Cheyenne

Published on January 25, 2012 in Changes and Relationships. 0 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

by Catherine Moore

“Watch out! You nearly broadsided that car!” my father yelled at me. “Can’t you do anything right?” Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn’t prepared for another battle. “I saw the car, Dad. Please don’t yell at me when I’m driving.” My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt. He glared at me, then turned away and settled back.

At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts … dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I do about him? Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.

The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn’t lift a heavy log he joked about it, but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. Dad became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn’t do something he had done as a younger man.

Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, he was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky … he survived. But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor’s orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.

My husband, Dick, and I asked him to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick … we began to bicker and argue.

Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad’s troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.

The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered in vain. Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, “I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article.” I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home where all of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.

I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs … long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons: too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was a Pointer, one of the dog world’s aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed.

Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly. I pointed to the dog. “Can you tell me about him?” The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. “He’s a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we’ve heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow.” He gestured helplessly.

As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. “You mean you’re going to kill him?” “Ma’am,” he said gently, “That’s our policy. We don’t have room for every unclaimed dog.” I looked at the Pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. “I’ll take him,” I said.

I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch. “Ta-daa! Look what I got for you, Dad!” I said excitedly. Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. “If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don’t want it” Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.

Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. “You’d better get used to him, Dad. He’s staying!” Dad ignored me. “Did you hear me, Dad?” I screamed. At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the Pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw…

Dad’s lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The Pointer waited patiently. Suddenly, Dad dropped to his knees and was hugging the animal. It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named him Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at is feet.

Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad ’s bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne ’s cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father’s room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.

Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad’s bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad’s peace of mind.

The morning of Dad’s funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog that had changed his life. Then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it.” “I’ve often thanked God for sending that angel,” the pastor said.

At that moment, everything dropped into place for me, completing a puzzle I had not seen before:  The sympathetic voice that had read exactly the right article … Cheyenne ’s unexpected appearance at the animal shelter … his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father … even the proximity of their deaths! Suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all. He had simply answered them in HIS time, not mine.

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Celebrating Christmas

Published on December 25, 2011 in Adventure and Relationships. 0 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

Two silhouettes huddled close to a flickering fire at the mouth of the cave, surveying the sea of bright stars that washed over a flat landscape to the distant horizon. The small fire was their only source of light except for the millions of glowing worlds above. Occasionally, it spat a shower of sparks skyward in a futile attempt to chase the darkness that threatened to swallow the two figures and the modest tree they had erected nearby. They called it a tree in the spirit of Christmas, but it was really more of a bush … one of the few species of vegetation that could survive the brutal extremes of weather and rock hard terrain. Dangling from it were strips of synthetic fabric, shiny shards of plastic and other materials such as could be found among the colony’s remaining supplies.

The fire was, also, the only source of warmth against what would soon become a bitterly cold night. Once sunlight faded, temperatures often plummeted from a blistering 135 degrees Fahrenheit to a bone-chilling 40 below zero! The larger silhouette seemed to grow even more massive as it rose slightly to pull the thickness of an insulating wrap higher and tighter around a thick, weathered neck. Turning toward his companion the smaller of the two smiled wryly and chided, “Even that green hide of yours doesn’t protect you from these cold freakin’ nights anymore, does it?” “I have grown soft.” came the reply. “Not my mind, not my body are what they were.” The Earther smiled again and quipped, “That’s called gettin’ old my friend. You’re no kid anymore. At 220, I’d say you’re still hangin’ in there pretty good!” The Altian turned his gaze back toward the stars and mumbled something under his breath about still being vertical. The two became friends long ago, a few years after The Great Merging. What began as a friendship of necessity, over time, had grown into something strong and enduring.

During the early part of the 21st Century, North American borders had been dissolved, The United States had turned to a European style of socialism and fell into the hands of an incompetent dictator. Its economy was failing, Europe itself was bankrupt and terrorist wars racked the Earth driving men of peace and good will toward the heavens. By 2025 Altoid 22-b had been discovered in the Kepler System some 600 light-years away. It was thought to be a twin Earth, although slightly larger, and was dubbed The Christmas Planet. With scientists learning to manipulate the space-time continuum in 2031, the journey would take less than a year and man would be free to establish a new constitutional order, once again based upon the rights and ambitions of the individual rather than the collective.

