The Wife Whisperer

A wife whisperer is a friend of the family who adopts a sympathetic view of the motives, needs, and desires of women, based on natural attractions and modern female psychology. The term goes back to the mid twentieth century when a neighboring farmer, David Cathcart, made a name for himself in England by rehabilitating wives that had become vicious and intractable due to neglect, accidental trauma or just plain restlessness.

Cathcart kept his methods secret, but people who managed to observe him noticed that he would stand face to face with the troubled woman. They seemed to think that he must be saying something to her in a way she could understand and accept because the women were quickly gentled by his mysterious techniques. Sometimes he would practice his methods with the females in a prone position.

His techniques were passed over to Ignatz Yoder who learned them well and traveled widely in the Americas to help the most severely restless women. His fame spread, and more and more females sought his help. He wrote a book about his experiences and later cooperated with John Bonus.

Bonus, at first a very talented amateur, was protective of the tradition he had thus learned, and in early versions of his own book did not reveal how the most recalcitrant women were salvaged by the methods Cathcart originated. He did, however, always give Yoder full credit for his particular methods of gentling women. Finally he became convinced that it was better to reveal the secret method to the world than to risk its loss. That method is fairly faithfully represented in the novel and motion picture The Wife Whisperer.

Today, numerous "neighbors" and so-called "friends of the family" call themselves wife whisperers, often building on the work of David Cathcart, Ignatz Yoder, and John Bonus in the early 21st century. Although the work of these modern practitioners is often derivative and sometimes sloppy, the techniques are solid, and a reminder to all, of the subtle refinements that Bonus brought to the process.

His gentle humor, searching eyes and subtle hands have become the trade-mark of the modern wife whisperer. As has the much heard catch phrase, "What are you doing with my wife?"

.

The Storyteller

The storyteller sat before his eternal audience, weaving his tapestry of words and ideas. He held forth in the courts of kings and whispered among prisoners of a genocidal maniac. His voice rose in the amphitheater as the salt air stirred the crimson and white and purple trimmed togas. He told tall tales and lies around a campfire amidst the aroma of burned coffee and beans.

His rumors kept hope alive when logic dictated sure death. He touched the souls of men hardened by toil and weakened by despair and fired the imaginations of newly forming minds. He broke the hearts of young lovers and restored faith in a tarnished God.

His stories made strong men seek refuge in the purity of a woman's heart and drove inexperienced women to betray the men they loved. He brought adventure to the home bound and domestic tranquility to the wanderer. He led nations to war and back again from the brink of destruction.

His purpose was obvious and an enigma.

His heart was open yet mysterious.

His methods varied.

At times his hatred would choke the flow of vitriol spewing from his twisted lips as he sprayed spittle on his fearful audience. Other times a single word from him would turn away a darkening crowd. He laughed and he cried as he told his tales of life.

And he made people think. And wonder at the magic and absurdity of a perfectly formed world in total disarray. He understood his oneness with all of creation and eventually he stood on a desolate planet in a distant future with no one to hear his tales. But this he told, too.

His audience varied yet was eternally the same. He spoke to all and he spoke to none. He spoke to himself.

He spoke because he had to - for he was the storyteller.

.

Lost & Found

Another season has come and gone here at the resort. The chaise lounges and lawn chairs are being stacked and stored and the buildings are being winterized. The pool is closed and covered. The grounds keepers are preparing for harsher weather and the CLOSED FOR THE SEASON signs are in place. The first of the fall leaves are beginning to trickle from the pre-autumn sky, littering the roadways and paths with their colorful, earthy presence. The smells of the late season campfires are being replaced with evidence of indoor fireplaces; gray plumes of smoke drifting lazily across the morning landscape.

On my party deck, The Taki Tiki, things are still fairly normal. I won't start putting the outdoor furniture away for at least another month. My new fire pit is getting a work out and I keep the hot tub going all year long. And, although my last big party of the summer is history, I will still be having smaller gatherings of friends over until it gets too cold. Then we'll move the parties indoors.

All of this does not, however, prevent a certain kind of nostalgia from setting in for the recently departed season. This struck me as I was putting things away from last weekend's party. I have a spare bedroom that I use for storing party supplies, masquerade costumes, linen, beach towels, and anything else that does not conveniently go with the neat freak motif in the rest of my house. This is where I keep my Lost & Found.

As I was standing there, adding a pair of rhinestone studded sunglasses to the mix, I felt a weird sense of joy for the accumulated memories of the recent past as well as a sadness for its brevity. I handled a catalog for a winery in the Napa Valley, an oven mitt, a little red lace choker that some babe must be searching frantically for, a green table cloth, a Giants tee shirt and two more pairs of sun glasses. There is a set of keys that no one has claimed or asked for; a small leather bag, a bottle of tanning oil, and a little silver serving tray.

Over the course of the summer, various items came and went from my Lost & Found. And I usually had the same mixed reactions as I added or removed the items. It could easily be summed up in the phrase "good times". But when I tried to analyze the feelings, to compare what I was feeling with what I was holding, I came up empty.

This puzzled me for a while until I realized that I was feeling nostalgic about things I could not even remember. After all, if I knew whose sunglasses these were I would get them back to them. I have no memory of who was wearing the Giant's tee shirt or (God help me) the little red lace choker thingy. So I was basically getting emotional over a box of junk that other people aren't even missing themselves.

