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Life hasn’t been the same since Gwen the Beautiful and I returned from our trip to China.

For one thing, everything that can go wrong has gone from the moment we arrived back on the Mountain.

First came the Attack of the Major Storms. More rain (and thunder and lightning) than even the oldest of Paradise old-timers had ever seen in their lives.

Cloud Creek flooded and took out the road at the bottom of the hill behind our ranch.

The pond at the front of the property flooded also. The water was so high it completely destroyed the road leading from our place to our nearest neighbors, Buck the Ex-Navy Seal and Delly the Interstate Trucker.

An electrical surge fried my computer. (Which, of course, I didn’t know till our power came back on … which didn’t exactly occur in record time.)

When that was over, I went into town to stock up on supplies, and a couple of inebriated fishermen backed into our truck. On the way home, the truck cracked a wheel bearing. And I got a traffic ticket!

Then came the Attack of the Neighbors:

“What’s this you’re writing about how wonderful China is?” Uncle Earl called me to demand. “You some kind of a Communist or something!?”

Jimmy Blue was on that same wavelength when I saw him at the gas station. “If you like it so much over there,” he said, “maybe you shoulda stayed!”

If this wasn’t enough, we’ve also had to deal with, of all things, Animal Hissy Fits:

“Nobody gave us any bread while you were away,” cackled McNugget the Banty Rooster and his fine hens.

“Don’t you touch me!” hissed Bob the Very Careful Cat. “You left just when I was starting to relax around you. Don’t even look my way!”

And the dogs!

Emmy the Bold was hyper. So busy running around that she refused to acknowledge our return.

Decker the Giant-Hearted had gotten so fat that all he could do was lie on his back and refuse to even face our way.

Belle the Wary was … wary. Ears flattened. Tail down. “What’re you up to?” she said. “Whatever it is, don’t do it around me.”

Only Dixie the New Puppy was welcoming.

If you consider having a 35-pound, 4-month-old Labrador chomping on your fingers as though they were pine cones a sign that could mean, “Welcome Home.”

And the horses —

They were a tragedy waiting to unfold.

At first, all was well. The moment they saw us, Huck the Spotless Appaloosa and Rosie the Sweet Arabian kicked up their heels joyfully.

“You’re home!” they whinnied and raced from one end of the corral to the other. All was right with their world — until Emmy and Decker decided to join in the action.

She was caught up in the excitement, but the horses didn’t understand her game.

They panicked.

Ran harder.

Twenty minutes later, order was restored. Emmy and Decker were in the main house with Belle and Dixie. Huck was standing calmly, nuzzling me.

And Rosie stood in the new run-through barn Brannigan the Contractor had finished while we were gone. Bleeding from a gash in the foreleg she’d caught on the ragged edge of a stump.

Gwen held Rosie’s halter, and I wrapped a clean T-shirt tightly around the wound to stop the bleeding and taped it in place. Then I called J.L. the Horse Vet. And then …

Let’s put it this way. As I write this, three weeks after the accident, Rosie’s cut still is badly infected. J.L., Gwen, Maya the Good (our friend and hired hand) and I have spent much of our waking time administering antibiotics and pain relievers to a horse who, like all horses, doesn’t understand that her life is on the line. She shies away. Refuses to take the meds. And once we trick them into her, she does her best to spit them out.

Over the years I’ve been writing, some people have been kind enough to call me a philosopher. Right now, however, I don’t feel philosophical at all.

I feel anxious.

And responsible.

Last week Maya and I refenced the corral so that nothing that doesn’t have hands to open the gate can get inside. Since then, all I’ve been able to think is, “Why didn’t I do this sooner? Why did I wait?”

Rosie’s already told me she forgives me.

But I may never forgive myself.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published May 15, 2008

The Good Ol’ Boy Network is alive and well.

Not only in Paradise, but also in China.

On Gwen the Beautiful and my recent trip there, I took part in more business meetings than I have in the last half-dozen years. They were part of my job as a consultant to my old friend, Frank Lee, who was trying to put together a deal to make a documentary film.

I met with Hong Kong and Beijing businessmen. Potential investors in the film. And the Chinese way of doing business was a thing of beauty.

And familiarity.

Old pals getting together, each ol’ boy helping the other so that when he needed it he’d get helped in return.

We’re talking sit-downs with wealthy, powerful men. Fine food. Fine wine. And, in one case, foot massages and even earwax cleaning at a mainland China spa.

The meetings all began with inquiries into the health of the participants and their families, followed by lots of reminiscing about “back in the day” and the shaking of heads about how time slips by. Then Frank would get to work.

