Category Archives: Published Short Stories

Dec11

Writing, the Easy Life

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I heard Scott’s mom say to Scott, “Scott, dad’s cleaning house.”

Scott tells Jesse, “Mom says dad’s in that cleaning mood again.”

Jesse sees his Sister Jaime coming down the hall and tells her, “Dad’s got the vacuum out!”

Brian pokes his head out of his bedroom and he sees his dad, with vacuum cleaner in hand, coming down the hall. He pulls his head back into his room and quietly closes the door with the old “pre-turn the doorknob and shut the door quietly, trick”, hoping he wasn’t seen. He’ll exit his room to escape, behind my back, as soon as he thinks I’ve gone past his door.

Kathryn, my wife and mother of my offspring, exits the house through the back patio door, and waits for the episode to end with a book and a beer. She’ll stay seated at the patio table until its safe.

All living things have learned to flee the house the moment I open the closet door and pull out the vacuum cleaner. When I’m in a bad mood, or have something on my mind, I clean house!

I have done this for years. I’m only guessing, but I think I attack the house because three things happen; I relieve stress, the house gets a once over and no one gets hurt. It seems the amount of cleaning I do is directly proportional to the amount of stress I’m having.

I’ll be the first to admit, I probably don’t clean well. Because of my state of mind, I have no patience. Then there is a problem with space. A middle class ranch home in the burbs of Tucson doesn’t have a basement, and every area of the no car garage is already used up. I do, however, move the piles and clean the places where the piles were.

Now that I’ve retired from the factory work, and all of the other trials and tribulations of the last fifty years, I’ve decided to make life easier and start my new career as a writer.

I mention this because, now, I find that when I’ve reached a cerebral impasse, cleaning the kitchen, vacuuming, or doing yard work, often cracks open my vault of genius. It may not happen immediately, but I know from past experiences, sooner or later, if I keep on working, I’ll settle in and get brilliant again.

When I first retired, I could see my wife (a geriatric nurse) was stressing a little about the loss of income. I could hear it in her conversation threads and hear it in the pitch of her voice. I’ve been married for thirty-seven years. As a man, I didn’t make it this far by failing to remember what I have to do to keep her happy.

I write every day. I show her my dedication to my new craft. Come rain or shine, hell or high water, I keep my nose to the grindstone. When my writing motor won’t run, I do whatever it takes to start that engine again. I clean. I paint. I plant. I remodel or do the dishes. I know that sooner or later that celebrated American novel will come pouring forth. I will make millions, and she’ll be so proud! They all will be!

I watch her relax and smile a little more as each week goes by. I’ve learned to arrange my writing time around the things she’s come to expect. When I take my grandson, Mark, to school to save my daughter and her time, I only lose about an hour of my writing day, and dishes only take about one-half hour to whip. Sweeping and vacuuming do keep me away from my writing machine a little longer, but one cannot write every minute of every day.

Of course, being the hunter gender of this union, I cannot let her, the gentler, weaker of the sexes, know this. I do not want to shatter her image of me at the keyboard each day; hammering out those combinations of words that the world doesn’t even suspect are going to be unleashed on them someday.

I’m so thankful the world understands that excellent works of art take time. I know my wife now does. I will have to admit my new life as a writer does exhaust me; but I’m going to get right back to it as soon as I get done folding this load of towels and put the baked potatoes in the oven.

© Copyright 2012 gottagosee (UN: gottagosee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.

gottagosee has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Nov18

The Great Wind

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The Great Plains nomads believed they were the only true ‘Human Beings’. Everyone else was some other form of critter I guess! *

The Great Wind

Did I tell anyone here about the time the bass player (1/2 Human Being*) and I decided to go out in his yard and perform a Rain Dance to put an end to the drought around Lake Pelican in northeastern South Dakota?

Since he was half Human Being*, he said all I had to do was follow his moves precisely in the ‘Rain Dance’. I was honored and did the best a Norwegian, Bohemian, could do. He went hay ya hay ya, I went hay ya hay ya, he one footed this way, and that, I one footed this way and that.

His wife Carrie was on the phone with a friend of theirs as she watched us from the window over her sink with the window open so she could hear.

I heard her laugh and explain on the phone to her friend what we were attempting to do, and that I looked quite comical. They had a terrific time mocking us, but on we danced and dark clouds began to appear in the west. I saw the clouds, and going with considerable spirit’ of enthusiasm, turned it up a notch and began to spin and circle Roger as if possessed.

I began to chant louder, and the dust and sweat flew, and the clouds grew, and faster I spun.

At some point, Roger told me that he had had enough, and felt I was off the step a little, and maybe I should call it a day too. So I did, foolishly thinking I’d done a outstanding job for a white dude.

It still didn’t rain for a couple of weeks, and I’d mostly forgotten the whole thing. You know, when one great feat is over, you’ve got to move on to the next one. A couple of months went by. Roger’s wife Carrie called me one afternoon to tell me that her friend was pregnant.

“Well,” I said internally, “that’s nice!” Wondering why she was telling me!

So, I asked her, “Why are you telling me?”

She said that the day Roger and I were ‘Rain Dancing’, Roger had entered their cabin after I’d left, laughing. He told Carrie that the white guy started out ok, but somewhere I began doing something that looked like a different dance. He had to call the dance off before I got myself into trouble with The Spirits. He was familiar enough to know that you don’t mess with that stuff.

As it turns out, Carrie’s girlfriend’s husband couldn’t make children, and she had given up ever getting pregnant.

But, yet here it was. They didn’t have any other explanation other than, after doing the math, the conception date lined up with Carrie’s phone call. When Carrie spilled the beans that day about my white man’s Rain Dance interpretation and the fact that Roger thought I had screwed it up, a seed was definitely planted.

Now, in hindsight, Roger admitted that my Rain Dance interpretation looked an awful lot like the maiden’s fertility dance. Each dance was designed as an appeal to nature for help in producing something, and except for the speed, a few spins and gestures, resembled each other closely. That really fertilized everyone’s thoughts!

They all agreed that I had messed up the rain dance, but had danced with sufficient energy and spiritual power, to have transmitted a fertility dance to the other end of a phone line.

I thought it was all a great joke until I got a letter from the tribal council representing Roger and Carries friends. This was turning into some serious stuff! The story was a little farfetched, although I’d always suspected I had something peculiar going on. I’d swear that some of those eleven kids germinated from a single, concentrated, admiring glance from me.

Over the next few months, their tribe insisted yes, and I insisted no, so I enlisted a shaman from their local people hoping he would be my legal counsel, and determine the other tribe wrong. He arranged a meeting between himself, me, and eight members of the others tribal council members around a fire circle on the Human Being property.

After a short pipe ceremony, they asked me one straightforward question.

“Did I, a non-Human Being, try to make rain with their sacred Rain Dance on that specific date?

I said, “Yes.”

I began to explain that we did it to see if we could help!

In one motion, an extremely, seasoned jury member’s head snapped toward me, and he put his aged, bent index finger to his lips. The reflected dancing fire shot from his steely eyes as a single word pierced my conscious.

“Shut-up!”

Very quietly and with no ceremony, all nine, including my council, stood up and disappeared into the darkness leaving me by myself sitting by a large fire alone. I waited.

That was it. The crackle of the dying embers and the creeping cold crawling up my spine convinced me that they were gone for good. I walked to my pickup truck and drove home. I honestly felt ancient eyes watched me until I had left their land.

I heard nothing for the next six months. When I went to Roger and Carrie’s, nothing was ever brought up, except it seemed they talked and looked at me in a different tone. Nothing sinister mind you, I just felt a little more an outsider. I did catch glimpses from Roger (a practicing Human Being) when he didn’t think I saw.

I read it as “Sorry, I can’t do anything for you now!”

I felt the incident was not over and continued to watch my back, my rear view mirror, and front door. I expected to find a message arrow stuck there. There never was.

Then exactly nine months and three days from the potent fertility dance, a young, dark haired kid ran up to me, handed me a painted and beaded, soft leather pouch, and then ran off into the distance.

