Chuck Is On a Mission - In Search of PEZ

After the fortune telling incident, before we’d even made our way back to our hotel room, as we were strolling down the boardwalk in Atlantic City, one of the most famous cities on the east coast, Chuck, the rascal cat, had yet another idea.

So . . . imagine. It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining brightly. And I’m almost beginning to totally enjoy myself. I’ve almost even forgotten our encounter with the tarot card reader and the crazy man in the casino. I glance at Chuck, and, yes, he seems to be enjoying himself. Because, as you know, CATS LOVE THE SUN.

But no sooner do I let relaxation course through me, than I sense that something is about to go wrong.

Chuck is pointing with his paw.

Because we are passing a store that I would have thought Chuck would have no interest in.

I am obviously wrong, of course.

He has that look in his eye, that stare that cats get when they spot a bird or a butterfly.

This time the Chuckster has spotted the sign that no one can miss as they saunter on by : IT’SUGAR.

I discovered this store last year when I was in Atlantic City with my sisters. It is the ultimate sugar fix-candy store, with literally every brand of candy you can imagine or remember gorging on when you were a kid. Even the mega-sized Hershey bars.

But Chuckie isn’t interested in “smoking” candy cigarettes to look cool or licking lollipops. Or munching on twizzlers or those dots that are pasted on those long sheets of paper that you have to tear off with your teeth.

As we sneak into the store -- and believe me, we really don’t have to do much sneaking because everyone in this story seems to be so totally mesmerized by the merchandize, I could’ve walked in with a 200 pound gorilla and no one would have noticed -- Chuckie scans all the shelves until he spots the only confection he’s truly interested in.

PEZ.


Now, it’s true. Cats don’t eat candy.

At least no cat I’ve ever lived with. They’ll sniff it and pretend interest, but when it comes right down to eating it, they’ll go for chicken, steak, lobster or salty potato chips anyday of the week.

So why was the kid so into PEZ?

Chuck and I made a beeline for the PEZ, and I did what any concerned guardian would do. I turned our casual outing into a history lesson.

“This candy,” I said to Chuck as he sat staring at the PEZ, “has a fascinating history. It was invented in 1927 in Vienna, Austria, as a breath mint.”

Since he didn’t stir or sigh, like he usually did, I kept on talking.
“In fact, the word PEZ comes from the German word peppermint: PfeffErminZ. That’s where the PEZ came from. Isn’t that interesting?”

Chuck leaned in closer, and I could tell he was looking at all the different types of dispensers.

“In 1935 they built a factory in Czechoslovakia to manufacture PEZ on a grander scale, but it wasn’t until 1948 that Oscar Uxa designed the first PEZ dispenser.”

Now, here I had the kid’s attention.

“That’s right. Before that, the candies came in just plain old wrappers. Anyway, the dispensers were meant to resemble cigarette lighters to encourage people to quit smoking.”

Chuck tilted his head. For all his bad habits, smoking wasn’t one of them.

“PEZ came to the United States in the 1950’s. Popeye, Mickey Mouse, Tweetie Bird were all on dispensers. Elvis. Star War figures. Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. They added feet to the dispensers in the 1980‘s.”

Chuck looked really interested now.

I rambled on. “In fact, their slogan was: ‘YOU’RE NOT FAMOUS UNTIL YOU PUT YOUR HEAD ON A PEZ DISPENSER.’”

Chuck’s eyes lit up.

That’s when I realized what the kid wanted.

He wanted his head on a PEZ dispenser.

My almost famous cat.

Oh, Chuck. Just because you are star of a blog and your picture is on my website and sometimes, just sometimes people notice you . . .

“Maybe, someday you’ll be so famous you’ll get your head on a PEZ dispenser. But for now . . .” And I almost couldn’t bear to say the rest of it, for already the kid looked so dejected. He had his head down in his paws. “Oh, Chuck, for now, it’ll have to be just a dream. But someday, I promise, you’ll be on a PEZ dispenser, too.”

To learn more about PEZ: www.pez.com/history

And to learn more about Chuck log onto www.katelutter.com

Wild Point Island, my paranormal romance, is available on Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble.com.  Recently it was rated 5 Stars by The E Book Reviewers, who said, "At the very core . . . is a multi-level mystery, with plot twists and turns that you never expected. And there is a deep touching love story that grasped my heart and never let go.  This is one book you must go buy now; once you start reading, you won’t be able to put it back down."  

