It was New Year’s Day as I picked up Tom for a celebration breakfast at the Breakfast Club, our favorite restaurant. We shared a meal and afterward took a short hike through the college arboretum that had become a winter wonderland after days of heavy snowfall.

We could see our breath as we tramped down the narrow, slippery trail and took a seat on the bench next to the frozen pond. The sun was out, but it didn’t prevent the initial shock to my fat ass of seating on a slab of concrete. We lit our smokes and gazed out. I glanced over at Tom and caught him smiling like an ecstatic Buddha.

“Tom, what are you thinking about? That’s quite a smile.”

As if awakening from a dream, he shook himself back to this reality and answered.

“Thinking of bacon. Man, that bacon down there was delicious. Mom used to cook me bacon back in the day, but nothing that good.”

“Bacon, huh? That’s what’s making you smile?”

“Yep. Bacon and saber-toothed tigers.”

On the crunching march back to the car, he asked if I’d give him a lift that night to the One World Coffee House. I agreed without hesitation.

“Going out at night? Wow, must be something special.”

“Yep.”

Ten years with Tom had taught me that pressuring my friend never worked. He had never ventured out at night—not once—but I gave up on the folly of guessing. That is until he called me, which was also as rare as a solar eclipse. My level of excitement surprised me on the way over to the group home. Tom was waiting in the living room.

One look at my old friend and I had to take a seat. He had on a dark blue suit that fit too tightly, a bright red bow tie, white shirt, a polished pair of old black wingtips, and had slicked back his hair with way too much hair cream.

“Wow, look at you.”

“Do I look okay? This is my only suit.”

“You look great, man. We must be going to a special deal, huh?"

Silence.

Ready to head out?” I asked.

He didn’t answer but merely snatched a guitar case and a small portable amplifier from the kitchen table and stormed out toward the car, totally focused. I followed. We spoke no words as we drove and parked. He hopped out and hustled into the coffeehouse. They had packed the seats and tables with people, as it was Saturday's open mic. night.

Tom checked the schedule sheet with me as his close shadow and found his name—fifth one up. I bought us coffees, and we took one of the last seats. A young blonde college girl wearing red tennis shoes and a long white dress strummed on a ukulele and sang a snappy little tune, followed by two girls who played flutes. An older, long-haired guy played an electric guitar and tried to sing, followed by a sweet-voiced young woman with a keyboard who performed a song of her own.  

The busy, cheerful crowd rewarded each performance with polite applause and murmurs of approval and appreciation. Tom stepped up. My pal plugged in his amp and without a word of introduction started playing an incredible sounding guitar intro that turned heads and ended the many conversations. He awkwardly stepped toward the microphone and started singing an old Sam Cooke number—A Change is Gonna Come.

Tom sang with a deep, soulful, on-pitch voice and hit every note perfectly. The room had turned silent as all eyes turned toward him. Even the waitresses and servers stopped their duties and put down their trays in captivation. Tom played and sang with almost no body movement and kept his eyes closed. He finished up with a flourish on the guitar that echoed off the walls. The café erupted in applause, and everyone in the place vaulted to their feet. People were shaking their heads in wonder and giving each other high fives. Piercing whistles and cheers shook the windows. One older lady wiped tears from her eyes. 

I almost collapsed against the wall, frozen, as my ears kept ringing. I had to take a few deep breaths, for I have never been so bedazzled in my life. The people were still clapping as Tom picked up his equipment, exited, and headed for my car. He was smoking a cigarette and leaning on the passenger door when I caught up. I could still hear the murmurs of the impressed crowd as we got in the car.

“Holy shit. You were unbelievable! I’ve known you for years and years. Never knew you could play and sing like that. My God, that was brilliant. Did you enjoy yourself up there, Tom?”

“Too many people.”

We drove in silence back to his home. I followed him in. He took off his suit coat and tie, flopped on the couch, and flicked on the television.

“Are you going back there anytime soon?” I asked.

“Nope. Can’t.”

“Why’s that, Tom? You were fabulous.”

“That’s the only song I know how to play.”

I smiled for days on that one. It was incredible to see this shy old guy get up there and become a rock star for a few minutes. Tom offered me no explanation of why he had performed that one night. The mentation will remain his secret forever because that is how he wants it. Guess he had a dream and wanted it to come true.

I have no idea, but it is a memory that left a deep imprint. I have been lucky enough to have seen and heard much glorious music performed live, including Chicago, before their first album was released, Gordon Lightfoot in the Spokane Opera House, Dave Matthews in an outdoor venue, and Bruce Springsteen in Philly. Yet that old, classic song Tom performed is the best thing I have ever heard live. He never played in public again, to my knowledge. 

Next up in January's collection of tales, is a story filled with mystery and wonder. It all happened one New Year's Day, two days after my older brother passed away. 

I remember visiting my dear brother John in the hospital, walking down the long hallway with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. When I reached his room, I found him propped up in bed, surrounded by pillows supporting his now frail body. His eyes were closed, his breathing labored. It pained me to witness the exhaustion etched on his face, the struggle his aged body endured. He didn’t have the awareness to notice my presence, and that realization pierced my heart. 

In our Black family, the name John was a common thread, connecting generations. There was Grandpa John, the leader of our clan, Uncle John, known as Jack, and cousins, John Richard and John Stevens. My brother’s name was John Cassius, a unique identifier among the many Johns in our family. 

As I stood beside John’s bedside, I spoke to him, disregarding the difficulty he had in breathing. I took his chilly hand in mine and whispered into his ear, hoping my words could reach him somehow.

 “John, remember how green it was in Bellingham?” 

His eyes popped open for a few fleeting seconds. He emitted a moan and squeezed my hand. That intimate squeeze transported me back to another hospital room. Years before, my mother had given me a similar firm squeeze before uttering her last words, “I think I am leaving this world.” 

John’s squeeze seemed like a moment of connection, of a shared understanding between my brother and me. And just as quickly, John released my hand. It turned out to be our final interaction. His presence had been a foundation of security for me. As a little kid, I had been his ever-present shadow. John was  more than a brother, but a father replacement after our blood father died when we were young boys. His passing left a hole that I knew would never fully heal. I tried some more words and finally just sat there for another half-hour before sighing and making the sad stroll back to the hospital exit. Part of me knew I would never see him again. 

The following morning, I woke up abruptly at exactly 4 am. Something compelled me to check my computer, and there it was—a new email with a timestamp of 3:59 am. The words were simple yet carried immense weight. 

“John is gone.” 

I slumped in my chair, overcome with grief, and found solace in a cathartic shower, where tears streamed down my face. Determined to honor my brother’s memory in my way, I got bundled up for a visit to the neighborhood store. It was a freezing, snowy day, and I navigated the streets carefully. I slipped and slid myself to the store entrance and had to stomp by feet to knock off the snow, which was coming down silently in large flakes and had almost completely covered the parking lot with a fresh coat of whiteness. 

I purchased a cigar, despite being a rare smoker, and a bottle of cheap imitation Bailey’s liquor, though I rarely indulged. As I made my way back home, a golden retriever, old and grizzled, appeared by my side, out of the fog. His vibrant gold fur had faded with age, yet his presence was a comforting one. I gave the old dog a few pats as I lit the cigar and took a sip from the bottle. 

Surprisingly, he followed me down the street and sat patiently when I found respite on an icy bench near the church where John and I had once been choir boys. Halfway through the cigar and a few more sips, the cold finally got to me, and I bid farewell to my newfound companion as he faithfully escorted me to my front door. With a wag of his tail, the old dog moseyed off, leaving me pondering his sudden appearance. I knew my neighborhood well, for I walk or ride my bike on every street weekly. I could not remember ever seeing that old guy before, and that puzzled me. 

Two days after John’s passing on New Year’s Day, after the snow had melted away, I stumbled upon the old golden retriever sprawled out in the front yard of a house just three blocks away from my apartment.  His tale wagged as I approached. The man of the house was shoveling off the last remnants of snow from his driveway and sidewalk. Curiosity compelled me to stop and share the story of the dog’s escorting me.

The man smiled knowingly and responded, “Oh yeah. Old Cassius is a sweet old guy. My brother passed away a few months ago, and I took old Cassius home with me.” 

I stood there, shaking my head in amazement, a smile forming on my face. What a mysterious life this is, I thought, marveling at the unexpected twist of this tale. The dog who had accompanied me on a bittersweet journey, offering solace in my grief, was none other than Cassius. I knew my late brother John Cassius would have loved to hear of such a tale. It seems a poignant reminder that life is full of astonishing connections and inexplicable synchronicities.

John’s memory lives on, not only in the hearts of those who knew and loved him, but also in the mysterious presence of a loyal, grizzled golden retriever named Cassius. And as I continue to navigate the enigmatic journey of life, I cherish these remarkable moments, forever grateful for the bonds that transcend time and touch the deepest parts of our souls.

How you doing so far?   Quick poem break.

Nearly every student I ever attempted to teach over a quarter of a century memorized that short poem and had to recite it to me. 

Here are a few tales about my time as a night worker. The first one happened while attending Western Washington University. 

  I filled in during the night shift at the mental hospital for a few hours each month. One client, Ruby, used to sleep most of the day and had gotten in the habit of waking up at around midnight and moaning for food. The staff tried many things to get her back to a regular schedule, but nothing seemed to work. This 88-year-old gal wanted something to eat at midnight, and that appeared to be how it was going to go. 

Ruby communicated with grunts, sniffs, groans, and loud shrieks when upset. Her favorite midnight snack was Cream of Wheat. The cook would make up a triple batch and put it in the staff fridge.

Just like clockwork, here she came shuffling down the hall, so I hustled over to get the big bowl and her large bib before she started making enough noise to wake up this calm, quiet, dark floor and its two dozen severely disabled residents. She spotted me and started shaking her head, grunting and pointing. 

I said, “Here’s your Cream of Wheat, honey.”

She plopped down, I put on the bib that hung to her waist, and spooned fed her. She slurped the vast bowl of gruel up, and I stirred the last couple  spoonful's around. What happened next seemed beyond belief.

Suddenly, Ruby started coughing. I froze as the coughing picked up in intensity. One loud cough and out it came in a sticky stream like a volcanic eruption.  But it wasn’t lava, but a waterfall of Cream of Wheat. I dropped the bowl and sprinted to get a towel.

As I returned, the stream had gone down to almost her belly button. Before I could attempt the cleanup, I heard the first slurp which caused me to freeze. I watched and listened as she kept slurping as the creamy waterfall began flowing backwards into her mouth. Honestly, she slurped the entire thing back into her system and then gave out the loudest burp I have ever heard! She rolled her head around, smiled, pushed her old self up from the chair, and shuffled back to her room.

I followed her down and helped her into bed. To this day, even a quick glance at a Cream of Wheat box in the store makes me gag a little. 

Late one night, when the moon hung high and the stars illuminated the sky, I assumed my post as the night-time relief manager at the HUD apartment complex. It served as a small haven for twenty-two elderly and disabled folks. My duty was to ensure their well-being during the late-night hours.  I relished the opportunity to serve my community, even if it meant staying up all night, two nights a week. 

One resident, in particular, captured my heart—Alice, a sprightly 92-year-old with a mind lost in the labyrinth of time. Her memory wandered through the corridors of yesteryear, leaving her in a perpetual state of confusion. One fateful night, at the stroke of one, Alice rang my doorbell, jolting me from my music listening.

“Good evening, Alice. How may I help?” I greeted her, my voice a soft melody amid the silence of the night hallways.

“Isn’t it just a little past noon? Have you seen my husband?” she inquired, her eyes searching mine for answers.

With a tender smile, I assured her, “No, my dear, it’s not one in the afternoon, but one at night. I haven’t seen your husband—(he had passed away twenty-five years earlier.) But how about we take a brief journey together?”

A flicker of curiosity danced across Alice’s eyes as she nodded, her trust in my words shimmering like the moonlight. We embarked on an adventure through the winding corridor, our footsteps echoing in the night's stillness. The elevator, our magic carriage, carried us down to the community fridge, where I stored some snack delights in this nocturnal oasis.  

I reached for two cold cans of my cherished root beer and plucked two ice cream sandwiches from the frosty shelves. Alice’s eyes widened like a child witnessing  a rainbow and a joyous smile played upon her lips. She accepted the offerings, savoring the taste of nostalgia that clung to each bite.

“W-wow, this sure hit the spot,” she exclaimed, her voice filled with innocent delight. “You sure are nice to me. Do I know you, young man?”

I chuckled softly, touched by her endearing confusion. 

“I’m no young man, Alice. I’m seventy years old, just like a seasoned oak. But yes, you know me. I’m your friend, here to brighten your nights.”

As we ascended to her apartment, the fragility of age cast a fleeting shadow across Alice’s face. With a grateful sigh, she opened the door, ready to return to her sanctuary. But before bidding farewell, she halted, her memory momentarily awakening.

“Wait for one minute, please,” Alice whispered, her eyes glimmering with determination.

 She scurried inside, rummaging through her belongings until she emerged, clutching a quarter in her delicate hand. Placing it in my palm, she graced me with a gentle pat.

“Here’s a little tip for you, boy. You’ve been kind to me tonight. Now, I think I will take a nap and dream of better days.”

Moved by her gesture, I watched her retreat into the warmth of her abode, a sense of fulfillment permeating the night air. Alice's kind gesture made me realize how much we can mean to each other. As I resumed my listening spot, the doorbell rang three times in a row. The sound startled me, so I rushed to the door. My kitchen clock showed it to be nearly 3 am.

There stood Helen, another resident dressed in her pink terry-cloth robe that had turned into her regular uniform, day or night. She held out a wrinkled dollar bill and asked: “I need to buy a stamp. Do you have a couple?” 

Her breath made me want to call 911. 

“Nope. Sorry, Helen. I have no stamps.”

“Well, in that case, can you come down to my apartment and find my phone? I seem to have lost it.” 

I frantically searched under the couch, under her bed, around in her filthy bathroom, and through all her kitchen drawers. Finally, I opened up the freezer, mostly to get some fresh air and there it was, her phone in the freezer. I hustled home and gargled for some reason. 

About two hours later, the doorbell rang again. It was Robbie, recovering from a recent stroke who was infamous for talking non-stop.  

“Good morning, Robbie. How are you doing?” I asked. 

“One word describes it: Constipation!” he yelled in a voice that could have awakened the residents of the nearby graveyard. I invited him in, so he didn’t wake everyone up. I gave him a cup of coffee and said, “Well, this seems like it could be a really shitty story.”

He ignored my clever pun completely and answered:

“You got that right, pal! I’ve been on that damn pot for over three hours. Finally, I got it done. But then the toilet got plugged up. Had to use the plunger, but it finally twisted away. Looked like a rattlesnake.” 

Thus ended the night. I locked my door and headed to my bed. Was this all really worth the few bucks they took off my rent? I shrugged and snickered, as staying up two nights a week is no big deal to me. Most nights nothing happens, but this was a full-moon night, and that sometimes can mean lots of action. 

And so the night watchman’s oasis thrived. The old ones whose spirits now resembled those of a child gave me a treasure chest of simple stories to share. That is precious payment to a storyteller like me. Time to meet Duke.

Duke's cabin

Master mental health counselor Duke Franklin, a normally happy, positive guy and a compassionate, dedicated helper, had a view of being content as a goal until a series of setbacks threw him for a loop. His wife, the always smiling, positive, and creative June, had slipped away after a battle with the demon cancer, followed by his elderly mother passing away three months later. 

It had been a lonely holiday season and the winter weather had been brutal, which inhibited his travel. Being unable to keep all his appointments with his clients who lived in remote areas combined with brutal budget cutbacks had made money a concern. It was mid-January and snowstorms kept blowing in from the Pacific. In short, the loving, long-time helper was going through a tough stretch. Let’s go visit him in our final January story.

Duke’s front door blew open and banged into the bookshelf, sending his three prized Hemingway hard-backed novels cascading to the floor.  He ignored the disturbance and tried to return to his deep slumber by rolling up in the comforting quilt handcrafted years ago by his grandma. Didn’t work. 

The mean, cold Idaho air stormed through his exposed living room and attacked. It caused a shower of shivers. He sat up and felt a jolt of energy provoked by fear and confusion as he rubbed his arms and blew on his hands. He paused, testing if this was another of the wild nightmares that had started haunting him regularly weeks ago.

 Another crash—glass breaking—got him up, and he raced to the doorway. Papers were flying from his desk and the carpet was already showing white flecks from the snow drifting inside. The screen door kept banging incessantly, so he reached out on the porch to close it when he was grabbed by the right arm and spun outside.

 A foreign sound—the emergency line’s loud ring — demanded attention in the bedroom. He threw off the quilt and dashed toward it. He noticed his socks got soaked within the first three steps. 

“What the fuck?”

 He answered on the fourth ring. 

“Yeah, this is Duke.” 

“How you doing down there, Duke? Hell of a storm up here last night,” spoke a voice that Duke didn’t recognize.

“Yeah, it blew my door open,” answered Duke. 

“This is Jim at the Moscow Mental Health office. Afraid I have some bad news. Nate Phillips had what sounds like a psychotic break last night. Needs to be driven down to Hospital North. We got him an emergency bed early this morning.” 

“What the hell happened to Nate? Just saw him two days ago, and he was doing fine. Do you really think he needs to go into the hospital?” 

“Oh, yeah. He needs to go. All of us on the crisis team agree. You say you saw him on Saturday? He didn’t mention that to us.” 

“No, Thursday afternoon. I really don’t think he needs to go back down there. Damn, he’s been going to school, working full time, and taking his meds. Don’t get what happened.”

“Well, he drove himself to the emergency room Saturday night. Said he couldn’t get in touch with you. Something about your phone’s not working. Sounds like a lot happened since you last had contact. You said Thursday, right?”

Duke didn’t respond as he tried to process what he had been told. Today was Monday? He had lost two days? 

“Duke, you still there?” 

“Oh, yeah, excuse me. This is such a shock. What do you want me to do?”

 “Need you to give him a ride down to the hospital. It’s either you or the cops will take him down. I talked the crisis team into allowing me to phone you before we got the police involved.”

 “Where do I meet you guys?” “Nate’s asleep in my office. I’ll wait for you.”

Jim saw him pull up. 

“Hey, Duke. Any trouble getting up here? I got the state SUV warmed up and ready for you.” 

“No problem after the fog cleared. I don’t need the state car; I always use my vehicle.”

 “Well, you kind of have to use the state car, Duke. It has restraints and Nate is going down in restraints; that’s one of the things I had to agree to in order to keep the cops out of it.”

 “That’s bullshit. That kid doesn’t need to be in restraints. Won’t have one damn thing to do with this if you force me to use restraints on that boy.”

Jim stared at Duke for a long few moments and then excused himself. He came back minutes later with Nate and another man Duke had seen around the office a time or two.

“Okay, Nate is going down with no restraints, but I have to send Doug with you and you have to take the state car. Deal?” Jim asked, but it wasn’t really a question.

Doug took the wheel and Duke joined Nate in the backseat. They followed the twisting turns of the Clearwater River road headed to Orofino,  a sleepy, once-thriving logging community located directly on the scenic river. The town was now home to a new prison and the old Hospital North. 

“Thanks for coming and getting me, Duke,” Nate said before dozing off.

Hey, Doug, pull over at the Lenore Store would you?” asked Duke. 

He did, and Duke hopped up front after grabbing a couple of coffees for the last twenty minutes of the ride. Doug won Duke over as he started talking about his latest golfing trip to the Alabama Golf Trail last fall and his short time as a minor-league third baseman, both long-time interests of Duke. They pulled into the hospital emergency stop area. Three young men in white uniforms came hustling out to greet them. 

The wide awake Nate popped out of the backseat. 

“Duke, I am so sorry, man,” he said.

"Duke! Duke! Come on man, answer the door! We're worried about you", called his nearest neighbor, Doris.  Duke stumbled to the door. 

Did I get you on that one? I wanted to make certain that you were paying attention. Poor Duke, hope things work out for the guy. Before we exit January and move to the month dedicated to love, let us end with a free verse. 

Our second month of tales is centered on romance, love, loss, and hope. A  great woman friend, now gone, loved this free verse I did below.  When love blossoms, oh, how the world seems so much brighter! What power love has. Not all love stories have happy endings, so we must cherish those wondrous piano in the dark moments we do get.  We are headed to the emerald city of the Pacific Northwest—Seattle— for a love reunion story. 

“Son of a bitch, not that damn phone again,” I shout as I reluctantly pick up the phone. 

“Yeah, this is Blackie,” I answer, embarrassed by my abruptness and tone. 

“Ah, is that you Bob?” a singing, sexy voice that I instantly recognize asked. My heart raced. 

“Yep, who’s this?” I say playing as if I could ever forget the angel who owned that particular voice. 

“This is Brenda. We used to date a few years ago.”

 “Sorry dear, but I don’t remember you,” I lied after faking a long pause. 

 “Oh, I’m sorry. This was a mistake. Please excuse the interruption. ”

 "Wait! Brenda, where the hell are you? Of course, I remember you. I’ve never forgotten you,” I said quickly while mentally cursing my smart-ass words, and silly actions.

We were in a bed together the next night at the Hotel Sorrento in Seattle. 

She slept while I tried to process the story. I slithered out of the covers, grabbed my clothes, and sneaked into the bathroom. I dressed while recalling her entering the lounge uttering words I would never forget:

 “I so wanted to look pretty for you.”

 I had stood and gazed into her green eyes and involuntarily started stroking her waist-length auburn hair. The same hair that now unfurled covered the pillow like a fine tapestry, its various colors making a simply magnificent display. I teared up, wondering how it could be true. 

How could she be dying? 

I opened the door softly, slid outside, and was in the lobby a few seconds later. I smiled as I passed the dark lounge where we had danced and danced the previous night until it closed. Twelve years it had been. 

Her son was now a man and mine an awkward, young, active boy. We had missed enjoying them together. I punched the wall hard as I entered the revolving doors and hit the streets. I was given this gift and was going to make it, this next week, one to remember. I traveled on the light rail to Everett a few miles north where my best friend and near brother met me at the station. He tossed me the keys to his white Lincoln.

“Okay, brother, be kind to my baby now.” 

He patted the hood, waved, and got into his wife’s car. She waved at me. 

“Tell her ‘Hi’ from me, Blackie,” and he ducked into the passenger seat. He popped right back out and added: “Lee Ann made you a CD. It’s in the player, enjoy.” 

I drove back to Seattle with the Little River Band and Tina Turner tunes playing while planning the week. I parked Terry’s baby in the underground lot and took the elevator up. I spotted her through the window at the restaurant. She looked up instantly and her green eyes smiled at me as she motioned me in. Damn, she was beautiful! No prettier mid-forties woman in the world was the conclusion. We hugged like an old, familiar couple.

 “Madame, I am taking you on the Blackie Express Tour of Puget Sound. It’s all planned,” I said. 

“Oh, really? What if I had other plans? Assuming quite a lot aren’t you, kind sir?” 

“Hey, an old broad like you can’t be too damn fussy, but I will try again. Me Lady, would you join me on a tour of Puget Sound?” 

“I would be delighted with only one stipulation. No talk of the past or the future will be allowed,” she looked up, and I knew she was serious. 

“Okay, we will label this the Ram Dass—Be Here Now—Tour. Be here now is the rule,” I said.

 “I love it! Now, let’s order some really fattening food.” 

She opened up the menu. We did just that. I looked up between bites and the slideshow started. The love-making had always been perfect, the trips all over always fun and full of banter, her outward beauty and consistent moods a constant. I kept seeing what could have been and what should have been. She suddenly looked up. 

“Ram Dass, Bobby, Ram Dass. Be here now."

Seattle Library 

We did it all. Pike’s Street Market, a trip up the Space Needle, the Pacific Science Center, and a full half day gazing in wonder at the amazing architecture of the Seattle Public Library. A wine-filled lunch at a French restaurant and a shopping trip where I watched her try on several outfits before she picked an elegant one. The sun was going down with Mt. Rainier visible in the distance when we got on the Mukilteo Ferry and headed to our island paradise, Captain Whidbey’s Inn. That was just the first day.

Captain Whidbey's Inn

A road trip north with a cruise up Chuckanut Drive, and Bellingham. A day on the ferries cruising around the San Juan Islands, another one on the Olympic Peninsula eating crab until we thought we would explode. Always ending up snuggled together in one of the Captain’s feather beds. 

The last day was a trip to Mt. Rainier’s ice caves and another night of dancing and the Camlin Hotel lounge. View from Chuckanut Drive I took her home to my little place across the state. I came rushing home after a day at work and she had disappeared. She left a video and a note which my eyes will only see. I tried everything I could to track her down, even calling up my old bounty hunter friend, but we could never find her.

Her son called me twelve weeks later and told me she had passed. Turned out she had headed to the California redwoods for her ending. It was one of the biggest blows I have ever taken. But as time has passed, I remember that week fondly, especially on lonely nights. It was the finest, most noble thing I have ever done for anyone. I hope it was good for her, too. The Ram Dass Tour will always be a favorite memory.

Goodbye, my dear friend and lover!

This One is For All the Girls!

I have loved  many women in my circles around the sun. I am not just talking about the ones who shared my bed or I theirs. I am neither proud nor ashamed of the number. I see all their faces, remember their looks, and still whisper some of their names on frosty nights as I turn over in my bed alone. Even on days of searing heat, a song pops on the radio from a time that reminds me of one of them. I often thank them for holding me or letting me hold them as we fought off the God-forsaken loneliness for a moment or day or two or ten. 

The women who called me husband have vanished. I put modest rings on each of their fingers and made vows that were sincere for both of us. We spoke them as we looked into each other’s eyes and saw only a wonderful future and a dear friend. These are now faded memories, like old blue jeans that don’t fit quite right anymore. They are names now and the recall so distant that they don’t even seem totally real. 

When I allow myself to peek out of the shell I have put around me, I have to admit I never fully recovered from the shock of my best friend, Rhonda, handing me a pile of papers from out of the blue thirty years ago that ended our life together. My second marriage was a gallant try, an act of some desperation. But that isn’t what this story is about today. It is about how I love women. I really do. It started early on with little, skinny Mary.

Mary lived in Rathbone’s ten-acre junkyard on the edge of our neighborhood. I look back at our Whitman Elementary School pictures and there is little, skinny Mary in my first, second, and third-grade class pictures wearing the same white dress with an embroidered red rose on the right side. Her white arms stuck out of the sleeves of the dress like brittle looking branches from a birch tree. She never smiled in any of the pictures. I never heard her say a word in school that I can remember other than when she read aloud as we all pretended to listen. 

But I had feelings for her and I now know them as love for a spirit or soul. I would spy through the drapes of my fifties-era living room as she walked to school by herself, always alone, in a light spring sweater in the middle of winter. I could feel her shivers. I stole my visiting cousin Nancy's winter coat one day and hid it in the basement. I took it up after dark to the scary junkyard and hung it on the fence. I was pleased to see her wearing it the next morning. She wore it every winter day. I remember that. 

One day at school I found a small rusted metal truck, a perfect cat-eye marble, and a piece of bubble gum on top of my desk after recess. We graduated from high school together, but that distant exchange was our only contact. I still think of little, skinny Mary to this day. I loved her.

 In fourth grade, our teacher, Miss Renner, gathered us together and told us she wanted to ask a favor. She showed us the back page of the Tribune and there was Crystal’s father’s picture. They had arrested him for breaking into the Foodland City Market. Miss Renner told us she wanted us all to imagine how Crystal might feel and asked what we thought. After she finished the meeting, all of us were determined to protect Crystal. 

She shuffled into class with her eyes downcast and hung up her coat. I noticed her movement, her nervousness, and I loved her. David, a tough kid always in trouble, announced at recess that he would pound anyone who teased her. I always smiled at Crystal throughout the rest of our eight years at school. I remember feeling that Miss Renner was special too after that day. I loved them.

 My first year I was one gung-ho teacher. I landed a sixth-grade position in a small Western Washington town and loved every second. The kids liked me and some would come and talk at recess or have lunch with me in my classroom. Cindy was one girl who ate with me often. She was overweight and homely. Her mother and father wore matching bowling jackets on parent’s open house night. They were a poor family and Cindy had no real friends at school. 

She stopped working in mid-January and didn’t come in for lunch anymore. She hadn’t handed in any homework for days, and I was going to confront her and demand she shape up. However, when the opportunity arose, I let it slip by. Then she disappeared. One day after school she showed up and gave me a piece of smoked salmon her grandfather had caught wrapped in tinfoil. She also gave me a quick, awkward hug, dropped a note on my desk, and ran out of the room. I opened the note which read:

She was twelve years old. I didn’t see her until the next year when I spotted her living in a motel room and pushing her little boy in a cheap stroller. She lived there for at least five years, raising that little boy and cleaning the rooms. I would see her, and I silently cheered her for trying to be a hero. I loved her.

I convinced Lacey to try out for my eighth-grade basketball team. This robust country girl could be pretty when she wanted to be. She was in trouble a fair amount of time and lived on an isolated ranch a 45-minute bus ride away from our small school. Lacey tried out for the team and became remarkably good in a short time. The kids cheered her on. She was always diving on the floor and played the game—I was going to say balls out—but maybe intensely would be a better way to put it. 

She became a star of sorts and one day came into my class and said, “Coach, this is a good day. It’s my birthday and Mom is going to come watch me play tonight.” This tough girl was genuinely excited. She repeated her excitement before the game that her mom was going to come watch her play. 

The game started and Lacey played hard. The fourth quarter started, and she said: “Coach I don’t want to play anymore tonight.” I nodded. After the game, Lacey slammed her locker and almost got in a fight before storming off into the night. I went over with my assistant coach to have a victory beer at the one bar in town. There sat Lacey’s mother, shit-faced, having no clue about how she had disappointed her wonderful daughter. Lacey got into drugs and was often suspended, but she always had a special place in my heart. Still does. I loved her.

I had 103 foster daughters over the years. Most brought me joy, especially Terri, who stayed with us for two years. There was Andrea in high school who was into the popularity contest game and one of the cheerleader ‘in’ crowd people. Then her father committed suicide. She changed. She ended up being a girl who stayed off by herself and wrote poetry—some of it quite good. I had never really enjoyed her as a cheerleader, but I loved her as a poet. We became close friends but never dated or anything. I loved her. 

There are many more women whom I have admired and loved. There was Grace, a social worker who worked with us at the Runaway Shelter, who was consistently cool under fire and could bond quickly with the girls that came to stay with us. She was a living angel. I loved her. 

There are dozens more specific examples, but I love almost all women. I see what they have to go through—always concerned about their looks and appeal. I see the beautiful ones with their fresh, oval faces, gleaming eyes and toned bodies walking along with those who are carrying a bit too much weight and have more ordinary features.

 I sometimes don’t know who I pity more, the winners of the appearance game or the also-rans. We men or boys jump in the shower, brush our teeth, glance at our reflection for a second or two and are off. Women and girls spend so much more time, like an artist, trying to get the painting details just right. It must be exhausting at times. 

Those who meet the standards of beauty or prettiness are routinely bothered with attention they don’t want, or outwardly harassed with snide or crass comments about sex. It is sad to see this group as they grow older and the blossoms of their youth withering a bit. They fight it as appearance has always been the focus and the expectations of society. They don’t know how to become part of the larger collection of the less desirable. 

The others, the common ones, are ignored and have to live life without all the goodies. They work at jobs in the shadows and often work so hard. They see the pretty ones in elegant homes with trophy men. And both groups are equal in one respect. They get raped, molested in secret, and then have to carry the burden and the unfounded guilt. This common burden is like hauling a backpack filled with books that have no words.

 I have heard enough first-hand stories to know these awful nightmares are just a part of the game. Part of being a woman. I used to watch women and undress them in my mind, imagining how the sex would be. As I grew older, the views changed to reading subtle body language and imagining the self-talk and sensing the constant fear. I know their struggles better than most other men.

I can’t go to a nudie bar or even imagine paying for sex, knowing the background stories as I do. And what happens to the girls who can think or write or excel at nearly anything? It is always the same damn struggle. These mental feats are not as valued as appearance. So, they fight to be heard and respected and even then they have to balance out the sexual stuff that is always around hovering like stinking, invisible smog.

And they have children! Another human shares the body, and the mother releases them into the world, ignoring the intense pain. Now, here is an experience that is totally something only a woman can understand fully. Men have no right to suggest anything about birth control, abortion decisions, or any item or subject dealing with the female body. Fat white guys talking about female’s bodies on any level need to be tortured. But I will save that rant for another day.

 My mother and I became friends in the years leading up to her death. We both evolved and switched roles in the end. I will never forget putting a bib on her at the nursing home and how we laughed. She didn’t even notice the last kiss I left on her forehead hours before she took her first steps into eternity.

But she knew I had loved her. 

I have these treasured thoughts of women almost daily. I know that the most effective single thing that can be done to alleviate poverty in this world has a name: The empowerment of women. 

 A short love tale.

Seattle often held enchantment and had been the scene not only of my birth, but of many a memory. One vivid recall sticks out and happened amid a rare February snowstorm. I stumbled upon a hidden gem—the Camlin Hotel’s piano bar known as the Cloud Room. 

My heart carried the weight of tragic news, not yet a year old. My once best friend and supposed soulmate, Wanda, had delivered a heartbreaking 30-page letter that shocked me to the core one June evening. I had no clue that she had become so unhappy, so troubled, and had figured I was the major problem. The end of seven years of love and adventure left my heart in pieces.

Two days ago, we completed our divorce, and I went to seek solace in a concert at the Paramount Theater in Seattle. 

It was Valentine’s Day, a day I had renamed “Kill Cupid Day,” and the concert featured the legendary blues musicians Freddie and Albert King. Little did I know that this snowy, windy night would change the course of my life forever.

Realizing the treacherous roads would make my journey back home perilous, I contemplated on spending the night. As if guided by fate, I hustled across the street from the Paramount with the wind whipping in cold gusts that chilled me to the bone. I impulsively checked into the Camlin Hotel, after being told they had one room still available. 

Curiosity led me to inquire about a good place to grab a drink, and the clerk pointed upstairs, proclaiming, “Oh, you are in luck, my friend. Gidget is playing the piano and singing up in the Cloud Room. She is fabulous. Oh, and order the house specialty, a Monte Cristo.” 

With a grateful smile, I thanked the clerk and ascended to the 12th floor, where the doors to the Cloud Room opened, revealing a dark, candle-lit paradise. A vision of loveliness greeted my eyes—an exquisite woman in a vibrant red dress, her long black hair cascading down her back. She flashed a smile my way from her piano seat, sending shivers down my spine. I immediately pulled out ten bucks and added it to her money glass as she started the introduction to the old Dorothy Moore classic: ♪ What A Difference a Day Makes.♪ which had been a favorite tune of my mom and dad. She noticed and winked at me. 

There was only one small table available, and I seized the opportunity to sit there. I shook my head in wonder at the breathtaking view of the Space Needle in the distance as snowflakes fell. It seemed like a dream as I hung my wet coat on the back of the leather chair, untied my neck scarf, and wiped a hand through my damp hair. A friendly and charming waitress named Julie introduced herself. I ordered the recommended Monte Cristo, intrigued by its reputation. Julie smiled and said, “Great choice.” 

