In this issue:

• For Pastors Only (A Book Offer)
• Mini Cigar Review
• A Letter From Father Felim McAllister To Bishop Harry Hackle Regarding Weird William Walsselheimer

Father McAllister's Matchless Debt

Dear Father McAllister:

I was saddened to hear that your fishing camp was burned to a crisp. I was further dismayed when you cited the pipe lighter I had given you as the cause of the fire. I was downright distraught when you poured out your heart in a letter to Bishop Hackel. It is quite distressing when a friend won't come to another when he has aught against him.

My emotions have run amok on this one, Felim. In my natural state of Presbyterian Guilt, I felt partly responsible for the incineration of your getaway. I also cringe that you did not come to me with your aughts. Here I thought we had a developing friendship, only to read about your grievances against me in a national magazine and its burgeoning following.

As a lifelong Protestant, I should have known that former Catholics are not well-versed in the oughts concerning aughts. Ex-priests of Rome such as yourself are probably more comfortable confiding in other clergy than going directly to the source. This is undoubtedly a practice you developed being around the Confessional, a habit of the habits of nuns.

I was further disheartened when the venerable editor of the Church Warden, Mr. Perry S. Fuller, published your letter without as much as a preemptive warning to me, his best friend. As a matter of course, I plan on confronting Mr. Fuller about this egregious oversight when we make our annual trek to New England some time this Fall.

Were I to treat our situation in like manner, going to a third party with hard feelings instead of directly to the source, you know as well as I do that I could paint a very different picture of you to Mr. Fuller than he has at present. I will not tell him how you, in your visit to northern Minnesota this past Spring, expressed reservations about certain key tenants of Protestant theology. I will not tell Mr. Fuller how you excoriated, scourged and eviscerated his skill at tying flies. Neither will I tell him of the most secretive confidence you shared with me: that you had burning lust in your heart for Mr. Fuller's wife, Amy. You even quoted a verse from the Song of Solomon in describing certain features of her anatomy. Did I share this with him? Certainly not!

Hopefully, I've adequately expressed my disappointment in the way you handled your disappointment. However, I write this letter for a second, far more serious matter.

You inferred in your letter to Bishop Hackel that I should be held financially responsible for the loss of your property. My financial adviser, the accounting firm of Carey-Gold-Sachs, estimated that my liability on a Hackel ramshackle would be in the neighborhood of $21,713.14- give or take a few cents.

A few weeks ago, a series of events here in Longville necessitated my going to my accountants to see what YOUR liability should be. If I, like you, were to hold another person responsible for financial loss directly linked to the means in which pipes are lit, I could not begin to calculate your debt. Your rear, sir, would be in insurmountable arrears. Your aught against me involves merely the burning of a fish camp. My aught against you involves the following:

When I read that my pipe lighter had caused damage to your fish camp and your delicate psyche, I had a serious reevaluation of my pipe lighting habits. Sensitive soul that I am, I partly blamed myself for the loss of your property. Not insensitive to environmental concerns, I began weighing which medium, lighter or match, is the most environmentally friendly. The lighter, because it uses butane--a non- replenishable fossil fuel--was the loser hands-down. Matches are simple tools made of sulfur, a natural substance, and wood, a replenishable natural resource. Thus began I the practice, sprung from emotional and environmental guilt, of lighting my pipe with matches.

On June 6, I had taken a break from my studies and had deposited my aching hindquarters on the stoop outside my study door. I was using the aforementioned matches in a futile attempt to light my pipe in the wake of a stiff east wind. About that time, a gentleman twirling an umbrella came by, asking permission to park his car in the church parking lot. He was taking his grandchildren to the Turtle Races, a staple of summer here in my home town. Longville, as you remember, is tourist Mecca for residents of the Twin Cities, Chicago, and 58% of the residents of Iowa.

I readily consented, noting to myself three odd facts concerning the situation. First, the gentleman actually asked permission to park, something that most tourists fail to do. Second, there was not a cloud in the sky, yet the gentleman kept the umbrella unfolded and pointed heavenward. Third, the gentleman walked over, grinned widely when seeing my pipe, and asked what I was smoking. Noting my difficulty in lighting the pipe with matches, the gentleman pulled out the most gorgeous pipelighter mine eyes had ever beheld. Laden with pearl inlay and sporting a nozzle of solid brass, this lighter was undoubtedly priceless. After lighting the pipe--immediately successfully I might add--the gentlemen shooed his grandchildren away. We sat on my office steps and wiled the afternoon away in a delightful conversation.

The lighter was an antique French butane he had purchased on the Riviera. He then pulled out from a pipe holster a 1933 Dunhill, filled it with Balkan Sobrannie (an original pouch, vintage 1965), and lit the pipe. My drool was enough to water the church lawn.

Talk of pipedom led from one thing to another and it was not long that I discovered the identity of my gracious guest. His name was Anders Andersen. Occupation? C.E.O. of a Fortune 500 company founded and headquartered in Minneapolis. I thought it ironic that I, a lowly pastor of a small, rural church, should be trading yarns with one of the country's wealthiest persons.

Our conversation, as banter is wont to do, veered one way, then another, until I finally had the courage to ask him about the umbrella. Why, when there was not a cloud in sight, was the gentleman perched beneath an umbrella? (The object in question, by the way, was not a garden-variety umbrella, but rather a 1947 Belgian parasol.) Mr. Andersen hesitated, then said he hadn't the faintest clue. It was clear from the tone of his voice that he was as baffled by his parasol fetish as anyone.

For the next few weeks, Anders and I had regular discussions over coffee at the Common Grounds Coffeehouse, which would then disperse out to his "cabin," a palatial northwoods Taj Mahal on Big Boy Lake. There, under a dozen mounted mooseheads, walleye and antelope, we would puff away on our pipes, often in the silence that friends grow to enjoy.

The longer we met, the more he opened up. Eventually, we began to talk about his parasol fetish. I don't like to put on the braggadocio, dearest Felim, but God has gifted me with counseling skills, both by nature and by training. In time, I had artfully stripped away the mystery behind the parasol, something that shrinks in three continents had been unable to do for Anders.

When Anders was a child, his parents had taken him to an air show at Ft. Snelling, just outside St. Paul. There Anders watched in horror as two pre-World War 2 airplanes collided in mid-air. The crowd, sans Anders, ran for cover. He, however, was mesmerized and stood there, gawking up at the sky while fire and shrapnel fell to the airfield. A piece of flaming metal grazed another stupefied spectator. Anders had repressed the memory of the man running, his arms up in the air, his face red and pale at the same time, evoking a blood-curdling scream. Just as he was about to be hit by a hurling hunk of metal, Anders' father scooped the boy up in his arms and ferried his son to safety. Anders had buried the entire episode deep within the crevasse of his psyche.

