I See Spots

Flirtatious: Arn't you somethin'? You know I SPOTTED you right away.

Real Mood: Bold beyond good sense.

Prediction: The creators of some spots will forever be anonymous.

I resolve that in 2006 and beyond I will be even more whimsical. (Somebody Stop Him!)

No resolution just pops up from the floor, right? Wrong! But first let me digress.

Many years ago on a day like today when there seems to be no news on the planet? Hmmm? How to fill up that air time? What's this on the back page of the newspaper? A woman in Springfield (Southern Plains, Population 800) sees a likeness of the holy virgin in her bedroom?  At night she (the virgin) cries? People are coming from far and wide to see the oozing image?

Okay, show it to the desperate producer without trying to sell it.

"You might want to look at this?"

"Holy _____! We gotta go. What are you waiting for?"

"You know it's a four and a half hour drive.  We may not get back in time to get it in your show."

" Yes you will. Take the chopper and go."

"But there was the memo about using the chopper like a taxi?"

"I didn't see that memo. Now, go!" 

That's just a little tip for you budding journalists.  Don't over sell the stories you really want to do.  Let your producers and editors think it's their idea. On a slow news day, the ploy almost never fails. Then once out the door turn off your pager, sit on your cell phone and fake static on the two way radio.  As quickly as you can, get out of range before they regain their senses.

We also don't tell the producer this town has an itty bitty airport about 5 miles outside of town with no services.  We know we are going to have to get imaginative in finding transporation into town. I won't dwell on the details, but we make it.

We arrive at this tiny adobe-like dwelling. There is a handmade sign that says something like "Home Of the Virgin, Come On In."

There is a wire fence with a beat up,  and loose on it's hinges, gate. As we open it, it screams for a shot of WD40. A  "long in the tooth" dog with fat rolls, does a slow 180 in the dusty yard (no grass). The beast is clearly no threat.

 It is fairly early in the day so the inspired throngs have not yet arrived. But the woman of the house graciously invites us and our lumps of  gear into the home. (For space reasons, we almost left the light kit back at the staiton.  It is a good thing we didn't.) We are pretty much swallowing up all of the habitable space in the living room as we are being briefed.

Finally the recipient of this sacred visit invites us into her bedroom. It's here we see the visage that is filling up the donation jars. It is here our jaws unlock and form "I can't believe it expressions." What do we see?

You ever been out to a small farming community on the plains? Ever been inside a room with  80 year old plaster walls that havn't seen a lick of paint?  Ever seen what happens when  a little bit of moisture gets inside the wall?

If your answers to all these questions  are no, let me give you a hand.  You get this rusty little stain on the wall that was probably covered by wallpaper at one time. It looks a bit like a Rorschach block. It's open to a wide range of interpretations, especially if you've been  sampling the local brew out on the dusty plain.  If I'm not already told what I'm looking at?  I might envision a stagecoach, or maybe Amy Carter, or Chelsey Clinton, or Laura Bush.

How big is this sobbing virgin? Four by five I'd say.  Inches that is.

"Lady this is TV. Don't you have anything bigger?"

I don't really say that.  I want to say that.

I sing the praises of photographers all the time. I think this one is Mike  LeClaire or Gary Barkley. Sorry if it's someone else. (It's a long time ago.) Whoever it is manages to light this splotch, and get enough angles in this dinky little bedroom, to make the story work.  We get a few more soundbites, a compressed shot of about ten people standing around (the compression makes ten look like a thousand). We get a no comment from local authorities, including the local priest.  Then we get the the heck out of "Dodge" (aka Springfield).  *

Another word to budding journalists.  It's pretty easy for that print reporter to sit there on the phone and get the whole story. Anymore the lady who was visited could even email a picture of "The Madonna" to the newsroom, and the deed is done.

But if you are in TV, or Internet Streaming Video Mode, make sure your virgin is more that 4 inches by 5 inches. Make sure you've got a "TV" story before hiring out the chopper for the day.

So anyway all this is background for my whimsy of the day. We have this little spot on the carpet in the bathroom.  It will not come up.  Peggy swears it's not her work.  I swear it's not mine. 

We've had these little debates throughout married life.  We used to blame unclaimed spots on the Menehuenes, Hawaiian Gnomes that show up in the dark and do things. We were introduced to them by our friend Larry Ramos when we were in Kuaii. (Everyone should have a Menehuene. The little guy solves a lot of mysteries and settles many a dispute.)

Anyway, nothing seems to want to pull this stain up from the carpet.  So I've been staring at it a little harder.  I suppose you could make a case for it being  a "broken in half "  horseshoe. But in my quest to give it some human quality, I see a bent over woman. I think she is on her knees praying for peace.  She is weeping at the sorrows of the World.  No matter how hard I try I can't improve her posture. She is clearly an elderly "Virgin" with a bad case of scoliosis.

Okay, that's enough whimsy for the day.  Just one question. Would you pay 5 dollars to come and see the stain on my carpet?  I'm not sure I'd let you anyway.  I'm just curious.

You know we might have been able to witness the "Springfield Virgin" cry. But that would have required spending the night.

* As the crow flies, Springfield is about 150 miles from Dodge.