As I sat there, I felt like a cat that had fallen from the rooftop, yet somehow landed unscathed on all four feet. The concert by the Kings had been beyond belief, and their blues music still resonated in my ears, creating a magical ambiance. To my surprise, the piano-playing songstress took a break from her mesmerizing performance, her red dress still radiant in the soft glow of the room. In her charming accent, she asked, “Mind if I sit here? No other seats are open.”

I promptly rose from my seat, acknowledging the privilege of her company. “It would be an honor,” I managed to say, my voice laced with anticipation. I hastened to pull out her chair, and she graciously accepted with a smile.

“Oh, how charming. I have found a gentleman.” 

We engaged in conversation as she sipped on a glass of wine, her presence casting a spell over me. 

“So, my new friend, what can I play and sing for you tonight? A handsome man, all alone on Valentine’s Day, deserves a treat,” she said playfully. 

Without hesitation, I responded, “Carole King’s ‘Up on the Roof’ would be perfect.”

Her eyes sparkled with delight. 

“Ah, one of my favorites too, Blackie.”

And so, she glided over to the piano and skillfully played and sang the tune, capturing the hearts of every couple in the room. We all joined in, a chorus of strangers united in harmony. It was pure enchantment—a fleeting shooting star moment etched forever in my memory. As fate would have it, the piano player and singer known as Gidget sought companionship after the Cloud Room closed its doors that night. We found ourselves drawn to each other, and our connection ignited a passionate love affair. 

Gidget, the Filipina songstress, traveled across the country and even the world, sharing her music with adoring fans. She would call me whenever she neared Seattle, and we would meet again at the Camlin Hotel. It became our secret love spot, where whispers of love and stolen moments intertwined. Time passed, and our love endured for over four years, albeit with intermittent breaks caused by Gidget’s demanding schedule. Our love was a flame that flickered in the wind but never extinguished. However, one fateful night, she delivered news that saddened my heart—she was getting married and returning to her home in Manila. 

She sang the Dianne Reeves classic, “Better Days,” to me, her voice tinged with both longing and hope. The captivating and talented Gidget had brought hope and love back into my life. Though our paths diverged, I shall forever cherish the memory of that amazing, lovely, and beautiful singer and piano player who graced the Cloud Room. She was the muse who inspired me to embrace life’s possibilities and believe in love once again. Whenever I hear "♪Up on the Roof,♪" I am reminded of that first special evening at the Camlin Hotel's Cloud Room. 

There are many forms of love. The romantic love between couples gets the most attention but there are other sterling forms. The love for a best friend is special, for example. However, there is one form of love that we end this month with in the last story for February. It is the unreal love between grandparents and their grand children. 

Welcome to spring, when things come alive again. In our first March story we travel to the college town of Moscow, Idaho to visit an artist friend. 

This tale is part one of the book, Muses from Moscow. Here she is: 

I am telling you about her because what unfolds as the pages turn is noteworthy, entertaining, and perhaps even a bit inspiring. We shall see. Come join us for a few moments. Relax in a comfy spot and grab a beverage for Allie is about to discover an unforeseen treasure on her walk today so please come along. Here is her latest creation.

She took a last look as she tied up her boots, buttoned up her white leather jacket her keen eye had spotted hanging on a lonely hanger at the Salvation Army thrift store a few days ago, and exited stage right. The merry sound of the voices, giggles, and rowdy running around that made up the melody of the neighborhood elementary school recess became today's background tune. The daffodils and tulips were on display in nearly every yard she passed, and a few trees were showing off their beginning blossoms. She noticed the beauty of the dawning of spring and felt in the right frame of mind to soak it all in. 

Allie ambled up a fairly steep hill, paused at the top, and glanced around. Something didn't feel right. She impulsively made a decision to head over to the city park, which housed an enormous old water tower. It was a pretty enough place, but her decision had not been based on scenery. She needed a bench, and quickly. 

The park appeared empty except for one young couple with their arms around each other, smooching on a blanket and soaking in the sun. Allie had enough energy—barely—to make it to the remote back entrance and slipped onto the wooden bench.  

“Woo, I think I made it in time,” she muttered as she leaned back and popped up her feet on the bench. The ringing in her ears that had been so intense for the last few steps had dissipated and the dull feeling in her head that often portended a massive migraine spell had magically disappeared.

She felt relief and knew from experience exactly what to do.  Allie closed her eyes and visualized one of her power spots—a view of an Upper Peninsula Michigan lake—that had always relaxed her. Our artist friend imagined being there and could actually hear the soothing water sound in the distance. She focused on her breathing, taking deep breaths, and exaggerating the blowing out. After a few moments, she risked opening her eyes. She felt  fine.   

The safe play would be glide back down the hill, turn on some soft music, get something light to eat, and lie down on the sofa. But it had turned out to be such a glorious day that she decided to sit quietly for a few more minutes.  

“I know that look,” a voice owned by an elderly, short woman with long gray hair carrying a large leather satchel spoke from behind her. 

“I know you don't want any visitors at this moment, but I saw your struggle. Thought I should offer some help. Did you get to the bench on time? I could go get the Plymouth and take you home if it is getting out of control. Migraine, isn't it?  I get the goddamn things at times myself.” 

“Oh, hi. Yeah, you're right, but I believe I got it in time. In fact, I was just thinking that maybe I could still get in my walk after all. I try not to let them control me all the time. I'm fine, sit down for a few moments if you'd like.” 

 They sat at the kitchen table, which looked out on a fenced in, totally private backyard that was terraced with golden rocks, railroad ties and dozens of plant containers.  Two white wooden  chairs sat invitingly in one cozy looking corner. Hundreds of tulips of every color and several types of daffodils, each with their special tinge,  were lumped together. Three large fruit trees were already in full bloom, and the immaculately groomed lawn showed a healthy, vibrant green. All the bushes were neatly trimmed and thriving.  Pearl had created a horticultural masterpiece.   

“My god, Pearl!  I have never seen a more exquisite backyard in my life!” 

“Well, thanks, Allie. That's my art.  Author/therapist Virginia Satir once said everyone needs a magnificent obsession, and this yard is mine. So, what's your magnificent obsession, dear?”

 “Oh, I don't know for certain. Vintage clothing is something I love.  I enjoy traveling and doing my form of art. I guess those are my obsessions.” 

 “Allie, I would really like it if you'd hang out here and share a meal with me. I have something in the oven that will be ready in about an hour. In the meantime, how about some wine and tell me about that stellar white jacket you are sporting today.”

 “Oh, I don't know Pearl.  I really shouldn't press it. But damn, whatever is in that oven smells so good my mouth is watering. Yes, is the answer and yes to the wine, too. I spotted the jacket in the thrift store.  I couldn't believe it when I put it on. It fits me perfectly. By the way, I noticed that satchel you were carrying. It looks like expensive leather.” 

 “Oh, my satchel. It's a leftover from my past, miserable life as a trophy wife in New York years ago. I use it to pick up trash. I pick an alley each Thursday and pick up after the slobs who like to throw shit around.  Weird hobby, huh?”  

 “No way! I would love to join you on your cleaning mission. Count me in. I'll have to find me a satchel this next week.” 

 “Nope. I'll give you one of mine. I have a dozen of the damn things stuck in the basement.  They weren't cheap either as my worthless, asshole of an ex-husband, the big judge himself, liked to keep up appearances. I really enjoy filling them up with garbage, as I know it would drive the pompous prick beyond crazy if he could see what I am using them for.  HA!”   

The two women sealed their new friendship with a meal of Caesar salad, homemade garlic bread, a pasta dish that would have been a featured item in any five-star restaurant, and more red wine. They talked for hours about everything under the sun. 

Allie began slipping on her coat when Pearl grabbed her and hugged her hard. 

 “You have no idea what you have done for me, Ally. A year ago, on this very day, something horrid happened that I will never forget. You helped me get through this day. I  can never repay you.” Her eyes filled with tears. 

“No, no, you don't understand. Pearl, a year ago, I couldn't get out of my hospital bed so fierce had been my  suffering. I had been ill for so long and I honestly didn't think I would ever get back to feeling normal. It has been a struggle. This has been one of my favorite days and I am thankful you took the time to show concern for me. It means so much.  What happened to you, Pearl?”  

 “My precious daughter, Dani, almost died of a drug overdose. And her addiction is ultimately my fault.  You've heard of the sins of the father, right? Well, my daughter almost died because of the weaknesses of her mother. It is a fact.” 

  “Tell me the entire story, right now, Pearl,” Allie said as she took off her white jacket and sat back down. 

“Only if you’ll eat a slice of my huckleberry pie. We picked them ourselves up on the St. Joe River. I’m having a coffee with a shot of Bailey’s. Want one?” 

Here is the beginning of Pearl's story.

The performance from the luncheon had ended with his final public smile as he helped put on her coat. He had held his Pearl's hand, majestically opened the doors for her, and pulled out her chair in such a patient, gallant way. He had introduced her dozens of times as his “Lovely wife.”  From a distance, his smile seemed genuine and his phony fawning admired by all witnessing his classic public performance; especially the other women who secretly fantasied being the wife of such a powerful, intelligent and handsome man.

But Pearl saw the familiar pursing of the lips as the counterfeit smile dissolved and knew she had once again disappointed the Judge somehow, someway.  

She had counted his drinks-four glasses of red wine and three martinis. That amount of alcohol usually portended a verbal explosion at the minimum, and probably a firm slap or two across the cheeks to emphasize the points. It had not always been this way.

Pearl's teaching career had put country kid Raymond through law school. Her efforts had given them the foundation for acquiring wealth after they accepted him into the respected law firm of Walker, Daniels, and Larson and then voted in as the youngest judge in New York state history. He had been remote but kind, civil, respectful and, at times, quite loving, in the early years.  

That all ended when she received her first “correction” from the man when she was six months pregnant. This correction had left her with a swollen throat, an arm in a sling, and a bulging black eye that no amount of make-up could fully conceal.  She would never forget the contempt that showed in his piercing blue eyes that one early morning. The day when she showed him his new daughter for the first time. Luckily, she had given him a son the next time. He then demanded she “go get herself fixed” as two kids were enough.

The most severe of the corrections came when Pearl suggested  she would like to return to teaching after the two children were both in school. He slugged her repeatedly with full force and kicked her when she fell down. He forbade her from seeking any medical treatment and demanded she tell the story of falling down the stairs as an explanation for the bruises and the other injuries. It took her a full month to recover. 

He never beat her that severely again, but the message had been sent. She had seen in his eyes that he was capable of killing her. Thus, the pretend game began. The public displays of fake affection, the isolation he demanded of her, which included no actual women friendships, a no-visitor policy, the barked orders and daily demands and the savage, impersonal sex. Any thoughts of leaving had long ago moved into the deep subconscious as the rearing of her children took precedence over her own needs. The kids had fled to the west coast. 

Now, she was alone with this monster. 

The two actors came to a stop at a busy crosswalk.  Pearl decided to take a chance. “Oh, look Raymond. The renovation of the museum is almost done. 

My, what a marvelous building that is!”

 Pierce grabbed and twisted his two-hundred dollar silk tie as he spun to face her. His fist was still clenched on his tie as he gave his answer. 

“Did I ask you anything, you stupid bitch? What the hell do you know about architecture? That building is an eyesore and a waste of taxpayer money.”

 By the time she finished the crosswalk stroll and hopped up on the sidewalk, she had decided. She would leave him.

Pearl knew it would require planning and some time, but she was going to be done with this sick game. She slowed down in defiance when the snap, snap signal was given a full half-block ahead. Yes, she would most definitely leave him...

After filling the sink with soapy water, Pearl patted Allie's arm  and cleared off the table. 

“Let me help, Pearl.”

 They did the dishes in silence and headed outside to water the garden. Pearl shut off the water and coiled up the hose. 

“Time to get you your satchel.” 

They headed back inside. Allie followed her down some narrow stairs to the basement. Pearl threw up the double doors of a walk-in closet, and there they were. Dozens of obviously expensive leather satchels.

 “Here, take this one, for starters. It matches that wonderful coat of yours.” 

She handed it to Allie. 

 “Now, you need one for our Thursday meetings. Take your pick and no nonsense about not wanting one or any of that stuff. They just sit down here, year after year. You will appreciate them, I can tell. ” 

Allie needed little time. She picked a large, deep brown one and found herself with an expensive leather satchel on each arm as Pearl held open the screen door for her.

 “Thanks for a wonderful day, Pearl. The delicious  meal, the wine, the Bailey's and these fine-looking satchels. ”

“The pleasure is all mine, love. Come over at around noon Thursday. I’ll look forward to it.”

She started to close the door, but Allie stopped her. 

“Pearl, you never told me about Dani.” 

There was a pause. 

“Well, I got the first part out. I’ll tell you the rest of it one of these days. Sweet of you to ask. Take care of yourself, and thanks for allowing an old lady to babble on and on.”

“Thanks for saving me today, Pearl.” 

They hugged and Allie made it home already excitedly thinking about next Thursday. It had been a great day and now she had a new friend. She climbed down the hill as the Palouse sunset gave out its last glow.  

To repeat, this is the first chapter in the book entitled: Muses from Moscow. Pearl and Allie have several more adventures. Now, let us head to Mexico for more tales.

In the bustling Mexican mountain city of Oaxaca, where outdoor cafes dotted the streets and the  scent of roasted coffee beans filled the air, lucky traveler Bobby Blackie Banks found himself renting a cozy room above a lively restaurant. It was a charming place, with beautiful old buildings and grand cathedrals that seemed to whisper tales of the city's rich history. 

Bobby's room held a peculiar charm of its own—it had a rooftop shower. Yes, you read that right. A shower on the rooftop. But there was a catch. To enjoy a two-minute shower, Bobby had to summon his inner survivalist and ignite a small fire with a bundle of sticks to heat enough water. It was an adventure in itself, but Bobby reveled in the novelty of the experience. 

The restaurant owners, a friendly and jovial couple, relished Bobby's company and his timely rent money. They shared stories over meals, their laughter mingling with the aromatic flavors of Oaxacan cuisine. Bobby had been residing in the city for over two months when he witnessed a scene that left him shaking his head in disbelief.

Let's begin our journey to Mexico with this scene I, Bobby, will never forget that I witnessed as a 22-year old traveler.  A little Mexican cutie, about ten, stood selling ice cream from her family's cart near the town center.  

In her tiny voice she kept yelling out: “Consique tu helado, aquimismo.” (Get your ice cream right here).   

Up to the cart waddled an overweight woman digging in her too big of a purse for some pesos to purchase a refreshing treat on this hot day. 

“Give me a strawberry one and hurry it up,” she announced in a deep Texas drawl. 

The little gal got out a cone and put in a scoop of vanilla, smiled, and handed it to her.

 “No, no, no! I want a strawberry one,” the southern belle bellowed while pushing away the cone. 

 The little one stood confused. After a moment, she got out another cone and put in a big scoop of chocolate.  The young worker tried to hand it to the belle.

 “Oh, for Christ sakes!  I said STRAWBERRY!” she yelled adding, “why in the hell can't these people learn English?” 

Okay stop the music for a minute. We were in Oaxaca, which is hundreds of miles from the nearest border crossing. The boorish way this unpleasant woman was acting toward the little girl both angered and amused me. I intervened. 

“Retrato de nina, ella quiere una fresa.  Voy a tomar el chocolate,” I yelled over as I ambled toward the cart. (“Little one, she wants a strawberry.  I'll take the chocolate one.”)

The lady got her strawberry, paid, and without a smile or thank you bustled off. 

“Gracias, senor,” the little one smiled at me. 

 I sat next to her and ate the chocolate one, made faces, and I acted out the lady's orders to her in a mocking way. We laughed together.  She waved at me every day after this, which still makes my heart smile. Here is another Mexico travel experience from a tiny jungle village on the Pacific Ocean, called Yelpa. 

I discovered this one village called Yelpa on a lark. I heard about this boat trip to Yelpa while hanging around in Puerto Vallarta. Seemed like a good day trip, so I got on the cruise boat and landed in this jungle paradise enthralled by the stunning beauty. The place captivated me, so I let the boat leave and rented a place for the night. Wow!

The night sky became so clear that it felt like I could reach up and touch the Milky Way's stars.  I ended up staying there for almost two months. I became a regular village presence and ate breakfast at the same restaurant on the beach every morning. The place was run by a busy Mom and her three daughters.  

They called me Senor Ojos Azules (Mr. Blue Eyes).  I sat down one morning and Mamacita brought me a plate of tortillas wrapped in a hot towel, some coffee, and a platter filled with scrambled eggs, black beans and rice. This made up my usual fare. She smiled and returned with a bowl of green sauce.  

 “Just for you.” 

I put together a tortilla and added the green sauce.  A tick later my mouth caught on fire. I glanced over and there they all were peeking out and suppressing giggles.  I will never forget that precious scene. The girls started baking and selling me fresh coconut pies that they delivered to my hut on the river. I hired them to do my laundry which they washed in the river and dried on the boulders. 

They giggled all the time when they visited and served me like a king when I came to their restaurant for breakfast each morning. Mamacita spoke to me on my last day:

 " You no can forget us, Senor Ojos Azules."

 I never have. I loved those girls and their kind mama. 

Mexico City 

In the bustling streets of the gigantic metropolis of Mexico City, I found myself in quite a predicament. I had been adventuring through the vibrant country, collecting souvenirs from every corner. A young me had ventured to Oaxaca and invested almost every penny of my travel money in camisas and hammocks, hoping to make a handsome profit selling them back home in Bellingham, Washington. 

My paid for return airline ticket to Los Angeles had been safely tucked away in my backpack in my modest hotel room.  I had overspent and anxiously sat waiting for my dad to send me some money from my credit union back account. However, as the days slipped by, the wired funds failed to arrive at their usual time, leaving me in a dire financial situation. Being dead broke in Mexico City is not a stress-free situation.  I had almost completely run out of money. I was existing on pumpkin seeds and blender drinks purchased from street vendors. I had become desperate to make ends meet, and I realized I had few options available to remedy the situation. 

I decided to take a chance and hit the streets hoping to sell a few of my camisas and  hammocks. I headed to the sidewalk outside the American Embassy where I figured I could make a few quick sales in safety. My skin had bronzed out and my long moustache and decent Spanish helped me blend in. An American couple came by and started looking over my items. I smiled and chatted with them. 

The young woman disgustedly threw down a camisa and said in too loud of a voice, "You're an American?" 

My presence offended them for some weird reason. I sold six camisas in no time and had only two hammocks left when I spotted them coming toward me. Two infamous Federales with their glistening silver guns strapped to their sides. I snatched the two hammocks and remaining camisas and entered the embassy. I stayed there until I figured I could hustle over to my room. I made it back, but my heart rate didn't return to normal for nearly an hour. 

The sales allowed me to pay for my hotel room, but an ultimate challenge remained—how to gather enough money to reach the airport and catch my flight. Fearing the infamous police armed with silver guns, I decided to avoid any encounters and hurriedly sought an alternative route to the airport. I eventually discovered a subway line that could lead me there. With a glimmer of hope in my eyes, I approached the subway entrance but was met with an unforeseen obstacle—no backpacks were allowed.

Now I found himself in a tight spot. Time was ticking, and my plane was set to depart in a few short hours. With no hotel room and no money for transportation, the thought of spending the night on the streets of Mexico City filled me with trepidation. My desperation pushed me to make a daring proposition to a taxi driver, begging him to take me to the airport in exchange for six camisas and a hammock. The taxi driver eventually agreed.

 As they rushed through the chaotic streets in the cab, my heart fluttered with a mix of anxiety and relief. Upon arriving at the airport, I hastily made my way to the ticket counter, eager to escape my troubles. However, just as I thought I had overcome the last hurdle, a worker demanded I pay the hefty exit tax of $26. 

I could feel my face drain of color as I explained my predicament—I had no money left. The unsympathetic worker, frustrated by the situation, berated me and ordered me to step out of the line. Feeling defeated, I sank into a chair, unsure of what to do next. But fate had another plan in store. Another ticket checker appeared, a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes. 

"This is ridiculous!" he exclaimed. 

Without further ado, he stamped my ticket and ushered me through the gate, much to my immense relief. Finally seated on the airplane, my worries began to dissipate. Destiny seemed to smile upon me as I found himself sandwiched between two stunningly beautiful, smiling women. 

Laughter filled the cabin, and I discovered the journey back home held unexpected pleasures. As the airplane soared through the skies, carrying me back to Bellingham, I reveled in the tales I would have to share from my Mexican adventures. The story of how I almost got stranded in Mexico City, faced down the police, and overcame numerous obstacles would surely be told, but perhaps the most exciting parts, including his encounters with the two beautiful women, would remain a story for another time.

We return to the Pacific Northwest for this next March tale entitled: Old Hippie Dave and the Black Bear.

One foggy March early morning, a black bear got messed up and ended up in the middle of town. The poor thing sprinted down Tumbleweed’s main street and got spotted by a startled Doris, opening up her coffee shop at the crack of dawn. 

She ran out in front of one police car heading off night shift. It had to cram on the brakes and swerve in the thick fog to avoid hitting her. She breathlessly alerted them of the sprinting bear. Our police force, full of Barney Fife clones, had to stop their usual hunt for jaywalkers, dumpster violators, and pickups with no mufflers and head to the scene of the unusual sighting.

Of course, by the time they got near Doris’s place, the creature had made it to the bike path on the Snake River dike. The bear’s presence suddenly emerging through the eerie, thick fog scattered dozens of joggers, made elderly couples walking their dogs gasp, while bike riders and power walkers stopped and looked around in confusion. Sirens filled the town air, which got the attention of many yawning residents just getting out of bed.   

An old class of ‘69 pal David Liddle, the ultimate old hippie and Vietnam vet who is a redneck in almost every way except for one thing—smoking massive amounts of pot each day—sat on his porch in his rocking chair minding his own business while thumbing through the Tumbleweed Times morning paper. 

This old hermit heard the sirens in the distance while drinking coffee with his wife Diana. The commotion immediately struck David with a monstrous case of paranoia. A tall cedar fence surrounded his lot near the Last Chance Motel, where he was nurturing a crop of killer bud in his garage.

 In fact, he had one plant that was over six-feet high in an oak barrel on his porch. He tossed down the paper, crept over to the gate and opened it slowly, just in time to see the bear buzz by his place less than a first down away from him. Dave watched in amazement that turned into horror when two cops and an animal control guy with a tranquilizer gun came huffing by hot on the bear’s heels. A terrified David slammed the gate and raced over to the porch. He yanked the pot plant up by its stem and dashed to the back fence with his beer gut jiggling. With a grunt, he launched the plant over the fence.

It hit Asotin County sheriff Bill Steele, a man who had held office for over thirty years directly in the head, knocking off his cowboy hat and sending him to his knees. The bear got totally away. We can’t say the same for poor old hippie Dave. 

Well, that reminds me of my own hippie days. Here’s a story about that time. We are headed to Welcome, Washington. 

Julius, the Mule, and a Cloud of Angry Bees

Welcome, Washington-( late March,1970)-Julius, our mule, would not move again. He stood stiff as one of the many first growth nearby cedar trees exactly halfway up the trail from the Mosquito Lake Road pavement. It was drizzling, as usual, up here in the early March morning from the misty clouds that hovered only a few feet from the meadow ground on our 180-acre hippie communal farm. 

Crazy Michael was yelling at the beast and swatting him with a branch from one of the old apple trees. 

“Dammit! Quit hitting him. It ain’t gonna do any good. There’s only one thing that works,” I said as I took off toward the main cabin about a hundred yards away tucked in a grove of maples trees.

 I ran in and ignored Big Red, who was already rolling a joint at the round oak table. I got out some bread and covered four pieces with peanut butter and grape jelly. I slapped the pieces together and started out the door. 

Red said, “Hey, when are we going to go down to the beehives?” I answered,

“I’ll be back in a moment, Red. Julius got stuck again with all the food strapped to his back.”

I took off, jumped off the porch, and sprinted back. I slowed down a few yards away and whispered as I walked toward him slowly.

“Here you go, boy. Your favorite. Come on now.”

I clicked my tongue a few times and his ears started moving around. He took a couple of steps and I rewarded him with a good chunk of the sandwich. I moved up and held out another piece. I repeated this until we were only ten yards away from the porch steps when Big Red came stumbling out.

He tripped on the last step, but caught his gigantic frame with some pretty impressive dance steps and smiled up at us. We unstrapped the food and packed it in to the house. Julius stayed outside, hee-hawing like crazy. We ignored him. I grabbed the teapot off the stove and a cup and headed for the couch next to the still warm cast-iron stove. My dog, Bogart the Wonderdog, a half-Samoyed, half-pure bred Siberian Husky, had stretched all the way out, still asleep. I gave him a long rub and a few pats, but he showed no appreciation.

“Hey, I’m ready to go. Been reading about them bees for the last two days. I got the queen right here,” said Red. 

He held up a little wire cage that contained one big, bright yellow queen.

“Hello, your majesty. Well, give me a couple of tokes and I’ll go down there with you,” I answered. 

He rubbed his red mop of a beard, reached into his bib overalls, pulled out a fat joint, and flipped it to me.

 “I’ll get our stuff out of the van.” 

I was puffing away while trying to ignore Crazy Michael’s out-of-tune guitar strumming and pathetic singing of a Dylan tune. The sound would have made Gandhi slap him upside the head. Big Red came in and threw all the gear on the table.

“Jesus, Red, where’d you get all that shit?” I asked.

“Oh, the guy who sold us the hives brought it by when he dropped off the hives yesterday.” 

We put on what probably used to be white suits, grabbed the veils, tools and the smoker, and headed out. 

“Blackie, did you know bees can’t hear nothing? They can only recognize vibrations.”

 “Good thing, too. If they heard that shit Michael is singing, they’d sting everything nearby,” I said while pointing back at the main house.

 Crazy Michael was right behind us.

 “What you guys doin’?” he asked as he hustled down the porch steps.

Julius was eating grass underneath one of the apple trees but stopped and hee-hawed twice while his ears flicked back and forth. From out of nowhere came flying a gigantic, plumb bumblebee. It seemed focused on Crazy Michael—maybe he could hear—was my thinking, and the thing started dive-bombing his nap of not brushed, tangled long, black hair. 

Michael started yelling and slapping at the thing. We stopped. He grabbed his face with both hands and started screaming. The guy jumping around in circles and cursing up a storm made Big Red drop the veil and smoker as he went to help.

Big Red grabbed the guy with one of his enormous paws, which stopped the spinning around. He ducked down and looked up at Crazy Michael’s face. The bumblebee came zooming out of Michael’s right nostril and stung Big Red right on his nose. Now, Red became the one jumping around and cussing. 

He banged into Crazy Michael, still in pain, which sent him flying right into Julius’s big old rear end. The mule involuntarily kicked up both his heels and let them fly. Off Michael went when the hooves caught him square in the stomach, rolling him into the wild blackberry bushes. I found this scene terribly entertaining. 

So entertaining that my mad laughter drowned out the screams of the other two. I helped Big Red into the house and put some baking soda on his now bulging nose. We took a couple of tokes and again headed out toward our new hives. The sun had popped out and flooded the two hives with light as we approached. We put on our veils, lit the smoker, and cautiously moved in. I had the queen cage. 

Big Red started pushing too vigorously on the plunger on the smoker and smoke was soon everywhere. We both started coughing and opened up the first hive by taking off the top layer. I unsealed the queen's cage, and she flew in. 

Her new adoring minions welcomed her instantly. I put the top back on the hive and Big Red, who hadn’t learned, started puffing out the smoke way too fast. We couldn’t see a damn thing. He suddenly lost his balance for no apparent reason and stumbled into the second hive, knocking it over. We were both soon covered in bees, who were buzzing around our heads and all over our sort of white outfits. 

Evidently, Big Red hadn’t put on his veil well enough, and the bees found an opening or two. There had been only one pair of gloves and my hands were exposed. I felt one painful sting on my right hand and then another. It hurt like hell. 

I started running, especially when I saw the cloud of bees circling around Red, taking stings to the neck and face. He threw down the smoker, snatched off his veil, and started howling in pain. We sprinted for the Nooksack River with me in the lead. I looked back and spotted an immense cloud of bees chasing us, just like in a cartoon. 

We drove in the freezing water, suits and all. Poor Big Red. He had at least twenty throbbing red dots on his face and neck. The moaning dude sprawled his gigantic frame on the couch and covered himself with a wet towel, as Crazy Michael was absolutely butchering an excellent song—“Blowing in the Wind”—in a rocking chair in the corner. 

The commune women came bustling in back from the early morning shopping trip. “What the hell happened?” came the obvious question from the happy woman crowd.

They merely patted Red and bustled about putting away the supplies and started cooking. Gal friend Sandy and I took Bogart for a walk up toward the cedar grove after our meal. We made passionate love underneath a gigantic tree on the moss carpeting underneath. It wasn’t even noon yet. 

Later that night: “Karma. I must have been working out some bad karma with those damn bees. It’s all yours, Blackie. I ain’t eating any of their damn honey either,” became Big Red’s last take on the matter. Sandy thought it all tremendously funny and gave herself this paint job. 

I stood admiring her art work when Big Red came racing out. 

"We gotta go into town right now, man!"

"Why?"

"The girls left six dryers full of our clothes down at the laundromat. They spaced out and just drove home after grocery shopping."

We jumped into converted mail truck we used as the commune's main vehicle and zoomed down Mosquito Lake Road, heading for the Mt. Baker Highway. Thus, ended another day at the Zippie-Hippie camp. 

March will always be special because it is the month my first little sister was born. Telling about the experience will be our last March story. It starts out with this photo entitled: Low Rider.

I caught myself being a jerk the other day. It happened in the Winco Foods parking lot. I rarely drive anymore, but I needed a large supply of groceries so I borrowed my son's pickup. I had no reason to hurry. I had no place to be. I wanted to buy my groceries, which I normally enjoy. But for some reason, I went slightly wacko when I drove up behind this low rider Impala, moving at the speed of slug. It inched its way around the corner much to my irritation.  

My instinct was to honk the horn and express my annoyance, but something held me back from succumbing to my own madness. The vehicle eventually settled into a handicap spot near the store entrance.  I quickly parked the truck, eager to begin my shopping. 

As I stepped out, I caught sight of the driver and a wave of recognition washed over me. It was Miss Mildred Renner, now in her mid-nineties, her back hunched and her movements pained as she leaned on a cane for support. Each step she took seemed like it was accompanied by a silent struggle. I felt a surge of shame for my impatience towards this remarkable woman.

Miss Renner had been more than just a teacher to me. When I was ten years old and blessed with the arrival of my first little sister, Sandra, she called a special meeting in our class. With her infectious enthusiasm, she had the entire class applaud as she joyfully announced the news of Sandra's birth. It was a moment of pure warmth and support that has stayed with me throughout the years. Here is the day:

 I guess I might have been a curious and adventurous ten-year-old boy. I lived in a cozy house nestled on a quiet street, where I often found myself lost in my own little world of imagination. 

One sunny mid-March afternoon, I came hustling home from school, bursting with youthful energy, because my new sister might be home. I swung open the front door, and was met with an eerie silence. The house sat empty, devoid of the usual hustle and bustle that greeted me every day. Undeterred, I shrugged off my confusion and decided to make the best of being alone in the house.  

Off came my shoes and I raced up the stairs to my bedroom, where a treasured collection of Buddy Holly records awaited me. With Buddy's upbeat tunes filling the room, I plopped down on my bed, clutching my newly purchased Hardy Boys book. I flipped through the pages, immersing myself in the thrilling adventures of Frank and Joe. Lost in the world of detective mysteries, I didn't notice the time ticking away. 

Suddenly, the sound of an approaching engine caught my attention. I dashed to the window and peered outside. There, pulling up in the driveway, came dad in the family Nash sedan. 

 Bounding down the stairs, I flung open the front door, nearly knocking it off its hinges.

 "Dad! Is she here?" I asked.  

His face beamed with delight as he stepped out of the car and enveloped me in a warm hug.

"Bobby boy, you have a new sister," he announced, unable to contain his excitement.

“Where is she?" I asked.

His dad chuckled and ruffled Bobby's hair affectionately.   

“Keep your voice down. Your mom's  in the back seat and the tiny gal is sleeping.”

The thought of meeting my new sister filled my heart with a mix of nervousness and excitement.  Finally, the moment arrived. Dad opened the back door of the Nash and there sat his mom looking tired but radiant, cradling a tiny bundle in her arms. 

"Bobby, meet your new sister, Sandra Lee Ann," his mom whispered, her eyes sparkling with joy.

My heart melted as I gazed at the delicate little face peeking out from the blankets. I followed them into the house and they gently handed her to me. I sat afraid to move whispering sweet words and promising to be a good big brother. 

News of Bobby's new present spread like wildfire through his fourth-grade class. When I walked into school the next day, my classmates were brimming with excitement.  Kind Miss Renner smiled warmly at me and encouraged me to share the story. 

With my heart pounding, I stood before my classmates, my voice filled with pride. I told them all about my new sister, Sandra Lee Ann, and the joy she had brought into our lives. The room erupted with applause and cheers, celebrating the arrival of a new life and the love that bound our little community together. 

My days became filled with newfound responsibility and endless love. I relished this new role as a protective older brother, showering Sandra with affection and laughter. In the evenings, I would read her stories and sing lullabies until she drifted off to sleep. The house echoed with the sounds of our growing family. It was a happy time for our family, and everyone who knew them. The days were filled with love, laughter, and the magic of new beginnings. 

The gist of this memory came flowing through as I ambled into Winco. I felt such appreciation for the insight of Miss Renner to allow me as a young boy to have the spotlight of sharing an important day in my life. As I pulled out the shopping cart, I recalled other memories of her. 

In that same year, Miss Renner read Charles Dickens' Great Expectations aloud to our class. The story in that book captivated my young mind, transporting me to another world. She noticed my love for the Hardy Boys books and surprised me with a gift, The Shore Road Mystery, as a reward for my hard work in the classroom. I can still recall the thrill of holding that book in my hands. 

There was another instance that solidified my admiration for Miss Renner. She gathered us all together to share the news of a classmate, Crystal, whose father had been arrested for attempting to rob the neighborhood store. Miss Renner spoke to us about the importance of supporting Crystal during this difficult time, and as a class, we rallied around her. 

It was a lesson in kindness and empathy that left a lasting impression on me. Now, here she was, still persevering after nine and a half decades on this earth. The realization hit me like a wake-up call, and I mentally berated myself for my impatience towards this elderly angel. Miss Renner deserved cheers and applause, not jeers. 

I approached her with a warm smile, in the cereal aisle of the store. Her eyes lit up as she recognized me. 

"Is that you in there, Bobby Black?"

We exchanged pleasantries, and I shared some of my cherished memories from our time together in the classroom. Her smile grew wider. She expressed gratitude for me recalling her work, and sharing the impact she had made on my life. She teared up when I told her of my ten years of teaching fourth grade myself and she was the reason. 

As I watched her continue on her slow but determined journey through the store, I couldn't help but feel a renewed sense of admiration and respect for this incredible woman. Miss Renner had taught me not only academic lessons but also valuable life lessons about compassion, understanding, and supporting one another. We make ripples that flow toward other souls in this life. 

Oh, thank the Lord for not allowing me to honk that horn! 