For the next 38 years of his life, Mr. Andersen lived a normal life, if you can call moving rapidly up the ladder of the H----l Corporation normal. He began working at H----l after graduating from the Wharton Business School and was successful at every juncture. Twelve years ago, Anders was elected C.E.O. Ten years ago, Anders made the mistake of attending another air show at Ft. Snelling.

For all those years, he had successfully repressed the memories of what had happened during childhood. But now, standing on virtually the same spot he had been 38 years earlier, something snapped. From that moment on, he could not go anywhere without an umbrella/parasol. He was subconsciously deathly afraid of objects falling from the sky. It didn't matter where he went, whether to Board meetings or to pick up his underwear at Target, Anders had the parasol open, indoors and out.

At first, his parasolic paramour was greeted with chuckles. The genius is more often than not an eccentric. But as the strangeness stretched over many years, Anders became somewhat of a laughing stock. This Spring, Wall Street types and those whose job it is it rate a company's bond worthiness began questioning Anders' stability. Stockholders were getting jittery. The parasol was affecting not only Anders' business life; it had a horrible effect on his personal life. No longer was he able to take his Criss-Craft boat out to fish for musky and northern pike. No longer was he able to take his bi-annual trips to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area.

Anders had been contemplating retirement when word of an established, behemoth East Coast corporation's desire to acquire his company began stirring on Wall Street. Secret, preliminary talks were held. Rumors of the acquisition began flying about and the corporation's stock reached a level of volatility never before seen in a company with Minnesota roots.

The whole thing, I came to understand, hinged on Anders' parasol fetish and the alleged mental illness. Was he capable of presiding over the merger of two gigantic corporations? Would the requisite strain of all things physically and emotionally drive Anders over the edge?

Without Mr. Andersen being in optimal mental health, the deal would be dead in the water. Billions of dollars was at stake.

It was at that point that Anders Andersen, pipesmoking rich fat cat, came into contact with the likes of me. And I, according to Anders, had been providentially used to rescue both his mental health and the stockholders of millions of people.

I encouraged Anders to celebrate his freedom. Chuck the parasol. Sell it on E-Bay. Take the Criss-Craft out and slay the walleye. Take a canoe trip.

He couldn't be happier. Neither could I.

I could say that helping Anders was an incomparable experience. There is, however, another episode of my life in which giveth me goose pimples.

This past May, I went on an overnight retreat at the Benedictine Sisters Retreat House in Duluth. The Spring had not been good to me. I was still reeling from your criticism of me in a national forum. As is wont in all clergy, as you well know, I was exhausted from the rigors of Lent and Easter. Most importantly, I had yet to take any time to adequately grieve the death of my Dad the month before.

Silence is the rule of thumb at the retreat house, with scheduled periods where conversation is allowed. (Duh, like a priest wouldn't know this!) It was during one of those lulls in the silence that I overheard a fellow guest, speaking with a pronounced, Deep South accent. I was planning on retiring to the grounds outside to light up my pipe, but was drawn to the conversation, which centered around the oddity of a Roman Catholic convent in the middle of the Bible Belt.

The accent belonged to the Mother Superior of the Sisters of St. Austeritus, an order of cloistered nuns in the Cistercian family of Roman Catholic orders. Their Rule is based on silence, work, prayer, and a rigid, Spartan lifestyle.

(Note to myself before mailing this letter: Why am I wasting all this information on an ex-Priest?)

As you know, parts of the Deep South are very Protestant, very anti-Catholic, and very fundamentalist. A deep trough of Pentecostalism has been emanating in waves from the Deep South for many years.

The Sisters of St. Austeritus have been at their present locale near Fort Fundy, Alabama for many years, enjoying a peaceful existence in solitude and seclusion from the outside world. Two years ago, much to their horror, the adjoining property was sold to an immense charismatic congregation from Birmingham. Bulldozers appeared at the bordering property early one morning, and the church--The Glorious Brotherhood Temple of the Holy Ghost--began excavation for its new venture, a megaplex that threatened the very way of life for the sisters.

A huge tent, donated by an admirer of the church from far away Peoria, Illinois, was erected that was to seat 10,000 loyal adherents to the church. The benefactor, a major stockholder of the Caterpillar Machinery Corporation, hinted that his gift was something akin to corporate sponsorship. Thus the gift was named The Caterpillar Tent.

Convoys of semi-trucks rolled through, carrying television cameras, microphones, mixing equipment and the latest broadcasting technology. The tent was the studio for the GBTHG cable venture, "The Revival Channel," from whence the church would be broadcasting healing, tongue speaking, words of knowledge, slaying in the Spirit, and holy laughter spasms 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

If that weren't enough, the GBTHG was also constructing a Theme Park, with such attractions as a zoological park with Daniel's Lions Den, the Ezekiel Saw de Ferris Wheel, The Holy Ghoster Roller Coaster, and a 100' tall statue of Jesus made from turnip greens.

No attempt was made on the part of the GBTHG to meet with the Sisters before beginning their project. The Sisters, following the guide of the great desert Abbess JoMommah, discerned this as a testing of their patience and a building of their character.

The whirring of the chainsaws was not what finally did in the Sisters. It was not the hammering and pounding, the dust of the trucks, nor the music of Jimmy Swaggert blaring through the loudspeakers 24 hours a day. No, what drove the Sisters to the brink of despair was when the Revival Channel began their broadcasts.

The co-hosts of the show, Pastor Billy C. Prime and his wife, Pastor Ginny Prime, wanted to get a good start, something to give the show an initial ratings boost.

Pastor Prime invited the faithful to line up, laid hands on all of them, and not more than a few of them began running.

As one steeped in high liturgical worship, you may not know, Felim, that Pentecostal revivalism has certain characteristics which run foreign to people accustomed to priestly vestments, incense, chanting, and a five-minute sermon. It is not uncommon in certain Pentecostal circles for the faithful, when jolted by a high-octane, highly-caffeinated bolt of the Holy Ghost, to break into physical acts which you (and many others) would deem weird. I'm sure you've heard of how groups near the airport in Toronto have been experiencing Holy Ghost giggling fits for several years now, chortling, hooting and guffawing for hours upon end in abject, holy joy.

