Salty Tears

           

           Harold stumbled down the stairs wearing ragged blue jeans, moccasins, and a pink t-shirt. He stubbed his toe, screamed “shit,” and sat down on the bottom stair to gingerly caress the afore-mentioned toe.

            “Should have manifested steel-toed boots,” Harold said.

            Miles, perched on his computer station, closed the screen to his mini-iPad. Miles worried that if Harold knew he had basically hired Miss Kitty to look into the mysterious disappearance of Harold’s wife, Lilith, Harold would become all higgledy-piggledy, and fall backwards in his ghostly therapy.

            “Good morning, Harold,” Miles said. “You are looking especially fit as a fiddle today, hmm.”

            “Thanks, Miles,” Harold said. “I sure wish I had my fiddle back from Fiddlin` Red. And the new parlor guitar. And a new shirt.”

            Miles snickered. Why, just a couple of weeks ago, Harold moaned about the cabin in a constant state of naked invisibility and beheadedness.

            “One thing at a time, Harold. You are making a marvelous, um, recovery, don’t you think?  How’s the new song coming, hmm?”

            “Miles, are you trying to distract me from whatever you are doing on your little computer?”

            Miles raised his eyebrows. As Harold’s recovery escalated, Harold’s thinking processes also improved. Miles wondered if he should write a research article about Harold, but wisely decided against such an endeavor. For one, Miles was much to close to the subject, and couldn’t maintain a stance of impartiality. In addition, the human world simply wasn’t ready to believe in the ghostly dimension. Why, the human scientific community would laugh at Miles.

            “Miles,” Harold said. “Cat got your tongue?”

            “Oh, Harold,” Miles said. “You are spry and wry this morning. I was just contemplating the wonder of you, your incredible musicianship, your determination to succeed as an artist, and the fact that you are visible and wearing clothes. I’m just so happy for you.”

            Harold got all teary-eyed, but for the first time, the tears that escaped from his brilliant blue eyes were clear and tasted like salt. Harold licked them with his snake-like tongue.

Sticky Notes

Miss Kitty finished practicing her fiddle, finally mastering the Cowboy Waltz. The timing, to her at least, was a bit tricky, but she was determined to have it perfected for her next lesson with Fiddlin` Red. Playing the fiddle helped Miss Kitty shut up the committee that lived in the attic of her brain. When she played her fiddle, the committee stopped their incessant arguing, their counterproductive drama, and best of all, their internal discussion of her character defects.

            “Well,” she said to her golden beagle, Spot, “I can check that off my list.” Spot, an intelligent dog with floppy ears and wise eyes, wagged her tail. “No, it’s not time for a walk,” Miss Kitty said.

            Miss Kitty looked at her list, composed on colored sticky notes. She had added several chores that she had actually already completed, like weeding the strawberries, going to the Colburn Colvert Mall to throw away her non-compostable garbage away, and calling her mother in Boston. Intellectually, Miss Kitty realized that adding checked off items to her to-do list was a form of cheating, and really, quite ridiculous. Mentally, Miss Kitty loved marking items off her to-do list; it made her feel like she had a productive day.

            The next item on her list, calling Dr. Robert Harrison for a dentist appointment, seemed to glare at her. It’s not that Miss Kitty was afraid of dentists. However, she felt a sense of guilt and shame because her ruined front teeth were her problem, and she felt that she should take care of it herself. Miss Maudy, the voice of the sanest person on her internal committee, told her, “Making an appointment is taking care of the problem yourself. Sometimes, Kitten, you just have to suck it up and accept the kindness of others. It will help you learn compassion and humility.”

            Miss Kitty frowned. What she really wanted to do was dye her hair. The old dye had faded, leaving her with mostly her natural color, which she considered boring. Miss Maudy said, "Make your appointment, and as a reward, color your hair blue and yellow."

            Miss Kitty picked up her smart phone, dialed 208-263-4353, and scheduled an appointment at Dr. Harrison's office for Friday.

!! Point

          

            When Miss Kitty finished her chores at the cabin, she went home and checked her email. She was astounded when she received a message from her Paypal account, and immediately sent Miles a text message.         
           “Miles,” Miss Kitty typed in her iPhone, “I can’t accept your generous gift.”

            Miles had been anticipating this very message from Miss Kitty, and he already had a plan to encourage her to take the bonus and have her teeth repaired.

            “Dear Miss Kitty,” Miles typed. “Harold wants to give you the money as a birthday gift. He doesn’t know when your birthday is, so we decided to gift you the money now. Lenny has informed us that Dr. Robert Harrison is an excellent dentist in Sandpoint. We are looking forward to a report on your appointment.”

            Miles checked his text message for errors. He hated abbreviated messages, silly symbols, and intentional misspellings. Satisfied with his response, he hit the send button with his tail, because he was feeling a little silly.

            His phone vibrated, and he used his packrat claws to cue the new message from Miss Kitty.

            “Miles, I simply cannot accept the bonus. It’s too much.”

