Leaving the hospital from work this morning, as I reached my car I noted a constant beeping, much like the sound of
a dying smoke alarm. I gave this sound only passing thought until I was
in my car and the annoying beeping noise followed me. It seemed to be
coming straight from the vents in my air conditioner. At this point, I
had not started the car; the key was not even in the ignition.
Perplexed and with a tinge of aggravation toward these bells and
whistles coming from the dashboard of my car, the set of wheels I
purchased with the intention of taking me into my sunset years. Well I
am not ready for the sun to set on my independence and for goodness
sake, I have put only 58,000 miles on this gas-guzzling contraption!
Somewhere in the recesses of my mind Cher is singing “and the beat goes
on, drums keep bounding rhythm to the brain” I have just worked twelve
hours, am tired and feel like I am in need of a friend! I locate my
cell phone, and called a guy friend in Oklahoma. I am in California and
as there is a two-hour time difference, I hope he has had his morning
coffee and can be of help with my request for an-over-the-phone
diagnostic. “Is it a bird Judy?” Pulling ideas out of thin air I replied, “No, it is a regular beep…It
does sound almost like a chirp but it is a rhythmic regular beep, maybe
a metronome is caught in the dash my car!” I replied “Does the radio
work?” “Yes, you can almost hear the radio” Terry and I decide this is too much for us to solve so I call Phil. He
works on various cars and surely, he can put my mind at ease. Did not
happen “Judy, I would take your car in now and have it looked at as it
could be the serpentine belt. If this belt goes out so will most of the
functions of your car.” I feel ‘so much not better’ after our
conversation. Now I am sitting stop-and-go amongst a flood of morning
traffic on the busy I-15 trying to remember just where I passed a
Nissan Dealer. “And the beep goes on; la-de-da-de; la-de-da-de-da” Now,
my Oklahoma Insurance adjuster is ringing to visit about storm damage
to my roof. “Oh by the way Tommy, can you hear this beeping noise?” A
brief conversation with Tommy, a long time friend and now the third
person from Oklahoma to be privy to my current dilemma, was of no help
to shushing the indomitable beeping! Negotiating the harried morning traffic on the I-15, I am too tired to
be lost in San Diego searching for Nissan service center. So elected
let one more guy into my circle of friends and called my son-in-love
Tom, “Tom, I have this problem with my car. A continuous beeping seems
to be coming right out of the dash. I am trying to remember where the
Nissan place is located. Is it on Balboa or Claremont Mesa Drive?” “I
don’t know for sure Jo, (he calls me Jo) but you better get it in to be
checked. Call me and let me know what they find” “Oh! I found the
Nissan place Tom, thanks, I will let you know” I breath a sigh of relief mixed with apprehension, relieved to have
located the Nissan dealer (I am way tired by this time) and
apprehensive as to what this will cost to repair. Now if you have ever one made a trip or two to an automotive service
center on the way to work, you will readily agree it rates as
unpleasant as shopping and negotiating a spot in a parking lot on
Christmas Eve. I am fortunate, as there is but one car in line when I
arrive. After about ten minutes of no motion, and silence, (except for
the chirping coming from the dash of my car) I walked into the office.
As I passed the Nissan Altima parked in front of my car (the same make
and model as my car), I turned for a closer look. “That car is beeping
too; I ask myself, what is it with these Japan automotive wonders?” I catch the attention of a young man in the office who politely asked
if he could help me. I said, “There is a beeping noise coming from my
car and would he please come see whatsamatter?” He walked with me to
the car as I began to relax, finally there would be an answer to the
questions I just had peppered four knowledgeable men. I was not
embarrassed with a sudden silence as Cher kept belting out “and the
beep goes on” With expert precision, he quickly determined it was the lights; I had
left the lights on. No, this was not the answer as when he switched the
lights off, Cher continued with her “drums keep pounding rhythm to the
brain!” (By now the beeping has settled nicely in my brain) He then
took a step back and said, “It is you! The beeping is coming from you!”
“It is coming from me?” I stutter, “Not a chance! Here is my cell phone
and it is quiet as a church mouse!” The technician said, “the beeping was in the office, so it has to be
somewhere on you,” as he assumed this "let-me-frisk-you posture" I
quickly relieve him of his thoughts and searched the multitude of
pockets of my scrubs, and pulled out a small beeper! We use these beepers at work to alert us of our assigned patient’s
cardiac arrhythmias. Fortunately, this little contraption (which i
inadvertently carried off from work) was signaling a need for a new
battery. I was beyond embarrassment. We said our goodbyes as the
technician chuckled saying I had made his day! I arrived home and as I
finally laid my head down on my pillow, drums kept pounding rhythm to
my brain.
If we have not the pleasure of meeting personally, I will share that I
am a blonde, a L’Oreal blonde, I might add to quote their
advertisements, “I am worth it”
And there, I saw, the great secular salvation. One set of footprints, followed by a trough in the sand. I had been told the old story of Jesus carrying the burdened soul through difficulties, but these were my feet. The trough had been cut by the misconceptions I had drug throughout my life. It wasn’t by grace that I would be saved, but by letting go; letting go of Christian dogma, letting go of the expectations of a world my mind had created.
Here, I leave the penance of self-sacrifice. Here, I leave the denial of self and identity for the construct of the husband and father. Here, I abandon the stones I had used to wall myself within a faith I had created. Here, I stand, naked and bathed in sunlight with the dawning of self-realization. It is within my own being to persevere; to save myself.
Blinking my eyes, I stretched as my room came into focus. The orange light slanted through the long awning window, illuminating an errant sock on the graying spruce floor.
The phone had been chirping below me, sounding through the open floorboards; only calling my attention with the final alarm and click of the answering machine, “Halo” my own voice called out in a fake Spanish accent, “Eef you are a friend or relative, please leeve your message now. If not, please rot in Hell, as I will not be talking to jou.
“Please hold” another recorded voice replied to mine, “ a representative will be with you shortly.”
“Christ” I moaned as I rolled sideways to stare vacantly at the clock. My amusement listening to two machines exchange small talk was replaced by disbelief that a company already intent on shaking me down for money would have the audacity to put me on hold to wait for the next available collections agent. There was a fumbling on the other end of the line, then a click. For a second before the disconnect, I thought I heard a woman’s voice. Running my hand across my jaw line, I felt the day-old scruff and tried to picture her. She was young, I decided; about twenty-two. She had long blonde hair that she kept pulled back. She wore a crisp blouse with khaki pants; casual yet professional. Her face was kind, yet determined, with the beautiful glow of youth upon it. She didn’t like her job, I thought. Who would? But, she was fresh out of college and this was the best paying gig she could land at the call center somewhere… Atlanta, I decided. There she sat. In a room full of cubicles, with my number randomly routed to her phone. I decided if I ever met her, I would tell her I was sorry. Sorry for all the mean things my machine told hers. Sorry my life was a disaster. Sorry that I had to make it her problem as well.
Getting up from my mattress, I examined the coil of sheets and blankets I had discarded sometime in the night. It was nice, I thought, not to have to worry about making the bed. First of all, I could argue that there was no sense in making the “bed” since the actual bed was a days journey south of here. Making a mattress on the floor would be as deluding as buying throw pillows for a camping pad. I shuffled through the covers and made a little bounce the six inches down to the floor with a muffled thump. The boards were warm on my feet as I stepped into the sunlight allowing the warmth to creep up my legs. Through the window, Breezes lifted apple leaves and made gentle tracks through the tall grass.
How many times had I looked out that window? How many seasons have I plaintively watched pass across it’s pane? The feeling rose in me that the scenes as they played out cared nothing about the presence of my eye to record them. The hands that had laid the foundation to this structure some eighty years prior were, undoubtedly stilled; resting across a skeletal breast in the cemetery over the next rise. The indifference of nature below my feet was comforting; like standing before the ocean, vast, ancient, and powerful.
Kneeling down on the floor, I pried my fingers under the boards that made the hatch to the ladder below. Eventually, I thought, I would tire of using a ladder to reach the loft above, but now that I was alone the ladder was like a youthful friend. This was my fort, my tree house, my club of one. I would have placed a big hand-painted sign saying ’no girls allowed’ if it were not already painfully obvious that there weren’t any girls trying to get in to begin with. Still, it had become a man’s playhouse. There were shelves made from hand-hewn logs in the kitchen and dining rooms. One corner of the dinning room floor was littered with various woodworking tools, relegated to their new home mid-project. On a beam high above the computer desk, hung a shotgun, and, peering out at visitors to my primitive abode, was the head of the first and only deer I had successfully shot.
The ladder creaked as I stepped down to begin my descent to the living room. Beneath the ladder, Sheba looked up hopefully; swishing a bushy tail lazily and stirring up thousands of sparkles of dust in the slant of morning light. Stopping at the bottom tread, I carefully reached down with my foot and smoothed the fur on top of her head. Lowering her head, her eyes closed; two long black lines as she drifted into a doggy sleep.
Crossing the floor, I felt every ridge in the worn pine. It had come from a pallet of barn sheathing that I thought would do the job for a temporary home. It was funny, I thought, how the things we take for temporary often become permanent; and the converse, although not as funny, was just as true. Pulling two Benadryl from a box on the computer desk, I popped them into my mouth and went to the sink for a cupped handful of water to wash them down. One capsule cocked sideways, gave in to the water, and eased it’s way down my throat. My allergies had lessened a bit by now, but I still kept my system primed with antihistamines. Taking down a small cast iron pan from a nail in the small doorway, I examined it briefly before setting it back in place with a thunk. I wasn’t hungry enough for my last egg and three strips of bacon.
Turning to examine the log shelf that spanned the six foot galley, I set my eyes on the planned meal of the day. By making an abbreviated electricity payment, I was able to buy a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey. The anniversary was approaching, and this was no time to skimp. I started the coffee and stepped into the shower
**********
The screen door creaked as Sheba slipped past me and around behind the house. The military surplus boots I had donned made a sound clunk on the porch. Standing there, finishing off my coffee, I examined the meadow. Starlings skated gracefully over the tops of the wheat-grass that strained toward the spring sky. Trees shook their fledgling leaves at the shifting air currents, while red squirrels raced through the rocking limbs. The morning air was clear and cool; not yet offering the promise of the oppressing heat a month’s time would bring. Below, a low drone alerted me to a wasp, drifting lazily by my boot. I watched him pass slowly by and towards the grass tops before gaining momentum and ascending in a quick arc, toward the woods.
Downing the last gulp of cooling coffee, I tromped heavily down the steps and into the meadow. I was quickly enveloped up to my knees in the fresh tide of grass. A crisp breeze playing off the apple branches touched my cheek before lifting a small aspen leaf, carried over from the harsh winter, to play with. The yellowed stubble of last year’s grass crunched beneath my boots. New life sprung from old. Soon my boots scuffed upon bits of charred wood, drawing my eyes to focus on a circle of scorched earth pierced throughout with new shoots of grass. I reached down and touched the blackened side of a log, remembering its specific placement the previous spring. This was the place.
**********
Garden rake in hand, I began my work in earnest; dredging up the thick under-matting of dead grass. Bundles were gathered and placed in the center of the scorched circle. With a sufficient haystack gathered, I leaned on my rake and stared out to the hillock where Sassafras lay buried. Green spruce boughs knelt before the spot as the horrific details flooded my mind. Bowing my head toward the grave, I entered the woods to gather the dead tree branches claimed by wind and snow. For the final step, I brought a double bit axe with me. As with all creatures, the winter brings death to the weak, so that the strong may go on. This winter had harvested about fifteen trees from the ranks of fir, cedar, and aspen. Of these, I sectioned and removed the closest to the pile. Once back at the pile, the logs were stacked teepee style with bits of broken pallets and scrap wood tucked between. Soaked with sweat, I inspected the pyre; some five feet tall and six feet at the base. The sun had already reached its apex and was beginning its long slant toward evening. Rivulets of sweat poured down my back and bathed my aching arms; washing, along the way, tracks of dirt and forest compost. Blackflies buzzed around my head, searching for a safe place to land and gorge themselves. The hay would be dry by tomorrow; proper tinder for the task at hand. It was a car-sized mass of potential energy; waiting, expectant. Perfect in form, it was a bomb, with a fuse, waiting for a spark to set into irrevocable motion, its complete destruction.
Standing beside the circle, I leaned my head back and filled my lungs from the passing breeze. The world around me penetrated my senses. The earthy smell of decay from the forest floor, still clinging to the back of the logs rested heavily upon my palate. The green shoots of the wheatgrass played lightly upon my nose before being washed clean by the warm smell of spruce all around me. There was a trickle down my arm, warmer than the sweat that covered me. I looked down to see a thin trail of blood running from my forearm, down along the curve of muscle and tendon, across my wrist, and down my little finger. I watched each slow drop swell, and fall to the grass below. Like the yellowed undergrowth I had raked earlier, each drop of expended life, fell to the earth to provide for nourishment.
The preparations had been made. There was nothing left to do but wait. The way I had waited then. But now, as in every year since, the outcome has already been written. Gone is the blissful ignorance I held that day. Gone, the hope; the belief in miracles, in rescue. There is only remembrance.
**********
I rose again to the slant of light. The call to work had already been made before my manager arrived. It was a call I had planned for a month now. I was as certain about having to feign illness as I was they would not have approved a day off. What excuse could I give them that would make sense to a civilized mind?
Making my way down the ladder, I paused at the bottom to examine a static sky through a single pane of glass. Randomly painted cirrus clouds clung to blue cellophane as a distant sun watched from above. The wheatgrass stood expectant in the field; unchanged by the prospect of a passing breeze. To the right hung the framed footprints. Touching them, as I had touched those very feet a decade ago, I remembered each detail of that day. A liturgy of despair: I was at work when I got an emergency call. Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer. I arrived just as she was admitted. The contractions came. He was born, he died, I died too. Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer. It was all her fault. Amen.
The words of condemnation toward her had still left me with no feeling of absolution. Closure was an illusion and payment would never be made for one soul thrown to the wind. This was a date that had passed each year without mention. The weight of the air bore testimony to the day that words would not do justice. Now, alone, I had resolved to bear the annual penance worthy of the crime committed. The day would no longer pass into obscurity without mention of the treason that had placed an infant in an unmarked grave; as if the body had to be destroyed and hidden to cover the shame.
“May God damn her to Hell,” I said aloud as I slowly pulled my hand back, allowing the words to hang in the air; to settle in the dust on the open rafters and be witnessed by the faces on the walls.
Drawing a match from the box on the pie safe, I struck it slowly, immersed in the moment when spark becomes flame. Sulfur curled around my nose as I lifted the flame to the wick of a candle beneath the framed footprints. The wick glowed orange before becoming a dancing flame, sending thin, black tendrils up to the beams above. Blowing out the match, I set the charred stick aside, and passed into the kitchen. Taking down the Jameson’s, I poured a full shot and returned to the pie safe to place it before the candle. For several minutes I stood there, my mind a flat lake, rapt in the vision of the flicking orange flame through the amber whiskey. I was an acolyte.
The next glass of whiskey was mine. I stepped out onto the porch, watching the sunlight play joylessly around the rim of the glass, casting sparks into the warm liquid below. Draining the glass, I retrieved a branch section from the previous day’s scavenging. Returning to the living room, I began tearing one of Shawn’s old shirts into strips and fastening them to one end of the branch. Layer upon layer. One from Shawn. One from Caitlin. One from Keagan; until the branch resembled a colorful novelty Q-tip. Dousing the end of the swab with lighter fluid, I carefully leaned it against the porch.
Once lit, the torch flared to life with surprising intensity; orange upon red, swirling around the top in ravenous layers. The torch held out to one side, I solemnly approached the wooded mound in the meadow. Thrusting deep, the flame broke off; quickly spreading through the tinder. Moving around the base, I ignited five fires along the perimeter before casting the torch to the top of the pile. From deep in the center, there was a rumble, then a gray cloud, out of which lashed fresh tongues of flame; eager for a taste of the larger kindling.
From below, flames grew; multiplied, and merged together to form a new life. The separate flames now became a fire, swallowing branches and enveloping logs. A log shifted, coughing a shower of sparks into the sky. Orange sprites danced and darted around me; filling my eyes with the glowing streaks of their courses and my nose with the spent life of the forest.