That finishes our March stories. Let us continue on to April. You are going to love our first story, I hope. Allow me to introduce the fabulous Miss Vee. Believe me, she is a trip! 

Introducing the Fabulous Miss Vee

I met Miss Vee on the nearly vacant train one sleepy, drizzling April Sunday morning. After four fun days in the big city, which included a Cubs’ doubleheader at Wrigley Field—a lifelong dream — I had hopped on at the Chicago station. I carried a new Kellerman novel under my arm and had my portable music player with headphones tucked away in my backpack, which I had filled with fruit, chips, cookies, a box of baked chicken, and a bottle of Bailey’s. Heading to Atlanta. All I needed was a jumbo cup of coffee, which would be the cherry on today’s sundae.

I kicked back, enjoying the scenery as the groaning, ancient Amtrak train gradually crawled out of the shadows of Chicago’s skyscrapers. A flash of vivid color reflected in the window and I turned to see the source. It was my first sighting of Miss Vee. Her personal, one-woman parade was on display as she sashayed down the narrow aisle calling out, “Oh, Mister Porter Man, Mister Porter Man…” which turned into an echo as she disappeared through the sliding door into another car.

Even the brief glance had been an event. She was adorned in a flowing rainbow-colored long dress, a bright red shawl across her shoulders, and a hot pink hat that would have been the highlight of any Easter parade. She carried a mammoth leather satchel that swung around on her right arm and bustled about in bright red high heels. There had been a swishing sound as she hustled by and a waft of a pleasant fragrance combination of lotion and perfume lingered. That lady was a trip, was my thought as I got up and started the hunt for coffee.

That thought turned out to be the understatement of the decade, for I was soon to learn that Miss Vee really needed and deserved a theme song and her own private group of photographers, for she was an admired superstar in her private world. Almost all who came in contact became instant fans. By the time we exited in Atlanta, I had gladly joined the cloud of moths buzzing around Miss Vee’s flame. 

It all started down in the bar car with Clarence. I squeezed down the six narrow stairs that lead to the small bar. Only one booth with room for four people occupied the area. It had a double window that allowed one to sip a drink or two and watch the world roll by outside. They had covered the walls in shined-up mahogany paneling, and one entire section was a shelf filled with hardbound books. A Smokey Robinson tune—♪Cruisin‘♪—was playing softly in the background.

Seemed like the perfect spot. I walked in and took a seat. An elderly black man with salt-and-pepper hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, wearing a red bow tie, and a recently pressed white shirt, came out and gave the tabletop a quick wipe. I noticed a cribbage board and a deck of cards next to the napkin dispenser.

“Good morning, sir. Could I get you some coffee? Just made a fresh pot.”

“Love one, my friend. Largest one you got, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

 He went in the doorway behind the back of the fully stocked bar and returned with a 24-ounce steaming container of fresh java and a basket with flavored creamers and packets of sugar.

“Thanks. So, how’s this job?”

“Love it. Been on this same run for over twenty-five years. Sunday’s usually a real quiet day. Many people on the train upstairs?”

“Only a couple of dozen total on all the cars I walked through. A quarter of a century on the train, huh? How many more years you plan on doing?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Got a few more years in me. Not much like work. I’ll probably get through a full book today. Have to confess I get paid to read on many a trip. Probably only have four or five customers all day.”

I had grabbed the cards and started shuffling them as I sipped my coffee. I pushed the cribbage board toward him.

“Bet you five bucks you can’t beat some hick from Idaho at this game.”

“Yeah? Well, cut the cards. My name’s Clarence, by the way.”

“Glad to meet you, Clarence. My name’s Bobby, but my friends call me Blackie.”

“Can’t believe I’m daring to play a card game with a guy called ‘Blackie’." 

I won the cut and started dealing. He swamped me the first game, but I got him back on the second one. We were starting the rubber match when some commotion started at the top of the stairs.

“My, my, this is a tight squeeze down these stairs.”

And there came Miss Vee, adjusting her hat and catching her breath. She turned the corner and spotted us. Clarence jumped to attention and nodded.

“Well, well, it’s my favorite, Miss Vee. Let me guess. You came up and took in a Cubs’ game. Am I right?”

“Clarence, you handsome devil. You know me too well. Took in a full doubleheader yesterday. I’ll bless you if you’ll get me some Earl Grey tea with honey and a touch of cream.”

She looked at me and smiled.

“Ma’am, please take a seat.”

 I popped up and stood in a respectful pose.

“Well, bless your heart. A gentleman with manners. Hi, my name is Miss Vee.”

She held out her hand, took her seat, and adjusted herself.

"I was with you at the doubleheader yesterday. My first trip to Wrigley Field. Loved every second.”

“Well, good for you. Did you enjoy the ivy-covered walls? Come, sit back down, young man.”

“What a treat. Loved every moment in that scenic, classic park. I put it in my top five of all the major league parks. Better than Fenway,” I said as I slid back into the booth seat.

“Top five? How many parks have you been to?”

“I made up a list of things I wanted to do when I was a young guy. One of them was I wanted to visit all the major league parks. I’d have them all, but they keep building new ones.”

“Here you go, my Queen Bee.” 

Clarence placed a silver pot, a honey bear, and a mug in front of Miss Vee and bowed.

“Thank you, Clarence. You two boys down here gambling, ain’t you?”

“Oh, we was just passing the time. This guy has some delightful stories. How about a little snack, Miss Vee? How ‘bout I heat you up a butterhorn? You want one, Blackie?”

“Of course he does, Clarence, you sweet man. Where you from, young man?”

“From Washington, the dry side of the state, close to Spokane, but I lived a decade near the big city of Seattle. Damn, Chicago makes Seattle seem like a little cow town. Can’t get over how many cabs there are in that city.”

“Here you go, friends.” 

Clarence put down two plates, each filled with a steaming pastry and some orange slices. Miss Vee closed her eyes and grasped her hands in prayer for a couple of beats before attacking the butter horn. She chewed up a monstrous bite and cut another one.

“Yeah, Chicago is a cab town, even more so than New York. Had some wild rides over the years.”

“Miss Vee, I hear you,” I said as I told a small bite and took a sit of coffee.

“This one cabbie took me on one wild one this trip. Gonna pay him back someday.”

“Yeah? Tell us. Come sit down, Clarence.” 

She took another bite and waved her hand in a motion of encouragement.

“I was in the Amtrak station—impressive place, by the way—and was carrying my luggage and golf bag out to catch a cab. A cabbie saw me and jumped out from the driver’s side, which kind of startled me. I dropped my luggage and, while picking it up, swung my golf bag around and bumped into the side of his cab.

 He yelled, “Jesus, take it easy on the cab, man.”

I was lost for words. He glared at me and then broke into a crazy laugh.

“Just jiving you, pal. Where we heading?”

He flipped open the trunk and carefully put in my luggage, and turned to me to take my golf bag, which had a colorful golf tag on it from a course in Idaho. He noticed.

“Idaho? Never had a guy in my cab from Idaho before. Hop in.”

I slid into the back seat and we took off. 

“I have a reservation at the Day’s Inn. Supposed to be close to the station.”

“Day’s Inn, huh? No problem. Hey, I want to play you some tunes. I think this one is from your era.”

The Doors song—♪L.A. Woman♪—came on, which, I had to admit, was a splendid choice. We were soon zooming along several narrow streets with the music blaring. You could have put your hands out and touched the cars parked on both sides.

“Kind of a tight fit, huh?”

He drove me around for several minutes and then pulled up to the Day’s Inn.

“Here we are, buddy. Hope you enjoyed the ride and my musical choices.”

He got out my luggage and golf bag and handed them to me. He shook my hand and jetted off after saying, “Hope you have a pleasant stay in Chicago.”

I moved toward the front entrance and was struggling with my gear and the front door. A young guy noticed and came running out to assist me. I began the check-in process. The man took down my information and put it on the computer. I looked around the lobby while waiting and noticed a crowded, noisy bar with only men in it.

“Sir, there seems to be a problem. You have a room reserved at the Day’s Inn way back downtown. Think someone was having some fun with you.”

"The cabbie, that sucker, Mick O’Shannesy, had taken me on phony trip miles from my destination and dropped me off at this Day’s Inn—known as a gay hotel.”

“Come on, I’ll help you get your stuff outside. I got you a cab. Sorry about the mix-up.”

“I got in the cab and the cabbie took me to my Day’s Inn, where I spent three nights. Got up this morning and took another cab back to the Amtrak station. Took about two minutes. I actually laughed. It was a nasty move, but kind of funny. Like to have my tip back, however.”

Oh, my! Well, bless your heart,” said Miss Vee, and she patted my hand.

“That’s Chicago,” added a smiling Clarence as he took away our plates.

“Miss Vee, it just turned noon, so I’m gonna have myself a drink. Let me buy you one. I want to hear all about Atlanta.”

Clarence stood up and asked, “What will it be, Blackie?”

“I’ll have a shot of Bailey’s, please, and bring Miss Vee—let me guess. Bet you’re a wine drinker. How about a glass of sweet Riesling?”

“You a psychic? My favorite. How’d’you know? But I don’t normally drink unless it’s a special occasion.“

Miss Vee, it’s Sunday, the Lord’s day. That seems pretty special. Got a good bottle or two down here.”

“Bring us the bottle, Sir Clarence, please. I figured you like your sweet tea so… ”

“My, oh, my, I do love me some sweet tea, that be true. Okay, Clarence. Guess I can have a little nip with you, two handsome devils. Oh, Lord, forgive me.

We finished the second bottle as we pulled into the Atlanta suburbs.

“Almost home, Blackie. Thanks for the company and interesting talk. I’d better get upstairs.”

 She stood up, stifled a burp, smoothed out her dress, and adjusted her hat.

“Come over here, Clarence.” 

She gave him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. 

“Good to see you, love. Catch you on my next run up to Wrigley.” 

She groaned up the first few stairs, but paused and then turned around.

“Blackie, where you staying?”

“Don’t know yet. Got any suggestions?”

“Yeah, know a cute little motel right close to my church. Hey, you ever been to a black church service? Come with me tonight. You’ll enjoy it. You can get a room and come listen to some down-home music. Damn, you boys done got me a bit tipsy. What you say, Blackie?”

“You should go. You’ll never forget it. I promise you. She convinced me to go one night and wow, it was like going to New Orleans during Mardi gras,” said Clarence.

“I’ll all in, but I don’t have any church clothes with me,” I said as I handed Clarence a twenty. 

“Thanks for the great day, my friend.”

“Sir, you don’t have to…”

“I want to, Clarence. But I demand a cribbage rematch next time I stumble on this run again and I will be back, I promise.”

“I look forward to it. It’s been a pleasure.” 

He shook my hand firmly, nodded toward me, and smiled. Next thing I know, I’m helping Mr. Porter Man load up Miss Vee’s five enormous suitcases and pushing a cart toward the Atlanta train station.

“My god, Miss Vee, how long were you gone? Hell of a lot of luggage.”

“Well, that was enough to get me through the weekend, Blackie. Takes a lot of stuff to look this good,” she smiled and took off in a fast poof.

She pointed at an empty booth in a deserted coffee shop that was closed for the evening.

“Our ride will be here in a few minutes. I got to use the restroom, so take a seat. I’ll be right back,” she called as she headed toward the bathrooms. 

I sat down. The place was almost totally quiet except for a small shop selling newspaper, books, and magazines. The worker was engrossed in a novel. A fat, bald guy came racing around the corner, holding a cup of coffee, and flopped down in the booth across from me. I was going to greet him, but he was involved in some private conversation with himself. He was gesturing and pointing as if making an important point to the invisible crowd or individual he was communicating with. 

Upon noticing this, I decided that making eye contact would not be the proper move, as he obviously had some issues. I kicked back and saw Miss Vee returning without her hat. She was brushing her hair and smiling as she came around the corner. The fat guy suddenly vaulted up and started doing the Twist. He looked like old Chubby Checker himself. 

The dude was really getting it on! He was grinding and shifting back and forth to the unheard music in an almost frantic way. Miss Vee notices him, starts laughing, and shaking her head, but he isn’t aware of anything at this moment. She puts her brush back in her leather satchel, sticks on her hat, and joins him a few feet away. He shakes his head as if awakening from a dream and smiles like a Buddha.

“No, it goes like this.”

He bends his knees to where his belly is almost touching the ground and moves back up. He balances on his left foot, still twisting away, and then moves to his right foot. Miss Vee mirrors his every move as her dress is flying in all directions. I decide to join in. I jump up and start dancing away with the two of them. This went on for almost a full minute before the guy yells, “That’s it! Like last summer!” he twists off, leaving his steaming coffee behind. 

We both collapse in the booth laughing like drunk hyenas.

“Damn, Miss Vee, you’re light on your feet. That guy was really getting down, wasn’t he?”

“Blackie, how much wine did you feed me anyways?”

Two dressed-up women—our ride—come toward us. I push the cart, load up the luggage, and we are off. Within minutes, I am settled in a comfy, cheap motel and walking into church with Miss Vee. The crowd parted as we made our way in and took a seat in the front row. She introduced me to a couple of her friends who filled in the entire front row. The choir came out and sang. In minutes, the place was jumping.

 People were clapping, swaying to the music, and singing along at the top of their lungs. It was better than any concert I had ever been to in my life. I was one of three white people in the congregation, but it didn’t matter. After the third song, I was singing and swaying myself. The choir was belting out a raucous tune, and Miss Vee took my hand and started twisting. I joined in and so did a dozen others. We calmed down when the next number started, a slow tune.

 Then, the preacher strolled to the podium, and the church grew silent. Soon, he had the crowd shouting back at him, “Hallelujah, Praise the Lord,” when he made his points. His sermon went on for quite some time to the point my still tipsy mind was wandering.

Miss Vee suddenly jumped up and interrupted with a series of yells, “Yes, you say it. You’re speaking the truth, preacher!”

 The preacher looked at her and nodded. I looked around, confused at what appeared to me was rudeness. One of Miss Vee’s friends sitting next to me noticed and whispered.

“It’s okay, Miss Vee butts in whenever the preacher has gone overtime. She’s the congregation’s alarm system and everyone knows it, including the preacher.”

I almost choked, trying to suppress a howl of laughter at this new knowledge, which I turned into a pretend cough. Miss Vee sat back down, patted my hand, and smiled. Miss Vee and I made plans to meet at Wrigley on opening day the next year. I know I’ll be there and will have no trouble finding her even inside of a sold-out crowd. 

I will merely watch for the crowd to part for a colorfully dressed, elegant, confident lady adorned with a fancy hat. I have never been around a more dynamic, happy, carefree individual in my life. She spreads and shares her joy of being alive with everyone. The fabulous Miss Vee will be one of my all-time favorite people. 

I only knew her for a few hours and now you know her too. 

Next up, is one of my favorite characters. His sister and  I have been pals since elementary school. Here is a tale about the time when I acted as a motel manager. This special guy is Leslie T. McCarty. Check him out! 

Leslie T. McCarthy

“Hi, I am Leslie T. McCarthy.”

“Glad to see you, Leslie T.  Come on in. Hi, Sandy!” 

I gave my old friend a hug.

“Sorry, for bothering you Blackie but we're in kind of a pickle.” 

“Don't be silly. Come in.  Let me take your coat. Sandy, that's my  friend Jodie.”

Jodie stood up and held out her hand.  

“Nice to meet you, Sandy.” 

Leslie T. stood completely motionless two steps from the door. He was dressed in his normal outfit.  He had on a white and black checkered sport coat, a crisp white shirt, a red bow tie, black pants held up by a cowboy silver belt buckle and brown cowboy boots with silver tips. He wore his father's wedding ring even though he had never been married.  He had thick, black-rimmed glasses and his hair was snowy white.

 I said: “Leslie T.—come meet my friend, Jodie.”

Jodie came over and held out her hand.

“Hi, I am Leslie T. McCarthy,” he said without making eye contact.

He gave a limp handshake before running over and whispering in his sister's ear.  

“Go ahead and tell her Leslie T.  It's okay.”

“Hi, I am Leslie T. McCarthy.  You are a pretty girl.”

I looked at the clock, grabbed the remote, and turned on the TV.   I flipped it to the old TV channel.  The Andy Griffin show came on. 

“Aunt Bee.”  

He sat down on the couch suddenly  mesmerized and announced: 

“Hi, I am Leslie T. McCarthy.   I like root beer and pie.”

I ran over to the fridge and pulled out two pies and a root beer.

“Leslie T.  I have two kinds of pies—apple and berry.  Which one do you want, buddy?”

“Not buddy. Hi, I am Leslie T. McCarthy. I like coconut cream pie.”

“Give him apple, Blackie.  It will be okay,” said Sandy looking very tired. 

“Okay, how about you, Sandy?” 

“No thanks, but I'd take some coffee.”

 “I'll get Leslie T. his pie and make some coffee.  You two go ahead and talk,” said Jodie.

 “Sandy what's up?” 

“Well, it has to do with our old class president.  The bighearted Braddock James, Jr.”

 “What did that prick do now?”

“He bought the old Tumbleweed Railway Station two months ago. The Lion's Club had a big fund raiser—years ago, remember? Converted it into twelve great little apartments for the handicapped. Leslie T's  been there for fifteen years. It's right downtown and he got into a routine. He loved it there. Well, that devil James served everyone eviction notices last week. He got some official to claim that the place was unsafe and wrote us all this shitty letter saying he would not risk his entire empire on a bunch of weak-willed, retarded people . . . "

“Hang on, Sandy. He said what?  He said something like that in a letter?  Seriously?”

“Blackie those are his exact words—I thought we had thirty days but he told me that he has a crew coming in tomorrow and they'll put Leslie T's  stuff out on the street if it isn't moved.”

 “He can't do that!” 

“Yes, he can.  Did it to an entire nursing home.  He's loaded and has all the building code officials in his pocket. Got a boatload of money from some inheritance deal. That's what I heard.  There's no place for my brother around here, Blackie or any of the other poor souls.” 

She grabbed her head in her hands and sobbed. Jodie came over quietly and put down the coffee. 

Sandy shook her head, “Sorry . . . I would take him but Norm has some health problems and Leslie T. doesn't really like it there . . .  grandkids, animals, lots of visitors—too much action.   I begged that bastard James to give us more time. Know what he said?”

 “Yeah, he said that business is business and friends are friends.  He said he's not in business to make friends. Sound about right?” I said remembering the prick's words.

 “That's exactly what he said. Those are the exact words. Everyone knows what he did to you. What happened to that guy?  How did he turn so evil?” 

“He thinks the Lord has blessed him.  Seriously, he thinks he is the Lord's messenger. Told me he saw a vision in the sky one night.  He's bugfuck nuts.”

 I stood up and paced around. 

“I've got a room—22— that I hold back for emergencies. Think Leslie T. would  want to live down here?”

 “Maybe.  He really likes you, Blackie.  You have always been so kind to him.  I didn't know where else to go . . .”  

 “Barney shot his gun again,” said Leslie T. 

 The whistling theme song came on that signaled the end of the show.  Leslie T. stood up and whistled along in perfect tune.

 “Hey, Leslie T. let's go down and see you're new room. 

“Blackie will help. That's what Sister said.  I am Leslie T. McCarthy. Going to see my new room.”

 He stood up straightened his coat, walked to the front of the door, and stopped. I opened it for him. Sandy and Jodie followed behind us as we marched down to room 22.  I opened it and showed him around.  

“Here's you bed. There's you're TV.  You have a fridge and this is your bathroom.  You have any pictures to put up, Leslie T.?”

 He sat down on the bed. 

“Need my warm wolf blanket.  I smoke a pipe.” 

“Leslie T. McCarthy, will you come take care of room 22 for you friend, Blackie, if we get your wolf blanket?” I asked. 

“Yeah.  Ask Sister.”

 “And look Leslie T.,” said Jodie, “outside you have your own private bench where you can smoke your pipe.” 

He marched outside and Jodie patted the bench.  He sat down next to her and pulled out his pipe from his suit coat inner pocket. 

 “I am Leslie T. McCarthy and this is my private bench.  Pretty girl said so.”

 He lit his pipe and started taking big, fast puffs. 

“Can you get his stuff down here, fast?  Sandy, he can stay for as long as he wants. Jodie and I will take care of him.  It's $600 a month for everything except food. There's no visitors after ten is about the only rule and we clean the rooms once a week.” 

“Are you sure, Blackie?”

 In my best Leslie T imitation, I said, “I am Franklin “Blackie” Benjamin, the motel maestro.”

She smiled. 

“We'd love to have him down here.  Always loved your brother and you, too, Sandy.” 

She put her hands to her mouth and ran off sobbing.  I sat down on Leslie T's bench and lit up a smoke. 

Jodie said, “Leslie T. McCarthy, my name is Jodie.  Can you call me Jodie?”

 “Pretty girl, Jodie.”

 He stood up, dumped his pipe, walked inside, and closed the door.  

 “Blackie, that guy is a trip!”

 “Oh, I know.  Wait till you see and hear him play the piano.”

 “He can play the piano?” 

“He's a genius with the piano.  He has perfect pitch and can play anything after he has heard it once or twice.” 

“Sandy seems nice. You ever had a thing with her?”

“Yeah, in high school.  We've been friends forever.” 

Sandy showed up with a few suitcases and bags and knocked on his door.  He answered with, “Hi, I am Leslie T. McCarthy.”  

We all walked in. Sandy put his wolf blanket on his bed, put a six-pack of root beer in his fridge, gave him his music player with headphones, placed some family pictures around, hung up a big Scooby Doo poster, plugged a coffee pot in on top of the fridge, and put his clothes away. 

 She transformed the sterile room into homey place in less than five minutes.

“Brother, I will come and see you tomorrow.  I'll bring your pictures of Barney and Opie, your putting machine . . .”

“Need Nu Wave cook oven for delicious, nutritious meals without the fat,” he interrupted.

“Is that okay?  Can he cook down here? He makes some really good stuff  in that thing.”

“Yeah sure.” 

“This is your new home. Here with Blackie.  If you need anything you can knock on his door. Here's your blue sleeping socks when you get ready for bed.” 

“TV—Perry Mason.”

 I showed him how to use the remote.  We left Leslie T wrapped up in his wolf blanket, drinking a root beer, while watching Perry solve another case. He hadn't put his blue sleeping socks on just yet.   Sandy, Jodie, and I went back to my apartment. Jodie told me later than when I went to the bathroom, Sandy had asked:

“How's Blackie doing, Jodie?”

 “I think he likes it down here.  He likes taking care of people.  I'm one of his projects.  He got me to go to school again but I always screw it up. Skip, sleep in.  He gives me a bunch of grief but all in good fun. Everybody down here likes and respects him.” 

“He's such a good guy always has been. He the best male friend I have ever had. What that fucking Braddock James, Jr. did to him was outrageous.  His wife was diagnosed with cancer and his old, sweet landlady, Miss Mildred Renning, died about a week after they got the bad news. 

He and Rhoda had lived next to her for years and years. That fucking James bought the house from the Renning estate and evicted them a month later. Just as she started chemo-treatments.” 

We talked until it was nearly ten o'clock. 

Sandy checked her watch and said she better get going.

“Thanks so much, you two.” 

“Jesus Christ, Blackie that was one hell of a good day.  I'm beat,” said Jodie.

She gave me a little kiss and took off for her room. I got out the legal pad and started on phase two. Braddock James, Jr.'s world was about to take a a nosedive. 

“He can pick on me and fuck others over but he's crossed the line by almost making a poor soul like Leslie T. McCarthy homeless.  I will take him down.”

 I threw the legal pad against the wall and flopped on the couch.  I was  half-watching a movie when I heard the familiar fingernails tap against my window. The door opened and there stood Jodie.  

 She unzipped her coat and stood in a white negligee.  

 “Hi, I am Pretty Girl Jodie Lynn.  Come with me.” 

“Should I put on my sleeping socks?”

Remember Duke?  Let's go see how this rural mental health counselor is doing and take in a story or two. Might be fun. 

Greetings!  My name is Sherrie. One April morning, during my college spring break, I started my training as a social worker case manager at Clearwater Counseling. Mark, the owner of the counseling center, put me in touch with a short, gray-haired man named Duke. 

He agreed to let me shadow him on some of his client visits. Duke had worked as a rural, traveling mental health counselor for over a decade and had over two dozen clients he visited each week. The short fit guy seemed friendly and appeared to like to tease people. His comments made people at the counseling staff meetings erupt in laughter. 

Our first stop together started at Junie’s place. I am convinced he picked this sweet woman’s dwelling as a joke, as the condition of Junie’s little home shocked me. As we were driving toward her house, Duke pulled out a jar of Vicks’ VaporRub and opened it. He stuck his finger in for a glob of the stuff, which he immediately rubbed on his nostrils with great care to get a seal.

“Sherri, you had better use some of this. Junie’s place has some unusual smells. Trust me, it will really help.”

Junie, a chubby, tiny woman—perhaps 4’10” or so—opened the door and hugged us both. She had numerous cats and kittens, two big dogs and three pygmy pigs. The creatures seemed to be comfortable with each other and wandered around freely. I noticed this as we walked into the crowded living room. A game show was blaring from the small television. The smell had attacked the Vicks VapoRub and was winning.

Junie wore a loosely fitted, sleeveless summer dress that may have been white at some point and had tied up her hair in a bun with a bright red ribbon. Her filthy bare feet with the chipped off bright red nail polish on her toenails were hard to ignore. She shooed the two dogs and a couple cats from the dusty couch and motioned for us to sit.

“How about some milk and cookies?” she said and hustled into the kitchen.

She returned a few moments later with two dirty plastic plates and two large glasses of milk.

“I just made them,” she announced proudly. 

She carefully placed them on a TV tray and went back into the kitchen.

“I’m in the middle of cooking, so excuse me.”

I could hear the sizzle of what I figured was hamburgers cooking on high heat. Duke looked at me with a grin while he tucked the cookies into his back pocket. I understood and put mine in my purse. He snickered, got up, and motioned for me to come with him to the kitchen. There she stood at the cast-iron skillet that contained three burned burgers. She flipped them out of the skillet onto a stained towel spread out on the counter.

“So, Junie, how you been doing this week?” Duke asked.

“Oh, I got my box of food from the food bank and have been cooking some fine meals,” she said as she grabbed a hunk of raw burger and started patting it.

She tossed the meat quickly from one hand to the next several times and finished by putting it in her left armpit, squeezing and dropping the now finished patty into the skillet from her armpit. It hit dead center and sizzled. She kept talking and did the same with two others. The kitchen became filled with smoke within a few minutes, so she opened the back door. Around a thousand flies came buzzing in almost immediately. She returned to the burgers, turned them over, and smiled at us while wiping her hair out of her eyes.

“Could I interest you two in a homemade burger?”

“I wish we had the time, Junie. But we have many people to visit today. Sherri is our new worker, who is going to be your case manager. I wanted to bring her over to meet you. You two should make up some times to meet.”

Junie and I made up a schedule and we took off after Duke drank the entire glass of milk, but I couldn’t get myself to finish mine. We walked back to the car while grinning at each other. He opened the door for me.

“Quite the burger making technique, huh? You should have seen your face!”

“I’ve seen nothing quite like that,” I said, as I joined in with his laughter.

"You’re going to be great at this work, Sherrie. That brief scene didn’t phase you at all. I think you deserve an award. Let me buy you a gourmet coffee. I drink quad-shot white-chocolate mochas. We have a long drive coming up this afternoon. Oh, you should know that I’m a really shitty driver. Don’t get concerned if I seemed spaced out. I get in a zone behind the wheel. I never speed. I drive like an old lady heading to bingo.”

“I bet you have tons of good stories from your travels, huh?”“

"Oh, yeah! Want to hear one of my favorites?”

“Absolutely!” I answered as I took a sip of mocha. Here is that story.

The Jehovah Witnesses Visit the Group Home

 I walked down the rickety basement stairs of the group home. I heard some voices and peeked around the corner. There sat Tom and two men in black suits, crisp white shirts and ties. All three were holding a separate Bible. 

“Oh, this is going to be good,” thought I. 

“Hey, Duke. I’ll be with you in a minute. We’re just reading the Bible.”

“Okay, Tom,” I managed to get out before drawing a little blood from my lower lip.

I ducked my head back, tiptoed to a good vantage point, for I had to see this. A crack through the wall next to the washing machine gave me a perfect view as I prepared for what I figured had to be an epic show. 

Disappointment remained a stranger as I choked back tears of laughter. The older of the two guys in the suits began with a reading from Matthew something and the other followed with his reading from the Book of Revelation. They had obviously done this before. Before they could start on the next part of the script, Tom interrupted. 

“You know, what does God think about smoking? You know, that guy who stuck his head in here, well he’s my counselor and we like to go all over the place and smoke. Hell, sometimes, I think we would like to have a smoke up on the moon.” 

Complete Silence... 

Until Tom continued undaunted: “Are there any stories in the Bible on midgets? I think about midgets sometimes. In fact, there was this one midget who could beat anyone, and I mean anyone in 8-Ball at the bar. He won so many games that they threw him into a garbage can and kicked him down the alley. I had to run down and get him out. His hair got all messed up, but he seemed okay. Anything about midgets in here?” 

He started thumbing through the Bible way too fast. I heard a synchronized emphatic twin thump as the two men’s Bibles snapped shut. They both rose as one. 

“Oh, we have to get going. Nice to meet you.” 

They hustled up the stairs with bedazzled looks on their faces that to me were priceless.

“You’re coming back tomorrow, aren’t you?” Tom yelled up at them.

Their answer came as a slammed door at the top of the stairs. 

“Hey, Duke, it’s time for a smoke.” 

Big Tom bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I caught him on the porch just as he was lighting up one of his roll your own cigarettes he loves so much.

“Hey, what’s with those guys? They don’t know nothing about the Bible,” he shared with me as he took a long drag on his smoke. “I don’t know, but it sounds like you are doing some cartoon talking today, huh?” I asked.

“Nah, I just wanted to know if there were any midget stories. Do you know? “

 “I don’t think the Bible has any midget stories, but I could be wrong. But let’s make certain of dropping the cartoon talk. I’m not into it today.”

“Okay, I’ll watch it. Ready to go?” he said and suddenly smashed out his smoke and took off toward the car.

We were halfway to Starbucks when he said, “Those guys know nothing, nothing, I mean nothing about the Bible.”

He was polite, appropriate, and pleasant with everyone for the rest of the day we spent together. All his comments were regular. He thanked me for the outing as I dropped him off.

“No, thank you, Tom,” I murmured when he was out of hearing range and entering the group home. I had just seen something more rare than a solar eclipse. The two Jehovah Witnesses blessed me with the forever memory of seeing them running from a home. I giggled in spurts all the way home. 

This final story needs a warning. This is not something everyone should read. It has some troubling scenes of graphic abuse. I include it because I have worked in the shadows where dark tales are common. It has been part of my mission in this life to shed light into dark rooms. This tale is fiction, but based on a story told to me by someone I loved dearly.  Enough with sick secrets.  Let us read about a real hero. Her name is Andrea, but everyone called her Andy. 

The Switzer clan had heard the famous words from Matthew many times. All six kids succeeded when required to memorize the passage. If anyone would have asked the kids, now all young adults, the meaning of this section, they’d have answered confidently that it warned about the danger and cruelty of judging others.

They thought themselves good people and probably were but that didn’t prevent them from creating, supporting, and even nurturing an intense false judgment against one of their own, the eldest daughter and first-born child of the family, Andrea, whom they called Andy. Nobody had ever or would ever think of Andy as a hero. No medals or ornately framed awards would be bestowed on her, in this life, that is. Her courageous acts would remain hidden. Revealing her brave protection and loving loyalty could not happen, for that would shine light in a room designed for darkness. 

Forget appreciation or admiration, for Andrea had become the family clown behind the glass, the butt of cruel jokes and gossip disguised as love and harmless humor. The secrets of the family lie required she perform her assigned role of Weird Andy, the odd, uncoordinated klutz who got herself into a never-ending series of situations, quandaries, and predicaments. Forget her master’s degree and successful career as a psychiatric nurse. Those accomplishments didn’t fit the script. If quizzed, they’d have professed their love for her and would have shown anger if their attitude, words, and overall opinion of Andrea would have been challenged. 

Barbara, the mother, would sometimes join in with the unaware, cruel banter, but only briefly. She felt protective of Andrea for on some level she knew but would never admit it to anyone, especially herself. She had flashes from the past but had learned long ago to dismiss them as invalid. 

These flashes were like shadows lurking behind a series of cob-webbed doors, long locked with rusty keys. 

Dwight had been a tender, caring, and intense lover. An active guy with a high sex drive that luckily matched her own. After their marriage, lovemaking became a several times a week happening. The cries and footsteps of six children filled the house, but the frequency and intensiveness of their sexual relationship had never waned until recently. It had been months now since they had made love.

Like most from her generation, broaching the subject of sex seemed too embarrassing to even consider. Confusion and hurt haunted her concerning this taboo, but she pretended not wanting to cause turmoil. He seemed unable to fall asleep. She’d observe, with him unaware, his getting up in the night as he’d quietly, deftly open their bedroom door and slip out, returning an hour or so later. She figured he moved downstairs to watch Sports Center or some other late show and didn’t want to bother her. But on some level, she knew. The flashes continued on long after his sudden death.

Marcus grew tired of hiding in the dark alley off Passyunk Avenue in South Philly on this drizzling, moonless, late evening. He had been there smoking one cigarette after another for nearly twenty minutes. It had seemed much longer. Getting out of the hospital had been easy. 

He merely propped open the old fire escape exit no longer used, took the rusty steps down one floor, crawled in a window, and eased into the elevator, which he took to the basement. A long-time resident of the hospital, he knew nobody would check on him until morning. His room sat off by itself at the end of the hall and since he didn’t cause trouble, he felt confident the night staff wouldn’t bother to come down his way during the rounds. 

He spotted her, took a last drag, and crushed the cigarette in a puddle with his boot. He fondled the knife until she was a stride or two away. She habitually walked the twelve blocks home after her shift on the fifth-floor mental ward where she had worked for over a decade. 

He had the blade to her throat before she could react. Her nurse name tag—Andy—pinned to her all-white outfit, came loose, fell, and floated upside down in the brown, dirty puddle. He hauled her into the alley while whispering instructions into Andrea’s ear.

“I won’t hurt you if you do what I say. We’re going to walk to your apartment. If you talk to or signal anyone, I will cut you and cut you good.”

He grabbed her hand and started casually walking with her to his side. She could feel the blade on her back. They got to her apartment building, and he motioned for her to get out the keys. He pointed toward the lock and she opened the entrance door. He slammed the door and pushed her up the stairs. 

The same thing was repeated, including the slam of the hallway door. He pushed her roughly toward her apartment door, where she hesitated for a moment, trying to process and plan. She smiled a little because she had a surprise for this guy coming up soon. With more than a little excitement, she found the key, and they headed in quickly. The German shepherd, Jake, greeted their arrival by loudly barking and then growling menacingly while moving toward Marcus, who didn’t hesitate.

 He ran straight at the dog and smashed the butt of the knife down on his head time and time again. He looked up and smiled at Andrea while the shepherd whimpered in the corner. He raced toward her and slapped her across the face. “Nice try, bitch.”