Three huge spacecraft were built, each about the size of a small town. A worldwide lottery was held to select ten thousand people to become the ‘Adams and Eves’ of Altoid 22-b. The only stipulations were that those selected would be healthy specimens and that this would be a one-way trip. The craft were fueled and provisioned accordingly. They launched one day apart from the old Kennedy Space Center in the Union of Amerikan Republics on December 24, 25 and 26, 2034.

Three months out, the lead spacecraft was fatally damaged by a malfunction of its interstellar-ion drive. No rescue of the 3,334 souls on board was possible. The other two vessels functioned perfectly but the 21st Century pioneers did not find anything like the conditions they anticipated upon landing. An initial navigation error committed back on Earth set them down on Altoid 22-c instead of 22-b! As might be expected, conditions on the fourth planet out from its sun were dramatically different from those which existed on the third planet. The thin atmosphere provided little protection for the planet’s surface, made every breath a contest for life and generally contributed to an environment that, at best, was marginally habitable. Nevertheless, there was no returning home and the spacecraft were destroyed per the lottery contract. The settlers were ill prepared to face such harsh conditions and, before suitable shelter could be constructed, more than half of them perished.

Rather than trying to establish their colony in such an inhospitable place, the remaining 2,500 or so found shelter in the hills, and developed a plan to systematically dispatch small groups of explorers in different directions. As Earth offered various climates, the feeling was that Altoid 22-c must also have more suitable regions to settle as well. Captain Jedediah Myrth, his First Officer and a small contingent stayed behind to maintain the ‘rallying point’ but no one ever returned from any of the expeditions.

Ten long years passed and everyone at the camp had succumbed to one unknown malady or another, except for Captain Myrth. He was now alone and kept track of time with a complex series of etchings on a cave wall that reached almost its entire length. He kept a current calendar even though he knew, in reality, he had begun his odyssey more than six hundred years ago in Earth time. Thinking in more comprehensible terms helped maintain both his sanity and his hope.

Myrth had just finished recording the passing of Christmas 2047 when he noticed a massive figure dominating the cave entrance. It was not one of the explorers but, all-in-all, looked rather human … except for the number of eyes, a greenish tinge to its skin and a height of what must have been seven or eight feet! It advanced toward him extending a huge leathery right hand from a smooth silvery sleeve, uttering a sort of garbled, guttural, gibberish, while pointing to itself with the left hand. The creature’s manner was benign enough and it actually seemed happy to see him. The Captain swallowed hard and extended his own trembling hand in friendship. It was a beginning.

Since it was physically impossible for Earthers to pronounce Altian words, Myrth taught his newly acquired companion English … and for the same reason he simply called the large fellow “Chris”, remembering that he had arrived on Christmas Day. At first, he wondered why Chris showed no sign of leaving, either with or without him, but he had become so desperate for company the subject was relegated status of the proverbial ‘900 pound gorilla’ and left quietly in a dark corner of the cave. As their communication improved, first gestures, then language, the fate of the missing explorers unfolded.

The settlers had been right … there was another region of Altoid 22-c that was more habitable but it was small and distant. Water didn’t freeze at night or turn to vapor during the day, storms were less violent, foliage flourished and there were even a few species of animals for hunting. Most of the indigenous Altian population lived there, leaving the rest of the barren planet uninhabited. As the several exploring parties of Earthers sensed an improving climate, they naturally gravitated toward this region and merged with the established Altian society. Everyone viewed the two races coming together as a benefit to both … and except for what many were beginning to regard as legend, they all but forgot about Captain Myrth and his crew.

Paradise, however, was not to be. The settlers had brought with them more than just new technologies and fresh ideas. They also carried the political baggage they thought they had left back home. When their insatiable greed and lust for power finally surfaced, they began trying to change the established order that so graciously took them in only a few years before. The settlers soon found themselves in much the same situation regionally on Altoid that had existed globally when they fled from Earth so many light-years and more than 7,500 lottery-winners ago.