Inside the pouch, there was a white feather, a piece of leather with a painted symbol and the words ‘Tate Tanka’, a smaller bag with what looked like dirt, some dried purple berries, and half dozen broken arrow points.

Not knowing what that meant, I called Roger. He said it meant that all was forgiven. My worries were over, and I now was accepted as a member of their tribe. The white feather meant peace, the soil meant something like ‘of the Earth’, the purple berries were my color, the painted piece of leather and words meant Great Wind, my tribal name, and the six broken arrow points had to do with six tribes.

So, I asked him how that could be, and he laughed. He said he couldn’t tell me right now, but that I would find out when the spirits felt the time was right! The beaded design on the soft leather pouch was a passage into the nations, and the internal objects, protection from all bad spirits.

All of this amazed me, a complete turnaround and off the hook! I was pleased that I didn’t have to look over my shoulder any more. I did wonder about, “magical and empowered by the spirits”?

*****

I had a job as kitchen manager at a local Best Western, which left me little time to think of anything outside of my job. Carrie, Roger and I (the drummer) continued to play on the weekends within a fifty mile circle of Pelican. The kitchen manager job allowed me to feed my own bunch, and playing in the band helped me keep a little cash in my pocket.

I was now blessed with unexpected occurrences that happened at seemingly regular intervals. I would find bundles of fresh killed game (deer, rabbits, and buffalo), softened leather moccasins, and robes on my doorstep. There would be piles of driftwood neatly stacked by my door, although I didn’t have a fireplace. One day, I opened my front door to see a ceremonial drum setting in the new snow on my porch, not a footprint to be seen.

I accepted these gifts as a continuation of my bizarre relationship with the Human Beings. I’d never gone back to their lands since the campfire incident, but they had visited me on my property, I had guessed.

I love venison and took it and the other meat to the butcher shop not far from my home. I was assured it was all fresh and edible. The owner, an amateur relic collector, loved the buffalo robes and the deerskin moccasins, and I kept one of everything for myself.

The processing of the wild game didn’t cost a cent. All was good, and I let it ride as one of the mysteries of my life. I’d had a long life of precognitive visions and Deja Vous.

I had an aunt that knew ahead of time I was coming for a visit. She was a curious, athletic, red haired single woman who looked like Brenda Starr in the comics. An artist, she’d married once, but said her husband left because he felt overpowered. I’d heard from others in the family that, because of the stories, she had a reputation as an untouchable icon of womanhood by men.

When I went to visit her at her seaside home on the Pacific, we seldom spoke. She always concentrated on her art, and didn’t initiate conversations, but at the same time, I never felt unwelcome. We had a relationship that I couldn’t explain, although once I felt as though she was making sure I had what I needed to evolve in whatever direction it was I was supposed to go. One time, when I thought it was time for me to leave, she insisted I stay for a couple more days while she finished doing whatever it was she was doing. I didn’t understand it all but can tell you, when the ‘couple of days’ was over, she looked satisfied and I was mentally exhausted.

That may have seemed off the subject except I wanted to explain why I took such things as the mysterious pregnancy, leather bag, gifts on the doorstep, in stride. It wasn’t all that unusual for me. I just didn’t know where it was going.

*****

So, life went on. I did my jobs, entertained, raised the kids and got to go fishing once in a while.

Then one day, sixteen years, nine months and three days from the date of the near forgotten, but epic ‘Rain Dance’ gone bad, Roger and Carrie came to my door. I hadn’t seen Roger and Carrie for a few years because they had relocated to the Black Hills. Roger was drawn there, and there were plenty of places to play their music.

Roger looked extremely tribal with his hair tied back, a head band securing his now silver streaked black hair. Carrie was glowing as if a non-human had found true happiness in the spirit lands.

I invited them into my humble home, felt something was up, and then forgot to ask as quickly as the feeling had come on.

They admired the ambience of my bear, elk and buffalo skinned floor and walls. I was also wearing buckskin moccasins with white socks, which made Roger laugh. As I was laughing with him, Carrie tugged on his sleeve reminding him of the reason for their visit.

Roger told me that they were there to take me to a real Human Being ritual.

I could tell by the look in his eyes, and the serious smile of Carrie that a moment in time had been reached, and I had little choice. Again, I accepted what needed to be accepted. I had no reason to resist and probably could not have if I wanted to.

I jumped into their new, green Chevy van packed with their music equipment. It was late afternoon, a time of the day I had left many times with these two for short road trip gigs.

We traveled about fifty five miles to a place I hadn’t seen for many years. Crossing a cattle guard with a bump, bump, we entered the realm of the Human Beings.

Every one hundred feet or so, a full dress warrior stood on each side of the dirt path. My heart picked up the beat, thumping so hard I could feel it in my throat. I was in the middle of something big.  We followed a two wheel track up a prairie grass hillside toward a flickering glow in the dusking sky.

We circled one quarter to the right side of the rings, stopped, and exited the van. Two solemn faced warriors, one on each side, firmly took control of me by a bicep and escorted me away from Roger and Carrie. I said nothing. Whatever was about to happen, seemed out of my control. I felt no fear, but instead felt a sense of genuine belonging. A quick glance behind found forty or fifty female Human Beings following quietly, smiling. I saw beads, teeth and the reflection of the sparks in their dark eyes.

All was silent except the roar of the fire, and slow, low, drum beats from behind the other side of the circle. I was seated in front of and my back to the council. I was isolated between the Human Beings and the fire where all could see me. I held my head up, kept my back straight, crossed my legs as correctly as possible and fixed my stare as if sitting in a Tuxedo waiting for my sentence. I was making it up, trying to do the right thing.

The drums stopped. Nothing moved or sounded until a log fell from the top of the fire with a shower of sparks as if a signal from some Human deity. A flap opened from the most colorful tent to my right. The medicine man, accompanied by a half dozen others, spoke to the sky, arms raised. There was another moment of silence. The drums started again, one, then two, then three and more.

The Medicine Man started a slow dance, spinning and orbiting the fire. After the first time around, he was joined by others. The pace picked up, the drums grew louder, and dancing shadows began to move against the most white and tallest tepee.

The speed and intensity increased again, and his voice began to chant as the dust arose, the sparks ascended, and the shadows danced across the tepee. More voices joined as a chorus matched the volume of the dancing shadows.

All stopped. The medicine man’s dance stopped in front of the tall, white tent. The entrance flap opened with the hand of an elderly woman. She gently opened the flap, released it and stepped beside the Medicine man, her arm placed around his arm, a smile in the direction of the opening. Another woman exited and stood next to the opening and a decorated warrior joined her coming from behind the Council. All stood side by side facing the opening.

A pause, a perfect hand appeared on the edge of the tent opening, a leather skirted leg steps over the entrance threshold, and a divine figure emerges. Her eyes slightly lowered in reverence to this ceremony, her sixteenth birthday.

Four virginal handmaidens place a woven blanket across her arms in a presentation fashion. Quietly and gracefully the princess maiden floats toward me, while the handmaidens, also dressed in white buckskin, file reverently behind me. As I stand, wobbling a little coming out of the crossed legged position, I am steadied by the eight hands behind me. Surrounded by the smell of lavender, I feel overwhelmed and shaken.

I am looking into the eyes, the hazel green eyes of a red haired beauty. Tall with square shoulders, her skin was dark cream against the bleached skins she was wearing. Taking a moment to study the person through his hazel green eyes, she lowered her head with a smile and nod, not a bow. Gentle hands from behind, raised and held my arms at the elbow as the blanket was passed to me, made by her, a gift to her Earth Father.

I accepted the blanket as formally as she was presenting it, transfixed by the eyes, skin, and moment. An involuntary welling up in my eyes blurred the vision as my ears heard a collective sigh from the Human Beings. This was the admission from me to the family and my daughter that I was accepting responsibility for her being. It was heartfully done. I was honored.

The drums burst into the night like thunder. As if magically excited, the fire threw its children into the air at the same moment, the whole ceremonial grounds exploded into the dangdest Human Being celebration there ever was.

The celebration went on until, one and two at a time, the Human Beings retired, exhausted.

