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!)

Sep12

Walking in the Rain Poem (#1 of 3)

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I’ve composed a Rain Walking trilogy inspired by the Good, Better, Best products in catalogues. Here is the one I classified as Good.

I freely admit, I am no poet. Dabbler yes, poet no. I appreciate those that can paint with words better than I….rdd

Walking in the Rain  (Attempt #1 of 3)

I finally found someone
To rain walk with me.
After all this time,
How great it could be!

I had run into
An old girlfriend of mine,
Who said she’d aged
Like a fine bottle of wine.

So I took her along,
And it went well for a block.
She said the rain relaxed her
And, she started to talk.

She talked about her past life,
And what troubles she had,
Her mother in jail,
And the sins of her dad.

Then the wind came up,
And she began to complain
About her runny nose,
And the wet of the rain.

Now the only vehicle
Moving in town that day,
Hit the biggest puddle,
And threw it my way!

My shorts soaking wet,
Cold to the bone,
I’d had an earful so,
I took her home.

Never, never again,
Will I take someone along!
How could something so sweet,
Have gone so wrong?

© Copyright 2011 gottagosee (UN: gottagosee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Sep12

Walking in the Rain Poem (#2 of 3)

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Rain Walking Poem (Attempt # 2 of 3)

So now I am older
the rain beckons me.
Does it still have that old magic?
I think, I shall see.

My new friend is a dog,
A Water Spaniel named Ralph,
But he won’t go out in the rain,
So I’ll go by myself.

I put on my galoshes,
Button up my raincoat,
Then wrap a knitted scarf,
Around my bare throat.

On my naked head,
I place a wide brimmed hat,
to run rain off my shoulders
and not down my back!

I opened the door
Went out on the stoop
Took a great nose breath in
that smells like dog poop.

Taking one more step down
while cursing my mutt
I slipped on the wet step
and fell on my butt.

Limping back into the house,
I de-dressed myself,
then sat by the heat duct
With my best friend Ralph.

Now, I have decided to
stop walking in the rain.
It just takes too long
to get warm again.

The End (Ta Da)

Sep12

My Sincere ‘Walking in the Rain’ Poem Really!

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My Sincere Walking in the Rain  (#3 of 3,) Really!  The Best of the Good, Better, Best trilogy.

From leaves the rain would pour,
And rap my cap with a pop.
It sounded like bare knuckles
On an oak table top.

First one drop, then two,
Then a bunch in a row,
And an uncountable shower,
When the chill wind would blow.

Along with the rain,
The leaves came cascading down.
The red yellow leaves flutter,
Then stick to the ground.

It’s the everywhere rumble,
That shakes loose the drizzle.
It’s the rhythm of wipers,
And tires when they ssssizzle.

The message is clear
With this autumn weather,
An end of one time,
And the start of another.

I waited all summer
For the feeling it sends,
Have to admit, I’ll
Be sad when it ends.

© Copyright 2011 gottagosee (UN: gottagosee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.   
Aug1

The Wonderful Whizzer of Og

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As told by Me, a Wandering Teller of Tales and Singer of Songs

In a world full of stories like a goose that lays golden eggs, frog princes, unicorns, and faeries, I’m going to tell of something you’ll find hard to believe, and to the best of my knowledge, is unquestionably true.

th6SO6I282 In a serene, and rarely spoken of, mountainous country in the interior of a vaguely known continent is a valley. From the bird’s eye view, this valley looks just like all of the many valleys on either side of it, except it’s quite a bit greener. The reason for the extra green is the part that you’ll find hard to believe.

One day, about two hundred years ago, a child was born to a, long thought barren, couple named Elle and Ferd. Their appearance was said to be Ogre-like but, to be sure, they weren’t Ogres. They did possess some of the lumpy characteristics and short, bent-over stature but; these were caused by centuries of manual labor in the fields and the isolation of their valley.

Elle and Ferd were members of a “kind” people that inhabited the middle valley of this mountain range’s series of valleys. Og valley people were rarely seen by anyone because a single two wheeled path passed by the entrance to each valley, which were like islands surrounded by mountains instead of water. All harvests were brought up the path to the only entrance of each island, and the harvests were picked up by sellers on their way the cities.
As far back as anyone could remember, the valley of Og out produced all of the other valleys both in size and the quality of the current harvest, whatever it might be. The reason for this anomaly was a closely guarded secret for decades.