“I have a project,” he would say to the potential investor. “I’m putting in $100K U.S. dollars, and I’m looking for nine partners.”

“How many partners do you have so far?” the potential investor would ask.

“Right now it is only me.”

“I’m happy to join you,” the potential investor would say. “And if you find yourself not fully subscribed at the time you need to be, please come back, and I’ll take whatever shares remain.”

I’m not kidding. We talked to half a dozen people, and every one of them had the same response.

Without knowing what the project was. (Frank’s project was a documentary film about The Quintessenso Children’s Choir, composed of 30-plus Mongolian children, singing and dancing their way through traditional Mongolian folk songs.)

When Frank told them the details, they became even more into it, with ideas about directions Frank could go in. Directions they could go in with him.

They signed on without blinking. Because they knew that within months they’d be looking for partners in a deal of their own and would be having this same meeting — but with themselves in the visitors’ chair making the proposal.

As I watched all this I thought of the conversations I’d seen in Paradise between Uncle Earl and Jimmy Blue and just about anyone else. The camaraderie and good humor. And the agreements that were made, the business that got done because of the history and trust that surrounds those two good ol’ boys and their friends.

I remembered when I was a kid and my father told me that the secret of business success lay in understanding the concept of what he called “due bills” (or were they “do bills?”), which boiled down to men who worked with and trusted each other engaging in the fine art of trading favors.

Sitting there in Hong Kong, Beijing and a brand new city called Shenzhee, I had the feeling that I was watching capitalism at its finest.

In the world’s most successful communist country.

The Chinese may have some problems with the free expression and acquisition of information, but as I frantically tried to manipulate my chopsticks around delicious dim sum and exquisite Beijing duck, it came to me that what I was witnessing was something that should make even the fiercest old Cold Warrior rejoice.

The ideological war is over.

Not just with Russia, but with China, too.

And we won.

Further proof of the victory of capitalism was everywhere. Beijing is an ancient city, and although we saw drably dressed farmers driving donkey carts through its center, like Hong Kong, in its newer areas Beijing is all skyscrapers and department stores and high-fashion boutiques. (We also saw The Forbidden City! And the Great Wall! They’re real!)

Its theaters and flat-screen TVs and freeways and boulevards jammed with BMWs, Mercedes, and Jags.

For a week in Beijing, Gwen and I had the unlimited use of a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. A new Rolls owned by one of Frank’s friends. The friend was no government guy or Communist Party official. He was an industrialist who apologized for the “glares you might get as you drive along,” but was proud as he could be of the fact that, “You’ll get some wide smiles and thumbs-ups as well.”

See what I mean about winning?

No way we could lose.

Because it turns out that the ancient Chinese attitude toward business and profit is, when you get down to it, just like ours.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published May 8, 2008

Gwen the Beautiful and I have just returned from an unexpected trip. We went about as far from home as it’s possible to go.

All the way to China.

It was an amazing experience, courtesy of Frank Lee, a Hong Kong songwriter and entrepreneur.

Frank and I have known each other for years and have been trying to find a reason to work together. Well, that’s not completely true. Frank’s been gnawing on the work thing, but Larry B.’s mostly been sitting back and hoping for a free trip to parts unknown.

A couple of weeks ago, Frank finally put it together. “I need your help on a project,” he said over the phone. “Can you and Gwen be here in three days?”

“What?” I said. “Get ready for a trip like that in only three days? That’s —”

I was going to say “impossible,” but Gwen heard the conversation and rushed across the room to me. “Tell him it’s perfect,” she whispered to me.

“But he wants us to be in China by Monday,” I said.

“And I’ve wanted to be in China for 20 years! We can make it happen. You know we can.”

At the other end of the line, Frank heard the conversation. And I heard him chuckle.

“I’ll wire you the money for your airfare right away,” he said.

And he did.

The following Monday, after a full day of travel — exactly 24 hours from the time we entered the first of several airports (in Little Rock) to the time we walked out of the last (in Hong Kong) — Gwen and I were met at the airport by Frank and whisked off to a five-star hotel in the busiest, most crowded city I’ve ever seen.

Seven million people packed onto one small island, hurrying, hurrying, hurrying through vast interconnected networks of crowded skyscrapers, skyways and streets. The dense throng of humans moved forward, backward, up, down. Its members dodged and weaved and slid past one another. Anticipated traffic signals, whether they were driving or on foot.