What you may not be aware of, my Anglican friend, is that for many years certain folks in Appalachia and the Deep South, when touched by the Spirit, have broken out into fits of running. The sprinting is usually confined to the sanctum of the church sanctuary. The touched typically run up, down and through the aisles, their arms and face raised in radiant joy, kind of like St. Stephen, except without the stoning. The only collateral damage in holy running is a banged up shin or knee of the runner, and some severely trampled toes of the faithful relegated to the pews.

Remember, now, that Pastor Prime was doing her laying on of hands under a tent with open sides. Remember, now, that those who were nudged into joyous jogging were not confined to matters of matter and space as most.

On the first night of the revival broadcast, Pastor Prime laid hands on one particular gentleman who, when experiencing the rush, raised up his hands and face, began running through the folding chairs for approximately twelve minutes, made a right hand turn at the book table, spilled 137 copies of Sister Prime's autobiography "A Minister Who Is Pastor Prime" onto the dirt floor, and was last seen by the faithful bolting in the direction of the Sisters of St. Austeritus Convent.

Exhilarated, the gentleman ran fast and carefree until he unwittingly stepped into a pit of baby rattlesnakes and twisted his knee. As a dozen baby snakes slithered toward him, hissing as loudly as fans at a Philadelphia Phillies game, the man looked in horror as the momma snake made a pronounced lunge in his general direction. Although his right ankle was twisted and the left knee hyper-extended, the gentleman had two very good reasons to run now: the joy of the Holy Ghost and the pursuit of thirteen visibly upset serpents.

This was bad. But it got worse for the runner. The snakes, slow as they are, were beginning to gain ground. The ankle had swollen to where it looked for all the world that he had Elephant Man's Disease. And just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, he looked around to see the position of the snakes. The gentleman turned his head back to the front, only to discover that he had run smack dab into a wasps' nest.

Filled with holy joy, sporting a swollen ankle and a twisted knee, the righteous runner was now being pursued by a convoy of 13 serpentine characters right out of Genesis 3 and approximately 1,358 wasps.

This was bad. But there was hope. For, straight ahead, the runner could see the Coleman lanterns on picnic tables of "Campers For Christ," who had come to the first airing of the Revival. As his heart leaped up about 3/4 the way up the arterial chamber, he once again fell, this time into an open pit. The environmentally incorrect Campers For Christ had emptied into said pit their coffee grounds, soured milk, cut-rate hamburger that had been mistakenly left to decay, and a dozen toner cartridges whose canisters had ripped and necessitated their disposal.

His ankle gave way, his knees slid through the piquant coffee grounds, his crotch slid into the expired moo juice, his chest collected most of the fetid ground beef, and his face made a pinpoint landing into the toner. Still in pursuit came the snakes, the wasps, and the reinforcements of three gentle pets belonging to a member of Campers For Christ: an 18 month old, 120 pound Rottweiler named Matthias, a five pound Pomeranian named Spike, and a four year old, 138 pound Pitt Bull named Nathaniel.

The runner prayed and recited Job 30:15:

"Terrors are turned upon me: they pursue my soul as the wind: and my welfare passeth away as a cloud."

In desperation, he lifted up holy hands and began screaming unto the Lord who wert his helper, running even faster away, adding Exodus 21:33-34 to his scriptural repertoire:

"And if a man shall open a pit, or if a man shall dig a pit, and not cover it, and an ass fall therein; The owner of the pit shall make it good, and give money unto the owner of them; and the dead beast shall be his."

Meanwhile, the 9,999 faithful at the Caterpillar Tent, delighted that a dozen other congregants were now running in shoes, were, quite naturally, most oblivious to the plight of the hurried harrier. The 34 Sisters of the Convent of St. Austeritus, deep in prayer and returning from Matins (the evening service of Benedictine orders), were equally unaware of the drama unfolding on the adjacent property.

Mother Superior, deeply vexed at heart, was walking the grounds of the monastery, asking Our Lady for help. Should she reach out to these strange people with their unseemly ways? Should she remain quiet, turn the other cheek and go about their ordered life as usual? Or should she hire a leathernecked, hot-tempered, meaner-than-Satan Jewish lawyer from Atlanta and sue Sister Prime's polyester pants off?

The answer she received was none of the above, but it was a clear response from Our Lady nonetheless. For just as the other 33 sisters had retired to the quiet contemplation of their cells, Mother Superior heard a blood-curdling scream. She detected the barking of bloodhounds in pursuit of an escaped con. The sound of wasps, mixed in with the hissing of snakes, made it sound like Armageddon was approaching.

Mother Superior fell to her knees, grasping her rosary beads and was about to pray most piously when all of the sudden, scaling over the 10' brick wall and literally leaping out of the kudzu trees, came a man, his arms raised in the air, his chest covered with blood, his crotch stained in brown, his eyes bulging like white balloons, his face blackened as a demon from the pits of hell, screaming at the top of his voice, "Hallelujah! Thank ya' Jesus! Lawd, riscue me! Lawd, riscue me!"

Absolutely oblivious to the presence of Mother Superior, the man ran smack into the nun, bowling her over flattened and stunned. Coffee grounds, hamburger, sour milk and toner flew in her face. Lying flat on her back, Mother Superior looked on in horror as the snakes slithered across her belly, the wasps sped by like chainsaws with wings, and Spike, Nathaniel and Matthias tromped over her like roadkill.

She sat up and watched the man, his arms raised and his lungs blaring, "Hep me, Lawd! Lawdy, Lawdy, hep me!" run in the general direction of the vegetable garden, destroying 24 squash plants and bowling over a statue of St. Teresa as he ran in shoes toward the Promised Land.

To Mother Superior, it was a sign from Our Lady herself: Get as far away as possible from Ft. Fundy, Alabama.

That was two years ago. In that time, there have been eleven more recorded instances of URPs (Unidentified Running Pentecostals), and the Sisters of St. Austeritus' search for new digs had been fruitless.

As I stood by in rapt attention at Mother Superior's story, a revelation, a moment, a numinous came over me, the likes of which I had never experienced. I providentially remembered a place for sale a mere seven miles south of Longville, on Rickey Lake. The land and the lake were originally owned by the great baseball legend Branch Rickey. The 23 acres were, after Rickey's death, sold to one of the heirs of the Pillsbury fortune (built by Pillsbury dough, boy!), and converted into a summer retreat and deer hunting camp. The present owner was a devout member of the Brethren Church, who wanted the land to be sold to a religious organization. There would be no log homes with their requisite boat docks built on the property. There would be no endless hum of jet skies assaulting the quiet, pristine air of the Great Northwoods. No, a group dedicated to prayer and quiet contemplation would use the land. It seemed to me to be the perfect place for a Cistercian Convent.