On the other hand, these memories are not missing because of an alcoholic black-out. They are missing because I was busy with my guests at another part of the party. While I was making Liki Tiki blender drinks at the Tiki Bar someone at the hot tub was putting her sun glasses down. While I was happily munching on a grilled burger, listening to the Not An Exit story for the first time, someone else was tucking their small leather bag behind a chair leg so it wouldn't get lost. And while these minor items were being carelessly cast about, my friends and I were having some of the best times of the summer.

So I guess its alright to feel nostalgic when I look into the Lost & Found box. But not so much for the baubles that were lost as for the treasures that were found.

.

Every Fool has a Heart

I've been trying my hand as a lyricist again. I have written a number of songs over the years, for the amusement of myself and the amazement of others, with mixed results. I must admit, however, that I am fairly pleased with my most recent effort. It is a country/western style song. I have a basic melody in my head for it but if any of my readers would like to collaborate on the music, I would love to hear from you. The name of the song is:



Every Fool has a Heart (in the Night)

Every once in a while
When you answer a smile
And you end up with someone at night
You can feel her heart beating
At the casual meeting
And somehow you’ll know that it’s right

You can spend the night dancing
Seducing, romancing
And feel that your day was all right
Yet she’s gone the next morning
Without any warning
Every fool has a heart in the night

CHORUS:
Every fool has a heart in the night
Even though you were feeling all right
She’ll be gone the next morning
Without any warning
Every fool has a heart in the night


You can tease her and please her
And never release her
And end up with someone tonight
You can feel her heart racing
And mem’ries erasing
And somehow you’ll know that it’s right

When she is dancing along
To that special love song
You can feel that your day was just right
But she’s leaving by daybreak
And making your heart break
Every fool has a heart in the night

CHORUS:
Every fool has a heart in the night
Even though you were feeling all right
She’ll be gone the next morning
Without any warning
Every fool has a heart in the night


Every once in a while
When you make a girl smile
And ask her to stay through the night
She’ll spend the night dancing
Seducing, romancing
And somehow she’ll know that it’s right

You can feel you’re heart breaking
Through giving and taking
Yet feel that your day was all right
The mem’ries are burning
And your heart’s still yearning
Yet somehow you got through the night

CHORUS:
Every fool has a heart in the night
Even though you were feeling all right
Every fool has a heart
Though it’s breaking apart
Every fool has a heart in the night



.

Thank you... Thank you very much!


.

NOT AN EXIT

A friend of mine was telling me about an incident where she works. It seems that there was a new employee who needed to get to his vehicle in the company parking lot. He had two choices. He could either walk down the labyrinth of corridors that he had used to get to his current location in the building (which was a break room) or go out the door ten feet away from him that led directly into the parking lot.

As he approached the door he was stopped by one of the office managers. "You can't go out that door."

He turned, his hand already on the push bar. "Why not?"

"It's a rule. Employees must use the front exit only."

"I just need to get something out of my car. It is twenty feet on the other side of this door."

"I'm sorry," the manager replied. "That is not an exit."

"But it says EXIT in lighted letters above the door." The new guy was starting to get a little heated. "See?" He pointed to the white box with illuminated red letters which clearly read EXIT.

"I'm sorry." The manager repeated. "You need to use the front door."

The new guy stood there for a few seconds, looking at the manager, weighing his options. Finally he put his weight against the push bar, swung the door open and said he would be right back.

When he returned ninety seconds later from his car the door was closed and set so that it could only be opened from the inside. No one was in the break room. It took him eight minutes to get back to the break room to retrieve some papers he'd left on a table. He was already late for his next meeting. As he grabbed his stuff he noticed a hand written note taped onto the inside of the door about sixteen inches below the illuminated EXIT sign. The note read: NOT AN EXIT.

Later that day, the manager returned to the break room. In addition to his hand written NOT AN EXIT sign was a sign on the refrigerator that read: NOT A REFRIGERATOR. The table sported a sign reading: NOT A TABLE. Each chair had a sign declaring: NOT A CHAIR. In fact everything in the room had signs. The walls, the ceiling, the drawers in the sink cabinet, the sink, the plasticware next to the coffee pot. The coffee pot. Everything. Inside the refrigerator were yellow sticky notes announcing that this bag was NOT BILL'S LUNCH or that that container was NOT ANN'S YOGURT. The light bulb inside the 'frig had a note.

The manager's original note had a NOT NOT AN EXIT NOTE note.

All of the notes were in different hand writing.

While the dumbfounded manager was standing there, other employees began drifting in. Acting as if everything were normal. Ignoring him. When he got back to his office it had received the same treatment. His office door, the rug, his desk, scissors, his suit jacket, his desk chair.

He angrily removed all of the little signs and threw them into his waste basket that was clearly marked NOT A WASTE BASKET. He left early that day and drove home with a sign taped to the car trunk announcing to the world that what he was driving was: NOT A CAR. Finally he got home where everything was normal. He explained to his wife that he was home early because he was just a little tired.

As he was pouring a beer and raiding the 'frig his wife asked him "Why is there a note on your back that says: NOT A MANAGER ?"

My friend tells me that there has never been a problem using the exit in the break room since that day and that the new employee decided not to take the job after all.

.

Picture of Love

You are standing by the sea
In the picture in my mind.
You are smiling at me sweetly
With a love still undefined.

The sun was shining brightly
Upon the flowers laced with gold.
And I touch the picture gently
Of the girl I used to hold.

I hear you laughing softly
As you often used to do.
I imagine you are thinking
Of the days of me and you.

But time has come between us
As I recall our loving home.
Through the image in a picture
That I cherish all alone.


. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . John Bonus
.