Alive now, it rose before me; it’s back hunched as it clawed and tore at the fallen timber; a beast of consumption, conjured before me at the end of a torch. I approached it’s heat; arms stretched, feeling each wave as my skin tightened against my face. I confronted the beast now, in it’s frenzy, eyes closed. I wondered. Would it feed indiscriminately? Would it accept all that was offered it? Would it devour my pain, my loneliness? Would it accept my guilt; my penance? How long could such a thing live off those parts, so invisible, yet so tangible they can paralyze?
I stood there, in the heat, every nerve in my skin now tingling with the searing energy before me. It was drawing me in. It was feeding.
**********
Evening fell with the darkness I had come to know so well in the meadow. Sitting on a section of log spared from the fire, I rested my feet in the charred circle and gazed into the mollified blaze. Putting the exhausted bottle of Jameson’s to my lips, I took a long draw, hardly noticing the warmth as it moved down into my gut. My body had become leaden. My feet were embedded in the ash, my backside pressed into the log, and my very soul felt poured out. Glancing at my hand, I could see a patchwork of soot in the flickering light. It followed up my arm and I presumed to be covered in it; a perverse ashen camouflage.
Lifting myself from the dying fire’s gaze, I made my way back to the porch. Closing the door behind me with an uneven thunk, dim light of the candle sent out a jumpy flicker of disapproval. Again, I paused before the footprints, watching now as pale yellow light crept at the heels. Lifting the whiskey I had set there, I bent, blew out the candle, “Happy birthday, Justin.”.
The scenes replayed from my childhood all begin the same way – my Dad with a whistle on his lips. He whistled constantly, always happy tunes, like Anna in Siam “whenever she felt afraid” – except with Dad, it was just … whenever.
I can't remember a time when my father didn't whistle. We always knew he had arrived home from work long before he entered the house. His music preceded him, the whistle slipping from his lips as easily as the slide of Glenn Miller’s trombone.
When we were young, we used to love taking walks with Dad in the small Illinois town where he grew up. He’d whistle Big Band tunes as we bounced along beside him and, as we passed the various landmarks, he would share stories of his youthful mischief-making. Rushville’s resident delinquent. “That’s where we hoisted the Model T into the tree. Was my teacher ever surprised, coming out the next morning to find his pride and joy missing … until he looked up.” Then he would whistle contentedly as we followed him like a gaggle of geese to the next landmark.
When we passed his old high school, he stopped whistling long enough to describe the tornado that had ripped through town while all its residents were packed inside the gymnasium watching a basketball game. Dad had rushed in to warn everyone of the funnel cloud that had touched down, but, of course, nobody believed him, convinced it was just another one of his pranks. He was vindicated, however, when they filed out of the gymnasium after the game to find debris everywhere–roofless houses, uprooted trees, chimneys shaved off like unwanted whiskers. “There was nothing they could have done anyway; they were probably better off sitting in the safety of that gym enjoying a good game.” Again with the whistling. Over the Rainbow.
I could never get lost as a child. One time at the carnival I got separated from my parents amid the throng of humanity on the Midway. But I wasn’t scared. All I had to do, I told myself, was listen for the whistle. And sure enough, there it was. The theme from Carousel. (His choices were always appropriate to the setting.)
My father enjoyed the dubious distinction of being the only person ever rebuked for whistling in Abraham Lincoln’s tomb. You guessed it. The Battle Hymn of the Republic. As the docent clicked her tongue in contempt, he teased. “I think old Abe would have liked my whistling. It was his favorite song, after all.” You would think the self-conscious, pre-adolescent young girl that was me at the time would have found it mortifying to have all 20+ eyes in the tour group focused on my father, but, as it turned out, group sentiment appeared to run about 20:1 in his favor.
If you asked me what trait I loved most about my father, his whistling would be at the top of my list. Once, at the mall, we passed a group of teenagers who made fun of him as we walked by, snickering and pointing at him and blowing through their lips in mock whistles, then falling all over each other in peals of rude laughter. I remember wondering at the time what their dads were doing right then.
Like his personality, Dad’s songs were always upbeat – Big Band tunes, of course, and college fight songs … nothing can beat the Army Air Corp. He was the eternal optimist, even at the end when he knew he was dying. They gave him six months; he aimed for a year or, better yet, to prove them wrong all together. In the end he had to settle for 4½ months beyond their prediction, but they were good months. He tied up loose ends, said his goodbyes, made his amends. “I’ve had a long, happy life,” he’d said over and over. “I’m thankful for all I’ve had–my friends, my family, my memories. I’m ready.”
I’m not sure what tune he picked for the grand finale; his words were trapped inside him by then. But of one thing I have no doubt – my father went out whistling.
The second surgery that I had was in February. I went to Medical City of Dallas to find out what stage of Cancer I was in. I was put in this big white room; I had to lay on this metal table with a triangular piece of foam that was put under my knees so that they would remain bent. I remained on the table for four hours. They used Novocain to numb my feet. They gave me shots three times between my big toe, my second toe, and my third toe and on top of both of feet. When my feet were numb they made an incision on the top of each foot to find a hair like vein so they could inject a tube carrying blue dye into me. I was told that one out of three people would have their legs cramp up when the dye is injected. The dye traveled up a vein that was on the inside of my legs. I was one of the unfortunate people whose legs cramped up. My mom remembers me screaming from the pain. After the dye was injected, they took me into another room and had me put on a gown so that I could be x-rayed. The doctor said that he never had a test fail but mentioned that if it did that they would have to reinsert the die. I’m glad that it didn’t fail! This surgery was to find out what stage of Cancer I was in. There are four stages of Cancer and I was diagnosed in the third stage. The fourth stage is terminal. After I had my stitches removed, I got home and everyone was calling me “Smurf feet” because my feet were blue from the dye. The dye remained in my feet for at least a year and a half.
Our world is in danger.Mankind is slowly destroying the world around us along with the life in it.This world is filled with the beauty of nature. Itis this beauty that is being destroyed through the progression of greed. Our children are also victims in this world we have created and destroyed. Every day there is a child who has suffered abuse, neglect, hatred, and even tragic deaths at the hands of demented adults. Those children who have learned to destroy as well learned their behavior from evil adults whose only goal is to destroy for their own self-gain. The innocence of children is what life is all about, yet their innocence is slowly becoming extinct. Our world today is in chaos. The Holy bonds of matrimony are being severed by adultery, disrespect and abuse. People are killing each other in greed; great cities are being built only to harbor crime and destitution. The only ruler mankind will follow and worship is MONEY. Selfishness and greed have replaced charity and love in the hearts of many.Very few people today are willing to lend a hand without expecting something in return.
What has happened to humanity? Why have we become so destructive towards the things in life we need the most? Modern technology has not truly improved our lives. They only mask the problems that we are not willing to face. We have only been offered temporary conveniences to long time problems. Mankind has been blinded by greed and cannot see the destruction caused by our so-called modern technology.I am just as guilty of this. But I believe it is important to bring to light the reality of the world we are now living in.I feel that we must make the effort to remember the things in life that are truly priceless. The future of our children is in jeopardy. It is vital that we preserve the sanctity of our world’s natural resources so that they too will benefit from the beauty that this world has to offer. It is this modernized world of ours that has caused an increase in crime, poor health habits, selfishness, greed, a rise in diseases we have never heard of before, and conflicts among so many nations of our world. War has become an reaction that we accept without a second thought every time things don’t go our way. Compromise is a word we no longer even consider anymore.The Human race is in danger and it is at our own hands.
I often wish for days gone by when truth and honesty were things that didn’t take so much effort. A time when children were safe wherever they went-
a stranger was not quickly feared. Those were the days when competition was not a way of life, and every person was given respect. Hard work was something to be proud of and admired- not full of resentments. The natural beauty of our world was respected and admired; Air was pure and clean without the pollutants of today.
Those were the days we have forgotten in our struggle to become greater than the next man. What has happened to the decent moral values that we once taught our children?Our children today are being robbed from the world we use to know. Many do not even know the true meaning of the word respect anymore. They are not to blame… we as adults have taught these lost children everything they know today. We have destroyed their innocence.
It makes me sad to think that our society has taken a laid back attitude and are willing to accept things as they are now. Their reasoning is that this is a part of life. But the truth is that it takes real work to do what is right, and we have become a very lazy society. We see all the things that are going wrong- but find it easier to turn our heads and believe that what we see is someone else’s problem. We refuse to acknowledge that everything in this world comes back in full circle and eventually will become OUR problem to deal with. I can only pray that our society does not wait until it is too late to make any changes for the better. So many people today believe that the destruction of life on Earth is inevitable. But I believe that we have the power to control the outcome of our future. All we have to do is care and react.We are allowing our government leaders to volunteer us on an expensive suicide mission. Unless we change the path that we are currently taking, we are moving fast-forward towards a head on collision with death. It does not have to be this way. We hold the power to change the fatal course of our future. But we have to work hard and care enough to make the necessary changes.
So, what are you going to do? Step by step, hand to hand, heart to heart…. Change for the better IS possible. Do you care enough to make a start?
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Well, it all started
in July of 1989 when my dad took me to a fire-works show. I came home with
chiggers. They finally went away but in September, I thought that I got them
again when I went out with my friends Ann, Phillip, Carrie and (Carrie’s
friend) Mary. We walked through some tall grass on the way to Ann’s house.
At
the time that I was fourteen years old I started to stop eating as much; I
scratched my feet raw; I lost a lot of weight; I also got colds a lot; I would
sleep fourteen hours a day. Every day, I would sleep in and I was always late
for school. I always had a decent attendance record at school.
I
had a lump on my clavicle (collar bone). I found that out when I was in the
school office one day. I was walking to the nurse’s office and a teacher
noticed the lump. My mother took me to see our family doctor, Dr. Williams on
December 17, 1989. He examined me, put me on antibiotics for bronchitis and
asked me to come back for a check up three weeks later. He asked me if I had
been scratched by any cats on the under part of my forearm. I told him that I
had by my kitten. He told me that it was a possibility that it could be “Cat
Scratch Fever”. I thought that was just a song by Ted Nugent! I didn’t know
that really existed. Cat Scratch Fever is the bacteria under cats’ claws, which
can be transferred by a cat scratching the skin under your forearm. It is
transferred into a vein, through your blood stream and affects your lymph
glands. When we returned for my follow up with Dr. Williams on January 2, 1990,
he noticed that it was a third larger than it was three weeks prior. He called
upstairs to a surgeon named Dr. Genender to see if he was available to see me.
We set an appointment for day-surgery to remove the swollen lymph node on
January 11, 1990. He said that there was a fifty-percent chance that they could
determine what it was and a fifty percent chance that they couldn’t.
Come to find out, the next day after my surgery
(January 12), Dr. Genender called and asked how I was doing and then asked to
speak to my mother. My Mom came back to my bedroom and told me that we had a
3:00 appointment that day to see Dr. Genender. My parents, my older brother,
Dan and I went to the appointment. Dr. Genender spoke for about 15 minutes and
I was zoning out because I didn’t have a clue as to what he was about to tell
us. He was trying to prepare me for what I was about to hear. H finally said,
“I hate to tell you this (looking me straight in the eye), but you have
Cancer.” He then explained more about the Cancer that I had and what we had to
do about it. He said that it was called Hodgkin’s Disease. After we left his
office, I was in total shock. My Dad and my brother went home in Dan’s truck my
Mom and I went home in the Oldsmobile. My mother and I cried all the way home.
When we got to the house, my Mom and I sat in the driveway and cried some more.
My mom said to me, “Well, we’re going to have to be strong from here on out.”
The first thing
that I wanted to do as soon as I walked in the door was to call my best friend,
Christi, whom I had known for a couple of years. When I walked in the door, the
phone was ringing. I hoped that it was Christi but instead, it was my
Sister-in-law, Sharon. I told her about the news that I just heard. She was in
shock and said that she would always be there for me. I got off the phone with
her and called Christi to break the news. She had the same reply and said that
I could talk to her anytime.
A
month before any of this happened, I didn’t know what a Lymph Node was. The best
way that I know how to describe it that it’s like a sponge that absorbs your
illnesses. There are Lymph Nodes all over your body; along your spine; in your
neck; in front of your ears; behind you jaw and in your collarbone. Your spleen
is your biggest Lymph Node.
The
night that I had my first surgery to have my Lymph Node removed for the biopsy,
Dan and I talked in his room for about an hour. When we were finished, I walked
into my youngest older brother, Rick’s, room asking him for a hug. I went over to
him and laid down next to him. For the first time, we talked about my fears and
how I felt about all that was going on. He told me how much he cared for me and
that he wanted to be there for me.
Later
that night, I wrote about how the day went. All I remembered from the surgery
was the doctors putting an oxygen mask on over my mouth, dozing off and waking
up feeling like I had something on my tonsils. My mom told me it was from the
breathing tube they put down my throat. After we left the hospital, Dan
followed us. When we pulled into the driveway, I was about to open the car door
and instead, Dan was right there and opened the door for me. He handed me a
maroon and a white carnation wrapped in white tissue paper. Maroon and white
were his high school colors. He then picked me up and carried me into my
bedroom and put me on my bed.
Some people envision a future where bookstores will have pamphlets or blurb cards on their shelves instead of books. They will have a machine like this and print only after the book is sold, removing the need for inventory. Other people expect bookstores to be done away with altogether. They believe consumers will have machines in their homes and print at their leisure.
I hope both views are wrong. To me, the appeal of ebooks is in having no paper at all. I would much rather read from a screen, be it a computer, a mobile reader, or a phone, than to continue depleting natural resources. Trees are necessary for life. You want to counter global warming? Plant a tree!
When I voice my opinion, I am often met with comments such as "I just like the feel of a book in my hand," and "I love the smell of old books." These are romantic notions. To which I say, Get over it!
We are all resistant to change, and the progression from paperbacks to digital media is slow. But I think machines that switch us back to print is a mistake. Time might be better spent finding better ways to power our electronic gizmos so we don't pollute our landfills with batteries. (Recycle, you say? Don't get me started. That is another subject.)
There is this certain buzz around my head as if a fly is eyeing my watermelon during a spring picnic in Elmwood Park. The trees tower over my head, protecting me from the sun. They are nature’s sunscreen. I think I needed that protection more than a poet needs the pain. I was planning this huge celebration during which crowds would cheer my name in jubilation while you sat on the sidelines, underneath the canopy, remembering that I was all yours after the microphone quiets and the crowd moves to their next water-ice cart. Yet, just as the warmth of an early March’s sun can melt even the hardest of icy hearts, meanings to rhymes can be thawed away. How do I address something that is neither distinguishable nor understandable? I assume this is what the writers of the Bible faced. Although my thoughts are believable (at least in my head) my head is scattered in so many fucking directions the Academy has yet to quantify the shape it makes. I think you stuck your heroin into my vein a whiles back, and now I hunt for the newest rush, never knowing that what I had originally was the best dope this side of Broad. Boy, could I quantify that shape. For you, my darling, I am the junky with needle left in his hip. So goes the story of Mr. Emo Boy.
Your door seems so open, yet the translucency has worn off. You are nothing short of a hopeless romantic, never checking the consequence of one slip. I have invested far too much for this not to work out. But as the Dow Jones slips into oblivion, my trust in you has failed at finding a grip. I am fortunate for your presence, but do you need the same out of me? I know what I should do, but I just cannot find a way to drive away. Oh God, I hope this was not in vain. It is 4:40 in the morning, and you are in my thoughts. My eyes are tired and the stale, yellow light coming from the desk lamp over my bare, right shoulder is illuminating just enough for me to search for the ending to my story. I am not looking for some readers, just listeners. My clothes have been scattered on the floor around my bed for a while. I have come to believe that Jimmy was correct when he stated: “We’re only just as happy as everyone else seems to think we are.” I do not think you want to see this boy right now; not in this state. It must mean something more though, for in the end, I care too much about whether you will take my pain away or not. My thoughts are too strewn about right now. I seem to have misplaced my dreams.
The invitation had been delivered matter-of-factly enough “I was talking with my sisters, and we were wondering if maybe you would like to come over for our little monthly get together.” It was Kristi Anderson; one of three sisters from the church and perhaps the only regulars there about my age.
“Sure.” I replied to the voice. “Should I bring anything?”