Our hotel was located smack in the heart of the Red Light District. “You’ll love this place,” Frank said. “It was the inspiration for the movie, ‘The World of Suzie Wong.’ The movie was shot right here, too.”

“Um, Frank, that movie was about a house of ill repute.”

Frank chuckled, just as he had over the phone. “I told you, you would love it!”

Gwen and I did love the hotel, but not because of its past. With the exception of the signs proudly proclaiming its heritage, nothing was left of the Suzie Wong days. We were installed in a room on the twentysomething floor of a building so modern that we felt like we’d been propelled into one of George Lucas’ most intense dreams.

We hadn’t expected such technology. Who could’ve known we’d be spending so much time in a place so eerily resembling the original Disneyland’s Tomorrowland?

Impressive as the technology is, though, what Hong Kong really is all about is commerce. And before we moved on to the Mainland, I got a taste of how business is done there.

Frank’s project was a documentary film about a singing group that’s become one of the hottest tickets in Asia. Although it’s very popular, it’s not a pop group. The Quintessenso Children’s Choir (which is how the Chinese name translates into English) is composed of 30-plus Mongolian children, singing and dancing their way through traditional Mongolian folk songs.

The songs sound much like those of various American Indian tribes, but the instrumentation is different. More than flutes and drums are in play here. The choir’s band makes heavy use of cellos and string basses carved in the shape of horse heads, and there’s even what seems like a Cajun touch: A crazy, zany little accordion.

My job was to advise Frank on how to make his film more interesting and help him through the maze that is the business side of film making. I think I did a good job on the creative side, but although I brought him as up-to-date as I could about working with Hollywood film companies, all I could do when we met with potential Chinese investors was sit back and marvel.

At how much it was like doing business in Paradise.

Does the phrase, “Good Ol’ Boy Network,” ring a bell?

More on this next time, including an astounded visitor’s look at Beijing.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published May 1, 2008

Last time out in this space, I wrote about people who’d had strange (and wonderful) experiences with animals. Who’d discovered a connection with a dog or a cat or a horse or even a shark that was as meaningful to them as it was difficult to explain.

Even after being flooded with so many stories, I still clung to the belief that anything so awe-inspiring had to be, at best, a once in a lifetime thing. Even in a world filled with marvels, how could any of us suppose that animal connection lightning would strike twice?

Years ago, a small, red and white puppy called to me from 150 miles away, saying, “I’m here. I’m yours. I’m waiting,” and off I went and found her. That had to be it, right? My allotted “Come and Get Me!” dog?

Two weeks ago, I found out I was wrong.

I woke up one morning with the most intense feeling of longing I’ve ever had. A physical sensation that clutched at my heart so that I thought it would break. “I miss you! I need you!” my body seemed to say.

Except that I didn’t miss anyone. I didn’t need anyone.

I lay there in bed beside Gwen the Beautiful, the woman I love, and wondered how — how! — I possibly could be feeling that way.

Then, from outside, in the middle of our clearing, I heard a heart-breaking sound.

The hysterical yelping, yipping, crying of a dog.

The sound was high-pitched and puppy-like. And so urgent I had to practically leap out of bed and go to the window, where I looked out at —

Nothing but what I usually saw.

Grass. The slight rise Gwen and I call The Mound.

Bordered by the ranch’s various outbuildings, the main house and the fences of the horse corral and dog yard.

The yard where the other dogs were sleeping.

The yelping continued, and so did my feeling of yearning.

The two seemed connected. Yes, I was sure they were connected.

That’s when I realized that since the yelping wasn’t coming from me, the feeling wasn’t mine either.

It was a message from someone else. Someone who seemed to be an old friend.

Longing for me.

I didn’t know who the friend was. But I was pretty sure I knew where.

Gently, I woke up Gwen. “Know that litter Doug the Dog Breeder had? The one that’s still got four puppies left?” I said.

“Puppies? Doug …?” Gwen’s eyes opened all the way. My wife was still foggy, but she knew where I was headed.

“I don’t want another dog,” she said.

“Not even a beautiful little yellow lab with a pink nose?”

“Not even that.”

“But it wants us,” I said. “C’mon. Humor me. Let’s go over to Doug’s and take a look.”

A few hours later, we were at Doug’s kennel. Doug’s wife, Anita, watched with a smile as Doug opened the pen where four 9-week-old lab pups played. Two males. Two females. Both females had pink noses. One of them ignored Gwen and me. Rolled around with her brothers. The other flipped herself over the others and raised her head. Her eyes, green and gold in the morning light, met mine.

