Walter Rego is a multi-faceted entrepreneur with a history of taking on high profile projects — and abandoning them when no one was looking.

One such scheme was to build a short wall along our northern border, just so folks would know where North Dakota ended and Saskatchewan began (and vice versa). Walter’s plan was to put a well-lit and welcoming gate in the middle of the wall, figuring he could get plenty of Canadian tourists to pay an admission fee for access into this great land of ours, lured by the promise of the one thing they can’t get in Canada — Canadian bacon.

Some of Walter’s other get-rich-quick schemes included publishing a New Year’s resolution fad diet plan (written with the expectation that anyone who bought such a book would probably toss it into the trash by mid-February, anyway) and a spring break shuttle service that transported coeds from frost-bitten northern colleges to sun-drenched Florida beaches, in a luxury party bus — unfortunately, he could only afford a windowless delivery van, festooned with shag carpet and bean bag chairs, which prompted legal authorities to question his intentions concerning the transportation of young women across state lines.

One fateful day, Walter was reading the local newspaper and happened upon a horoscope column. The prognosticator predicted that, as a Pieces, Walter would “gain knowledge in an unusual way.”

“I wonder what that is supposed to mean,” thought Walter.

Followed by, “That is really stupid.”

Followed by, “I can come up with better horoscope predictions than this idiot.”

Within that stream of conciseness, a new scheme was born. Walter decided to concoct vague and meaningless prophecies, and market himself as the next Nostradamus (or as a political pollster).

Some of his psychic forecasts included:

• Capricorn: It doesn’t get any better than this…so quit trying.

• Aquarius: Let the sun shine.

• Pisces: Something smells a little fishy.

• Aries: Just because you are a ram doesn’t mean you have to drive a Dodge.

• Taurus: However, YOU should probably be driving a Ford.

• Gemini: Somewhere, in your family tree, sits a pair of twins, hoping to audition for a role in “The Shining.”

• Cancer: Wear pink.

• Libra: You don’t really want to know. Go back to bed, pull the covers over your head, and pray you make it to tomorrow.

• Scorpio: Be glad you are not a Libra.

• Sagittarius: At exactly noon, tomorrow, life as you know it will change from either better to worse, worse to better, or from mediocre to just so-so.

When pressed to predict the outcome of the 2020 Presidential election, Walter spread tea leaves around his kitchen table, put aluminum foil on the antenna attached to his crystal ball, went into a trance (it might have been a twenty minute nap — only Walter could tell the difference), and then answered, “You don’t really want to know. Go back to bed, pull the covers over your head, and pray you make it to tomorrow.”

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.