He pushed her violently toward the bedroom. When she fell, he started wildly kicking until she grunted her way up again. He picked her up in his arms and threw Andrea on the bed as he took off his shirt. “I’ve been dreaming of this for months and months,” he said as he placed the knife on the nightstand. 

She hadn’t recognized him at first until her heart rate came down. The experienced nurse then established him as one of her quiet, reserved patients. She was shocked and confused by his roughness. He had always been a kind, even friendly one. Andrea had been concerned but not terrified until he dominated the dog. She understood then she likely would not get out of this situation alive. This knowledgeable woman sensed he would torture her. Her practiced protection mode switched on the moment she hit the bed.

She flew back in time, stopping at age thirteen. 

Andrea had developed the body of a young college student—full hips, abundant breasts, thin, and fit. Her pleasant, fresh oval face featured green eyes framed by blonde hair that hung to her waist. Dwight would not resist the temptation, nor did he really even try. 

He somehow worked it all out as okay in his warped, selfish mind. He started her out with back rubs and little surprise gifts. The first time he unhooked her bra and caressed her breasts, she attempted to resist, but he smiled and assured her all was okay. She became his special girl and started giving her cash gifts and extra privileges after he began penetrating her. She gave in and would allow him his animal pleasure as she gazed at the ceiling and imagined flying off, out of her body. 

Andrea violently shook off this practiced, habitual looking backward reflecting, focusing instead on one thought and only one. She needed to get the knife. 

She rolled over on her stomach, arched her back, and pointed her rear up at the now naked Marcus, who crudely grabbed her buttocks and awkwardly guided his erection toward her. She stretched out and by the second crude animal-like thrust, her fingers rolled around the handle. 

The knife flew over her head and she started swinging it and connected one, two, three times. Blood spurted onto her face and turned her white comforter and nurse’s top bright red. She could feel it dripping down her right arm. He screamed and had her by the throat, all his weight pinning her down. The look in his eyes resembled a wild, hungry wolf; he started smashing at her face and head repeatedly but her thrashing prevented him from getting a clean hit. 

The suddenly brave dog attacked with teeth exposed, growling and biting. The two wrestled to the floor with the dog slashing and finding flesh with his teeth. Andrea sprang up, grabbed the lamp, and smashed it over the shocked man’s head repeatedly until he didn’t move and she held only a cord.

She picked up the knife and thought about finishing him with a slash to his femoral artery, but instead raced to the kitchen sink to wash off the blood. After scrubbing herself almost raw, Andy walked in a wide circle around the body, put on a robe, and frantically fumbled through the kitchen drawers until she located a roll of duct tape and grabbed the dog’s leash. 

She hustled back, bound his hands with the leash, and used almost the entire roll of tape, taking special care to make certain his mouth would remain covered. She didn’t want to hear another sound from him. When satisfied, she calmly called 911 and collapsed on the bed as her savior shepherd gently licked her. She hugged her dog and closed her eyes.

Andrea heard something in the hallway and smelled her dad’s Aqua Velva aftershave. Her door remained closed, and she got up. She peeked out the doorway and saw her father furtively strolling toward her sister Lisa’s door with a drink in hand. She felt a panic and ran out. “Stop!” she ordered in a harsh whisper.

He froze, turned toward her, and smiled. She motioned for him to come to her room. He followed slowly spinning the cubes and taking a long sip. There she did a brave thing, saying words from her soul: “You can have me, but not them. If you bother them, I will tell, no matter what happens to me. You can have me and me alone in this house.” 

The seventeen-year-old then got on her knees and took his penis in her mouth. The sessions after that became savage. They ended when she got pregnant. The loud knocking stopped the time-traveling.

She let two burly Philly cops come in with guns drawn. They took Marcus out on a stretcher and Andrea rode with the cops to the hospital, but refused the rape kit. She wanted to go home, let things simmer down, and return to her routine. She kept a bottle of Black Velvet hidden under her sink for times like now when the time-traveling became too intense or vivid.

The head nurse called Barbara’s home, where the family had gathered for baby brother Tony’s 22nd birthday dinner. The clan worked as one unit cleaning up their Mom’s place and were preparing to head home when Barbara dropped the phone. She grabbed her coat. 

“Mom, who was on the phone?” daughter Linda asked, looking up from the sink full of dishes. 

“Bay View Hospital. They said Andrea had an accident. I’ve got to get down there.” 

She was out the door and gone. 

“Wonder what the klutz did this time?      

“Probably tripped down the stairs or something,” said brother Alan. 

“Well, we all know one thing. It will be something weird. Our own weird Andy,” said Tony.

The place erupted in laughter. Everyone nodded their heads and finished the cleaning. Not one of them understood or recognized the cruelty and unfairness of their words.

A hero judged as a clown. 

Luckily, Andrea avoided having to go testify at the trial. Turned out that he had sneaked out more than just the one time. There were other victims. A plea agreement sent him to prison, but he served little time before he hung himself in his cell. He got his revenge on Andy when he sent one of his bloody ears to her in the mail.

After the rape, outwardly, Andrea seemed unaffected. The light of her compassion had faded as she continued her nursing work. Andrea trusted or confided with nobody. She woke up scared. Scared to walk alone, scared at everyday noises, scared of the casual looks or smile of strangers. A veneer of false toughness and talk hid her paralyzing fear.

Shocked at the news of her attack at first, the family, as a group, typically shrugged off the seriousness of the assault. They fell into their usual roles and routine, not concerned or aware enough to look more deeply at their traumatized, increasingly isolated older sister, who had become sloppy with her hygiene and appearance. She gained nearly thirty pounds and drank jugs of red wine mixed with shots of whiskey or tequila, for the alcohol allowed some sleep each night.

Andy developed a compulsion toward small, mousy men who she could dominate sexually, berate, and order around like an abusive boss. The depressed gal would cry at odd times and places, as many things triggered her now. The bruises from the attack had healed, but the inner wounds had barely developed any scar tissue. She was intelligent enough to recognize she was in trouble but too depressed to take any measures to get help. 

Andrea spent her free time reading novels with the TV always on constantly flicking around the channels to find something, anything to distract her. She had no genuine women friends and only went to family gatherings to keep her mom, who she looked at with more disgust than love anymore, quiet. 

“What a weak woman,” she would mumble aloud several times each day when thoughts of her mother would enter her consciousness. 

Andrea had planned her suicide several times in great detail and even purchased a gun—a glistening Glock—always loaded and kept in plain sight on the counter. She had a bottle of tranquilizers and skimmed off dozens of psychotropic drugs from her patients. If need be, she could make a drug cocktail if using the Glock could not be done. In a better world, someone would have noticed, someone would have cared. 

And somebody did when her hippie sister showed up in Philadelphia with a cowboy on her arm. Literally, help from the wild blue yonder.

THE BABY GIRL OF THE FAMILY was adventuresome traveler, Rhonda. The family daredevil  had moved out to Montana. She had been married recently to a man seven years her senior and they were in the Philly area for the first time ever as a couple.  Andrea and Barbara waited at the restaurant as the couple took a cab from the airport.

Hank, a tall, handsome man with a thick mustache, wore an expensive Stetson cowboy hat, which was no fake prop. He worked as a psychology professor at small Carroll College in Helena, Montana. 

Hank came from a long line of genuine Montana cowpokes. He insisted on taking everyone out to dinner at a “for real” Italian restaurant. Andrea picked the spot. 

“Andy, this is my husband, Hank. Hank, this is my big sister Andrea, but we all call her Andy.” 

“Nice to meet you, Andrea.” 

“Everyone in the family calls me Andy. Do you always drink those?” \

“What, a Bacardi cocktail? Not always, once in a while. Why do you ask, Andrea?” he took a sip of the red liquid. 

“Oh, I was expecting a guy from Montana would drink something a bit more manly,” she answered, and ordered another shot of tequila.

 “Andy, don’t start any crap,” Rhonda said, barely disguising her irritation. Hank patted her hand and rubbed her neck. 

“Oh, don’t worry, Rhonda. Andrea is testing me out. HA! Okay, let’s play.” 

He smiled at a waitress and politely motioned for her to come over to the table. 

“Excuse me. I’d like two shots of tequila and another one for Andrea here,” he said to the server and gave her a ten-dollar tip. 

“I said, everyone calls me Andy,” Andrea repeated, staring the cowboy dead in his eyes.

 “Well, you kids have fun. I have to get home. There’s my cab,” Barbara announced. 

“I’ll be right back,” Rhonda said and escorted her mom outside. The waitress returned with the shots while Hank stared at Andrea. 

“Andrea is a beautiful name. Why do you hide behind some silly nickname?” Andrea involuntarily smiled.

 She may end up liking this guy. They clinked the baby glasses and threw down the contents. 

“Rhonda says you’re a nursing maestro.”

 “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’ve been a nurse for over twenty years.” 

“I know. That’s why we’re here. We need a nurse to help with my mom. I want to hire you.”

 “What? No, not interested.”

 “Yeah, I get it. Happy here. Supportive family, good job, and all that, right?”

 “Yeah, something like that.” 

“Well, I can be pretty persuasive. How about coming out for three months? I’ll pay you ten grand a month.  See another part of the world. No rent, no food, no bills.”

 He slid an envelope filled with hundreds over to her. 

“Are you some rich dude or something?” 

“Well, think your hot little sister married me for my looks? We’re serious. We’d appreciate your help. My place is damn scenic and peaceful.” 

“You two are nuts. I’ve lived here my entire life. I couldn’t even find Montana on the map.”

 “Hey, Andrea. Do you believe victims of horrid things can pick out, or sense other victims of similar horrid things almost immediately?”

 “Never thought about it. Sounds kind of weird to me. So, what do you do?” asked Andrea.

 “Oh, I teach some history and English classes and write a bit. In fact, I thought you might enjoy this poem I finished recently.”

 He reached inside his jacket and pulled out some pieces of colorful paper. “ 

“Here, I made a special copy for you. Part of my sales pitch. Figured you might appreciate it.”

 He pushed the papers over to her. They sat in silence for a few moments before Andrea unfolded the paper and took a look. She read the first couple of lines and stopped, staring at him as her heart  raced. The cowboy took off his hat, stretched, and then leaned over. 

“Andrea, do you like the Beatles?” Hank asked. 

“Sure. Here Comes the Sun is my favorite song.”

 “Yeah, like that tune myself, but mine is—Do You Want to Know a Secret?”

Rhonda came back.  Hank got up and helped her in her seat and the three of them ordered. They made some small talk for a bit before Rhonda made her pitch to her sister. After the conversation, Andy knew they were serious but still thought the idea crazy.  

She took out the paper when the platters of steaming food came and started reading. 

“What you reading, sis?” Rhonda asked with her mouth half full of pasta. 

“Your cowboy gave me this poem he said he wrote,” she answered.  

“Hank's a really good writer. He's published four books so far.  Which one is that?” Rhonda spoke with pride in her voice. 

“It's called a Pretty Girl Who Never Smiles,” Andrea said.  

 “Oh, that one's too dark for me,” she said.

Andrea finished the poem and tried to hide her shaking hands.  How in the world did this guy—a complete stranger—know Inside she was a bubbling cauldron of emotions. She had never read any words that spoke directly to her like these had.  She knew he knew and slowly folded up the paper trying with all her might not to burst into tears. 

“Pretty good, cowboy. Want another drink?

We say farewell to April and turn our eyes toward the glorious month of May where memories and Mom will be center stage. 

One of the first television comedies was a show called I Love Lucy. The principal character—Lucy Ricardo—was always getting herself into dilemmas. My mother—Dorothy Merle Black—had a bit of Lucy in her. Here are some moments in time reflected from my Mom pool of memories.

There are pictures of me being the ring bearer in her wedding to William Perry Black, who brother and I called dad even before he officially adopted us. I remember  brother John and I sitting in a hot courtroom in our uncomfortable white dress shirts and talking to a judge about if we wanted our dad to be our father. Seemed silly and confusing. 

We became a part of Perry’s extended family and spent nearly every weekend visiting irritating cousins and taking camping and other trips. Here is a memory from one of those trips that has become family history. You may relate, as all of our families have special stories that are frequently repeated and embellished. These tales bring laughter to family gatherings. Here is one of ours, starring Mom.

It was a day like any other in Bobby's household, until his father made a grand announcement at the dinner table. He proudly proclaimed that he had received a raise and a promotion at work. The news was so significant that the next day, his beaming face adorned the pages of the local newspaper, boasting all the juicy details of his newfound success. With excitement in his eyes, Bobby's father revealed his plan to take the whole family on a thrilling adventure to Natatorium Park, the renowned amusement park known for its spine-chilling, lightning-fast roller coasters. 

However, there was a small hitch in this plan—he had also extended an invitation to his brother and Bobby's rowdy cousins. Undeterred by the prospect of chaotic company, the family made their way to the park, ready to embark on a day filled with heart-pounding thrills and stomach-churning rides. As the sun beat down with merciless intensity, they indulged in a delectable feast of barbecued hot dogs, juicy burgers, and ice-cold root beer floats. 

Among the many attractions at the park, the old-fashioned carousel stood as a gentle respite from the adrenaline-fueled chaos. It was a vintage marvel, its wooden horses gracefully bobbing up and down in a slow, tranquil circle. This particular ride was a favorite among younger children, offering a momentary escape from the wilder amusements. 

Bobby's mother, Dorothy, found herself in charge of three of the youngest kids, perched precariously atop their chosen horses. With her loving embrace, she ensured that they didn't tumble from their majestic steeds. Dressed in a sleeveless pink sun dress, she relished the warm summer day, even as the mercury climbed well above 90 degrees.

Amid the joyous music and the laughter of the crowd, Aunt Nona's voice cut through the air like a knife. She yelled, her words muffled by the cacophony of the carousel, instructing Dorothy to hold onto the horses. Nona's urgency centered around the fact that other children were eagerly awaiting their turn on the crowded ride once Dorothy's brood disembarked. Dorothy strained to catch Nona's words, her ears dulled by the joyful, extremely loud melody. And so, as the carousel completed another round, Nona's shouts reached her ears once more.

 "Dorothy, hang onto the horses! Hang onto the horses!" 

Misinterpreting the urgency in Nona's voice, Dorothy sprang into action. She swiftly leaped onto one of the horses, her motherly instincts overriding any semblance of hesitation. Her arms became fully wrapped around the neck of the wooden creature as if a jockey in the last stretch of the Kentucky Derby. Her dress caught the breeze, a gust of wind lifted the hem, revealing her bright red undergarments to the world.

A ripple of laughter started among the onlookers—a snicker here, a giggle there. After the second circle, the entire section of bleachers, teeming with dozens of people from all corners of the region, erupted into uproarious laughter at the exposure of Dorothy's flashing red undergarment. Pointing fingers and giddy children filled the air, with Dorothy's red undies becoming the unwitting star of the show. 

Embarrassment washed over Dorothy like a tidal wave, threatening to engulf her entirely. In that moment of mortification, Bobby rushed to her side. Sensing her distress, he whisked her away to a lemonade stand, where they sought solace from the relentless laughter.

In the end, the incident became a cherished tale within the family, a story passed down through generations. Dorothy had misinterpreted Nona's urgent pleas, inadvertently creating a near-riot at the carousel. But to her credit, she faced the laughter and ridicule with unwavering confidence. For Mother Dorothy, the fact that people were laughing at her innocent mistake held little weight. She possessed a resilience that transcended the embarrassment. 

After all, life was full of such peculiar moments, and she knew that being able to laugh at oneself was the true mark of a person who didn't take life too seriously. And so, as the laughter gradually subsided, Dorothy sipped her lemonade, knowing that this unusual escapade would forever be etched into the tapestry of their family's history. It was a testament to the unpredictable nature of life, the laughter it brought, and the joy found in the most unexpected corners.

 

Earl to the Rescue and Other Mom Memories

I was one active boy. I had over fifty other kids to run around and play with each day in our neighborhood. But one thing I would always pause for in the play day was time mixing batter and baking cookies with Mom.

She enjoyed baking things. The whirl of the fancy Sunbeam mixer became a constant sound around our kitchen.

One day, she worked alone in the house on a school day, mixing up peanut butter batter for cookies. She started carefully adding items to the mixture when she lost her balance. Three of her left fingers got caught in the mixer blades. One set of blades kept running at full speed, but her fingers had stopped the other set and were all tangled up. 

Poor old Mom reached in with her right hand to pry out her trapped fingers and boom! She got her right hand caught in the other set of blades. Now she had a real problem as she was totally and completely trapped in her little fifties style kitchen with nobody around. 

Luckily, we had milk delivery back then.  Milk deliverer and friendly neighbor, Earl Beamish, heard her cries for help as he came up on the porch to leave our usual two gallons. He helped her get untangled and mom rewarded Earl with some chocolate cake and coffee. Husband Perry tormented her about this for years. It became a neighborhood legend.

Shortly after Perry died suddenly, she treated all the family to a vacation at Lake Tahoe. She rented a house, and we gambled, visited the beach, swam, and enjoyed ourselves. Hauling ass through the Nevada desert at 85 mph with Mom in the Mazda sedan with the sunroof open while the powerful stereo system filled the car with tunes from country group Alabama, will always be a sweet memory. I can still remember her smiling and tossing Cheetos into her mouth and not saying a word. 

This was one of three long trips we took in her later years. The longest one being a trip through Montana all the way to Denver from Idaho to visit sister Sandra and her husband Robert. She went over eighty herself while driving in Montana in that same car. She flashed me a precious smile when I acted shocked at her speeding. 

Years later, she injured her back something fierce after falling. They tried many treatments without success until she got a steroid shot in the spine, which worked wonders and gave her almost total pain relief until this one awful day.

This is a short snippet of how humor and tragedy are often twin visitors. I want to tell you about Mom’s last serious fall. Things had been going well. Mom had received a spinal steroid shot that had worked wonders. The old gal became free of pain for the first time in years. She started dressing up again to visit friends and heading out to play her precious Bingo games at the casino with her pals. She had just finished putting on an outfit and was getting ready to drive out to noontime Bingo.

In the bedroom, my son and two of his friends were goofing around and laughing. Actually, they were farting and grossing each other out after I had cooked them a huge breakfast of French Toast, sausage, bacon, and eggs.

Mom said, “It really is a beautiful dayyyyyy... and out she went, like a candle snuffed out by a sudden breeze. I dove from the kitchen chair and managed to get an arm under her before she hit the floor. She started shaking as if in a convolution and my first thought was “No, not a stroke!”

I yelled, “Jesus Christ! Perry call 911!”

He yelled back, “Oh, come on Dad, the smell isn’t that bad."

”When I told this to Mom in the hospital a couple of days later, she simply howled with laughter. But this fall caused six small, painful fractures and turned out to be the beginning of the end.

A Special Day with Mom

Enjoy your mother for those of you who still have one. Being an orphan is not all that great; trust me. Thanks for taking some time to allow me to mirror back a few reflections of my own wonderful mom. I hope you all get to make your mom your friend. 

After my mother died, I found a paper filled with ruminations written in her beautiful cursive style. The familiar script brought tears, as did the message of the words. The opening sentence grabbed my attention, so I flopped on the bed, still filled with the smells of her favorite lotion and perfume.

"I think I wasted my life."

Oh, how could she say that? More could have been done with her life, she thought. Evidently, she had dreamed of going to college or teaching school or imagined getting training to become a nurse. Mom’s life was typical of her era. Society set the rules. The man went to work, and the woman stayed home to care for the kids and do all the things one does to make a comfortable life for those she loved. Personal goals or development were not available for her pursuit.

She performed her role of the dutiful, faithful wife admirably.  We ate dinner as a family each night and she had a consistent rotation of tasty meals she became highly skilled at cooking.  Mom washed and ironed all our clothes, kept the house neat, looked for bargains at the store, read to us, tucked us in at night, and escaped into her novels and crossword puzzles. 

Most of her female friends lived the same existence. Feeling unfulfilled did not enter the equation.  Even though we had become best of friends in later  years, her thoughts surprised and saddened me for I had no idea of the regrets.  This reading session made me love her more and my sympathy for all women increased. 

Mom may have forgotten about the positive ripples she created for all of her kids attended college and have lived productive lives. Her predictability, steadiness, and love allowed us to live easier lives than hers had been.  A child of the depression born to uneducated Montana farmers raising four kids, committing to a long marriage, and becoming an appreciated part of the pulse and heartbeat of the community are not accomplishments to be ignored.

Here comes a memory that made me proud of my mother. 

I came home from a high school dance early, around 10:30 pm, because we had a game the next day. An empty driveway at night surprised me, as did finding my neighborhood friend and classmate, Diane, babysitting my two sisters. I discovered this after racing down the stairs to my basement bedroom when I heard some sobbing.

Diane was at Mom's sewing machine, holding some light blue fabric in her hands and crying. I made some noise and gave her a few seconds to prepare. She bravely smiled, but her cheeks were too wet to ignore. I asked her what was the problem, and she tried to answer. I went over to her and she melted into my arms for a few brief seconds before catching herself. 

I ran upstairs and got her some juice. I almost ran into Mom and Dad as they entered the house all dressed up after a night on the town entertaining some of dad's business associates. I gently grabbed mom by the arm and informed her of Diane's trouble trying to fix her homecoming dress she was trying to sew by herself. Mom patted my arm and headed down to see.

I went up and watched TV with my dad. He excused himself after the Perry Mason episode and headed to bed. I fell asleep on the couch and didn't wake up until one in the morning. I stumbled downstairs and there were my mom and Diane. 

"Oh good, Bobby. So, what do you think of the dress now?" 

Diane had the blue dress on, demurely glanced at me, and gave a shy twirl. 

"Oh, wow! That is beautiful!" I exclaimed, meaning every word. 

Diana gave my mom a long hug and exited with a smile carrying her finished dress in a hatbox mom had evidently given her. I grabbed mom and squeezed her hard. She gave me a too long a kiss on the cheek and whispered: "Goodnight". 

I felt such pride for my Mom's kindness. 

Here is the top Mom memory. 

Candy Bombino had been in my same class for three years straight. The gal had turned into one strong, tough girl and mature for her age, in all ways. She was only ten years old, but she already had more than the beginnings of breasts visible beneath the same gray dress she wore almost every single day to Whitman Elementary school.

 Bulky, short Candy, had become almost as thick as she was tall. She wore dense wool socks that poked through her tennis shoes and her jet black hair had been cropped short. Candy rarely talked and had a mean look that nobody, including the teachers, ignored.

She lived at the Children’s Home orphanage with over three dozen other kids near the end of Mill Road, a neighborhood we rarely ventured near. The Children’s Home was a huge old building that sat up on a hillside, surrounded by very large untrimmed trees and looked like something writer Edgar Allan Poe would have ordered built. Scary place.

We always picked her to join in our playground fourth grade football games. She could tackle anyone and if she got her stubby arms around some player, he went down and hard. More than a few guys couldn’t get up for a minute or two after Candy smashed them into the hard dirt.

I urged her on as she pushed all of us on the merry-go-round. She would get in the middle of the ride, grab the bars, grunt and start running with her solid, muscular legs and husky bottom supplying the momentum. We all hung on for dear life as the merry-go-round reached speeds that made all of us dizzy.

There were only four days left in the school torture chamber before summer came, and Candy was in rare form. She grunted and gave us the wildest ride of the year. The lunch recess bell rang, the kids jumped off laughing and ran toward the cafeteria for lunch. 

The lunchroom staff always served fresh cinnamon rolls on Friday, and nobody wanted to miss out on that. I had misplaced my coat and began looking around for it when Candy came over and stood by me, smiling. She had never smiled before that I could recall. I didn’t know what to say, but after a pause said, “Thanks for the ride, Candy. You got us really ripping around today.”

Candy grabbed me in a bear hug and tried to kiss me on the lips. I turned my head, and she laid a quick flurry of smooches on my cheek.

“I love you, Bobby. You are my boyfriend,” she said, still smiling. 

Dad would give us the belt whenever we cussed at home, but nevertheless, my first thought was, “Holy shit!” I knew I could be in deep danger. This gal could break skinny me over her knee if she wanted to. I did the only sensible thing. 

I ran like someone had shot me out of a cannon at the circus toward the lunchroom and it wasn’t because of the cinnamon rolls. She yelled after me—words that echoed all around the deserted playground.

“Do you love me too?”

Double holy shit! Her words gave me a charge that almost sent me airborne. I was flying and smacked my head into the metal door, but that didn’t stop me. My heart beat felt like a rocket engine inside my chest. I barely made it inside, gasping for air and lost for what to do. I grabbed my sack lunch, chugged a milk, and sprinted for home. I didn’t stop for any of the sixteen blocks, banged through the basement door, and collapsed on the couch huffing and puffing like a bloodhound after an all-night coon hunt.

Mom had been upstairs baking cookies and heard my less than graceful entrance. She came hustling downstairs.

“Bobby, what are you doing home so early?” she asked, still carrying the wooden mixing spoon that had been used a time or two for other things besides mixing peanut butter cookie batter.

“I threw up, Mom. Right after lunch. I puked all over the slide outside. So, I came home. I don’t feel so good,” I lied.

“Oh, dear. Well, get on the couch and cover up. Here, I’ll turn on the TV.” She smiled. “I’ll go get you a 7-UP and some crackers. You can’t get sick. It’s almost summer.”

I stretched out on the couch and got immediately grossed out by some couple kissing on a stupid soap opera-As the World Turns. I threw off the covers and turned the channel and found some Three Stooges reruns. That was much better.

Mom came down a few minutes later with the pop and crackers. I confessed.

“Mom, I lied. I wasn’t sick at all,” I said.

“What happened then? You can’t skip school,” she answered.

I told her about Candy Bombino kissing me, saying she loved me, and about how tough she was. She listened, nodded, smiled, and went back upstairs carrying the wooden spoon that luckily didn’t find my rear end. I blew out some air and watched Moe smacking Larry and Curly around for a near full episode when she called me upstairs. I ignored her to finish the show, but she called down, irritated this time.

“Bobby, come up here for a second.” 

She waved the spoon at me, still in a friendly way, but I was taking no chances. I hustled upstairs.

“Bobby, I have an idea,” she said as I entered the kitchen.

“What Mom?” I said.

“We’re going to bake your little girlfriend some cookies.”

“Bullshit!” jumped out of my mouth. It was my older brother John’s favorite word. This got me a smack on the hand with the wooden spoon.

“You watch your mouth, young man. It will be nice. Get the stool and let’s get to work.” 

When I hesitated, she simply raised the spoon. I got the message. We were mixing a vast bowl of batter, and I began adding the chocolate chips when she spoke.

“So, where does your little girlfriend live? Do you know?”

"Mom! She is not my girlfriend! She’s a Children’s Home girl.”

“Oh, really? Why don’t you like her? Do you think she’s fat or homely? Or is it because she lives at the Children’s Home?” she said.

“I like her fine, mom. She plays with us and she isn’t fat. She is super strong; stronger than any two of us. She has this scary, mean look that would make the devil run for his mommie. I don’t want a girlfriend and kissing and all that junk.”

“Get out two more bowls from the cupboard,” she ordered.

“How come?” I asked.

“We are going to make a whole bunch of cookies and take them over to the Children’s Home for those poor kids,” she said, and smiled.

At that moment in time, I hated my mother.

“What do you mean, ‘we’, Mom? I ain’t going near that damn place.”

SMACK…

“Oh, yes, your are. Do you want me to take that spoon to your backside? Get the bowls.”

This was turning out to be one of the worst days of my life. I looked at Skippy, our pet beagle, sleeping underneath the kitchen table, and envied him. Tiger, my big, loyal, orange cat, stopped licking himself and looked at me with sympathy.

We pulled up to the Children’s Home in our Nash rambler, and Mom straightened her hair and smoothed out her dress.

“Get the plates of cookies and be careful,” she ordered. 

I felt like a man in a western show walking up to his own hanging.

“This is bull crap,” I mumbled under my breath.

“Say! You watch your mouth,” she said and started up the extensive set of stairs that led to the old mansion.

I balanced the cookie plates and moved as slowly as a slug on sleeping pills. I actually heard dark, sad organ music in the background. This was, without a doubt, not one of, but the single worst day of my life.

Old, happy Mom kept smiling at me as she knocked on the tall wooden red door and waved for me to hurry. God, I hated her.

The door swung open and a handsome, gray-haired man answered.

“Good afternoon, Madame. How may I help you on this fine day?” he said to mom.

“Bobby and I made some cookies for the kids and are dropping them off,” my stupid mother said, all happy sounding.

“That is so kind and loving. Thank you so much. The kids will go wild over homemade cookies,” the man said. 

He seemed all happy, too. I handed him the plates of cookies, but Mom kept one plate. He nodded and smiled at me. I may never smile again, I thought.

“Oh, one more thing, sir. Could you have little Candy Bombino come down here for a moment?” Mom asked, to my absolute horror.

“Why, of course,” said the startled man.

 I seriously doubt anyone in history had called her ‘Little Candy’ before. Mom glared over at me, evidently reading my mind. The door creaked open and there stood ‘Little’ Candy. ‘Big Hunk’ would have been a better name.

“Hello, Candy. My name is Dorothy. I am Bobby’s mom and we brought these cookies just for you.”

She handed the unsmiling Candy a full plate of cookies. Candy gave me her mean look and mumbled, “Thanks.” 

She turned and closed the door.

“One more thing, Candy. I do not allow Bobby to have any girlfriends. He is too young. He really likes you and I hope you will understand. His Dad and I just don’t allow it,” Mom said and Candy nodded.

“‘Bye Bobby,” Candy said with a too wide smile. “I’ll give you all a good spin on the merry-go-round, I promise.”

We got down the stairs, and I grabbed my mother in a hug.

“Thanks, Mom. You’re the best mom in the world! Candy isn’t mad at me!”

“Get in the car. I have to stop at the store, and you aren’t getting anything. You’re grounded for the weekend. You’re to mow the lawn, and weed the entire garden by Sunday night and no TV,” she said without looking at me.

 I didn’t care.

“That was pretty smart, mom,” I said.

“Don’t you ever doubt your mother again.”

May is not just the month for Moms, but also for other memories. Here is a story that means much to me. A memorial to a life that could have and should have been more satisfying. 

We start each May honoring our mothers and end the month with Memorial Day weekend. It is a month to honor all of the souls who came before us. Here is my love letter to my ancestors.

And now, our last May story. You are going to meet two lovely spirits thrown together at an important moment. 

Florence spent each morning watering the flowers in her neighborhood by hand, especially the roses.  She was the first one to be there if a tragedy occurred in her community. A humble, quiet one with a casserole in hand or a few pieces of fruit to give out in comfort. She picked up paper scraps, beer cans, losing lottery tickets, and crumpled cigarette wrappers blowing in the street each day while other so-called important people looked at their watches and hustled by not wanting to be late to their jobs or tardy for school. 

This shy woman gave out only smiles while brushing her long gray hair from her often sweaty forehead, always traveling at her own slow but steady pace. She had outlived two loving husbands and still moved, lived on. Florence had once enjoyed life in another almost fancy neighborhood and drove around in a shiny new auto. She had dressed in fine clothes, worn some modest chains and bracelets, and had been noticed as one quite pretty. The memories of her past life were now merely friendly snapshots that had faded with time. 

But she still loved the images of the happy times when she had been held by the strong arms of her own snoring man—probably dreaming of some missed glory—next to her. It had taken years to accept crawling into bed alone. Every so often, the loneliness would enshroud her like a suffocating, invisible fog. On those nights, she wasn’t alone, her tears and happy memories cuddled with her. They got her through the night. And she would always gallantly fight through it. For she had flowers to water, smiles to give out, and dreamed of watching the roses bloom and grin at her.

“What a nice neighborhood,” visitors would often say, but nobody gave her credit for the fragrance of the flowers and the clean walkways. A young mother who pushed her stroller by on many a day would sometimes give her a casual wave. She hadn’t had an angry thought nor uttered a harsh word in many years. Keenly aware of the world and at peace with the experience of her twilight years, she loved being “above ground” as her old grandpa used to say in his last years when people would ask how he was doing.

She got up in time to see each sunrise, and to listen for her industrious teenage paper boy, Carl, who she would tip with brownies, lemonade, or hot chocolate on cold winter mornings. He would toss the rolled-up paper and it would take one skip and stop perfectly on her welcome mat. She would immediately turn on the porch light and bend down to grab the paper. She always looked up and gave him a sincere wave, which he habitually returned with a hand held high over his capped head. He came over every week without fail, mowed her lawn, and swept off her porch. He always politely refused payments. In the winter, he shoveled her walkway. 

Florence had celebrated her 80th birthday at midnight last night by dining on a Swanson’s TV turkey dinner with a maple bar she had purchased at the new bakery around the corner for dessert. Loneliness, she had learned, needed to be accepted as the down part of growing old, for she had no close loved ones left. All her dearest friends, the few still living, had moved on with reading their own life scripts and she had no lines available to her in their play any longer. 

She had once had a skipping little daughter who squeezed her hand on their daily walks, this childless widow. Relishing the sounds, smells, and action of the neighborhood, she had hobbled down to the bakery, picked out two hard-bound books from the bakery’s free library for her impending train trip, and quietly stuffed a twenty-dollar bill in the donation box slot. 

The old gal had packed one bag before her watering session and given her already tidy house a thorough cleaning. Carefully pinning a note on her grandmother’s old, colorful quilt bed cover and leaving another for Carl that she hung from her mailbox had been completed. Florence put on her elegant out-of-style tweet outfit and an old hat that would have been admired years ago. She dabbed on some light makeup and rubbed her arms and hands with lotion before putting on her white dress gloves that she hadn’t worn in many years. 

After checking her purse again for the train tickets, and recounting her money for the third time, she called a cab. She poured herself some red wine—a rare treat—in a paper cup, grabbed her cane and bag, and ambled outside to wait on her old porch swing. While sipping the wine, she rocked and enjoyed the feeling of excitement. Traveling had always been her favorite thing in this world, and she had done more than her share of it, especially as a young, hopeful woman. 

Highlights included flying to Hawaii, Australia, New Zealand, several spots in Costa Rica, Mexico, and Europe where she fell in love with train travel. She loved the Canadian railroad. Heading for her favorite spot in North America—Banff where the unreal Lake Louise glistened and showed off its wondrous, blue-green colors—made her heart smile. She closed her eyes, becoming lost in her visualization of the lake. The cab pulled up and gave out a quick honk.

 She finished the wine with a less than dainty last gulp, slowly surveyed the neighborhood, and carefully negotiated the stairs. 

“Let me help you with your bag, ma’am,” the bald, smiling, slightly overweight driver said after adjusting the belt on his handsome slacks and tucking in his clean white dress suit. He smelled like Aqua Velva, her last husband’s favorite aftershave. He took her bag and offered his arm for support. She returned his smile and got in the back seat. 

“You look lovely, today, ma’am. Where are we heading?” 

“Why, thank you! The train depot, please,” she said. 

He nodded and started the cab. 

“Let me pick out some music for you. Could I please? I have a good collection of tunes ... makes the days of driving more pleasant. I think I have just the thing for you. Let’s see if I’m right. Is that okay?”

“Sounds interesting; let’s see what you pick,” she said.

He smiled. 

“This young woman from the UK is a genius and has a love for some of the old, great tunes. I think you’ll like her.” 