With a cry, the puppy raced over to me, started climbing up my leg. Everything about her proclaimed pure joy. I picked her up. Petted her. Frenziedly, she licked my face.

Gwen joined us. Smiled the tolerant smile I know so well. I handed her the puppy, who continued licking, Gwen’s face this time.

I turned to Doug. “Gwen really wants a new dog. This one.”

“Yep,” Doug said. “I can see that.”

Anita’s face became home to an out and out grin. “Oh yes,” she said in her British accent. “‘Gwen’ definitely wants her.”

“Well, then, Gwen’s got her,” Doug said.

We came straight home with the puppy. Introduced her to the other dogs one at a time.

Belle the Wary growled.

Decker the Giant-Hearted grabbed the puppy and groomed her from head to tail and back.

Emmy the Bold thrust a pull toy into the puppy’s mouth and started a game of tug of war.

With each dog, at each introduction, I heard the same announcement in my head:

“Hi, I’m Dixie. And am I ever glad to be here!”

And over me swept the most intense feeling of belonging I’ve ever had.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A couple of months ago, I wrote about the canine friend I called the Navajo Dog.

About the mystical way she came into my life.

Since then, I’ve heard similar stories of magical human/pet connections from many readers:

The couple in Connecticut who heard a dog howling outside their house and went out to see what was wrong. Who found nothing out there, right or wrong, and went back inside only to discover a bedraggled puppy waiting in their living room.

The little girl in Illinois who accompanied her mother into a mall pet shop for fish food. And came out with a kitten because as soon as it saw her, the little ball of fluff launched itself from the crate it was in and landed squarely on top of the little girl’s head. Where it yowled and cried, but never left a scratch, and where it still likes to snuggle up at night to this day.

The teenage boy in Pennsylvania who heard someone — or something — calling to him from the woods and found an injured raccoon. A raccoon that stayed with him as the teen’s pet for the rest of its life. And never once behaved like anything but a friend.

The South African woman who awoke one morning to find a large parrot clinging to the chair before her dressing table. A parrot that called the woman by name, sang what sounded like an aria and practically lived on her shoulder for over 20 years.

Then there was the California man who’d never been near a horse but had loved reading about them as a kid. “One day, while I was driving along the freeway,” he wrote, “I got a feeling that I should get off at the next exit. I did, and saw a sign for an Arabian horse ranch. I drove to the ranch, and, to make a long story short, I saw one of those miniature horses running in a corral.

“The next afternoon that horse was in my backyard. In the years since, he’s been a great friend. He doesn’t eat all that much, my kids love him, and I haven’t had to worry about any of us breaking our necks while learning how to ride.”

My favorite, though, is My Friend the Shark Wrangler. Well, actually, he’s a friend, but I never knew he was a shark wrangler until he called about what I’d written.

“Know how some hotels have dolphin pools that people can swim in?” he said. “And how some people seem to have some kind of special connection to the dolphins so that as soon as these people get into the pool the dolphins race over to them and play like they’re old friends?

“Well, I love to scuba dive, and one day about 15 years ago that love got me into big trouble. I was in the Navy, taking some R&R in Australia, diving near the Great Barrier Reef. All of a sudden, my buddy grabs my arm, and I look up at these two shadows passing over us.”

“Sharks?” I said.

“Black Tip reef sharks,” he said. “My buddy and I froze, but it was too late. They saw us or smelled us or whatever, and circled back our way. One of them came right to my side, and I thought I was dinner for sure. But all it did was nudge me. The other one went a little farther. Started rubbing against me.

“They ignored my buddy and started playing with me. Zipping over my shoulders. Coming up under my legs. It was like finding out that somebody’s big, scary watchdog loved me!

“I stopped being scared and went with it. I even grabbed one by the dorsal fin and let it pull me. My buddy took pictures of me swimming around with these two sharks like they were long lost pets for about half an hour. Until they zoomed off after something else.

“It was so much fun that I was sorry to see them go. And I could swear that they were sorry they had to leave.”

He e-mailed me scans of the pictures, so I know this is true. A man and his two dorsal-finny friends.

Animal magic.

Connection magic.

I should’ve felt, deep inside my soul, that neither the Navajo Dog nor I could really be unique.

I should’ve known it would be everywhere.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published April 17, 2008

Yesterday was a great day in Paradise.

I awoke at 7:30. Kissed Gwen the Beautiful’s sleeping face. In bed with us were Emmy the Bold and, believe it or not, Bob the Very Careful Cat. Both of them were sound asleep, their breath matching Gwen’s in one rhythmic rise and fall.