I went outside, filled my pipe, and--thwarted once again by a stiff wind coming off Lake Superior--was vainly trying to light the pipe with matches when Mother Superior, a big smile on her face, came by, pulled out a Bic lighter from her purse, lit up a Pall Mall, and offered me the lighter. It was superior being with Mother Superior by The Superior.

I wasted no time in telling her about the property on Rickey Lake. She, with usual Southern hospitality and aplomb, kindly thanked me for thinking of her, but the Sisters were more accustomed to warmer climes. I countered that the Longville area was the closest thing I had ever seen to paradise. It was quiet. Most Minnesotans are kind, unassuming and not overly emotional. With its large population of Germans, Roman Catholicism runs neck-and-neck with Lutheranism as the dominant faith system. Best of all, I told her, Minnesota is probably the least Pentecostal state in the country. Mother Superior would never, I assured her, see men running with their arms raised and their mouths screaming in holy terror.

This last information obviously spoke to something in Mother Superior's heart. Her face struck a thoughtful, pensive pose as she said she would think and pray about it.

The next morning, while packing away my Macintosh Powerbook laptop (another stout affinity you and I, dearest Felim share in our love of Macintosh and loathing of Windows/Intel), Mother Superior came by and asked if it were possible for me to take her to see the property. I quickly acquiesced, and drove straight from Duluth to Rickey Lake. Mother Superior was delighted.

The following week, Mother Superior informed me that she had made contact with the owner, thanked me for my help, and said that negotiations were progressing fabulously. Thanks to me, she said, the Sister of St. Austeritus would be moving to a place where their way of life could be preserved and furthered. All the Sisters need do, said she, was drive up from Ft. Fundy, deal with the closing, and begin preparations to move their base of operations.

I was the toast of Longville. The Chamber of Commerce was contemplating a special citation for the contribution the Sisters of St. Austeritus would be bringing to the area. Benedictine/Cistercian communities, as you well know, are known not only for their quiet, godly way of like: they are also renowned for the goods they make in order to support their habits. The Christian Brothers make brandy and fruitcake. The Brothers of St. Swithin make delightful wine. And, since the Cistercians are rooted in Egyptian Desert Monasticism, the Sisters of St. Austeritus are known for their engineering skills at hydrology. The Cistercian Sisters of Ft. Fundy have developed a water collection device world renowned for its usability: the Cistercian Sisters Cistern. Its patent and manufacture have made the Sisters awash in cash. A big chunk of change would be dinked into the local economy.

I was feeling pretty good, Felim, recovering from the ills that had befallen me. I had helped a pipesmoking friend rid himself of a longstanding mental block and assisted in the return of some normalcy to his life; I had helped a convent relocate to a place where their way of life could be preserved, and was at least indirectly responsible for another boost to the Longville economy.

The warm fuzzies were still enveloping me on the morning of July 2, when I made my morning jaunt to the One Stop Convenience Store (Longville's version of a K-Mart) for my daily copy of the St. Paul Pioneer Press. I received a few words of cheer from the Liars' Club, a group of about 20 guys who gather at the tables there each morning and tell fish stories over coffee.

At the end of one table, his ever present Lund Boats cap turned slightly to the side, Lars Larsen was holding court over the latest news of the community. The Sisters' moving to Longville was old news by this time. The latest rage was all about the 4th of July Extravaganza coming up in two days.

When you visited me last Spring, you saw the Longville that I love: sparsely populated, laid back, and awash in woods and lakes and wildlife. This pastoral aura changes completely over Mother's Day weekend. Beginning with the Friday before Mother's Day, the state Fishing Opener swings wide the floodgates, and the population of Longville swells from 250 to about 8,000.

The Fourth of July is THE big event in Longville. Our parade is second-to-none, and the town is inundated with activities for the kiddies, picnics, hayrides, and a spectacular fireworks show. The big event, however, is a musical show celebrating the ethnic roots of northern Minnesota. Here in our little town, one can be dazzled on this holiday by the top ethnic entertainment one can find. The show rotates each year among the leading ethnic groups represented in Minnesota: Scandinavian and German. A big tent is erected, enough beer is served to replenish the Rhine, and the air is filled with accordion music and hand clapping. It is the only time you will see a Minnesotan halfway uninhibited.

Two years ago, the Swedish Society of New Ulm presented a rollicking program that made even the Lutherans clap. A year ago, it was a group from Eveleth, a town overwhelmingly dominated by people whose ancestors came over from Finland. Their entertainment was an accordion orchestra, merged with an Irish accordion band from the Twin Cities, called The Mickey Finns. They also put on a dazzling exhibit of cabinets by Finnish carpenters.

This year, however, tension was in the air. Three years ago, the planning committee signed a contract with the Dakota Minstrels (of Hoople, North Dakota) a musical review of old German music and life. The town was delighted to have procured their services and the citizens had been looking forward to this performance with great anticipation.

A wrench, however, was thrown into the wheel. The gears were ground to a halt. The expected performance, for all intents and purposes, was kaput.

You, dear Felim, might be asking "Why?" Was it economics? No, the planning committee had a generous grant to take care of the Minstrels' fee. Was it logistical? No, a bigger tent had been erected for this year's performance, though dwarfed in comparison by the Caterpillar Tent in Ft. Fundy.

No, the problem had to do with the Minstrels vaudeville medley. The Grand Prohibitia? The Minstrels would be performing the medley in black face, featuring a fabulous Al Jolson imitator who sang "Rock-a-bye your baby with a Dixie Melody," in the native tongue of Deutschland ober allis.

Anglo audiences had always been entertained by this gem with the original lyrics:

Rock-a-bye your baby
with a Dixie melody
And Old Black Joe just as though
you had me on your knees
A million baby kisses I'll deliver

But we denizens of Longville would be treated to the song as if it were sung in a Munich cabaret from the 1930's.

Ersch�ttern ein untergeordnet das Kleinkind Ihr
mit eine Melodie Kochgeschirr
und alt Josef unsauber jetzt als ob
Du Es w�re mir �ber Ihr das h�ngende Knie
Ein etliche Millionen das Flaschenkind k�sst Ich werde �berbringen
Die Minute Das stimmt Du laut singen Swanee der Flub
Und Ersch�ttern ein untergeordnet das Kleinkind Ihr
mit eine Melodie Kochgeschirr

Though this ruffled only slightly the feathers of some locals, word filtered downstate to the Minnesotans Empowering Nagging Political Astuteness Uniting Segregation and Equality, or MENOPAUSE.