Now that it is known, I can tell you, the Valley of Og’s bounty began a few years after the birth of a child.

Months before the birth of the boy, a dreaded Brown Tufted Honey Snatch, had entered the valley, made its way to the honey hives, ravaged them, and consumed the faeries’ entire winter cache’ of special honey.

Ferd discovered the destruction and quickly rebuilt the hives in time for the valley’s flowering season. The bees survived, the nectar was harvested, and turned into their special honey, averting a disaster for the faeries, and the people of Og.

The faeries were so grateful, they bestowed upon Elle and Ferd two gifts. One was the most precious gift the faeries could give. It was an enchanted child!

As the child grew, it was noticed where ever he whizzed, vegetation grew to enormous mass and height. Elle and Ferd, at first thought it was just their imagination, but as the boy grew up, so did their crops and trees. Enormously! The second gift from the Faeries.

Some of their neighbors noticed and remarked about the family’s continuous bountiful harvests. Elle and Ferd mentioned their discovery and what they suspected, to their neighbors.

It was decided “The Child”, would be loaned to the families that had land adjoining Elle and Ferd’s land, to see what would happen.

It worked! Each farm family produced the same amazing bounty. It didn’t seem to matter whether “The Child” whizzed directly on the specific plant or into the water supply for a whole crop. It worked! Everyone quietly celebrated the discovery. They wanted to keep their treasure a secret for as long as possible, for fear of exhausting the boy!

In the normal tradition of the valley, children were addressed as “Young Elle” or “Young Ferd” until their twelfth birthday. They were then named by making combinations of the name of their home, family, valley, or personality. It was decided to call the boy Wog to connect him with their valley. This is the name he would be known by, in the village and the valley, as long as the secret was kept. To the people, whose land connected to Elle and Ferd’s land, the boy would be known as ‘The Whizzer of Og’ (Wog)!

*****

The boy kept on growing and the amount of whizzing he could do in a day, increased. He was remarkable! Soon, the whole valley benefited from the lad’s ability. It became extremely difficult to hide the reason for the fortune of Valley of Og.

Alas, the tale of Wog’s abilities eventually leaked into the next valley. The Valley of Od heard the rumor about the whizzing boy wonder and decided they would like to be whizzed on too!
One day, accompanied by a wagon of his remarkable “Mead” supply drawn by a donkey (mead is a beverage made from honey, water, malt, and yeast), Wog by himself, as usual, was busy doing his business, and happily humming.

Now the Valley of Og rarely had troubles and did not know evil. Wog was a strong, young man, so no one ever thought he would need to be protected.

Wog had few friends. His whizzer, and the job it did, intimidated most people including the fairer Ogidites, so for the time being, Wog would just drink his Mead by himself, wait a few moments, hum and whiz on the crops. On a normal day, he would go home at dusk to get rested for the next day’s work, regular as clockwork.

In the twilight of this late afternoon, just before Wog normally would leave for home, was nabbed by several hooded beings that had snuck up on the humming Wog. They threw a blanket over him and whisked him to their valley in a two wheeled cart. He did not offer resistance, as he did not know how to resist. He lay, bouncing in the bottom of the cart wondering what was happening, and where he was going.

The next morning, Elle and Ferd, became frantic when they found Wog had not slept in his bed. His Mead wagon and donkey were not in their shed. Not quite knowing what to do, Ferd ran to his neighbors, and into the village, telling of his missing son. It was decided the first thing to do was to search the valley. Everyone turned out for the search. It wasn’t long before they came upon Wog’s Mead wagon and donkey, quietly standing where left, waiting for the return of Wog.

*****

In the next valley, that same day, Wog was introduced to the Od villagers. The leader of the hooded ones lied, and told his people that the “kind” people of The Valley of Og, had graciously loaned Wog to help them produce the greatest harvest they’d ever seen. The crowd cheered and set decorated tables for a feast and celebration.

Wog felt loved and wallowed in the attention. These Od people were throwing a party for Wog, something his village had never done.