The turmoil ended when someone ignited an ancient nuclear ‘dirty bomb’ and, tragically, both aggression and resistance literally died at once. When he saw the orange glow on the horizon Chris, who lived in a kind of neutral zone on the edge of the habitable region, knew what had happened. He climbed into his terrain rover before the winds shifted and hightailed it out of there with little more than the clothes on his back. He was always curious about the stories he’d heard of Jedediah Myrth and the remaining colonists, and had even plotted potential location coordinates. Since there was nothing to go back to, it seemed like this was as good as any time to satisfy his curiosity. He traveled for nearly a year, walking the last two months after his rover gave out, before he turned up at the cave entrance that Christmas Day.

Twenty long years had passed since their meeting and they were almost out of wall space in the cave. Each had learned all he could from the other. Now there they sat, two silhouettes huddled together in front of a flickering fire as they had so many nights before. But this time was different. With survival becoming next to impossible and both of them growing old beyond their years, this would be their last Christmas. If only their fellows could have discovered the same common ground as these two. The Altian and the Earther poured out a crude beverage they had concocted … and standing tall in the mouth of the cave, raised their glasses and toasted the stars.

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One Thanksgiving

Published on November 23, 2011 in Changes. 0 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

Randy was four-and-a-half years old. He wasn’t a little kid of four anymore, and sternly corrected those who made the mistake by directing four fingers on his left hand and a crooked half index finger on his right toward the offending party. He hadn’t been to Grandma’s in a very long time since she lived so far away. All he could remember about last time was having his hair constantly tousled by a lot of old people and having to sit at the children’s table with a bunch of cousins during Thanksgiving dinner.

Randy soon filled himself to the brim with turkey, and stuffing, and family good cheer. After reaching his limit of pats on the head from maiden aunts and exclamations of, “My how big you’re getting!” from other well-meaning relatives, he put on his coat and escaped to the rolling hills out behind the house. He had forgotten how much fun it was to roam the fields and make up adventures that grownups, and certainly those silly cousins of his, would never understand.

He had, also, forgotten about the ominous dark building at the very top of the tallest hill, which he imagined to be the ship of a sea faring explorer tossing upon the waves. Sometimes the clang of a bell would echo across the glen that separated the imaginary ship from the imaginary shore upon which he stood. Cupping his hands around his eyes as if peering through binoculars, Randy focused on the double arched doors at the front of the structure and tried to get a clearer view. Maybe he could catch a glimpse of the captain or see if the crew was permitted Thanksgiving rations as they tirelessly manned the sails.

All of a sudden, one of the doors swung open and out marched a group of unusual looking people dressed in black bonnets, starched white collars and long dark robes. Randy was taken by surprise. He never really expected to see anyone … it was just pretend. But the whole procession was now headed precisely in his direction! He spun around and stumbled down the hill. “Mama, Mama, the Pilgrims are coming, the Pilgrims are coming!” he shouted as he ran.

He burst into the house. “What’s the matter?” his mother asked with a concerned voice and a curious look. “The Pilgrims are coming, Mama!” gasped little Randy. She put her arm over his shoulder and hurried to the window. They parted the curtains just in time to see a group of Nuns from the Abbey on the hill passing by on their after dinner constitutional.

Eighty-four long years have come and gone since that boyhood encounter. His fingers aren’t as nimble as they used to be but Father Randy still corrects those who forget the half-year … and he’ll forever remember the ‘Pilgrims’ and the innocent game he played one Thanksgiving at Grandma’s.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

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Life and Times of Flatrock Fred

Published on November 15, 2011 in Just Stew. 0 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

Flatrock Fred was born in Tombstone, Arizona, on the same stormy night that a powerful cyclone sheared the top clean off Mount Baldy. It just seemed right the two events were somehow tied together. He was the son of a gun-totin’ preacher name of Shay and a Bird Cage Theater trollop known as Long-Legged Lucy.

His formative years were sculpted by a bitter man with a Bible in one hand and a .45 revolver in the other, and a tawdry barmaid hustling drinks and gamblers to the tune of a rinky-tink piano. High above the theater floor were suspended bird cages where ‘tainted angels’ would entertain their gentlemen callers … after which they’d go downstairs to drink, play cards and swap tall tales ‘till the sun came up.

