Perhaps because he is wedged between his brothers and thus is never alone, my middle son, Simon, has decided I should not be either. And so he has sicced my 93-year-old neighbor, Mr. Ambrose, on me. Mr. Ambrose’s wife was recycled about a year ago, leaving him at the mercy of children who have told the sheriff not to renew his FOID card. F-O-I-D—Fire Arm Owner’s Identification card, documentation one must have in order to purchase a gun. Yes, I do know my precepts, but Mr. Ambrose’s violation of #1 is worth a little discussion. He loves birds– pheasants and quail in particular. Unfortunately, coyotes love them too—for a late night snack. For as long as Mr. Ambrose has lived in the county, he has single-handedly kept the coyote population under control. Now that his wife isn’t around to keep an eye on him, his children aren’t so sure a 93-year-old should be shooting coyotes on the prairie, especially using a .223 with a range of a couple of miles or so.
Mr. Ambrose is heart-broken that his children would go behind his back to take away his second amendment right. He has already voluntarily given up his driver’s license, which he had to renew annually once he turned 87 (and suspected he might have some trouble doing this year, after running the rural mail carrier off the road for the sixth or seventh time). What with his wife dying too, you understand why Simon sent him down the road to me.
So he showed up here on his riding lawn mower and sat on the porch with me while the sun went down and the coyote pack began to assemble in the distance, their yips and yaps small and delicate at first, but growing more solid as the moon rose. I feel for him, I really do, but to be honest, he’s too old for me and not a Buddhist.
Besides, when it’s time, I’ve decided to marry Robert Thurman. And I’ve been thinking out the reasons why he should marry me.
This may be in the distant future or even another life because yes, I know he’s married, and to a beautiful, accomplished woman. I have seen them in person, you know, right there in the Beacon Theatre in New York City. I watched Bob reach out to help his wife up from her prostration in front of His Holiness, The Dalai Lama, and my heart cracked right then and there at his gentleman-liness and her good fortune, and at the break I rushed out and waited in the alley until he came out so that I could get an autograph. (If he thinks back, he may remember me, since I dictated a pretty specific inscription, and he wrote it in my book without question. But he did appear to be in a sort of daze. I’m sure spending hours in close proximity to the Dalai Lama does that to you.)
Why Robert Thurman Should Marry Auntie Seldoen
- Since the Law of Couples allows only one person in a relationship to say dumb things, and I AM THAT PERSON, I would keep him from needing to duct-tape his mouth in the presence of His Holiness, The Dalai Lama, as well as any other dignitary, important person, or just general sentient being he should not be ticking off.
- Because I cling to his every word, I would have caught those typos in his latest book before it went to press.(This could be an illustration of reason #1, but I won’t know until long after I press the “publish” button.)
- I am old and ugly enough that in my presence, Robert will be able to perfect his acceptance of impermanence, his ability NOT TO CLING (this being something he could not possibly accomplish in his current relationship), and his Mindfulness of Death. In fact, my photo should be on the cover of all future editions of . . . In the Between.
- I own Pelden Farm free and clear, and it is a perfect setting for retreats. We can move the tractors, possums, etc. out of the shed during dry weather. All food served here is organic and vegetarian.
- Despite Simon’s meddling, I also have good kids. Not a clunker in the bunch of them.
I intend to keep adding to this list, so check back, Robert, to see if I’ve come up with something that will entice you.
But for now, I’ve got a 93-year-old neighbor who needs my help. What do you think he’d say to a fire puja? We could invite the monks, have a meal, burn up that windfall pine tree west of the strawberry field. Coyote won’t know why, but real soon he’ll get the itch to go to South Carolina.
Only he’ll take–and tell–the whole pack.