            Miles understood Miss Kitty’s response. He knew she was proud, self-reliant, and independent. However, he also realized that she did not have the resources to pay a dentist to repair her chipped front teeth. Miles and Harold both agreed that Miss Kitty had a smile worth saving. And they were determined to save it.

            “Actually,” Miles typed, “the bonus comes with a catch. I want to hire you to do some undercover work for me regarding Lilith Ekans. Harold must not know about this :)."

            Miles hated the happy face symbol, but he needed to sway Miss Kitty to his point of view. Miles thumped his tail on the table as he hit send. Why, Miles mused, he would use a thousand exclamation points if he thought that would win Miss Kitty over.

            “I’m intrigued,” Miss Kitty responded, “In spite of the ridiculous happy face. If you ever use exclamation points, I will have to stop the flow of cheese and alcohol :(.”

Original Smile

       

           After the game of charades, Miss Kitty did her bi-weekly chores, sweeping, mopping, dusting,

and filling Miles’ larder. Miss Kitty went to Winter Ridge and Yokes searching for the best cheeses

for Miles. She also brought him radishes, onions, spinach, and carrots from her garden or the

Farmer’s Market at Sandpoint.

            Miles, stretched out in his bookcase, patted his widening girth. “Miss Kitty takes good care of us,” Miles said.

            “Yes, she is delightful. We should do something for her.”

            Miles sat upright with wide eyes. “Oh my,” he said. “I forgot to deposit the bonus in her account for her teeth.”

            “Well,” Harold said. “Do it.”

            Miles smiled, remembering arguing with Harold over every dime in his bank account. Although Harold wasn’t the richest ghost in the world, he certainly had adequate funds at his disposal.

            Miles climbed down the bookcase with a groan. “That Miss Kitty is spoiling me. I need to start an exercise program or go on a diet."

            “Oh, Miles,” Harold said. “You might get hit by a rolling head tomorrow, so you should enjoy today.”

            Harold’s body materialized from the bottom of his feet to the tip-top of his head. His smile, a heart felt grin, made Miles react with a grin of his own. Miles scurried up the oak table and turned on his iPad. “Bob’s your uncle,” Miles said. “I’ve deposited $2,000 into Miss Kitty’s account.”

            “Is it enough?” Harold asked.

            “Well, it will get her started,” Miles said. “Once she selects a dentist, I’ll keep in contact and make sure she has enough to recreate her original smile.”

Charades

Miss Kitty returned the next morning, stripped the saddle off Miss Patches back, and turned her out in the meadow to graze. The fencing, in desparate need of repair, spotted the field like a line of scare crows. However, Miss Patches, ignoring the fence and possibility of escape, trotted over to the white pine tree in the middle of the field, and quickly began munching a patch of tasty clover.

Miss Kitty walked to the porch, admiring the mint that was beginning to flower. Miss Kitty loved flowers, especially ones that packed a punch. Mint could be used in tea for bellyaches, soaked in ice water on a hot day, and the flowers could be dried. “A useful and beautiful plant,” Miss Kitty said, knocking on the front door.

“Come in,” Miles squeaked from the oak table. Miles, on the Internet, was busy searching for birth certificates, wedding certificates, and bank information on Lilith Ekans-Siga. He was also trying to ascertain the name of the mysterious drummer that Lilith had allegedly run away with.

“Good morning, Miles,” Miss Kitty said. “Where’s Harold?”

The rocking chair near the front window rocked back and forth.

“Oh, there you are,” Miss Kitty said. “Me oh my, you are truly invisible today.”

Harold hiccupped, and of course, his head rolled off his shoulders and into his lap.

“I’m afraid I’m not feeling very good today,” Harold said.

Miss Kitty wished that ghosts could drink tea. Why, she’d make him some mint or comfrey tea, and that would give Harold a positive boost of health. Alas, Miss Kitty didn’t have any remedies for depressed and almost headless ghosts.

“I know,” Miss Kitty said. “Let’s play a game of charades.”

Miles loved charades, and stamped his back foot in approval. Harold, however, moaned.

“Come on, Harold,” Miles said. “It would be fun.”

“What do you want to be,” Miss Kitty asked Miles the packrat.

Miles stood up on his hind feet, and tried to tap dance across the oak table. Fortunately, Rex Mayo had repaired the table, so Miles had a flat and sturdy surface to slide across.

“Michael Jackson,” Miss Kitty shouted. Miles shook his head no. “Fred Astaire,” shouted Harold, who was half materialized in his favorite rocking chair. Indeed, he looked like, well, half a man.

“You got it, Harold,” Miles said, pointing at Harold and smiling. “Your turn.”

“I want to be alive,” Harold said.

“No, no, no,” Miles said. “You have to pick a famous person and act it out.”

Miss Kitty walked across the room and put her hand on the rocking chair. “Oh, Harold,” she said. “We like you just the way you are. And really, living isn’t all what it’s cut out to be."

Miles nodded his head vigorously. “Be careful,” Harold said. “Or your head is going to fall off, just like mine.”

“The headless horseman,” Miles shouted.

Harold’s eyes materialized long enough for them to roll.