The villagers in the Og valley had followed the two-wheeled cart tracks to the end of their valley, and found that the tracks turned left on the seller’s road. They left their valley and found it took another left into the next valley, the Valley of Od.

They went back to their own valley to plan. There were discussions by torchlight, meetings by candle light. They decided to enter the Valley of Od to recover their precious Wog.

Obviously, the secret of success, in the Valley of Og, was no longer a secret. They could call him his full name now. All of this uncustomary detective work and planning took time but, they managed to get ready for the retrieval attempt in a couple of days.

The morning after the celebration in the Village of Od, set out to see this miracle at work. The whole village followed “the hooded ones” and Wog to a field of strawberries close to town. Wog was supplied with all of their local mead he could drink.

There was stillness to the crowd, as the mead traveled. Wog began humming, and to energize the strawberry field, with a confident grin. At the sight and delivery pressure of his extraordinary whizzer, the crowd gasped at the wonder of it all. They had never seen such a thing!

Time after time, Wog went back to the supply of Mead, drank, waited and whizzed to the cheer of the crowd. When he felt his job was completed, with a little shake of his whizzer, and a nod of his head, to the hooded group’s leader, Wog and his entourage went back to the village to await the results. The villagers were stayed up all night excited and noisy. There wasn’t a celebration for Wog that night, but he was kept comfortable in a shed.

A young, handsome Od maiden, alone attended his needs. She brought warm blankets, food, and fresh straw for his bed. Not a word was spoken, but her attention was given in wide eyed wonder and admiration.

Wog could hear the celebration and wondered where the Od villager’s attention he’d received the night before was! He eventually reasoned they were waiting to see the results of his talent. Then, he would be their hero, and forever celebrated in this valley.

*****

Early in the morning of the next day, the people from the Valley of Og quietly shuffled into the Valley of Od, with their farm implements held high above their heads, silhouettes in the dawn. Fighting was not their nature, but this had to be done, as “The Whizzer” was needed back at home. New crops had been planted. Time was short. Bravely, they marched on!

A crowd gathered outside of the shed, and Wog was escorted out. In anticipation, there was controlled, nervous applause.

To the field of strawberries they went, the back of the crowd straining to see in the dawn light. As they approached the strawberry field, the throng slowed. Something was wrong! At the corner of the field, they came to a dead, silent stop and stood still.

The whole field of berry plants was wilted. Wog had never seen anything like it before.

The owner of the field yelled something, high pitched, with an attitude. The hooded ones and the gathering of Od valley people grumbled and began to mill about angrily.

Wog was approached several times by different groups looking for an answer. All Wog could do was look astonished, shrug his shoulders shift his eyes from the people to the field and back again.

Soon, the groups of villagers began to suspect the legend was untrue. Wog had failed and didn’t have any magical powers or answers. The disappointed gathering headed back toward their village mumbling, while the hooded ones gathered in a circle meeting. Wog was left standing, alone, again.

The “hooded ones” agreed, the legend of Wog was not true, for he had destroyed an entire strawberry field in one evening. It was then decided; the Valley of Od no longer had a need to keep him. They got their two wheeled cart and escorted Wog to the end of their valley. Well, almost to the end of their valley! On the way, they met the armed villagers from the Valley of Og.

Abandoning the cart and Wog, they ran for their lives toward their own village. The cart, Wog, and an unremarkable pile of straw in the corner of the cart were happily escorted home by the group of successful Og warriors.

The return of The Whizzer of Og, as Wog could now be known, was the second celebration Wog had seen in three days. This time it was his own kind, his own village, with people who knew his abilities. There was a lot of hugs and smiles between Wog, his parents, and amongst all in the Valley of Og.

Wog noticed the self-celebration by the farmers of Og. He also remembered that before he’d been kidnapped, few people talked to him, and he had made few friends. They were friendly of course, and smiled, but, other than having him whiz for them, most didn’t want to have much to do with Wog.

The leader of Og took Wog by the arm and helped him up into the cart that brought him back from his ordeal. The bundle of straw in the back corner exploded and out came the little Od girl. She ran into the crowd, a trail of straw drifting to the ground behind her.

The look of surprise on the leader’s face was quickly dismissed by an irritated shrug of his shoulders, as he was anxious to get back to his prepared speech.

