I was on my way to work one day last year, going the back road because it allowed me to get the best view of the front range. It was a cool spring day, a bit hazy with blue sky breaking through.

As I approached a farmer's stock pond, I spied four white pelicans swimming slowly around. I took a brief look and passed on by. I really knew I should stop and watch, but I didn't want to be late for work. Then I thought about whether I'd be proud I'd been on time for work at the end of my life or needing a sweet memory to help me ease on out.

I turned around and went back. There was a driveway just to the north of the pond, so I pulled in there to see the birds. What I saw for the next five minutes was the most beautiful ballet that I've ever seen, better than the Bolshoi, better than Swan Lake, surpassing Nuryev, choreographed comparable to Balanchine.

The stage was that stock pond on a back road in eastern Boulder County. The four white pelicans swam together in a tight group, dipping their beaks, nearly, but not quite, in unison, all swimming at the same slow, waltzing pace. One would break off and face the other three, then another.

Their wings were extended just enough to see the black tips. When they had their backs to me, the black wing tips slowly undulated like a ballerina's hands as they dipped. There in the early morning, watching them on that murky, mirror smooth pond very nearly moved me to tears.

As I watched, a mallard drake landed hard in the middle of the pond, causing ripples that made their way to the pelicans and rocked them slightly, but the duck himself went unnoticed, like a villain, unwanted and ignored.

The pond is small, maybe half the size of a football field. As I watched, the pelicans did their dance, feeding themselves on bottom dwellers and covering most of the pond, around, across and back and forth. As I prepared to leave, the starting engine caused them all to stop and look up, right at me.

I applauded and they bowed their heads in unison as dutiful audience and performers do. I don't remember anything at all about the rest of the day, tardiness notwithstanding.

When jum was 9, and pretty worn out, his father hired a black cook to help and, at her side, jum learned the benefits of frugal but tasty cooking. He has an extensive background in cooking rich, fat, unhealthy foods such as fried chicken, biscuits made with lard and highly salted beans and peas cooked with salt meat (fat back to the uninitiated).

Though he was raised a Methodist, when he turned 18, he became a hippie. He spent some time in New Orleans working as a dishwasher, then worked as a fry cook in a Cape Cod clam joint.

He moved to Colorado in 1970. There he worked in the kitchen at the Boulderado Hotel with Rainer, a gay German who raised orchids. Rainer had been apprenticed by his family to a chef in Germany when he was 13 and had been cooking ever since.

Jum's first real love at 24 was a transsexual gourmet chef. It taught him how to make sauces. Then he met a vegetarian hippie chick who introduced him to steamed green beans and tofu and convinced him that real girls were great.

Over time, he has been alternately a husband, father, bachelor, lover, bon vivant and hedonist. During his bachelor periods, he has perfected the art of good cooking for not a lot of money. He is a master at creating something new from scratch or from gourmet leftovers. His skills with doggy bag contents at breakfast are renowned throughout some parts of Boulder County.

Today, he has a real girlfriend who supports his cooking pursuits and cleans up after him so long as he feeds her. He travels extensively in eastern Europe, South America and California. His travels often influence his spice applications. He has a good many frequent flier miles which he uses to travel to Hawaii as often as possible.

Jum is an intellectual and philosopher, as well as a backward, lazy, worthless lout. He is a highly motivated, though particularly unsuccessful, entrepreneur. He has scrupulous skills in conveying his eclectic experiences to geniuses, special ed adults, dolts and dummies of all genders.

the end

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