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Well, it’s finally happened. The Tooth Fairy has finally been killed. She died a quiet little death last weekend at the hands of my wife. And it was probably time, but I was completely unprepared. In fact, no one bothered to even tell me until long after the poor little sprite was cold and buried.

It started with my eldest losing another tooth a week and a half ago. Tucking the tooth under her pillow, the Tooth Fairy forgot to leave her any money that night! Now this is a cardinal fairy sin and grounds for termination from the Tooth Fairy Corps, so we assured Haley that the Tooth Fairy would probably stop by the next night. After all, her job was on the line!

Well, the next night came and went and still no tooth extortion payment. Haley reported this to us at breakfast the following morning. She wasn’t bothered by it; just kind of perplexed.

“Impossible!” I cried as I jumped up from the table. “There’s no way the Tooth Fairy forgot two nights in a row! The money must’ve fallen under your bed or something!”

At this point I was concerned for my daughter’s childhood innocence! Belief in Tooth Fairies is a benchmark for childhood – disbelief in such magical creatures marks a major turning point in growth and maturity! I wasn’t ready for such a turning point.

So I slipped back to her bedroom and tossed a five dollar bill under her bed (yes, five dollars is the going tooth rate at my house). I figured she’d find it later and all would be good.

Well, later came and went with no exclamation of the lost Tooth Fairy money. And then later that same day my youngest finally extracted a wiggly tooth she’d been saving (she hates pulling out loose teeth). It seems her mother made her a deal where, if she pulled out her wiggly tooth, her mother would give her twenty bucks(!). Twenty dollars is big money to my eight-year-old and she pulled that tooth post-haste!

I told Hannah, “You know, the Tooth Fairy probably won’t bring you any money, since your mom is giving you twenty bucks for that tooth.” Hannah gave me a weird look, like I had a third eye or something.

Realizing Haley hadn’t said anything about her lost Fairy money, I asked her if she ever checked under her bed. She said “No”, so I suggested she check again. A minute later she came back smiling and holding a five dollar bill.

“See,” I said. “It must’ve fallen off the bed while you were sleeping.” Haley rolled her eyes and also gave me a weird look.

Curious about the weird looks from my daughters, I mentioned it to my wife that night after the kids were in bed. “Oh, the girls know. Haley told me she knew and Hannah suspected, so I told them.”

I was astonished. Evidently this confession happened after the first missed Tooth Fairy deposit, but no one bothered to tell me. And here I was, sneaking about trying to salvage the Tooth Fairy’s precious reputation when the truth was already out there, the sacred parental secret exposed!

So now I sit here wondering who’s next – Santa Claus? The Easter Bunny? The Halloween Candy Fairy? World Peace? I thought I had more time, but Haley’s ten and reaching the end of those gullible years. And Hannah will follow right behind, the curse of being the younger sibling.

It’s a brave new world we’re entering, stoic and logical. No more fairies, no more jolly old Christmas elves, no more magic.

And I’m afraid the Motorcycle Fairy is next, fearful of that day when Holly quietly puts her arm around my shoulder and tells me that I’m not getting that new motorcycle, no matter how many nights I sleep with a picture of a 2005 Honda Super Hawk under my pillow.

I still believe in benevolent fairies!
(Muttered repeatedly before going to bed)

(c) 2007 C.L. Jackson

The Beaver Signal!

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Another Wednesday dispatch from Jackson Press. We’ve got to stop meeting like this.

I’m munching on a bit of string cheese as I type this and my dog is giving me those “puppy dog” eyes, a cute and subtle canine method of begging that appeals to your heart. Those sad eyes make you just want to give the dog everything on your plate because they’re just so gosh-darn cute. And she’ll just watch you forever, a canine with the patience of Job. Must be the hunting dog in her.

Now our old dog, Ace (his official name was Stroker Ace and, no, we didn’t name him. But I do love Burt Reynolds’s body of work as an actor!), was quite the opposite when it came to begging. He was more like the bum on the street who aggressively panhandles by getting right up in your personal space and repeatedly asking you for change. Ace would sit a centimeter from your thigh while you were seated at the dinner table and he’d just stare at you and pant, his hot doggy breath forming a liver-scented dew on your pants leg, if you were wearing pants. What?!! Doesn’t everybody like to eat dinner in the nude??!!