When Emmy saw me pull on my robe and my boots, she knew the day had begun. She hurled herself off the bed in the all-or-nothing fashion that’s given her the bone spurs of a dog twice her age and went downstairs with me. Well, not really “with” me. Even though she’s lost a couple of steps, she still stayed one step ahead.

Together, we went outside. I intended to feed the horses, but, like Emmy, Maya the Good was ahead of me, throwing the hay over the fence. We said our, “Good mornings” in voices that showed neither of us felt like talking much just yet, and I followed Emmy to the dog yard, where she yapped at Decker the Giant Hearted and Belle the Wary, her very adult kids.

“Let us out! Let us out!” the other two dogs said, as they do every morning.

“Talk to your mother,” I told them. “There’re rules here, you know.”

Decker and Belle whined. Emmy, too. They know the rules, but don’t always like them. Especially the one that says only two dogs can be outside together at one time.

They also know the reason for this rule. It’s because of the pack mentality. Three dogs going off together are far more likely to get into serious trouble than two, as Gwen and I learned the hard way years ago.

“I’ll be back soon,” Emmy said, and, as she does every morning, she ran into the woods.

“What’s ’soon?’” Belle said.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Decker. “Whatever it is, she’ll be longer. That’s how she works.”

Decker was right. That’s what makes him such a great dog. He’s always right — except when he’s raising himself up over the kitchen counter to scarf down a layer of chocolate cake before any human comes back into the room.

My next morning stop was the chicken pen. I refilled the chickens’ feeders and gave them fresh water. And I counted them. I always count the chickens when I go in there to make sure everyone’s alive and well.

As long as I was watering animals, I topped off the horses’ trough. Then I went back into the house, started some coffee and sat down at the computer to read the news and see what friendly and not-so-friendly e-mail had arrived.

I tried to be quiet about everything but was keenly aware of how loud the opening and closing of the fridge and various cabinets sounded.

How my desk chair squeaked. My keyboard clacked.

“You’re going to wake up Gwen,” the house said.

“Hope not,” I said.

“Really?” the house said.

“Erm … maybe not,” I heard myself reply.

The house smiled. I saw it in the way the sun suddenly shone in through the open curtains, lighting the logs that are our downstairs walls. Inanimate as the place in which I live is supposed to be, it was as right as Decker had been.

I really did want Gwen to awaken. So I could hold her. Look into her eyes. Most importantly, talk to her. Because she’s the one human on this planet I’m always ready to talk to.

The steady plink of the coffee dripping stopped. I started for the coffee maker, stopped as, from outside, I heard a yip.

Emmy was back from the woods.

I opened the front door and in she strutted. “Ready for my treat,” she said, “while you get the kids.”

I gave her some jerky strips. Went outside to let out Decker and Belle. Decker bolted first, making straight for the front porch of the house. Belle started after him, then stopped and turned back to me. Bowed the dog bow. Took off in Decker’s wake. As usual.

I hurried after them. All three of us entered the house.

“Good morning!”

My favorite voice. I looked up at the landing just below the loft where Gwen and I sleep. Gwen was awake.

“Good morning!” Emmy, Decker, Bell, and I said.

As one, we rushed to engulf the mistress of the manor as she made her way downstairs.

Another great day in Paradise.

And it had hardly gotten started.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published April 10, 2008

Brannigan the Contractor has been hard at work at Cloud Creek Ranch this week building a run-through barn for Huck the Spotless Appaloosa and His Gal Rosie.

Gwen the Beautiful’s asked for some fancy doodads. A cupola in front, some old-fashioned trim, but beneath that it’s going to be a simple, three-sided shelter. Protection from the wind and the rain and the sun.

This morning, as I was out there with him, enjoying one of life’s greatest pleasures — watching another man’s toil — Brannigan turned to me suddenly and said, “Why?”

“Is this a philosophical question?” I said.

He shook his head. “I don’t do philosophy. I build things! But there’s something I’ve been wondering about for years. Why do you call this place Cloud Creek Ranch? Why do you call that little stream at the bottom of the back hill Cloud Creek? The only part of ‘Cloud Creek’ that’s got a name is the hundred feet winding through your property. And it only does that a few times a year.”

Brannigan’s question made me smile. It brought back a memory so warm I could wear it like a coat.

“Gwen and I brought the name with us,” I said. “Cloud Creek Ranch was the name of our old place outside of L.A.”

“We had acreage in the mountains near Malibu,” I went on. “Pine trees! Live oaks! And a little seasonal stream that cut the land in half.

