a “Doodle-Dog,” but I know how important it is to him. He is a good dog, so I hope he makes it, I just hope he wants it for the right reasons, and not just because Dolly, that Malti-Poo down the street, won’t pay a mutt any mind.

Sitting on a hill covered in a fine morning dew, my neck cranes towards the sky.

Clouds overhead, they twist and turn. Some sprout faces while others merge into new creatures. A dog. Then, an elephant.

They are perpetually amorphous.

They make me ponder. Maybe we can learn from these clouds.

Sometimes I think too much.

Chewing on chalk. The sensation and the taste were the same. It was like chewing on fine powder. Bland and unappealing. Disgusting in its lack of any discernable taste. However, it was a fine filet mignon. It just wasn't right.

The fine pinkness of the meat and brilliant presentation hinted at craftsmanship to be lauded. He could feel the juices flowing within his gullet. As the succulent flow of umami dared enter his mouth, the instant the juice touched his tounge a shockwave splashed against his mind.

Disgusting.

It was bland. Beyond bland. There was nothing.

Grasping for the water, he touched the glass to his lips. As the water escaped the container and passed his lips, he swished and spat the mix back onto the plate.

"Absolutely disgusting."

The waiter stood at attention. In his years of serving at such a fine establishment, he had never seen such rudeness on display. "I'm sorry sir. I'll get you another." The waiter quickly shifted his face back to its blank state. There was no need to further infuriate such a terrible customer. Even if it was the Golden Tongue.

"No. Get me the caviar. I need some salt to get some flavor back into my mouth." Scoffing at the dish in front of him, he pulled the napkin up to his mouth. Dabbing it, he cleaned the filth from his lips.

It only reminded him of that hole-in-the-wall in Louisiana he visted last. Such high expectations. And such an absolute disappointment.

He could hear her now. "I curse you Golden Tongue! May you never find joy for the rest of your days!"

Her dish truly deserved that one star.

The waiter came along with the small dish of caviar. As he sat the dish down, the fine dinnerware made its presentation.

Top notch! A Mother of pearl caviar spoon! They were truly pulling out all of the stops.

They needed to eitherway with how poor that first dish was.

Gripping the spoon, it ducked beneath the awaiting pile. Coming up for air, the spoon pulled with it a fine helping of caviar.

Inspecting the utensil for any abnormalities, he pulled it into his waiting maw. Clasping his mouth around the fish eggs, he awaited the splash of salty goodness to sweep along his palate. Yet, nothing came.

Spitting out his second batch of food, he raised his voice.

"What the hell are you serving me?"

"Caviar sir." The calm reply sobered the awestruck room.

"Taste that rubbish. Nothing comes from it."

The waiter grasped for the spoon. Digging into the dish, he tasted.

"There is nothing wrong with the caviar sir."

"You have to be shitting me. Nothing comes from that pile of filth."

"Are you intentionally trying to ruin my restaurant?" A voice bellowed from across the room. Obviously it was some bigwig. He had always hated when they complained. He was the critic here.

"The food tastes as bland as a sheet of paper. So, I'd say it is you intentionally sabotaging my fine taste."

"Rubbish!"

"Yeah rubbish. Exactly how I would describe your food." He took a breath. "Now, get me a fine bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon!" He had to wash it down with something.

The waiter did not even hide his contempt. "Right away sir."

A minute passed. "Here you are... sir." That title came rather late.

Wafting the fine drink, he could smell the richness. This would be good. And he drank.

Nothing.

Only now did he realize.

He didn't have anything.

It was all gone. Like chewing and drinking chalk.

That Louisianian woman did something to him.

He couldn't taste anything.

But...

But...

He was the Golden Tongue.