How it works:

Today is the 164th birthday of Ambrose Bierce, one of the most cynical satirists to have ever walked amongst the throng of self-absorbed society. He was a contemporary of Mark Twain, and was, in fact, an evil Twain twin of sorts. Bierce was Twain's dark side, the Darth Vader to Twain's Luke Skywalker (though the comparison breaks down when one realizes that Bierce wasn't Twain's father).

Bierce's best-known and oft-quoted work, The Devil's Dictionary, offered sarcastic definitions of everyday words turned in the rock tumbler of his introspective mind until they took on meanings no one had ever considered previously. It is with completely serendipitous pleasure that I have found my own blog moniker defined among its pages:

I like it.

So. It finally happened. Sarah wanted to read what I've written.

Not just the things on my blog or the things I write for public display. She wanted access to the dusty, cob-webbed vault in my head. So I gave her what she wanted. I let her read the manuscripts. Both of them.

Two nights ago, I dropped her off and I gave them to her, cautioning her that I didn't want to know what she thought about them, good or bad.

This morning, some friends stopped by my house. I haven't seen them since last summer when they winterized their boat, locked up their lake house, and packed off for home. They've finally reopened their house, gotten the boat out, and set out to make their rounds in the nautical neighborhood.

We were sitting in the main room watching the World Cup and patriotically lamenting our motherland's exodus from the competition, when all of a sudden, the door burst open and Sarah marched in, manuscripts tucked under her arm. She stomped up to me, slammed the manuscripts down on the couch next to me, propped her hands on her hips menacingly, and bellowed, "What the HELL is wrong with you?!?!" Then she stomped out, slamming the door behind her. A picture next to the door fell off the wall and the dog crawled under the coffee table with her little stumpy tail tucked between her legs.

Everyone sat in stunned silence for a few seconds. Then, one of my friends leaned forward, cleared his throat, and said, "Umm...you let her read the manuscripts, didn't you?"

And I laughed like a mad scientist.

I'm beginning to believe that the concept of such a thing as innate human kindness is little more than pure myth. I'm almost convinced that if one were to place three randomly selected people in a room together, two would eventually become best friends and kill the third. I haven't seen any evidence, lately, that would suggest otherwise.

First, take a look at this. It's the drainplug stopping up a river that once ran wild between two mountains. Upstream, to the right in the photo, is the lake upon whose banks I live. It has more than 500 miles of shoreline, great sunrises, and lots of opportunity to do stupid things that might cause injury, especially when alcohol and powerful boats are involved.* To the left is the business side of the dam. If the right side is an idyllic Munchkinland sans Wicked Witch, the left is the curtain behind which the mighty and powerful Oz does his smoke-and-mirrors trick to keep up appearances.

Looking at all that concrete holding back all that water, one cannot help but think of vandalism.

Perhaps it is this same mischievous temptation which has prompted the military to use the dam as a practice target for low-level bombing runs. Once or twice a week, the happy sound of water lapping the shore is broken by the thunder of military hardware. They fly their F-18's up the valley below the dam, deliver their imaginary payloads, then pull up and head for home. And in all likelihood, at some point during their trips en route to the target, every single pilot has heard his crewman's voice on the comm link say, "Trust your feelings, Luke. Turn off your targeting computer."

Because they fly so low, the dam shields them from view and deflects much of the engine noise. The first an unsuspecting boater on the navigable side becomes aware of their presence, then, is when a huge chunk of swept-wing government steel makes a sudden appearance over the lip of the dam (they're much larger than they appear in the movies), followed almost immediately by a shockwave of sound that can be felt more than heard. The effect is quite dramatic and unnerving.

Over the course of several weeks, I've noticed a pattern. Though the fake bombing raids may take place on any day of the week, they happen almost without exception on Tuesday afternoons. I'm not sure why I kept track of that, but it came in handy a few days ago.

Remember Sarah? Last Tuesday, we went out for a boat ride. We hit all the scenic spots on the lake, went swimming in a quiet cove, and ended up (by nefarious design) anchored in the shadow of the dam. We talked for a while, absorbed a little sunshine and good company, and eventually stretched out in the bow.

Then the planes came.