       

Chuck Walks the Boards and Visits a Fortune Teller

And that is one thing I have grown accustomed to--as the official guardian of a rascal cat--Chuck always has another idea.

The kid is full of ideas.

Good ideas and bad ideas.

Now, as we were making our way back to our hotel room--ensconced in the escalator--after Chuck had squandered every penny of my twenty bucks playing the slots--he pushed a card out of my smart bag and it tumbled to the floor.

A calling card advertising a certain madame on the boardwalk. No, not that kind of madame. A tarot-card-reading-fortune-telling madame by the name of Sylvia. Sylvia?

Was the kid for real?

“Why?” We had this conversation the next early afternoon after we finally woke up. “Why do you need to have your fortune told? What is it you need to know?”

But, as usual, Chuck pretended not to hear me. He was too busy gazing out the large window that overlooked the ocean, fascinated by the waves that swept into shore. He had never seen the Jersey shore before. Or the ocean.

“We can spend the day on the beach,” I promised.

Chuck remained firm.

I know Chuck when he gets into one of his moods. He gets an idea in his head and he just won’t budge. Like hardened cement.

So, yeah, you guessed it. The next thing I knew, after lunch -- because the kid never misses a meal -- we were trekking down the Jersey boardwalk in search of Sylvia.

I half prayed that, perhaps, she had gone out of business. Or that we wouldn’t find her. But, unfortunately, she had a little storefront not too far from where we were staying with her name prominently displayed in front.

“SYLVIA. PSYCHIC READINGS. TAROT CARDS”

We were doomed, I thought. But then I had another thought. Maybe she would have some objection to doing a reading for a CAT. Oooh, things were looking brighter. After all, who could ever tell what a cat was thinking?

So, in I marched through the door, into the darkened hallway -- why are they always so dark -- and up to the counter. A woman stood there.

“Yes? Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. I--”

“You want your fortune read?”

“I want a fortune read, but it isn’t for me. You see . . .” and I paused for dramatic effect. “It’s for . . . my CAT.”

I don’t know what I expected. But this woman -- Sylvia -- didn’t blink an eye. “Whatever. That will be ten dollars.”

And why should she care? After all, my fortune. Chuck’s fortune. It was the same ten dollars for two minutes worth of work.

“You can do a reading on a CAT?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Follow me.”

I was caught. Now I had to go through with it.

“I hope you’re happy,” I whispered to Chuck as I walked around the counter and into a corner room on the right.

“Put Chuck there,” she said.

Now that was spooky, because I hadn’t said his name at all, but I did what she wanted.

She pulled out a deck of cards, tarot cards, and like in the movies, began placing them down on the table in front of us.

“For this reading,” she said looking directly at Chuck, “The cards tell me three things.” Then she proceeded to stare at the cards. Touch one in particular. “Ah. You will live a long life. For a cat.” She almost smiled.

Then she fingered another card, and it was as if she was receiving special information through her fingertips. “You are lucky. You will be very healthy in your life. No major illnesses that I can see.”

She closed her eyes then and waved her hands over the cards that remained on the table. Settled on a third card. Her eyes popped open. “Ah. Now this is very interesting. A stranger will come into your life. A mysterious stranger. This is not always good news, my furry friend. But, luckily, in this situation, this stranger will bring you much happiness.”

I heaved a sigh of relief. At least from all this mumbo jumbo we had gotten good news.

After we left, as we walked back to our hotel room, I wondered if Chuck believed the fortune teller or not.

Personally, I was on the fence.

It didn’t seem possible that anyone could tell the future and yet, Sylvia had known Chuck’s name. And that freaked me out.

I hadn’t said his name. He wasn’t wearing his name anywhere on him.

And, literally, we had just shown up on her doorstep.

I reached the only obvious conclusion I could make -
Sylvia was either a real psychic or she was an incredibly good guesser.

Chuck Plays the Slots And . . . Almost Loses His Fur

I don’t talk about it much, but the Chuckster is a Jersey boy, through and though. That is why March will be devoted to my fair state of New Jersey and most specifically to Atlantic City.

Recently, Chuckie decided he would pay a visit to the Jersey shore AND no, not to see if he could catch a glimpse of SNOOKIE--get that thought out of your head.

He’s more sophisticated than that.

