In Phoenix, one fine day in the Fall of 2016, I saw a friend from across the not-so-green way, on the wannabe golf course, mid-morning with a spray can, spraying what looked like three or four foot circles in the half grass I refer to as the ‘dead rough.’ Economics rendered our “Practice Green” to become the “Practice Dirt” with more challenges than ants.

          “Aldo?” I called out, downwind, smelling a chemical odor from the safety of my yard. I lifted my shoulders, palms out and slightly raised, with a question on my face.

          Without looking up, he said “Ants, Peter! When I stop to align my chip shot the damn ants crawl up my shoes, not to mention my club.”

          Then looking up at my white shorts and white polo shirt with white socks and sandals, he laughingly asked, “Are you the Gandhi of ants, like killing a tiny ant is BAD KARMA?” Aldo continued, “Too darn many ants in my way, and they bite, darn them.”

          I was not sure how to answer the Gandhi question, but I admired Aldo’s determination. Ants can be a real pain anywhere they live, even if they don’t bite. He bent over and went back to intently spraying.

          Aldo continued without looking up, “This is specific to where my ball usually lands.”

          Suddenly it seemed hilarious to tackle the ants with a can of ant killer spray two anthills at a time. I know a thing or two about ants, and several great memories came flooding back. I laughed out loud, and asked Aldo if he had a case or two of ant killer.

          He stood up suddenly, asking, “You think I need a case or two?” mirroring my question mark body language. I nodded “yes.”

          “Wanna tell me why, Mister Story Teller?” he smiled while walking up to the fence.

          With a laugh, I started telling Aldo about the first time I had a face to face confrontation with ants a month after Judy and I moved into the cabin up on The Divide. Suddenly another ant story from five years later came crashing in with such force, my first story fell apart with a few stammers and grunts.

          “Ah, let me write it down first,” I said, “I need to separate these bigger than life stories no matter how tiny they are!” I pointed at another anthill just outside my fence.

          I humbly bowed like I imagined Gandhi would, backing away with small steps. Besides, Aldo still carried the can of ant killer in his right hand.

          When I started to separate the stories, I realized these two ant stories were five years apart with a lot of people stories in between. The stories came pouring out in a flood. All I needed was to organize them, and then edit out more than half the words. So in truth, Aldo inspired this book!

I silently say, “Thank you, Aldo, I think.”