“Jack in the Box,” Miss Kitty guessed. She smiled, using her full lips to cover her front teeth.

Harold started laughing, and of course, this caused his head to roll from his lap, on to the floor, and across the room. Even though Harold lost his head (again) his body slowly but surely materialized, proving once again that next to music, laughter is the best medicine.

Early Riser

Miss Kitty, an early riser, saddled up Miss Patches and rode to Harold and Miles’ cabin. She loved the cadence of the horse, the sound of shod hooves hitting the ground, the cool morning dew sparkling like a thousand reflections of glass, and the soft fog, which she realized was from a raging fire in Washington, that sifted the morning light into miniscule rainbows. She wasn’t sure what Miles was prattling about on the smart phone. Something about a parlor guitar, a fiddle, and Fiddlin` Red. She wished she could bring her friends to town to meet Red; she was certain they would all get along splendidly.

She arrived at the cabin, and tied Miss Patches to a post. “Sorry Patches, but this will be a short visit. You stand here like a lady and behave.”

Miss Patches snorted, which sounded like Sidney Greenstreet’s laugh.

Harold himself, half materialized, met her at the door.

“Good morning, Miss Kitty,” Harold said. “We need your assistance desperately.”

Miles, perched on the tip-top of his bookcase, rolled his eyes.

“Harold,” Miles said, “Stop being so dramatic.”

Kitty, looking up at Miles, and then at Harold, said, “What’s he saying?”

Harold, attempting to act dashing and debonair, tried to guide Miss Kitty in to the room by grabbing her elbow. Unfortunately, his hand slipped through Miss Kitty’s elbow.

“Oh my,” Miss Kitty said. “That feels so cold.”

Harold, collecting himself and adjusting his head, said, “Miles says that we have an extreme musical instrument emergency. We need Fiddlin` Red.”

Miles stamped his foot on the bookcase. “Harold, if you are not going to interpret my words correctly, than don’t interpret at all.”

“Wouldn’t that be plagiarizing,” Harold said.

“What are you two talking about,” Miss Kitty said.

“We are discussing lyrics to a song,” Harold said, his eyes materializing crimson as he glared at Miles.

“Boys,” Miss Kitty said, “unfortunately, I am on a timeline this morning. I need to exercise Miss Patches, water my garden, make arrangements for 3 tons of hay, and get into town for my fiddle lesson. So, stay focused. What’s up with the instruments?”

Miles turned his tail to Harold, deciding it was time for a nice snooze.

Harold completely ignored him. “I think something is wrong with the fiddle Miles bought on EBay, and I was hoping you could take it to Fiddlin` Red. And ask him to order a Washburn Parlor guitar for me.”

“Sure,” Miss Kitty said. “I’ll stop by on my way to town to pick up the fiddle, and I’ll talk to Red about the parlor guitar. Miles, have a nice nap.”

Parlor Guitar

           Harold, upstairs in his little room, looked out the window at the gathering dawn. The branches of trees seemed to waltz to the beat of the wind, their leaves adding to the grace and almost silent morning music. Soon, Harold hoped, the birds would add a tenor line to his morning sonata.

Harold stared at his newest instrument, a vintage fiddle that Miles purchased on EBay. The fiddle, a glorious blond with tiger stripes, squealed and squeaked like a dog toy when Harold tried to play it, instead of purring like a satisfied cat. Perhaps, Harold thought, I should have Miss Kitty bring it to Fiddlin` Red for a quick tune up.

            Harold tried to float down the stairs like the ghosts in movies. Of course, those ghosts were fictional characters, and Harold was a real ghost still growing into his ghostly powers. Rather than float, Harold somersaulted down the stairs, glad he had decided to leave Blondie upstairs in the attic.

            Much to Harold’s surprise, Miles was already awake, perched at his makeshift desk staring intently at the screen of his iPad.

            Miles looked down into Harold’s face. “Good morning, Harold,” Miles said. “Trying to float again, are you, hmm?”

            “Actually,” Harold said, “I was doing flips on the ground. Are you feeling better? And what are you doing up so early?”

            Miles pushed the button to activate his screen saver. He had been conducting research on Lilith, trying to locate her. He had managed to break into her bank account, only to discover that her monthly allowance from Harold had been accumulating for 8 years, which amounted to a neat and tidy sum. Unfortunately, Miles thought that this could only mean that Lilith was dead.

            “Pick up you head, old boy,” Miles said. “I'm fit as a fiddle this morning, and shopping on EBay. It’s rather addicting, and I’ve been watching a glorious parlor guitar that closes in a matter of minutes.”

            “A parlor guitar,” Harold asked, his eyes materializing and sparkling with excitement.

            “I’m afraid it is beyond our reach,” Miles said. “Someone else keeps upping the anty, so to speak. It has gone beyond my bottom line.”

            Harold’s eyes faded, followed by his lips, nose, ears, and finally, his outline.

            “Harold, one must have a bottom line when bidding on EBay, and then, just let it go. Otherwise, Internet scoundrels will take advantage of you, forcing you to bid higher and win something you realize later that you didn’t want, much less need.”