After about a minute of this polite begging, Ace would start incessantly bumping your thigh with his nose, right on the wet spot caused by his breath. Bump, bump. He must’ve thought we’d forgotten about him down there, since he was being so good and quiet. Enough of the “nice” dog crap; he decided to ratchet it up a couple notches.

Bump, bump, bump. Sometimes, if you weren’t expecting him (like, say, you were a guest at our table and didn’t know our dog was so forward), he could nudge you across the seat of the chair with his nose bumps. This was especially dangerous if the chair seat was slippery. Then there were the incidents when someone would wear shorts and his cold, wet nose contacted bare skin. Ace caused many a shriek among the women-folk, and not a few fast heartbeats!

Ace would finally triumph in getting a bite simply because you’d get tired of him panting on you and bruising your thigh. Like a mobster shaking down a shop keeper for protection money, you’d flip Ace a nibble of something just to make him go away. And he would, sidling up to the next person as he made his way around the table.

Boy, he was a great dog! Sometimes I really miss that furry little insistent bastard (sniffles a little sadly).

Back to Ginger: I actually bought this cheese for her, since tomorrow is the first of four dog shows here in Columbus and my wife uses the cheese as a reward for looking pretty. I believe the technique was initially discovered in use by contestants in the Miss America contest. Worked for them, should also work for canine bitches, right? (didn’t you see that one coming?)

Ginger keeps sticking her nose in my lap and snuffling harshly as she tries to determine whether I’ve eaten all the cheese myself. Reminds me of Ace and I begin to wonder if the old bastard isn’t channeling himself thru her. I give her the last bite but make her work for it by having her sit, stay, and lay down. Satisfied, she trots off for a drink and is back a minute later, still sniffing around. She smells the wrappers on my desk.

“All gone,” I tell her. She just looks at me, smiling like a pretty foreign girl who doesn’t understand what I’m saying but thinks I’m saying something nice. Ginger doesn’t yet know what “All Gone” means. Ace, on the other hand, knew this phrase well, for it was his keyword to go pester someone else who had food.

I tell Ginger to “scram” and she leaves. That one she knows.

Speaking of dogs, the latest Civil Servitude is ready for your consumption. More Bucky the Beaver hi-jinx! But rest assured Bucky’s days at Bluff City city hall are numbered.

Gotta run – Ghost Hunters is on!

Bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, bump, bump …

(c) 2007 C.L. Jackson

Flower-Scented Vomit

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So Saturday at Jackson Press was spent tooling around Jackson Acre on the official Jackson Press Lawn Tractor mulching leaves. Here’s why that sucked …

First, there are many silver maples on the properties surrounding Jackson Acre. While silver maples can be nice trees to look at, they are what my neighbor Gordon calls “dirty trees”. Silver maples have this annoying tendency to grow many leaves, all of which will eventually fall. And in a high wind they will shed broken branches like a dog shaking off bath-water. Lot’s of tree litter, hence the “dirty tree” moniker.

My neighbor to the west, Dave, has four or five mature silver maple trees. I also have four or five. Since Dave’s property is west of mine, and the prevailing winds blow from west to east, many, if not all, of his leaves end up in my yard. One upside of this easterly-blowing prevailing wind is that many, but rarely most and never all, of my leaves end up in the yard of my eastern neighbor, Gordon. So the lesson here is to make sure you live in the western-most yard, so all of your leaves blow into your easterly neighbor’s yard for them to clean up!

This year I decided to use the official Jackson Press Lawn Tractor to mulch the leaves, rather than waste my time actually raking the leaves. Besides the obvious physical reason against raking (laziness), past autumns have demonstrated that disposing of our leaves is no small task, as there are not that many places to stash huge piles of leaves on Jackson Acre and we’re not supposed to burn them. This is a very large dilemma my dirty trees leave me with.

So this year we’re just chopping everything up. So far it’s working well, although I suspect what’s really happening is that my leaves, chopped into smaller pieces, are easier to blow into Gordon’s yard.