“Nope. Just yourself. We have food and drinks all ready.” It sounded a little pre-rehearsed, but Kristi struck me as a shy person to begin with. Besides, being the oldest sister and the only one with a house of her own, she was no doubt nominated to be the one to extend the party invitation. Anyway, I was tired of my own company and Sasafrass hasn’t been herself lately; barely eating and laying around whining.
The first encounter I had with the Anderson Sisters was Easter a few years ago. After presiding over the Easter service Lois, their mother, had her youngest daughter, Aliciainvite me to dinner, with the instructions not to take no for an answer. Alicia was about twenty two years old, and a student at the University in Presque Isle. Although a student there myself, I only really saw her at weekly choir practice at the church.
Come dinner time, the girls were all lectured about being on their best behavior for the arrival of the minister in training. There was only one flaw in that plan; the third sister, Erica. Erica was in her mid twenties; about five-ten, and built like a pro linebacker. Her untamed growth of red hair rested uneasily across her broad shoulders, accenting an already chiseled jaw line. She was big, boisterous, and commanded the full attention of any room. It were as if at an early age, when she had begun to realize that she could not easily blend into a room, she would do her best to become the centerpiece. In the setting of a stoic Swedish colony, it did not take much to stand out in the crowd.
Dinner was served with all the trappings of rural Americana. Lois constantly ran from dining room to kitchen, anticipating the needs of the extended Anderson clan. It would seem that the only Anderson who was on edge that day was Aunt Norma, who was inexplicably terrified of cats. Every so often, she would quickly shift in her seat and grow wide eyed before asking someone to go check to make sure that the family tabby was still locked up in the bathroom. Shortly after dinner, she was so certain that there was a cat loose in the house that she jumped up and retreated for the relative safety of the screen door. The one thing that made this scene all the more hilarious to me was that there were at least seven other people in the room who did not find it in the least bit humorous. Aunt Norma eventually lost her nerve and went home before dessert, which consisted of no less than five different pies to choose from.
Feeling ever so grateful, yet not without my sarcastic side titillated by the whole Aunt Norma episode, I surveyed the pies; guessing that Lois had not slept much last night for all of her preparations. When asked which one I would like to try, I let out a sigh and feigned disappointment notingmy disappointment that Lois had not prepared a watermelon pie; my favorite. Ever so slightly, Lois deflated against the wall before I could hold it no longer. I smiled and the sisters chimed in; Erica letting out a hearty guffaw that even a lumberjack would be proud of before slapping the table and laughing some more. The illusion was broken. The minister had a sense of humor, and the sisters had found an accomplice.
Upon arriving at Kristi’s house, all the makings of a civil get together were underway. Erica was pouring Pepsi over some chicken in a pan while reassuring me of the flavorful outcome. Kristi was showing me where the beer was, as well as the other booze planned for later on. I cracked open a Killians while Kristi fiddled with her stereo; cuing up her collection of eighties classics and not-so-classics. The kitchen door opened and in walked Norma-Jo, who, by her appearance, I took to be a cousin to the Andersons. Introductions were made as Norma-Jo sipped at a beer. She had the same red hair as Erica and Kristi that was tied back from her face in a red kerchief, giving her face in a kind of Scandinavian peasant look. Soft spoken and unsure, she spent most of the evening sitting on the couch watching everyone else.
The next to arrive was another red headed cousin, Penny. Penny looked a lot like Norma-Jo with a pony tail and glasses. Looks, however, were where the similarities ended between the two. “Oh, it’s preacher boy!” She exclaimed from across the room, beer already in her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you!” She sang out, this time with a sly smile before knocking down most of her beer. I wandered out to the living room while taking a mental head count; five to one. The girls were laughing hysterically out in the kitchen with Erica leading the chorus when, much to my relief, another male appeared through the door. It was Gus, a friend of the Andersons and master of the fry-o-later at the Caribou Burger King. Gus was short and stocky with a sense of humor that hadn’t reached much beyond his high school education.
Before the chicken was ready, I had already been served two Long Island Iced Teas by Kristi; effectively eliminating any possibility that I could ever attest to the wonders of cooking with Pepsi. I was getting hammered way too fast, so I switched back to beer and settled down on the couch to watch a movie. Penny noticed me alone on the couch and dramatically flopped down across it, placing her stocking feet squarely in my crotch. “Having fun, preacher boy?” She asked in a sleepy, drunken tone.
“It’s nice to take it easy, for once.” I replied, never flinching at the now-searching heels of Penny in my lap.
“If it’s easy, take it twice!” Shouted Erica from the other room before laughing at her own attempt at cleverness.
Not satisfied with her efforts, Penny swung her legs to the side and sat up, slamming the side of her posterior as tightly against mine as possible before dropping her hands at her side so that her left hand came to a tactical rest in my lap. Now, for the first time since crazy Aunt Norma ran from a cat that wasn’t there, I was truly amused, and vowed to myself to make the most of this. Letting Penny’s hand just lay in my lap both encouraged Penny and left her perplexed with what her next move should be, considering I had not reacted in the least. Finally, little by little; almost imperceptibly, she started inching her face toward mine; never letting her hand either leave my lap, or letting her put too much pressure on that hand so as to nullify the “accidental” nature of its presence there. I was amazed by her balance and wondered when she would tip over, squashing my bits with her errant hand before finishing me off with a head-but. Watching the movie, I could hear laughter and banter from the kitchen. “I’m not an alcoholic, I’m a drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings!” Another tidbit from the Pez dispenser of funny that is Erica. Finally, I could feel uneven breath on my cheek. She was within two inches of my mouth and holding. Letting this go on for another minute, I quickly leaned into her, almost touching her lips, and departed the couch for the booze in the kitchen. Mission accomplished.
“We’re out of mixer.” Kristi slurred at me, holding up a handle of Long Island Iced Tea mix. “This is all we have left. Wanna do shots?” Famous last words never to be acted upon once the clock has turned over to morning.
Two small juice glasses were placed on the table and filled, and refilled, and filled again. At some point, Penny rejoined the group in the kitchen; pressing her body against mine as I threw back another shot.
“You’re not going home tonight, are you?” She leaned into me as if to whisper, but the liquor had already affected her volume control, causing her to bark her request into my ear. “You need to stay here tonight.” She continued. “I’m sleeping here tonight… right over there.” Her head lolled back and she pointed toward a wall while attempting to reenact her sober sly smile.
The world slowed down and faces blurred. Gus suggested that we go for a walk to clear our heads a little. It seemed like miles to the first neighbors driveway and I fought the urge to curl up on the roadside and take a nap. Finally, that metallic taste invaded my mouth from under the back of my tongue. The blood rushed to my head and then fell back out of it and into my stomach, causing me to projectile vomit from a standing position across the width of the neighbor’s driveway. After three waves of alcohol exited my body, it was time to call it quits and walk the miles (thirty yards) back to Kristi’s.Once safely inside, Kristi stumbled toward the stereo as Erica and Penny called out in a form of chant for the “party song”. The nearest I could tell, the song was an old Nitty Gritty Dirt Band ditty about a boy and a girl fishing in the dark. The revised lyrics, however, complete with the Anderson sister dance moves, were more of an adult nature. Through the one eye that would focus, I could see all the girls across the living room country line-dance style, dancing and singing, “You and me go fuckin’ in the ditch. Drop your drawers, you skinny little bitch. And we’ll do it slow…”
“Almighty God, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid, cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love You and worthily magnify Your Holy name, Through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.” If I appeared to be extra penitential while giving the brief order for confession and forgiveness, it was mostly due to my pounding head and troubled stomach. Certain that I reeked of alcohol; I had stuffed three Altoids in my mouth prior to the bell ringing, so that the closest faithful in the fifth pew could not smell me. The service ended and I snuck out early in order to add to my three hours of sleep.
Rolling into the meadow, I felt every bump; rolling from side to side in the Cavalier’s interior. Exiting the vehicle, the sun glinted in my eyes; causing a kaleidoscope of silvery diamonds to encircle my vision; a halo I walked through to my front door.
Falling upon my mattress, I could not attain the euphoric pass-out effect I had envisioned on the drive home. It was difficult to put my finger on what was wrong; especially in my hung over state. I was feeling the sting of guilt. Was I feeling bad because I delivered the Mass half in the bag? Surprisingly, no; considering nobody even suspected that I wasn’t quite myself. They got what they came for; didn’t they? I said the prayers and the liturgy, gave a brief homily, and sent them all home to Sunday dinner. That’s all they ever wanted from a minister in the first place. Hell, if I did that every week, the ladies group would probably sign up to get me good and soused every Saturday night.
Where were my kids, I wondered? What were they doing this Sunday morning? Were they having fun? Were they thinking of me; even when I wasn’t thinking of them last night. Uneasiness crept over me as I entwined my feet in the unkempt covers. I felt cold and exposed in my empty little room. I was a terrible father. Why didn’t I think of them last night?
I had spent the entire night thinking only of myself and my own good time. I had managed to block out my kids while Penny groped me and the thought made me sick. It’s not that I hadn’t already sufficiently distanced myself from them in one way or another. I went from calling them every night, to every other night. Soon, just to keep my phone service connected, I had to call weekly. Sometimes the phone got shut off anyway. Sometimes I called less; taking every missed call as another personal failure. Years later, it would be easy to pat the old me on the back and say that I deserved my own life apart from the kids; that I deserved some adult fun. This was not years later, though, and failure compounded upon failure; even if perceived, was another reason to feel utterly defeated. But now I failed not only myself, but my children as well.
I rolled off the mattress and slumped down the ladder to tend the fire that had also been neglected by my night out. Sheba’s claws ticked out of the kitchen and a wet nose met the back of my calf as I descended into the living room. Ears back and tail swishing low, she offered her freckled muzzle to me as I reached the floor. I gave her furry cheek a scratch but would not look at the pictures on the wall; only the fading glow of coals in the center of an ashen pit in the stove.
I got the call at 9:03am on February 16, 2009, her voice was filled with panic, I said, "I am on my way." We
knew that God was going to take him home soon. But I never imagined that it was going to be today! As I stood in my room panic filled me. What do I do, how can I help her. This was her father. My military background kicked in and off I went. As I pulled up in the driveway, anxiety filled my body. I have to do this!
I rushed to her side, she wasn't making scene. I said I am here and we will get though this! I knew I had to go check on her dad. My heart felt like it was coming out of my chest. I stood up and walked to his room. I paused at the door, he was looking at a picture of a man on a boat. Although we was not there anymore.
There not enough expressive words to describe the discernment of peace that he was truly experiencing vs how the disease he had endured for so long.
I have seen may people after they have died and this was an experience I will always cherish.
Days later at the wake, I reminded the family of the great task ahead. As I sat and listened to how there father went so many times without things so they would have. I reminded them of the great legacy that he had left for them and asked the question, " What are you going to do with it?" I truly got a tremendous scene of pride in having the privilege of knowing him!
At that moment I realized he had left a piece of the legacy with me as well. We all have been impacted by someone in our lives. Fiends as much as family. The question is what are you doing with it and will it be a legacy worth passing on!
Having ran a little country store for several years, I met some coloroful characters. John ranks up there at the top. I was wonding if someone with some expertise (more than I have) would care to share some pointers on writing a story or stories about John. Some of what I've mentioned is in court or army records, so I'm supposing what is written should be a true story.
John of course, is not the true name of this person.
A colorful local character was a member of Tiger Force one of the men in Lt. William Callie’s platoon during the infamous My Lai affair in Vietnam.During his tours in Vietnam he was awarded several medals including the Purple Heart and Bronze Star—I’m not certain but I think he was awarded a Sliver Star also.Anyway he was one of the most decorated soldiers from east Tennessee.Hew showed me these medals one time when I was over at his house.
Coming back to these mountains and suffering from what I would term Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, he apparently tried (a fairly successful tobacco farmer) to adjust to civilian life but never did.He was and is outspoken, not afraid to say what he thinks e.g. Each fall—usually in late Nov. or early Dec. the tobacco farmers of this region would take their bales to the tobacco barn in Johnson City where dealers would bid on it.This particular year, the dealers were bidding exceptionally low.John jumped on top a bale of tobacco and hollered:“If you Son’s of Bitches can’t do any better than that and pay us a fair price, we’re hauling it back.It can rot or we will burn it. We are not giving it away to you M. F’s!”
That brought the sale to a halt as the other farmers started shouting similar opinions.
Before the end of the day, the tobacco was sold at fair market value; about 30 to 40 cents a pound higher than the original bids.
I don’t really know if it is part of his psyche or something about the My Lai affair/ (massacre—that some referred to it) but he had changed from a good, fun loving boy with no known run-ins with the law to someone with somewhat of a scorn for society’s laws.
He started out by buying moonshine in bulk and selling it retail.As marijuana became more profitable, he got into buying it bulk and selling it retail.Some competitor ratted on him and he was set up for a Big Buy.As he told me, I was just a dumb country boy.The thought of $60,000 profit on one deal, closed my eyes as to what I was doing and that I was being set up.
The deal went down at that little country store that I use to run.He hadn’t been out of his car a minute when the DEA agents had their guns pointed at him.The local Sheriff had some deputies there and one of them, his gun drawn was hurrying across the parking lot; fell, his dropped gun accidentally went off and several officer fired shots at John.
John was shouting, don’t shoot! Don’t Shoot!—Somehow, he wasn’t shot.
John was out on bail awaiting trial and the local radio station was having a field day (convicting him without a trial as some of the TV news shows do to people today)The station was trying to tie his wife in (convict) her as well.According to John, that caused him to “loose it.”He put on his army camouflage uniform took an assault rifle and headed to the radio station.A local woman (that I know) saw John walking alongside the road, recognized him stopped her car and gave him a ride.About a half mile from the station he asked her to stop and he got out.She said he didn’t answer her even though they knew each other.“What’s the matter John?” She asked him.She said he didn’t say a thing, just waved and walked away.
At the radio station, John walked in; herded all the employees (4) into the broadcast room and said they could go or stay, but he had something to announce to the public (that his wife knew nothing about his drug dealings).The employees left –ran, from the station and immediately called the law.Unknown to John, the announcer had cut off the mike, so John’s announcements were not broadcast.
A swat team called from Johnson City surrounded the radio station, but by the time they got to it, he had exited the station crawled down a drainage pipe which turned into a ditch which ran through an open field, eluded the local police officers on scene and circled back around to survey the situation.“I could have picked every one of them off if that had been my intention” John said.
From there he cut through the fields and woods—about 10 miles to his house.His wife talked him in to going back and turning himself in.The search was still in progress around the radio station when they drove back.By that time a curious crowd of onlookers were gathered alongside old highway 23 looking at the search going around the station about 200 yards down its private drive.They (John and his wife) walked up and spoke with some people he knew in the crowd before finally getting the attention of a deputy to arrest him.
(I THINK SOME OF THIS—THE RADIO STATION INCIDENT, WAS ON NATIONAL TV)
The news media, SWAT Team, Sheriff and town of Erwin police were ready to hang him, as his escape and the way he was finally arrested embarrassed them.
This being somewhat of a sensational case for this area, lawyers were lining up to defend him.The prosecuting attorney, David Crockett (supposedly kin to the famous Davy Crockett) and still practicing law, was out to give him the maximum sentence.
I suppose he would have got the maximum sentence but there is a VA center (Mountain Home) in Johnson City; the veterans there got together behind John and with the support they garnered (in my opinion at least) cowed or persuaded the Judge to be lenient with sentencing.He got 7 years.
The story doesn’t end there.He was sent to Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary where the accused killer of Martin Luther King was held.
John became a born again Christian in prison and apparently somewhat of a preacher as well.The local people around here say he preached his way out of prison, as he got out in 5 years.
Over a bottle of Wild Turkey, John told me of his time in prison and his conversion. (This apparently had nothing to do with abstaining from strong drink) He also said he read scripture to James Earl Ray and had talked to him on many occasion.He was convinced that Ray was not Martin Luther King’s killer.According to John, James Earl Ray was set up by a Spanish looking guy named Raul (if that name is spelled right).The part that seemed a little fuzzy to me was Raul giving Ray money to leave the country.
John’s opinion of James Earl Ray was that of a naïve country boy, a small time thief; always getting in trouble with the law, though nothing serious, like murder.John was convinced that Ray didn’t kill King.