A sweet, unique voice came on and filled the cab up with a glorious rendition of♪ As Time Goes By ♪ complete with a marvelous long horn-section solo. They wound through the backstreets and hit the freeway. He got in the slow lane and looked back.

“So how did I do?” 

“Could you play it again, Sam?” she said. 

“HA! Good one. What’s your name? I’m not Sam. The name is Wilson Wilde but everybody calls me Gabby.” 

“Well, I’m Florence, Gabby, and I was serious. Could you replay that tune? It’s my 80th birthday today. The song is perfect.” 

“Well, happy birthday, Florence! Where you heading on your special day?” 

“I figured I needed to go see my very favorite place in North America—Banff up in the Canadian Rockies."

 “Oh, yeah. Excellent choice. Lake Louise is something, isn’t it? I love it up there. Drove some clients all the way to Jasper last year. One of my best trips ever as a cab driver."

 “Thank you, Gabby. It is going to be the trip of a lifetime. Do you like driving a cab?”

 “Ah... It’s not bad. I only drive two days a week. It gives me something to do and helps stretch out my Social Security. I retired last year. Didn’t really save enough, but I just decided to buy less stuff; like chatting with people and I listen to music all day, so it’s not like an actual job. The guy I work for likes me ‘cause I always show up which isn’t the case for all his other cabbies.” 

“What was your work?” 

“I worked as a sportswriter for The Chronicle.”

 “Really? I read the entire Chronicle every day. I love baseball. Did you cover the Indians? My second husband played in the minors for the Pittsburgh Pirates organization. Made it all the way to AAA before a wild fastball broke his left wrist.—Wait a minute; you said your name was Wilson Wilde? Hey, I remember you. You wrote that column, Behind the Scoreboard, didn’t you? I loved reading your baseball stories. You have a clever way with words.” 

“Yep, that’s me, Florence, and you just said the magic words to a writer. Clever writer is my favorite phrase... so thanks. You’ve made my day.” 

“Do you have the time now?”

“What’s that? Time for what?” 

“For your novel. I’d bet all the cash in my purse that you have a novel or two you have been working on for years, haven’t you?”

“Wow, do you also read palms, Florence? Damn, you’re good. I do have the time. I finished three short novels and a bunch of short stories. I blog about baseball. I think I’m too old to convince an agent or publisher that my books have merit, but I enjoy creating stories. You know, I may write a short story about this interesting cab ride with the refined, classy Florence ... have your address. I’ll send you a copy.” 

“That’s a nice thought. More music, maestro, please.”

“You got it, birthday girl. Here’s another U.K. gal.”

 A woman singing a Sinatra cover of Learning the Blues came on. Florence almost purred with pleasure at the sounds. 

“Well, here’s our exit coming up. I hope you have a wonderful trip, Florence.” 

Gabby helped her out and when she reached in her purse to pay, he waved her off.

“Nope, this one’s on the house, Florence. I need some good karma, so no argument.”

Perhaps it was the wine talking, but Florence stared at Gabby and impulsively asked, “How much money are you going to make today, Gabby?”

 “Oh, I don’t know. It’s a weekday. Be lucky to clear a hundred bucks unless something special comes up.”

 “Well, Gabby, I have a proposal. I’ll give you one thousand bucks—right here, right now—if you park this cab and come with me to Banff. I’ll pay for your ticket both ways, get you a pleasant room, buy you some drinks, and dinner in the dining car.” 

“Jeez... I wouldn’t feel right, Florence, taking your money. It’s tempting, but I’m gonna pass, I think.”

“Okay, Gabby. You drive a hard bargain. Twenty-five hundred to come with me; that’s my last offer. Look, I don’t need the money, Gabby. I really don’t. I’ve been planning this trip for years. I’m sick of being lonely and don’t have the time to be patient. I want to buy your company. I guarantee I’ll give you some stories. Seriously, you and your music would be perfect... What are you going to do instead, watch TV and drink a few beers after the shift? I see no wedding ring and I assume the kids are all gone. Come on, I’m begging you. It will be a time you’ll never forget, I promise you that, Gabby. Make an old lady happy. I need some happy today, Gabby. It’s only a six-hour trip.”

Gabby put his hands on his hips but didn’t answer. He blew out some air, followed by two deep sighs and a long stare. 

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I certainly am. Come on! We can talk some baseball. My second husband played against the Indians. He went by Scrappy Curtis, do you remember him?” 

“Heck, yeah. He played for the Portland Beavers. He was a helluva second baseman and could hit, too. What was life like with Scrappy? Always liked the little guy. He played like a demon but was mellow and quiet before and after the games.”

“He was great. Loved him to death, literally. He passed away nearly twenty years ago. My first husband, Dwayne, has been gone for over forty and its been a decade and a half since my little girl left this world. Getting this old is both a blessing and a curse. Come on, Gabby. You don’t seem the type to make a sweet old lady beg.” 

He stood silently, rubbing his bald head over and over. 

“Okay ...What the heck! Okay, let’s do it. I have to make a couple calls. I’ll take the grand but no more and I’ll get my own room. I wish I had on some better clothes, though. You sure you want to hang out with an old bum cabbie?” 

“Here’s $1,500. No more discussion. You look fine. A cabbie wearing slacks and a clean white shirt frankly came as a pleasant surprise. Let’s hop on the train and don’t forget the music. But you could comb your hair.”

She counted out fifteen crisp hundreds, tossed them on the driver’s seat, patted his arm, and smiled. Gabby let out a guffaw, patted her arm back, and swept his hand over his shiny, bald head twice. 

“Better?” 

He got out his phone, made a couple of calls, picked up the cash, and helped Florence over to the depot waiting room. The train was scheduled to depart in less than an hour. 

“I need to go park the cab, my new friend. I’ll be right back. Don’t talk to any strangers.”

He hot-footed it down the stairs. Florence wanted another glass of wine after buying a round-trip ticket and an amusing thank-you card for Gabby. This was turning out to be the perfect last day on earth. She had the plan for taking her first steps into eternity and hoped she could convince Gabby, if she needed to, that it had merit. She dug around for the pain pills and took a couple with an iced mocha she purchased at the depot’s coffee cart. 

The gal never bitched about the pain, for she had enjoyed almost perfect health for years. Florence hadn’t even had the flu or a cold for over a decade. Depression or being down on the world had not entered her thoughts. She loved it here, but the doctors had all been clear. The pain would steadily increase, and she would start losing abilities. It’s how it worked. No deals or treatment were available, which was fine. 

The times of contentment and appreciation for all she had experienced on this planet in her eight decades made it seem fair. Everyone had their time. It would probably be only months—a full year tops—before she would have to leave her home and get some 24-hour care. To her, those options caused her to quake in fear.

Gabby hustled back up the stairs, and Florence handed him his ticket. She stretched up and gave him a long kiss on the cheek.

“You’re an angel, Mr. Wilson.” 

A groaning, squeaking Amtrak train pulled in, and they got on. Plenty of seats were available. Florence picked a section with two window seats and they lurched off, heading toward their Canadian rail connection in Whitefish. The thought of a scenic ride through the Rockies on a clear May day made her heart race. 

“So you like train travel, huh? Even Amtrak?”

“I love the train, even Amtrak, but I would be lying if I didn’t tell you I’m looking forward to getting on the more modern Canadian train. America has given up on passenger rail, which is sad to me. Everybody wants to fly all the time, which I admit is fun, but it’s also part of the racing around that is modern America. Few people like to experience the world. Same thing with baseball, isn’t it? The game’s too slow and complicated for most... that’s why football is such a big deal.” 

“Yeah, right with you, Florence on both counts. I actually think football is bullshit, pardon my French, because of all the concussions. Its like a modern-day gladiator deal. They knock heads with their violent hits and the crowd cheers. Years later, the poor suckers kick off too young or lose their ability to function and then suffer. Were you a Carlin fan?”

“Carlin? Oh, yeah, loved him even though he could get a bit crude.”

“Well, he had this one routine where he compared baseball and football that was pure genius.”

“Yeah, I remember that. One of my favorites. Gabby, let’s talk about you. I want to hear your story.” 

“Well, not much to talk about, Florence, besides you’re the one who promised some stories, not vice versa.”

“I did, didn’t I? Okay, I’ll start the ball rolling, but first how about something to drink? Red wine for me, sir.” 

She tossed him a twenty. Gabby protested, but she pointed to the door and waved at him. He shrugged, left without protesting, and returned with a bottle of red wine and two plastic glasses. 

“Well, well,  outstanding work, for a cabbie,” Florence joked. “But let’s ditch the plastic. Happen to have these.” 

She pulled out two crystal goblets from her bag, filled her glass, and took a drink. 

“I know what convinced you to come with me,” she said with confidence. 

“Nice goblets. Like, really nice. You’re full of surprises. Yeah, go ahead,” he said as he turned on a Dianne Washington classic—♪What a Difference a Day Makes.♪ 

“Loneliness. Being alone is one thing which can be better than fine, but being lonely is different...kinda like a bad toothache. How long were you married? How long has she been gone?”

“Well, you aren’t exactly a shy one now, are you? Okay, I’ll play. You could be right. She was my high school sweetheart. I was probably her second or third choice, if truth be known. Married for forty years. After the kids left for good, she had no compass or identity. She finally asked me to leave, so I did after seeing how miserable she had become."

He took a gulp of wine, stood up, rubbed his head and continued. 

“Almost two years ago ... not over it yet. I miss her smell, her presence, even the lovemaking which had completely stopped by the time we—well, she—called it quits. It’s tough knowing that I caused her to feel so woeful.” 

“Woeful, pleasant word. I don’t know, Gabby. Do people make other people feel things? No, I don’t think so. It’s all about day-by-day, minute-by-minute decisions. She was unhappy, sounds like to me. Not much to do with you, really. I’m guessing ... she isn’t the self-reflective type, right? Always easier to blame someone or the world for your own lack of development, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is. I catch myself playing the blame game. Let me ask, Florence, how many self-reflective people have you ever really met? They aren’t common.” 

“Hmm ... That’s a wonderful question. Think I need to reflect upon it,” she said 

“HA!” 

“Well, a common reaction to change is to blame the ones closest to us for our own unsettled feelings ...sorry you’re going through it, Gabby. It’s a tough pill to swallow, isn’t it?”

 “That’s why I love my music.”

 “Not to get too heavy, but I remember crawling into bed alone. That was the hardest thing for me. Been twenty years and I’m still not used to it.”

 “Oh, god, yes. I get that one. Still can’t sleep. The only thing that works is to put on some albums. I made up this sleep playlist that lasts all night.” 

“How about thoughts of dying alone? Ever have them?” 

“Jeez, Florence, its worse than that. I have nightmares about that exact thing all the time.”

 “Tell me about it. I have outlived all my relatives, my husbands, my own daughter, and most of my friends. A long life equals loneliness. That’s a formula that I learned to accept. I hear about people who are celebrating turning ninety or a hundred ... makes me quiver in fear. I don’t savor the thought.”

“You’re still one sharp cookie, for eighty or any age, Florence. How’s your health?” 

“Nope, that’s enough of this. We’re talking the blues when the band is playing jazz outside the window. Old people talking about their health is fucking boring and I ain’t apologizing for my French. What’s that mean anyway when people say, “Excuse my French?” 

“That is a weird phrase, isn’t it?” Gabby laughed.

 "Here’s a classic for you, Florence, an old singer named Dorothy Moore.” 

The song—Misty Blue—began.

“Man, you’re good with the music. Did you ever play?” 

“Nope, but if I had it to do over again, I would learn the piano. Music is so soothing and comforting. Writing, my art form, is haunting and disturbing much of the time. I’ll get these ideas and they stay with me until I release them by writing a story or some mawkish free verse.” 

“What’s the best thing you ever wrote? No...wait. What did you write that made you proud?”

 “Ah, perfect, question, Florence. Easy, it was a story I did called the Dead End Dodgers about a kids’ baseball team. I loved the voice I came up with for that story. It sounded exactly like a real kid would speak. I think it was good, and it was also popular, which isn’t a typical combo. Some of the stuff I wrote that was popular was pure, simplistic shit.”

 “Are you and your kids close?” 

“Not really. No conflict or anything. They have their lives and I have mine ...the two don’t match up very often. I would like more time with the grandkids, though. They like me better than my kids do.”

 Florence clapped her hands, followed by a sip of wine. 

“Baseball question for you, Gabby. Was Aaron better than Mays?” 

“Hmm... Damn brilliant question. I would have to say Aaron with a caveat. Mays might have been better if he hadn’t played in that awful Candlestick Park. That place cost him dozens of homers and lots of points on his average. Mays was a way better outfielder, but Aaron was once a shortstop—I say Aaron.” 

“Most underappreciated players. Who do you say?”

 “Well, what I say is look at that lake. See the moose?” 

“Oh, my! What a treat and what a gorgeous day!”

 On cue, Eva Cassidy’s version of Louis Armstrong’s—Wonderful World—started playing on Gabby’s pleasant playlist of famous covers. Rolling through the mountains without speaking, they listened to the entire song with Whitefish and the connecting Canadian rail less than an hour away.

That’s when she would take them. If things went right, she would last right up to Lake Louise. She needed another pain pill and to lay off the wine for a few miles. 

Okay, Florence enough stalling. Let’s hear a story or two. You promised some good tales for me.”

“Well, I need a topic.” 

“Got one. Tell me about the best beach you’ve ever been to.”

“Oh, good one, Gabby. Let me think... Got it—Zipolite—which means “Beach of the Dead” almost clear down to Guatemala in southern Mexico. Scrappy took me there once. It was on the Pacific. Seen more impressive white beaches, like the ones near Panama City on the Gulf, but the water was such a deep strange looking blue there. I remember taking an early morning swim when this young Mexican woman spotted me and ran out screaming, “No, senorita, no! Muy peligroso, muy peligroso!”

 I was already out in the water, a fair piece...used to be a powerful swimmer. I was about to turn around anyway and catch a wave. They were huge there, over eight feet high. I was going to body surf back to shore, but a current swooped me out about thirty yards before I could react. Let me tell you, getting swept away like that gets your attention...Anyway, I didn’t panic but knew I was in serious trouble. I swam with all I had for about a hundred yards parallel to shore ...like you do if you ever get caught in a river whirlpool. It will pull you down and you’re supposed to let it and then jump out the side when the pull lessens.” 

She filled up her glass and smiled.

“Sorry, I got distracted there.” 

“No, go on. You got pulled out, then what?”

 “Well, I tried to head toward shore again, but it was a no go. I tried another hundred and there was no current. I caught a wave perfectly and glided back to the beach. It took me a good five-minute walk to get back to where I entered the water. It exhausted me, the swim and stress. 

The woman was right—“Muy peligroso—very dangerous, was indeed the right warning. Turns out that the tides there are sneaky, volatile. Dozens of people have drowned there.”

“Jesus, Florence. That pretty hat is covering up a brain filled with knowledge and experiences. Isn’t it? Delightful story. You tell a damn good story. I felt like I was right with you. That was great. Okay, topic two. Best meal ever. Tell me about it.” 

“Oh, what a great question. Lots of options. I had some superb meals in France when I was young. Those people can really cook. There was this one seafood place in Sydney that was incredible... but I’m picking a breakfast at the revolving restaurant in the Space Needle in Seattle. Ever been there?” 

“Oh, yeah. Love Seattle. Yes, been to the observation tower and passed by that restaurant but never ate there. Too pricey for me. What was it like?”

“It was the morning after my first husband, Dwayne died. He had been in the Fred Hutchinson’s Hospital for two weeks—barely coherent most of the time—pumped full of pain medications. The cancer had spread everywhere. When he passed, I was relieved and happy for him because watching him waste away was pure torture ... for both of us. I got out of the cramped motel where I had been staying. Caught the monorail—it was right nearby—and got out at the Seattle Center. I went up in the Space Needle on an impulse. The restaurant was nearly deserted. It was a Monday morning.

A handsome, gray-haired guy escorted me to a seat and poured me a coffee. He came back, caught me sobbing, so I told him my story. I watched for a long time all the activity below as the city came alive. He came back with two huge platters of food. There was an egg dish with a fabulous white sauce, a slab of perfectly grilled salmon, crepes covered in hot cherries, some herb-covered small potatoes, a single potato pancake covered in just enough applesauce, two links of sausage that had a little hot kick to them, and three slices of peppered, smoked, thick bacon. The server looked down on a surprised me and gave me a wide grin. 

“Will that be satisfactory, ma’am?” he asked.

“God, you just described my dream meal. How did little you eat all that stuff?”

“It was so good. I told the server: ‘This is unbelievable, but I didn’t order all of this. I don’t think I have enough cash to pay either, and I doubt I can eat it all. This looks like something from Gourmet Magazine.’”

He answered with: “No worries. This breakfast is compliments of our chef. Could I interest you in a little champagne and orange juice and some more coffee?” he asked. 

He didn’t wait for an answer. He filled my glass.

“Enjoy your meal. Stay as long as you like, too.”

I ate, cried, and watched the city roll by. Got a little tipsy, too. The restaurant takes a full hour to make one revolution, and I stayed for the complete spin. I will never forget the meal—I ate every bite—the view, and the surprising kindness.” 

“Damn, I would love to be there with that exact meal in that spot right this second. You know, I love a good steak or lobster, but breakfast is my favorite meal. Like I said, you just described my dream meal.”

“I am with you, Gabby. That salmon for breakfast was something special. You wait ...they do a good job on the dining cars in Canada. We’re going to have a feast in a couple of hours. What’s playing now?”

“Etta James singing a Gershwin tune—Someone to Watch Over Me. She’s my absolute favorite from that era.”

They listened with the clacking of the train wheels in the background. The whistle sounded as they pulled into Whitefish a moment after the song ended. 

“I love that song. It is so universal. We all dream of having someone to watch over us. Lucky for me, today it’s you, Gabby. That song gives me the next question, but we need to change trains here, Gabby. Are you enjoying yourself ...Or is this old lady boring you?”

 “Boring me? You are one of the most interesting people I have ever had the honor of meeting. I’ll never forget this trip. Splendid scenery, serene, and smell that mountain air,” he said as he helped her exit the train. 

They headed for the Canadian train, already loading up with happy, active people. The train conductor took Florence’s ticket and glanced at Gabby. 

“Have a glorious trip, folks. You picked a perfect day. Take a left when you get on.”

 The couple did, with Florence in the lead. She stopped at a private club car door and opened it. 

“Oh, here we go. This looks perfect,” she said to a surprised Gabby.

 “A private car? Jesus Cristo, Florence ... are you made of money? This had to have cost a pretty penny.”

“I told you I had been planning this for years. This isn’t the trip for coach. I need to freshen up some and you need to go down to the bar and get us another bottle. You hogged most of the other one.” 

She smiled. 

“Now, get going, times not on my side,” she chirped.

“Yes, Miss Havisham. Pip is on his way.” 

“Ah ...well, I’m not in my wedding dress if you hadn’t noticed. I have some great expectations for you, though. Get a good bottle this time and pay for it with this.”

 She tossed him a fifty. The train was already moving as Gabby roamed from car to car. He shared it was Florence’s birthday with the bartender who didn’t hesitate in his selection.

“Try this one from a B.C. Winery. It’s the best we have.”

 Florence found the instructions and set out the pills. She took the first two, which started the process. She looked at the clock. She had done her homework and remained confident in her decision, although she had a small echo of doubt concerning Gabby. His appearance seemed like a form of divine intervention, as he appeared to be the perfect companion for her final journey. 

He imagined what Gabby’s title would be. Perhaps something like Florence’s Last Train Trip. He might get more flowery, but she doubted it. She knew his writing from the Chronicle. What a lovely man. She couldn’t have planned this day any better. His music was like a grand soundtrack that set the tone. He tried to hide the sadness, but it was obvious that he was one wounded bird—had he been sent to help her or was it all merely luck ?

 Kind of the eternal question, isn’t it? She thought. She had given up on religion long ago and accepted that this life is a mystery which seemed fine with her. She needed no exact answers. She figured a loving God would appreciate her reasoning and her planned glib statement of: “Lord, you didn’t give me enough information.” If not, then she had decided that she would simply raise a bunch of hell in Hell. 

What could they do? Kick her out?” She laughed at her own morbid joke and put away the pills, noticing that the last two blue ones were her old friend and enemy—Valium. There came a quiet knock, a pause, and in came her companion with a bottle of already opened wine.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’ve been taking swigs on that straight from the bottle?” she said.

“Hey, lady, you apparently have never seen the movie Throwing Mama from the Train, now have you? Better watch yourself. No, I did not take swigs. I took one big swig, the singular. Sue me. I exceeded expectations.”

He put the bottle on the table and flopped down. 

“God, this is living the high life in this private room. The window view is glorious... Hey, where are the damn wine goblets? Jeez, get with it, woman.” 

“Well ... what about you? Hello ...I hear no damn music. Asleep at the wheel again. I’m kicking you out in Banff. This isn’t working.” 

“Sorry, Miss Queen Bee. Damn, this is the worst job ever. You won’t have to kick me out in Banff. I’ll jump.” 

A piano intro came on and a husky female voice started singing, Walk on By. It made her immediately envision a dark, smoky piano bar somewhere.

“Good choice. You are forgiven. One of my all-time favorite tunes. I’m certainly glad you didn’t today, Gabby. Walk on by, that is. You are making this old lady have the greatest birthday. Thanks, I really appreciate it. I think we could have been good friends.”

He stopped his drink and held the wine goblet inches from his mouth and stared at her. He looked away and finished the drink. 

“Okay, next question, Florence.”

 “No, please let me ask one. Gabby tell me a good funny story. I’ll return the favor. You have to have some good ones.”

“Funny stuff? Well, I have one in mind, but my stories are pretty colorful.” 

“Go right ahead. I’ve been around and language is just language.”

 “Okay, but I warned you. Dirk Kempthrone, a typical ridiculous Republican politician from Idaho, was out at the local mill on a campaign stop and told his driver to stop at a bar named Campbell’s Corner. His driver, a local guy, told Kempthrone that might not be such a great idea, but Mr. Know-it-All insisted. The mill workers were mostly union guys and voted for Democrats back then. Florence, here’s the conversation that took place.”

He cleared his throat and assumed a new deep voice. “Hi, I’m Dirk Kempthrone and I am running for the Senate,” he said as he offered his hand to Campbell’s Corner’s legend Guy-Guy Ailor who was just finishing his first schooner of beer after getting off day shift.

“Great. Buy me a beer then,” Guy-Guy said, ignoring the outstretched hand. 

“Oh, I can’t do that. So, what do you do around here?” Kempthrone asked. 

“I hunt and I fuck,” was Guy-Guy’s answer. There were a few chuckles and a pause from the other drinkers. 

“So what do you hunt?” Kempthrone asked, trying not to act too shocked and attempting to regain his composure. 

“Something to fuck,” was the response. 

Gabby looked at Florence, who was holding her gut in laughter. 

“That’s classic. Loved it. Give me another.”

“Okay, here goes. Same bar. Norm Bateman had stopped after graveyard shift was over and stayed until after lunch. Six or seven straight hours of drinking, it was. He headed home only because he ran out of money when an odd thing happened. He hit a train.

A freight train comes in once a week, loads up lumber, paper products and tissue, and heads for the coast. This was not one of these days, however. Norm hit a stationary engine and caboose that were abandoned on the tracks until the next run, three blocks from Campbell’s. He smacked it pretty hard and was sitting there wondering what to do when County Sheriff Johnson pulled up.

 He marched over and opened Norm’s door. Norm fell out on the ground.

 “Sir, have you been drinking?” the sheriff asked.

 “Well, hell, yeah. Do you think I get out of the car that way all the time?”

 “HA! Those were great, Gabby, and you didn’t even have to think about them. You should put them all in a booklet. People would love them. You know what else? You should write down your nine favorite baseball memories ... call it Nine Innings From Behind the Scoreboard. People would love, it Gabby.” 

“You are an amazing woman, Florence. I promise to do that. I really do. Great ideas. Damn, you got me excited about creating a new project or two. Now, it’s your turn.”

“Okay, well, this one happened in a hospital room when I worked as a volunteer. I began cleaning up as the two male patients slept. In walked Doctor Spike Mallory, who wipes his brow and goes in to see his patient. This would not be fun. Here’s the exact conversation:

Doctor, speaking to his patient: “Well, I have some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?’

Patient: “I guess I’ll take the bad news first.”

Doctor Spike: “Well, we have found out that the pain in your legs is a result of gas gangrene. We are going to have to amputate both of your legs right below the knees to prevent it from spreading.”

Patient: “Oh, my God! That’s terrible! What possible good news could you have after that?”

 Doctor Spike: “See, your roommate over there? He wants to buy your slippers.”

“HA! HA! HA! That was great, Florence. I’m stealing that one for sure.”

 “Something that surprised or shocked you is the next topic. By the way, this is really superb wine and I’m getting a bit of a buzz on, sister. Look at this country! The Canadian Rockies are a masterpiece.” 

“Yes, they are something. To me, they put the Swiss Alps to shame. Are you ready for an early dinner? I am. Would you mind going down and see if they’re serving yet?”

“No problem. I’ll go check right now.” 

He took off. Florence glanced at the clock, pulled out the second dose of pills, and quickly swallowed them. She sat, soon lost in the train's movement, but started seeing colors in an odd, twirling pattern which meant her blood sugar was messed up. 

“Oh, I don’t have time for one of these spells today.”

The elderly gal felt panic for the first time all day. She dug around for a glucose tab, for she usually carried one or two in her purse. She dumped all the contents of her purse and found one, which she chomped up. The patterns went away almost immediately, just about the same time that Gabby popped back in. 

“They said we could come down anytime. Are you ready?” 

“Great, let’s go.” 

She felt for the third dose she had placed in her tweet coat pocket and checked the clock. They walked through three coach cars to the dining car. A handsome, gray-haired man immediately greeted them, walked them back to a table, and pulled out the chair for Florence. Nobody else occupied the dining car, Florence realized.

 “Are you sure this place is open?” she asked Gabby.

 “Don’t worry. I got this covered. Now, how about the last topic?”

 “Oh, surprise or shock, right?”

 Suddenly, the table became surrounded by three young girls, a young man, the server who had seated them, and two men wearing chef hats. The giggling girls started singing and the male voices joined in. 

♪ “Happy Birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Florence.” ♪

They sang and their out-of-tune rendition finished in a flourish as the young man took a knee and held his hand up to Florence. The group clapped and erupted in laughter at the show-off final move. Another man, he too in a chef’s hat, steered in a cart.

“I hope this will do, ma’am.”

He uncovered a series of silver platters which revealed crepes covered in hot cherries, pancakes, biscuits and gravy, thick bacon, roasted potatoes and two sizeable pieces of salmon. 

Gabby smiled, flicked on some music—a remarkable, modern cover of My Funny Valentine—and started eating. The dining car later filled with Robert Cray singing and squeezing magnificent notes out of his guitar. “♪I can be the one ...anytime”♪, he sang.

“How in the world did you pull this all off? You’re a hero, Gabby.”

“Well, you see, I got a really good fare today who gave me a pretty damn good tip. Amazing what some sweet talking and a few hundreds can do, ain’t it?” he said with his mouth half full. 

“This is delicious! What a good la…” She caught herself and tried to cover the slip by putting a big bite in her mouth. 

Gabby looked over and stared so long that Florence squirmed.

“I think it’s time for the total story, Florence.”

“Story? I don’t know what you mean,” she lied. 

Gabby took a big slab of salmon and pushed it in his mouth. 

“Okay, Florence. I won’t press you. Damn, who thought you could get this kind of chow on a train? I could eat a whole plateful of these potatoes. Oh, let’s try one of my favorite Beatles tunes.”

 “Listen, do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell?” 

He looked up at her. She had almost finished the biscuits and gravy and almost started licking the plate. “The biscuits and gravy were my request, pretty good, huh?”

 “I never eat this much. But I’m going to today. Could we have some different music, please?”

 “Oh, sure. Try this one out. Here’s Amy Winehouse singing: “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?” 

His smile lasted too long. She stopped one girl clearing the plates and asked the time. Florence reached into her pocket and swallowed dose three. Only the two blue Valium were left back in her bag. 

“What were those, vitamins?” the nosy Gabby asked. 

“Blood pressure, meds, if you need to know,” she answered, thinking that perhaps she had made a mistake in inviting Gabby along. 

“Little skinny you has high blood pressure, huh? Oh, here comes some dessert. I guessed, Florence. Hope I did okay.”

Two hot fudge sundaes appeared, and they delivered each a root beer float. 

“Hey, Florence let’s go up to the vista dome for a few minutes. Are you up for it?”

“Yeah, that will be fun.” 

They walked through the coaches and made it up to the dome. It appeared completely full, but there were two seats at the back. They stayed up there riding in silence and soaking in the scenery, which came as a relief to Florence. 

She finally said, “I need to get back to the cabin and take a rest.”

They made it back. She checked the clock and flopped down on the lower bunk. One hour and fifteen minutes to Banff. She would pop the Valium twenty minutes away from Banff. If things played out right, the last thing she would see would be Lake Louise before she went under for good. 

“Florence, is there anything else? I mean anything to make this birthday of yours special?”

 “No, everything has been perfect. You’ve been a great help.” 

“What kind is it?” 

“What are you talking about, Gabby?” 

“What kind of cancer do you have? Look, let’s review this situation ... You’ve got a ton of money with you, but you aren’t rich by any means—I saw your little house, Florence. You surveyed your surroundings on the porch like someone leaving a place for longer than just a simple train trip. You said you had planned this day for years. You said that we “could have” been good friends and I think you almost said, ‘What a good last meal.’ I ain’t as dumb as I look, Florence. I bet you vowed long ago after you watched Dwayne die you would never allow that to happen to you ...I don’t think you’re ever leaving Banff. So, I ask again, is there anything else I could do for you, on your birthday, Florence?” 

He didn’t look at her; he gazed out the window instead. 

“Yes, there are a couple of things. Come here.”

 She pulled his bald head down and kissed it. 

“You are the sweetest man I have ever met. You made this day a perfect one. I simply refuse to dwindle away into whispers that I won’t remember or understand. I have brain cancer and it has spread all over ... have weeks, months or at the most, a year to live. The pain gets worse each day and some nights it won’t leave me alone at all ...I want to go out on my terms. The cancer has already won. I won’t die in a nursing home in the Medicaid wing. Everyone close to me is gone. My time is over and I’m fine with it. It’s been a good life. Really, a very good life. I thought a last train trip and a view of Lake Louise would be a good exit. You see, Gabby, I am just a simple, old woman. Hell, most of the people in my neighborhood don’t even know my first name.

 No bands will play, no stirring speeches will be given when I pass on. We all have some grand fantasy of what our lives are going to be, and then we are confronted with the reality of what it really ends up becoming. Getting you involved now seems selfish. I apologize ... Your music ...that’s what did it. I yearned for some company and some music today and you gave it to me. I beg you to allow me to go.”

 “Florence, there is no need for an apology and you don’t need my permission. I understand. How long before those pills work and I repeat, dear Florence, is there anything else I can do for you?”

 “There’s Carl, my little paper boy. I left him some money so he could go to college. He is such a kind little man and needs a break. Can you make certain that he gets the money? Don’t let his father take it. I want you to have my mother’s quilt at my house. Please take it. Mom made it with love and it will end up at Goodwill or the Salvation Army. Put it on your bed. It might help with the loneliness, big guy.”

 “You got it, Florence. Carl, the quilt, anything else?” he said in a soft whisper.

 “Yeah, hand me my purse. There is one more thing. Here you go. Take this.”

 She handed him an ornate pen. 

“It’s a beautiful pen.” 

“Yep, its very expensive, too.” 

“Well, thanks, Florence, but you have done enough for me already.” 

“Write something truly magnificent with it, Gabby. Something really special.” 

She sat up and started to swallow the Valiums. But he stopped her.

 “Wait, for a second before you take those. What is your plan? I will not try to give you some lame pep talk or anything like that. Trust me. What is the plan?”

 She lowered her head and wondered what to do or what to say. She finally told him the entire truth.

 “I got this cocktail of meds that shut down the system. It’s what they use in Oregon where taking your life is allowed. I took the first dose when I sent you out for the wine, the second set when I had you check on the dining car, the third from my pocket after dinner, and now these heavy duty Valiums are going to knock me out for good. I have had this planned for a long time. A good train ride, a last glance at Lake Louise, and I go to sleep.”

 “Well, that might have been a good plan when you were by yourself, but let me help—help you outside. We’ll find a bench or something and then you can take them. We’ll play some music, I’ll hold your hand, and we’ll let it happen. What do you think?” 

“You’d do that? Seriously...? Okay, but no last minute trying to talk ...”

 “No, no. I’ll here to help. Nothing else, I swear to you, Florence.”

 “Will you play that first tune again?” 

“Anything you want.” 

He grabbed her gloved hand and turned on the music. As Time Goes By began playing. He put it on repeat and they listened until they slid to a stop at the Lake Louise hotel depot. He helped her up, and they exited the train.

 “Oh, we made it! Look at the lake. It’s so beautiful. Let’s go over to that bench, Gabby.”

An excited tourist group of retirees raced around posing and clicking photos, families milled around talking and shouting, two little kids chased a balloon, and a young couple seemed totally lost in an embrace. The train whistle echoed, announcing its departure.

 Florence and Gabby settled on the bench. She took a bottle of water out of her bag and without a pause swallowed the Valium. Gabby took her hand and put the music on softly. Unfortunately, for Florence, the plan didn’t totally work for the last thing she saw in this world turned out not to be the regal Lake Louise. She made a last mistake. 

 Florence glanced over at Gabby whose face dripped tears and that’s when the curtain closed and things went black. 

Thus ends the story of a hidden hero who exited this world on her own terms. A simple spirit who tried to shine her weak beam into the darkness of the world hoping to make things a little better, a little kinder, a bit more loving. Still, an ultimate question lingers: 

Who will water the roses?

I hope you are enjoying this swing around the sun. I have been working on these stories for many years now. Here are some June tales. Cheers!

June, the month of Summer Fun

Mom's Plan to Ruin my Entire Summer

 All of us lived for the summer. Our neighborhood had a huge gully to play around in, to hide in, and was a perfect place for digging in the dirt and building forts.Sunset Park was only a block away from my house and part of the Jensen brothers’ backyard. It had shade trees, play equipment, including a merry-go-round, and swings along with a baseball field. North of the park was a National Guard Armory building filled with Army trucks, jeeps, and a couple of tanks.

Outside of the Armory lived a series of dirt trails that they used for jeep training. These trails were perfect for riding our bikes around, as they had steep drops that were exciting. Nearby, a grove of huge willow trees thrived, and the Imperial Bowling Alley with its five pinball machines and ice cold bottled pops became a favorite hangout. Carlson’s new Drive-In was a fresh bonus.

 For now, delicious burgers, foot-long hot dogs, and tasty milkshakes or root beer floats were available to us close by. When we wanted a really marvelous adventure, we would jump on our bikes and ride down to the Clearwater River for a quick dip in the cool water. Yes, we lived for summer and our summers were super hot with lots of days with temperatures over 100 degrees. It excited me, for we could sleep outside, ride our bikes, collect pop bottles, and get in water fights or play Hide-n-Seek games at night. 

We had only been out of school for a week when my normally sensible, loving Mom made me sit down and listen to her.

