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Show PAGE 15 THE ZEPHYROCTOBER 1994 Subject to Change My brother, of course, suspects nothing, as he happily dozes in Ms little house. And I perched on the roof with a perfect view, saw nothing, immersed as I was in my pointless mental meanderings. But before concern for my brother (who is a starving college student and will never be able to get his car fixed), I fed relief that it wasn't my car. To a much smaller degree, the same relief 1 felt when my brother finished Ms time in the Navy and I knew he could never be sent into a strange country to kill or be killed. And I think how easy it is to insulate ourselves from events when they don't immediately seem to directly affect us. And all the phrases come to mind that all the politicians have coined to keep us smug and secure and insulated. "In harm's way" is a particular favourite of mine. As if some faceless person has unknowingly wandered into the path of an oncoming train , and no one holds the responsibility for placing him there. As I descend finally from the roof and force myself to read the paper, I come upon more of those reassuringly vague terms. The boys who are being sent to Haiti are just a nameless group, lumped into the term "brave servioemen". These are people with sisters and girlfriends and dogs back here at home. And the Haitians, the people these boys will be expected to kill unhesitatingly if Jimmy Carter fails, also have moms and brothers and dreams. But what can I, one mom in Utah, do about it? It really is too overwhelming to think about. And anyway, that's why we elect presidents, so they can make those decisions. I'm happy to leave all that political stuff to the people who are paid to think about it I head back up the ladder. I've got a house to paint. DDBB By Cherie Gilmore DID YOU PAY FOR What comes to mind when you think of Autumn? Maybe those first hopeful days of school, crunching through leaves, the golden afternoons spent cheering your football team on to victory? Possibly. For me, however, it's home improvement Yes, that would have to be my most vivid autumn memory. I guess that has some connection to my summer memories, wMdi mostly involve finding ways to escape file heat and the home improvement projects. So, in keeping with the tradition, I have mice again waited till the last possible moment to paint the house. Strangely, that moment coincided with deadline day at the Zephyr. This didn't seem like a problem, since house painting is kind of a transcendental experience for me. While some people stare at candle flames and crosses, I meditate best while hanging over the roof trying to reach that one little comer which evidently every painter prior to myself has missed judging by the build-u- p of petrified insect matter contained therein. (This could be an added bonus. I'm thinking. In addition to receiving inspiration on what to write about, I could uncover at last the answer to what happened to the ancient people who inhabited my house). So with paint brush at the ready and twig in hand (for removing insect matter) I sink into my meditative state. But all I can think about is the Rolling Stones. They're actually coming to Utah to do the concert thing! People have made fortunes and retired to islands just off the proceeds of ticket sales. And here I hang, unable to remember what their first Mt was. secondary-markOr even what year it occurred. Somewhere in my head a song plays (Tm so hot for you and you're so coldCold, cold, cold like a tombstone"). It's the only one I can think of and by the time it was released on MTV, Mick was already on his second or third lip surgery. So I wonder why I see these kids waiting in line to buy Rolling Stones tickets. Is it like me and my Glenn Miller tapes? A yearning to go back to another time? I'm on file verge of figuring this out when I hear a crash and my dog begins barking. Ferris never barks, so I make my way to the ladder to check things out I'm almost down when my bucket mysteriously shifts weight and I find myself covered with Colonial Green paint In my haste to assure my spouse that I am unhurt, I forget the crash. I head for his side of the house but in his concern he has already rounded the comer, rushing to my side in alarm as he gently inquires, "That's eighteen dollars a gallon! What were you thinking?!" Well actually, I'm thinking, red is more my colour. I do my best to remove the paint but basically remain an eery green. In my mind another song has begun: "Swamp thing" (five beats of drumguitargood old rock 'n roll mixture), "You make my heart sing" (five more beats), "You make everything (groovy). Swamp Thing." Actually it was "Wild Thing" but I can't think of who sang it Back on the roof, but unable to slip back into meditation, I remember the crash. (Evidently the spouse heard nothing, intent as hie was an the household budget). I make my way to the front edge of the roof. It's kind of like walking on sandstone but with more of a shingfe-- y feel I peer over and everything seems normal. A calm, perfect Sunday afternoon. Dog sleeping in the shade, trees swaying in a gentle breeze, paint coagulating in my hair. And then I notice the car in front of our house. The car belongs to my brother, who lives in the house behind our house ad who frequently works late but has never been tired enough to park Ms car at such a car to strange angle. I climb back down, leaving the paint behind this time, and arrive at the scene. the fled confirm that the driver's side has indeed been plowed into and the plower has THIS NEWSPAPER? Please support Freedom of the Press and PAY FOR YOUR ZEPHYR. It's half the price of a cappuccino for crym' out loud. et Now featuring: POTTERY BY ANDRE A WINTERS JEWELRY TURQUOISE DINOSAUR BONE SOUVEMRS JEWELRY REPAKS 3H33? (jftSjKHD&Er DAVE, YOU'RE ALL OVER THIS ISSUE OF THE ZEPHYR. BUT TELL ME... ARE YOU REAL? OR ARE YOU JUST A CARTOON? i 'ft- im T - - im-1- !.. |