MENOPAUSE, wanting to know if any state monies were involved, immediately sent representatives to Longville. Disappointed that the venture was privately funded, MENOPAUSE representatives piled into their 84' VW Eurobus and sped westward ho to Hoople. There, out of their jurisdiction and purview, the MENOPAUSErs were once more thwarted when the group's manager laughed in their faces and hurled sexist, Eurocentric, male-dominated barbs their way, enough for most of them to drive hurriedly back home for cups of herbal tea and appointments with their therapists.

The MENOPAUSErs were not done, however. They were not about to allow any offensive material reach the ears of the children, women and minorities of Longville. Using their vast network in the Twin Cities and through the auspices of the Minnesota Democratic Farm Labor Party, MENOPAUSE called for a massive demonstration in Longville.

This was the topic of conversation that morning. Would we as a town allow ourselves to be bullied around by this bunch? Were we going to let a small group of whiney Utopians dictate our way of life? And just how many were going to show up here? Could the town handle a dozen protestors, much less the 12,000 the MENOPAUSErs were predicting would show up en masse?

Admittedly, my spirits were somewhat dampened by this talk. I was also taken back by the tone of Lars' voice.

Lars and I go back a long way. He was one of the first people I had met who was not part of the church when I moved here in 1997. Lars had been the sole proprietor of the town's only septic tank service company. As the area had grown, Lars had seen his business go from the dumps to the heights. He just couldn't keep up with, as he called it, all the crap with which he had to deal. Finally, one day he received a certified letter, via his lawyer, that a California investment company was interested in purchasing Lars' business. Though unnamed in the letter, Lars assumed it was a subsidiary of BFI, who had branched from their trash hauling business to the hauling of septic waste. Intrigued, Lars contacted his lawyer.

To make a long story short, Lars did indeed sell his business to the big California Conglomerate. But it wasn't BFI: it was a group of investors led by the actress Cloris Leachman. Ms. Leachman herself took an interest in this acquisition, seeing that she had once played a character on Mary Tyler Moore that lived in Minneapolis. Also fitting, her television show husband on MTM was called Lars. Ms. Leachman insisted that the name of the business be henceforth named Cloris Septic. And so it was. And so it was.

Three more trucks were purchased. Lars, his pockets already laden with cash, contemplated retirement. He had worked hard all his life, however, and wasn't ready for retirement at age 49. He stayed on as manager on one condition: that he be allowed to operate his old, 1959 pumper. Ms. Leachman agreed, holding Lars to the condition, however, of having the truck painted. Lars agreed, and was now the richest septic pumper in Minnesota.

His wealth didn't change him. He still wore the same clothes, worked the same, long hours, and maintained his old loves of fishing, hunting, and wagering.

That's how Lars and I got to know each other: through a bet. You are aware, Felim, that I have never bought as much as a lottery ticket in my whole life. I wouldn't know a bookie if I saw one. I do, however, like to engage in small gambles as long as I know it's a sure thing. My bet with Lars was, indeed, one that couldn't go wrong.

I had been in Minnesota a scant six weeks when one evening, walking to the parsonage (that's low-church for Rectory, in case you didn't know), I saw a moose in the woods behind the house. I was thrilled, this being the first moose I had ever seen. In six short weeks I had spotted the staples of northern Minnesota wildlife, timberwolves, and now had moose on my list.

The next morning at One Stop, I was recounting my moose sighting to Scott, the owner. Lars, who has ears like a Chihuahua, laughed so hard that he spit out his coffee. "Pastor," he said, "you may be a man of the cloth, but you're either lying or got eyes like Mister Magoo. There's no such thing as moose down this far. The furthest south they will go is 25 miles north of here, and most of them live up near International Falls." (about 2 1/2 hours away) I politely disagreed, stating that I knew what I had seen.

At that moment, Lars bet me a steak dinner that there were no moose around Longville. Were I to lose, I would buy him a steak dinner at the local four star restaurant. Were Lars to lose, he would take me to Minneapolis in a stretch limousine and buy me the biggest, thickest, juiciest steak money could buy at Mortons. We shook on it.

As Lars continued his blustering at the table, I stepped outside to light the pipe and get on my way. It was hot enough to make a Presbyterian preacher say nasty things under his breath, not that I would ever do such a thing. A fierce, blistering, blustery wind was blowing from the south, and the thermometer was already at 87 at 10 in the morning. As usual, the matches were continually overwhelmed by the wind. It was just as well, as the Reverend Jan Jansen pulled up in his Olds, a perpetual Billy Graham-ish smile plastered on his face. I quickly threw the pipe in my back seat.

"Good to see you, brother," said Jan. "I've got some great news for you." I braced myself for an onslaught of statistics Rev. Jansen likes to report. Jan is pastor of the Calvary Baptist Church of the Second Coming in Hackensack, Longville's nearest neighboring town at 18 miles to the west. He is about as fundamentalist as a fundamentalist can mentally fund a list. He is an immersionist, a pre-millennialist, a non-reconstructionist, and Schindler's List is on his no-see list because of its scenes of topless concentration camp inmates.

Jan and I are friends, though I cannot understand why. He thinks my theology is apostate and can't understand why I continue in my apostate denomination. Because I don't think that Moses wrote the first five books of the Bible, Jan thinks that I am bordering perilously on the edge of eternal darkness and spending an eternity of gnashing my teeth. My only saving grace, other than what should be the nature of grace, is that I am evangelical and preach the grace of God. He also likes my library, continually borrowing my more liberal books to see what "the enemy" says about a particular passage of scripture.

Jan and I have cooperated on some prayer ventures, surprised as he was that mainline Presbyterians actually pray. As I stashed my pipe, I was prepared for news about an all night prayer meeting or a Fall Revival the Calvary Baptist Church of the Second Coming was sponsoring. But no, it was good news. News that involved me.

About a year ago, a middle aged man who had moved to Hackensack from southern Virginia began attending Jan's church. He attended regularly, became active in the church, and eventually approached Jan about membership.

In Jan's church, three questions preclude all others. First, are you saved? Second, have you been baptized? Third, are you excited about the Lord?

The gentleman, John Johnson, readily affirmed his relationship with Christ. The next two, however, were something like shaving with a dull blade to Jan.