            “Oh, I want a parlor guitar,” Harold said. “And we need one, too.”

            “Don’t worry, Harold. I’m watching several other guitars. And Miss Kitty said that Fiddlin` Red could order us a Washburn Parlor Guitar if we really want one, hmm. He guarantees all his instruments, sells Washburns for the same amount as an Internet vendor would, and sets the guitar up for free.”

            Miles used his tail to click on a site with images of the Washburn Parlor Guitar to show Harold.

            “I want that one,” Harold said, pointing his boney finger at the image on the screen.

            “Bob’s your uncle,” Miles said, sending Miss Kitty a request to order the guitar from Fiddlin’ Red.

Counting Stars

           In fact, Miles thought that Harold’s fiddling sounded like the united screech of a hungry zombie hoard raking their grotesque fingernails across a chalkboard. And as far as Miles was concerned, Harold’s so called lyrics were beyond miserable.

            “Concentrate,” Miles said to himself. “Focus on your next life as a noble horse, running across a field with Miss Kitty perched on your back. Behave yourself, Miles.”

            Miles crawled down the bookcase, stopping at his signed copy of “Martian Chronicles,”  touching the cover of the book with his tail. He continued to the bottom of the shelf, his whiskers scrambling across the ground as if they had a life of their own. Miles sighed, which sounded like the sound an old dog makes when his human tells him it’s time to go for a walk.

            “Miles,” Harold sang in a falsetto, missing the high C and hovering between D sharp and C flat. Miles closed his eyes and counted to seven. “Life number 7 could be a ticket to heaven. Be a good packrat and you’ll come back as a rat. Be a bad rat and come back in a hat.” Childhood rimes made Miles think of his wonderful mother and his numerous siblings. They’d sit around in a circle, playing catch the cat’s tail, name that cheese, and of course, guess the poet.

            By the time Miles reached Harold’s door, he felt much better. Indeed, he even had a smile on his face. Miles squeezed himself between the bottom of the door and the floor, popping up on the other side like a Jack in the box.

            “There you are,” Harold said, looking particularly pleased with himself. “What do you think of my fiddle?”

            What Miles wanted to say and what Miles did say were two entirely different paragraphs.

            “Well, Harold,” Miles said, “I think perhaps the fiddle needs to have some minor adjustments made to it. And maybe some new strings installed.”

            “Oh dear,” Harold said.

            “No worries, old man, we can ask Miss Kitty to bring it to Fiddlin' Red,” Miles said. “It could be this slight headache that’s pounding like a jackhammer between my ears. Why don’t I go back downstairs and get a good night sleep, and we’ll discuss the matter tomorrow morning, hmm?”

            “Oh, Miles,” Harold said. “I didn’t know you weren’t feeling well. You go back to bed, and I’ll count the stars.”

What Fills the Space With Wonder?

Devoted to wonder what the heck is going on

I decided to write another sad song

Cuz the holes in my head

Have long disappeared

On account of what happened

In September of a long ago year.

“Harold,” Miles the packrat screamed. Well, it actually sounded like the sound that emits from a cat’s mouth when someone accidentally steps on their tail. Anyway, Miles, who had been dozing and dreaming of dancing snowflakes and Santa Rat with his magical sleigh of rain cats headed by Harold the Ghost with a bright red nose, curled up between John Steinbeck’s East of Eden and the Harry Potter Trilogy, the complete special edition, was most unhappy, to say the least, to have his pleasant dream burst open by the squalor emitting from the attic.

“Oh, Miles,” Harold said, “You’re awake. Come upstairs. I’m working on a new song. We can have a jam session.”

Harold sounded so pleased, but Miles could already feel a headache erupting between his two pointy ears. Well, actually, one of his ears no longer stood tall and proud on account of a cat fight, but that’s another story for another day. Miles wondered what insanity had prompted him to buy Harold the vintage fiddle on EBay. Harold promised Miles that he knew how to fiddle, and Miles, eager to play some fast and furious Irish jigs with his tail as the hammer for the Bodhran he got himself, well, Miles sometimes got caught up in the frenzy, and even as he purchased the fiddle, he began having second thoughts.

Too late, as his father used to say. The fiddle had arrived, and Harold, excited to have his very own fiddle, was even able to materialize long enough to play the damn thing. Well, that’s not what Miles considered it…

Cats

Gave Miles nightmares. In fact, just the other night, Miles dreamed that there was a white cat up in Harold’s attic. The cat’s name was Lilith, and it perched in the corner, watching Miles. Mile’s decided he needed to order a book about symbols in dreams. Perhaps Lilith, possibly on another plane of existence, was trying to contact Miles and deliver a message for Harold. Perhaps, Miles mused, he should cut back on his consumption of alcohol.

Harold got up from the rocking chair with creaking knees. “Miles,” Harold shouted, “What do you think about my new lyrics.”

Whenever Miles didn’t respond to Harold right away, Harold treated Miles as if he were deaf.

“I can hear you, Harold,” Miles replied.

“I thought you had your ear plugs in,” Harold moaned.