I heard them coming, but only because I knew to listen for them. Even then, however, I only had a brief moment's advance warning in which to brace myself. Sarah was propped up on her elbow, head resting in her hand. She was in mid-sentence, talking about a trip to Europe a few years ago, when I abruptly sat up and plugged my ears with my fingers. She gave me a curious and slightly offended look, and then her gaze drifted over my shoulder and her eyes grew suddenly wide. As I felt the thunder roll over me from behind, I watched in bemusement as she fell backward into the water.

I wish I'd had my camera.

He died in his sleep early Saturday morning. On Thursday, he lapsed into a coma and no one expected he'd live through the night. He held on longer than anyone expected he would, though, but when he breathed his last, he was at home surrounded by his family and a few friends. He never regained consciousness, which was a final blessing for him.

I sat next to him one night about a year ago in my Thursday night Bible Study group and I glanced over his shoulder at his Bible. It was legendary, the same Bible he'd had since he was a child. It was torn and tattered, pages threatening to let go of the binding glue and abandon ship at any moment. Duct tape, for all its millions of uses, wouldn't even begin to hold it together. I noticed that there were notes scribbled in the margins in different colors of ink and that a great deal of the text was underlined. I asked him about it and he said, "Whenever I read something important, I underline it." I took a closer look and realized that every word was underlined, and I said, "But you've underlined all of it." He replied, "That's because it's all important.

I related this story to his son and daughter Thursday night while we were remembering humorous highlights of his life. They laughed. "That's just like him," they said.

Friday afternoon, though, I got a glimpse at just how astute and profound his mind was, despite the frailty of his body. That fount of wisdom was still sharp enough, even on his deathbed, to tap into the mental note he'd made about that one incident last year and he made one last profound gesture that I'll never forget. His daughter told me that while he was still lucid earlier last week, he'd told her that he wanted me to have his Bible.

That's just like him.

He was a member of the same profession as my father and this commonality inevitably led to their friendship. When I was young, he and his wife along with my parents and a few other friends would alternate playing host for dinner once a week. Children were always invited and he would invariably spend more time with the younger generation than he did with his own. Eventually, one of the hosts, in jest, set his place at the children's table one night and he proudly announced that he'd "graduated" to the kids' table. From that day on, he sat with us every week.

We were always delighted to see him, not just because we could consistently rely upon him to bring us candy, but also because his kindness to us was genuine and selfless. He transcended mere generosity; his charity was such that he would not only bring us candy, but made a point to know each child's specific sweet-tooth preferences and would bring us each an entire bag full of our favorites. He and his wife were always the last to arrive because he felt it so important to take the time to stop and shop for goodies that tardiness was a small sacrifice.

My parents separated when I was still young, and this proved to be the catalyst for the dissolution of the "Friday Night Supper Club," as they had come to call it. Nevertheless, every Friday night, he would still make the rounds to each child's house to bring our weekly allotment of sweets. When I felt the sting of my father's absence on birthdays and Christmas, he did his best to make up the difference by showering attention on me. Only now that I am grown do I fully appreciate the magnitude of such an act.

When I left home for college, I lost touch with him, as I did with most people back home. It wasn't until I moved back a little over a decade later that I saw him again. The years had not been kind to him in the interim. His body was wracked with Parkinson's Disease. His posture was so stooped that he could only walk with the aid of two canes, and then only on good days. On bad days, he could barely make it into his wheelchair.

In the past few years, his health has deteriorated even further. The canes became a thing of the past. He could only move with great pain and the tardive dyskinesia that is the side-effect of his medication made it difficult for him to function. His speech became slurred and unintelligible. Only with the greatest of effort could he speak clearly enough that others could understand him.

Despite it all, however, neither his spirit nor his faith have faltered. Even though anyone else in his condition would have been pardoned with great sympathy, he never missed church on Sundays or Bible Study meetings on Thursday nights, except for those times when he was in the hospital (and on more than one occasion, he has spoken severely to his doctor for not releasing him on Saturday afternoon).

Amazingly, even in his broken condition, he was last year's top fundraiser for the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life, in which he participated in his wheelchair unassisted by anyone. He still makes a point to visit me on my birthday and when he is able, brings candy to my daughter. He is kinder than any other person I have ever known and I love the man with all my heart.

In all likelihood, he will die sometime tonight.