The kid had compiled a list of typical touristy things to do.

And number one on that list was PLAY THE SLOT MACHINES.

Yeah, I know the Chuckster is way under age to play the slots, but let’s face it, considering Chuck is a cat, age was the least of his problems.

And because the casino was sure to be mega crowded, we figured it would take some careful calculations to sneak the belly boy into a rather famous casino down in AC so that no one would know he was there. We had to think long and hard about how we would accomplish such a feat.

I mean, no one brings their DOGS, OR CATS, OR HAMSTERS, for that matter with them, when they gamble. So this was going to be a first. I felt sure there were cameras-what I would call spy cameras--all over the joint. If Chuckie dared to peek out of my smart bag, he would have to be wearing some kind of disguise--floppy hat, anyone?

We talked this out at length before we walked into our preferred casino (which will remain nameless.)

“Okay, so here’s the plan,” I said to the kid, while we sat in our luxurious room on the 43rd floor overlooking the beautiful Atlantic City ocean. “Getting you down to the casino is no problem. I can walk in there. You’ll be hidden in my smart bag, as usual. Then I’ll find the least crowded slot machine.”

Chuckie tilted his head as if he were listening intently. Which was a good sign.

I continued. “But you’ll have to wear some kind of hat. A disguise.” Suddenly, a panicked look shot into his eyes.

“I know. This is not the way you imagined it, but the casino folks have spy cameras everywhere. Once you peek your head out, if they see you, you’ll get kicked out. You don’t want that to happen, right?”

A casual shrug from the kid let me know he was following my argument even if he wasn’t totally buying it.

“You can sit on my lap, get an eye-view, and use your paw to . . .” But we had already discussed how to play the slots.

D-TIME was three o’clock in the morning. I wasn’t thrilled about gambling in the pre-dawn, but it seemed reasonable to play with the least amount of people wandering around. And sure enough, our trip down the elevator was uneventful.

We walked through the lobby area and into the casino and no one gave us a second glance. Chuck is very disciplined in such moments, and barely uttered a whimper.

I was making my way to the back part of the casino, having scoped out the place the day before, looking for the least busy area, but in all honesty, at three o’clock, one place was as good as the next.

I plopped myself down at a slot machine on the end and inserted my GOLD CARD. Oh, yeah, I’m a real professional and figured I might as well rack up time on the card with the Chuckster gambling.

The most amazing part was that the kid didn’t seem nervous at all. Maybe because he was playing with MY money. I had flipped him a $20.00, and we started at Coyote Moon, but quickly mover to Poker.

We were cruising along--losing at a reasonable pace, and I do believe Chuck was having a good time, when suddenly a man popped out from nowhere. Now, maybe, he had a bit too much to drink, but he didn’t seem too surprised to see Chuck sitting on my lap.

“Hey, there, little fellow,” he said. “Having any luck?”

Chuck, of course, engrossed in the game, completely ignored him.

I knew it was too late to shove Chuck inside my bag, so I acted as if it wasn’t unusual to have a cat playing the slots. I smiled. “He’s not very good at the slots, I’m afraid.”

The man careened closer. “If I can give you a word of advice. Does he have his own GOLD CARD?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, thinking was the guy kidding, but no, he seemed totally serious.

I smiled again. “No. He’s playing with my husband’s card.”

“How many GOLD CARDS do you have?” he asked.

“Two.”

“But do you have your own card? In your own name?”

I was trying to figure out what the guy was getting at--one GOLD CARD or two GOLD CARDS. What was the difference? Plus I was keeping a half eye on Chuck, watching his paw hit the button. “Why?”

“Because you can rack up points faster if you both play under one name. That’s the mistake me and my wife made . . .” And then he proceeded to tell me a long winded story about how his wife had insisted on two separate cards, which turned out to be A BAD IDEA.

When he finally finished talking, I thanked him profusely for the advice. By this time, Chuckie had gambled away every last cent. He was lucky his fur coat was attached, or he would have lost that too.

“Well, kid, what do you say?”

Before Chuck could say anything, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I whipped around, just in time to confront the same “advice man,” who now was rip-roaring mad.

“Well, I’m sure sorry I came over and talked to you and your cat,” he said, a bit too loudly. “Somebody ripped off my machine. While I was standing here talking to you, I was robbed. $500.00. Can you believe it?’