No, John had NOT been baptized. No, John was NOT excited about the Lord.

These negative responses quickly slammed the door on John's membership at CBCSC. With an embarrassed, ashen face, John left the Deacon's meeting and left hurriedly.

As an Irishman, dearest Felim, you know the pleasure of a good, rich cup of coffee. As a Scotsman, I, too, love my coffee strong and robust. Beware, should you ever visit me again, of ordering coffee in any Minnesota restaurant. They should be sued for false advertising. The sluice that is brewed here is little more than twelve cups of water rushed quickly through one teaspoon of ground coffee. It is weak, tepid, and disgusting. But as a typical Scandinavian, Jan loves it.

That's why he was up with John at the crack of dawn the next day, sipping the swill at the Up North Caf�. Jan had to ask John about his failure to properly answer the second and third portions of the Baptist holy trinity of questions.

As Jan queried his potential parishioner, the following was learned by his good, Socratic method.

First, while growing up in southern Virginia, John's earliest exposure to organized religion was with the Salvation Army in Roanoke. As an uppity, high-church cleric, it may surprise you, Father McAllister, that there are indeed a few denominations that don't believe in baptism. The Salvation Army is one of them. Thus John had never been baptized. That, said Jan, was readily remedied.

When Jan tried gleaning some more of this information that had fallen off the tree, he learned why John was not excited about the Lord: He had been clinically depressed for several years. And, to top it off, John was scared silly of being baptized. No amount of scripture quoted about joy was about to change John Johnson. He had heard it all before. And the fact that he shouldn't be depressed made him even moreso.

It was at this point in the conversation that the image of yours truly, Rev. William Duane Brown, B.A., MDiv., came into Jan's consciousness. Jan knew that I, William Duane Brown, had fought episodic, debilitating depression at several points in my life. He knew that I, William Duane Brown, had in 1978 been immersed in the waters of Lake Chaweva in the act of believer's baptism He knew that I, William Duane Brown, art intimately acquainted with all mine ways of those who live in the mining areas of Appalachia. What better person to talk to than a dunked, ex-depressed expatriate hillbilly? And even though Jan didn't believe in counseling, per se, he asked me to "have some talks" with John.

John and I quickly hit it off. I had spent some time working with the Salvation Army when it ran the Boys and Girls Club of Charleston. My sister's best friend was a career officer in the Salvation Army. We shared a common Appalachian heritage, and I was able to share with John some of the things I went through in ten years of counseling before I was properly diagnosed with the cause of my depression, Inattentive Attention Deficit Disorder. The therapy and the combination of the nifty meds I took each day had been a lifesaver, I told him. And he agreed to see a professional therapist.

There still, however, was an obstinate obstacle in the way of John's being baptized. As is so often the case, the answer didn't come as the result of a direct question. It came out of the blue.

Earlier this Summer, parts of West Virginia and Virginia were hit with massive flooding. I called John when I heard that the flooding had reached the area in which he was raised.

I have been fortunate, to this point in my life, to have escaped the big natural disasters that strike so many: floods, tornadoes, hurricanes, living next door to a person who likes rap music. But John had not been so auspicious. When he was four, a flash flood came roaring down the creek behind the Johnson homestead. The creek quickly turned into a river, the river quickly into a rushing, violent lake.

John stood by the turbulent water. His mother absentmindedly let go of his hand and John stuck his foot into the water. The current was so fast that it quickly sucked the boy into the water. He thought he was going to drown. At that point a cluster of trees came rushing down the water and John, still to this day not knowing how he did it, reached out to a limb and climbed on board the tree. All the while, his parents were running alongside, yelling, screaming, and crying.

Though the roar of the water was deafening, the trees began to con-glomerate and John heard the sound of rushing hooves. He looked up and saw that a huge deer, an 18-point buck, had its antlers caught in a tree and had freed itself. Its eyes were bulging, its legs flailing, the huge buck ran right toward John, who even at age four guessed that his life was about to be over. But just as the deer was about to leap on him, John heard the firing of a shot. In slow motion, he could see the bullet pierce the buck's chest, travel through its heart, splattering blood, fur and bone all over the place. John fell off the tree into the rushing water. He went down, once. Twice. The third time up he could see the deer carcass floating toward him. But as soon as the deer was about to immerse John to his death, John's father reached out, grabbed him, and pulled him to safety. It was a harrowing, horrible experience for anyone, much less a four-year-old kid.

Ever since then, John has hated rain. He could never bring himself to go hunting. He refuses to swim. And though the simple process of conversation, John discovered why he was in perpetual fear, and why he had never been baptized.

Positively perking on Prozac, John Johnson was no longer despondent 24 hours a day. Seeing the same counselor who had so tremendously helped me was altering his outlook.

John had approached Jan. He was excited about the Lord and wanted to be baptized. Could Pastor Brown and Pastor Jansen share the honors? A patriotic sort, John wanted to be immersed in the Little Boy River on the 4th of July. Could I clear my calendar for Wednesday? Jan asked How could I refuse? I answered.

As I pulled into my driveway, I remembered why I had gone to the One Stop for the second time that day. My lovely wife had asked me to pick up a gallon of milk which I, in typical A.D.D.-ish fashion, had forgotten. I turned the Honda around went back to the store, went inside, and heard even more commotion emanating from the table of Lars Larsen.

"Jesse's coming here? To Longville? I don't believe it."

The Liars Club was all abuzz with the day's second big burst of news. Governor Jesse "The Ego" Ventura was going to be visiting Longville on the 4th to ride in the parade. And, not only that, he was bringing a group of Japanese businessmen with him. Either before or after the holiday, the governor and the Nipponese businessmen driving to the Minnesota Iron Range, about a two-hour drive to the east, where our friends from across the Pacific Pond were seriously considering resurrecting the LTV iron processing plant, which had been closed for about six months. (Ironically, many political types blame the plant's demise on Japanese steel imports).

How, the Liars Club asked, could Longville handle so much in one day: a show with a vaudeville show in blackface and sung in German under a tent the size of a football field, a demonstration by MENOPAUSE with the size of 12,000 angry protestors, a group of businessmen with a wallet the size of the gross national product of the Philippines, and the mere presence of Governor Jesse Ventura, a man with an ego the size of Lake Huron?