I saw John regularly at the store for about 5 years.He farmed a little tobacco, got into building houses with a brother-in-law and was leading a fairly normal life, but he still didn’t feel laws applied to him like they did to everyone else.He went over to Asheville, bought a deer rifle (I’m not sure of the caliber) for his son’s Christmas present in his own name.Of course convicted felons are not allowed to own fire arms and he was once again picked-up on a federal weapons charge and sentenced to 7 years again.
He’s out of prison now.I guess John is in his early to mid 60s and I haven’t seen him since he got out of prison a year ago.But he still lives in the county.
The allure of kayaking has inspired many an outdoor adventurer to take paddle in hand and trek off to explore where no outboard has gone before; and why not? Kayaking offers both the thrills of whitewater and the peaceful seclusion of coastlines and coves. For the intrepid paddler, a sublime postcard picture awaits a sunny day and a good put-in point, but what about the not-so-intrepid paddler? What about the rest of us who want the benefits of paddling, but are daunted by the first crucial steps of kayaking? Berry Manter; a licensed guide and associate of the L.L. Bean Outdoor Discovery School has been teaching and guiding kayakers for years. She offers sound advice to all would-be kayakers. “The first question I hear is, “Can you do an Eskimo roll?” Citing escape as a vital first skill, a perfect Eskimo Roll is not a prerequisite. Berry insists that one does not have to be a triathelete to take up paddling. Like any other sport, kayaking is a process in which the participant decides their own level of comfort. “The biggest myth”, Berry says, “is that you need strong arms.” Unlike canoeing, paddling involves whole body motion. She refers to kayaking as a total-fitness exercise that involves the legs, abdomen, obliques, and back; not to mention the mental well-being that comes from gliding on the water. With a sense of elation, Berry tells us, “Feeling the swells beneath you is like the Earth Breathing.”
All appears serene studying this slow stretch of the muddy Nolichucky.There is just a hint of danger—with recent rains, the water is in somewhat of a hurry and you know from the trek to this point, class five rapids are just down river, around the bend.The murky waters hide the jagged rocks, tin cans, parts of house trailers and cars that have been swept from its banks, as well as the rotting bodies of dead fish and other animals that you occasionally spot when the river is clear.
You hope that the rafters waving as they float by have some experience.Lies have it that a thousand people have lost their lives in this river.Whispers hint that there have been at least a hundred. I knew seven people that drowned in its cold waters.
The Nolichucky is filled with adventure and danger.People say it entices you into taking chances, and then when you are comfortable, a jagged rock will reach up and rip the bottom out of your raft or kayak, or flip you out of your boat and pin your foot under a rock.If you get too comfortable with this river; it will drown you, it is unforgiving to those that don’t pay it the utmost respect.
I flinch at the shouts coming from just out of sight and around the bend telling me the rafters have reached those rapids.
“We may spot a body of somebody when we go back down river,” Blake half chuckles, emphasizing “somebody.”
I jump as the sound of Blake’s words startle me from my musings.We have been searching for a body.His words prompt me to take a closer look at the river and along its banks.I see nothing.
Blake is the president of our Neighborhood Watch, and I’m the secretary.Knowing that we actually try to keep thefts and crime down in our sparsely settled community, the sheriff has called on us to help his deputies search for a man whose van was found parked alongside the river with a suicide note.A pair of sneakers, thought to be that of the missing man was found a few yards from the van at the river’s edge.
“Let’s head back,” I suggest.
Blake and I are both past middle age; he has something close to emphysema. Being out of shape myself, I figure it may be one of our bodies that a rescue team will have to retrieve if we go much further.
Without an answer, Blake turns and heads back.He is one of these rare people that will stick with you to the bitter end.Or, at least if what you are doing or asking of him makes sense.
(This is the beginning of a novel that I'm writing. I would appreciate comments from anyone that would care to critique these few paragraphs.) Thanks!
How do you write a historical novel about a person so shadowy that almost nothing is known about her?
ChristineBlake has taught literature and writing for many years and has served as a youth minister and speaker at schools, churches, and women's groups. She lives in Evergreen, Colorado with her husband and two boys.
Please join Christine Blake and host Paula B. as they discuss:
How we know what we do about Mary Magdalene
Which sources Christine relied on, and how she evaluated them
What she extrapolated, and how she came up with her conclusions
How she handled contradictions in her sources
How important it is to be accurate in historical fiction.
Interviewee: Christine Blake Host: Paula B. Date: December 7, 2008 Running time: 42:39 File size: 20 megabytes Rating: G Christine Blake's Web site: WomanRedeemedNovel.com
Funny thing about growing up in an Irish neighborhood is that the rest of the world thinks you’re from Ireland. Very far from the truth for a lot of us, sure we had Irish blood and 7 out of ten of our parents were born and raised in Ireland, but the truth is that most of us at this age were born and raised in New York City. The dream of every Irish-American boy I knew was to actually go to Ireland and visit with families and explore your roots in old castles and to meet cousins and redheaded girls.
Sundays were the best in our Irish neighborhood, our dads played Hurley in the mornings, we played Irish football in the afternoons and we all drank at the pub till dinner near the field in our dirty muddy uniforms with most of us leaking blood. Great stories, great drinks and I’ll tell you right now, freaking great football. We had one of the better Irish football teams in the entire country. We won championship trophies year after year, and we were invited to play against the all-Ireland team in Ireland year after year. The one year that I played was another championship season; I remember meeting the coach at the beginning of the season to see if I could join the team. I knew little about the actual sport, but I went to the games every single Sunday to watch and drink afterwards.
There was no tryout, no let’s see how you handle the ball, not even a practice game. The coach asked me two very important questions, he said,” can ya run”? I said “Yeah I can run”. He said,”can ya fight?” I said, ”Yeah I can fight”. He said, “Alright then, you’re on the team.
So there it was, I was playing Irish Football in the early 1970’s and sure as I’m telling you this story, we went on to win that year and it was off to Ireland. There were 25 of us and 6 or 7 dads and coaches that went on the trip that year. I do not remember the town we were in, I only remember that we won and we won big, there were like 3 thousand spectators at the game even though the entire town itself only had like 300 people living in it. We went back to the hotel/inn that we were living in that week to party ourselves while the adults went to each of the 30 or so bars this tiny little town had. It must have been like 2 or 3 in the morning and we were still hooping and hollering, a few of the older guys scored us a couple of beer kegs. There were like twenty five 13 to 17 year old kids and we had 2 kegs of beer, let us do the math on this one shall we?
We got pretty drunk and being athletes and being drunk usually led to one thing, “DRUNK SPORTS”. It started harmless enough; we broke into a few separate teams kind of like the Olympics and had races down the hallways of the motel. We occupied almost all of the rooms in the hotel that night, so we opened all the room doors and raced from room to room. Then we did jumping from bed to bed, it was getting hot so some of us took our shirts off while others took off their shorts. And so it begins, lots and lots of drinking, lots of running and jumping, lots of sweating, lots of clothes coming off. It only took another half hour or so till we were all nude and doing sports, Irish guys love to get naked. I started running to the lobby and running back to test everyone, and then we ran down the hall, thru the lobby and out into the parking lot. Sure enough, that leads to a few of us running down the street which eventually leads to everyone of us drunken Irish American kids streaking thru town naked and screaming.
NOT GOOD, NOT GOOD AT ALL
This is a sleepy little town and 30 drunken naked boys running amuck was the same as if “The Devil Himself” was running thru town? Apparently 90% of the town was now trying to get sleep and the other 10% were still wandering the streets trying to find their drunken way home. We ran from one end of town to the other end and back again. One minute it was funnier than anything, and the next minute we found ourselves being chased by half the town, kind of like in the movies were the entire village is chasing the monster with pitchforks and torches, there were no pitchforks, but I swear I saw torches. We were able to get dressed again before they hauled us to the biggest building in town, the town hall or the town square or something like that.
They kept us in this auditorium, I guess this is where all things official happen in the town, we were there for a few hours while we sobered up and while the rest of the towns folk that we didn’t wake up came to this meeting. I remember sitting up front with my drinking/Olympic buddies; we took up the first 3 or 4 rows. Behind us was the entire freaking town, I mean every man woman and child, dog, cat, farm animal, every living thing in that part of the world was there to see the “Devil Children from America”. In front of us were the dozen or so town leaders, these were the same people who when we arrived met us at the train station, made speeches before the big game and they were the ones who congratulated us on a great victory. There was the Mayor/Police Chief/Fire Chief and something else. There was the town doctor/veterinarian, the owner of the grocery store and the owner of the bar, the bar maids, the gas station guy, and anyone else who ran a business or who had a say in the town affairs.
The room was buzzing with chatter while they spoke in hushed tones and hugged each other about how horrific it was that we ran naked thru the streets and of how we must have been doing the drugs and stuff. They cried when they recalled how both Mrs. McLearys teenage daughters saw one American boy’s penis while he ran past her window. They held each other tight and consoled one another while saying things like, “it will be alright”, and ” The devil himself is in them boys”. I was starting to think we had gotten ourselves into some freaking “children of the corn” horror movie. This went on for almost an hour while our chaperones/dads kept starting at us with steam coming from their heads. The town officials spoke first and declared that what had happened was most vile and undeniably most horrific for all. They said, “The American boys sitting before ye all, are guilty of many sexually deviant actions, they are the result of living in a sinful western world where this type of thing is tolerated. They use the “drugs” and they practice heinous religions and for that is why they must be possessed”
Finally, when they stopped talking and we were allowed to speak Mr. Hughes, my buddies dad stood up and asked if he could talk on behalf of our group. The town’s people up front said “okay”, and he walked up on the stage and faced the townsfolk and pointed to us and he started to speak.
He said, “ I know what these boys here did was wrong, I know what they did was offensive and disgusting, but I know these boys each and every one of them, twas no drugs or devils work that happened here. It was only one thing.
“TWAS THE DRINK THAT MADE THEM DO IT”
A few seconds passed where not a soul made a sound, I was waiting for the torches again. When suddenly like a wave swelling from the oceans bottom, like a huge massive volcano that was erupting, you could feel something coming. When all at once the entire town, all the officials on the stage, every single man, woman, child and farm animal all said the exact same thing at the exact same moment.
“Well if it was only the drink that made them do it, then that’s okay, that’s fine then”.
And just like that the meeting was over, the towns people disbanded, the animals went back to their farms, the cats and the dogs walked back outside into the street, the hall windows were closed and chairs folded and put away. There we sat in the first 3 or 4 rows, while the dads and chaperons yelled and screamed at us for the next half hour. We left the town and the country 48 hours later and I have never returned since. I hope someday to go back and see if anyone there remembers that horrible event. Hopefully I will go back and if that happens I will write the story of it for you to read.
I do not think this story has any lesson to be learned or shared or if it is just something that happened to me and for some reason I thought you would enjoy it.
I am collecting true ancedotes to include in a book;the life and times of nurses in and out of the hopsital. Here is the latest piece I penned, as theraphy for an assult on my budget. Laughter takes the edge off my pain.
I welcome liberal critique, and please have little concern your critique will upset me, as I have already endured the pain of a day spent in a dental chair with two men and a dead fish
Snuggling With a Dead Fish
Allow me to
begin with a disclaimer, although the title may suggest otherwise, this anecdote
has not-a-thing-to-do with intimacy, or the absence of__intimacy.
Somehow I missed smoking pot or dropping LSD
with the sixties subculture flower
children, however yesterday, morning, between clock-in time and lunch break,
strapped in a dental chair, I am certain I made up for all of the premium pot
and LSD I by-passed some forty years ago. Looking back, now four decades older
and wiser, my decision to leave the fun stuff to the enjoyment of others was in
my best interest if not my survival, as I admit that yesterday, by high noon,
and high on “happy-gas,” I am convinced that snuggling with a cold dead fish
(literally) is normal.
“Do you want to listen to music?” the dental assistant asked
bringing out a headset hooked to a small transistor radio.
“Thanks! Think smooth jazz will camouflage the pain?”
I am having this conversation with this young man solely
because this is the day I lose one tooth and gain four crowns.
The dental
assistant reflecting a white-white smile replied with assurance, “I have you on
oxygen, and Dr. Cheery just turned on the Nitrous Oxide. You will be thinking
Zen thoughts in no time”
I am not certain
about Zen thoughts, as my mind is obsessed with angst over the small loan I
took out to barter my way out of the dental chair. At the moment, the only
thing I look forward to is relaxing with “happy-gas.” Bring on the golden glow of the turbulent sixties;
I paid extra cash-up-front for a crystal-blue-persuasive euphoria and I am not
disappointed, as a blissful detached feeling slowly envelopes my body while the
smooth jazz station reminds me, ”this is the good life.” Let the show
begin. The next four-and–a-half hours,
two faces hover mine like wasps, their hands in my mouth now stretched open,
wide enough for a Mack truck to maneuver with ease.
Wrapped in a
warm comfy blanket with my head resting on a mushy bead pillow, I am almost as
relaxed as giving birth to my firstborn; when the frosted flakes I had for
breakfast decide to make an encore. I feel a wave of nausea coming on, which
elevates patient-doctor relationship to an intimate dimension. In my
“happy-gas-stupor” my dentist name changes to a one coming straight from my
heart, waving my hand “Doctor Feery” I
holler, “I’m-about-to-puke!”
Startled, the assistant
and the good doctor bring the chair from a head down position, sitting me
upright, simultaneously turning down the happy gas. (Insert sad face here)
My stomach stops
churning and I manage a few well placed moans. Dr. Cheery asked,
“Is the nitrous wearing off? We’ll let you rest. Nurses are
tough.Your mouth has been open awhile, makes it difficult to
inhale the nitrous”
He turns up the
gas and leaves the room. I am a good patient; trying to inhale as much of the
good stuff in the least amount of time, I hyperventilate at a furoius rate,only
slowing my breathing when I feel the tingling sensation return to my toes;
smooth jazz playing in my ear reminds me that all is well with the world.
The doctor floats back into the room, bends over my head as if in a vision, his voice echoing
from a deep canyon. He reinserts the jackhammer in my distorted mouth and the
show goes on.
I reach up with a
heavy hand that seem to not belong to me and dab at what I am certain must be a
river of blood trickling down my right cheek. I slip a quick peek at the
Kleenex. It is high and dry.
Hallucinating; I am hallucinating, the benefit of an out-of-body experience,
and a tolerable side effect of my “return- to-the-sixties-moment”
“There now, all
finished!” Dr. Cheery and his assistant, in unison, compliment me profusely on
being “such a trooper.”
Grateful the
cereal I woofed down some six hours ago, stayed put, I wobble down the hall to
the restroom. Unlike my dentist and his
efficient assistant, the mirror speaks no lies. I stare at a resemblance of my
face, decide to go for the jugular and try a smile. “Mirror, mirror on the
wall,” think stroke, and you get the picture of my reflection.
Home, my bed and
a soft pillow sound good to this acclaimed trooper. Think ice, as this is a
prime factor to assuage pain and sorrow. I reach in the freezer, hoping to
place my hand on a bag of frozen veggies; (perfect for an improvised cold pack)
however the freezer disappoints me, as it is empty, save for a large packet of
frozen Tilapia. I pull out the packet of frozen fish, look it over twice,
ceremoniously wrap this culinary delicacy in a soft cloth, down a couple of
Extra Strength Tylenol and head for bed. Snuggling with dead frozen fish placed
tenderly on my face, in the truest definition of snuggling, is not an ‘affair
of the heart’ however; considering the throbbing ache in my jaw, it runs a
close second.
I would add a photo to authenicate this intimate experience, but the fish thawed before I could set up the camer for a timed photoshoot.
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"and the beep goes on"
Leaving the hospital from work this morning, as I reached my car I noted a constant beeping, much like the sound of a dying smoke alarm. I gave this sound only passing thought until I was in my car and the annoying beeping noise followed me. It seemed to be coming straight from the vents in my air conditioner. At this point, I had not started the car; the key was not even in the ignition. Perplexed and with a tinge of aggravation toward these bells and whistles coming from the dashboard of my car, the set of wheels I purchased with the intention of taking me into my sunset years. Well I am not ready for the sun to set on my independence and for goodness sake, I have put only 58,000 miles on this gas-guzzling contraption! Somewhere in the recesses of my mind Cher is singing “and the beat goes on, drums keep bounding rhythm to the brain” I have just worked twelve hours, am tired and feel like I am in need of a friend! I locate my cell phone, and called a guy friend in Oklahoma. I am in California and as there is a two-hour time difference, I hope he has had his morning coffee and can be of help with my request for an-over-the-phone diagnostic. “Is it a bird Judy?”