“One morning, the first week we were there, Youngest Daughter Amber was looking out the window while Gwen made breakfast. ‘Mom! Quick! You’ve got to see this!’ she called out.

“Gwen went rushing over to where Amber was standing and staring down at the tiny trickle of a stream below a little meadow. It was a cool morning, and a fine mist rose from the water.

“As it got higher, the mist formed a kind of a column and worked its way higher still, against the mountainside until it reached the top. There, it seemed to both tighten and widen, forming white puffballs that made their way even higher into the sky.

“Amber was about 10 years old. But even then she had a special way of seeing things.

“‘It’s making clouds, Mom,’ she said. ‘Our little creek is making clouds!’

“I was late getting dressed for the morning drive to school and entered the room in time to see both Amber and Gwen pointing at the new clouds.

“‘What’s up?’ I said.

“‘Clouds,’ Amber said. ‘So many new clouds!’

“‘I know what this place is,’ Gwen said. ‘We’re living at Cloud Central. The place where all the clouds in the world are formed. They waft everywhere — all around the world — from right down there. From Cloud Creek.’

“And that was it. Gwen came up with the name then and there.”

Brannigan stood, listening, hammer at his side. Listening so closely that he didn’t even react when Belle the Wary, the least friendly dog on The Mountain (who so often behaves as though she’s been entrusted with a sacred duty of ridding the world of my pal Brannigan) came up to him.

“Cloud Creek,” Brannigan mused. “Makes sense when you’re talking to a 10-year-old. Sure!”

Then he noticed Belle standing at his side. “She’s not biting me,” he said. Slowly, wonderingly, he reached out to her. Belle flinched but didn’t snarl or bite. She just turned her head away.

“I don’t buy into all the magic you say goes on around here,” Brannigan said to me. He pointed at Belle. “But this is a kind of magic all by itself. A property where these mysterious things happen deserves a name of its own, don’t you think? Wouldn’t it be better to let this land’s personality come out in its name?”

“I’m not against that,” I said. “Any suggestions?”

Brannigan hesitated. The two of us turned our heads in the direction Belle was looking. She was staring out at the woods, and Brannigan and I could see a mist moving up from behind the trees to a place above the treetops, where it changed form.

Became clouds.

“Isn’t that where the little creek is?” Brannigan said. He smiled. “I don’t do philosophy. I build things. And right now I’m building a barn on Cloud Creek Ranch.”

Without thinking, he patted Belle. She caught the edge of his hand in her mouth. But for the first time, she didn’t bite him.

“Love this dog!” Brannigan said.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published April 3, 2008

One of the things I’ve discovered about getting older is that I’m finally starting to have answers as well as questions.

They may not be the right answers, but if I utter one or two with the right degree of self-assurance I often can make myself sound like a wise, confident individual happily sharing what I’ve learned over the years.

And if I’m really lucky, someone I’m talking to will respond in a way that helps me take another tiny step toward becoming that wise, confident individual I’d so much like to be.

Sometimes an answer can even pay off in a way that’s both delightful and unexpected.

One such time was a couple of years ago. Gwen the Beautiful and I were over at Wanda the Arkansas Angel’s house in Conway, and Wanda introduced us to D.C. Rowlett, a childhood buddy living in Vilonia. A retired truck driver, D.C.’s a smart, smiling guy with a friendly mustache and an even friendlier guitar, and he can sing the stuffing out of all those great old songs that only get played on “classic country” stations these days.

After an impromptu performance that would’ve made Hank Williams Sr. proud, D.C. allowed as how he’d been a viewer of many of the TV shows I’d written back in the day and was a regular reader of my writing here as well. As a result, he said, he had one question for me.

“Everything you write,” said D.C., “and the way you write it — what’re you all about?”

“Communication,” I said. “In my writing I tell people all about myself, hoping that’ll help them learn more about who they are.”

D.C. looked surprised. Then he nodded, and our conversation proceeded to other topics.

But from that time on, every week, on the day new words appear in this space, I — and many other friends of this extraordinary man — have been privileged to receive his responses to what I’ve had to say.

Responses such as:

“When I was a teen … I played the flat-top guitar with a very good guitar picker named Leon. Now Leon and I were acquainted somewhat with Jack Campbell, a singer and songwriter who had his own radio show. Jack took a shine to our style of gospel music and recorded some of our songs on his fancy tape recorder. He wanted us to work up an album and offered to promote it for us.