Mr. Advice Man turned and pointed to his slot machine across the aisle. That’s when I spotted two casino personnel drifting our way.

“Duck, Chuck. Into the bag. And don’t say a word.”

Mr. Advice Man sprinted over to his machine. I could just hear it now. “I was over there telling this lady and her CAT . . . and somebody . . .”

It was time to go.

With Chuck safely back into my smartbag, I remembered to remove my GOLD CARD and skeddadled back to my hotel room, passing a magnificent statue along the way, who reminded me of a certain Roman general.

“I’m thinking tomorrow,” I said to Chuck, “we can try walking the Boards or . . . ” and that’s when Chuckie came up with another brilliant idea.

Chuck Eyes the Bikini Girls at the Villa

How does a cat gain the reputation of being a rascal?

It can easily happen when it has something to do with bikini girls.

I am often amazed at what Chuck knows and yet pretends not to know--when directly quizzed. For example.

In the middle of Sicily, in the middle of a green valley, sits a Roman villa by the name of Casale near a town called Piazza Armerina. This villa has 63 rooms and some believe it was originally designed as an imperial hunting palace, outfitted with an intricate heating and cooling system, indoor plumbing, swimming pool and 42 colorful floors of mosaic tiles estimated to have taken 21,000 days of work (if it’s true that a worker needs six days to complete a square meter of mosaic tile.)

Now you might be thinking--so? I am sure that Sicily is chock filled with villas, but this villa is special. Why?

Well, for one thing the floor tiles in this villa depict scenes from a lifestyle that no longer exists--a very comfortable middle class Roman family life of over 1500 years ago--and the only reason the villa still survives today is that it was destroyed by an earthquake and then covered (and thus preserved) by a landslide.

The earthquake occurred somewhere around 346 AD. The landslide in 1161 AD.

Chuckie decided--when we were in Sicily--that he wanted to see this villa. Was it because it was recognized as a UNESCO world heritage site? Was it because it was considered a “famous archaeological site of cultural tourism”?

When I mentioned these facts, of course, the Chuckster nodded in agreement, a kind of yah, yah, yah. But I know Chuckie. I know how he thinks.

It seems that the truth was a lot more interesting. Chuckie had seen somewhere, I suspect on the History Channel, that this villa had a floor mosaic of BIKINI GIRLS, and he wanted to see those girls for himself.

Now, we’re not talking Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue, but we are talking about a mosaic that depicted women in bikini bathingsuits that went back over fifteen hundred years ago. Could it be true?

The security at The Roman Villa of Casale is very strict. Several years ago tourists were allowed to wander from room to room and actually throw water on the tile floors so they could more clearly see the mosaic tiles which sprung to seeming life when the outer layer of what appeared to be dust was washed away. One day a tourist threw acid, not water, on one of the floors--irreparably destroying that particular floor--so tourists are no longer allowed to throw anything down on the floor. As one wanders from room to room, it is difficult to imagine what the floors must have looked like so many years ago.

Chuck and I kept a very low profile. Luckily, we arrived toward the end of the day. It was in November and as we began to lose the sun, I figured it would be easier for Chuck to peer out of my backpack, where he was hiding, and catch a glimpse of tile floor he wanted the most to see without being seen himself. I was nervous that if one of the Italian guards spotted us, we would be booted off the villa’s property.

Finally, we made it into the Bikini Girl Room, one of the rooms which surrounded the built in swimming pool area that was in the center of the villa. For a moment we were alone. Chuck popped his head out and snuck a peek at the mosaic floor. He remained absolutely still, and I could tell he was impressed.

“There they are, Chuck,” I said. “The bikini girls. Over 1,500 years old.”

He pointed to the girl in the red suit. She was obviously his favorite.

Just as I was snapping the photo as a keepsake, I heard noise from the hallway. A guard appeared. “Signora. Signora.”

It was easy to tell by the frown on his face and the multitude of hand motions that he was ushering me--I mean “us” out of the room.

Luckily, Chuck had ducked back under cover.

As we sauntered outside, I listened for the usual purring that I expected to hear--but this time there was no purr, only a kind of snore.

The kid was already in “dream land,” no doubt, sunbathing on some Italian beach somewhere, flanked on either side by the BIKINI GIRLS.