Pulling ideas out of thin air I replied, “No, it is a regular beep…It does sound almost like a chirp but it is a rhythmic regular beep, maybe a metronome is caught in the dash my car!” I replied “Does the radio work?” “Yes, you can almost hear the radio”
Terry and I decide this is too much for us to solve so I call Phil. He works on various cars and surely, he can put my mind at ease. Did not happen “Judy, I would take your car in now and have it looked at as it could be the serpentine belt. If this belt goes out so will most of the functions of your car.” I feel ‘so much not better’ after our conversation. Now I am sitting stop-and-go amongst a flood of morning traffic on the busy I-15 trying to remember just where I passed a Nissan Dealer. “And the beep goes on; la-de-da-de; la-de-da-de-da” Now, my Oklahoma Insurance adjuster is ringing to visit about storm damage to my roof. “Oh by the way Tommy, can you hear this beeping noise?” A brief conversation with Tommy, a long time friend and now the third person from Oklahoma to be privy to my current dilemma, was of no help to shushing the indomitable beeping!
Negotiating the harried morning traffic on the I-15, I am too tired to be lost in San Diego searching for Nissan service center. So elected let one more guy into my circle of friends and called my son-in-love Tom, “Tom, I have this problem with my car. A continuous beeping seems to be coming right out of the dash. I am trying to remember where the Nissan place is located. Is it on Balboa or Claremont Mesa Drive?” “I don’t know for sure Jo, (he calls me Jo) but you better get it in to be checked. Call me and let me know what they find” “Oh! I found the Nissan place Tom, thanks, I will let you know”
I breath a sigh of relief mixed with apprehension, relieved to have located the Nissan dealer (I am way tired by this time) and apprehensive as to what this will cost to repair.
Now if you have ever one made a trip or two to an automotive service center on the way to work, you will readily agree it rates as unpleasant as shopping and negotiating a spot in a parking lot on Christmas Eve. I am fortunate, as there is but one car in line when I arrive. After about ten minutes of no motion, and silence, (except for the chirping coming from the dash of my car) I walked into the office. As I passed the Nissan Altima parked in front of my car (the same make and model as my car), I turned for a closer look. “That car is beeping too; I ask myself, what is it with these Japan automotive wonders?”
I catch the attention of a young man in the office who politely asked if he could help me. I said, “There is a beeping noise coming from my car and would he please come see whatsamatter?” He walked with me to the car as I began to relax, finally there would be an answer to the questions I just had peppered four knowledgeable men. I was not embarrassed with a sudden silence as Cher kept belting out “and the beep goes on”
With expert precision, he quickly determined it was the lights; I had left the lights on. No, this was not the answer as when he switched the lights off, Cher continued with her “drums keep pounding rhythm to the brain!” (By now the beeping has settled nicely in my brain) He then took a step back and said, “It is you! The beeping is coming from you!” “It is coming from me?” I stutter, “Not a chance! Here is my cell phone and it is quiet as a church mouse!”
The technician said, “the beeping was in the office, so it has to be somewhere on you,” as he assumed this "let-me-frisk-you posture" I quickly relieve him of his thoughts and searched the multitude of pockets of my scrubs, and pulled out a small beeper!
We use these beepers at work to alert us of our assigned patient’s cardiac arrhythmias. Fortunately, this little contraption (which i inadvertently carried off from work) was signaling a need for a new battery. I was beyond embarrassment. We said our goodbyes as the technician chuckled saying I had made his day! I arrived home and as I finally laid my head down on my pillow, drums kept pounding rhythm to my brain.
If we have not the pleasure of meeting personally, I will share that I am a blonde, a L’Oreal blonde, I might add to quote their advertisements, “I am worth it”
Judy
Footprints chapter feel free t
Footprints
And there, I saw, the great secular salvation. One set of footprints, followed by a trough in the sand. I had been told the old story of Jesus carrying the burdened soul through difficulties, but these were my feet. The trough had been cut by the misconceptions I had drug throughout my life. It wasn’t by grace that I would be saved, but by letting go; letting go of Christian dogma, letting go of the expectations of a world my mind had created.
Here, I leave the penance of self-sacrifice. Here, I leave the denial of self and identity for the construct of the husband and father. Here, I abandon the stones I had used to wall myself within a faith I had created. Here, I stand, naked and bathed in sunlight with the dawning of self-realization. It is within my own being to persevere; to save myself.
Blinking my eyes, I stretched as my room came into focus. The orange light slanted through the long awning window, illuminating an errant sock on the graying spruce floor.
The phone had been chirping below me, sounding through the open floorboards; only calling my attention with the final alarm and click of the answering machine, “Halo” my own voice called out in a fake Spanish accent, “Eef you are a friend or relative, please leeve your message now. If not, please rot in Hell, as I will not be talking to jou.
“Please hold” another recorded voice replied to mine, “ a representative will be with you shortly.”
“Christ” I moaned as I rolled sideways to stare vacantly at the clock. My amusement listening to two machines exchange small talk was replaced by disbelief that a company already intent on shaking me down for money would have the audacity to put me on hold to wait for the next available collections agent. There was a fumbling on the other end of the line, then a click. For a second before the disconnect, I thought I heard a woman’s voice. Running my hand across my jaw line, I felt the day-old scruff and tried to picture her. She was young, I decided; about twenty-two. She had long blonde hair that she kept pulled back. She wore a crisp blouse with khaki pants; casual yet professional. Her face was kind, yet determined, with the beautiful glow of youth upon it. She didn’t like her job, I thought. Who would? But, she was fresh out of college and this was the best paying gig she could land at the call center somewhere… Atlanta, I decided. There she sat. In a room full of cubicles, with my number randomly routed to her phone. I decided if I ever met her, I would tell her I was sorry. Sorry for all the mean things my machine told hers. Sorry my life was a disaster. Sorry that I had to make it her problem as well.
Getting up from my mattress, I examined the coil of sheets and blankets I had discarded sometime in the night. It was nice, I thought, not to have to worry about making the bed. First of all, I could argue that there was no sense in making the “bed” since the actual bed was a days journey south of here. Making a mattress on the floor would be as deluding as buying throw pillows for a camping pad. I shuffled through the covers and made a little bounce the six inches down to the floor with a muffled thump. The boards were warm on my feet as I stepped into the sunlight allowing the warmth to creep up my legs. Through the window, Breezes lifted apple leaves and made gentle tracks through the tall grass.
How many times had I looked out that window? How many seasons have I plaintively watched pass across it’s pane? The feeling rose in me that the scenes as they played out cared nothing about the presence of my eye to record them. The hands that had laid the foundation to this structure some eighty years prior were, undoubtedly stilled; resting across a skeletal breast in the cemetery over the next rise. The indifference of nature below my feet was comforting; like standing before the ocean, vast, ancient, and powerful.
Kneeling down on the floor, I pried my fingers under the boards that made the hatch to the ladder below. Eventually, I thought, I would tire of using a ladder to reach the loft above, but now that I was alone the ladder was like a youthful friend. This was my fort, my tree house, my club of one. I would have placed a big hand-painted sign saying ’no girls allowed’ if it were not already painfully obvious that there weren’t any girls trying to get in to begin with. Still, it had become a man’s playhouse. There were shelves made from hand-hewn logs in the kitchen and dining rooms. One corner of the dinning room floor was littered with various woodworking tools, relegated to their new home mid-project. On a beam high above the computer desk, hung a shotgun, and, peering out at visitors to my primitive abode, was the head of the first and only deer I had successfully shot.
The ladder creaked as I stepped down to begin my descent to the living room. Beneath the ladder, Sheba looked up hopefully; swishing a bushy tail lazily and stirring up thousands of sparkles of dust in the slant of morning light. Stopping at the bottom tread, I carefully reached down with my foot and smoothed the fur on top of her head. Lowering her head, her eyes closed; two long black lines as she drifted into a doggy sleep.
Crossing the floor, I felt every ridge in the worn pine. It had come from a pallet of barn sheathing that I thought would do the job for a temporary home. It was funny, I thought, how the things we take for temporary often become permanent; and the converse, although not as funny, was just as true. Pulling two Benadryl from a box on the computer desk, I popped them into my mouth and went to the sink for a cupped handful of water to wash them down. One capsule cocked sideways, gave in to the water, and eased it’s way down my throat. My allergies had lessened a bit by now, but I still kept my system primed with antihistamines. Taking down a small cast iron pan from a nail in the small doorway, I examined it briefly before setting it back in place with a thunk. I wasn’t hungry enough for my last egg and three strips of bacon.
Turning to examine the log shelf that spanned the six foot galley, I set my eyes on the planned meal of the day. By making an abbreviated electricity payment, I was able to buy a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey. The anniversary was approaching, and this was no time to skimp. I started the coffee and stepped into the shower
**********
The screen door creaked as Sheba slipped past me and around behind the house. The military surplus boots I had donned made a sound clunk on the porch. Standing there, finishing off my coffee, I examined the meadow. Starlings skated gracefully over the tops of the wheat-grass that strained toward the spring sky. Trees shook their fledgling leaves at the shifting air currents, while red squirrels raced through the rocking limbs. The morning air was clear and cool; not yet offering the promise of the oppressing heat a month’s time would bring. Below, a low drone alerted me to a wasp, drifting lazily by my boot. I watched him pass slowly by and towards the grass tops before gaining momentum and ascending in a quick arc, toward the woods.
Downing the last gulp of cooling coffee, I tromped heavily down the steps and into the meadow. I was quickly enveloped up to my knees in the fresh tide of grass. A crisp breeze playing off the apple branches touched my cheek before lifting a small aspen leaf, carried over from the harsh winter, to play with. The yellowed stubble of last year’s grass crunched beneath my boots. New life sprung from old. Soon my boots scuffed upon bits of charred wood, drawing my eyes to focus on a circle of scorched earth pierced throughout with new shoots of grass. I reached down and touched the blackened side of a log, remembering its specific placement the previous spring. This was the place.
**********
Garden rake in hand, I began my work in earnest; dredging up the thick under-matting of dead grass. Bundles were gathered and placed in the center of the scorched circle. With a sufficient haystack gathered, I leaned on my rake and stared out to the hillock where Sassafras lay buried. Green spruce boughs knelt before the spot as the horrific details flooded my mind. Bowing my head toward the grave, I entered the woods to gather the dead tree branches claimed by wind and snow. For the final step, I brought a double bit axe with me. As with all creatures, the winter brings death to the weak, so that the strong may go on. This winter had harvested about fifteen trees from the ranks of fir, cedar, and aspen. Of these, I sectioned and removed the closest to the pile. Once back at the pile, the logs were stacked teepee style with bits of broken pallets and scrap wood tucked between. Soaked with sweat, I inspected the pyre; some five feet tall and six feet at the base. The sun had already reached its apex and was beginning its long slant toward evening. Rivulets of sweat poured down my back and bathed my aching arms; washing, along the way, tracks of dirt and forest compost. Blackflies buzzed around my head, searching for a safe place to land and gorge themselves. The hay would be dry by tomorrow; proper tinder for the task at hand. It was a car-sized mass of potential energy; waiting, expectant. Perfect in form, it was a bomb, with a fuse, waiting for a spark to set into irrevocable motion, its complete destruction.
Standing beside the circle, I leaned my head back and filled my lungs from the passing breeze. The world around me penetrated my senses. The earthy smell of decay from the forest floor, still clinging to the back of the logs rested heavily upon my palate. The green shoots of the wheatgrass played lightly upon my nose before being washed clean by the warm smell of spruce all around me. There was a trickle down my arm, warmer than the sweat that covered me. I looked down to see a thin trail of blood running from my forearm, down along the curve of muscle and tendon, across my wrist, and down my little finger. I watched each slow drop swell, and fall to the grass below. Like the yellowed undergrowth I had raked earlier, each drop of expended life, fell to the earth to provide for nourishment.
The preparations had been made. There was nothing left to do but wait. The way I had waited then. But now, as in every year since, the outcome has already been written. Gone is the blissful ignorance I held that day. Gone, the hope; the belief in miracles, in rescue. There is only remembrance.
**********
I rose again to the slant of light. The call to work had already been made before my manager arrived. It was a call I had planned for a month now. I was as certain about having to feign illness as I was they would not have approved a day off. What excuse could I give them that would make sense to a civilized mind?
Making my way down the ladder, I paused at the bottom to examine a static sky through a single pane of glass. Randomly painted cirrus clouds clung to blue cellophane as a distant sun watched from above. The wheatgrass stood expectant in the field; unchanged by the prospect of a passing breeze. To the right hung the framed footprints. Touching them, as I had touched those very feet a decade ago, I remembered each detail of that day. A liturgy of despair: I was at work when I got an emergency call. Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer. I arrived just as she was admitted. The contractions came. He was born, he died, I died too. Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer. It was all her fault. Amen.
The words of condemnation toward her had still left me with no feeling of absolution. Closure was an illusion and payment would never be made for one soul thrown to the wind. This was a date that had passed each year without mention. The weight of the air bore testimony to the day that words would not do justice. Now, alone, I had resolved to bear the annual penance worthy of the crime committed. The day would no longer pass into obscurity without mention of the treason that had placed an infant in an unmarked grave; as if the body had to be destroyed and hidden to cover the shame.
“May God damn her to Hell,” I said aloud as I slowly pulled my hand back, allowing the words to hang in the air; to settle in the dust on the open rafters and be witnessed by the faces on the walls.
Drawing a match from the box on the pie safe, I struck it slowly, immersed in the moment when spark becomes flame. Sulfur curled around my nose as I lifted the flame to the wick of a candle beneath the framed footprints. The wick glowed orange before becoming a dancing flame, sending thin, black tendrils up to the beams above. Blowing out the match, I set the charred stick aside, and passed into the kitchen. Taking down the Jameson’s, I poured a full shot and returned to the pie safe to place it before the candle. For several minutes I stood there, my mind a flat lake, rapt in the vision of the flicking orange flame through the amber whiskey. I was an acolyte.
The next glass of whiskey was mine. I stepped out onto the porch, watching the sunlight play joylessly around the rim of the glass, casting sparks into the warm liquid below. Draining the glass, I retrieved a branch section from the previous day’s scavenging. Returning to the living room, I began tearing one of Shawn’s old shirts into strips and fastening them to one end of the branch. Layer upon layer. One from Shawn. One from Caitlin. One from Keagan; until the branch resembled a colorful novelty Q-tip. Dousing the end of the swab with lighter fluid, I carefully leaned it against the porch.
Once lit, the torch flared to life with surprising intensity; orange upon red, swirling around the top in ravenous layers. The torch held out to one side, I solemnly approached the wooded mound in the meadow. Thrusting deep, the flame broke off; quickly spreading through the tinder. Moving around the base, I ignited five fires along the perimeter before casting the torch to the top of the pile. From deep in the center, there was a rumble, then a gray cloud, out of which lashed fresh tongues of flame; eager for a taste of the larger kindling.
From below, flames grew; multiplied, and merged together to form a new life. The separate flames now became a fire, swallowing branches and enveloping logs. A log shifted, coughing a shower of sparks into the sky. Orange sprites danced and darted around me; filling my eyes with the glowing streaks of their courses and my nose with the spent life of the forest.
Alive now, it rose before me; it’s back hunched as it clawed and tore at the fallen timber; a beast of consumption, conjured before me at the end of a torch. I approached it’s heat; arms stretched, feeling each wave as my skin tightened against my face. I confronted the beast now, in it’s frenzy, eyes closed. I wondered. Would it feed indiscriminately? Would it accept all that was offered it? Would it devour my pain, my loneliness? Would it accept my guilt; my penance? How long could such a thing live off those parts, so invisible, yet so tangible they can paralyze?
I stood there, in the heat, every nerve in my skin now tingling with the searing energy before me. It was drawing me in. It was feeding.