Two days later on the 4th, I was, Father Felim, juiced and ready to go. So much was going on that day. A newfound friend was going up the Little Boy River in his first canoe trip, sans parasol, in many years. The Sisters of St. Austeritus were in town to celebrate the 4th and to close on their new property the next day. The governor who rappelled into his inaugural ball wearing a feather boa was going to be in town with a dozen Japanese businessmen. Twelve thousand members of the Thought Police were going to be outside the tent making oafs of themselves whilst 36 members of the Germanic vaudeville act that precipitated their presence would be inside the tent entertaining. And, last but not least, a fellow ex-harried ex-hillbilly was taking the plunge with me at his side. What could be better?

At 11:00 a.m., Jeanette and I took the grandkids into town to watch the parade. Jesse "The Ego" Ventura, the parade's grand marshal, sported his toothy grin and charmed most of the spectators. Clowns tossed gobs of candy at kids under four, most of whom gobbled down the stuff, turned green at the ears, barfed, or became hyper enough to bring even the most patient parent to deliriums. As the town's most visible sufferer of A.D.D., at least six parents later knocked on my door seeing if I would sell them a Ritalin tablet.

I had just enough time to make a quick visit out to the home of Hans Hansen, a member of the church who had come home that morning from the hospital after suffering a slight stroke. John Johnson was scheduled to be baptized at 1:00 p.m. Town was so crowded that day, and parking at such a premium, that not only did several idiots park in my lawn, one particular imbecile had the audacity to park in front of my garage and hem in the Honda. I quickly waltzed to my other vehicle, the '89 Crown Vic that you so loved when you visited.

The visit with Hans turned out to be longer than I had wanted. At ten minutes after one, I excused myself, got in the Ford and began boogying toward the sight of the baptism. Hans lives on Lake Inguadona, and a beautiful gravel road runs perpendicular to the Little Boy River. Not only was this a shortcut to the baptismal sight, I thought I also might catch sight of Anders in his canoe. As I scurried along, I thought this called for a celebratory act. I reached onto the seat for my Peterson pipe, filled it with MacBaren, and began trying to light it with the matches. I had forgotten that I had received a misguided water balloon in the front seat on the way there. The balloon had splattered just enough water to dampen the matches.

I kept striking and striking, all to no avail. At last, the last match flamed, I lowered the flame into the bowl of the pipe, and just then a sliver of sulfur flew off the match head, ricocheted off my arm, and fell right onto lap of the area of my pants guarding my privates.

Felim, you have not experienced pain until a shard of white hot sulfur has burned its way through denim, burrowed its way through cotton jockey shorts, then landed on the sacred space of your reproductive facilities. I felt, literally, like my pants were on fire. The thing is that, literally, my pants WERE on fire. I jerked up, banged my head on the ceiling, accidentally depressing the accelerator to the floor and speeding up to about 50 miles an hour on the dirt road.

I didn't see the moose ramble out onto the road.

I didn't see the bumper of my big bad car send the moose flying into the air, into the general direction of the Little Boy River.

I didn't see Anders Andersen, who just at that time was paddling his way up the Little Boy River, his parasol torn into little pieces and placed in the dumpster, his face beaming and looking at the freedom of a clear Minnesota sky.

I didn't see Anders Andersen looking suddenly at the carcass of a 300 pound moose come sailing from across the bank, arc like a vintage World War 2 airplane, and suddenly come flying down directly at his uplifted face.

I didn't see the moose carcass fall directly on Anders and completely submerge the canoe into the depths of the water.

I didn't see that the van carrying the Mother Superior and the Sisters of St. Austeritus meet me coming the other way on the gravel road.

I didn't see the van swerve to miss the flying moose and me.

I didn't see the Sisters of Austeritus look on in horror as I leaped from my car, threw off my pants (mercifully leaving on the boxers), raise my hands in the air, and run helter skelter, eyes bulging out and letting out a blood-curdling scream.

I didn't see the Sisters look in disbelief as the man who told them they would never encounter running, screaming men in Minnesota went running and screaming off in the other direction.

I didn't see Anders Andersen emerge from the Little Boy River, his heart racing and his mind turned to cauliflower, rush out of the water, losing his pants, then with raised arms and bulging eyes, come running on the gravel road in the opposite direction I had come.

I didn't see the look on Mother Superior's face as she witnessed the face of the man whose picture had graced Time Magazine as the Changing Face of Business ran past her like a banshee.

I didn't see the baptismal party, disappointed and disheartened that I had not arrived to take part, decide that they could no longer wait for the apostate Presbyterian pastor to participate in a paedonot plunking.

I didn't see Jan and John wade out into the middle of the Little Boy River, nor did I hear Jan deliver a few words on the meaning of baptism (Jan's few words are longer than a Beethoven symphony) before he thrust John's head into the river.

I didn't see Jan dunk John's head the first time after he had said, "John Johnson, I baptize thee in the name of the Father . . ."

I didn't see John, Jan, and the gathered crowd of wading well-wishers fail to take immediate notice of the body of the moose, entangled with not a few dead branches and limbs along for the ride, floating rapidly down the river. But just as he was about to go down for the Son dunk (. . . and the Son . . .), John spotted the oncoming moose out of the corner of his eye, attributed it to the work of Satan, and held his breath for the second dunk.

I didn't see Pastor Jan spot the same moose carcass and foliage flotilla making a beeline for the baptismal participants.

I didn't see Jan freeze in mid-sentence.

I didn't see John Johnson's eyes grow bigger than an alien vessel as his eyesight spied not a moose but a deer, nor did I see the same flashback and relive the nightmare John was once again experiencing.

I didn't hear Jan's rebuke of the evil spirit causing this aberration, nor did I hear the bloodcurdling scream of John Johnson when the unthinkable happened.

You see, dearest Felim, it takes a lot to kill a moose. My Crown Vic had not killed him. His own baptism to the depths of the Little Boy River had not drowned him. It had, however, rendered the moose unconscious. Thus the moose was floating down the river in La-La-Land until he heard the bellowing of the beleaguered Baptist.

The moose did not recognize said scream as a human being in sheer terror. No, Felim, the moose in his state of stupor interpreted the scream as the mating call of a female moose-ette in heat. He immediately awoke, saw John running for shore, began flailing away in the river as all six other observers began running for terror, and began pursuing John, moose not usually able to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh until Autumn.

I didnt see John run into town, his eyes bulging, his hands raised in the air, his voice bellowing a blood-curdling scream, whilst a psychotic, dripping wet, horny moose nipped his heals in hot pursuit.

I didn't see Lars Larsen, pulling into town on a dreadfully hot day, slam on the brakes of his old rig as John and the moose crossed the road.

I didn't see the team of horses from the YMCA Camp, which was ferrying Independence Day celebrants on a hayride, come to a screeching halt behind Lars.

