I've been writing down little slices of my life for years. Folks in the small pond I live in have been making me happy, telling me how my scribblings have made them smile - remembering. When I digress, which I do with some frequency, they often comment that my musings about life and living often strike a similar chord in their lives. This gives me pause, as the world that revolves in my head is often a strange and curious place, unlike that of normal folks. It is sometimes a surprise when I find others thinking along similar lines. This may or may not be a good thing for life as we know it in America. Good, perhaps, for the economy. Not so good for solid work ethics, general sanity, and production goals. An official poll taken recently said that the number of devotees of my column clamoring for past copies and stories might support a book of the same. To this end, I offer the next pages. The chosen title to this tome of assaults on literature comes, as do most of my stories, from an actual event. The sentence is so nonsensical, yet perfect in its nothingness, as to sum up most of my writing, if not my existence. More years ago than I care to admit to, in Spanish class at Pennsauken High School, I was caught admiring some extreme bumps in a V-neck Angora sweater. The unforgettable fragrance of Heaven Scent was wafting over me. The high school junior who wore both the sweater and heaven's scent was blissfully unaware of my presence, or was just enjoying torturing my very young freshman soul. My fellow tortured soul, freshman buddy Ed, was equally aware of the drama surrounding our seating arrangements. Needless to say, the goings-on of Spanish academics was all but being ignored. When Senora Pla, our very short but serious Spanish teacher, interrupted our hormone-filled airspace with questions about the day's lesson, I was caught speechless. Not so, Ed. In a moment captured forever in my mind, Ed's answer to translating the sentence scribbled on the board in front of the class was burnt into my mind for a lifetime: "THE BLUE PARAKEET IS ASLEEP UNDER THE PANCAKES." I don't remember the name of the buxom lass who sat behind me. I don't know how long I shared detention with Ed. I don't know how I ever passed high school Spanish. I do know that the silly sentence has been rattling around in my head for over forty-one years, waiting to be put into a story. So one of the last stories I have done, chronicling my post-retirement romp through Florida, will be the first in the book - sort of starting at the back and working forward. Here's hoping you find a common thread, a happy memory, or a laugh or two to make the read worthwhile. While you're reading, I'll be in the office garage, cleaning the newly acquired Honda motorcycle. If I'd had it in 1965, I'm sure buxom Betty would have climbed on back, forgetting, for a moment, that I was a lowly underclassman. And, she would have pressed Heaven Scented Angora against my back as we raced down Route 130 - pipes roaring out 29-cent-a-gallon gas fumes. Maybe not. But dreams are what we make them.