“No, the ear plugs have disappeared, as surely as…”

Miles paused. He didn’t want to go down this well trod path again. Harold seemed to be in good spirits, and just because Miles was thinking about cats, mysterious disappearances, and Lilith, didn’t give him the right to bring Harold down.

Harold stared at Miles. His smile turned upside down, and his translucent face began to disappear completely.

“As surely as the bottle of rum I bought last week,” Miles said.

Harold’s face reappeared. His full lips turned upward, revealing Harold’s rather crooked front teeth.

Seeing the teeth reminded Miles of Miss Kitty. “I would like to deposit $2000 into Miss Kitty’s PayPal account so she can go to the dentist,” Miles said.

“Oh, splendid,” said Harold. “Do you think that will be enough? Such a delightful girl. Sure, she’s not very tall, but she’s mighty, isn’t she, Miles?”

“Yes,” Miles said with a smile and a wag of his tail. “Mighty Miss Kitty.”

Mighty Fred

You don’t mess with mighty Fred France.

From the tip of his pointy head

To the bottom of his pants

He’s bad you see,

From knee to knee

No, you don’t mess with mighty Fred France.

Miles, he longed for the bright orange ear plugs, and dreamed of riding Miss Patches up the dirt road, over the farmer’s fields, along the cedar path, and to the pond where Miss Kitty claimed she went skinny dipping on the hottest days of summer. But no, Miles felt as trapped as Harold the Ghost, who sat on the rocking chair, strumming the banjo and screeching out his newest lyrics.

Miles sighed. He hoped Miss Kitty would come by for a visit, with her fiddle, of course. He printed out a note for her, asking her to bring her fiddle so that the three of them could play some more old timey music. Miles tail started drumming in 6/8 time, thinking about a jig he had written about a ninja cat.

Of course, thinking about cats always made Miles sad. It was Little Jamie that devoured his cousin, Buck, and it was Bugs, a humongous checkered cat with white whiskers and a stubby tail, that had killed the love of his life, the riveting Matilda with the reddish fur and the delightful nose.

“Miles, what do you think about the new song?”

For once, Miles was glad to have his thoughts interrupted by Harold’s moaning. Thinking about cats…

Jolly Good Fun

          

           “That was jolly good fun,” squeaked Miles. “I do believe I worked up a sweat.”

            “Bring me the banjuke,” Miss Kitty commanded.

            Harold, his skin pale, but visible, stood up and walked across the pine floor, and started to hand Miss Kitty the banjuke. “You tune it just like a ukulele,” Harold said. He thought for a moment, laughed, and said, “Hey, I’m materialized. I can tune it!”

            Miss Kitty smiled, her wide lips revealing the tips of her front teeth, which had been chipped. When she realized what she had shown, she covered her chipped and stained teeth with her tongue.

            Miles, a silent (for once) observer, made a mental note to himself: give Miss Kitty a bonus so she can have her teeth repaired.

            As soon as Harold finished tuning the banjuke, he picked up his banjo, and tuned it to the key of D. Once he had accomplished that, he broke out into Soldiers Joy. Miss Kitty picked up her fiddle, and joined him. Miles, a radiant smile on his packrat face, danced on his Bodhran, adding a strong beat to the song.

            Kitty tapped her foot on the floor, which she had seen what she considered real musicians do on stage, and said, Mississippi Sawyer. Before Miles could say Bob’s your uncle, the trio had dived into the new tune. Harold added a wonderful harmony line on the banjo, and Miles continued to carry the beat with the bodhran.

            Harold carefully tapped his foot, worried that his head would fall off, and started plucking Arkansas Traveler. Naturally, that went into Whiskey Before Breakfast, which went into Cider Mill. After Cider Mill, they played 8th of January, Angelina Baker, Jay Bird, and Stanton Island Hornpipe. The trio stopped for a moment, and then Harold started playing Sally in Nik’s Garden. The song had a minor feel to it, and Miles and Miss Kitty both stopped playing just to hear Harold on the banjo. Harold finished the song, and embarrassed, his cheek’s turned a shiny pink.

            “Oh Harold,” Miss Kitty said, “You are a wonderful banjo player.”

            Miles, exhausted from playing the bodhran, fell asleep on top of his drum. Miss Kitty bent down, and patted the top of Miles’ head.

            “Well, boys,” Miss Kitty said, “that was incredible. Thank-you, Harold, and thank-you, Mr. Sleepy Head. I have to go home and feed Miss Patches.”

            “Come anytime,” Harold said. “And bring your fiddle.”

Mason's Apron

The Johnny jump-ups Kitty had planted in the old dresser drawers on the porch radiated sunshine, and the mixture of purple, orange, pink and yellow made Miss Kitty feel confidant. Miss Kitty didn’t bother knocking on the cabin door, but strutted inside, fiddle in hand.

“It’s a glorious, but hot day, boys,” she shouted. “Makes me feel like playing some old time music. Harold, come downstairs, and bring that banjuke and banjo. Miles, break out the bodhran. Let’s jam.”