Sometime during the party, a bucket full of the grog du jour, and several puffs from a ceremonial pipe, I was taken back to my home. I woke up under the woven blanket. In the bathroom mirror, I discovered how my face paint was supposed to look. There were some animals painted on my chest, and my groin was chapped and sore. I believe my transformation into a complete Human Being had been consummated.

Over the next few years, I became a devoted friend to my new daughter. She was extremely intelligent, planned to become a physician, and go back to her home to practice.

She told me that she had demonstrated, and the tribe had witnessed unique abilities and were going to pay for her education.

We also discovered that I knew ahead of time, by hours and minutes, when she was going to visit, thought about me, or needs me for something. I was not amazed. It only confirmed what I had already suspected.

I am an extra ordinary Human Being!

Nov12

The Turtle Ranch

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The Turtle Ranch

Mid-afternoon on a typical working Thursday, a blue and white bus full of senior citizens traveled down the oiled, two lane country road. This is an unremarkable happening to everyone else. It could be a journey to the Mall in the city or a trip to a church function or any one of a hundred different bus related functions.

Written on the side of the bus was Boulder Rapids Nursing Home in large white block letters on a centered blue strip. The second line, in smaller letters, was Boulder Rapids, Minn.

As the bus entered the outskirts of the small city, distinguished by large rows of grey concrete grain storage bins, the logo of a golden colored shock of wheat, painted inside of a white circle on the side of the first storage bin, could be seen. It had become the “only fifty miles to go” landmark for travelers heading to the “Twin Cities”.

A smaller, informational sign on the right side of the road said University of Minnesota Ag Extension Campus. There were precise rows of crops with the seed suppliers name and seed number on a stake neatly placed at the end of each row. It looked regimental and educational.

Traffic flowing from these country tributaries to the city arteries, become more congested as large grain trucks, cattle trucks, students and local traffic converge as they travel through to the Twin Cities.
No one noticed the blue and white bus as it turned and passed through the guard controlled gates of Mrs. Wiggins’ Home for the Active Elderly.

The gate was opened, and the gate was closed as the traffic passed by. The guard entered his temperature controlled shack and rubbed his hands together to generate friction. The days were getting chilly. He wrote down the pertinent information from the bus in his log book, put his feet up on the desk, and disappeared behind the sports section of his newspaper.

The bus went past a pair of vine hidden tennis courts then drove to the rear of a two story brushed brick and stick institutional looking building. It stopped under a corrugated, galvanized awning that protects the entrance walkway up and the bus arrivals from the weather.

An attendant stepped out from the weather lock doors and assists the bus’s passengers down the two steps down to the concrete walk, bright eyed and grinning. They each thank the attendant and immediately advance to the double set of doors. It was a quick, business like walk fueled with excitement and anticipation.

Through Them Golden Doors

After everyone was safely inside the building, the bus driver pulled the empty bus around the circle driveway to another building large enough to hold several buses. A little wisp of smoke rises from a smokestack on top of this garage indicating it was heated.

The driver, once inside with his bus, retreated to an even warmer “drivers lounge” with padded arm chairs and a television. Coffee and snacks were available for his comfort as this was their home until the evening trip home. Drivers were not allowed in the main building. It is reserved for the active elderly members only.

Once inside, the Active Elderly are greeted by Ingrid, a perfectly dressed, silver haired hostess. She would check each member’s color coded bracelet against the Turtle Ranch’s register, which displayed a picture and an identification number.

A red carpet, more for directing than opulence, led to a pair of white doors patinaed with gold. As the visitor approached, the magnetic strip hidden inside their bracelet opens the door to a beautifully flocked wallpaper hallway. This first hallway was short and turned ninety degrees to the right at its end. The hallway to the right opened into a waiting lounge furnished with comfortably padded armchairs, recliners and couches. This room could be used as a rendezvous or as the distribution point to “The Turtle Ranch.”

Ol’ Rusty’s Bar and Grill

The day for Ralph Nordvig was exciting. He looked forward to this every other Thursday trip to The Turtle Ranch.

His day would begin with the usual shower, breakfast and medication. Seventy four years old with a slight case of arthritis was not a reason for Ralph to slow down. He liked to be busy, loved to laugh, enjoyed delicious food, and once in a while, a toddy.

A small meeting room in the Whetstone Valley Nursing Home had a symbolic turtle on it. No words, just the turtle. Originally, it was meant to be a joke by one of the patients but, it was never removed. Some say it was a symbol for “Slow and Easy”, the same sign they saw on their farm machinery shifter lever. It may be true!

The code name for the bus became “The Turtle Bus”, and the code for Mrs. Wiggins’ Home for the Active Elderly became, “The Turtle Ranch!”

This room at Whetstone Valley was where qualified members of the group met to have their I.D. bracelets put on. The room had a convenient outside exit that led down a short sidewalk to the curbside where the innocent looking blue and white bus waited. Once outside those doors, silent excitement would swell in the center of each bus rider. A break from the daily routine of the nursing home and this evening of freedom was only an hour’s bus ride away.

This was a memorable evening for Ralph. Tonight he will have is first unsupervised date with Annie.

Annie would be arriving a little later from another home for the elderly in another town. She’d been coming to The Turtle Ranch for a couple of years and like Ralph, looked forward to her bi-monthly night out. The evenings of companionship gave her a reason to look forward to the next one. It made her happy with anticipation, especially during those long Minnesota winters when it was too dangerous to go for a walk or even sit in the cold garden for sunshine. Before Turtle Ranch, winters were extremely depressing for herself and many of her friends.

Tonight, per agreement, Ralph had passed through the waiting room and went directly to the bar. Annie did not know exactly when she would arrive and it gave Ralph a chance to “steady his nerves” a little. It also afforded the occasion to be a little less formal.

In keeping with this informality, Ralph had chosen a rustic bar table with seating for only two in a darkened corner of the bar. Besides the ambient glow from the room, the only light they would have was a candle. Its flickering light gave motion to one of the old masters’ slightly risqué semi-nude paintings. The artists name started with R I think. Anyway, it set the mood Ralph thought was appropriate for his date.

A much younger elderly lady, maybe in her early or middle sixties, tastefully dressed in a French waitress’s costume, set a bar napkin in front of Ralph and asked him if he’d like to order a beverage. He knew they had Boston Lager on tap and ordered one. He mentioned that he was waiting for someone else and would probably be ordering supper after her arrival.

The foamy Boston Lager tap was served. He sipped and wiped the foam from his same colored mustache. As he wiped, Ralph looked around at the lightly cackling crowd that had gathered here tonight. Most of these patrons were old friends from the “outside” life in their younger days. Some of these groups of men had watched a million football and baseball games together; they had hunted and fished together. There were even those that played these sports together, and against each other, in high school.

Many hadn’t traveled far from their birth place. They were born here. They lived, worked and raised their families, all within fifty miles. Other had made their homes in places with names like Twin Brooks, Phoenix, Huntsville, Grand Rapids, St. Paul, and Sioux Falls. Here, all were smiling and living out their end lives together, back where it all started.

There were tables occupied by men and women who’d never met face to face before tonight. They may have met “on-line” as many of these guests were computer savvy and could operate most electronic devices. Some met at this bar the old fashioned way.
Ralph had met Annie, through a friend of Annie’s, at this bar.

Mrs. Wiggins’ Home for the Active Elderly

Mrs. Wiggins’ Home started as an ordinary care home with all of the usual professional elderly care. Patients came and went leaving room for more patients. It was considered a dignified and quiet place to pass.

The development of “The Turtle Ranch” happened because the administrator of Mrs. Wiggins’ Home, noticed that most “passing” occurred as fall turned to winter and with the winter, normally active patients lost interest, appetite and, energy. This building was a converted county office building with small rooms, large meeting rooms and even a kitchen. A remodeling made a marvelous adult care facility but still left large unused spaces.

The first thing the administrator did was turn one of the empty meeting rooms into a recreation and dance room. Over time, it inherited a bar from a patient who had owned a “bar and grill”. When he became a patient and his business was closed, Mrs. Wiggins’ Home not only inherited the bar but all of the fixtures. The professional “grill” stuff went into the kitchen. With the lights turned down, the bar room became a truly popular location. Some patients even requested their evening meals and a television in there. There wasn’t any reason not to grant their requests.