Now when I cut the grass at Jackson Acre, I cut it in the highest gear my tractor has, which is fifth gear. That usually propels me along at about 7 MPH. Trust me, that is not as fast as it may sound. When mulching leaves, however, I have to slow down to third gear to insure the blades have time to properly chop things up into small pieces. Third gear zips us along at about 3 MPH. Trust me, that is as slow as it sounds. Painfully slow, in fact, when you’re used to flying along at 7 MPH.

So Saturday found Gordon and I mulching. I donned a surgical mask, since I’m allergic to leaves, and this reminded me of all the Asians who wore surgical masks as they tried not to catch SARS. I’m sure Gordon thinks I’m crazy, but I consider wearing the surgical mask as practice for the upcoming bird flu.

As I trundled through my yard I noticed Gordon had at least twice as many leaves as me, thus supporting my “live to the west” theory. Surprisingly enough, Gordon was still done mulching long before me and with very little leaf litter residue. This is further proof that my tractor is frighteningly slow and that I should demand a new tractor for Jackson Press from my boss.

The only problem is that I’d rather waste my money on a new motorcycle. I can enjoy a new motorcycle – I would not enjoy a new tractor. Besides, the boss would just say “No”. Or – more likely – she would say “Yes” but I would have to buy her a diamond ring before I could buy either the tractor or motorcycle. You’re laughing at this notion, but there is precedence to this – it happened in 2001, when I bought my third motorcycle. That bike’s long gone, but the wife still has the ring. I’m not sure what that says about me …

One downside to mulching our leaves is that we don’t have any big leaf piles for the kids to jump into. That’s actually the only time my kids willingly rake leaves without being forced or cajoled. They rake up huge piles of leaves that they then spend hours playing in. Then the piles sit there for weeks at a time, killing the grass underneath and turning so moldy that I can’t get within ten feet of the pile without sneezing my britches off.

Yeah, mulching’s a much better idea.

The latest Civil Servitude is available for your reading enjoyment. The Giant Beaver adventure continues and we learn a little more about Miller’s sordid past. Thanks for reading and enjoy!

Trundling thru life in second gear …

(c) 2007 C.L. Jackson

Giant Beaver 2

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I’ve been on a Civil Servitude tear this week! Cranked out three strips this week and even have a new Editorial cartoon for your enjoyment!

We here at Jackson Press are eagerly awaiting tonite’s Ghost Hunters episode, where they reveal the results of their live Halloween investigation of the definitely haunted Waverly Hills Sanitorium in Kentucky.

Well, the kids are fussing. They can’t seem to get their teeth brushed without quibbling with each other. Time to go in and restore order. It’s going to be a long winter.

Click here to enjoy more Civil Servitude content and enjoy!

Bringing order to childish chaos!

(c) 2007 C.L. Jackson

Giant Beavers

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Autumn’s almost over (sigh). My favorite season, it also seems like it’s always the shortest one.

We had our first fire in the fireplace Friday night. And we spent this weekend battening down the hatches here at Jackson Press. We trimmed various shrubs, caulked various gaps, and used the lawn tractor to mulch the various piles of leaves our glorious trees have given us. Oh, the joys of autumn!

This Halloween was generous to my children. We’ve had candy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the last three days! I figure we’ve got another twenty-two days of candy left to eat, if we keep up at this pace. And we have to eat the candy as soon as possible – the sooner it’s gone, the sooner I can get back on my diet!

So I’m sitting here, in my office at Jackson Press, watching my trees leave me more leaves (I wonder if that’s the origin of the word “leaf”?) and half paying attention to the movie “Tombstone” that’s on TV. Val Kilmer’s best role was in this movie, playing the drunk and consumed Doc Holliday. It’s one of my favorite cowboy flicks, along with “Unforgiven”, “The Outlaw Josey Wales”, “The Shootist”, and “Blazing Saddles.” Can’t have a favorite cowboy movie list without at least one John Wayne and one Clint Eastwood movie.

Thanks for reading!

I’m Your Huckleberry.

(c) 2007 C.L. Jackson