Chuck Pays Tribute to the Cyclops

In some ways cats are like little boys. When Chuck first heard about the Cyclops--that mythical creature who captured Ulysses and trapped him in a cave until he devised a way to escape--my rascal cat became enthralled with the idea of a Cyclops. He wanted to know more. He wanted to see a real Cyclops. And when I explained that Cyclops didn’t exist anymore--that he was part of ancient lore--he wanted to see where he had lived.

Which meant that after we trekked up Mt. Etna to see the flowing lava underneath the earth, we took a side trip to a small but beautiful town called Accitrezza in Sicily. According to myth, this is where the Cyclops lived. Near the sea. This is where Ulysses met him and this is where the cave sat where Ulysses was imprisoned.

Chuck knew the entire story.

He’d heard the tale of the Cyclops, the creature who had only one eye in the middle of his head. He knew that Ulysses and his men had finally escaped imprisonment by flinging rocks at that eye and blinding the Cyclops. That’s why we had traveled to Accitrezza--to see the boulders in the sea--the same boulders that Ulysses and his men had thrown on that fateful day when they had hurled them through the air at the Cyclops and regained their freedom.

When Chuck and I arrived on the spot, we stood there in awe and fascination. Sure enough, if you stand on the shore’s edge, you can clearly see the boulders. Thousands of years later, you can still see them resting there as a testament to the cunning and the brute strength of Ulysses’ men.

“Okay, then,” I said to the Chuckster. “Now you’ve seen the boulders. You know the story. I know you’re impressed. What do you say to a nice gelato at that store over there.” I pointed behind us to a nice mom and pop gelateria.

But Chuck did not glance behind. He waited, perched like a bird on a rock, staring into the sea, at those boulders.

This was not a good sign.

I know the Chuckster.

When he puts his mind to something, he is rarely dissuaded.

“What is it, Chuck?”

Now, of course, cats can’t talk, but this cat of mine always seems to find a way to let me know exactly what he wants. I crouched next to him and followed his line of sight. He was staring directly at those boulders. That’s when I felt sick. I had to hope he wasn’t thinking that he could somehow leap onto one of those treacherous rocks. For what reason, I didn’t know, but it was such a Chuck thing to do.

And sure enough, the moment the thought popped into my head, I could see his hind legs bounce as if that was exactly what he was thinking.

“NO!” No, you don”t, I thought as I grabbed hold of him. If he jumped out there, all I could imagine was him being swept away by a wave and that would be the end of Chuck and my weekly blogging.

When I reached hold of him, I seemed to break him out of some kind of trance. Or did I break him out of the siren’s call?

Chuck meowed.

I held him close.

“Let’s go get that gelato,” I finally said.

Later that evening, back in our hotel, I caught Chuck in his usual meditative position--on his back, his paws curled forward, eyes closed, but just as I went to snap the photo, his eyes shot open.

What was he thinking about--Ulysses and the Cyclops?

Poor Chuck.

The kid needs more adventure in his life . . . or more girls.























Chuck Falls In Love

I have never tried to deny the truth--Chuck has always had an eye for the ladies.

As we’ve traveled around the world, he’s noticed the beautiful girls and CATS wherever we’ve gone.

He’s quite a flirt when he wants to be.

A cat about town.

So I shouldn’t have been that surprised when I realized that Chuckie had fallen in love with a cute little number who lives at a privately owned cat shelter that I volunteer at on Fridays.

Now just to be purrfectly clear.

Chuck is not the volunteer cat type.

He is much too busy traversing the country and the world and when he’s home, he likes to stay put and eat and sleep. We don’t call him the “belly boy” for nothing. But . . . part of my volunteering includes writing about some of the cats who live at Tabby’s Place, a wonderful organization for cats located in New Jersey.

One of those cats just happens to be a beautiful girl named Chickadee. I’d taken a few photos of her and brought them home with me.

And . . . Chuck had noticed.

Yeah, I had caught him actually staring at her pic on my computer screen.

“What’s up, Chuck?” I asked him one evening.

And, of course, he pretended to be staring off into space, because the rascal cat is often evasive and sometimes uncooperative, especially when it comes to his personal life.

I ignored his attempts to ignore me and plowed along. “This is Chickadee.”

I saw his ears perk up at the name. He couldn’t help but focus in to get a better look.

“Is that your tail wagging?” I asked.

The tail immediately stopped wagging.

But I knew the score and could see that Chuck was falling fast for Chickadee.