Rusty, the old tavern owner that donated the bar, enjoyed many more years behind his true home. His customers felt as if they were alive and socialized. Some pinball games were added, and a pool table and a digital dart board were donated. As a result, winter depression decreased, medications decreased, smiles and wholesome attitudes increased.

The activities director loved the job. Aids and nurses had a place, away from the sterile patient floors, to eat their lunches. Sometimes, the nurses ate at the invitation of their patients. Over time, a menu was created for a custom lunch.

The Table in the Corner

Ralph stood up as the hostess brought Annie over to his table. This is the second meeting between Ralph Nordvig and Annie Schmidt. Their first date was a complete success but kept short and restricted to the Bar area only. It was the rules. The option for supervised and monitored dating was chosen by Annie and her family. Even the decision to include her family in her activities was an option for Annie or for that matter, Ralph too.

It was all part of a process to protect the patrons of the Turtle Ranch. Most options could be modified by degree any time the patrons wished. This protection also gave the patron or the couple, the option for privacy if they wanted. More about this later!

Ralph moved the barrel backed chair away from the table to seat Annie. Before she sat down, she gave Ralph a kiss on the cheek. He looked surprised and carefully slid the chair under his date. This was an excellent beginning to the evening. While the hostess was still present, Ralph asked Annie if she would like to start with a glass of Chardonnay. Annie asked what he was drinking, and he said Sam Adams. She ordered a second bottle and glass. She was German after all.

The hostess whose name was Ingrid, believe it or not, carried the bar tray on her shoulder, set the beer and glasses down along with two menus. Annie poured that beer like a pro, took a sip and wiped the foam off her upper lip with a napkin. Ralph did not pick a fancy table with multiple tall candles and a table cloth. He picked this bar table to be informal on purpose. It was doing what it was intended to do!

The menu was divided into two parts. There was the bar menu side and the formal dining room side. Both looked at the bar menu side. Formal would be saved for a later date. They were both comfortable where they were.

Ralph ordered Walleye Strips and Chips. Annie ordered BBQ Chicken Legs and Bar Fries. Perfect! They could get served quickly, finish eating and get on to the Casino!

The bar fare was delicious. The beer was cold and fit the meal. In spite of the quick service and the fast finish, Ralph and Annie did not get up immediately. A life conversation took place. Stomachs full, the relaxation offered by Sam Adams and the atmosphere brought on comfortable table talk.

Kids, relatives and acquaintances dominated the conversation. They talked longer than either of them thought.

A look up at the Bud’ clock on the wall and Ralph said, “Gees”.

Annie followed his gaze and stood herself up. Time was moving, and they had a curfew. Annie’s bus does leave on time, and they will expect her to be there.

There was just enough time to walk through the open doorway where bells and flashing lights dominated the atmosphere.

Annie led the way to the Twenty-One tables. Ralph followed one hand in a pocket and walking a half step behind, as it was obvious, she had her head.

Whatever she wanted to do was OK with him. They could get in a few of hands of Twenty-One before Annie had to leave. Some “house” rules could not be broken. You could not miss your bus unless it was approved and prearranged.

All the Bells and Whistles

Gambling at The Turtle Ranch had to be done with “house tokens”. These were purchased with cash, credits earned or by award.

Cash was used when it was determined the buyer could afford what was being purchased. Credits earned were accumulated by service to the customer’s community or Home institution and were stored in a computer. Award amounts could come from friends, relatives, birthdays, holidays and awards for smiles, kindness, or for just following the rules. Everyone would be covered somehow.

The dealer at this table was a stout, cigar stub chomping, one legged woman nicknamed “Poker Alice”. She’d been dealing Twenty-One since the beginning of the casino. She lost her leg to a medical condition and dealing cards her way of earning her keep at the Turtle Ranch. Many here earned their way at Mrs. Wiggins’ Home by working. Internally they called it “Working the Ranch”. It meant they were carrying their own weight and were not a burden to anyone. This was extremely beneficial to them and to the health of the establishment.

“TWENTY-ONE,” shouted Annie.

Ralph was not playing this evening. His joy came from watching Annie play. She did not play that well, but did have that innocent luck that the poker gods bestow on certain people just for the fun of it. This luck fascinated Ralph because it was consistent. He didn’t have it. What few chips he ever won were won through hard work and experience.

Annie played on, winning some, losing some but always having fun. That was the point and the casino was busy and noisy. Smiles were everywhere.

The hands on the clock moved toward Ten (O’clock). The crowd began to thin. Five different buses from five different “homes” lined up in the circle drive, in front of the awning.

Annie and Ralph headed for the exit, hand in hand and smiling. Each gave the other a quick kiss on the cheek, sealing the evening. They went out through the doors to the end of the awning.

“Goodnight Annie!” Ralph said as his hand left Annie’s, touching to the end as the fingertips went by.

“Call me when you get home, Ralph.” She said turning, eyes searching for the first step up. Once she found it, she turned back and smiled at him.

Ralph headed to his bus and Annie waved from her seat window as if school children were heading to their respective homes after school.

The Turtle Ranch (part two)

A sharply dressed gentleman cautiously stepped down from his blue and white bus. His overnight suitcase was unloaded by the driver and taken to a service entrance.

Joe walked toward the double weather lock doors, stopped, turned, and looked to see if any buses were behind the bus he arrived on, waiting to disembark its passengers. There wasn’t a bus waiting, so, he headed inside. As he lowered his arm to walk, a coveted “green bracelet” dropped to his wrist below his shirt cuff.

The green bracelet is only worn by patrons at Mrs. Wiggins’ Home for the Active Elderly, when they have met the highest mental and physical criteria designated by the PPRCG (The Patient and Physician’s Recreational Criteria Group).

Joe presented his left arm for the I.D. check and signed the register.

The hostess welcomed him with a “Good afternoon Joe. You know the way.”

The Golden Doors to the lounge automatically opened, and Joseph Andersen sat down in a burgundy, velvet covered, early 1900’s, arm chair.

This evening, Joe had a date with Agnes Kruger, or as she’d been known by the locals for the past fifteen years, The Widow Kruger.

Agnes’s husband and she had owned a dairy farm about ten miles south of The Turtle House. After the Agnes and her husband sold off the registered dairy herd and the farm, they moved to the small farm village of Elm. Her husband passed on only a couple of years later, which left her alone and fairly wealthy.

Not one used to sitting, Agnes became active in and supported small town business and activities. She’d met Joe at the Elm Volunteer Fire Department “Fish Fry and Dance” held at Elm’s little nine hole golf course club house. Joe wasn’t from Elm but did support the local fire department. He had been a fireman for forty years, and this was his way to keep up on the newest equipment and training.

Agnes had sold her little house because, the arthritis in her hands made it hard for her to keep up the yard. She moved into a small, 6 bed adult care center in Elm. The other residents of Elm House were in their late Eighties and were barely ambulatory. This meant companionship was still an issue.

The Doctor wanted Agnes to stay active, so he told her about Mrs. Wiggins’ Home. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t afford the bus ride. The patrons of Mrs. Wiggins were encouraged to pay, if they were able, for the bus ride and other amenities offered by The Turtle Ranch. Agnes was happy to contribute because it made her feel like she was still paying her own way.

On her first outing to Mrs. Wiggins, she met Joe in the bar and their relationship blossomed.

Joe didn’t have to wait long. The blue and white bus that picked up residents from the scattered assisted living hostels had arrived. Joe heard the bus drive up and walked to the window. Agnes stepped down from the bus with the attendants help. He watched as she handed her overnight bag to the attendant.

Entering the weather doors, Agnes approached the hostess, presented her left arm, and the number on her green bracelet was recorded.

She entered the lounge to meet Joe who’d been waiting on the other side of the Golden doors. They hugged, pecked and smiled. It had been a week since they’d seen each other. It was about time, so to speak! They entered the “formal dining” end of Ol’ Rusty’s (jokingly called Chez Rusty’s) and were seated at their “reserved” table. Table twelve was their favorite table.