“Bobby, what do you think about going to summer school for a couple of classes? Or maybe you would like to take swimming lessons or join an arts and crafts club?”

The only words that came into my mind were the words that would get me a session with Dad’s belt. I felt like one of those rats trapped in a cage in Michael McCrery’s science lab up the street. The only thing I got out of my mouth were a few lame whispers.

“Huh? Summer school? Swimming lessons? Making things out of dried macaroni? Why?”

“Well, Mr. Harrison said he’s offering a writing class and I know you like to write things. He took the time to call and said you would really enjoy it.”

I wasn’t really listening, but thinking of why in the world my loving mother wanted to torture me by sending me to summer school or sissy swimming lessons or stupid arts and crafts? It suddenly dawned on me—tumbleweeds. Yeah, it had to be those stinking tumbleweeds. I better explain.

Back then, everyone burned their paper garbage in the alley behind each of our homes. Everyone had a fifty-gallon burning barrel. It was a favorite job, taking out the garbage and burning it because I got to fool around with matches and watch the papers turn all kinds of colors as they burned. Well, the night before, the Jensen brothers and I had an idea. We captured a bunch of big, dried-out tumbleweeds that were blowing around and stuffed them into the Greezer family’s burn barrel, which still had some embers from an earlier fire at the bottom of their barrel. We crammed the entire thing full and went back to our sleeping bags in the Jensen’s backyard and waited. 

Mark flipped on his new transistor radio as we gazed up at the stars when it happened. The tumbleweeds erupted! The flames shot up almost as high as the nearby telephone pole. It was really cool. But now, it seemed like perhaps it was anything but cool. I remembered Mr. Greezer’s voice barking out at us from his bedroom window after the flame show lit up the entire area.

“You boys, knock it off. I’m trying to sleep in here!”

It was an impressive yell. He probably had called Mom and squealed on me, the old buzzard.

“Bobby, are you even listening to me?”

“Mom, I’m sorry about the tumbleweeds. We were just fooling around. We didn’t think it would make such a commotion, honest.”

My mother looked at me like I had turned dense.

“What are you talking about tumbleweeds for? I was giving you some good ideas so you could have some real fun this summer and you’re babbling about tumbleweeds. Swimming lessons sound like real fun and you like to make things. Your Aunt Nona said all her kids are going to arts and crafts this summer and they love it.”

“That’s because my cousins are dimwitted chowderheads, and why are you quoting Aunt Nona? You don’t even like her.”

“So, I’m guessing I should call up Mr. Harrison and tell him you’re not interested and forget the other stuff, right?”

I ripped off my left Redball Jet tennis shoe and my sock, exposing my naked foot.

“What are you doing?” Mom asked, convinced I had gone around the bend of crazy river.

“Mom, I would gladly go out in the shed and hack off one of my toes with a dull ax rather than do any of the three things you suggested. I want to help you with sister Sandy this summer,” I smartly added, or so I thought.

She glared at me.

“Here you go, Mr. Writer, learn this word for today. Impertinent. And here’s another-Insolent. How about one more-snotty-nosed. In fact, get out the dictionary and look all of them up and copy the definitions.”

She opened the refrigerator, got out a milk bottle, and slammed it on the counter.

“Don’t say one more word. You could have just said, 'No thank you.' Now, get over to the table and look up those words.”

Mom was riled up like she had never been before. I knew better than to say anything. I picked up my shoe and sock and headed to get the dictionary. Mom had forgotten about the tumbleweeds, and that relieved me. While writing out the last definition of ‘snotty-nosed’ a thought of adding a little joke seemed like it might be a good idea, but Mom did not appear to be in a jovial mood. The phone rang. 

Mom was not speaking to me yet and answered it without looking at me. She listened. I could hear a loud voice coming from the phone, even though I was a long way away. She finally said, “Yes, I understand. I assure you we will take care of the matter. Thanks for calling.”

Then and only then did she make eye contact with me. It was a glower that would have had made the devil wet his pants. I felt my head heating up.

“Okay, Mr. Tumbleweed. Go to your room. Mr. Greezer is ready to take out his horsewhip on you boys.”

I flopped on my bed, cussing in my head at how grownups ruin pretty much everything. I got my baseball cards and spread them out in a diamond shape like a real ball field. The door flew up and there stood Mom, squeezing a yardstick.

“How could you be so stupid? The Stevens lost their house, and you saw how devastating a fire can be, and yet you played around with it? Stand up.”

I did. Was she going to swat me? She had never had before. She left such things to Dad.

“Bend over,” she whispered.

I did. Like an angry demon my normally gentle mom took the yardstick in both hands and swung it at me like Hank Aaron swinging for the fences.

 SMACK...

The yardstick flew into pieces. I turned around just in time to see one of them hit dear ‘ol mom directly above her left eye. Another bigger piece knocked over my reading lamp and the bulb exploded on the floor. A third hit Tiger, my big, old orange cat who had been minding his own beeswax and sleeping on top of the dresser. The hit startled him and he vaulted for the closed window. The poor guy smacked to the floor and raced out between Mom’s legs. There was a moment’s silence.

 I tried like crazy not to laugh at the cartoon scene I had just witnessed and stayed bent over. I turned toward her.

“Thank you, ma’am. I deserve another,” I impulsively chirped. 

She startled me by laughing so hard that she had to sit on the bed.

“Look, I shouldn’t have hit you, but that tumbleweed trick was really stupid. I’m going to tell your dad when he gets home and let him deal with it. Clean up the mess and come help me fix dinner,” she said.

I picked up the lamp and bulb pieces. The yardstick hadn’t hurt a bit, but I was not looking forward to the belt, which was bound to happen when Dad got home. I went to the kitchen and began silently setting the table when she spoke.

“Aunt Nona and your cousins are coming down tomorrow. Oh, go downstairs and get out your white shirt and church pants I washed and ironed. You’ll need them for tomorrow.”

Why can’t kids use cuss words? I knew I remained on thin ice, so I didn’t question. I skipped downstairs and got the white shirt and the pants that I hated to wear, carefully carried them upstairs and waited.

Finally, I asked, “Mom, what are these clothes for anyways?”

“The word is anyway not anyways. We’re all going to court tomorrow. Don’t you remember?”

I had no clue what she was talking about, but held my tongue. I found out when Dad got home. He came over and grabbed a towel and started helping me dry the dishes. Which seemed weird, for I had never seen him do such a thing. Mom sat busy in the living room with baby Mary and couldn’t hear us talking.

“So, you got into a little trouble, huh?”

“Yeah, we we’re goofing around. Mom’s right. The fire thing scared me and I should have known better, but we don’t always think out our ideas. Sorry, Dad. I really am.”

“Well, normally we would be in the bedroom with the belt, but not today. If you promise to think up a good punishment and not get into any squabbles with your cousins tomorrow, I’ll let it pass. Deal?”

“How about I weed our garden, clean out the shed, and volunteer to work for Mr. Greezer? I’ll wash the car every Saturday with no reminders for the rest of the summer, too. Deal?”

“Deal.”

He surprised me by giving me a long hug.

“I don’t say this enough, Bobby, but I am proud of you. You are a wonderful son and I am so looking forward to becoming your father tomorrow. We’re having a little party after court and I’m going to cook burgers. That’s why my sister is coming down with her kids.”

That’s when I remembered and understood the need for the white shirt and church pants. We were going to court tomorrow so my dad could become my father by adopting me legally.

“Oh, by the way, Bobby. I have a surprise for you. I was going to wait and tell you tomorrow, but I can’t wait.”

“A surprise, really?”

“Yep. Bobby, how would you like to go out on the company boat this Friday? You can take two friends if you’d like.

Yes! Finally, a good idea from an adult. 

Time to head to the ball park for our second June story.

Snortin' Norton and Kip Fight it Out

The electronic temperature flashing from the right field fence showed 102 degrees and it was only noon during  my junior year in American Legion summer ball.  We had a doubleheader scheduled for the day. Community member Chuck Norton, employed as a postal worker but best known in town as a referee and umpire, had a catchy, nasty nickname—“Snortin’ Norton.” Almost everyone called him by the name behind his back.

The overweight guy had worked the first game behind the plate, a tight game we won with a sacrifice fly in the seventh inning—2-1. His black outfit had become totally drenched in sweat and his puffy cheeks were as red as an embarrassed tomato. 

To add to his discomfort on this miserable, scorching day, he had just gone through the nasty, painful experience of having two impacted wisdom teeth extracted that very morning. He slugged over to the water fountain and took a long drink, along with two more painkillers.

 Our best pitcher Joe Kampa had hurled a near masterpiece against one of our region’s chief rivals, the Yakima Beetles, in the first game. Our pitching coach, ex-major leaguer, Thornton “Kip” Kipper, had been especially brutal in incessantly criticizing and questioning Snortin’ Norton’s strike zone.

 It got to where Umpire Norton had taken off his mask, stormed over to the dugout, pointed at Kip directly, and warned him he was going to run him if he said another word. Kip, to his credit, toned it down, and they completed the game with no more harsh words.

 But then the second game started. Yakima had the bases loaded in the first inning with only one out when I made one of my greatest plays ever in my baseball history. It went like this.

Their weak-hitting but fast shortstop lofted a chink pop fly into no-man’s-land in short right-center field. I got a decent jump on the ball and somehow—luck—dove full out. The ball touched the webbing of my glove. I instantly knew I couldn’t catch it, so I took a chance and flipped it up into the air toward center fielder Mark Switzer, who had lost his hat while racing toward the ball himself.

 He dove, caught it cleanly, vaulted up, and fired a strike to second, trying to double off the runner. Umpire Norton was out in the field for this game and called the guy safe. A run scored, and an argument started over the call. Kip’s voice echoed all over the park, voicing his disapproval. Umpire Norton immediately swung around and hauled his massive body toward our dugout while yelling, “You’re out of here!”

He had heard enough and had given Kip the thumb, kicking him out of the game. But Kip, of course, would not let Snortin’ Norton get the last word. He took his own sweet time ambling down toward the clubhouse, all the while yacking insults toward the umpire who ran over toward him, returning the insults with ones of his own.

The two overweight hotheads wound up running toward each other and smacked bellies exactly like two male big-horned sheep butting heads. They bounced back from the impact and flopped to the ground like two bumper cars at the amusement park. 

The crazed duo started rolling around together until Umpire Norton seized the advantage and silenced Kip by grabbing him in a headlock choke. Several adults ran onto the field and separated the two.

The reaction to the comical commotion filled the entire ballpark with echoes of laughter and howls from the surprised and disbelieving crowd. The next Yakima batter popped up weakly to the third baseman, and we sprinted into the dugout screaming with hysterical belly laughs, which was totally appropriate.

This scene I knew would become a vivid memory. It is possibly one of the best single comical things I have ever seen in my life. It became an often repeated town tale and part of this baseball crazy town’s legacy. 

Mystery Canyon Maelstroms

The circle of drummers plays and chants in rhythm to thousand-year-old beats. There are four empty spots and drums in the circle.

A silent, shirtless Julius sat cross-legged on the crystal white sand soaking in the June sun as the river water swirled and twirled a few feet away. His brown skin glistened. He let his half-closed eyes survey the river scene, both the distant hills and the nearby rocks. This river canyon had always been one of his power spots. He could feel the energy here and he wasn’t thinking about the abundant earthly energy coming from his band of teenage friends nearby laughing, splashing, and jumping into the river. No, this type of energy felt different.

This series of pools and whirlpools had been sacred to his people, the Nez Perce, for centuries. An ancient graveyard visible on the other road-less side of the river had the graves of over a hundred of his ancestors buried in it. One grave held the body or spirit of his great, great grandfather, Chief Twisted Hair, a blood relative of Chief Joseph himself.

“Julius, are you going to sit there all day?” his blonde girlfriend, Teri, spoke as she adjusted her pink bikini straps while exiting the water.

His eyes popped open slowly, and he smiled. Without a word, he suddenly jumped up and ran at her full speed. She erupted in giggles and fled toward the water. She was no match for this man-child, who at fifteen was over six feet tall and 175 pounds of cougar-like quickness and strength.

His athletic achievements were already legendary in the valley community. He could dunk a basketball and had no problem dunking Teri after he gave her a gentle toss into the still icy river water. The two battled for a bit before she said, “I’m getting a beer. I brought you some Gatorade.” 

She squeezed the water from her hair and headed to the cooler.

“Hey, chief! Catch this,” yelled his deceivingly athletic, short and tubby friend, Roger. A football came winging Julius’s way, and he snatched it with one hand, just to show off. He dropped back his usual five steps like he had done thousands of times in practice and games and cocked his arm.

“Holy crap, man, look at all you ugly white boys. Lord, put your shirts back on. Your skin is blinding me and you’re scaring the girls. Post pattern, Rog,” Julius said before launching a perfect strike at the amazingly fast boy with the beer gut.

The ball traveled at least sixty yards in the air and hit Roger in perfect stride. The colleges were already looking this Indian boy over because of such throws. He held up his hand to signal no more and went up to the blanket Teri had rolled out.

“What about me, Julius? Am I too white?” a smiling Teri said as she handed him his drink.

“Heck, Teri, you’ve been to those tanning beds so many times you are almost as dark as a damn Indian. Funny that your dad hates Indians and his daughter makes herself look like one,” he said.

“My dad’s an asshole,” was her only response as she cracked the top of a Coors Light bottle. 

“What were you thinking about when you were over there sitting cross-legged?”

“Indian stuff. You wouldn’t understand,” he said, knowing that statement would get her going.

“Hey! What do you mean? I know this river better than anyone. Daddy has taken me to every inch of this canyon. I know all about the graveyard over there and how this used to be a spot for marriage and funerals. I know about how dangerous this eddy can be, too. I might be able to teach you some things.”

“Oh, I’m certain you could teach me a few things,” he answered.

She slapped him and then said, “Oh my God. They’re diving off those rocks into those deep pools. My dad says this is the most dangerous stretch of the river, especially when the river is high like it is now. Julius, go tell them to quit.”

He didn’t move or react. His eagle-like eyes had spotted the body of a white rabbit in the crevice of two large boulders. Its once white fur was now covered with crusted blood and hundreds of flies gouging on the remains. He knew about omens and signs.

“Teri, dump out that beer.”

Teri stopped and was about to protest, but Julius had always spoken to her with only kindness. He was a man-boy of few words and had never really ever ordered her to do anything. His words had her total attention. She poured the contents out on the white sand and waited. He looked off into the distance with his eyes wide open, not moving.

“Julius, what is it? Tell me.”

“This is a sacred place. One must take caution here. For the others, drinking and racing around may be okay, but not for us. I may need you and besides, you hate it when your father drinks and what it does to him. I hate it for what it has done to my people. I have let you go your own way, but I am going on my path and if you want to come with me, there will be no alcohol. Teri, I may need you today.”

He sighed, stretched his arms toward the sky, and began strolling toward the group of divers in the distance. His long black hair started blowing across his forehead as a warm canyon wind kicked up from nowhere. The sky that had been totally clear moments ago now contained several dark cumulus clouds that looked like giant puffs from a smoky campfire.

She ran to catch up with him, got to his side, and grabbed his hand. He didn’t look but squeezed her hand. She could feel his strength flowing from his fingers into hers. She could see a glow, an eerie, golden glow, hovering around him. They got to the rocks and began climbing up slowly, still holding hands. The wind made whistling sounds that echoed off the canyon walls. The water below them shimmered in a series of swirls and twirls. 

One of the dark clouds seemed to stop for a moment and hovered over the group of about two dozen kids waiting their turn to dive, blocking out the sun totally. Rickie dove out, did one controlled complete flip, and entered the water with a near-perfect finish. It had been a beautiful dive. 

Only one problem; he never came up. When you’re diving into a river like this, there is a certain period of seconds that you wait before the diver makes it to the surface after completing the dive. It’s about a ten-second wait at the very most. Then you expect to see his or her head pop up and then the arms come up and all is good. Rickie didn’t come up at ten or twenty seconds. 

The group all processed what had happened. The wind, a little stronger now, made the only sound. At thirty seconds, Rickie’s brother and Julius’ best friend, the pass-catching Roger, took a run through the crowd and launched himself into the same pool that Rickie had hit. The shouts started echoing as one after another yelled as the realization hit. The shouts stopped completely as the countdown to ten began. 

There was no sign of Roger. No surface breakage at all at ten, then twenty seconds. Julius dropped Teri’s hand and moved to the top of the rocks. People would later claim that Julius’s entire body was surrounded by what looked like a giant golden egg of light moments before he vaulted into the air.

He looked like a meteor in the night sky and disappeared into the river water, exactly like a shooting star hitting the atmosphere. Now girls were running around, screaming, crying, and comforting one another with spontaneous hugs. The remaining boys stood frozen, staring blankly at the water and knowing that they probably had just seen two deaths.

 But Julius would make it. Julius could—if nothing else—save himself if things got bad and out of control below the surface. A full minute later, Tony started to the top of the rock. Big Del grabbed him before he could jump. 

“There will be no more. Do you hear me? There will be no more,” Big Del announced to the crowd. 

Tony fell to his knees and dissolved into tears. His pals ran to him, helped him up, and soon were sobbing themselves. This enormous river had gotten three of them. Even Julius could not make it. Teri took the opportunity provided by the commotion to move up to the top of the rock with no one noticing. When Big Del had stopped Tony, she had moved up to the top before her friend Shelia spotted her.

“Oh, my God! No, Teri. Don’t do it. Somebody stop her. Oh, my God, somebody stop her!”

Big Del got an ankle for a second, but Teri kicked off his hand and took off into the sky with her hands centered over her head, did a perfect swan dive, and entered the water with scarcely a splash. One group of kids had run back to the road and were racing for help in a loaded down car. The remaining ones, finally one by one, sat down on the sand. Most cradled their heads and rocked in an instinctual, primitive response to comfort themselves. They could do nothing but hug one another and wait.

Teri’s dad came from a long-line of Snake River rats. He knew every curve, every rock, and how to shoot the rapids of this massive river. It was the only thing he really loved, and his entire life centered on it. He had passed on all he knew to Teri on fishing trips and wild rides through the tricky waters further down the canyon. He told her a story about whirlpools and, after seeing the boys go down; she knew it had to be a whirlpool that had caused the disappearance of the boys. 

He had explained how the whirlpool works. It’s like a tornado under water. It will pull you down violently and not let you up. If you panic and try to fight it, you will be exhausted in a minute and be gone. What you do is let it take you down and when it lessens in intensity under water, blast through the side of it. She remembered all of this with total clarity. When she hit the water, she noticed the pull which captured her in seconds and starting pulling her down at a speed she could never have imagined. 

She kept her breath and when she sensed enough time had passed, dove through the side. She made it out and could see some light in the distance. The water had turned calm, and she felt confident that she could make it up to the light. And she may have made it under normal conditions.

But she got picked up by an underwater current that was twice as strong as any rapid she had seen on the surface. Soon she began falling, like being weightless and right toward a mammoth group of boulders. She either lost her breath or her will, or couldn’t see the slit slightly wider than her body. The current flushed her into the slit, but she had already passed out and missed the 50-foot waterfall-like drop. Her body landed with a splash in a calm, deep pool.

Two strong, brown arms got to her and picked her up. Julius hustled her to the beach. Roger and Rickie came over and the three of them worked on getting Teri back. She finally coughed and spit out some water. She sat up and then fell back.

“Teri, I told you I might need your help today,” Julius said, smiling.

“Where are we?” she finally got out.

“The best question you have ever asked,” said Julius.

“We sure as hell don’t know other than some underground cave,” said Roger.

“Julius, what do you think?” Teri asked, sitting all the way up.

“I don’t know. I think or it feels like we’re going to be okay. We were all funneled down here, which is so crazy and unreal. What a ride ...I ‘m only wondering about one thing, really,” he said.

“What?” Teri asked.

“I don’t really know if we’re still alive,” he answered.

“Here, let me show you.”

He stood up and took his right hand and moved it through his left forearm, and wiggled his fingers on the other side.

“Weird, huh?”

Let us end the month of June with the tale of Blackie's landmark 40th birthday. Hop in, as we travel to the panhandle of Florida for an memorable day.

But wait! A bonus story has appeared! 

I Wounded Fluffy the Cat and Feel Like Hell

I am admittedly one of the worst drivers you will ever come across. And what is worse, I am also a severe critic of other people’s miscues while they drive. I mumble under my breath, pound the steering wheel, yell at people to go for no real reason other than I want to go, goddammit and now.

I drive too slowly, space out, and operate ancient, nasty vehicles. I am a living, breathing bundle of the worst of people you would be unfortunate enough to meet on the road. I am also a driving contradiction—partly true, partly fiction. I like to go, go, go and slow, slow, slow. Following rules is not my thing and was once picked up with an expired driver’s license. Eleven years expired, I must add.

 To make it all clear, I have work that puts me behind the wheel for an average of 600 miles per week. But this incident I am going to share was not my fault. I was completely innocent. I was driving across one of the bridges that separate my town from its sister town in this big river valley in which I live. I had just crossed the Snake River and was turning onto a quiet road. Snake River Drive makes sense, right?

 It follows the river and is lined with tall deciduous trees. There are only a few houses on the road and a big city park. I was going the speed limit. I was not spaced out. I was not in a hurry. In fact, I had nothing much to do this day. I was not ranting or raving. I was mellow, happy, and content. I had nothing in my hands and the radio was playing softly.

Suddenly, a huge pure white thing jumped out in front of me. It had materialized from nowhere. I heard a thump and immediately stopped. There lay a huge, white, full-grown, well-groomed cat, not moving. It had on a collar and I checked it out carefully. The poor creature was more than wounded. It had just used up the last of its nine lives. The sight of the cat made me sad and even brought tears to my eyes.

We, my next-door neighbor landlord friend, Jim and his wife Sherri and I, have over eleven cats that live in and out of our two houses and roam around on the big vacant lot between us. They are all our children. 

I knew I had to do the right thing and go find the owners of this once magnificent large white kitty that had evidently committed Kitty-cide by jumping in front of me. I found a box in the trunk of my dented up Subaru Legacy and placed her in it. I gave a sigh and started walking toward the three houses all lined up together across from the park. No one answered my knocks at the first place, but a short, pudgy lady wearing a sleeveless faded sundress answered the door of the second home and pushed open the screen door.

“Yes, may I help you?” she asked, while straightening her hair. It was a merry voice.

“Well, I may have some bad news. Do you have a white cat, by chance?”

“Oh, yes, her name is Fluffy.”

There was an awkward pause. I felt like shit. No worse, like a moldy pea undigested in a nasty turd log. I glanced at the white clouds drifting by for a long second or two and finally blurted out: “Look, I am so sorry, but I think I may have hit Fluffy with my car. She ran out, and I didn’t see her. I am so sorry.”

 I opened the box.

“Oh, Fluffy,” she whimpered without making eye contact.

 She took the box and put the lid back on.

“Could I help? Please accept some money from me for this. I feel horrible.”

I held out a fifty-dollar bill. She snapped it up, slamming the screen door in my face. I ambled back toward my car when two city police vehicles raced up with sirens blazing. Two beefy officers ran up to the house and came out in seconds, dragging the woman away in handcuffs.

 I stared, totally stunned. The smaller of the two officers guided her head into the back seat and started to the driver’s side. I hustled over and stopped him.

“Officer, what’s going on here? “

“We arrested her. What does it look like we’re doing?”

“Arrested? What is she being arrested for, officer?”

“Selling her pussy.”

What was the story doing here? Guest writer Dr. Spud tossed that in here. Oh, well. Thus ends the month of June. July, a month of celebration is our next stop in our continuing swing around our guardian sun.

Here we are in the middle of the summer. I love July because of this right here. My best memory ever.

Here's another good one. 

The Myrtle Express- A Great July Memory

Many of us are famous for bemoaning life events or situations that challenge or stress us out. Occasionally, I am one of the blaring complainers when things don’t go my way.

However, every once in a while, things exceed all expectations and give you the positive fuel to carry on. Today, I want to tell you about one of those upbeat, incredible episodes. I’ll save the bemoaning for another time. Let’s pick up the story at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. 

This area was like a foreign land to a dimwit traveler born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. I had little knowledge of the Carolinas other than it was a basketball haven. I had heard about Myrtle Beach from golf buddies who were lavish in their praise. My best buddies, the Wilde brothers, and I drove up from Atlanta together and played golf for ten days. They left, but I unloaded my stuff from the van and said, “I’m gonna hang out here for a few days.” 

I waved to them from a cheap but clean motel room entrance as they drove off. I got settled in my room in short order. Took a long, hot shower, got dressed, and headed out to explore. The Fourth was only a night away, so I was on a mission to find a magnificent spot to watch the fireworks. My modest motel was only a four-block walk to the beach, where the rooms were three times as expensive. Ocean views and the soothing wave sounds seemed magical for a boy from Idaho. The entire scene seemed relaxing and truly impressive to me, for I had an entirely different image in my mind of what the Atlantic Ocean would look like.

These beaches were jewels and deserved the description of awe-inspiring—a word overused but proper in this rare case. I waded in the warm water with the gentle waves lapping at my feet. I can’t adequately describe the shade of blue the water shone, for I had never seen such a gorgeous light, bluish color. The weather and water were about the same temperature—low 80 degrees. 

I got lost in thoughts that I demanded to be pleasant as I was going to protect this marvelous beach stroll by ignoring and banishing any stress-feeding thoughts. Alone on an active, but not crowded, beach yet not one bit lonely. I sucked it all in and merely kept walking. At one point I wondered about turning back as the sunset masterpiece ended, but thanked the protector part of my mind for the not-needed reminder and continued on as the lights of the ocean-side bars and restaurants came on.

 I heard catchy music but could tell it was coming from a spot way off in the distance. I walked for quite a ways, turned at a bend in the sand, and the tunes became clearer.

A few yards later, I saw movement. I increased my pace and got close to the music and had to shuffle through a moving group of people, all apparently lining up for something. I got lucky at a crowded outdoor bar as I found an opening and had a cold Corona in my hand as I took a seat in a comfy chair. The group had grown to maybe three hundred people.

There was a whistle, and everyone stopped moving and talking. A few seconds later, the massive speakers started blaring out a Latino tune I had heard before, but I didn’t know the song had its own dance. The people were an aggregation of all types, sizes, and ages of primates with only one thing in common—they were all dressed in colorful swim outfits.

Comely, young women in full bloom, a few, tanned, confident little kids, at least a dozen proudly displayed beer-bellies and several six-packed-abed, strong, college-aged guys were all dancing along with middle-age and older laughing gals, some wearing hats and a group of junior high-aged girls grooving as one unit.

The dance they performed became extremely popular and moved right into dancing history—the Macarena. It was just taking off, and I got to watch a damn virtuoso performance. 

I made some friends that night and drank a few more beers. The walk back to the motel was not as magical, for I had gone about five miles up the beach. I was still enjoying myself, but blew out some air in relief as I walked into the motel parking lot. I was watching the nightly local news and smiling at the fact that I was staying on the Grand Strand.  I inspected the Seafood Breakfast Buffet free coupon that a friendly gal had given me.

“This place is supposed to be superb, but I won’t get up in time to use it,” she had said as she dug in her purse and pulled out the coupon.

I became one of the first people in the place the next morning. A spacious room with an elegant entrance way made me check out my casual outfit to see if I fit. I relaxed as I walked by a section of three large semi-circular booths filled with a loud, cheerful group of people, most of them wearing Chicago Cub hats. They were dressed like they were all going to attend a picnic. 

I adjusted my Seattle Mariner’s cap, grabbed a plate, and took my place in line behind an attractive woman wearing a long ponytail that stuck out the back of her Cub’s hat. She turned around, flashed a smile, and gave a greeting.

“Good morning. How are you?“

"Why, thank you. I’m great. Haven’t felt like slugging one person yet this morning. See this lid for losers I’m wearing? We Mariner fans are like West Coast Cubbies. Big Cub fan, huh?”

“You at least had Griffey. Yeah, in fact, heading to Wrigley right after this breakfast.”

“Heading for Wrigley, from here?”

“Oh, yeah. We’re all taking the Myrtle Express to Chicago. We do it at least twice a month.”

“No kidding? Wish I could go. Sounds too pricey for me.”

“It’s not too bad. I got on for $125, which includes a game ticket and a coupon for a beer and a hot dog. And of course, the round-trip flight.”

“That’s it?”

“Yep. Hey, have you ever been to this buffet before?”

“Nope. I’m a rookie.”

“Follow me, rookie. I have this down to a science. Skip all this stuff. We are heading over to Ernie.”

I followed.

“Morning, Ernie. I want my usual. Make this guy one.”

The guy smiled, adjusted his chef hat, and grabbed the pan. He joked while cracking eggs, and created two masterpiece four-egg omelets stuffed with seafood, including a handful of cracked King crab, veggies and three kinds of cheese. I looked at this food art with wonder and appreciation as my mouth watered.

“Come on over, you sick Seattle fan, and hang out with us Cubbies. Grab some juice and coffee over there. I’ll save you a seat.”

Damn, I was on a lucky roll. That coupon was turning out to be as good as winning a lottery ticket. I went over to the coffee section where a shy, young Latino girl made me a white-chocolate mocha and smiled at my move of sliding a five-dollar bill into her tip jar.

 I headed over to Cub Land while balancing my food treasures on the tray. My pony-tailed friend patted a spot next to her at one of the gigantic booths. Three other couples, all adorned in Cub gear, sat chatting and eating. 

They smiled as I sat down. I didn’t wait and announced before sitting, “So, you supposed Cub fans. I grew up near Spokane, Washington, which should be of great significance to anyone who knows the Cubs.”

My gal friend smiled and hushed the others.

“No worries, I got this one. You’ll have to do better than that, rookie. Spokane is the home of the great Ryne Sandberg, best Cub second-baseman ever.”

“Ding-ding, we have a winner.”

I nodded at the smiles and took a seat.

“Well, hang on, Ace. You may be the winner. Just so happens my usual Cubbie playmate has canceled. Want to get on the Myrtle Express and head to Wrigley with us? We’ll put you on scholarship. Got fifty bucks?”

Unreal. I found myself on the Myrtle Express drinking champagne and orange juice with my gorgeous, friendly new pal and a plane full of loud, partying Cub fans. The group cheered as the Express plane landed at O’Hara. 

We watched the Cubs win a slug fest fueled by the classic wind blowing out and viewed a spectacular fireworks show after the game. My new friend gave me her card as we exited Wrigley.

“Send me some of your stories. Thanks for the company. What a great day, huh? Could be an even greater night,” she suggested as she swung her hair free from her Cubbie hat and pony tail.

I ended up at the airport at midnight and took the frontal assault approach. I marched up to the nearest counter and said, “Hi, I want to head anywhere West. One way. I’ll go to Denver, Phoenix, Seattle, Salt Lake City…”

She smiled and interrupted, “How about Vegas? Got a seat for you on Kiwi Airlines. A hundred bucks plus tax. Leaves in about an hour.“

"Jackpot!” I said as I pulled out my credit card. She smiled and gave me my ticket. I woke up in the desert late night heat at three o’clock in the morning and roused a dozing car driver who drove me to an ancient old hotel, the Hacienda, that he said would be perfect. It was only a few blocks from the fancy, expensive casinos like the Luxor. 

He helped me load up my luggage and took off after I gave him a twenty-dollar tip.

“Remember, when you check in to tell them the Yellow Cab guy sent you here. You’ll get a discount. Good luck, buddy!”

I headed  inside and a yawning clerk snapped to attention.

“Oh, in that case, you can have three-nights for $29 a night.”

 He managed a grin and asked if he could help. I asked for a room and he quoted me $89. I started filling out the paperwork while mentioning the yellow cab, who had dropped me off and had suggested a discount.

“Sold!”

I flopped on the bed and checked my funds. I had almost five hundred bucks. The clock showed it to be almost four am, and I felt wide awake. I took a quick shower, put on clean clothes, and marched over to the fancy casinos. 

I got hot right off the bat at the first table game I tried. Some silly game called Let It Ride that is usually a certain loser. But I kept hitting and cashed out over a thousand bucks in less than an hour.

With these winnings, I turned to card-playing. I found an Omaha Split game and dominated. I played until I lost an enormous pot and headed on home. I got back to my room at nine am and threw my winnings on the bed and began counting like a greedy little boy. 

The total came to $3,476.00!

Slept like a contented milk cow after the morning milking. I stayed in Vegas for almost a full month before going broke, swam in the fancy pools, ate at the best buffets, saw several incredible shows and concerts.

You know, sometimes one gets lucky, and this was one masterful lucky stretch. It all started with the Myrtle Express and a friendly, lovely woman pal.

Gotta love it!

Virgil, a kind and gentle soul, should not drink. He worked as the President of Valley Bank for over a quarter of a century, religiously acted as an usher at the Episcopal Church nearly every Sunday, and had headed the United Way drive three years in a row. Nobody would argue about him being active and involved in his community and he could call many people friend. Being a member of the golf and country club, an involved father, and one of the better steelhead anglers in the area kept him busy. He and his wife, Amy, frequently entertained many friends at their home. As it turned out, Amy did some extra entertaining. And that is where Virgil’s troubles began.

Amy took the unsuspecting guy aside one late July evening and revealed that she had fallen in love with another. Of course, such news is always hard on all involved. But this confession had a twist. She was leaving him for another woman who happened to be the smoking hot new high school English teacher, Jodi. Amy and the teacher—she must have been a quite good one—disappeared days later. They moved to Portland, Oregon. At least that’s what the rumor mill claimed. 

We—Virgil’s miserable collection of liars, heavy drinkers, golf cheats and supposed friends—were less than supportive as we found the situation a fertile field for harvesting smart-ass comments and jokes at Virgil’s expense. We did so because:

A. Men are assholes.

B. That scenario that happened to Virgil is on the list of any man’s greatest fears.

C. We, the Idaho-Eastern Washington-type men, are even more immature and insensitive than most.

D. We think we’re funny.

E. We all really loved Virgil and didn’t know what to do to help.

Even a casual observer of human behavior would have predicted some of Virgil’s moves after the shocking disappearance of his wife. He set out to reprove his manhood while fighting the battle with loneliness. He started drinking nearly every night at the country club and dating almost frantically. Neither were effective coping tools.

The first tragic story happened one Thursday night. He got hammered and received a DUI, which is an awful experience. But he wasn’t driving his car. He drove his golf cart downtown and got pulled over, going the wrong way on a one-way street. He still had on his golf shoes. Two intoxicated women shared the cart with him at two am.

Two months later, during the fishing derby, he lost control of his jet boat and took out most of the main dock at Red Wolf Marina. He got another DUI, this time for driving his boat. That one made the papers, unfortunately, which caused Valley Bank, owned primarily by the elders of the Episcopal Church, to fire him, reluctantly. That one made us worry about our pal. He had been conservative with his money and therefore didn’t need to worry or get desperate. I could tell you about his experience with an international dating service or a dozen other entertaining stories. However, let me skip and get to the gem.

It is time to chronicle his most famous escapade. The one that will never be forgotten in this area. He blamed it on me. It included my old fourth-grade teacher—Mildred Renning.