I didn't see the Hayride passenger manifest: five children under the age of 12, two nuns from the Order of Saint Austeritus, five Japanese businessmen who had come to observe the quintessential American holiday, and three members of MENOPAUSE, who had played hooky from their picketing duties.

I didn't see the van carrying Mother Superior, immediately behind the haywagon, make its own requisite, sudden stop.

I didn't see the valves of Lars' 1959 pooper pumper rupture and begin emitting a massive stream of raw sewage, completely coating the horses, teamsters, and passengers head to foot in what the Germans would call der Holstein scheitzen.

I didn't see the three members of MENOPAUSE immediately take to their feet, their arms raised, their voices shouting a hyena-like yell, their white eyeballs peering through their blackfaces, run toward the direction of the big tent.

I didn't see the two MENOPAUSE protestors who were picketing at the front of the tent drop their jaws in disbelief as two of their own came running past as if they were auditioning for the Dakota Minstrels.

I hadn't heard that only five of the expected 12,000 protestors had actually arrived in Longville. We had been mercifully spared the enormous entourage when the other 11,993 had received a better offer. Sen. Mark Dayton, the multimillionaire junior senator from our beloved state, had suddenly promised a free Greyhound bus trip for people to go with him to Philadelphia, where a demonstration had been organized to protest the fact of the Declaration of Independence had been signed solely by white, European males, and that the signatures of African-Americans, Latinos and openly gay persons could not be found on the document.

I didn't see the demonstrators jaws drop in even further disbelief when the five Japanese businessmen, their 12 million yen silk suits completely baptized in 12 thousand gallons of unmentionable sewage, followed, their arms raised, yelling that they wanted no further part in this function, pining instead to go back to Florida for a return flight to Japan. They ran through the streets of Longville screaming, "Miami! Miami!" which sounded all the world to the protestors like they were saying, "Mammy! Mammy!"

I didn't see John Johnson run into the SuperValue, thinking he had escaped the moose, and turn down the produce aisle.

I didn't see the hormonally charged moose, still in dogged pursuit, crash through the plate glass window and slide his hooves on the recently waxed floor, taking out a large display of watermelon that sprayed seventeen startled shoppers with pink sluice and black seeds.

I didn't see John Johnson running westward ho toward Hackensack with the moose still in pursuit. No one else has seen him either.

I haven't seen Mother Superior, who is said to have gladly given up the security deposit and is looking for property in the deep south, wild eyed, glossalalia goobers being preferred over the supposed staid Scandinavians of the northern hinterlands.

I haven't seen the Japanese businessmen. Neither did the representatives of the closed LTV plant, still looking for a buyer to reopen the plant.

I haven't seen Governor Jesse "The Ego" Ventura, who is still mad over the negative press coverage and was last seen pouting in the family room of the Governor's mansion.

I haven't seen Jan Jansen, who won't return my phone calls.

More disappointingly, I haven't seen Anders Andersen. Neither has anyone from the H----l Corporation.

It's taken a while to recover from all this, Felim. It's taken even longer to calculate what you owe because of your dogged insistence on using matches. I was responsible for the burning of your fish camp. Okay, I'll see what I can do. You, on the other hand, have a matchless debt to negate.

YOU OWE the owners of the Super Value $1,398.06 for the replacement of the window and $ 79.12 for the demolished watermelons.

YOU OWE $24,394.18 to attorneys representing MENOPAUSE, suing the city because they were traumatized by the blatant sexist, homophobic, racist, phallocentric treatment received in Longville.

YOU OWE Lars Larsen, who is doing the repair work himself, $114.76 (plus tax) for replacement of the valves on his septic pumper. Lars told me he could really cream you in court, but he doesn't want to take advantage of a fellow Catholic. (I didn't have the heart to tell him you had strayed from the Romish reservation. Besides, he would probably try to make ME pay it.)

YOU OWE Woodland National Bank $112,504.93, which is the balance on John Johnson's mortgage.

YOU OWE The First Baptist Church of the Second Coming of Hackensack, Minnesota the grand sum of $26,403.06, which represents the tithe John Johnson would have contributed to the church over the course of the next 23 years, had John not gotten into the spruce with a moose.

YOU OWE ME $58.90, which is the replacement cost of the two books I loaned to Jan Jansen, which he refuses to return to me.

YOU OWE The YMCA Camp $31.77 for the specialized equestrian soap to remove the raw sewage from the horses.

YOU OWE Cass County, Minnesota and the village of Longville $212,405.16, which represents the loss of tax revenue from the Sisters of Austeritus seeking a quiet place of contemplation in a place other than here.

YOU OWE the family of Anders Andersen $313,899.48 for his psychiatric treatment stay at the Hospitalite' de la Gracias in Milan, Italy.

YOU OWE the stockholders of the H----l Corporation $12,298,769,459.12 for the merger that wasn't consummated after Anders' encounter with the aerial moose.

YOU OWE ME $47.16 for the dinner I should have received from Lars Larsen upon winning the bet. Lars couldn't help but see the moose. He agreed that I was right and he was wrong. I indicated that a dinner at Morton's Steakhouse was counterproductive to my diet, given that I had become a vegetarian. I wanted, instead, to be treated to a dinner at the Bombay Restaurant in Minneapolis. Lars, however, insisted that the bet was for Morton's and Morton's alone, and he wasn't about to change the rules just because I had become a tree hugging non-carnivore.

YOU ALSO OWE ME

• $200.00 for the deductible to fix the bumper on Crown Vic
• $78.39 for the Ritalin I had to replace when my supply was burned in the moose collision
• $4.95 for the first aid cream required to treat the minor burns on my - uh, let's not go there
• $21.00 for a new pair of Merona jeans, sold exclusively at Target stores nationwide
• $22.00 deductible for the E.R. visit later that night to treat the knot on my cranium when I bumped my head after I lit the match that fell on my lap that caused me to accelerate that caused me to hit the moose
• $1,514.98 to replace the Macintosh Powerbook that the moose trampled when it flew from my car
• $2.76 for the Olivetti typewriter ribbon I had to buy to type this letter after the Powerbook went kaput.

As you can see dear Felim, you have a pretty big debt on your hands. An installment payment plan, at least on what you owe me, is workable. We also accept Visa, MasterCard, and American Express.

The single thing I got out of this was Anders' antique lighter, which he dropped when running away from the moose. I have gone back, where I belong, to lighting my pipe with a lighter. You might do well to do the same.