BeauKazerMemories

Subtitle

 

Writings by Beau Kazer

 


BEAU KAZER: an AUTOBIOGRAPHY
As written by, Beau Kazer
“A love story . . . an aspiring Canadian teenager with a passion to set out on a quest to make some magic, make his mark in show business. An inspiring journey that takes him from Toronto to Hollywood initially, and over the years garnering a legion of fans in so many countries; A love story . . . about three brothers, Edmund, Garry and Beau, who stick together in good times and bad, overcoming any and all odds, their faith in each other unwavering. Truly a “band of brothers” to be reckoned with, not to mention so many significant others whose loyalty, love and support for me made it all possible; to sum it all up: always be aware of who walks beside you; everything happens for a reason, and most importantly, be careful what you wish for . . .”

 

A day of recovery, reflection – money hassles, always – more so to get her done and become independently wealthy.   And, I have been laid up[ with this bronchitis/flu thing for the last two weeks – seems like forever.  Here it goes. . . .in life there is only one recovery system. Me, myself, and I

 

Me, myself, Spencer and I

 

As all good stories are told so you think, you expect a perfect beginning, middle (with a nice subplot- yaddah,yahda, yahda) a nice tidy closure, shed a tear or two- Readers' Digest style, and call it a day. Fold it up and go to sleep.  No, not this time.  Your are in for a very rude awakening, my friend. WARNING! CAUTION! Tear this up and put “R” down right now!  Now!

 

O.K.  So we've hurdled over that crucial factor.  On to the next. Are you ready for this?  A single cat can change your life? Forever.  And, I am pushing six decades old, so I think I know what I am talking about.  Stay with me. . .

 

As I recall, it all began in late February 1998, we were residing in a cabin – an A-frame just off of Mulholland Hwy.  Agoura Hills, Malibu Hills – any fancy name you cared to call it.

 

My partner, Sharon, scoured the add section of a local newspaper and presented me with a wonderful novel idea.  What could that be, pray tell? To this day, I can still see her bright Irish blue eyes starring at me – inquisitively - “What do you think? A Manx kitten? - only $65.00 Come on honey, what do you think?”

 

Of Polish heritage, way back, I could immediately appreciate Sharon's impulse – (her clear, sparkling blue eyes took me over the top) “O.K. . . .give  them a call. It is almost dark, however, if you want it that much, I will take you there, purchase this, what ? . . . creature . . . and bring the two of you home. I do love you that much.”

 

Kisses, lovey – dovey hugs and slobbering all over my being – enough already – E – nough! O.K. - matters under strict control.

 

One problem remaining. Where the Christ is Reseda – Reseda Blvd. ?  Tim-Buk – Too? For all I know.  Sharon, however, was undaunted with her quest. “North, by northeast, my love,” she ventured to opine. (I held my temper in check.)

 

We finally arrived at their doorstep.  (Sharon's instructions were out-of-this-world” yet, so impeccable.

Politely, we tapped on their front screen door, “Hello?” (To me, that said it all) Trailer  Trash- again: “Hello”-?

 

No, Sharon was most obsessive, possessive of that unseen kitten- she just had to have it. I could only stand back in wonder, “Why” What has possessed this woman? Why!?”

 

The song, “When a man loves a woman, she can do no wrong” - well, it took on a whole new meaning! - it crossed all countries and barriers.  And, the oddity, the complete hypocrisy of it all. . . entailed the fact that I did not like cats from the git-go – I perceived them to be devious, double-dealing, conniving, creatures, out for themselves and no one else.  Boy, was I wrong, or what?

 

Yeah, we picked up that cat on Reseda Blvd. We knocked politely on the front porch screen.  As soon as it opened, to my surprise, a band of kittens, skittish, frightened, in a fury spread out into three different directions.

 

O.K. I was ready to go home. “I don't need this.” Sharon held her ground.

 

“Bring that one out. Surprise me.”

 

And, so it happened. Once found, never forgotten. Thanks be to God. Give her the check, and let's go home-

 

“But, what's his name? We have to give him a name?”

 

“I'll tell you when I regain my sanity.” Bring the kitten home and give him a name. Wonderful. Sharon is always good at that. “You can do it – you can do it – it's in your god=given genes.”