He proudly raised Wog’s arms in the air as you would raise a trophy. Everyone cheered as he was displayed.

Then, Wog surprised them. With all of his courage, Wog spoke up. He never spoke up, but now, he finally had something important to say. The leader of Og stepped down to give Wog the audience.

He first thanked them for bringing him back home. He then told them about how the people of the Valley of Od held a party for him when they thought he would be able to make their crops as bountiful as Og’s crops. Then, when he failed, he told them how they quickly turned against him.

He told the silent crowd, that the Odidites did not love Wog for who he was, but only for what he could do for them.

Wog asked the people if this was how they felt?

There was complete silence while the people of Og measured themselves.

One person somewhere in the crowd started a chant. Overcoming their shame, two, and then three spoke up. Soon everyone was applauding, cheering, and chanting “Wog, Wog, Wog!”

The handsome little Odidite, with straw in her hair and an admiring smile, took one step out of the crowd toward the wagon. A surprised Whizzer smiled back at her then quickly regained his composure. While the crowd was cheering, Wog stepped down from the wagon to hold her hand. The Governor of Wog stepped back up in the wagon.

As the leader of the village and the Valley of Og, he declared a festival every year, on this day, from now on, to celebrate the gift of Wog. He shall be called fully “The Whizzer of Og” and, his name shall be proudly displayed on a sign at the entrance to their valley. It shall declare:

The Valley of Og

Home of The Whizzer of Og

Population 1103 +1 Great Whizzer

There was a secret kept by the Og Valley fairies!

Why did Wog’s talents fail in the Valley of Od? Why did his ability work so well in the Valley of Og?

The secret of course was the second gift from the faeries, I didn’t tell you about.

The Mead was made with the faerie honey from the hives that Ferd had repaired. That honey was enchanted. The more Wog whizzed on the flowers fueled by the mead made from the honey, made from the flowers he whizzed on, the more powerful his whizzing became.

This enchanted honey plus the extraordinary talents of the child, combined to create the magic for the Valley of Og, and one of the greatest stories ever told.

*****

That’s not the end of the story!

When The Whizzer introduced the little Odidite to the people of Og, she was accepted into the community. She was the first of another valley accepted by the Ogidites, as far back as memories could remember.

The Whizzer of Og and the brave little Odidite were inseparable. Elle and Ferd added a room for her, and in essence, she became their daughter.

Time passed.

There was a celebration in the Valley of Og. The pair of Wog and Mow (Mate of the Whizzer) were joined forever.

(More time passes.)

The sign at the entrance to the Valley of Og now reads:

The Valley of Og

Home of the Whizzers of Og

Population 1105 + 1 big whizzer and 4 little whizzers

All of this because of a kind man’s good deed and a thank you from the Faeries.

(I reserve the right to add a couple more of the little whizzers to the Valley of Od at a later date)

Jul25

The Prancing Cha Hooa Hooa

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For years, I’ve been watching the trained humans, following their dogs down the street to make the turn into the wash for the ‘duty call’.

 There were short ones and tall ones, chunky ones and skinny ones pulled along by their dogs on the quest for ‘the spot’. Some kept their eyes to the ground, while others nervously looked about, as if on their first mission.

 I often pitied them, locked into the twice daily routine. I’d even occasionally wondered if they had a life or if they patiently paced between the kitchen and living room, waiting for the timing to be right.

 I would see Dobies, Boxers, and Labs handled by the slightest of females. These teams seemed to be under control most often. Sometimes, these women controlled two or three of these beefy protectors at a time. There would be no muggings on this street today.

 Then there were groups that went out in between the working dog packs. I have witnessed fully grown, hairy armed, tattooed, retired men, bravely strong arming their team of Pekinese, Toy Poodles, and Cockers. I quickly avert my eyes or go inside so I would not embarrass those guys with my staring. After all, they were just trying to survive the humiliation one more time.

 *****

 I’ve been married for thirty eight years. In that time, I only bought one dog, and that was a poor attempt to satisfy my partner’s strong nesting instinct. I figured a puppy would suppress the urge, and we could stop at two human children, one of each.

