Something remarkable happens every day on The Mountain.

Today was a lulu.

One of my favorite clients (look at me - calling them clients like I was some hotshot $500 an hour attorney or something), is out-of-town for a few days. Sanssouci (made up name) is the one who lives in a renovated chicken coop about 100 yards from her husband's renovated coop. I hardly blink an eye anymore at their eccentricity. I like eccentric people because I'm one of them sans chicken coop.

Anyway, the other day Sanssouci dropped off keys to her coop and his coop. They are traumatized. Bolero (made up name), her husband, apparently used poor judgment when renting out one of the other renovated coops on their property to Mr. Wingnut (made up name). Who would have thunk chicken coops were so rentable? Sanssouci and Bolero are frightened because Mr. Wingnut is so w-e-i-r-d. Given that all things are relative, I quickly determined Mr. Wingnut must be reallyreallyreally weird.

As Sanssouci told me more weird stuff about Mr. Wingnut, I turned into a big scaredy-cat, but didn't let on. Not only do they now lock their doors for the first time ever, they have also padlocked their mailboxes.

After Sanssouci left, I called a friend, Kismet (made up name), in California for his advice. I was calling to ask if I should pack a gun. I have an unloaded lady's pistol, which I've never fired. I asked if I should carry it unloaded as a prop. He immediately responded, "NO!" He said, "Reenie (real name)you have a good golf swing - pull a 3-iron. If Mr. Wingnut appears and threatens you, whack him in the knees." Hmmm, I pondered, good idea, but my first instinct was to aim for another part of Mr. Wingnut's anatomy.

So, this morning I drove out to Bridal Veil Point where Sansouci and Bolero live, to check on their eight cats and seven dogs. I was packing a 3-iron. As promised, I first stopped to check on Bolero's 85-year-old mother, Sweetpea (made up name) who ALSO lives in a renovated chicken coop. I adore Sweetpea - she is a bona fide legend on The Mountain - knowing her is a privilege. We sat in rocking chairs on her front porch and chatted a while. Conversation was lively - she is so gosh dern interesting and well-read and full of mountain lore. She had been up since dawn, hand-chopping veggies for fresh gazpacho - she was entertaining seventeen people for dinner that night, and glad to sit a spell. I told her I'd be checking up on her every day to make sure Mr. Wingnut wasn't harassing her. As I left she was warbling a favorite tune, I believe something Marlene Dietrich once sang.

I checked on the critters, walking around with the 3-iron propped on my shoulder like a rifle - probably looked a little weird. Heh. Mr. Wingnut never appeared. He must have spotted the 3-iron.

Mind you, I get paid a whopping $25 a day to do this. I'd still have it no other way. I love my job.

Oh, I forgot. When Sanssouci dropped off her keys I asked where she and Bolero were going. They were flying to Montreal for a convention. "Really?" I enthused.

"Yup," she responded with utter bliss. "We're attending seminars to become Ambassadors of the Universe. The training will give us the skills to properly greet aliens when they arrive and show themselves." Then in a conspiratorial whisper, "You know they're already here, but haven't shown themselves yet."

I kept my game face - it was hard - but nary a tic crossed my face. I'm a professional.

She elaborated, "Most nights we'll stay up until 3 A.M. vectoring the sky for space ships."

I politely and honestly responded, "I can't wait to hear about your trip."

Truth is, Bolero and Sanssouci might be on to something - might be just the right people to know when and if the aliens appear. Told ya I'm good at networking, meeting the right people.

Nanu-nanu.