“Leon and I could not believe in ourselves enough to try. No, no, it would involve too much of our girl-chasing time. Because of our hesitating, Jack Campbell gave up on us. My guitar-picking fingers are stiff, and my voice is about gone, but I will always wonder, ‘What if?’”

And:

“When I was a boy, my dad brought home a little runt pig. The plan was to let him grow to a gigantic weight, then slaughter him and put him in our newly acquired freezer. My dad, such a gentle soul, named the little guy Charlie.

“Every day, we fed that little scamp, and sure enough he grew and grew some more. D-Day finally arrived, and while my mom and sister and I cowered inside the house, the deed was done.

“Well, the freezer was full of pork, and it stayed full until my dad finally realized we just couldn’t eat Charlie and gave the meat to some folks in town who needed the food and did not know Charlie personally.

“Will Rogers was right when he said, ‘Never name anything you plan to eat.’”

And this treasure (at least from my point of view):

“Years ago, I found myself out on the road on Thanksgiving Day. The only consolation was that I was not alone … I saw hundreds of trucks parked there at the Atlanta Truck Stop.

“When I entered the restaurant, I immediately saw why. The giant trucking company, J.B. Hunt, was buying lunch for any trucker on the road, and the waitress was bringing out the mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes, green beans, corn, oversized hams and turkeys … .

“I filled my plate with a little bit of ham and turkey, but mostly the cornbread dressing, my favorite. When I bit into the cornbread … it tasted like some kind of gritty pudding … I was crestfallen after all the anticipation. Sort of like this morning — The Baxter Bulletin has not posted Larry B.’s column.”

Well, they’ve posted this one. Can’t wait to see how D.C. communicates today.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published March 27, 2008

Several weeks ago, I used this space to eulogize my best friend, writer Bob Sabaroff. Bob’s death from leukemia hit me hard.

I missed the talks we used to have.

I missed the arguments.

I missed him.

But I got over it. Human beings do that. Pain eases. Grief subsides. We heal.

Even if we don’t want to, we heal.

So it went for yours truly, Larry B. There I was, all healed and moving on. Until a few days ago, when Maya the Good, the Alabaman/Floridian/Alaskan who keeps Cloud Creek Ranch going, told me about something that had happened that morning while she was feeding the horses.

I was over by one of the sheds at the time, marveling at all the rusty old junk piled up behind it. I was thinking about whether to throw it away or try to put it in some kind of order. But —

“Larry?”

Maya was calling out to me from the Annex door, in her soft-spoken way.

“What’s up?” I said.

Maya shrugged. “I saw somebody this morning,” she said.

I’ve known Maya long enough to understand what she meant. She often sees things others don’t, and it was clear that this was one of those times.

Maya waved her hand toward the thick old walnut tree I think of as the Hay Tree. We’ve been feeding our horses from giant, eight-foot long, 900-pound bales of alfalfa. To get the alfalfa onto the bed of my F150, the feed store folks use a forklift. To get the hay off the bed of my F150, I’ve got to back the truck up to the Hay Tree, tie the big bale to it, and then pull away.

If the rope holds (and sometimes it doesn’t), the bale drops onto a tarp on the ground in front of the tree, and I cover it with another tarp. Then, twice a day, either Maya or I untie the tarps, put 20 pounds worth of flakes into a two-wheeled cart and trek across the clearing to the corral to toss the hay in for Huck the Spotless Appaloosa and Huck’s gal, Rosie the Sweet Arabian.

“This morning,” Maya said, “I loaded the cart, and when I turned I saw a man standing by the corral, petting Huck and Rosie.”

The man, she told me, was wearing a jacket and a baseball cap over graying hair. “He looked like he was in his late 60s,” said Maya, “and he had very gentle eyes. Wise and gentle. Everything about him so peaceful.”

According to Maya, the man said, “Good morning,” and continued stroking the horses.

Maya’s not a big talker. She watched this silently for awhile. Then she carted the hay to the corral. That’s when the man turned to her again.

“Tell Larry he was right,” he said to Maya. “Tell him there really is an afterlife. Tell him I’m doing just fine.”

He took a step toward her. Smiled. “Tell him, ‘I love you, man.’”

“And then,” Maya said, “he vanished. Like he’d never been there.”

After Maya told me this, I went back to the house and got on my computer. I e-mailed her links to some pictures I’ve stored online. Family. Friends. The usual suspects.

In the e-mail, I asked if she recognized anyone.

That evening, she came over to the house with a printout of one of the pictures.

“The man on the left is the one I saw at the corral,” she wrote. “The same gentle smile.”