“Oh my,” Miles squeaked, scampering down the bookcase. His tail, a fluffy, sure and strong extension of his packrat body, couldn’t contain itself, and as soon as Miles feet hit the pine floor, his tail started beating out a jig rhythm.

“Slow it down a bit,” Kitty said. “I know a few songs, but I can’t play quite that fast.”

Miles stared at his tail, commanding it to beat at a slower pace. Naturally, his tail complied.

Harold shuffled down the stairs, a banjo in one hand and a banjuke in the other. All Miss Kitty saw were the two instruments, floating down the stairs, as if they had a life of their own.

“Come and join the party, Harold,” Miss Kitty said, her bow poised and ready to strike the strings of her instrument.

“I’m out of tune,” Harold mumbled.

“No worries,” Kitty said. “It’s to be expected. You’re a banjo player. Take a seat. Miles and I are going to play ‘The Mason’s Apron,’ and then I’ll tune you up.”

Miles was in heaven. “The Mason’s Apron” was his favorite hornpipe, and he loved pounding it out on his bodhran, which rested on the floor. In the middle of the song, Miles jumped on the drum, as if it were a trampoline, using his entire body to weave an intricate and incredibly fast beat.

Harold, sitting in the rocking chair, stamped his feet and clapped his hands. When the song came to an end, the three musicians looked at each other. For the first time, Miss Kitty and Miles saw Harold as the middle-aged man he once was. Harold’s entire face had materialized, and his head sat on his shoulders, minus the jarring scar across his neck that had ended his life. Best of all, Harold's body materialized, complete with t-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. His blue eyes blazed merrily, and his lips, full lips with happy wrinkle lines around the edges, curved upward in a joyous grin.

Bumpy Roads

           Miss Kitty drove down the bumpy road toward Harold and Miles’ cabin. A cloud of dust billowed up behind her, and she rolled up the window of her green Subaru Outback. Although the road was dry and choked the air with dirt, she enjoyed the ruts, the bumps, and the twists and turns that forced drivers to take it slow. Of course, there was always one idiot that insisted on traveling at unsafe speeds. She smiled when she remembered the Thompsons from back east. Mrs. Thompson once told Kitty that going fast actually created a cushion beneath their vehicle, creating a skipping effect, which would protect the vehicle. In three months, the suspension in the Thompson’s car was toast, and in five months, the Thompson’s headed back east in search of smoother roads.

            Miss Kitty drove her vehicle today because she had packed her fiddle. She wanted to play with a group of musicians, and although Fiddlin` Red assured her that she had skill and was up to speed, Miss Kitty had never played for anybody, or with anybody, accept Fiddlin` Red, her mentor. When she learned a new tune, he backed her up on his Washburn parlor guitar. Miss Kitty, enamored with old timey music, longed to play with other like-minded musicians, and Harold and Miles, she thought, were the least scary option.

            Granted, Harold was a headless ghost, and Miles was a packrat. However, Miss Kitty had always marched to her own beat, and was a little strange and unusual herself. For instance, she lived alone near the top of Marijuana Knob, in an old cabin with outdoor plumbing, a generator, and solar panels. She didn’t own a television, cut her own firewood, hauled in what water she didn’t collect in her cistern, put up hay for her horse, and once in awhile, she belly danced with a group of her friends.

            It was difficult for Miss Kitty to admit that playing with real musicians caused her heart to skip a beat, forced all the blood to her elf ears, and made her feel like vomiting. However, Miss Kitty understood that with faith and hard work, her fears would simply run away. And today, she was going to confront her fear, and play her fiddle with Harold and Miles.

The Tip

The tips of Miles' teeth, sharp and pointy, pressed through the smile. What Miles wanted to say, and what Miles did say, were two entirely different sentences. Miles stared out the front door, toward the light of day, pondering what to say before saying it.

“Yes, Harold," Miles finally said. "The banjuke is out of tune, and once we tune it, my headache will magically disappear, you’ll receive an offer to publish your book of poetry, and the song you are trying to sing will make the Billboard 100 list.”

“Oh, Miles, you can be such an optimist.”

Miles perched on the end of the banjuke, using his front right paw to turn on the electronic tuner. Next, Miles plucked one of the strings with his tail.

“You see, Harold, it is, in fact, out of tune.”

Harold looked at his hand, staring at it so hard that Miles worried he might burn a hole where the arm should have been. Unfortunately, Harold’s arm refused to materialize, and when Harold attempted to turn the tuning key, his hand sifted through the instrument as if it were invisible.

“The problem, old man,” Miles said, “is that you are living between two dimensions. It takes patience and practice to materialize properly in the land of the living if you are dead. Harold?”

Harold trudged up the stairs to the attic. “It’s no use, Miles. I’m a useless old ghost. I can’t even keep my instruments tuned.”

Miles ran to the table, scurried up the chair, and perched next to his iPhone. He typed in, “Dear Miss Kitty. We are having a ghostly emergency. Could you come by and tune the banjuke for Harold?”

After Miles hit send, he thought, oh cats. I should let ghosts be ghosts and take a nap. His iPhone vibrated, and Bob’s your uncle, Miss Kitty replied that she was on her way.