With Valentine’s Day around the corner, and me being the incurable romantic I am, I had an instant idea.

“Chuck, why not send her a valentine. Let her know how you feel? I have just the one here.” I showed him a cute valentine I had just bought at Hallmark. It had the picture of an orange and white cat that looked remarkably like him on the cover, with an arrow shot through his little cat heart.

It didn’t take that much persuading for the Chuckster to put his pawprint inside. For good measure, I included a photo of him inside the valentine so she could catch of glimpse of just how cute he was!

Well, the days went by. Valentine’s Day came and went. Chickadee got the valentine from Chuck, and Chuck checked the mailbox everyday as if he hoped she would respond. But she didn’t.

Finally, I felt as if I should say something to him.

“Chuck, about Chickadee. I don’t think she’s interested in you.”

He cocked his head to the side and looked a bit confused.

“Chickadee. I’m talking about Chickadee.”

He shrugged.

It seems he was already over her and had set his sights on someone new.

You see I write for two cats at Tabby’s Place and little did I realize but Chuck was now checking out the other beautiful cat. Her name is Colleen, and her eyes were just as green as Chickadee’s.

I guess I should have been happy that the Chuckster’s heart wasn’t broken, but I couldn’t keep myself from saying, “Next time you can buy your own valentine to send her.”

Chuck Watches the Lava Flow

I should have known that when Chuck started watching the History Channel, we were all going to be in trouble.

Fast forward. We are in Sicily on the Taormina side, and if you know anything about Sicily, you know that they have an active volcano that seems to be forever erupting--Mt. Etna.

Now, relax, they tell me, because there is no chance of a full-fledged eruption like the one they had back in the 1600’s when the lava flowed down for thirteen years straight, reached all the way to the town of Catania, completely destroying it, and well . . . you can imagine the rest of the story.

These eruptions--which occur practically on a nightly basis--are baby eruptions. And, I have to admit, when we stayed at the Villa Diadora, we would go up to the rooftop at night and gaze over in the direction of Mt. Etna and watch the lava flowing down the mountain. Pretty cool sight.

But Chuckie wasn’t content to watch the lava from afar.

He wanted to see the lava close up.

And, yes, it was possible. But you needed to get to the top of the mountain.

Were we crazy??

First, we boarded a bus which could only take us so far. Then we hopped on a cable car, the kind people board who plan to go skiing, and up we went--higher and higher. Now, at this time, Chuckie had his eyes plastered shut, because if you read my blog faithfully, you know my rascal cat has some trouble with heights--does anyone remember the Eifle Tower incident?
Finally, we climbed into an all terrain vehicle which proceeded even further up the mountain.

When we arrived, we were assaulted by the terrible odor of rotten eggs.

But we weren’t there yet. Oh, no. We had to hike for another 25 minutes across what appeared to be a moon scape. We were hiking across a wind blown, freezing landscape, covered with lava which had hardened.

Finally, we reached the spot. A crack in the earth where we could peer down and see FLOWING LAVA INSIDE THE EARTH.

Now the earth beneath our feet was like black glass.

“Be careful,” they said to us in Italian. “If you fall, you will cut your hands.”

Ha. That was the least of our problems.

The crack in the earth was located on a precipice, which you had to climb to the top of in order to see anything.

When it was my turn to peer over and look down into the hole, there I was, camera in one hand, CAT peering over my shoulder, and one too casual Italian Mt. Etna worker grasping my other hand, as I leaned over and tried to snap a photo.

The heat from the hole was so intense, my make-up melted off my face.

The surface of the earth was like black glass.

The whiskers on Chuckie’s face were singed.

For one horrible moment, I imagined everything going wrong--dropping my camera into the pit, dropping my CAT into the pit, slipping into the pit MYSELF.

As I stumbled away from the cauldron, I slipped, of course, and my hands smacked against the black glass-like ground. Ouch. Blood ooozed out.

But this time I couldn’t blame the Chuckster.

Yeah, he had egged me on to see the flowing lava, but the sight of that red hot liquid mass flowing along, inside the earth, was breathtaking.

As we tramped back to the all terrain vehicle, Chuckie snuggled close to me, and I knew what he was trying to say--this trip had made up for that other one--where I had tried to ply the kid with a bit of culture--you know, the Vincent Van Gogh semi-tour/almost cemetery one.

Oh, yeah and even I had to admit--this was way cooler!