Champagne Supper

A cheer went up from table twenty-one. The big screen T.V. in the corner screamed cheers and crackled applause as the Vikings scored six. The extra point earned one more loud, arms up cheer. The football boys from fifty years ago hadn’t lost a bit of volume. Some at those pushed together tables were from enemy high school teams, but now had the Vikings to worship in common. It was like a time warp over in that corner.

The hostess brought menus that did not have the bar menu side but did have a wine list. She asked if they would like a cocktail before they ordered. Joe knew Agnes liked champagne and asked her if that is what she would like. She answered with a big smile.

Joe caught the eye of their hostess. “Andre Cold Duck.” He said with one raised arm, bent elbow ordering fashion. (All was done in fun)

When the Duck arrived, Joe told the hostess they were ready to order. Agnes had told Joe to order cheese soup and garlic toast for her. She had no fear. If Joe couldn’t handle a little garlic, then Joe was with the wrong partner. He ordered steak tips with mashed potatoes and carrots for himself.

The boys at the football table had several more beers and cheers. The Vikes won. Their party wound down, and they began to drift off to the various other activities available in and around the bar and casino. Life went on quietly.

One of Joe’s favorite things was to have one scoop of vanilla ice cream at the end of his evening meal. Agnes had one also. It was the end of a delicious meal and the beginning of a happy ending.

Joe paid the bill with his debit card. Agnes insisted on sharing the cost and slipped cash into Joe’s hand. He knew arguing was useless, so he put the split in his suit coat pocket, quickly forgotten.

They arose from the table and hand in hand, walked to the casino after passing the casino’s bracelet check point. They walked “kitty corner” through the casino, past all of the blinking lights and bells, to the pale green door in the opposite corner.

An attendant at the green door asked to see their I.D. bracelet again even though she knew them by their first names. A procedure is a procedure.

Behind the Green Door

The green door opened to a hallway that turned left ninety degrees. The left hand hallway opened into another lounge. This is where the patrons of The Turtle House get to meet Berta.

Imagine a miniature version of the classiest bordello in Texas. Then think of it as “Bordello Light” and call it “The Turtle Ranch”. Berta is stationed behind a marble hotel desk. There are three stations. Tonight the only one open is controlled by her.

The indirect lighting seemed to pick up the Twenties style red flocked wallpaper. The red hue reflected on the black four foot Egyptian style vases that had feathery reeds and leaves fanning out. The carpet was super thick, and thoroughly deadened any echo. It made the ears strain to hear.

“Good evening you guys!” Berta said. “Did you enjoy your supper?”

Berta, a large girthed Bohemian woman, did not wait for an answer.

“You’re in Suite Six at the end of the hall to the right. You’ll be all alone down that hall tonight. I stuck all of the noisy ones in the left hall and it’s getting late. I don’t think there will be anyone else checking in after you.” She said business like.

“Don’t forget, your buses leave at “Ten” in the morning. Would you like a wakeup call?”

“No thanks!” Joe and Agnes said in unison.

They each picked a real metal door key Berta had left for them on the counter top. Some modern items were not needed here at the Turtle Ranch. The card slide was one of them. Besides, the real key fit the ambience and brought on the nostalgia The Turtle Ranch wished to project.

As the couple approached the spot in the lobby hallway that went to the left or right, Joe and Agnes happened to look down the left hall as a naked, round shouldered, gentleman went from Room Twelve on the right to Room Eleven on the left. Agnes thought it looked like one of the guys from the football table.

One second later, a floppy, gray haired woman also came out of Twelve and flew into Eleven, high pitched giggling all the way. Was this a foursome forming?

Once Joe and Agnes realized what they were witnessing, they quickly turned right, walked to the end of their hall, and entered their own room. On the luggage rack sat the two overnight suitcases, and on the table, next to the bed, was a “half bottle” of champagne on ice. Two fresh white robes were neatly folded on a shelf over the luggage rack.

Over the head of the bed, hung a hand stitched sampler that said:

Remember the Turtle Ranch Moto

Slow and Easy

The Management

Nov4

Attack of the Young Enthusiasms

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Sorry! I’ve been away for a while.

Tonight, I’m relaxing with a Bacardi and Coke, checking my Original Creations website to see if anyone out there knows I’m alive.

Nope! I think I’d better write somethin’ new.

*****

I’m in the middle of re-building my kitchen cabinets. You see there’s a wedding in April, and my wife wants the kitchen looking fresh for all of those relatives coming. No problem. It needed to be done anyway. The deadline has been moved up from “someday” to “Now”.

Now retired, I get up when everyone else has gone to work. It feels right.

In the mornings, relaxed, I usually drink a cup hot cocoa with marshmallows, shower (if necessary), put on clean clothes (if necessary), and figure out what I’m going to do first.

Today, I’ve got to go to the Super Do it Yourself Depot first. I need more oak and more hinges.

I notice the lace on one shoe is about to break. No problem. I’m retired, no worries.

I’m in the store now. The store crew is in a “Rah” “Rah” meeting over by the paint section. That’s good. I know what I want, and where it is. No one will bother me, and I can still get out of here without having to be too nice in spite of my aching, gimpy hip.

I could hear the group cheering as their leader stirred his crew to heights of energy they didn’t know they had. He gave awards. A louder cheer arose.

I grabbed a couple of hinges from a hook on the display and headed for the oak as the cheers and energy grew. I could feel the excitement peaking.

OMG, I’ve got to get out of here!

The crew was turned loose with a final enthusiastic cheer. I had my head down for speed, but looked up just in time to see them flooding toward me. They caught me between the hinges and the oak.

Limping, fifteen people asked me if I needed any help before I made it out of their door.

This is a new kind of undocumented terrorism, until now, to befall the tired baby boomers.

I think I’m about to declare myself disabled, so I can phone it in.

Oct8

The Bloodsucker in the Mezz

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Pete went up into the mezzanine to see if we really had what my data base claimed we had. It was our company’s policy to physically prove that we had items in stock before a quote and delivery time was confirmed for a customer.

**********

The mezzanine in our factory is a warehouse built over the ceiling of a large manufacturing room. It creates a second floor where the factory stored packaged, complete and incomplete, parts for aerospace and the communication industries. Some of the packages are on shelves and some of the larger boxes are on pallets arranged in rows numbered one through five.

I designed the data base with the addresses for the parts by part number and location. I also arranged the mezz so that all a person had to do was find the address for the part in the computer, go to that location, pick up the labeled box, do what you have to do, and put it back where you got it when you are done. Pretty easy, right!

Not so easy!

I’d been telling the management for years about all of the spiders up there. I knew that during the summer, Daddy Long Legs would be everywhere because the lighting up in the mezz attracted all of the insect food these spiders needed to grow, spin webs, and procreate. Besides being spooky, it was hard to keep the place clean. When you squash them, they leave a grease spot.

Everyone who went up there knew they were there, but the management ignored my complaints. I didn’t dare spray poison because the spray would get all over the customers boxes. I finally convinced them to buy a vacuum cleaner for me using “cleanup” as the purchase order excuse. They went for that!

Whenever I had time, I would go ‘spider suckin’.

I’d put the upholstery end on that two and a half inch, eight foot extension, turn it on, and start vacuuming all of the spiders, webs, and liquid meal carcasses. It would take several trips to get most of them and clean up the aisles so the people going up there wouldn’t freak out. Unfortunately, because of all the stacks of boxes on pallets, the spaces under the pallets and all of the tall shelving, I couldn’t get them all. There was always “seed stock” to start the next generation.

This worked fine until the temperature dropped in the fall. The food insect population would drop, so with very little food, the spiders I didn’t suck up began to eat each other.

Finally, about November, there would be only one big spider. She would be the mother of all big spiders.

I warned Pete and each of the others, when they went up there in the winter, to be careful and watch their back. I warned them about the one big spider whenever I saw them heading up the stairs. They all laughed at me except one guy who’d turn around and go back where he came from, up in the front offices. Those guys were wusses and I didn’t want them up there anyway. They thought they ran everything.