Hiding the Truth

Miles tried to hide the truth from Harold, but sometimes, it was simply, positively impossible, especially when a headache threatened to erupt from his skull, squirting out of his eyes like a volcano. It was true—Harold did have a lovely voice, even when his head wasn’t attached to the rest of his body. But Harold, a want-to-be-poet/song-writer, had a dreadful nasal twang when he vocalized his own lyrics. In addition, Harold simply fainted when confronted with the fact that his wife, Lilith, was missing in action.

The truth of the matter was, Harold’s poetry, which included lyrics to his so-called songs, were beyond dreadful, and Lilith had totally disappeared; Miles assumed Lilith had been murdered, but Harold, a dry fountain of misinformation, offered no assistance to Miles' investigation. Miles kept his secrets, and attempted to keep Harold happy by letting him focus on his so called lyrics.
Miles tried tricking Harold into singing other songs, in the hopes that Harold would metamorphosis into a good songwriter. That somehow, Harold would realize what comprised good lyrics by listening to, and appreciating, some of the finer songwriters, such as Towns Van Zandt, Jackie Henrion, Patrice Webb, Paul Simon, Holly McGarry, Ben Olson, Desiree Aguiree, even Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan. Why, Johnny and Bobby, as Miles referred to them, managed to pull off a great song without a decent voice. But no, Miles thought, shaking his tail back and forth across the table, Harold is hopeless.

“Oh, Harold,” Miles said. “Let’s try our new electronic tuner that we bought from FiddlinRed’s Music on that banjuke. I do believe it is slightly out of tune, which has created an echo affect, which has pushed my brain to the outer limits. Hmm?”

“Do you really think so, Miles?”

Miles pasted a little packrat smile to his lips. The tips of his teeth…

Rats Giggle

Rats giggle too, but Miles, an incredibly handsome packrat with a luxurious bushy tail, black whiskers and the cutest little ears, was not in a good mood. Indeed, at this moment in his rather large life, he was covering his pointy ears with both paws. For starters, Miles was frustrated with his ongoing investigation into the case of Harold the headless ghost, and worst yet, the disappearance of Lilith, Harold's wife. In addition, Miles had the beginnings of a major headache.

“Harold, what is that cat wailing?”

Harold, a long, thin, ghost of a man with a severed head, which constantly fell from his scrawny shoulders, looked positively a-ghost.

“Cater what? Miles, I’m testing my, I mean our, new instrument. You know, the banjuke you bought from Fiddlin` Red’s Music.”

“Old man, I have a dreadful headache, and I don’t think you have that wretched thing in tune. Besides which, as you know, I love the banjo in all of its manifestations, but what I heard sounded like a cat trapped in a box, buried in the ground, with cement. It leaked out, in a tired, high-pitched wail. You weren’t singing, hmmm?”

Harold sobbed, a hiccupping sob that forced his aforementioned head to slip off his slippery shoulders, hitting the wooden floor with a pang.

Miles rubbed his temples, and longed for a double macchiato from the Bodega Café. Sometimes they even delivered. “Sorry, Harold. Really, old man. You have a lovely bass voice; perhaps you should focus on a happy song, with snappy lyrics. How about the Sounds of Sunshine from Michael Franti? That would sound lovely on the banjuke.”

Disappeared

          

          “Disappeared,” said Harold the ghost. “What on earth do you mean?”

            Miles scratched his ear. Miles did not want to have this conversation with Harold. He wasn’t sure Harold was ready for the facts. However, Miles realized that Harold needed to know the truth, and perhaps, Harold would be able to give Miles more information so that Miles could continue with his research project regarding the demise of Harold, and perhaps, of Lilith as well.

“I have my doubts that Lilith is still on this earth, Harold,” Miles said somberly.

“I’m not sure I understand what you are saying, Miles,” Harold said.

“Harold, I simply do not have enough data to ascertain the pertinent facts in your, and Lilith’s case. It’s been almost six years since the untimely event, and all we have is your headless skeleton upstairs in your attic. I’ve been able to guestimate the time of your death, and certainly, we know that your head was cut off with a chainsaw.”

Miles didn’t think it was possible for Harold’s face to get any whiter, but that’s exactly what it did, as Harold’s knees gave way beneath him, and Harold’s ghostly body tumbled to the floor.

“Oh dear,” said Miles. “I think he’s fainted.”

Miles wasn’t surprised with Harold’s reaction. Harold tended to go through this stage of his death in a state of denial. Miles had grown close to Harold, and really, he wanted to help his ghostly friend. But Harold managed to make this endeavor extremely difficult.

“Harold,” Miles said, perched next to Harold’s head. “Do you think you could finish writing your new song, hmm?”

Harold’s eyes slowly materialized. He looked into the face of his furry little friend and said, “Certainly. Good idea. First, I need to go up to the attic. I’m feeling a little faint.”

“Of course, Harold,” Miles said. “Of course.”

What are you Typing?