One of Virgil’s best pals gave him a job. He became the hearse driver for Malcom’s Funeral Home. It started out as a temporary gig, but Virgil enjoyed it and asked to stay on permanently. He sat drinking at the country club playing gin rummy for a dollar a point after his early round of golf with his new admiring young new girlfriend next to him. I had loaded up a plate at the free Fourth of July barbecue and took a seat at Virgil’s table. He whispered, “I took your advice.”

“What advice, Virgil?” I asked, not having a clue.

He leaned back over and whispered again without looking at me.

 “I started smoking pot. It really cut down my drinking. Just like you said. Wanna go have a toke?”

He was feeling no pain already and ordered another drink from the busy waitress.

“Nope, I’m a pretty straight arrow these days, Virgil, believe it or not,” I answered while taking a bite of the corn on the cob.

“Virgil, that’s your fifth drink,” Marilyn, his new gal friend, said.

“Not if you’re counting by fives, honey. In that case, it’s only my first one,” he said with a straight face, which got a laugh from his gin partners.

 A cell phone went off.

“Virgil, it’s your phone.”

He answered, “Virgil’s Bar and Grill.”

He listened and hung up.

“Last game, mates. I got to drive Old Mildred Renning’s body up the grade to the Colton boneyard here in a bit.”

“Miss Renning? She was my fourth-grade teacher,” I said.

“Great, Blackie, I’ll give her your greetings, but you can forget the Get-Well-Soon card. She went to the church. Nice old bat, really,” he said.

“Virgil! You aren’t funny,” laughed Marilyn.

He left minutes later. Why he took the old highway with its eighty-seven turns rather than the main highway will remain a mystery. This road is an engineering marvel. The Spiral Highway, nicknamed for its spiraling path, climbs two-thousand feet in seven miles through the hills. The road inspired the Commander Cody’s song: Hot Rod Lincoln. (A commonly repeated truth). Virgil wanted to see how the hearse would handle the wide, swooping turns. He later blamed me for what happened.

“I took a few tokes and forgot being kinda tipsy, you asshole. You give shitty advice. I can’t believe you’re a counselor,” he later said.

He raced up the Spiral Highway too fast and squealed the tires around turn after turn. “Hang on, Mildred,” he laughed as he zoomed up the nearly deserted two-lane road. The last turn is a dozy. Virgil got into the turn and gunned it. The backdoor flew open, which launched Mildred and her casket out of the hearse and off she skidded down the roadway. Virgil heard the commotion and saw Mildred’s escape through the rearview mirror. He spun around and raced after it.

Johnny Rathbone, a truck farmer, had the misfortune to be chugging up the grade with a truck filled to the brim with cantaloupes. When he saw the soaring casket, he instinctively swerved, the load shifted, and the truck tipped over, releasing several hundred cantaloupes, which bounced down the road behind the flying casket.

Remarkably, it made the first three turns down this nine percent grade, but the speed got too fast to make the fourth one. Virgil could only watch as Mildred vaulted over the cliff, landed two-hundred feet below, hit the hillside, and started flipping over and over for another few hundred feet. Incredibly, the casket held together mostly. Malcom’s Funeral Home had to hire a helicopter to get it out of the gully and had to pay market value for the cantaloupe load. Johnny got away without being injured. 

Thus ended Virgil’s employment as a hearse driver, but he paid for everything and kept Bill Malcom as a friend. And now his story is a bit of a legend. 

  Virgil should not drink. 

I Almost Burned Down the House 

It was not this house but my own modest dwelling that I almost burned down on July fifth. It was an innocent mistake. It started out at the poker room where poor Oliver was on a losing streak. I had come down with a specific purpose. I wanted to win enough money to give my boy, Wild Willie, a Fourth of July to remember. This boy had survived a year of turmoil in dealing with his alcoholic father, whose manic, abusive behavior had eventually gotten him locked up in the county jail for assault. I was determined to get the little hero a gigantic package of the very best fireworks at the Nez Perce Tribe’s booth on the edge of the reservation. 

I turned a twenty-dollar buy-in at the poker room into two full racks of chips, which gave me more than my goal and proudly strolled up to cash out as I have learned to get out ahead. Oliver noticed me and hustled over as I waited for Amanda, the poker room owner, to return from her dinner break to cash me out.

 He said, “Hey, Blackie want to trade some of those chips for some fireworks?”

 My heart raced as I was damn interested. The tribal elders, who must have been intoxicated to have somehow put Oliver in charge of the fireworks booth or even contemplated such a wild decision.

 “Yeah, Ollie. I’ll give you a full rack for two-hundred bucks credit at the booth.” 

“Sure, I can do that.”

 He reached over for one rack, but I stopped him.

“Call them up and tell them I’m coming right over.”

 He did just that and had lost half the rack before I got out the door. I raced home, picked up Willie, and drove up the river five miles out to the reservation. He got his pick of the colorfully wrapped items. The excited little man could hardly focus, but I got him calmed down enough to pick out enough fireworks to fill up a cardboard box to the brim. 

Will demanded to carry his box of treasures by himself, but his four-year-old body got it only a few steps before I helped by taking the box and putting him on my shoulders. We had sparklers, five long rows of black cat firecrackers, a bunch of flaming, whistling cones, several bottle rockets and items I knew nothing about but they looked good.

 Wild Willie was as content as a Jersey cow after a morning milking on the ride home. He excitedly sprinted into our house to inform his mom of our successful shopping trip. She showed her appreciation after we got the excited kid into bed. 

I got up to get something to drink around one o’clock. I flopped on the couch and flipped on the TV. I was half watching some late night mystery when I heard his door squeak open. He came shuffling out while rubbing his eyes. 

“Daddy Bob, can I look at them again?”

 “Sure, come sit down and cover up with the blankets. I’ll get the box. He took out each one of the objects and examined them like a federal inspector looking for dangerous weapons.

“We have lots of stuff, Daddy Bob.” 

“Yeah, we got lucky, Willie. We’ll go over to the beach below the park and shoot them off.”

 “Do I get to light some?” 

“Yeah, but we’ll have to do some of them together. They can be dangerous.”

 He snuggled up on the couch and fell asleep. I made a sandwich and put it down on the coffee table. I picked the sleeping boy up and was carrying him over my shoulder when I tripped on one of the dog toys and lost my balance enough to smack his little head into the bookshelf. The blow woke him up just as we moved by the television screen, which picked that particular moment to flash on the introduction of the scary Freddy Kruger Hour. 

This glimpse of Willie’s greatest fear sent him into orbit. He started wailing and swinging his arms wildly around my head. Luckily, the TV switched to a commercial, and I got him back to sleep after laying down with him in his bed until he calmed all the way down. 

You see, the poor kid had been terrified by the daycare center director’s sixth grade kid on Halloween. The boy had dressed up in a too realistic Freddy costume, complete with the fake long fingernails that he used to scare Willie out of his wits. My little guy had hidden in a closet until I could get to the basement classroom at the church’s daycare center. 

I got him home and fixed some comfort food. He repeated he would never return to that church again. And I believed him. I got him enrolled in a new center the next day. Will woke up late in the morning, and without a word started organizing the box. We had a great time down on the beach that night.

 We had enough fireworks to share with other kids and shot off the entire assortment. Turned out that I had left out one big round item that had the title: Sixty Shot Rocketballs. It had taken up too much room in the box, so I had placed it in the hall closet shelf above the coats. 

I noticed it the next morning, which turned out to be an error. Willie got up and was petting our dog when I pulled out the Sixty Shot Rocketballs and placed it on the coffee table.

 “Check it out, Willie. We forgot one. Want to go set it off after lunch?”

 “Heck yeah, Daddy Bob.” 

Then a pause.

 “Can we do it right now?” 

“Nope. It’s too early and that thing might make some loud noises, so we better wait. Turned out the sounds were damn powerful, but that wasn’t the biggest problem. After lunch, we took it out in the middle of the street, lit the fuse, and watched the show. The fuse burned down and nothing happened for a few seconds. 

And then the first rocketball shot out with a piercing whistle that could be heard for blocks and blocks. It went way up in the air, twice as high as the telephone poles, and exploded. The fireball that was left fell on the next-door neighbor’s cedar roof. Horrified by the intensity of the first explosion, I watched as the rocketballs started shooting off in all different, random directions.

 At least six of them went almost straight up and landed on our cedar roof. The deadly fireballs screeched and flew all over the neighborhood. I scrambled to get the hose out and sprayed the incredibly powerful burning circle in the street. The exploding stopped, but not before the police car pulled up.

 I explained the situation, and the irritated cop reluctantly left after giving me a sharp lecture.

 “Holy moly, Willie. Those rocketballs were unreal. Did you see how high those things were flying? It’s lucky the roof didn’t catch on fire. Geez, what a mistake, I made. I had no idea how powerful that firework was. Lucky they didn’t burn the house down.” 

I went inside and packed a picnic basket with food and drinks. Will and I spent the entire day at the park. I didn’t want to head home until it was dark. It caused such a commotion that Willie’s mom got called at work with complaints by the neighbors. I kept a low profile for many days. Willie wanted to go get another one. I merely shook my head no. 

Will still talks about that wonderful Fourth of July to this day.

Nobody Will Believe You, Joel  

The soft, sweet smell of the pines and the gentle mountain breeze formed the evening’s background as the full moon tossed its beam toward the pristine waters of the remote mountain lake. Joel’s sunburned face soaked in the moonbeams while he contently rocked in the old chair on the cozy cabin’s deck after a day of successful fly-fishing. His boy Steven, asleep soundly on one of the cabin cots, had retired a couple of hours earlier, leaving Joel alone with his thoughts. 

Two fully antlered deer rustled into view to grab a long drink from the lake’s edge. Joel quit his rocking and dared not move as he relished the company. He lived for such moments. The larger of the two looked up directly at Joel, who could see the moon’s reflection in the deer’s brown eyes. 

He had already downed his deer for the year, so this encounter was pure pleasure. He smiled at the echo of his grandpa’s comment from long ago when little Joel joined him out in the woods trying to get his first deer. 

“Stay silent, don’t even twitch and turn your smell off.”

 He thought of these words every time he experienced some wildlife nearby and always wondered how one turns off his smell. A sudden, stiff breeze flowed through the trees and several pine cones dropped, startling the deer, and they sprang off. Joel rocked for a bit longer before gathering some blankets from inside and returning to his chair. He wanted to enjoy every moment of this rare moonlit night. The artist even got out his painting supplies for a few minutes to capture the scene. 

“Dad, you slept out in the old rocking chair? Geez, hope you aren’t too sore today... Hey, I’m heading out. Gotta get back to the studio. Thanks for bringing me up here; I got some great shots,” Steven said, patting his favorite camera case.

 He hopped off the deck and began hotfooting it back toward the trailhead, three miles away before Joel could even comprehend that a new day had begun. 

“Love you, son. Send me the best ones and I’ll display them in the shop. And don’t drive like a madman,” Joel yelled as he yawned and started his habitual morning stretch.

 Still full from the trout feast he had prepared last evening, Joel only needed a traveling mug of strong coffee and a splash or two on the face from the icy lake water to be ready. With his backpack on, he moved toward the path that lead to the trailhead, but stopped when he noticed something. 

Off the trail, to the right, a sign he had never seen before hung on a rusted, long nail at least thirty feet up on a thickly barked Ponderosa pine.

 Joel wondered who would put a sign like that up in this wild area? He walked toward the sign and his active mind started translating the meaning of the words, which made him smile. Suddenly, what looked like a game trail opened up and he followed it.

 Climbing slowly away from the lake on a winding course, another sign in a quieter style but at about the same height showed.

 He began debating this sign by adding to the essentials on the list. Rivers, lakes, fish, feelings, gratitude, appreciation of life were things he thought worthy of inclusion on the list were his thoughts. 

He moved up the steep trail, wondering what the entertaining signs were all about when the trail abruptly ended after a swift right turn. There, a third sign confronted him. This one displayed its message at eye level on a boulder jutting from the hillside. 

He focused on reading and trying to figure out what the heck seemed to be happening, but had to admit, he found it all quite entertaining. Suddenly, he heard the distinct, attention-grabbing sound of a high-powered rifle cocking behind him. He froze.

 “Do not turn around. Listen to my words and then make your choice. Walk forward and give the boulder a push.” 

Joel’s mouth went dry and his ears started ringing as he walked up to the boulder and gave it a shove. The massive rock slowly glided open, revealing a dark opening with part of a glimmering, colorful piece of artwork exposed. He wanted to touch and inspect it.

 “No, you must stop. The first choice could also be the last of this encounter. You can walk back down to the lake, fish for a bit, hike back to your car, and head on home. That is a safe, good option and the one I recommend. Going forward is not without some risks.”

 “May I ask some questions?” Joel asked. 

“You can ask, but no answers are guaranteed,” came the response.

 “I don’t know what kind of game this is supposed to be, but I don’t appreciate anybody pulling a weapon on me. I have done nothing wrong up here. I brought my son with me. We’ve been coming here for years together. I fished, he took photos. We have treated this beautiful area with respect. I’m an older man and want only peace and enjoyment. Have you done anything to my boy?” 

“The weapon is for your protection, and your boy is safely driving away as we speak. We have noticed your respect. In fact, your respect is the exact reason you are being offered some choices. This is indeed a sort of game, but like I said, we do not force you to play. You can move forward, but be forewarned, the boulder will close if you go inside.”

 “So, I can turn around, sip my coffee and catch some fish or head into a cave by myself in a remote hillside. I think I’m content with the safe play.” 

The boulder began creeping back toward its original position, with the only sound being the cawings of a few crows flapping back and forth near the treetops. Joel watched its closing, glanced down the trail, and saw the sun reflecting off the blue water in the distance. He had rarely given in to impulsive decisions, for experience had taught him they usually turned out badly. And he certainly did not view himself as a coward. He knew what he liked; he didn’t really need fresh adventures, so he shocked himself by racing toward what had become a narrow slit and entered the cave.

 There were some wide stone stairs leading down. 

The snap decision had immediate rewards as more and more artwork appeared. The colorful works were too high for him to inspect, but he could tell they were skilled works and done with a technique he had not seen before. He detected a beam of light coming down in the distance and ambled toward it in the darkness. It had been closer than he expected and after only a few strides, Joel found himself bathed in the direct light, which blinded him for a second or two. 

He shaded his eyes and looked around, astounded. He found himself in a bowl-shaped room. They had covered nearly every inch of the rock walls with amazing artworks. He stood silently, scanning the incredible art display. There were examples of many artistic techniques. He walked up to one painting that was an excellent example of the Venus Effect. 

The exhibition showcased airbrushed pieces, charcoal drawings, works with hierarchical proportions, positive-negative relief, contour drawings, different shaped canvases, collages, distressed works, and a prominent piece that resembled the Orange Peel Effect but had been used in a way he had never seen before. 

One of the largest pieces was a faux painting in antique Verde marble. For Joel, it seemed like he had entered a dreamland. In his life, he had experienced three genuine passions. One had been baseball, where he had developed enough skills to be signed as a pitcher for the New York Yankees. Another was still his artworks, including the many that had been created in his young adult years when he ran a gallery. The third of his passions had been his love for his sweetheart, Stephanie, who had given him three wonderful treasures—his children. This third one became dominant.

 He developed skills as a jeweler, which enabled him to make a living, buy a home, and raise his kids. He had few regrets, but there were distant echoes that called to him. Creative ideas he had that remained abstractions that drifted away like dried dandelion seeds in a morning breeze. 

“Do you like them, Joel?” a voice echoed off the walls.

 “They’re incredible. The various textures, all the techniques tried, the unusual colors and the creative way they presented them is too much to take in. Who did these? I would like to meet these artists.” 

“Look around and enjoy. I will answer that question later.” 

Joel moved from one series of works to the other. His mind raced and jumped from thought to thought. How did they do that one? What technique is that, and how did they come up with such perfect variations on the basic themes? Time ticked by. Joel had touched none out of respect, but he rubbed his hand on one of them and when he did, the entire wall became filled with similar items, all unique but still all using the same technique. 

He touched another and the same thing repeated. He reached out to rub another one when he heard the voice. 

“You already know the artist,” said the voice. 

“No, that is simply not possible. I would have remembered.”

 “Joel, these are all the works you thought of but could never produce. You are the artist.”

 Joel fell. 

He had shown himself to be a disciplined man and guarded his emotions. When an unreasonable demand had been made at his store about a watch in need of repair or the setting of a jewel debated, he never became upset or even irritated. He took it all in stride. 

But this intense, bewildering cave experience had shaken him with the last revelation too shocking to comprehend. His eyes were wet as he looked around the bowl-shaped room, not because of any single emotion but because of the bubbling cauldron of many feelings and thoughts. The light abruptly disappeared, leaving only a single painting of a peaceful lake on a moonlit evening. He sat for minutes before moving toward the painting. He rubbed it. 

The painting slowly dissolved as its color changed to gray-tones and then nothing but darkness remained. He slapped the wall, hoping magically to make the painting and all the works return. He slapped a second time with more force and when he did, the rock wall collapsed, a waterfall appeared, and he fell. 

The artworks reappeared in a too rapid slide show as he felt himself drifting. The show ended when the last lake painting appeared. There were a few seconds of silence and darkness before he heard himself hit. He landed on a piece of crystal white sand with enormous granite boulders on each side. He looked around at the rushing water that fed the lake. Another sign became visible, hung on another gnarly pine trunk.

 “We will see about that,” Joel announced aloud.

 He started walking away from the headwaters toward the lake, found a pleasant spot, took off his backpack, fell back and watched the few clouds float by, lost in disbelieve and pleasant bewilderment at what he had just experienced. He finally shook his head, got out his fishing gear, and put together his favorite pole. 

He dug through the flies, trying to decide which one to use, when a beam from behind a single cloud appeared. It flashed like a neon sign advertising a burger joint and a glimmering circle in the blue mirror-like water appeared. 

He made a cast and hit the circle dead center. Joel felt a tug straightaway and reeled in a nice-sized brown trout. He gently released the hook and held the noble guy in the water for a few seconds. The fish swam off with a fan-like trail of colors following his exit path. Joel looked down at this colorful trail which swirled around wildly, slowed, and suddenly became a live, in-focus vision. 

There walked little Joel, proudly carrying a baby white duck won at the carnival stuffed into a little cardboard carton with cheap wire handles. This image disappeared, leaving only clear water and another beam from behind the single cloud up ahead a few yards.

 He hustled up, gave a cast, and hit another flashing circle again. Another good-sized fish, a rainbow, this time flopped on the end of his line. He reeled in, carefully released him, and the colorful path followed his escape. This time, the image was of Joel, a little older, hitting a baseball way over the outfielder’s head.

 A crash—glass breaking—sounded in the distance. The beam behind the single cloud kept moving a few yards ahead, always displaying its flashing circle. Joel kept eagerly casting out and catching trout after trout. The release always gave him a show, and he became older each time. 

One scene was a high school dance, the next his older sister’s birthday party, then him pitching in a legion baseball game, the one in which he struck out nineteen. In another animation, he was up in his art gallery at Expo-74, followed by his Stephanie, looking so fragile, as she handed him their first baby girl. Even a moment in the Holsum Bread truck popped into view.


He sprinted from flashing circle to flashing circle. His casts never once missed. The next images were vivid, but way too short in time. One memory trail showed him on the golf course with some pals, the next showed him on the tuna boat pulling in fish after massive fish miles from land. 

Another showed him downing a deer with a precise arrow shot, followed by watching Steven teeing off in the distance in a golf tournament, then his daughter Adrian graduating. He looked around with the twin feeling of disappointment and awe at the colors reflecting off the lake as the sun set. The final beam showed. 

This release trail showed him with his father at the Veteran’s Home, chatting about memories. He had ended up within a rock’s throw from the cabin. He walked up to it and opened the door while thinking if spending another night or hiking down to his car would be his next move.

 “Joel, you need to get up. It’s already 7:30.” 

Joel found himself in his bed with his wife Stephanie looking down at him. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

 “You feel okay? I let you sleep in because you were tossing and turning around so much last night. I came in and you had this big smile on your face. Were you dreaming or something?”

 “You know what? I will not open up the store today. I’ve got something I want to do and then I’m taking you out to dinner. Let’s go somewhere fancy.”

 “Geez, do you have a fever?” Stephanie asked as she touched his forehead.

 “You will not open up and you offered to take me to dinner? Did I hear you right?” 

“Yep, I got something I want to do today and I’m not putting it off.”

 Stephanie started to leave, but stopped. From the doorway she looked over and said, “Joel, do you ever regret having to give up your artwork because…” 

“Stephanie, I have no regrets at all. You know why? Because making art into work would have ruined me. I love making jewelry because it’s art that people use. I would have had to spend all my time trying to sell my paintings and such. I would have hated it.

 But you know, I think I will spend more time in my studio creating some things. The kids are gone, we’re okay financially, and I still have ideas.”

 “Okay, I just wonder sometimes...” 

“Nope, you need not wonder. You kept me focused and gave me three wonderful kids. We’ve had a good life, haven’t we?” 

“Yes, I guess we have. Indeed, we have. But you didn’t answer me. Did you have some dream or something?” 

“Oh, I always have dreams, but if I tried to tell anyone about them, they wouldn’t believe me.”

 Stephanie looked at him for a long few seconds. 

“How about the Quality Inn for dinner?”

Uncle Billy Tried to Sell Me His Watch  

Imagine flying in a little plane in Alaska and landing it on this water. It would take some skill and some daring. This is what Uncle Billy did. He was one of the first bush pilots in Alaska. This daredevil taught me an important lesson in life, but it had nothing to do with flying. 

My first memory is flying in a small plane with Uncle Billy and my older brother over the Puget Sound water. I was in kindergarten and my brother was about ten. He did a bunch of tricks with the plane. Spun us all over the place and got us both to puke. I remembered it was exciting, though. Just being with Uncle Billy, the family legend, was exciting. We moved from the Seattle area to Northern Idaho and lost contact with him.

 I would overhear my parents talking about Uncle Billy. I recall my dad telling stories about what how much Uncle Billy could drink. The stories all ended with lots of laughter. I heard he had been in a near fatal motorcycle accident and was still racing around with metal pins in his limbs and a plate in his head a year later. 

It seemed his tales of drinking, gambling, and chasing women were ones that others loved to share; a way of living vicariously for those with mundane lives. He calmed down in his late thirties and married. Liz, his cerebral wife, kept having children—six, in eight years—was the ending number.

 He became a highly paid private pilot and flew Boeing executives all over the country in the company’s Lear jet. That is until they caught him chugging shots straight from a Jack Daniels fifth right before takeoff more than once. 

He finally got fired on the tarmac when he was so gone after a long flight that he could barely walk as he exited the plane. Fired on the spot. The stories told stopped; they weren’t funny anymore. The Golden Boy had fallen from grace. They replaced the stories with whispers.

He showed up one day to visit Mom. Dad was on a business trip and I was living across town. Mom asked me to pick him up, this once colorful idol, at the isolated Greyhound Bus depot. A private jet pilot flying on a near empty bus. 

I stood in the small, dirty little corner building watching as the passengers, all four of them, exited and waited as the driver found their bags. Billy was the last to get off. He wore sunglasses, an expensive suit, and a crisp white shirt open at the collar with no tie. He had on penny loafers that clicked as he walked toward me. 

“Uncle Billy?” I asked, just to make sure it was him. 

“Is that you, Bobby?” and he held out his hand. I noticed it shaking a little. I grabbed it and became surprised at the strength in the squeeze he gave to my hand. 

“Can we stop at the store before we go to my sister’s place?” he asked as we walked toward my pickup truck.

 I didn’t answer at first, as I was busy banging on the tailgate to get it to open and then struggling with the two immense pieces of luggage that were heavy as hell. I had never heard my Mom referred to as a “sister” and that was a concept I was trying to get my mind around as we got in the truck. 

“Sure, there’s a Safeway three blocks away. Will that do?” I finally answered. 

He stayed in there for a few minutes and strolled out holding one brown paper bag. We didn’t say a word as we drove to mom’s place. I unloaded the legend’s bags in my old basement bedroom, kissed mom, and got the hell out of there.

 I didn’t want to be around the guy. Mom invited me for dinner a two days later. I showed up and ate with her and asked how the visit was going. She shrugged and shook her head. The third plate sat silent and finally got put back away in the cupboard.

 I had put on my coat and had taken out my car keys when Uncle Billy showed up in a cab wearing sunglasses, even though the sky had turned pitch black. He gave my Mom a sloppy kiss on the cheek and asked me if I would follow him downstairs. I did so reluctantly.

 I had only a little gas money on me and refused.

 “Hey, Bobby, would you like to buy this watch?” he asked, taking the fancy gold timepiece off of his wrist.

 “It’s really a fine watch ...” and he gave me a quick sales pitch.

 When I refused again and took a few steps away, he grabbed at my shirt and stopped me. 

“Oh, please, please, how about ten bucks?” he said.

I noticed a tear fall from beneath his black reflecting sunglasses. This exchange totally freaked me and I impulsively slapped his hand away. I took the stairs two at a time and slammed the basement door. 

“Mom, what is going on?” I asked.

She looked me directly in the eye, and after a pause, spoke.

 “I don’t know what to do, Bobby. I keep finding bottles of vodka and wine when I clean behind the couch, in the furnace room, everywhere. He gets up early and returns about this time each night. He’s gone, Bobby, really gone. I don’t know what to do.”

 I hugged her and said I’d be over to help tomorrow. Early the next morning, I traveled to the alcohol rehabilitation center and gave the counselor all the information I had. I shared the stories of how he used to drink, which were once shared with pride and laughter, the rumors of him getting fired, and him trying to sell me his watch. 

The man listened and nodded. Finally, I asked him what I should do.

“Get him away from your mother. He is in the late stages of alcoholism and there is nothing anyone can do. Take him down to the bus station and buy him a one-way ticket. He’s going to have to fight this battle alone. If you let him stay, it will just prolong it. Your uncle may get angry or try to manipulate your mother by laying on a guilt trip or any number of other tricks. Get him on the bus. Do it today. I’m sorry, but there is no other way.”

I drove over with resolve, but my stomach churned. I told Mom what the alcohol counselor had said. She looked at me and said, “But he is my brother. Where will he go?” and she cried. 

Now I was pissed. I had already checked the bus departure time and flew down to my old bedroom. 

“Bill, you need to get up and pack your things. I’m coming back in an hour and taking you to the bus station,” I announced loudly to a bundle hidden underneath the blankets. 

No response came, so I waited. I didn’t want to give the speech again. Finally, the bundle stirred, and he sat up. The guy had crawled into bed fully dressed. He nodded and rubbed his eyes. 

“Hey, son, I’m a little short for the trip. Would you like to buy this watch?” 

He took it off and slapped it in my hand. 

“Oh, come on, man. I can’t take your watch.” 

“I want you to have it. I have been hanging onto it for a long time. Couldn’t you come up with some money? It cost me over five hundred.“ 

Our eyes met. I had never seen his eyes before that moment. He had always covered them with the sunglasses. I recognized fear, saw sorrow and shame. I took out a twenty and handed it to him, and dropped the watch into my pocket. 

“Grab a shower, Uncle Billy. I’ll be back in an hour.” 

I got the hell out of there.

Uncle Billy ended up being one of only two passengers for the day at our lonely bus station. I handed the driver the two pieces of luggage. He grunts as he puts them in the storage spot beneath the bus. I looked over at the man in the sunglasses standing in the doorway, as I headed toward my pickup, put it into gear, and drove a few yards before halting. I vaulted out and ran back. Uncle Billy had climbed up the steps of the bus. I grabbed him, gave him a quick hug, and handed him back the watch. The sad guy took off his sunglasses and said, “You are a good man, Bobby. I will make it up to you someday.” 

Of course, he never did.

The once glamorous, successful pioneering Alaskan pilot whose pictures of his daring flying are in the Smithsonian and who at one point, flew a Lear jet all over the world, ended up freezing to death in an Alaskan airport plane hanger years later.

 My sweet mother’s only brother abandoned six innocent children and a loyal wife who never recovered. He taught me what awful damage alcohol could do to a good, successful man and the dark ripples alcohol slaves leave behind. 

This once admired, adventurous pilot, the one who could drink like a fish and whose exploits had been the source of many tales, died a lonely, pathetic drunk, his only companion, an empty bottle of cheap booze.

Jim, more like a close brother than merely a friend, was wise beyond his years. As things go in life, we lost contact after seven pleasant years of shooting hoops in his driveway, talking about the mysteries of girls, sleepovers, beer drinking, smoking pot, and cruising our little valley berg in the muscle cars so popular in our teenage years.

But prior to heading off to different colleges and experimental pathways, we took a dream adventure the summer of our senior year. We loaded up Jim’s cool red MG midget and headed for the Oregon Coast. I can’t remember who had the idea, but I assume Jim had hatched it. At the time, my immature, carnival mind seemed incapable of figuring out if I had an actual thought or merely needed to pee. Hence, my planning a trip seemed unlikely. 

We cruised along with the top down, the pleasant summer wind blowing in our bronzed faces as we blasted road music probably something like Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Suzy Q—the long version—which Jim tolerated knowing that I was incapable of appreciating the art and poetic lyrics of Dylan or Donovan or Joni Mitchell. 

Jim had been a star basketball player, and my world revolved around the game of baseball. My dream of landing a college scholarship to continue to play ball had come partly true as a junior college—too poor of grades to get into a real university—had offered me a full ride.

Democrats ran the state of Idaho when my old man assumed the role of the head of the county Republican Party. Nowadays, it is as rare as a solar eclipse to see an elected Democrat in that now third-world state. 

Jim’s folks were more educated and refined than most of the residents of our mostly one-company town. The one major industry—Potlatch Forest, Incorporated—referred to as PFI or simply The Mill, had become the dominant employer of most of the residents.

 The ludicrous, monstrously evil Vietnam War was raging away with the killings shown each evening on our black and white console televisions. A possibility of getting drafted and sent to Southeast Asia loomed over us, a great fear and motivator for attending college, as they couldn’t touch you if you had an educational deferment. 

The emerging hippie lifestyle attracted us and to this day, I feel that experiencing that glorious era of mini-skirts, hippie beads, outdoor rock festivals, huge auditorium concerts, plus the kickoff of birth control pills, was simply too fabulous.

 A required payback had to be expected later in life, which I think presented itself with things like having to tolerate drunken karaoke nights. The kind where you watched an intoxicated friend trying to sing Elvis’s In the Ghetto with eyes closed while swaying to the recorded track. Enough with the reminiscing. Let’s recall our fabulous trip. 

Our wonderful chariot

We ended up at Astoria, Oregon, after making it through the intimidating big city of Portland and turned onto the majestic Highway 101 with its miles of sweet, swooping curves perfectly suited for the MG. 

Decades later, I remember this dream journey like a scenic slideshow. I felt as content as a newborn baby wrapped in warm blankets while stretched out in a comfortable stroller sucking on a full bottle. Like the baby, Jim and I had no worries.

 We had dreams, as life hadn’t yet roughed us up enough to have many regrets. We were young, baby-faced boys with no women wanting us to buy them new furniture, no bills to worry about, no fears of someone stealing our pin number and no kids to raise. 

In short, we were looking for adventure, cheap booze, plenty of food, pot, and friendly women. We two Idaho boys wound through the coastal highway traveling through the entire state of Oregon, soaking in the raw beauty of the wondrous vistas presented to us after each new turn.

 We stopped whenever we felt the desire and took in the sunsets. One foggy day we motored through the imperial Redwoods and, after a day of savoring being surrounded by these impressive giants, crossed over the border and found ourselves in the golden state of California. 

Two days of meandering down the California coast ended as we entered San Francisco, did some typical sightseeing, and then headed to our planned stop in San Jose, where one of Jim’s lady friends gave us a place to stay.

 We met an underground comic book guy who introduced me to the humor and weird art of Robert Crumb. I had grown up reading Archie and Jughead comics and Mad Magazine, but Mr. Natural, Yellow Dog, and ZAP! comics were a new world for me, which kept me occupied when Jim disappeared with his gal friend.

 My pal had developed way more skill at attracting members of the opposite sex than me, and had a bit of an advantage because he had let his hair grow long. Jim’s appearance began taking on the look of a more handsome Neil Young. 

I had the look of a dumb jock with a shitty short haircut which was faraway from being hip. The highlight of the trip came one night when a group of us loaded up in the comic book guy’s panel truck and headed to San Francisco. We had tickets to the Grateful Dead concert held in the classic Fillmore West.

 When the panel truck’s doors opened as we parked, a cloud of pot smoke followed us and an empty bottle of Ripple wine fell out and rolled down the street. The skyscraper’s lights reflected off windows all around us as we entered the dizzy orbit of the Grateful Dead. We got buzzed, danced, and cheered as Jerry Garcia and his mates played on and on late into the night. 

The dual drummers especially impressed me, and when the New Riders of the Purple Sage came on for a full bonus set of country rock, it was heaven. At one point, the musicians took a break and bra-less, long-haired hippie chicks starting throwing bags of weed out into the crowd from the stage, which both thrilled and shocked us.

 The music ended at around 3 am and we returned to the panel truck. The full moon blazed away in the San Francisco sky that night, so our driver decided it would be fun to drive with the headlights off. My ears rang for most of the next day. 

A day later, somewhat recovered, we reluctantly said adios. We gassed up the MG and hit the road, looking for adventure and whatever came our way. Jim chose a different route for our return trip. Rather than the mellow, slow-paced Highway 101 coastal road, we became part of the busy California freeway madness. 

We sped across the border into southern Oregon, our minds filled with vivid imprints from our first ever real road trip. I can’t recall with any real clarity exactly when or where it happened, other than it was somewhere in central Oregon when the MG started acting up. Our funds were limited by this time, so stopping to get repairs immediately was rejected, a definite error in judgment.

Jim headed toward Richland, Washington, where his master mechanic uncle lived. The sputtering MG could only reach a maximum speed of about 35 miles per hour, and we had to stop to fill the radiator with water every few miles. 

We finally limped into Richland, where Jim got a tongue-lashing from the uncle for driving the sports car with a blown head gasket. But what is an adventure without a bit of tragedy? 

This trip ended up being a perfect thing to do as a summer celebration after graduation and remained as a pleasing imprint on my frontal lobe forever. Plus, the stay with Jim’s aunt and uncle became serendipitous for another great friend, Leo Rader, and I ended up staying with Jim’s uncle and aunt a year later for a couple months in Richland and drove down to nearby Pasco each day that fall to attend Columbia Basin College.

 I recall that Jim’s aunt seemed to enjoy the common diet pills that were passed out to women at the time, like candy by physicians for weight control. Making even casual eye contact with her could lead one into a long, one-way conversations that jumped from topic to topic. She was a sweet woman who waited on us, cooked us tasty meals, and washed our clothes. 

I ended up playing ball for a couple of years before moving to Western Washington, where I joined a dysfunctional hippie commune, lived in a tee-pee, built a crude cabin out of railroad ties, and hung out with girlfriend Sandy for two years.

 Jim stayed close to home, attending the University of Idaho while becoming a serious, skilled musician, and started a band. I left the commune in a huff when the damn goats ate our three-acre garden that a friend and I had dug up by hand and planted with such care. The spaced-out Seattle people who tried to run this supposed farm refused to pen up the goats and would not get rid of the males.

 Soon, we had four good milkers and six vile, disgusting males who smelled like urine all the time because they pissed on themselves as a hobby, I guess. I returned to my hometown, where Jim and I rented a house together for a short time. 