**********
Evening fell with the darkness I had come to know so well in the meadow. Sitting on a section of log spared from the fire, I rested my feet in the charred circle and gazed into the mollified blaze. Putting the exhausted bottle of Jameson’s to my lips, I took a long draw, hardly noticing the warmth as it moved down into my gut. My body had become leaden. My feet were embedded in the ash, my backside pressed into the log, and my very soul felt poured out. Glancing at my hand, I could see a patchwork of soot in the flickering light. It followed up my arm and I presumed to be covered in it; a perverse ashen camouflage.
Lifting myself from the dying fire’s gaze, I made my way back to the porch. Closing the door behind me with an uneven thunk, dim light of the candle sent out a jumpy flicker of disapproval. Again, I paused before the footprints, watching now as pale yellow light crept at the heels. Lifting the whiskey I had set there, I bent, blew out the candle, “Happy birthday, Justin.”.
The Whistler
The scenes replayed from my childhood all begin the same way – my Dad with a whistle on his lips. He whistled constantly, always happy tunes, like Anna in Siam “whenever she felt afraid” – except with Dad, it was just … whenever.
I can't remember a time when my father didn't whistle. We always knew he had arrived home from work long before he entered the house. His music preceded him, the whistle slipping from his lips as easily as the slide of Glenn Miller’s trombone.
When we were young, we used to love taking walks with Dad in the small Illinois town where he grew up. He’d whistle Big Band tunes as we bounced along beside him and, as we passed the various landmarks, he would share stories of his youthful mischief-making. Rushville’s resident delinquent. “That’s where we hoisted the Model T into the tree. Was my teacher ever surprised, coming out the next morning to find his pride and joy missing … until he looked up.” Then he would whistle contentedly as we followed him like a gaggle of geese to the next landmark.
When we passed his old high school, he stopped whistling long enough to describe the tornado that had ripped through town while all its residents were packed inside the gymnasium watching a basketball game. Dad had rushed in to warn everyone of the funnel cloud that had touched down, but, of course, nobody believed him, convinced it was just another one of his pranks. He was vindicated, however, when they filed out of the gymnasium after the game to find debris everywhere–roofless houses, uprooted trees, chimneys shaved off like unwanted whiskers. “There was nothing they could have done anyway; they were probably better off sitting in the safety of that gym enjoying a good game.” Again with the whistling. Over the Rainbow.
I could never get lost as a child. One time at the carnival I got separated from my parents amid the throng of humanity on the Midway. But I wasn’t scared. All I had to do, I told myself, was listen for the whistle. And sure enough, there it was. The theme from Carousel. (His choices were always appropriate to the setting.)
My father enjoyed the dubious distinction of being the only person ever rebuked for whistling in Abraham Lincoln’s tomb. You guessed it. The Battle Hymn of the Republic. As the docent clicked her tongue in contempt, he teased. “I think old Abe would have liked my whistling. It was his favorite song, after all.” You would think the self-conscious, pre-adolescent young girl that was me at the time would have found it mortifying to have all 20+ eyes in the tour group focused on my father, but, as it turned out, group sentiment appeared to run about 20:1 in his favor.
If you asked me what trait I loved most about my father, his whistling would be at the top of my list. Once, at the mall, we passed a group of teenagers who made fun of him as we walked by, snickering and pointing at him and blowing through their lips in mock whistles, then falling all over each other in peals of rude laughter. I remember wondering at the time what their dads were doing right then.
Like his personality, Dad’s songs were always upbeat – Big Band tunes, of course, and college fight songs … nothing can beat the Army Air Corp. He was the eternal optimist, even at the end when he knew he was dying. They gave him six months; he aimed for a year or, better yet, to prove them wrong all together. In the end he had to settle for 4½ months beyond their prediction, but they were good months. He tied up loose ends, said his goodbyes, made his amends. “I’ve had a long, happy life,” he’d said over and over. “I’m thankful for all I’ve had–my friends, my family, my memories. I’m ready.”
I’m not sure what tune he picked for the grand finale; his words were trapped inside him by then. But of one thing I have no doubt – my father went out whistling.
In Memoriam
Charles A. Dill
April 11, 1922 – February 18, 2009
Chapter 2-Please free to criti
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The second surgery that I had was in February. I went to Medical City of Dallas to find out what stage of Cancer I was in. I was put in this big white room; I had to lay on this metal table with a triangular piece of foam that was put under my knees so that they would remain bent. I remained on the table for four hours. They used Novocain to numb my feet. They gave me shots three times between my big toe, my second toe, and my third toe and on top of both of feet. When my feet were numb they made an incision on the top of each foot to find a hair like vein so they could inject a tube carrying blue dye into me. I was told that one out of three people would have their legs cramp up when the dye is injected. The dye traveled up a vein that was on the inside of my legs. I was one of the unfortunate people whose legs cramped up. My mom remembers me screaming from the pain. After the dye was injected, they took me into another room and had me put on a gown so that I could be x-rayed. The doctor said that he never had a test fail but mentioned that if it did that they would have to reinsert the die. I’m glad that it didn’t fail! This surgery was to find out what stage of Cancer I was in. There are four stages of Cancer and I was diagnosed in the third stage. The fourth stage is terminal. After I had my stitches removed, I got home and everyone was calling me “Smurf feet” because my feet were blue from the dye. The dye remained in my feet for at least a year and a half.
Our Dying World
Our world is in danger. Mankind is slowly destroying the world around us along with the life in it. This world is filled with the beauty of nature. It is this beauty that is being destroyed through the progression of greed.
Our children are also victims in this world we have created and destroyed. Every day there is a child who has suffered abuse, neglect, hatred, and even tragic deaths at the hands of demented adults. Those children who have learned to destroy as well learned their behavior from evil adults whose only goal is to destroy for their own self-gain. The innocence of children is what life is all about, yet their innocence is slowly becoming extinct.
Our world today is in chaos. The Holy bonds of matrimony are being severed by adultery, disrespect and abuse. People are killing each other in greed; great cities are being built only to harbor crime and destitution. The only ruler mankind will follow and worship is MONEY. Selfishness and greed have replaced charity and love in the hearts of many. Very few people today are willing to lend a hand without expecting something in return.
What has happened to humanity? Why have we become so destructive towards the things in life we need the most? Modern technology has not truly improved our lives. They only mask the problems that we are not willing to face. We have only been offered temporary conveniences to long time problems. Mankind has been blinded by greed and cannot see the destruction caused by our so-called modern technology. I am just as guilty of this. But I believe it is important to bring to light the reality of the world we are now living in. I feel that we must make the effort to remember the things in life that are truly priceless. The future of our children is in jeopardy. It is vital that we preserve the sanctity of our world’s natural resources so that they too will benefit from the beauty that this world has to offer. It is this modernized world of ours that has caused an increase in crime, poor health habits, selfishness, greed, a rise in diseases we have never heard of before, and conflicts among so many nations of our world. War has become an reaction that we accept without a second thought every time things don’t go our way. Compromise is a word we no longer even consider anymore. The Human race is in danger and it is at our own hands.
I often wish for days gone by when truth and honesty were things that didn’t take so much effort. A time when children were safe wherever they went-
a stranger was not quickly feared. Those were the days when competition was not a way of life, and every person was given respect. Hard work was something to be proud of and admired- not full of resentments. The natural beauty of our world was respected and admired; Air was pure and clean without the pollutants of today.
Those were the days we have forgotten in our struggle to become greater than the next man. What has happened to the decent moral values that we once taught our children? Our children today are being robbed from the world we use to know. Many do not even know the true meaning of the word respect anymore. They are not to blame… we as adults have taught these lost children everything they know today. We have destroyed their innocence.
It makes me sad to think that our society has taken a laid back attitude and are willing to accept things as they are now. Their reasoning is that this is a part of life. But the truth is that it takes real work to do what is right, and we have become a very lazy society. We see all the things that are going wrong- but find it easier to turn our heads and believe that what we see is someone else’s problem. We refuse to acknowledge that everything in this world comes back in full circle and eventually will become OUR problem to deal with. I can only pray that our society does not wait until it is too late to make any changes for the better. So many people today believe that the destruction of life on Earth is inevitable. But I believe that we have the power to control the outcome of our future. All we have to do is care and react. We are allowing our government leaders to volunteer us on an expensive suicide mission. Unless we change the path that we are currently taking, we are moving fast-forward towards a head on collision with death. It does not have to be this way. We hold the power to change the fatal course of our future. But we have to work hard and care enough to make the necessary changes.
So, what are you going to do? Step by step, hand to hand, heart to heart…. Change for the better IS possible. Do you care enough to make a start?
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Chapter one of my book
Well, it all started in July of 1989 when my dad took me to a fire-works show. I came home with chiggers. They finally went away but in September, I thought that I got them again when I went out with my friends Ann, Phillip, Carrie and (Carrie’s friend) Mary. We walked through some tall grass on the way to Ann’s house.
At the time that I was fourteen years old I started to stop eating as much; I scratched my feet raw; I lost a lot of weight; I also got colds a lot; I would sleep fourteen hours a day. Every day, I would sleep in and I was always late for school. I always had a decent attendance record at school.
I had a lump on my clavicle (collar bone). I found that out when I was in the school office one day. I was walking to the nurse’s office and a teacher noticed the lump. My mother took me to see our family doctor, Dr. Williams on December 17, 1989. He examined me, put me on antibiotics for bronchitis and asked me to come back for a check up three weeks later. He asked me if I had been scratched by any cats on the under part of my forearm. I told him that I had by my kitten. He told me that it was a possibility that it could be “Cat Scratch Fever”. I thought that was just a song by Ted Nugent! I didn’t know that really existed. Cat Scratch Fever is the bacteria under cats’ claws, which can be transferred by a cat scratching the skin under your forearm. It is transferred into a vein, through your blood stream and affects your lymph glands. When we returned for my follow up with Dr. Williams on January 2, 1990, he noticed that it was a third larger than it was three weeks prior. He called upstairs to a surgeon named Dr. Genender to see if he was available to see me. We set an appointment for day-surgery to remove the swollen lymph node on January 11, 1990. He said that there was a fifty-percent chance that they could determine what it was and a fifty percent chance that they couldn’t.
Come to find out, the next day after my surgery (January 12), Dr. Genender called and asked how I was doing and then asked to speak to my mother. My Mom came back to my bedroom and told me that we had a 3:00 appointment that day to see Dr. Genender. My parents, my older brother, Dan and I went to the appointment. Dr. Genender spoke for about 15 minutes and I was zoning out because I didn’t have a clue as to what he was about to tell us. He was trying to prepare me for what I was about to hear. H finally said, “I hate to tell you this (looking me straight in the eye), but you have Cancer.” He then explained more about the Cancer that I had and what we had to do about it. He said that it was called Hodgkin’s Disease. After we left his office, I was in total shock. My Dad and my brother went home in Dan’s truck my Mom and I went home in the Oldsmobile. My mother and I cried all the way home. When we got to the house, my Mom and I sat in the driveway and cried some more. My mom said to me, “Well, we’re going to have to be strong from here on out.”
The first thing that I wanted to do as soon as I walked in the door was to call my best friend, Christi, whom I had known for a couple of years. When I walked in the door, the phone was ringing. I hoped that it was Christi but instead, it was my Sister-in-law, Sharon. I told her about the news that I just heard. She was in shock and said that she would always be there for me. I got off the phone with her and called Christi to break the news. She had the same reply and said that I could talk to her anytime.
A month before any of this happened, I didn’t know what a Lymph Node was. The best way that I know how to describe it that it’s like a sponge that absorbs your illnesses. There are Lymph Nodes all over your body; along your spine; in your neck; in front of your ears; behind you jaw and in your collarbone. Your spleen is your biggest Lymph Node.
The night that I had my first surgery to have my Lymph Node removed for the biopsy, Dan and I talked in his room for about an hour. When we were finished, I walked into my youngest older brother, Rick’s, room asking him for a hug. I went over to him and laid down next to him. For the first time, we talked about my fears and how I felt about all that was going on. He told me how much he cared for me and that he wanted to be there for me.
Later that night, I wrote about how the day went. All I remembered from the surgery was the doctors putting an oxygen mask on over my mouth, dozing off and waking up feeling like I had something on my tonsils. My mom told me it was from the breathing tube they put down my throat. After we left the hospital, Dan followed us. When we pulled into the driveway, I was about to open the car door and instead, Dan was right there and opened the door for me. He handed me a maroon and a white carnation wrapped in white tissue paper. Maroon and white were his high school colors. He then picked me up and carried me into my bedroom and put me on my bed.
Paperbacks vs. Ebooks
Some people envision a future where bookstores will have pamphlets or blurb cards on their shelves instead of books. They will have a machine like this and print only after the book is sold, removing the need for inventory. Other people expect bookstores to be done away with altogether. They believe consumers will have machines in their homes and print at their leisure.
I hope both views are wrong. To me, the appeal of ebooks is in having no paper at all. I would much rather read from a screen, be it a computer, a mobile reader, or a phone, than to continue depleting natural resources. Trees are necessary for life. You want to counter global warming? Plant a tree!
When I voice my opinion, I am often met with comments such as "I just like the feel of a book in my hand," and "I love the smell of old books." These are romantic notions. To which I say, Get over it!
We are all resistant to change, and the progression from paperbacks to digital media is slow. But I think machines that switch us back to print is a mistake. Time might be better spent finding better ways to power our electronic gizmos so we don't pollute our landfills with batteries. (Recycle, you say? Don't get me started. That is another subject.)
Misplaced Dreams
There is this certain buzz around my head as if a fly is eyeing my watermelon during a spring picnic in Elmwood Park. The trees tower over my head, protecting me from the sun. They are nature’s sunscreen. I think I needed that protection more than a poet needs the pain. I was planning this huge celebration during which crowds would cheer my name in jubilation while you sat on the sidelines, underneath the canopy, remembering that I was all yours after the microphone quiets and the crowd moves to their next water-ice cart. Yet, just as the warmth of an early March’s sun can melt even the hardest of icy hearts, meanings to rhymes can be thawed away. How do I address something that is neither distinguishable nor understandable? I assume this is what the writers of the Bible faced. Although my thoughts are believable (at least in my head) my head is scattered in so many fucking directions the Academy has yet to quantify the shape it makes. I think you stuck your heroin into my vein a whiles back, and now I hunt for the newest rush, never knowing that what I had originally was the best dope this side of Broad. Boy, could I quantify that shape. For you, my darling, I am the junky with needle left in his hip. So goes the story of Mr. Emo Boy.
Your door seems so open, yet the translucency has worn off. You are nothing short of a hopeless romantic, never checking the consequence of one slip. I have invested far too much for this not to work out. But as the Dow Jones slips into oblivion, my trust in you has failed at finding a grip. I am fortunate for your presence, but do you need the same out of me? I know what I should do, but I just cannot find a way to drive away. Oh God, I hope this was not in vain. It is 4:40 in the morning, and you are in my thoughts. My eyes are tired and the stale, yellow light coming from the desk lamp over my bare, right shoulder is illuminating just enough for me to search for the ending to my story. I am not looking for some readers, just listeners. My clothes have been scattered on the floor around my bed for a while. I have come to believe that Jimmy was correct when he stated: “We’re only just as happy as everyone else seems to think we are.” I do not think you want to see this boy right now; not in this state. It must mean something more though, for in the end, I care too much about whether you will take my pain away or not. My thoughts are too strewn about right now. I seem to have misplaced my dreams.
I need both of you to located them again.
Please Critique. Anderson Sist
The Anderson Sisters
The invitation had been delivered matter-of-factly enough “I was talking with my sisters, and we were wondering if maybe you would like to come over for our little monthly get together.” It was Kristi Anderson; one of three sisters from the church and perhaps the only regulars there about my age.
“Sure.” I replied to the voice. “Should I bring anything?”
“Nope. Just yourself. We have food and drinks all ready.” It sounded a little pre-rehearsed, but Kristi struck me as a shy person to begin with. Besides, being the oldest sister and the only one with a house of her own, she was no doubt nominated to be the one to extend the party invitation. Anyway, I was tired of my own company and Sasafrass hasn’t been herself lately; barely eating and laying around whining.
The first encounter I had with the Anderson Sisters was Easter a few years ago. After presiding over the Easter service Lois, their mother, had her youngest daughter, Alicia invite me to dinner, with the instructions not to take no for an answer. Alicia was about twenty two years old, and a student at the University in Presque Isle. Although a student there myself, I only really saw her at weekly choir practice at the church.