**********

th22Y4517MPete had been warned, and he ignored me with a “ya Ron” snicker. When he came back down later, he was walking a little stiff legged and his complexion was a little whiter than usual. His eyes were glazed over a little bit, but he was still grinning. I was the only one who ever noticed because I knew what I was looking for.

This is what happened! While he was examining the part, the Mother of all Spiders bit him and sucked out some of his vital fluids. In the saliva of the Mother, is a toxin that makes you forget you’ve been bitten. She’s smart too. She only takes enough to help her survive one more day. If someone goes up there once a day, she’d have nutrition for the whole winter.

I saw the same thing happen to Dave and Frank. Frank had plenty of fluids to give so it didn’t seem to bother him too much. He also had two bad knees so walking stiff legged did not draw attention. He was the perfect meal.

Dave however rode bicycle every day and had a cocked eye. When he came down, his eye would be off to the side a little more and he would walk stiff legged a little bit sideways, like John Wayne. I think when his blood was sucked; it messed up the hydraulics in his joints and legs. I’m not sure about the eye part!

I told the front end of this factory what was going on and they patronized me and acted like I was nuts, so I stopped telling them.

When I went up, I knew the places where she hung out. I would pick up the broom handle I always had lying around and quickly retrieve the part I needed, and then get the heck out of there. More often than not, I would make an excuse and send one of those other guys. You know survival of the fittest and all of that!

I probably should have killed the beast with that stick. I can’t tell you why I didn’t except maybe I liked the challenge of surviving. After all, she’d never gotten close to me. I also didn’t trust myself to do battle anymore. My reaction time has slowed some and my legs aren’t as strong as they used to be. My doctor said I am a little anemic and needed to take it easy.

Pete, Dave, and Frank only had to survive about three months because it would warm up sometime in February and the food insect count would rise. When that happened, the Mother of all Spiders would lay the eggs she’d been incubating all winter. There would be so many eight legged babies, they would kill and eat her for their first meal, before they dispersed.

It was their “circle of life” I guess. Those young ones would have young ones and on and on, until it began to get cold again. Then, the toughest of all of the female spiders would become The Mother of all Spiders. It would start all over again.

I retired in October. The owner’s kids wanted to absorb my data base and the inventory into the new manufacturing program. They began to change everything. I’d been working fifty two years and was tired of labor and the politics, so I seized the opportunity. It’s time for the “new school” to take over. Besides, I wanted to write short stories. This was my chance.

Pete and Dave probably aren’t that far behind me because they were looking pretty emaciated when I left. Frank is still there. He is only fifty-nine and has plenty of fluids left, although; he can’t make it up the stairway too well because of his knees. He may be the one to watch what happens and tell me the story someday. If he tries to tell anyone else, he won’t be believed either!

The “new school” bunch was bragging about how clean the place looked as they were finally putting up the shelving I’d asked for five years earlier. Everything will go fine for a while.

I can tell you, no matter how much they clean, up in a corner, between a rafter and some insulation, there sits at least one pro-creator watching all the hub-bub with all of those spider eyes, and five hundred little “long legs” eggs in a nice little bundle, waiting for spring. Things will change!

I can’t wait!

Sep15

Time Passing in the Canyon

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An Award Winner! 9/22/12

*****

Last night in the year 1540, Hernando de Alarcon, along with twelve sailors and two Indian guides, turned their two ocean oriented long boats southward on the Colorado River. They were attempting to navigate through the Grand Canyon in supply loaded boats after an unsuccessful attempt to deliver those supplies to Francisco Coronado and his land trekking explorers in the north.  A sudden thunder and lightning storm swelled the river and caused the destruction of one boat, the loss of its cargo, and the death of four sailors.

 The survivors of the destroyed boat joined the members of the second boat and all safely floated to the river’s inlet in the Gulf of California and rejoined their Spanish sailing ship.

 The sailors brought a tale back home with them. It was officially recorded as a side note in the margins of their map of the river, but spread to the public as a sea tale told at the docks and in the pubs by the returning explorers, a yarn that surely grew on the voyage home, and in the telling.

 The sailors told of meeting a young couple that was travelling on the Red River (Colorado River) in a boat that undulated on the water like a serpent. The couple wore strange clothes and footwear and carried their food in marvelous containers. In the bag the couple lost, there was a device that held a beam of light, another which brought things closer to the eye when you looked through it. There was a small vial that made fire when it was struck, and a metal blade so sharp it cut a man when he touched it.

 The tale goes on to say, the sailors witnessed the overturning of their strange boat and how the two survived the cascade down the rain swollen rapids. It told about recovering the couples lost paddles, food supply, and strange contraptions.

 Not knowing whether or not these two were the children of Gods or Gods themselves, the party returned the articles to them as a favor and out of respect. The extremely superstitious Spanish sailors found that appeasing the Gods ensured a safer voyage home. There would still be storms and monsters on the sea blocking their voyage home, they didn’t need problems with other peoples Gods.

 *****

“Marsha!” I yelled as loud as I could while choking on the water running out of the corner of my mouth.

I could feel and hear the gravel rolling against the side of my face. It sounded like glass marbles grinding on each other. The small waves caused by the rapids were slowly rolling my body forward and back again parallel against the gravel bar I had come to rest against.

I had not drowned, but the river was treating me as if I had. I began to command limp muscles to contract, which caused my legs to lift my trunk first. This drove my face deeper into the gravel triggering my arms to start working. I had pain down deep inside, and my skin burned while, at the same time, I could feel the cold water.

I remember shouting, “Marsha”.

My adrenalin kicking in, I attempted to stand so I could look for her. The rounded gravel gave way, and I collapsed back down to one knee. Learning, I tried again, compensated for the poor footing, and succeeded in standing up!

“Elliot, I’m over here!” The voice said.

I was facing the wrong direction, and with the roar of the whitewater, plus the echo in the canyon, I found the source of the voice, not by sound, but by motion. She had a hold on the raft by the external safety line that threaded all the way around the raft. Her other hand was attempting to wave while wrapped around a snag downstream from me. We were, fortunately, on the same side of the river!

Now that I knew she was alive, my priorities changed slightly. I took stock of myself. My ribs hurt a little; there were some red, skinned patches on my arms and a thigh. I had left some of my hide on the rocks at the bottom of that rapid.

My shirt was torn, and I was missing a water moccasin. I didn’t think anything was broken.

I began to move downstream toward Marsha.

 *****

Our adventure had started out nicely, driving the distance between L.A. and Flagstaff in two days. We were slowed by rain most of the trip, but the skies cleared as we reached Flagstaff. The rain stayed north of our end of the river the following day, which helped the preparation for our trip down the Colorado River easier.

 This was not our first trip down the river. We’d rafted with a large group in 2010 and a smaller group 2011. This year, we decided to do things differently.  Today was our third anniversary. We thought it would be romantic if we travelled by ourselves.

The outfitter at Marble Canyon told us, he would pick us up at the bottom in three days, and with a little warning about the water surge from the rain up north the night before, he smiled and told us to enjoy ourselves. He told us, this late in the season, we should have the river all to ourselves.

We launched, waved to our outfitter, and then didn’t say a word for the next fifteen minutes. The only sounds left to us after that time were canyon sounds, the gurgling of the water as it was pushed away from the raft, a low rumble off in the distance, and the slight rush of the water as it passed around rocks and boulders.  It was now us and the river. We felt like pioneers as the canyon seemed to take us back in time.

Marsha spoke first. She said she could see someone on the shore ahead. The river’s natural currents took us close enough to see men in trapper’s skins and fur hats. There were two dressed as Indians. All stopped what they were doing and watched as we drifted silently by. I nervously lifted a hand in the air but did not wave. It was a tentative greeting at least. One on the bank did the same.

So much for our alone time!

Around noon, we stopped for a shore lunch. Every meal was neatly wrapped, compartmentalized, and waterproof.  This first stop was simple fare, rye crackers with goober jam, red eye made with filtered river water, and raisins. It was perfect and fast. We had a moment to sit still, lean back on a rock next to each other and take in the scene.

That wooden river boat passed by, four men pulling oars, four or five riding and a rudder man standing tall in the stern, all looking our way.

