It had been more than 20 years since I’ve had to deal with a mouse in my living space. Nevermind the fact I was born and raised on a farm where I’ve seen mice in barns and even in houses. It’s been a long time since I’ve been a country boy, and having this rodent in my living quarters freaked me out.   

I arrived a little too early for the meeting. Having a vodka and tonic at the Backstage Café in Covington, I was waiting for my editor to show up. It’s never a good thing when your editor wants to talk about your column and “the future.” I kind of knew the kind of future he wanted to discuss.  

The young guy sitting on the bench to my left was high on something. He kept mentioning how he got caught “getting it on” by the girl’s boyfriend. “He went out to his truck to get a gun,” the guy said. “I got out of there quick, man, hightailed it.” I nodded my head at him as he spit on the sidewalk. He spit a lot.  

It took three buses for me to reach her apartment in Colerain Township, but I was on a mission. I was determined to get a piece of my property back. Walking up to her apartment door, I had purpose. I would be polite but I’d be direct. I wanted the damn book back.   

I’m gonna tell you the same thing I told the police. When I picked him up from the airport, he didn’t seem all that bad off. Pale, perhaps, with rings around the eyes, but nothing alarmingly different than anyone else I had picked up that was in the middle of a tour.    

I felt tired walking up to Walgreens on a Tuesday morning in Covington. The night before, a barking dog kept me up until 2 in the morning. It was a vicious bark with practically no letup. I couldn’t figure it out. All around me are apartment buildings. Why would a dog be kept outside all night?  

This time of year, I tend to look out my window at the changing season. I notice that the leaves are starting to fall from the trees and there’s coolness in the air most mornings. Summer is almost gone and it’s time to prepare myself for the chilly winter season that will come much too soon.  

I gave America a Labor Day party this weekend and it was a lot of work. The kids aren’t so much interested in fireworks anymore, but rest assured we adults still like our alcohol. America, are you tired? I know I am. Tired of the 50-hour workweek, or the no workweek. Tired of 1 % of your population owning 40% of your wealth. Tired of record profits and thievery being subsidized.  

Anna called me one night around 9 o’clock. I knew she was calling me from a bar, could hear the jukebox in the background, could hear a Country song playing, which was almost louder than Anna. She was slurring her words when she asked me to join her. I couldn’t that night, but I agreed to meet her the following week.  

I’ve been living in Covington for a few weeks now. I’m still feeling my way around the area. As a writer, I keep a notebook of interesting things I see or memorable conversations I have. I’ve compiled some little Covington stories to share with you.  

Gun people: I don’t pretend to understand them. I don’t relate to people who carry guns, collect them or shoot them. To me, guns encourage violent behavior and are a danger to society. I shot a gun once back when I was 11 or 12 years old. Living in the country, my father let me shoot his gun into a field. I remember the shot being loud and me falling down as the gun went off. It was scary.  

It was my birthday, but you know it wasn’t a big deal or anything. Like no one declared, “Let’s go out tonight and celebrate your birthday, Mark.” Going out just happened, as usual. It consisted, sadly, of driving up and down the strip — which I now realize is no strip at all, but just a street like any other. But sometimes we would find something there, like a drag race maybe, or (preferably) the rear-end of a car full of girls. More often than not, though, there would be nothing.  

Would it shock the hell out of you that a 57-year-old man would love Amy Winehouse’s music? I do. When I found out she died late last month I played her Back to Black CD over and over again. Winehouse had a unique, soulful voice and was one of the best songwriters ever. For those of us who followed her, it was a sad day when she left us.  

After four days of Beck’s for breakfast in Germany, I already felt sapped of energy and hobbled. Not to mention the reappearance of a long-lost ailment that suddenly returned: an anal fissure that had me repeatedly filling the bowl in a way that brought to mind Jackson Pollock.  

I was playing my mandolin just like I do on most early evenings. Playing this musical instrument, which I’ve been playing since I was a child, relaxes me. On this particular evening, it was making me sad. As I played, thoughts went through my mind that this would be the last time I’d be playing the mandolin in Westwood. The following day was moving day. I was making a change in my life and moving to Covington.