Come dinner time, the girls were all lectured about being on their best behavior for the arrival of the minister in training. There was only one flaw in that plan; the third sister, Erica. Erica was in her mid twenties; about five-ten, and built like a pro linebacker. Her untamed growth of red hair rested uneasily across her broad shoulders, accenting an already chiseled jaw line. She was big, boisterous, and commanded the full attention of any room. It were as if at an early age, when she had begun to realize that she could not easily blend into a room, she would do her best to become the centerpiece. In the setting of a stoic Swedish colony, it did not take much to stand out in the crowd.
Dinner was served with all the trappings of rural Americana. Lois constantly ran from dining room to kitchen, anticipating the needs of the extended Anderson clan. It would seem that the only Anderson who was on edge that day was Aunt Norma, who was inexplicably terrified of cats. Every so often, she would quickly shift in her seat and grow wide eyed before asking someone to go check to make sure that the family tabby was still locked up in the bathroom. Shortly after dinner, she was so certain that there was a cat loose in the house that she jumped up and retreated for the relative safety of the screen door. The one thing that made this scene all the more hilarious to me was that there were at least seven other people in the room who did not find it in the least bit humorous. Aunt Norma eventually lost her nerve and went home before dessert, which consisted of no less than five different pies to choose from.
Feeling ever so grateful, yet not without my sarcastic side titillated by the whole Aunt Norma episode, I surveyed the pies; guessing that Lois had not slept much last night for all of her preparations. When asked which one I would like to try, I let out a sigh and feigned disappointment noting my disappointment that Lois had not prepared a watermelon pie; my favorite. Ever so slightly, Lois deflated against the wall before I could hold it no longer. I smiled and the sisters chimed in; Erica letting out a hearty guffaw that even a lumberjack would be proud of before slapping the table and laughing some more. The illusion was broken. The minister had a sense of humor, and the sisters had found an accomplice.
Upon arriving at Kristi’s house, all the makings of a civil get together were underway. Erica was pouring Pepsi over some chicken in a pan while reassuring me of the flavorful outcome. Kristi was showing me where the beer was, as well as the other booze planned for later on. I cracked open a Killians while Kristi fiddled with her stereo; cuing up her collection of eighties classics and not-so-classics. The kitchen door opened and in walked Norma-Jo, who, by her appearance, I took to be a cousin to the Andersons. Introductions were made as Norma-Jo sipped at a beer. She had the same red hair as Erica and Kristi that was tied back from her face in a red kerchief, giving her face in a kind of Scandinavian peasant look. Soft spoken and unsure, she spent most of the evening sitting on the couch watching everyone else.
The next to arrive was another red headed cousin, Penny. Penny looked a lot like Norma-Jo with a pony tail and glasses. Looks, however, were where the similarities ended between the two. “Oh, it’s preacher boy!” She exclaimed from across the room, beer already in her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you!” She sang out, this time with a sly smile before knocking down most of her beer. I wandered out to the living room while taking a mental head count; five to one. The girls were laughing hysterically out in the kitchen with Erica leading the chorus when, much to my relief, another male appeared through the door. It was Gus, a friend of the Andersons and master of the fry-o-later at the Caribou Burger King. Gus was short and stocky with a sense of humor that hadn’t reached much beyond his high school education.
Before the chicken was ready, I had already been served two Long Island Iced Teas by Kristi; effectively eliminating any possibility that I could ever attest to the wonders of cooking with Pepsi. I was getting hammered way too fast, so I switched back to beer and settled down on the couch to watch a movie. Penny noticed me alone on the couch and dramatically flopped down across it, placing her stocking feet squarely in my crotch. “Having fun, preacher boy?” She asked in a sleepy, drunken tone.
“It’s nice to take it easy, for once.” I replied, never flinching at the now-searching heels of Penny in my lap.
“If it’s easy, take it twice!” Shouted Erica from the other room before laughing at her own attempt at cleverness.
Not satisfied with her efforts, Penny swung her legs to the side and sat up, slamming the side of her posterior as tightly against mine as possible before dropping her hands at her side so that her left hand came to a tactical rest in my lap. Now, for the first time since crazy Aunt Norma ran from a cat that wasn’t there, I was truly amused, and vowed to myself to make the most of this. Letting Penny’s hand just lay in my lap both encouraged Penny and left her perplexed with what her next move should be, considering I had not reacted in the least. Finally, little by little; almost imperceptibly, she started inching her face toward mine; never letting her hand either leave my lap, or letting her put too much pressure on that hand so as to nullify the “accidental” nature of its presence there. I was amazed by her balance and wondered when she would tip over, squashing my bits with her errant hand before finishing me off with a head-but. Watching the movie, I could hear laughter and banter from the kitchen. “I’m not an alcoholic, I’m a drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings!” Another tidbit from the Pez dispenser of funny that is Erica. Finally, I could feel uneven breath on my cheek. She was within two inches of my mouth and holding. Letting this go on for another minute, I quickly leaned into her, almost touching her lips, and departed the couch for the booze in the kitchen. Mission accomplished.
“We’re out of mixer.” Kristi slurred at me, holding up a handle of Long Island Iced Tea mix. “This is all we have left. Wanna do shots?” Famous last words never to be acted upon once the clock has turned over to morning.
Two small juice glasses were placed on the table and filled, and refilled, and filled again. At some point, Penny rejoined the group in the kitchen; pressing her body against mine as I threw back another shot.
“You’re not going home tonight, are you?” She leaned into me as if to whisper, but the liquor had already affected her volume control, causing her to bark her request into my ear. “You need to stay here tonight.” She continued. “I’m sleeping here tonight… right over there.” Her head lolled back and she pointed toward a wall while attempting to reenact her sober sly smile.
The world slowed down and faces blurred. Gus suggested that we go for a walk to clear our heads a little. It seemed like miles to the first neighbors driveway and I fought the urge to curl up on the roadside and take a nap. Finally, that metallic taste invaded my mouth from under the back of my tongue. The blood rushed to my head and then fell back out of it and into my stomach, causing me to projectile vomit from a standing position across the width of the neighbor’s driveway. After three waves of alcohol exited my body, it was time to call it quits and walk the miles (thirty yards) back to Kristi’s. Once safely inside, Kristi stumbled toward the stereo as Erica and Penny called out in a form of chant for the “party song”. The nearest I could tell, the song was an old Nitty Gritty Dirt Band ditty about a boy and a girl fishing in the dark. The revised lyrics, however, complete with the Anderson sister dance moves, were more of an adult nature. Through the one eye that would focus, I could see all the girls across the living room country line-dance style, dancing and singing, “You and me go fuckin’ in the ditch. Drop your drawers, you skinny little bitch. And we’ll do it slow…”
“Almighty God, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid, cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of your Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love You and worthily magnify Your Holy name, Through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.” If I appeared to be extra penitential while giving the brief order for confession and forgiveness, it was mostly due to my pounding head and troubled stomach. Certain that I reeked of alcohol; I had stuffed three Altoids in my mouth prior to the bell ringing, so that the closest faithful in the fifth pew could not smell me. The service ended and I snuck out early in order to add to my three hours of sleep.
Rolling into the meadow, I felt every bump; rolling from side to side in the Cavalier’s interior. Exiting the vehicle, the sun glinted in my eyes; causing a kaleidoscope of silvery diamonds to encircle my vision; a halo I walked through to my front door.
Falling upon my mattress, I could not attain the euphoric pass-out effect I had envisioned on the drive home. It was difficult to put my finger on what was wrong; especially in my hung over state. I was feeling the sting of guilt. Was I feeling bad because I delivered the Mass half in the bag? Surprisingly, no; considering nobody even suspected that I wasn’t quite myself. They got what they came for; didn’t they? I said the prayers and the liturgy, gave a brief homily, and sent them all home to Sunday dinner. That’s all they ever wanted from a minister in the first place. Hell, if I did that every week, the ladies group would probably sign up to get me good and soused every Saturday night.
Where were my kids, I wondered? What were they doing this Sunday morning? Were they having fun? Were they thinking of me; even when I wasn’t thinking of them last night. Uneasiness crept over me as I entwined my feet in the unkempt covers. I felt cold and exposed in my empty little room. I was a terrible father. Why didn’t I think of them last night?
I had spent the entire night thinking only of myself and my own good time. I had managed to block out my kids while Penny groped me and the thought made me sick. It’s not that I hadn’t already sufficiently distanced myself from them in one way or another. I went from calling them every night, to every other night. Soon, just to keep my phone service connected, I had to call weekly. Sometimes the phone got shut off anyway. Sometimes I called less; taking every missed call as another personal failure. Years later, it would be easy to pat the old me on the back and say that I deserved my own life apart from the kids; that I deserved some adult fun. This was not years later, though, and failure compounded upon failure; even if perceived, was another reason to feel utterly defeated. But now I failed not only myself, but my children as well.
I rolled off the mattress and slumped down the ladder to tend the fire that had also been neglected by my night out. Sheba’s claws ticked out of the kitchen and a wet nose met the back of my calf as I descended into the living room. Ears back and tail swishing low, she offered her freckled muzzle to me as I reached the floor. I gave her furry cheek a scratch but would not look at the pictures on the wall; only the fading glow of coals in the center of an ashen pit in the stove.
Going Home!
I got the call at 9:03am on February 16, 2009, her voice was filled with panic, I said, "I am on my way." We
knew that God was going to take him home soon. But I never imagined that it was going to be today!
As I stood in my room panic filled me. What do I do, how can I help her. This was her father. My military background kicked in and off I went. As I pulled up in the driveway, anxiety filled my body. I have to do this!
I rushed to her side, she wasn't making scene. I said I am here and we will get though this! I knew I had to go check on her dad. My heart felt like it was coming out of my chest. I stood up and walked to his room. I paused at the door, he was looking at a picture of a man on a boat. Although we was not there anymore.
There not enough expressive words to describe the discernment of peace that he was truly experiencing vs how the disease he had endured for so long.
I have seen may people after they have died and this was an experience I will always cherish.
Days later at the wake, I reminded the family of the great task ahead. As I sat and listened to how there father went so many times without things so they would have. I reminded them of the great legacy that he had left for them and asked the question, " What are you going to do with it?" I truly got a tremendous scene of pride in having the privilege of knowing him!
At that moment I realized he had left a piece of the legacy with me as well. We all have been impacted by someone in our lives. Fiends as much as family. The question is what are you doing with it and will it be a legacy worth passing on!
God speed Mr Frank! I won't let you down;0)
There must be a story in this!
Having ran a little country store for several years, I met some coloroful characters. John ranks up there at the top. I was wonding if someone with some expertise (more than I have) would care to share some pointers on writing a story or stories about John. Some of what I've mentioned is in court or army records, so I'm supposing what is written should be a true story.
John of course, is not the true name of this person.
A colorful local character was a member of Tiger Force one of the men in Lt. William Callie’s platoon during the infamous My Lai affair in Vietnam. During his tours in Vietnam he was awarded several medals including the Purple Heart and Bronze Star—I’m not certain but I think he was awarded a Sliver Star also. Anyway he was one of the most decorated soldiers from east Tennessee. Hew showed me these medals one time when I was over at his house.
Coming back to these mountains and suffering from what I would term Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, he apparently tried (a fairly successful tobacco farmer) to adjust to civilian life but never did. He was and is outspoken, not afraid to say what he thinks e.g. Each fall—usually in late Nov. or early Dec. the tobacco farmers of this region would take their bales to the tobacco barn in Johnson City where dealers would bid on it. This particular year, the dealers were bidding exceptionally low. John jumped on top a bale of tobacco and hollered: “If you Son’s of Bitches can’t do any better than that and pay us a fair price, we’re hauling it back. It can rot or we will burn it. We are not giving it away to you M. F’s!”
That brought the sale to a halt as the other farmers started shouting similar opinions.
Before the end of the day, the tobacco was sold at fair market value; about 30 to 40 cents a pound higher than the original bids.
I don’t really know if it is part of his psyche or something about the My Lai affair/ (massacre—that some referred to it) but he had changed from a good, fun loving boy with no known run-ins with the law to someone with somewhat of a scorn for society’s laws.
He started out by buying moonshine in bulk and selling it retail. As marijuana became more profitable, he got into buying it bulk and selling it retail. Some competitor ratted on him and he was set up for a Big Buy. As he told me, I was just a dumb country boy. The thought of $60,000 profit on one deal, closed my eyes as to what I was doing and that I was being set up.
The deal went down at that little country store that I use to run. He hadn’t been out of his car a minute when the DEA agents had their guns pointed at him. The local Sheriff had some deputies there and one of them, his gun drawn was hurrying across the parking lot; fell, his dropped gun accidentally went off and several officer fired shots at John.
John was shouting, don’t shoot! Don’t Shoot!—Somehow, he wasn’t shot.
John was out on bail awaiting trial and the local radio station was having a field day (convicting him without a trial as some of the TV news shows do to people today) The station was trying to tie his wife in (convict) her as well. According to John, that caused him to “loose it.” He put on his army camouflage uniform took an assault rifle and headed to the radio station. A local woman (that I know) saw John walking alongside the road, recognized him stopped her car and gave him a ride. About a half mile from the station he asked her to stop and he got out. She said he didn’t answer her even though they knew each other. “What’s the matter John?” She asked him. She said he didn’t say a thing, just waved and walked away.
At the radio station, John walked in; herded all the employees (4) into the broadcast room and said they could go or stay, but he had something to announce to the public (that his wife knew nothing about his drug dealings). The employees left –ran, from the station and immediately called the law. Unknown to John, the announcer had cut off the mike, so John’s announcements were not broadcast.
A swat team called from Johnson City surrounded the radio station, but by the time they got to it, he had exited the station crawled down a drainage pipe which turned into a ditch which ran through an open field, eluded the local police officers on scene and circled back around to survey the situation. “I could have picked every one of them off if that had been my intention” John said.
From there he cut through the fields and woods—about 10 miles to his house. His wife talked him in to going back and turning himself in. The search was still in progress around the radio station when they drove back. By that time a curious crowd of onlookers were gathered alongside old highway 23 looking at the search going around the station about 200 yards down its private drive. They (John and his wife) walked up and spoke with some people he knew in the crowd before finally getting the attention of a deputy to arrest him.
(I THINK SOME OF THIS—THE RADIO STATION INCIDENT, WAS ON NATIONAL TV)
The news media, SWAT Team, Sheriff and town of Erwin police were ready to hang him, as his escape and the way he was finally arrested embarrassed them.
This being somewhat of a sensational case for this area, lawyers were lining up to defend him. The prosecuting attorney, David Crockett (supposedly kin to the famous Davy Crockett) and still practicing law, was out to give him the maximum sentence.
I suppose he would have got the maximum sentence but there is a VA center (Mountain Home) in Johnson City; the veterans there got together behind John and with the support they garnered (in my opinion at least) cowed or persuaded the Judge to be lenient with sentencing. He got 7 years.
The story doesn’t end there. He was sent to Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary where the accused killer of Martin Luther King was held.
John became a born again Christian in prison and apparently somewhat of a preacher as well. The local people around here say he preached his way out of prison, as he got out in 5 years.
Over a bottle of Wild Turkey, John told me of his time in prison and his conversion. (This apparently had nothing to do with abstaining from strong drink) He also said he read scripture to James Earl Ray and had talked to him on many occasion. He was convinced that Ray was not Martin Luther King’s killer. According to John, James Earl Ray was set up by a Spanish looking guy named Raul (if that name is spelled right). The part that seemed a little fuzzy to me was Raul giving Ray money to leave the country.
John’s opinion of James Earl Ray was that of a naïve country boy, a small time thief; always getting in trouble with the law, though nothing serious, like murder. John was convinced that Ray didn’t kill King.
I saw John regularly at the store for about 5 years. He farmed a little tobacco, got into building houses with a brother-in-law and was leading a fairly normal life, but he still didn’t feel laws applied to him like they did to everyone else. He went over to Asheville, bought a deer rifle (I’m not sure of the caliber) for his son’s Christmas present in his own name. Of course convicted felons are not allowed to own fire arms and he was once again picked-up on a federal weapons charge and sentenced to 7 years again.
He’s out of prison now. I guess John is in his early to mid 60s and I haven’t seen him since he got out of prison a year ago. But he still lives in the county.