I knew the picture well. It was taken in Las Vegas a couple of years ago, at a dinner where I — the man on the right — was giving a Lifetime Achievement Award to the gray-haired man on camera left.

The man with whom I had so many discussions about everything from ancient history to writing to the nature of reality himself.

The man who argued vehemently that death was “the end.”

The man who ended every conversation we ever had with the same four words:

“I love you, man.”

My best friend.

Bob Sabaroff.

Maya had never met him. Never seen him. Knew nothing about what he was like. At least, not in life.

But she had him pegged.

Tomorrow, I’ll throw the junk behind that shed onto the truck and take it to a scrap-metal dealer. Bob was a collector. He was OK with clutter.

But he really hated waste.

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

I ran into Sue Ellen of Paradise Realty at the new coffee shop in the town square the other day and learned that although the housing market may be tanking in most of the U.S., property values are booming here in Paradise.

“Larry B! Just the man I wanted to see.”

“Always happy to see you, too, Sue Ellen. What’s up?”

“My business,” she said without shifting gears. “Did you know that in the last five years real estate prices around here have tripled? You got here just in time for a bargain, Larry B.”

The idea that if Gwen the Beautiful and I put our place on the market we could make out so well was totally unexpected. But that’s what Sue Ellen was encouraging me to do: Put Cloud Creek Ranch up for sale.

“I’ve got some people from Florida who’ve already bought three properties similar to yours,” she said in that professionally confiding way Realtors everywhere seem to have.

“Why’d they buy three properties?” I asked.

“They’ve got money to burn and are moving their whole family our way.”

“Why?” I wondered again.

Sue Ellen shrugged. “Does it matter? I’d love to bring them over to your place sometime this week.”

I told Sue Ellen I’d discuss her proposition with Gwen the Beautiful and let her know if we were interested. Then I did some asking around over at the county clerk’s office, where Wilma the Assistant Clerk confirmed to me that “more property titles are changing hands these days than I ever knew we had property titles. Paradise is in for some big changes, absolutely.”

“Why do you think so many people are relocating here?” I said.

“Well, it’s certainly not jobs!” Wilma snorted. “About the only work to be had is minimum wage. But it’s beautiful here, and it’s peaceful, and it’s safe.”

“You figure the low crime rate is a big selling point?”

Wilma looked a little nervous. “I don’t think it’s that kind of safety. It’s something else.” And then she excused herself to get back to work.

Now I was intrigued. As the Old Billionaire might say, I wondered what Wilma was so “het up” about. It was time to check with the one man in Paradise who could be counted on to know just about everything: Uncle Earl.

I found him on his bench in front of the courthouse, deep in a conversation about whether Raymond Burr really couldn’t walk when he was the star of a series called “Ironside” some 30-odd years ago, “Or was he just enjoying getting pushed around in that wheelchair all day?”

I’m always glad when someone asks about a show I’ve written because those are the only questions I can be sure I know the answers to. “He could walk,” I said, “but he’d gained a ton of weight and was grateful for the chair.”

Uncle Earl grinned at the other Old Boys gathered around him. “Just like I said. Thanks for the help, Larry B. Now, how can I help you?”

“You could tell me why so many people are moving here, and why they think Paradise is so safe.”

Uncle Earl nodded. “Lot of the folks I talk to are here because they think something terrible’s going to happen to the world. Earthquake! Nuclear war! Maybe even Armageddon! And they figure we’re high enough to not go sliding into the ocean and country enough to not be a bomb target and religious enough to have an inside track on getting to heaven if it comes to that.”

“It’s a survivalist thing?”

“Of course it is,” one of the other old boys said. He had a slight accent, but I couldn’t quite place it except to be sure it wasn’t from around here. “This is the safest place on the planet. I know it for a fact.”

“How do you know it?” I said.

“The message was beamed into my brain by the leader of the grey aliens. Radamanthus himself.”

Uncle Earl was watching me closely. “Larry B, you look doubtful,” he said with a mischievous smile. He turned to the old boy. “Tell him where you came here from, Matthew.”

“New Mexico,” the old boy said. “Roswell.”

So, Sue Ellen, if you’re reading this, my answer about selling our property is no.

Because if you can’t believe an old boy from the UFO capital of America, who can you believe?

Larry Brody is an author, veteran television writer and producer and creative director of Cloud Creek Institute for the Arts. He, his wife and their dogs, cats, horses and chickens live in Marion County. The other residents of the mythical town of Paradise reside in his imagination, however, and any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Originally published March 13, 2008