Now and then Doc Holliday would come in to deal Faro, while familiar fixtures like Bat Masterson, Johnny Ringo or Curly Bill taunted each other in the orchestra pit near the stage. It was Wyatt Earp who took a shine to Flatrock and taught him how to handle a gun. By the time he was eight, Fred could make a silver dollar dance at twenty paces! He was still a young boy when he witnessed the famous Gunfight at the O.K. Corral from behind a pickle barrel outside ol’ man McCleary’s, just off Fremont Street. Maybe he was only a kid, but he was old enough to hear the call of his true destiny in the endless crackle of gunfire.

When Flatrock reached fifteen, wanting to learn even more about shooting, he visited Fort Gibson, Oklahoma. But, instead of developing new skills, he began to compete with some of the cavalry’s finest marksmen, beating them every time! What he did learn was a strong respect for the law and the sometimes subtle difference between right and wrong.

At seventeen, he made his way to Fort Smith, Arkansas where Fred became one of the youngest U.S. Deputy Marshals ever commissioned in the Western District. Serving under ‘hangin’ judge’ Isaac C. Parker he kept the peace, and sent several outlaws to their final reward on Boot Hill before the judge ever got to ‘em! Though he used his guns only as a last resort, he was known to say that a lawman’s best insurance was “Throwin’ a lot o’ lead fast and straight.”

By the time he was twenty-nine, Flatrock married a gentle woman name of Abigale Church and joined the Oklahoma Land Rush. They settled southwest of Bartlesville, Oklahoma where he served for a time as sheriff. It wasn’t long before his prowess with a gun earned him such a reputation as a lethal gunfighter that evildoers rarely challenged him. His young bride gave him a crucifix for their first anniversary, which she insisted he wear around his neck for protection. On one occasion it actually saved his life, when it deflected a bullet the lawman would have taken in his chest. Fred later said, “I’d rather have the prayers of a good woman in a gunfight than half a dozen hot guns … she’s talkin’ to headquarters”. Before the end of their second winter together, Abigale died after a long bout with pneumonia; he buried the crucifix and his heart at the head of her grave.

Dazed and distraught, Flatrock hung up his badge although never his guns. He began drifting and drinking, and was given to extended periods of general debauchery. One stormy night, not unlike the one that so many years before had thrust him into this world, he chanced to cross trails with The Sundance Kid in a West Texas bawdy house. Riding the wave of a hot hand at cards and a few Tequilas over the line, The Kid began to extol the virtues of his early days back East, in Atlantic City, New Jersey.

Some months later, when his skies finally began to clear, Fred found himself inexplicably drawn to the place people would someday call The Garden State. It was a long way from the rugged desert mountains that bore him and  a most unusual setting for a gunman, but one where Flatrock found peace at last. He opened a small saloon by the sea and settled back his restless bones … with a .45 on each hip, fifteen notches in his belt and a willowy tart he liked to call “Lucy”. She never knew why.

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The Mansion

Published on October 30, 2011 in Growing Up and Suspense. 0 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

It was a time when ghosts and goblins were real, penny candy still cost only a penny at the corner drugstore and holidays like Halloween were a season, not just a single day. Any kid who didn’t have a haunted house in his neighborhood probably also missed out on Three Musketeers bars, wax lips, chewy little Coke bottles filled with sugary syrup and those tooth-snapping colored dots on narrow strips of paper. The wide-eyed trio toeing the curb, anxiously searching every window of the rickety old house across the street, had missed none of these things.

JoJo had a problem saying his “L’s” so lemon would come out “yemon” and his treatment of yellow was a thing of beauty! Lenny had a limp, since he’d been born with one leg slightly shorter than the other, and was a frequent recipient of the kindness typically bestowed upon any eight year old perceived as different by his contemporaries. He sort of hung out with the other two because they didn’t seem to notice … at least they never said anything.