 *****

 I struggled in the current a bit getting over to Marsha.

The surge from the rainstorm had caught up with us, sweeping us into a boil of water. It pulled the bow of the raft under, and it filled with water, and then tipped over. I fell out and was swept away, but Marsha held on.  A food and equipment rucksack and the paddles were lost.

We had the spare, collapsible, emergency paddle in the pouch of the raft, and we still had the bag with the map, so with these, we knew we could make it through to our next layover and some rest.

With the current and steering with the one paddle, we carefully floated for the next hour and a half. We had to stay on the right side of the river, to find the campsite.

Marsha spotted it first, a pillar of smoke ahead. The sun was about to disappear behind the Grand Canyon’s steep banks. When that happens, twilight lasts about two minutes, and it gets cold quickly.

The smoke was right where our campsite should be. We landed and pulled our raft up on the sand. There was not a sound. We’d both expected to find our riverboat friends there, but there was no one.

The pillar of smoke hung directly over a freshly made stack of wood in the stone fire ring. As we walked up to the circle, I put my hand to the wood stack and found it cold.

There, next to the fire ring was our rucksack, my moccasin, and the two paddles.

In the quiet of this moment, we heard someone yell across the water, from down river as we watched two torchlights disappearing into the black night.

“Dormir a bien esta noche jóvenes dioses!” (Sleep well tonight young Gods!)

Sep9

Anna’s Apple Pie (short story)

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The smells would overwhelm quickly as you exited the large, cross embossed glass doors of the American Lutheran Church. The reward only seemed right after the maroon and gold robed choir had finished the classic harmonies that ended with Aaaaamen.

The reverend was done with the before script, the parable, that was sandwiched in the middle, and the after script followed with “Amen”. I’d know that it was getting near the end because of the congregation’s enthusiastic “Amen”, and everybody stood. It was like a wake-up call, and I’d start to anticipate.

“Turn to the hymn on page 171” a voice from ‘up front’ would boom. I never could see where it came from when everyone was standing, and I’d never sat up there!

“Amen,” would come from the whole congregation, in harmony. I would do the “Amens” loudly. It seemed that whatever note I hit was a terrific one!

There were those times when I’d start to awaken at this point, only to be fooled by that slick salesman. Before I realized what was happening, the pastor would be teaching a lesson outside of The Book. He would look at the congregation, and in a friendly tone, would remind us of something that had happened locally. No names would be mentioned, but enough was said so everyone knew what and whom he was talking about. Once in a while, I’d get a little nervous, hoping, it wasn’t going to be about me! It never was.

He would give his Christian opinion of what had happened and what our attitudes should be. As I matured, I realized that we were watching, and he was watching, and HE was watching us in our daily lives. Be good. Amen!

Turn to the hymn on page 133.

Script. “Amen.”

The congregation would march out in an orderly fashion. The people in the front would be first to walk down the aisle and out into the, now open to the outside, vestibule. That’s a fancy word for the space between the inner glass doors, and the symbol embossed glass doors to the outside. This is the space where, when the pastor stood, at the outside door, to shake hands, people jammed up, and the line down the aisle between the pews would slow to a crawl.

If you got caught in the people jam, and you are only four feet tall, it was hard to breath. Everyone had different smelly stuff on. Down at my level, it all combined and created a stink. The stink would drive out the good breathing air I needed. The need for “fresh air” drove me to be creative and make a change. It had something to do with “He only helps them that help themselves,” or something like that.

There was a side door in the kitchen that emptied into an alley which took me in the right direction. There was another door to the outside down a short hallway that went passed the pastor’s study. That one made me feel guilty until I was outside and closed the door behind me. I never remember feeling guilty as I walked past the people shaking hands with the pastor!

What I do remember is wondering what the people, leaving that stinky entryway, thought about the heavenly smells coming from up the street. My grandma’s house was only one half a block away. I lived with them.

I was floating toward that smell, barely remembering touching the sidewalk. I could see the house as I rounded the corner of the church. I could see the place where that smell was coming from. I knew the people going to their cars knew where it was coming from, too.

I was so lucky!

I knew that they knew it was Anna’s apple pie. How many excellent sermons ended with that smell? To me, it seemed like the end of something and the actual start to what promised to be a fantastic week.

© Copyright 2012 gottagosee (UN: gottagosee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
gottagosee has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Sep6

Don’t Bother Me, I’m Imagining Things

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I want you to know, I have established new rules of the road since becoming Sixty-three.

For instance, if I go to the bank and approach one of those rope and obelisk mazes that they use to keep customers in order and place, and no one is in it, I bypass it. I used to proceed through it when I was a factory worker. My whole life was following orders and procedure. Now, not so much!

If I’m standing in line at Super Cheap Mart, and I’m forced to stand too long, I relax. I might even snore so loud, I wake myself up. I usually look around quickly, startled; to see if anyone noticed my two second nap.

One time, I had drifted off, deeply thinking, and a checkout counter opened up in front of the one I was in line at. Off in the distance, I heard someone say, “Sir.”……. “Sir!”

It took a moment to realize I was the “Sir” she was addressing. I looked up to see the teller looking at me in wonder. She was wondering, as was everyone else in line, if I was deaf, or visiting Mars. If they only knew, I was thinking about Mars. So did Edgar Rice Burroughs!

Of course, I embarrassed myself! In my own defense, all I could think of was to say, “Don’t bother me, I’m imagining things!” I didn’t tell them I was a fiction writer and I often go off…….

If I continued with this, I would have been better off just putting down my stuff and slowly walking away. I didn’t want to add ‘babbling’ to my account.

Instead, I only sounded insane to the common standers by.

I could see by the “understanding” half smiles, that I was being accepted as an “old fart” that had momentarily reflected and recovered. There were a few parents who pulled their children in closer to them. Some even moved their families to other lanes.

Some only thought, “Poor guy, he’s probably earned it!”

The little bit of drool navigating down a left chin wrinkle was a little disgusting. I’m sure glad I didn’t have any chewing tobacco in there today. I would have looked like “the Penguin” in that Batman movie. That even bothered me.

I wiped my chin with my shoulder, which left a wet spot.

Speaking of “old fart”, I’m reminded of what happened to a lady one day on the second floor of the Mall.

Being a writer, I try to keep my bubble large and pay attention to all sights and sounds quite a distance out there. I try to imagine stories about people, young and old.

I noticed what I thought might be a snowbird, farm woman from the Midwest somewhere, maybe Wisconsin or Minnesota.

She was standing in front of a store’s display window. The window was so reflective, it was worthy of vanity checks from most passersby. At this moment, the reflection of this strong girthed, Bohemian woman was dominant. If you looked close, I could be seen in the background next to the rail.

Having come from the Midwest myself, I imagined I knew this woman well. Underneath that large girth, was probably a six-pack attached to a body that had exceptional shoulders and biceps. All had been developed from years of buckets of chicken scratch, milking, kneading bread, and raising children.

I appreciated her, she looked like my grandma and earned her time here; out of the cold, even though she looked as if she had stepped into the wrong painting.

As she turned to leave, a large bag in each hand, she walked with a hip roll created by the full milk buckets she carried for decades.

Right in the middle of a hip-roll, a noisy demon ripped from her backside. It was so loud, it made her jump. She skipped a little, which turned her toward the mirror reflection, and the reflection of the wide eyed me, looking directly at her. With a look of surprise and embarrassment, she spun to find me gone. It scared me too, and I didn’t stick around.

She’d earned it!

I’ve also found that intersection Red lights are another place I have to establish new rules. Fortunately, most drivers give me the one, or two or, three short horns to bring me back. It’s as if they knew who I was.

Unfortunately, some anxious people hit me with the long blast. They just don’t realize that startling me may result in a muscle memory shift to reverse and acceleration. What do they expect from someone who’s just returned from Mars? They don’t have stop signs there. You just change altitude and go around!

Speaking of Mars, did I tell you about the two hitchhiking Plutons I met on one of my trips?

‘They were college students thumbing their way to Earth. Their Master’s Degree assignment was to write a fifty-thousand word essay on the various warlike societies of this planet and how it has slowed human development, and project the time (in Pluton years) it will take earthlings, in their current learning curve, to reach a level of competence high enough to join The Alliance.’