“What are you typing,” Harold asked Miles the Packrat. Miles stood on his hind feet, his beady packrat eyes got as big as his pointy nose, and in order to stop his bushy tail from swapping back and forth (his mother would say stop swapping at flies, Miley boy), he grabbed it with his paws.

“Well, good morning, Harold. How are you feeling today, hmm? All are parts connected this lovely summer day? The birds sing sweet lullabies, except for those wretched Killdeer that scream baby-killer, the Irises are gone, but the lilies and peonies are jumping in, along with the roses.”

“Miles, I know you’re doing something. What are you writing?”

Miles heaved a heavy sigh. He knew it would hurt Harold’s feelings if he figured out that Miles was actually a packrat writer for Bob Dylan, one of the greatest songwriters of all time, and still maintained contact with Dylan. “Well, Harold, I wanted to surprise you for your, um, death day celebration. It’s coming up in just a couple of, well, months. And, well, now you’ve gone and spoiled the surprise.”

Miles dropped his tail, and sat on his hind feet, his nose almost touched the floor, but he raised up one eye to look at Harold.

“How have you figured out my death day,” Harold asked.

“I have been doing research, Harold. I found the last trace of you in August 2008. I also researched this cabin. You and Lilith purchased it in May 2008. The first renter moved here in 2012, which gave your, well, your body, time to, how do I say this candidly? Well, plenty of time to become nothing but bones. They lasted one month. The next, and may I add, last renter, was here from May, 2013, until July, 2013.”

“So you think I died sometime in 2008?”

“Yes, Harold. As near as I can understand it, you disappeared sometime after August 2008. I am planning a party for the end of September. I thought we could invite Miss Kitty, Lenny and Rex.”

“And Lilith? Will you invite Lilith?”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Lilith, old man. Although someone is receiving her monthly allowance, there has been no trace of Lilith since October 2008. Like you, she seems to have totally disappeared.”

What Went Wrong?

What went wrong

With this song

It started so well

And then went to hell

I thought I could be

The opening key

But then I had to pee…

“Oh, Miles,” Harold the ghost said, I just can’t this song-writing thing down.

Miles, swishing his furry tail back and forth, harrumphed.

“Harold, song writing is poetry put to music. You claim you’re a poet, right? Well, you are the word master, and I’ll help you put it to music.” 

Miles rolled his eyes, exasperated. Oh well, he thought, at least Harold wasn’t pushing him to get his wretched poems published anymore.  All in all, his plan, to get Harold to materialize long enough to play his banjo, was having a positive affect on Harold’s mental health. Well, in this case, his lack of mental health.

Miles loved music. A percussionist himself, he was the epitome of an Irish drum. He used his back feet on different surfaces, and his pride and glory, his magnificent furry black tail, added a new dimension to percussion. And when Harold wasn’t pouting, moaning, or feeling sorry for himself, when he forgot that he was in fact, a ghost, he would materialize, pick up the old banjo Fiddlin’ Red had painstakingly repaired, and play sweet, vibrant music. Miles, of course, backed him up on his new bodhran.

Help Unwanted

Kelp, I need someone

Selp, not just anyone

Jelp, you know I need someone

Help.

“Harold, old man," Miles said, "I do believe that song has already been done by the Beatles, a rather famous British band.” Miles smiled when he remembered his second life, travelling around with the Beatles, and later, the Rolling Stones. Of course, Miles thought, I did not help them write Help.

“Well, you told me to use songs that I knew, and then rewrite the words" Harold moaned. "So I used Jelp, Selp and Kelp instead of help. Get it?”

“Well, that’s not what I meant, Harold. Let me explain. Perhaps you could use an old time tune, like Golden Slippers, and then write lyrics to go with the music. I’m afraid that if you tried to sell a song called 'Help Unwanted,' that had practically the same lyrics as the Beatle song, 'Help,' well, that’s called plagiarism, Harold.”

Harold sat on the stairs, perplexed. He caressed the banjo on his lap, trying to pluck a string, but his hand went right through the instrument, and when he realized this, he lost all composure and the instrument sank through his lap and landed on the floor with a bang.

“Harold, you have to focus. Remember, materialize. You can do it.”

Blood fell out of Harold’s eyes like tear drops. Actually, they were teardrops, comprised of blood.

“Good job, old man.” Miles squeaked. “That looks like real blood.”

“It is real blood,” Harold said. “I feel a little faint.”

“Oh dear,” Miles said. “Maybe we should take a little nap?”

Miles thought that a wonderful idea. He’d much rather snooze in his hidey-hole than help Harold write songs. It was, however, better than listening to Harold’s dreadful poetry. And Miles loved music. When Harold was in a good mood, granted, a rare event, he could actually materialize long enough to play some banjo tunes. Miles kept time with his tail, beating it against the floorboards or old tin pans. Miles had ordered a bodhran from Elderly Instruments, but it had not yet arrived.
Miles was also working on getting Harold a vintage Gibson mandolin on EBay. Unfortunately, someone always came in at the last minute and overbid him by the minimum amount. Miles had his pride, and was not going to pay for one of those programs that bid for him. He considered that to be cheating.