 

“Thanks for the reminder, dear. . .” But, that is how love works – it truly is a give and take type of deal- no in-between, secret deals- no, upfront, of forget it. Nada!

 

Bring her home – get “R” done!  And, so it was. I'll never forget that magic Reseda night – stars shining so bright. That kitten, without a name wailing wild and free. Three full days – and nights – lovely-

 

I was in for a brand new surprise of the first degree. And, Sharon, out of nowhere offered the remarkable suggestion, “Why don't you give him a name, Honey?”

 

So, the story is practically over- nothing more to say – Except, three years ago “Spencer” (like Spencer Tracey, a real hero) almost lost his life in the orange grove down below. The county waterman was kind enough to leave us a handwritten note and post it on our gate - “I think your cat's dying down by the big water pipe” .

 

I rushed up and gave Sharon the word. She immediately rushed down, hair in her face, perspiration everywhere – she could not talk – only faint gasps of desperation.  Ten o'clock in the morning – 95 degrees. For the first time in my life I truly saw her humanity. My God, she picked up this lifeless soul as if it were her very blood, flesh, and soul.

 

And, she cradled  Spencer's body in a clean towel. Something very biblical.  Sharon weeped – even the hot morning sun could not dry up her tears fast enough – she loved Spencer that much.

 

Right there, within a split second I made the decision to put Spencer under the best care possible! (He had been hit broadside by a wild bobcat. No time for pontification – assuming- just do what has to be done!)

 

A thousand dollars? Whatever.

 

An adventurer. Through the forest, orchards- I always believed, knew, he would be the first to go when we moved to “Whispering Hearts' Ranch”.

 

Guess what?

 

He is the last of the best survivors. Sleeping on my lap. A lot older, wiser. .. .but, he still can tell me a thing or three!

 

Spencer!  My tuna-man!

 

 

 

ADVENTURES IN HONKERVILLE
by BEAU KAZER

All was calm and quiet at Whispering Hearts Ranch that early spring morning. Well, to be perfectly honest, “country quiet”.

 

A lone owl was perched high in a tree top somewhere and seemed to know the word of the day. . . “Who...who. . .who”.  Repeatedly in measured rhythms, soft, slow and easy, the owl's powerful mantra echoed throughout the land.  “Who,   who. . .who”, in the misty darkest hour before dawn. (No one paid attention, the World was seemingly asleep)

 

But, soon “country quiet” took on more meaning; several rowdy roosters started cock-a-doodle- doodling at the top of their lungs; disgruntled cows in a pasture way over yonder were registering gutteral complaints, plaintively, “moo-moo-mooing” in long loud bawling, drawn out refrains, as pre-dawn breezes kicked up to announce the arrival of a  new day.

 

The owl stopped “Who. . .who. . .who-ing”, and without notice spread his broad magnificent wings and was up and away. Gone. Never to be forgotten.

 

Orangy-red beams of suffused filtered sunlight broke through. Everywhere. They infiltrated the veils of darkness like thieves in the night; within minutes darkness was but a dream. . .let there be light.

 

A lone mourning dove was sadly, “coo...coo...cooing,” trying to put a damper on the main event, but, soon a flock of finches chimed in with a series of chirping songs, celebrating the slow, unstoppable ascent of that eerie orange sphere, peaking up and over the High Sierra Mountain Range with all its power and glory.

 

And for a moment the world stood still in Honkerville.  As if in slow motion, everyone held their breath; cows stopped mooing, rowdy roosters fell silent, all singing ceased, and every creature great and small gratefully whispered a prayer of thanks. It was awesome.

 

There was definitely something very special about this Spring morning. . .magic in the air. . . a kinetic energy, infectious, inviting, all most intoxicating- some indescribable buzz that could not be named, or contained.  It simply controlled the day. . .

 

Like trying to reach out and touch a rainbow, or better still, catch a firefly in a mason jar.  Stumble through the fields in the middle of the night.  Good luck!  Sober, or drunk with love.   The odds were still the same. . .it is there. . . you just know it is there.  Follow the path- it will appear.

 

Then, inexplicably, everyone started talking at once! So much chattering, laughing, muttering, giggling, chirping, chiming and singing...

 

Oh my, Honkerville was going nuts!  As if they had never seen such a sunrise in their lives. Oh my, what to do?  What to do?

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