Poor Chef Magazine article: Ka
The allure of kayaking has inspired many an outdoor adventurer to take paddle in hand and trek off to explore where no outboard has gone before; and why not? Kayaking offers both the thrills of whitewater and the peaceful seclusion of coastlines and coves. For the intrepid paddler, a sublime postcard picture awaits a sunny day and a good put-in point, but what about the not-so-intrepid paddler? What about the rest of us who want the benefits of paddling, but are daunted by the first crucial steps of kayaking? Berry Manter; a licensed guide and associate of the L.L. Bean Outdoor Discovery School has been teaching and guiding kayakers for years. She offers sound advice to all would-be kayakers. “The first question I hear is, “Can you do an Eskimo roll?” Citing escape as a vital first skill, a perfect Eskimo Roll is not a prerequisite. Berry insists that one does not have to be a triathelete to take up paddling. Like any other sport, kayaking is a process in which the participant decides their own level of comfort. “The biggest myth”, Berry says, “is that you need strong arms.” Unlike canoeing, paddling involves whole body motion. She refers to kayaking as a total-fitness exercise that involves the legs, abdomen, obliques, and back; not to mention the mental well-being that comes from gliding on the water. With a sense of elation, Berry tells us, “Feeling the swells beneath you is like the Earth Breathing.”
Whispers of Spirits along the
All appears serene studying this slow stretch of the muddy Nolichucky. There is just a hint of danger—with recent rains, the water is in somewhat of a hurry and you know from the trek to this point, class five rapids are just down river, around the bend. The murky waters hide the jagged rocks, tin cans, parts of house trailers and cars that have been swept from its banks, as well as the rotting bodies of dead fish and other animals that you occasionally spot when the river is clear.
You hope that the rafters waving as they float by have some experience. Lies have it that a thousand people have lost their lives in this river. Whispers hint that there have been at least a hundred. I knew seven people that drowned in its cold waters.
The Nolichucky is filled with adventure and danger. People say it entices you into taking chances, and then when you are comfortable, a jagged rock will reach up and rip the bottom out of your raft or kayak, or flip you out of your boat and pin your foot under a rock. If you get too comfortable with this river; it will drown you, it is unforgiving to those that don’t pay it the utmost respect.
I flinch at the shouts coming from just out of sight and around the bend telling me the rafters have reached those rapids.
“We may spot a body of somebody when we go back down river,” Blake half chuckles, emphasizing “somebody.”
I jump as the sound of Blake’s words startle me from my musings. We have been searching for a body. His words prompt me to take a closer look at the river and along its banks. I see nothing.
Blake is the president of our Neighborhood Watch, and I’m the secretary. Knowing that we actually try to keep thefts and crime down in our sparsely settled community, the sheriff has called on us to help his deputies search for a man whose van was found parked alongside the river with a suicide note. A pair of sneakers, thought to be that of the missing man was found a few yards from the van at the river’s edge.
“Let’s head back,” I suggest.
Blake and I are both past middle age; he has something close to emphysema. Being out of shape myself, I figure it may be one of our bodies that a rescue team will have to retrieve if we go much further.
Without an answer, Blake turns and heads back. He is one of these rare people that will stick with you to the bitter end. Or, at least if what you are doing or asking of him makes sense.
(This is the beginning of a novel that I'm writing. I would appreciate comments from anyone that would care to critique these few paragraphs.) Thanks!
Bad New Year's poem. Don't rea
Just me being wierd for me so don't read any further! I can't write poetry as much as I love to read other's efforts.
Some will call it New Years
and others, Auld Lang Syne,
for me it's just a birthday,
and it's not a happy time.
They drink champagne and celebrate
tell resolutions to everyone
while they wait
for the ball to drop on this special date.
Another year gone,
what have I done?
Where have I been
while time moved on?
Here I am another year older,
Here I am another year bolder.
There's a new grey hair unseen yesterday,
one more laugh line or is it two?
My waist isn't quite so small they say,
my hands show plainly the work they've seen-
dog bites, paper cuts and too much horse hay.
I'll watch them get drunk
I'll watch them dance
I'll watch them toast
and fall to the carpet
passed out cold.
On New Year's Day,
then I'll hold sway.
They'll whine and moan,
and grasp their heads
mumbling "Leave me alone!"
No hangover for me cuz I stayed home,
sparkling cider for me and fiancé alone.
No nausea, no head ache,
no porcelain throne.
All my life I've had to wait
for New Year's Day
and here it is!
I'm 38.
*grumbles* I don't feel 38.
Podcast: Writing Historical Fi
RSS Link
With Christine Blake, author of Woman Redeemed, a story of Mary Magdalene
DOWNLOAD AND LISTEN TO CHRISTINE BLAKE MP3 HERE
How do you write a historical novel about a person so shadowy that almost nothing is known about her?
ChristineBlake has taught literature and writing for many years and has served as a youth minister and speaker at schools, churches, and women's groups. She lives in Evergreen, Colorado with her husband and two boys.
Please join Christine Blake and host Paula B. as they discuss:
Interviewee: Christine Blake
Host: Paula B.
Date: December 7, 2008
Running time: 42:39
File size: 20 megabytes
Rating: G
Christine Blake's Web site: WomanRedeemedNovel.com
nude olympics not a porno lov
Funny thing about growing up in an Irish neighborhood is that the rest of the world thinks you’re from Ireland. Very far from the truth for a lot of us, sure we had Irish blood and 7 out of ten of our parents were born and raised in Ireland, but the truth is that most of us at this age were born and raised in New York City. The dream of every Irish-American boy I knew was to actually go to Ireland and visit with families and explore your roots in old castles and to meet cousins and redheaded girls.
Sundays were the best in our Irish neighborhood, our dads played Hurley in the mornings, we played Irish football in the afternoons and we all drank at the pub till dinner near the field in our dirty muddy uniforms with most of us leaking blood. Great stories, great drinks and I’ll tell you right now, freaking great football. We had one of the better Irish football teams in the entire country. We won championship trophies year after year, and we were invited to play against the all-Ireland team in Ireland year after year. The one year that I played was another championship season; I remember meeting the coach at the beginning of the season to see if I could join the team. I knew little about the actual sport, but I went to the games every single Sunday to watch and drink afterwards.
There was no tryout, no let’s see how you handle the ball, not even a practice game. The coach asked me two very important questions, he said,” can ya run”? I said “Yeah I can run”. He said,”can ya fight?” I said, ”Yeah I can fight”. He said, “Alright then, you’re on the team.
So there it was, I was playing Irish Football in the early 1970’s and sure as I’m telling you this story, we went on to win that year and it was off to Ireland. There were 25 of us and 6 or 7 dads and coaches that went on the trip that year. I do not remember the town we were in, I only remember that we won and we won big, there were like 3 thousand spectators at the game even though the entire town itself only had like 300 people living in it. We went back to the hotel/inn that we were living in that week to party ourselves while the adults went to each of the 30 or so bars this tiny little town had. It must have been like 2 or 3 in the morning and we were still hooping and hollering, a few of the older guys scored us a couple of beer kegs. There were like twenty five 13 to 17 year old kids and we had 2 kegs of beer, let us do the math on this one shall we?
We got pretty drunk and being athletes and being drunk usually led to one thing, “DRUNK SPORTS”. It started harmless enough; we broke into a few separate teams kind of like the Olympics and had races down the hallways of the motel. We occupied almost all of the rooms in the hotel that night, so we opened all the room doors and raced from room to room. Then we did jumping from bed to bed, it was getting hot so some of us took our shirts off while others took off their shorts. And so it begins, lots and lots of drinking, lots of running and jumping, lots of sweating, lots of clothes coming off. It only took another half hour or so till we were all nude and doing sports, Irish guys love to get naked. I started running to the lobby and running back to test everyone, and then we ran down the hall, thru the lobby and out into the parking lot. Sure enough, that leads to a few of us running down the street which eventually leads to everyone of us drunken Irish American kids streaking thru town naked and screaming.
NOT GOOD, NOT GOOD AT ALL
This is a sleepy little town and 30 drunken naked boys running amuck was the same as if “The Devil Himself” was running thru town? Apparently 90% of the town was now trying to get sleep and the other 10% were still wandering the streets trying to find their drunken way home. We ran from one end of town to the other end and back again. One minute it was funnier than anything, and the next minute we found ourselves being chased by half the town, kind of like in the movies were the entire village is chasing the monster with pitchforks and torches, there were no pitchforks, but I swear I saw torches. We were able to get dressed again before they hauled us to the biggest building in town, the town hall or the town square or something like that.
They kept us in this auditorium, I guess this is where all things official happen in the town, we were there for a few hours while we sobered up and while the rest of the towns folk that we didn’t wake up came to this meeting. I remember sitting up front with my drinking/Olympic buddies; we took up the first 3 or 4 rows. Behind us was the entire freaking town, I mean every man woman and child, dog, cat, farm animal, every living thing in that part of the world was there to see the “Devil Children from America”. In front of us were the dozen or so town leaders, these were the same people who when we arrived met us at the train station, made speeches before the big game and they were the ones who congratulated us on a great victory. There was the Mayor/Police Chief/Fire Chief and something else. There was the town doctor/veterinarian, the owner of the grocery store and the owner of the bar, the bar maids, the gas station guy, and anyone else who ran a business or who had a say in the town affairs.
The room was buzzing with chatter while they spoke in hushed tones and hugged each other about how horrific it was that we ran naked thru the streets and of how we must have been doing the drugs and stuff. They cried when they recalled how both Mrs. McLearys teenage daughters saw one American boy’s penis while he ran past her window. They held each other tight and consoled one another while saying things like, “it will be alright”, and ” The devil himself is in them boys”. I was starting to think we had gotten ourselves into some freaking “children of the corn” horror movie. This went on for almost an hour while our chaperones/dads kept starting at us with steam coming from their heads. The town officials spoke first and declared that what had happened was most vile and undeniably most horrific for all. They said, “The American boys sitting before ye all, are guilty of many sexually deviant actions, they are the result of living in a sinful western world where this type of thing is tolerated. They use the “drugs” and they practice heinous religions and for that is why they must be possessed”
Finally, when they stopped talking and we were allowed to speak Mr. Hughes, my buddies dad stood up and asked if he could talk on behalf of our group. The town’s people up front said “okay”, and he walked up on the stage and faced the townsfolk and pointed to us and he started to speak.
He said, “ I know what these boys here did was wrong, I know what they did was offensive and disgusting, but I know these boys each and every one of them, twas no drugs or devils work that happened here. It was only one thing.
“TWAS THE DRINK THAT MADE THEM DO IT”
A few seconds passed where not a soul made a sound, I was waiting for the torches again. When suddenly like a wave swelling from the oceans bottom, like a huge massive volcano that was erupting, you could feel something coming. When all at once the entire town, all the officials on the stage, every single man, woman, child and farm animal all said the exact same thing at the exact same moment.
“Well if it was only the drink that made them do it, then that’s okay, that’s fine then”.
And just like that the meeting was over, the towns people disbanded, the animals went back to their farms, the cats and the dogs walked back outside into the street, the hall windows were closed and chairs folded and put away. There we sat in the first 3 or 4 rows, while the dads and chaperons yelled and screamed at us for the next half hour. We left the town and the country 48 hours later and I have never returned since. I hope someday to go back and see if anyone there remembers that horrible event. Hopefully I will go back and if that happens I will write the story of it for you to read.
I do not think this story has any lesson to be learned or shared or if it is just something that happened to me and for some reason I thought you would enjoy it.
-Peace
Snuggling With a Dead Fish
A preface to this piece I am posting
I am collecting true ancedotes to include in a book;the life and times of nurses in and out of the hopsital. Here is the latest piece I penned, as theraphy for an assult on my budget. Laughter takes the edge off my pain.
I welcome liberal critique, and please have little concern your critique will upset me, as I have already endured the pain of a day spent in a dental chair with two men and a dead fish
Snuggling With a Dead Fish
Allow me to begin with a disclaimer, although the title may suggest otherwise, this anecdote has not-a-thing-to-do with intimacy, or the absence of__intimacy.
Somehow I missed smoking pot or dropping LSD with the sixties subculture flower children, however yesterday, morning, between clock-in time and lunch break, strapped in a dental chair, I am certain I made up for all of the premium pot and LSD I by-passed some forty years ago. Looking back, now four decades older and wiser, my decision to leave the fun stuff to the enjoyment of others was in my best interest if not my survival, as I admit that yesterday, by high noon, and high on “happy-gas,” I am convinced that snuggling with a cold dead fish (literally) is normal.
“Do you want to listen to music?” the dental assistant asked bringing out a headset hooked to a small transistor radio.
“Thanks! Think smooth jazz will camouflage the pain?”
I am having this conversation with this young man solely because this is the day I lose one tooth and gain four crowns.
The dental assistant reflecting a white-white smile replied with assurance, “I have you on oxygen, and Dr. Cheery just turned on the Nitrous Oxide. You will be thinking Zen thoughts in no time”
I am not certain about Zen thoughts, as my mind is obsessed with angst over the small loan I took out to barter my way out of the dental chair. At the moment, the only thing I look forward to is relaxing with “happy-gas.” Bring on the golden glow of the turbulent sixties; I paid extra cash-up-front for a crystal-blue-persuasive euphoria and I am not disappointed, as a blissful detached feeling slowly envelopes my body while the smooth jazz station reminds me, ”this is the good life.” Let the show begin. The next four-and–a-half hours, two faces hover mine like wasps, their hands in my mouth now stretched open, wide enough for a Mack truck to maneuver with ease.
Wrapped in a warm comfy blanket with my head resting on a mushy bead pillow, I am almost as relaxed as giving birth to my firstborn; when the frosted flakes I had for breakfast decide to make an encore. I feel a wave of nausea coming on, which elevates patient-doctor relationship to an intimate dimension. In my “happy-gas-stupor” my dentist name changes to a one coming straight from my heart, waving my hand “Doctor Feery” I holler, “I’m-about-to-puke!”
Startled, the assistant and the good doctor bring the chair from a head down position, sitting me upright, simultaneously turning down the happy gas. (Insert sad face here)
My stomach stops churning and I manage a few well placed moans. Dr. Cheery asked,
“Is the nitrous wearing off? We’ll let you rest. Nurses are tough.Your mouth has been open awhile, makes it difficult to inhale the nitrous”
He turns up the gas and leaves the room. I am a good patient; trying to inhale as much of the good stuff in the least amount of time, I hyperventilate at a furoius rate,only slowing my breathing when I feel the tingling sensation return to my toes; smooth jazz playing in my ear reminds me that all is well with the world.
The doctor floats back into the room, bends over my head as if in a vision, his voice echoing from a deep canyon. He reinserts the jackhammer in my distorted mouth and the show goes on.
I reach up with a heavy hand that seem to not belong to me and dab at what I am certain must be a river of blood trickling down my right cheek. I slip a quick peek at the Kleenex. It is high and dry. Hallucinating; I am hallucinating, the benefit of an out-of-body experience, and a tolerable side effect of my “return- to-the-sixties-moment”
“There now, all finished!” Dr. Cheery and his assistant, in unison, compliment me profusely on being “such a trooper.”
Grateful the cereal I woofed down some six hours ago, stayed put, I wobble down the hall to the restroom. Unlike my dentist and his efficient assistant, the mirror speaks no lies. I stare at a resemblance of my face, decide to go for the jugular and try a smile. “Mirror, mirror on the wall,” think stroke, and you get the picture of my reflection.
Home, my bed and a soft pillow sound good to this acclaimed trooper. Think ice, as this is a prime factor to assuage pain and sorrow. I reach in the freezer, hoping to place my hand on a bag of frozen veggies; (perfect for an improvised cold pack) however the freezer disappoints me, as it is empty, save for a large packet of frozen Tilapia. I pull out the packet of frozen fish, look it over twice, ceremoniously wrap this culinary delicacy in a soft cloth, down a couple of Extra Strength Tylenol and head for bed. Snuggling with dead frozen fish placed tenderly on my face, in the truest definition of snuggling, is not an ‘affair of the heart’ however; considering the throbbing ache in my jaw, it runs a close second.
I would add a photo to authenicate this intimate experience, but the fish thawed before I could set up the camer for a timed photoshoot.
Judy
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