 Of course, this brilliant plan failed, and she continued to produce. We ended up giving that dog away to needful schnauzer people because of the move we made to Tucson.

 During the following years, pets found us, a floppy eared rabbit appeared one day, and an endangered desert tortoise made it up the driveway to our front door.

 Awesome, the solid black, green eyed cat walked into our life, an absolute pleasure!

 We named her Awesome because, she ran the neighborhood. Other cats would come by and pay homage, and coyotes only howled in admiration at Awesome’s royalness. She told us when she wanted to come in for a visit, and then, she let us know that she’d had enough and wanted to go back outside for the evening. She loved us, and we loved her.

 A few years later, her heart failing, I had to put her down. The vet said she was over fourteen years old, which is good for an outside, desert cat. It broke me up so, I promised I would never have another pet. Then, a couple of weeks ago, away from Tucson to take care of some business, I received a phone call from my wife. We’d been adopted by a dog.

 On her way back from her South Dakota vacation, they saw this dog alone at a rest stop. While they were there, other cars stopped, but the dog kept its distance. When our Chevy was the only vehicle left at the stop, my daughter told my wife they couldn’t leave it there. The coyotes would kill it.

 With that, my daughter knelt down close to the pavement; the dog ran to her, my daughter got in the Trail Blazer, and in came our next pet, a four pound, long haired, toy Chihuahua. There wasn’t name tag. Deciding it was a male, they named it Max for Maximilian, I think.

 Several days later, I arrived home and was met by Max. Later that same day, after a trip to the vet, Maximilian was discovered to be Maxine. Now, my wife is a nurse that has had four kids, one of one and three of the other (my baseball players). My daughter has had a son. There are parts, and then there are parts missing. Sorry, I don’t dare say anything more about this!

At first, Maxi was terrified of me. When I did get close, she would crawl low with her ears down, stop, and then roll onto her back in the time honored, submissive manner animals display. That was the first thing I liked about her. She’d established me as the Alpha. The other two females in the house have not picked up on this yet.

 After a week, still a little nervous, Maxi was beginning to realize that I was a kind ruler, and warmed up to me a bit. I lightened up a little, and she played a little, and well, you know how it goes!

 I was informed that because I was semi-retired, and the two women had to work (awe shucks), I, as a writer (not a real job), was in charge of Maxi while they were bringing home the bread.

 My time had come. History will now show that Ronald D. Drobeck, hunter, fisherman, outdoorsman, and all around testosterone guy was now the custodian of a four pound mouse that sounded like a squeak toy when it barked.

 Bringing this confession to a close, I have to tell you of the first time I put Maxi on her leash and she took me for my first walk.

 Peering left and right down the street, I saw no one. I felt the time was right for my first time out with ‘the mouse’. I mean, there wasn’t a car, a kid, a bird in the sky, or Fido anywhere. I ventured out.

 I walked with my head and eyes down a little, determined that Maxi was not going to pull me as I’d seen happen to so many men. She didn’t pull. She pranced, PRANCED alongside of me, head up and proper, as if showing off what she had on the other end of the leash.

 With my attention on the prancing Chihuahua, I failed to notice the blue Ford Focus that had slowed and crossed over to my side of the street with the window down. It was Gracie, my neighbor, owner of two fuzzy, barky little dogs that I had made fun of in the past.

 “Well, Ron Drobeck, I thought it was you! What’s that on the end of that leash, and why did you hide your eyes when you recognized me?” She grinned with a twinkle.

 “Hi Gracie. Of all the people to be driving by at this moment, it just had to be you.” I said with dramatic effect. I blurted, “This is Brutus, and he’s only one week old, and he’s going to be huge some day!”

 We threw one liners at each other for a few moments. Maxi got impatient with the lack of attention, and started to pull toward home.

 Gracie knew, took pity, and gracefully ended the conversation by saying, “It looks like she is ready to go home! Go ahead; I want to watch that little hind-end trotting down the sidewalk.”

 I turned and headed home with Maxi doing her tight, little prance next to me. I was happy to walk away only slightly wounded, and a small bead of sweat on my forehead.

 I was almost to the front door when I realized that I didn’t know whether Gracie was talking about the dog or me! I quickly pivoted, only to see the Ford disappear into her garage.