“Snortpffftqkkk”. “Ah, um, ah, I’ll take two cheese burgers with king fries and a Diet Dew, please.” Gees, I hope I said that right, and didn’t just think it. Oh good, she’s pushing the buttons for my order! I’m good.

© Copyright 2012 gottagosee (UN: gottagosee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
gottagosee has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Sep2

Lickety-split, the River Road Lizard

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If you don’t believe this story, come ride the River Road Bike Path with me just before summer starts, when the Kamikazi lizards are out!

Lickety-split, the River Road Lizard

Spread eagle on the top of a dark rock, Lickety-split absorbed the heat of the rock on his belly as the rays of the sun heated his back. Soon, he would be warm enough to face another speedy day along the River Road Bicycle Path.

Admiring lizards paused a moment before they passed this rock. They pay homage to this living legend. Some would stop, and give the five push-up salute. Some of the larger species would flash red, crimson, purple and blue as if having their best suit on, while passing the immortal’s rock.

Why the ceremony, and what is the River Road Bicycle Path you ask?

The path is an asphalt trail that follows the curvy banks of the Rillito River in Tucson. The Rillito River is a “dry river” eleven months out of the year. Water only flows during the monsoon season when the rains fall hard and fast. It’s the water drainage for the city, and surrounding area.

Twelve months out of the year, walkers, skaters, and bicyclists flow on this river’s banks. They flow in both directions at the same time (on both banks in most places). Sometimes, they flow over the river on bridges to access family parks on either side.

Past the ironwood trees, past the mesquite trees, and creosote bushes, their energy flows as a form of human time travel. There is a buffer here. It’s a trail to the Wild West in one direction and a path to the rush of the city in the other direction, each piece of time doing what is necessary to survive while within sight of each other. Tucsonans like it that way.

Overhead, circle the raptors, ravens, and vultures, some waiting for a victim to emerge from under a bush and run into the open sand between that shade and the shade of the next. Some attack savagely with talons stretched and a wild eye. Some circle patiently, waiting for the leftovers.

The pomp is for a champion. He’s the survivor of years, dodging the raptors, ravens, roadrunners, and cannibal lizards. He is a survivor of his exuberant youth. The indestructible days, and the days when “daredevil dodging” bicycle wheels was the way to show off his speed and skill.

The players of the game waited by the side of the path, poised as if ignoring or unaware of the on-coming peddler, then, at the last moment, dart in front of the moving bicycle wheels.

I don’t play this game. I’m more of a Horny Toad. I lay buried in the sand, pay homage to no one, and let the speed of my tongue do the talking. This gives me vantage to be an unseen observer, and I can tell you, I’ve seen the demise of many of those Kamikaze lizards.

Occasionally, some do get flattened by a wheel. All bike riders do not hold the line as expected, and navigate to try and avoid the darting gamer. This, changes the dynamic of the game, the assumption being the bicycle operator isn’t fast enough to react. It’s not true, some are. The darters that find this out, can’t compensate, and don’t live to tell about it. The ones that lose their tail blame it on a roadrunner, or snake, too embarrassed to tell the truth. The extremely proud claim they dropped the extra weight for more speed. There lies a perverted truth!

Lickety-split lost his tail once. He was so surprised and embarrassed; he vowed he would never let it happen again. Once he realized that the vultures and ravens were carrying off the squashed bodies of his buddies, his pledge to himself was reinforced.

In his youth, he thought everyone always succeeded in their daring quest. His young mind thought the ones that disappeared had just moved on. There were never any bodies to prove otherwise!

Lickety decided to change the parameters of the game. He would run parallel to the path and race the wheels. Sometimes he would have to go around a rock, over a Horny Toad (ahem!), under a bush, or up a tree, but he never lost another tail. This new strategy didn’t seem to bother his love life. There was an abundance of females because the male mortality rate was so high. There will always be those that know better, and haven’t learned, or will never learn.

This was a win, win!

Lickety-split far outlived most of the others born in his time. He’d produced several generations and taught his descendants the secret of his longevity. His progeny lived so long, they morphed into an advanced level of maturity never before seen for his species. Their bodies advanced to a higher state of perfection, and their colors became more regal, setting them apart from all the other lizards.

Lickety-split’s family became so different; the University of Arizona investigated the reports of this unique lizard, and gave his family a sub-species class of their own, Pararapidii lickedy-splitus, thus immortalizing him and them forever.

“That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.” “Speaking of sticking…..there’s an ant.” “Ahhh!”

Now, spread-eagled on his hot throne, Lickety-split surveyed all that came to pay homage, was warmed up, and waiting for the next Schwinn.

© Copyright 2012 gottagosee (UN: gottagosee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
gottagosee has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Aug15

I’m Selling Starlight

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thI0MDK7NP

Thanks for stopping by. I’ve been watching as you traveled side to side, and down the midway of life. I wondered if you were ever going to get here, and if there would be anything left by the time you did! There were a lot of stops and gods, weren’t there?

Having said that, I believe you show promise and have certain “abilities”. I think now, you may be ready for me!

 

“?”

That’s the correct question, and I’m glad you asked.

I’m selling Starlight. I’m not allowed to give it away, and I warn you, it won’t be any easier than the hardest thing you’ve ever done. It may be even more difficult, and more expensive. I know because I’ve been there and won. It’s why they gave me this job.

I’ll start you out with some Starglow.  It costs much less. We can see how you do, how you behave so to speak. If you let it go to your head or you react “out of character”, I’ll have to remove it until you settle down.

If you have to start over, I will suggest  different routes.  Maybe careful thought, more time, and hard work is better for you. Some say it helps them understand what they’ve achieved. It seems more stable, and you can take it back up from any place whenever you feel you are ready. It’s not so much a fleeting thing.

Some people get to skip the Starglow and go to Starlight straightaway. I will admit a few are able to hang in there and hold it for many years. Some maintain Starlight through the remainder of their lives. These are extraordinary beings.

Most fall from those heights in flames. Of those, a few climb again and win. Most never recover. It becomes an unattainable to them. So much energy was used up in the celebration, and they set their achievement so high, they can no longer see the top from down there. They will never be able to cache enough energy in reserve to reach the top. Then, there are the other hurdles like dishonesty, arrogance, and pride.

I like you! I don’t want you to make these mistakes, so I’m going to give you a few guidelines to follow. If you don’t choose to follow these guidelines, you most likely will fail because you don’t have what it takes in the first place and I have made an error in judgment. I hope not. I’d like to see you get there.

Define it!  Be sure of your goal.

Make a plan.  Start out as if you were going to follow this plan to its end. Knowing you might have to adapt, know plans are set in soft cement. It hardens behind you. Satisfaction is the catalyst. If it’s hardening in front of you, you may have to plan anew. You can be the master of your fate.

Don’t hurry!  It’s yours. If it becomes momentarily difficult or too complex, STOP.  You can pick it back up when you’re ready. If you have done it properly up to this point, it will be there waiting for you.

Finish it. Everything must have a finis to be complete.  You started it. You built it up. You forced the crescendo, the climax, and the coup de grace. NOW, FINISH IT!

A nice job!

************

So, now you think you are done?

It’s not the end!

If what you’ve achieved is worthy of Starglow, treat it as glow only. It’s only worth a little “doodle doo” (crow). Treat it as such. Be gracious. It will live forever, and it’s yours!

If it’s worthy of Starlight, and you are the Star standing in the bursting lights, enjoy your time. It may only last a moment. My cousin, the Great God of Success may suddenly ask, “What have you done for me lately?” We can be fickle gods.

I have one more piece of advice.

Remember, success can overwhelm you. Be strong enough to absorb the responsibility your great achievements have rendered. If you weaken, the Demons of Success may come to feed on you and your success. They’ve stopped you before. You know it is true!

There you have it. I’m selling Starlight. It may take all you have left.

Can you afford it?

© Copyright 2012 gottagosee (UN: gottagosee at Writing.Com).    All rights reserved. gottagosee has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.