Joanne had kittens. Joanne always had kittens, since one of her three cats always seemed to be pregnant. Where most little girls had dolls in their baby buggies, she had kittens in there. They were her children. Just ask JoJo and Lenny who were often coerced into to playing “house” with her. Whenever they tired of the usual games, a trip up the block to see the old mansion on Harrison Street always put the spring back in their step … but somehow, on Halloween, the journey was almost holy.

Probably most of the mystery surrounding the old place was inadvertently created by grownups warning kids never to go inside because it was dangerous. While parents were concerned about their children crossing a busy street, and a hundred year old house that was on the verge of collapse, word spread around the neighborhood that it was haunted.

There were even stories about more adventurous souls who dared to go in but never came back out. Legend held that you could sometimes see the silhouette of an old man with a long beard in one of the windows as the sun was setting. Of course, no one knew any of the kids who disappeared nor had anyone spoken directly to a kid who actually saw the old man’s silhouette … but quenchless curiosity and limitless imagination kept dauntless young explorers coming back, albeit glued to the near curb, hoping for a glimpse of what might lie beyond the far one. The three friends faithfully kept what was judged to be a safe distance, until one particular Halloween eve when an ego-crushing ‘double-dog-dare’ issued by a sneering cowboy and a snickering nurse, plus some prodding from the pointed end of a witch’s broomstick, moved them to the other side of the street.

It was almost dark and their trick-or-treat candy sacks runneth over, as the three friends clasped hands and made their way between curbs. They said it was for safety while crossing the street but, with the old house now growing as large as its legend, each of them secretly needed assurance that the others were there. A single streetlamp dimly lit their way, casting three long shadows on the lawn. They crouched low and crept quietly to the porch steps. In a loud whisper, Lenny observed that he never realized how much noise dry leaves could make. The others sort of gulped agreement as their small forms were swallowed by the towering shadow of the house.

They just stood there in the chill, eyes fixed upon the splintered wooden door with the large rusty knocker and a gaping hole where the knob used to be. By now, even the murmur of the small band of onlookers gathered across the street had stopped and all they could hear was the dancing, wind-whirled leaves. To everyone’s amazement, Joanne pulled a kitten from inside her coat and hugged it tightly. No one even asked … they were too busy trying to screw up the courage to climb the steps. Finally, someone counted three and they all went up together. The steps creaked under the weight of the odd little trio, just like in the movies.

With another three count, JoJo eased the door open and the reluctant adventurers shuffled slowly from the porch and slipped inside. It creaked, of course, as haunted house doors do … but it was more of an eternal groan. A web of some sort brushed across Joanne’s face! She dropped the kitten and muffled a scream with her hand. Shafts of moonlight streaming through shattered windows, were just enough for them to trace the little feline’s path down a long, narrow hallway and they decided to follow. The difference in the length of Lenny’s legs produced a strange cadence that echoed on the ancient wood floor.

As they reached the end of the hall, all three suddenly froze in their tracks … saucer-eyed and slack-jawed at the specter that confronted them. In a windowless room off to the right, there sat an old man in a rickety rocking chair next to a blazing fire. His face looked like leather and his scruffy white beard hung clear down to his belt. Despite his well-weathered personal appearance, he wore a neatly pressed bright red coat with a double row of shiny brass buttons down the front. His not quite white pants were tucked tightly into a pair of shiny black boots and the whole ensemble was topped off with a very colonial looking tri-cornered hat. Joanne’s kitten sat in his lap, purring louder with each stroke of his gnarled old hand.

At the sight of his terrified young visitors, the leathery old face broke into a nearly toothless smile. In a very proper sounding accent he said, “I’d like to offer you children some tea, but you see, I seem to have run fresh out!” His bright blue eyes and gentle manner were a welcome relief and soon put the kids at ease.

He said his name was Benjamin and the four of them talked for a very long time. They shared their Halloween bounty with him and he told them stories about the Revolutionary War and the founding of America. Joanne never cared much about history, it was for boys, but Benjamin breathed life into it and made it interesting. He assured JoJo that someday he would outgrow his speech problem and explained to Lenny that he was probably a heroic soldier wounded in battle during another life … that’s why his one leg wasn’t quite like the other. All in all they had a most pleasant visit, but it was getting late and they were already going to catch heck from their folks for staying out past suppertime. Everyone said their goodbyes, and smiled and laughed all the way home, with their temporary secret tucked safely inside.

