Homer's Tale
                                by Dave Laird
                        Copyright 1990 by Dave Laird
                 The Name Homer Pheeder all Rights Reserved

Homer Pheeder came into my life, late one summer afternoon several  years
ago, with little more fanfare than his current existence has brought.

At the time, I was living in a twenty foot bread truck in a state  park near
Spokane, Washington, sharing, my time between tending a red Irish Setter
named Beauregard and my writing. Those were not the best of times, for I had
little money, and only a PC to keep me company, which I faithfully fired up
on a long extension cord. Then Homer, and his wife Effie Mae came into my
life, and offered me a safe haven to park my old bread truck, and a
temporary job. It was a beginning.

At first, I wrote in the evenings about some of the anecdotes which  Homer
so glibly shared with me during our days together, working on his farm. My
editor of the time, who owned the Medical Lake Record, started printing some
of what Homer had to say about living and life and, although I was certain
that this was, at best, an act of Christian charity, I needed the money, and
so Homer Pheeder became my benefactor.

Now, ten years later, Homer is now a retired farmer and has a  grizzled
appearance. His face, deeply lined from years working outdoors, seldom
changes its appearance, from day to day. His whisker stubble seemingly never
grows longer, by some miracle. I have, on one occasion, seen him clean
shaven for a funeral, but that was only for a day, and on the morrow, his
face returned to its normal state, his whisker stubble favoring gray, nearly
thick enough around his upper lip to almost pass for a mustache, but not
quite.

His bright blue eyes give an appearance of levity which, upon  occasion, has
fooled even me, for I have seen him sit for hours, unspeaking, contemplating
some deep philosophical meaning. Yet, for all his depth of being, he
continues to define himself as a "man of the soil", a farmer, who in
retirement has found a new love in writing.

To those who live nearby their log cabin, set back off the road,  Homer and
Effie Pheeder are considered perfect neighbors: they are seldom visible,
audible or in your yard unless you need them. But if said need does arrive,
they are the first ones there, and usually come with some of Effie Mae's
homemade baking to help ease the passage of time.

When I first introduced Homer to my personal computer, he stared at  it,
transfixed, for several moments, before quietly commenting, in his usually
terse manner, "Well, it does have a lot of possibilities..."

Since that first introduction to the world of the personal  computer, Homer
has spent considerable hours in self-teaching, dropping by the house, often
bearing a gift of home made bread or rolls, fresh from Effie's oven, no
doubt. His arrival, thus justified by an act of unquestionable piety, thus
becomes an excuse to 'lookit that piece of software you were talking about'
or to have some technical part of the DOS infrastructure explained again in
greater detail.

More often than not, his visit simply serves to read, often for  hours, the
messages on the BBS, enrapt in a world of his own thoughts, as the world of
the electronic medium opens itself to his perusing gray eyes.

I often take comfort in my silent neighbor and his wife. I find  greater
comfort in knowing that in this imperfect world, there is still room for
such a perfect couple to exist in the midst of what I perceive to be
cacophony and discord.

Otherwise, I would not have created Homer and Effie, nor would they
regularly haunt the BBS's of the Spokane and Seattle areas, regularly
littering the airwaves with his homespun humor and observations.