The next morning, having confessed the details of the previous night under threat of permanent grounding, three eight year olds toed the curb with their parents across from the old mansion on Harrison Street. They were determined to get to the bottom of this ‘old man’ story their children had concocted to explain their lateness … and to make matters worse, Joanne’s kitten was nowhere to be found and the mother cat had been going berserk!

Somehow the house didn’t look so haunted in the bright light of day, as they opened the creaky front door and led the adults down the hallway. Even Lenny’s off-kilter cadence seemed silent. The room where they had talked with the leathery old man was empty, except for the kitten playing with a huge cobweb on the seat of the rocker. The fireplace ashes were cold and so were the looks from their parents. “Benjamin!” they called. Again and again, “Benjamin!” but there was no reply … only the scuffling of Joanne’s kitten playing in the dusty chair.

Then, as the inevitability of ‘house arrest’ forever began to sink in, JoJo noticed a wooden peg just to the left of the fireplace, and on it hung a very familiar tri-cornered hat! He subtly pointed to the hat so only his friends could see. One by one they noticed it and smiled a smile of quiet satisfaction. After all, when good friends have faced the unknown together, forever isn’t really such a very long time.

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Brief Encounter

Published on October 10, 2011 in Relationships. 0 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

She was a woman not easily given to physical expression but from her first look at his uncommonly masculine build and warm, welcoming smile, Jessica knew there was no turning back. She approached him nervously at first but his easy-going manner quickly replaced her apprehension with confidence … her feelings of fear with feelings of safety, at least for now.

He grasped her firmly but ever so gently, just above the elbow, and guided her into a room … his room. Then he slowly closed the door and they were alone. She stood there frozen, not knowing what to expect as he approached her soundlessly from behind, speaking in a low, reassuring voice close to her ear, “Just relax.”

Without warning, he suddenly reached down, way down, and she felt his strong, calloused hands start at her ankles, gently probing and moving slowly but steadily upward along her calves. Her breath caught in her throat as if her body wanted to breath both in and out at the same time!

Having always been something of a cautious person, Jessica felt like she should be afraid. That seemed like it would probably be the smart thing to do … but, somehow, she didn’t care. His touch was so experienced, so sure. As his hands moved up onto her thighs, she gave a slight shudder and partially closed her eyes.  Her pulse pounded as if a tiny drummer were playing furiously at every pulse point! “Just relax,” he said again, as she felt his knowing fingers caress her stomach and slide easily up her ribcage.

Then as his hands cupped the full firmness of her breasts, she inhaled sharply! Probing, searching, knowing what he wanted, he brought his hands to her shoulders and suddenly slid them down her tingling spine, into the privacy of her panties.

Although Jessica knew nothing about this man, she felt oddly trusting and expectant. Maybe it was his smile … or the fact that he was someone clearly used to taking charge. “This is a man,” she thought, “that is not used to taking ‘No’ for an answer. He’s a man who would tell me what he wanted, who knew exactly what I wanted to hear. He’s a man who would, at last, look into my soul and say, “Thank you ma’am. You can board your flight now.”

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The Nice Guy

Published on October 3, 2011 in Philosophy. 0 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .

Little Willie Hopkins rubbed his hands together with delight as he gently placed another firefly into the bottle. It was a fine collection of ‘lightning bugs’ that flickered in the warm summer night, like the lantern Dad used on camping trips to push away the dark … just not as bright. It was fun for a while, but pretty soon he noticed that something strange was happening. One by one, some of the tiny lights would stop blinking, grow dim and go out. “They’re dying!” he exclaimed out loud. “They’re dying, they need air!”

Willie shuddered a bit. He had a decision to make. If he opened the bottle, all the fireflies would escape but if he didn’t, they would surely suffocate and Mom had always taught him to respect the life of even the least of God’s creatures. All of a sudden, the knot that was tying itself inside his stomach grew even more unbearable than the thought of losing his special lantern. Willie pulled out the stopper and a stream of small flickering lights swirled skyward … most of them did, anyway. He dug a shallow grave with his finger for the ones who remained in the bottom of the bottle.

Somehow, he never forgot that summer’s eve or the lesson he had learned about the fragileness of life. Even in full manhood, he maintained the deep respect for God’s creations that became part of him as a boy. It was more than a scholarly appreciation for flowers and trees, clouds and stars, or dogs and cats. Willie wouldn’t so much as swat a mosquito unless it bit him first. In fact, he had formulated a strict policy through the years: If such an outdoor creature was inside the house it was history, but outside was the small being’s home and he would go to great lengths to see that no harm came to it. The one exception to his rule was ‘Stinkbugs’. They were expendable wherever he found them. He even made up a jar with a pool of insecticide at the bottom and took an almost sadistic delight in sending them to the bottom for a swim.

Otherwise, Willie had a special compassion for all of nature’s livestock. He would shut down the lawnmower just to move a few tiny Wooly Bears to safe haven and was always sure to stop anytime he saw a herd of crickets until they had hopped clear of the mower’s path. Occasionally, as he urged the little hoppers out of his way, he would rub his hands together with satisfaction and glancing skyward would softly murmur, “I honestly care about these little guys, and I’m not looking for credit or anything, but, still, I hope somebody up there notices.” And so it seemed somebody did … Willie lived to the ripe old age of 97, continuing his gentle ways and being a friend to living things both great and small, until the day came when he was summoned to the ‘pearly gates’.

Heaven was quite different than he had expected. The gates were metal rather than pearly and somewhat rusted at the hinges. While Gabriel was playing his horn all right, it was more of a Jazz Funk than anything resembling a fanfare … and instead of a sea of clouds, fluttering wings and silvery harps, Willie was led to an enormous waiting room where there was a sea of chairs, old people in canvas shoes and piped in elevator music. St. Peter was no where to be found and he never did get to meet God, who it turned out didn’t really have a name in the usual sense but was simply called ‘God.’ “It’s more of a title or job description than a name,” he thought. His musings suddenly stopped when he noticed three tall doors at the front of the room: One was marked “Saints”, another read “Sinners” and the third just said “Other”.

Willie waited for what seemed like an eternity, although he later learned that eternity was actually much longer. Finally his name was called by a rather pleasant looking fellow in a long purple robe who was standing in the “Other” door. He rubbed his hands together with relief since, despite his many good deeds, he feared what might be in store for “Sinners” and wanted no part of it. The fellow said his name was Phil, an administrative angel in charge of handing out new assignments, and he’d been reviewing Willie’s file. Because of his lifelong love for even the least of God’s creatures, except for the ‘Stinkbugs’, it had been decided that Willie would be sent back to Earth to spend his next life as a cricket. “You mean reincarnation?” Willie exclaimed. “Not exactly,” said Phil. “Since all things both great and small are considered equal around here, think of it as more of a reward for being a nice guy.” When Willie protested that it seemed more like a punishment, he was told that the complaint department was right next door. “Sinners?” chirped Willie? Phil just smiled and the newly anointed cricket quickly quieted, accepting his fate.

One sunny summer afternoon, Willie was peacefully dozing in The Great Forest of Grass and Clover, when he was suddenly awakened by the ear-shattering roar of some sort of giant machine and it was headed straight for him! Where to go … what to do! Surely it would chew him up along with everything else in its path that it was grinding to bits! Then, just as the machine’s very shadow hovered over him, it stopped. He wasted no time in jumping clear, and the machine continued on, belching and spitting its way through the tall green blades of The Great Forest.

As he crouched low behind a fallen leaf the little cricket rubbed his forewings together and uttered a prayer, “God, thank you for letting that big chomping thing stop and for letting me get away safely.” Not expecting any reply, he was startled by a deep, thundering voice that seemed to emanate from the sky and echo through all the grass and trees around him: “Well Willie, I guess we’re about even now!”

Confused and quivering from antennae to cercus, the small being hastily turned and hopped off to find a rain puddle. Willie had to know. He had to look into it and see who was looking back! Was he a man dreaming he was a cricket, or a cricket dreaming that he had been a man … or was it no dream at all?

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