One of our mutual friends convinced himself that it was going to be a grand opportunity for him if he joined the Marines. His thinking on the matter seemed all goofed up. I made it my mission to save him from this obvious, to me at least, monumental mistake. 

I attempted to enlist Jim to assist me in helping our friend see the flaws of his plans. He simply shrugged and said, “Look, I respect him enough to support whatever folly he wants to get into. It’s his life, not mine. I certainly wouldn’t find any peace or fulfillment myself in joining the military, and I will be here if it doesn’t work out for him. I have my own things to deal with, Bob. I don’t need to take on his stuff, too.” 

These were wise words for a young twenty-something to voice. I now understand. I worked at the mill until I saved up a few thousand bucks and moved back to Western Washington, intending to become a blueberry farmer. We lost contact as the years rolled by, which I regret. 

And there is the story of gliding down Highway 101 in the summer of 1969, a memory that is and always will be a top highlight. I have often wondered about Jim, who became a college professor, which I assume was a terrific gig. 

I chronicled this as honesty as I can remember and only added a few embellishments which should be allowed. Jim and I attempted to ingest some peyote buttons by grinding them in a blender, but it turned out to be a failed experiment causing a major mess in his college trailer. Puking in vivid colors from that peyote mess is not a fond memory. 

I blame author Carlos Castaneda for planting what we thought were profound thoughts in our puerile minds through his storytelling. We enjoyed his books, which centered on the adventures of a guy hooking up with a mysterious, wise man that seemed so exciting to us. These novels had some memorable scenes and excellent quotes. One phase stands out to this day: “Does your path have heart?”

 Well, our path on that charming trip certainly did. Oh, I forgot one of the best parts!

We had such dreams back then. Every time I hear a Joni Mitchell song, or a tune from Neil Young, or a rift from Poco or the Flying Burrito brothers, Jim’s trailer in Moscow, Idaho pops into my mind. I have had the pleasure and great luck to travel all over in this life. This gliding down Highway 101 was the first chapter in my travel journal and will forever remain special.

♪ If you’re going to San Francisco ♪

We return to our hometown after that road trip. An active tavern is a treasure for finding interesting stories. Welcome to Campbell's Corner. 

The best description of Campbell’s Corner Mill Road Tavern I ever heard was this one told to me by a regular patron one night while we were playing pool and finishing our third pitcher of beer. 

“This is the only place I know of where a guy could squat with his pants down to his ankles trying to take a shit out in the parking lot late at night and some guy would try to pick-pocket his wallet.”

 I thought that summed up this drinking, dancing and fighting establishment very well indeed. I was heading out to one of my fishing holes and drove down the old Mill Road that I had regularly traveled in my past life. 

First, as a reluctant backseat passenger in the old Nash Rambler as we dropped off Dad for his shift at the Potlatch Corporation and later, while in my early twenties, when I worked there myself for two years. Everyone simply called it the Mill, which was the core employer for the entire area. I hadn’t been out that way for years and had planned on stopping off at Campbell’s for a beer and some bullshit. It had always been famous for both. 

It stunned me when I came to Campbell’s Corner. I pulled over into an empty, recently graded parking lot where this popular gathering spot of the mill workers had been since the 1920s. 

But no more; it had been bulldozed, and the pieces hauled to the dump. The new gravel crunched under my feet and a few tumbleweeds rolled toward me and hit the for sale sign as I roamed around the property. It flooded my mind with memories and some sadness as I drove off. I was lost in vivid replays of this old place as I cast my line and gazed out on the Clearwater River. Here are some of those replays. 

Dirk Kempthrone, a typical Republican politician from Idaho, was out at the Mill on a campaign stop and told his driver to stop at Campbell’s Corner. His driver, a local guy, told Kempthrone that might not be such a great idea, but he insisted. The Mill workers were mostly union guys and voted Democrat back then. Here is the conversation that took place.

“Hi, I’m Dirk Kempthrone and I am running for the Senate,” he said as he offered his hand to Campbell’s Corner’s legend Guy-Guy Ailor, who was just finishing his first schooner of beer after getting off day shift. 

“Great. Buy me a beer then,” Guy-Guy said, ignoring the outstretched hand.

 “Oh, I can’t do that. So what do you do around here?” Kempthrone asked. 

“I hunt and I fuck,” was Guy-Guy’s answer. 

There was a pause and a few chuckles. 

“So, what do you hunt?” Kempthrone asked, trying not to act too shocked and trying to regain his composure.

 “Something to fuck,” was the response. (Don’t be offended, please. I was just repeating a classic Campbell’s story)

 Here is my earliest memory of this place.

 It was midnight when three of us eighteen-year-old guys thought it was time to sneak in the back door of Campbell’s. We got in with no trouble as the swing shift crew was getting off and the place was humming. The band had gone on break and we found an unoccupied booth near the cans and storage room. We had hardly shed our coats when the bathroom door banged open.

 Out came a huge Indian guy who strolled up and pointed at me: “D-4,” he said and tossed me a fifty-cent piece.

 He then sat down with us. It took me a moment before I realized he wanted me to play the jukebox. I went over, put in the fifty-cent piece and pushed D-4. “♪Duke, Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl,♪” came pouring out. 

I went back to the booth, which had been taken over by the huge guy and two of his friends. He pointed at me and ordered: “Sing!” 

I did, as he and his buddies pounded the table with their quarts of Lucky Lager beer and laughed and sang along. We had a lot of fun that night.

 I was driving home after getting off swing shift on a Saturday night one August night when some action at Campbell’s Corner caught my eye. I stared, turned my pickup around, and headed back. I parked and walked over to the circle of people who gathered around a Ford Pinto that had gotten high centered on a parking curb

. A half dozen guys were grunting and pushing the little car that had all four wheels off the ground. A bunch of others were out there smoking, drinking, and yelling suggestions. Finally, a loud cheer as they freed the Pinto. 

Everyone started back toward the bar, but I stayed behind. The driver’s door opened and out stumbled a little man dressed in a suit which had probably looked quite nice when he left his home but was now rumpled, wrinkled, and his tie and hair were both all messed up.

 “Nice work, Dad,” I yelled to the startled man, who nearly fell over at my simple words.

 “Bobby, what are you doing here?” he asked as he tried to walk straight toward me.

 “Better question is, what are you doing?”

 “Well, we had this meeting and… your mother doesn’t need to know about this, now does she?” 

“Depends, Pops. I kinda need some gas money, you know.”

 He pulled out his wallet and gently handed me a twenty. 

“Does that help?” he said.

 “Well, yeah, but I need something to eat, too.” 

“Here, goddamnit. Take this and don’t even think about asking for more,” he said as he slapped another ten in my palm.

 “One more thing, Dad. Give me the car keys.” 

“Bullshit. How will I get home?”

 “No keys, no deal,” I said. 

“Okay. Anyone can be an asshole, buddy,” he slurred as he fired the keys in my general direction. 

“You’re right, Dad. You’re proof of that.” 

We never spoke about this event, but my many smiles directed at him for several days were a dream come true. Mom found out about the incident independent of my eyewitness account. She had her own sources. 

Norm Bateman had stopped after the graveyard shift was over and stayed until after lunch. Six or seven straight hours of drinking, it was. He headed home when an odd thing happened. He hit a train.

 A freight train comes in once a week, loads up lumber, paper products and tissue, and heads for the coast. This was not one of these days, however. Norm hit a stationary engine and caboose that was abandoned on the tracks three blocks from Campbell’s. He smacked it pretty well and sat there wondering what to do when a county sheriff pulled up. The sheriff went over and opened Norm’s door, and Norm fell out onto the ground. 

“Sir, have you been drinking?” the sheriff asked.

 “Well, hell yeah. Do you think I get out of the car that way all the time?”

Ed Masterson worked at various spots at this mill on crews and ended up getting a permanent job at the mill pond, where the logs coming to the plant were stored until needed. 

This job takes some strength and athletic ability. I got a position for my last summer at the millpond and worked with Ed. The job was like being a firefighter. Lots of idle time and other intense times with shifts that left one exhausted and had dangerous moments. The last remaining log drive fed the mill lumber in the country. The river next to the mill looked like this at times.

 Despite doing his job well, Ed faced scorn from other workers. I tried to be friendly with him and even gave him treats during the down times. He never said much. I had about two weeks to go before heading back to college or the hippie commune when he came up to me. 

“I’m retiring this Friday, after 35 years. Would you come have a beer with me at Campbell’s to celebrate?” he asked. 

“You can count on it.”

 Friday came, and I viewed Ed sitting in a corner booth after the shift at Campbell’s Corner by himself. I ordered a pitcher and grabbed a couple glasses and sat down; I poured old Ed some beer and then excused myself. 

I called Janice, my steady girlfriend, and told her about the scene. We made up a plan on the spot and I returned to Ed. We sat there in silence as Ed was a man of few words. I noticed that every time the door opened, his head would turn. About fifteen minutes later, Janice came in carrying a picnic basket filled with paper plates, plastic forks, two cakes, and a tub of vanilla ice cream. 

She and her friend Debbie gave Ed a hug even though they had never met him, and pulled out the cake and ice cream they had purchased. I smiled and winked at Janice, who smiled back. The young women served the few in the bar a plate of cake. 

A few minutes later, a short, pudgy woman with her hair in a bun and wearing a freshly pressed sleeveless dress came in and sat with us. Janice handed her a plate of cake and ice cream as observant Debbie poured her a schooner of beer.

 She turned to the girls and said, “You two girls are so sweet and kind. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you taking care of my Ed. I’m June.” 

We sat quietly surrounded by the sounds of an occasional loud burst of laughter from the other patrons, country tunes on the old jukebox, and the distinct squeaks from the old doorway that announced the entry of other workers stopping by after shift for a beer or two. The smell of too much cigarette smoke that hovered around like a toxic cloud added to the scene. 

The second pitcher sat empty, so I picked it up and headed for a refill, but Ed stopped me with a gentle squeeze of my arm. 

“Son, June and I have to get going. Thank you so much for stopping by and thank your lovely girlfriends for their kindness.” 

He offered his hand, which I took.

“Congratulations on your retirement, Ed.” 

He merely nodded, shook the girls’ hands, and patiently waited as June smoothed out her dress and gave her hair a quick brush with both hands. She stood, smiled at us, and grabbed Ed’s gnarly hand. They walked out as one unit, without one glance backward.

 Not one person from the mill came to his retirement. No firm handshakes, no shared-memory stories, no clinking of glasses, no gifts or tributes of any kind. 

Just me, a long-haired hippie temporary guy. I read his five-line obituary in the morning paper about a year later. This tavern scene was filled with such blatant cruelty and petty vindictiveness that I am still disgusted by it decades later. One of the meanest things I have ever witnessed.

Final thoughts: I found out Ed had been fighting cancer for over three years and had lost his only son in Vietnam six years before his retirement. He had some outbursts and yelled at people a few times on the job after his only son was gone. The entire crew toasted him, and some of them had worked with him for over a quarter of a century. Ed looking at the door every time it opened was heartbreaking. This was an act of maltreatment that I will never forget. 

The opening photo is from 1970 from the last major log drive in America. The drive went 90 miles in the spring for over fifty years straight and The Mill is still doing okay, although the union has been busted and they work more hours with fewer benefits. 

This was once a company that was part of the community. Each employee’s child received a Christmas gift. Christmas bonuses were regular things. A guy or gal with just a high school education could buy a house, have health coverage, a car, and maybe even a boat on one salary. 

Many of my childhood chums went directly to work there and liked it fine. Those days are gone. I repeat, Mom found about the Pinto trick and it didn’t come from me. I didn’t catch any fish that afternoon. (I got a dozen in the morning). 

I was more focused on memories of an old dump tavern that had been a part of my life. It sent me on an odyssey of mostly regrets. This is the significant challenge as one ages to still have as many dreams as regrets. It is tough on certain days. I wonder what old Ed’s thoughts were in his last years. Sad story. 

And how I ever let sweet Janice get away is also a sad tale. She was a great person and a real looker, too. Damn, I guess she wasn’t crazy enough. Thanks for reading about Campbell’s Corner. Now on to the next story. Get ready.  It's a Dr. Spud story. 

I Got a Copy of My PERMANENT RECORD

You of a certain age and time surely remember the threat of the permanent record. They constantly reminded us that certain behaviors—both good and bad—could end up on our permanent record.

 Tell that to a first grader who had got distracted at recess, played too long on the merry-go-round, and accidentally pissed his pants, and the tears would fly. He convinced himself that his life was ruined.

 By fourth grade, we acted like it didn’t matter when the threat was used, but it still kept us up late at night alone in bed, not sure of what it meant. By eighth grade, the average response was: “Oh, big whoop! You can’t boss me around with that crap.” By the senior year, the doubt returned. Perhaps they had been serious all along. But the reverse could be true. Help Janitor Jack empty the trash cans, erase the blackboards, or hit all the right notes on the tonnette, and that too would be noted. But there was more fear than reward involved when the term permanent record was invoked. 

Well, friends, I have mine in my possession as we speak. Yes, mates, I have found and read my permanent record! I donated a simple hundred bucks to my crooked congressional representative who asked what I wanted in return. I submitted a request to him I wanted anyone after celebrating their 55th birthday to be legally eligible to read and review their complete permanent record. 

It was attached to House Bill #666-R66- a bill dealing with primarily increasing exports of Washington apples and Idaho potatoes to the Orient and signed into law by President Obama in a private ceremony—on April 1, 2012. I immediately took advantage of the situation. It went like this.

The Call They gave me the Lord of all Records private phone and fax machine numbers, faxed over the authorization form before calling because I know how to play the game. I called and recorded the conversation. Ring, ring… 

“Yes, this is the Lord of Records. Harriet Havisham speaking.”

 “Yes, this is Roberto Arturo Spud calling. I am requesting time to both read and review my permanent record. I would also like a copy.”

 “That is a very unusual request, sir. That is not possible without prior authorization.”

 “Hey, check your fax machine, lady. I’m waiting outside the building and I am coming straight up. I have the right as a U. S citizen to see my permanent record. Let’s make this easy and clean. I’m coming up right now.”

The Review— Frontal assault, baby. That is how you get things done in this life. I opened the door and was greeted by a quite comely woman in her mid-thirties, the height of her sexual yearning, I noted quickly.

 “Are you Mr. Spud by chance?” she said in a friendly, near musical tone.

 “Ah, that’s Dr. Spud. I am here for my permanent record. 

Out from behind the ceiling-to-floor file cabinets came a gray-haired hag pushing a cart with several volumes of papers in official looking three-ring binders. She wasn’t moving too spryly, and I guessed her to be well into her eighties. She was wearing a faded, dingy wedding dress, which caused me some immediate concern.

 I sensed she may not like men too much. I prepared myself to turn on my charm and dazzle her with my silver tongue. 

“Don’t even start. Here you are. Sign the stub. You may read and review this permanent record. But you will damn well pay for the copies.” 

She stormed off with a disgusted wave mumbling, “Asswipe”, if I heard correctly.

 I took off my leather jacket, hung it on the chair, and with trembling hands opened the first volume.

 Name: Spud, Roberto A. DOB: 08-08-1958 Official permanent record 

Confidential

Commendations and Awards —— Admonishments, Suspicions, Rebukes I was happy that in my first three grades, I had few rebukes and several impressive commendations. I had been a good little chap. I took notes on my laptop. 

Commendations: Perfect attendance-grade two. Winner of School Carnival Cakewalk Competition. Gold Star Award for Citizenship-Performance Award for Square Dancing at Parent Assembly—Acting Award for Moving Portrayal of Third Wise Man in Christmas Pageant. Four Reading Medals. These were several of the positives. 

Rebukes: Refusal to Eat all of Hot Lunches—28 referrals and suspicions. One specific mention of making possibly fake barfing noises over being forced to eat lunch serving of stewed prunes. Three incidents of peeing pants and one of taking Cub Scout bandana and putting over head. Seven suspicions of cheating off other students’ spelling tests. Excessive, aggressive play on the playground, more than a dozen. Causing a heated argument with the claim that Duke Snider was much better than Mickey Mantle. Scream singing: ♪Norman, Norman My Love ♪in the hallway. There was more, but all in all, a kind of mixed bag.

 I flipped through and got to grades four through six–Commendations: Basketball leader, football participant, baseball all three years- first team all-school. Perfect attendance in fourth grade. The fastest multiplication facts contestant. Praise for ordering David McEvers to put his penis back in his pants while at the pencil sharpener in front of girls. Pulling out Robert Faling’s tongue after he fell from the top of slide, swallowed it and turned blue.(Made Tribune.)* Digging holes for new tree planting with jar of memories capsule underneath. Two good citizenship awards. Reward for staying awake during yearly viewing of the movies Heidi and the Wizard of Oz. One gold star for kindness. Leader in Mitch Miller Christmas Sing-a-Long. 

Rebukes: Suspicion of starting school wide poll on who had better titties Betty or Veronica. Cheating on SRA reading program. Knocking over Gary Anderson’s paramecium display before science fair. Flim-Flamming most of third grade out of steelies and prime marble shooters during pm recesses. Suspicions of writing with permanent ink on the desk top—Principal Hunt Blows Donkeys. Stealing chocolate cake at cake walk. Excessive use of Butch-wax. Laughing and mocking Leon Radar’s new Princeton haircut. Drawing Fiji Islanders on sixth-grade teacher’s blackboard at recess. Knocking out recess monitor Mrs. Gale Juniper with ice ball. Suspicion of giving out profane Valentine cards. Trading outfits with Jimmy Cranston during the school day. Eating the chocolate off the top of Butterfingers. Suspicion of stealing pop bottles. Caught reading Mad Magazine and comics hidden inside basal reader- (68 reports.)

 Jesus, did they watch every little thing?

Seventh through ninth grades–Commendations: Social Studies Map coloring, Memorization of Gettysburg Address, Doing perfect push-ups in gym class–(13 mentions) Several sports awards. Shop award for Metal Elephant Lamp of the Quarter. 

Rebukes: Walking around with obvious boner (100+ complaints) Playing Beatles tune-Eight Days a Week excessively during break time. Slow dancing too closely within one ruler length-12 times* (Banned from two after-school dances for not adhering to this rule) Making Elvis-like hip swirls in the hallway, Snapping Mandy Morgenstern’s bra strap. Warned repeatedly about excessive use of Jade and English Leather cologne. Caught peeking in girls’ locker room (9 times.) Making jokes about Kotex in mixed company. Using the word scrotum in a non-scientific way. Dying pubic hairs purple and showing off in the shower. Farting next to the heating element. Sent to Principal Harvey Walker for a hack for making a public joke about Miss Peabody’s mammoth cleavage. Crying in corner over lyrics from Dead Man’s Curve. Laughing time and time again at the word ‘Beaver’. Suspicion of pinning up December Playmate of the month Centerfold in Wood-shop* (may have cost two classmates lost fingers). Displaying middle finger in Fall Dance picture with Catholic girl friend. Mostly good clean fun, it seemed. Nothing much to be concerned with. I grabbed another volume where my high school career was documented.

High School Commendations: All-State Baseball-’68,’69; Editor of Bengal’s Purr ’69; Award for Feature Article on Seat Belt Safety-’68; Letterman’s Club ’67,’68,’69. Homecoming Dance King ’69. 

Rebukes: Caught reading Catcher in the Rye instead of required text in freshman English. Smoking violations in the parking lot (10). Suspicion of being under influence of controlled substance (possibly marijuana) in Anatomy class. Making loud farting noises at the school assembly. Suspicion of being involved in splicing obscene, pornographic film into the middle of a reel of drug education film. Making water balloons out of condoms. Skipping class and stealing classmate’s car and driving to Coeur d’Alene Lake. Walking around with obvious boner (300 times).

 Spreading rumor about Old Man Asker having sex with the new teacher, Miss Brown. Dating Jennie Caportis, hoping to get favorable calls on the baseball diamond. (Miss Caportis was the daughter of legendary umpire Scrappy Caportis). Yelling catcalls at a talent show to Linda Heller’s rendition of The Lion Sleeps Tonight. Bringing underground comics Yellow Dog and Mr. Natural to school. (items confiscated ’69) Causing Driver’s Ed teacher to drink again. Throwing stolen watermelons from high school gym roof onto roofs of cars. * (Police involvement.) Stealing from high school concession stand (too many to quantify) Spinning basketball during national anthem * (six -game suspension)

Ha! Just as I suspected! They have nothing. Nothing, I say,” as I slapped the last volume shut with satisfaction.

 “Hi, I am done doing my beginning review. I would like copies of everything. Where would you like me to put these?” I asked the gorgeous clerk.

 “Oh, just push the cart over here. Miss Havisham will return them after I make the copies. That will be $476.” 

“Yeah, ass-wipe, how do you like them apples?”said Miss Havisham as she pushed the cart into the back of the massive file shelves. She glared at me and was gone at the speed of a slug. 

“Well, I don’t have quite that much money,” I said. 

“Well, Doctor, do you have enough to take a sweet girl like me out for a meal and some glasses of wine?”

“Now, now my dear, aren’t you afraid that hanging out with me will go on your permanent record?” I joked. 

“Doctor, I just went through your adult permanent record and I was very impressed and intrigued. You seem to have quite the touch with the ladies.” 

She winked and pushed her full breasts toward me.

 “Oh, my lord, there’s an adult permanent record?” 

Now I am worried. 

Oh, for heaven’s sake! I already feel dumber for wasting my time reading such nonsense. I apologize. Dr. Spud gives all dipshits a bad name. Let’s move on.

That was a nice story, but it still didn't get rid of the bullpucky Dr. Spud soiled my swing book with in his previous deal. I guess Dr. Spud’s moronic rantings could have something to do with school. I think we need a more serious approach to education as school days are in full swing by September. Let us go see something more reasonable. Jesus! 

September is special because the greatest day of my life happened on September 5, 1990. 

In my meager attempts at stomping out ignorance over the years, I have seen some memorable things. Here are some of them from my teacher and coaching Hall of Fame. I swear they are all true, although I am known for a wee bit of embellishment from time to time. 

My classroom was packed on parent night. I had passed out my goals for the class and was going through them while the parents followed along.  Country girl Marty had taken a desk right next to her mother in the front row.  I had almost finished when, suddenly Marty's mom grabbed Marty by the neck, gave her a vicious head butt and yelled: "You better listen to this guy!"

I am rarely lost for words, but that head butt caught me off guard, especially since they were sitting in the front row in a packed room. There came a long pause and then some uncomfortable muffled snickers could be heard. Marty came to the rescue by erupting into a deep belly laugh. This broke the tension and the place erupted into a full half-minute of wild laughter.  Marty gave her mom, who seemed thrilled by the attention, a hug and answered in a loud voice, " I will mama, I promise."  

Another parent’s night memory sticks out. Misty, an eighth grader, was always ill with something and often visited the nurse’s office. It was not at all unusual to see her resting on the small bed in the nursing area. It happened all the time. We were running a mock schedule at Junior High Night for the parents, with the bells sounding every five minutes so that parents could go from room to room following their children’s schedule. The third bell rang and Jack, the principal and noble friend, waved with vigor for me to come to the office. 

I was on break, and so I did. 

He whispered: "Look in the nurse’s office." 

There was Misty’s mom stretched out on the nurse’s bed, just like Misty.

 On my first day ever of teaching, in my classroom, this scene unfolded. I had my sixth graders sitting in a circle on the floor and told them I would like them to go around and introduce themselves. I modeled what I wanted them to do, which was add an adjective to their name. We heard Smiling Sam, Fast Freddie, Lucky Lee, You get the idea. 

A little dark-haired, skinny kid’s turn came. “Wwwwwwwwwwwwaaaaaiddddddd Willllllllllllleeeee.” ( Wild Willie) This poor, new-to-the-district boy finally managed to get out. Holy crap! I thought he was going to give birth to something, and I was uncertain of what. I quickly surveyed the circle.

 Not a snicker, not a peep, total silence. I wanted to hug them all.

 “Nice to meet you, Wild One,” was my response. An hour later, my genius helper, Stephanie, who realized early on that I definitely needed help, marched up to the chalkboard. I had broken the class into groups to brainstorm classroom rules. The first rule up: “No making fun of anyone who stutters,” she wrote in her perfect cursive.

I taught Dana, a special girl in my fourth-grade class. She was quite limited and attended  my class as part of the mainstreaming of students with special needs with same-age peers for social purposes. She was one merry girl, always laughing, and the kids loved her. 

One day I said, Dana, do you remember my name? (Mr. Black) She shook her head and laughed wildly. 

“Dana, my name is a color. Can you guess? 

“Yeah, Mr. Boo,” she said to me in all seriousness. 

“No, Dana, not blue, Mr. Black,” but it didn’t register.

 One time during lunch, she went out to the hall bathroom and came running back with the toilet tissue stuck in the back of her pants. The length of the tissue was at least twenty yards long from her rear end back to the roll dispenser on the bathroom wall. My class and I loved this girl.

I coached seventh grade girls’ basketball, which was just a hoot. I had a bunch of girls and one of them was Arlene, who lived way up river on a pig farm with her large family. I convinced her to play basketball with us so she could have some social contact and maybe make some friends. She was a true country girl and knew nothing about sports. We were in our first game and I called her over to sit by me. 

“Now listen, Arlene, in a minute, you are going in for Sarah. Watch what she is doing and don’t worry about making mistakes. Do you remember the plays?” 

She was barely breathing and could only nod to me. The score clock read 3:41. At 2:41, she charged off the bench and ran into the game right during a fast break and knocked over the fat referee and two players.

 Whistles blew all over the place, and pandemonium erupted. She took, “in a minute,” literally, and I forgot to tell her about checking in at the scorer’s table. 

My second year of teaching, they gave me a class of thirty-four fourth-graders. Twenty-six were boys, as they had decided that I was especially good with buggered up, hyperactive boys. I filled my classroom with animals. I had two white rabbits, a gerbil village, four canaries, a cockatiel that could whistle two songs. Torto, the large tortoise, two lizards and the star of the show: Billy, the Boa Constrictor. 

I spent hundreds of dollars on cages and tanks to house them all. The theory was to give each student a specific job each week as motivation and to teach responsibility. It was  very successful and my room became a popular visiting spot for other students, parents, and visitors to the school. If you came into my room, you would see a student with Billy around a boy or girl’s neck while they did math or wrote a story. One of the best threat of punishment was: “If you don’t shape up, I’ll put you on snake restriction. 

One poor little soul, named Patrick, was put in this class to repeat fourth grade. He would show up every morning at 7:30 am sharp and clean cages and water and feed the animals. He came in every single morning that year and would always play the same record, Don Ho Greatest Hits, and sing along while doing his chores. I got a little burned out on Tiny Bubbles, believe me. 

One rainy night, I was driving home to my little dock cabin on Sequim Bay, which was eleven miles from town. I noticed a familiar pickup with the dome light on in the Dickie Bird’s Tavern parking lot. 

I pulled in impulsively and walked up to the truck and heard the familiar voice of Don Ho and saw Patrick doing his reading homework. I tapped on the window and asked, “Patrick, are you okay?”

 “Oh yeah, just listening to some Don Ho and reading about the man in the yellow suit.”

 I headed home, cussing his parents under my breath. I ordered them in to see me the next morning. Turned out there was only one parent. His mother had passed away the year before. The grieving dad needed some support.

 I ran a junior golf camp one summer. I was the high school golf coach and the golf pro, Martini Mike, came to me and said: “Hey, I need to run a junior session to keep my pro card. If you organize it you can use a cart, hit all the range balls you want for no charge and play for free all year.” 

“How about a new set of irons, too?” I requested. 

“You cheap fuck! No way. But you can charge whatever you want for the sessions and keep all the money,” Mike said.

 “Deal,” I answered.

 A month later, 158 kids showed up, each with 35 bucks. I evidently had done a good advertising job. Can you do the math? Yippee! I had to do some fast organizing and thinking, but the week-long golf camp was a roaring success. 

That is, until the last five minutes. Our week-ending activity was to have a contest on a par three for prizes. There were only four kids left to hit their shots when little Julie smacked her older sister in the forehead with a seven iron while warming up and blood spurted. 

I drove both girls to the hospital. Little Julie kept screaming on the way there as head wounds bleed like crazy. Sis got stitches, and I drove them home where I met their recently divorced mother who was forgiving, especially after I gave both kids a hundred-dollar bill. 

Martini Mike mentioned, as we shared a drink up in the restaurant/bar, that he had only expected twenty or twenty-five kids to show up. He stirred his drink and popped an olive in his mouth before asking, “How much money did you pull out of this deal, by the way?”

 “Oh, a few extra dollars,” I answered. 

“If you were an honorable man, you’d share some of it.” 

You’re correct, Michael. I might buy a new set of irons from you if you give me a good deal.”

 “There will be no deal, you cheap bastard.”

 I felt like this guy looks after losing my sixth-grade teaching position when my friend Bev and I were tied in experience and college credits for the last layoff spot. They had already given a dozen other teachers their pink slips.

 Kind Principal Norm had us go into his office, where he flipped a fifty-cent piece. I lost. He shook his head sadly and tapped me gently on the shoulder as we left, and he softly closed the door. 

A month later, I was offered a job as a kindergarten teacher. I took it with relief. I went to summer school to prepare and learned many little kiddie activities. In fact, to this day I will put my rendition of Grandpa’s Farm up with anyone’s.

 This was a tough job, for I can barely keep my own shoes tied. Thirty-two of these little devils showed up each morning and then thirty-one more invaded my room in the afternoon hours. 

The days were a blur of screaming, bawling, peed pants, hovering parents, and an activity change every ten minutes. Yes, there was a lot of fun and laughter also, and I loved everyone of the little buggers, but what an exhausting job!

 To this day, whenever I hear the horrid tune, The Wheels on the Bus, I involuntarily head toward the nearest liquor store. This was the hardest, most demanding, and stressful job I have ever or will ever have. 

Years later, when people would ask: “How do you put up with those teenage smart-asses?” 

My answer has always been the same: “Easy for I once taught kindergarten.”

THOMAS WAS CAUSING a ruckus, cussing and trying to pick fights out on the elementary playground. I got word of this, wandered out there, and had him follow me into my second-grade classroom.

“Thomas, what in the heck are you doing out there?” I asked him as he slammed himself down on one of the desk chairs. 

“That damn Benny called me a pig nose,” spoke the little lips sheltered beneath a set of thick, loosely fitted, black-framed glasses he was constantly readjusting. 

“Well, are you?” I asked. 

“What you mean?” he said, pushing up his glasses. 

“Are you a pig nose?” 

“No!” he yelled back. 

“Then he must have been talking about somebody else,” I said as I straightened up some papers on my desk.

There were a few moments of silence before he responded. 

“Yeah! I ain’t no pig nose! Can I go back out and play?” 

“Okay, but if you find pig nose out there, send him in here. I need to speak with him,” I said with a straight face.

“Why? He ain’t done nothing.”

I WAS HAVING A discussion with my sixth-grade class about spanking and discipline. I had the class raise their hands if they supported spanking. About half the kids had their hands up. 

I said, “Okay, I have some questions for you. Is a spanking just on the bottom? Can it still be a spanking if it is smacks on the back or neck or even the head?” 

“Of course not,” student Angie said. “That would be a beating, not a spanking.”

 “Spanking is to teach discipline so kids don’t do things wrong or get in trouble,” said Robbie. 

“Well, are there certain ways to discipline that are okay and others that are not? For instance, if a child is riding his trike too close to a busy road and could get hit, should I take his hand and put it on the burner of stove to teach him to stay away from the traffic?” I asked. 

“Oh, no,” several students yelled out impulsively.

One big, silent boy, Carl, raised his hand. 

“I think it’s okay. It worked on me,” he said.

What a shocking thing to have heard said. He was a tall, strong, quiet boy.  The only time he really ever talked with me was to inform me that his father disagreed with how I taught  science. His father was the head of a small church community.

At the sprightly age of 22, with his heart still brimming with the intoxicating memories of several wonderful, life-changing months traversing the enchanting landscapes of Mexico, Blackie hungered for more travel adventures, for his luck was running hot.

Fortune, it seemed, was eager to indulge Blackie’s thirst for excitement. His Mexican travel companion, the ever-friendly Fritz, had extended an invitation for him to visit his home in Boston. Eager to explore a new city, Blackie accepted Fritz’s kind offer, his spirits soaring as he anticipated the unfolding escapades that awaited him.

One sunny early September day in Boston, Fritz, aware of Blackie’s insatiable love for baseball, took him to the legendary Fenway Park. The hallowed grounds of the ballpark radiated with the echoes of past victories, the fervent cheers of passionate fans, and the palpable energy of the game. Blackie’s eyes sparkled with delight, his heart dancing to the rhythm of the ballpark as he immersed himself in the storied history of America’s favorite pastime.

Fenway Park 

Blackie's trip to Fenway had fulfilled a dream. He decided to start heading for home, which was nearly three-thousand miles away. The guy  packed up his things in his one backpack and the next morning, with little planning, he stuck his thumb out, raised hopefully towards the passing cars.

Serendipity had glorious plans for him that day, for in less than a minute, a gleaming red Cadillac convertible, adorned with a pristine white top, came to a screeching halt before him. Without hesitation, Blackie vaulted into the luxurious vehicle, his dreams of a cross-country adventure becoming a vivid reality.

Inside the Cadillac, Blackie’s journey unfurled like a breathtaking symphony. Two other young men joined him on this lucky voyage, and together they became a trio of wanderers hurtling towards the distant golden shores of Los Angeles, California. With the wind tousling their hair and the sun casting its warm embrace upon them, they embarked on a coast-to-coast odyssey.

Fortune continued to favor young Blackie as the miles disappeared beneath the wheels of the Cadillac. Fate had a rare wide smile, and it brought him close to the driver, Zach, a kindred spirit who swiftly became a trusted friend. In a stroke of impulsive generosity, Zach extended an invitation for Blackie to stay in his beach-side condo in the sparkling city of angels, where dreams mingled with the sea breeze.

In Los Angeles, Blackie’s heart danced in sync with the crashing waves as he soared kites high in the cerulean sky. He surrendered his body to the mighty Pacific, indulging in the euphoria of body-surfing through the frothy embrace of the ocean’s embrace. And amidst the sun-kissed sands, he found himself in the company of Gigi and Mori, Zach’s comely and vivacious twin sisters. What would be next? Winning the lottery?

Gigi and Mori, their laughter tinkling like silver bells, captured Blackie’s attention and heart with their radiant smiles and magnetic personalities. They reveled in his company, finding him both handsome and quick-witted. Together, they created a symphony of joy, cooking sumptuous feasts and parading their vibrant green bikinis along the sandy shores.

For over two blissful weeks, Blackie reveled in the warmth of friendship and the magic of newfound connections. However, life, ever fickle, summoned him back to his roots in Tumbleweed, a rural town nestled in the heart of Eastern Washington. His father, Clay, had fallen ill, and Blackie’s filial duty called him back to the farm where he grew up.

As a plane carried him away from the sun-drenched shores of Los Angeles, Blackie’s heart grinned with gratitude, with the merry echoes of Gigi and Mori’s laughter, forever etched in his memory like a soothing lullaby.

He had been gone from home for nine months. It had been a life-changing jaunt. He embraced the lesson he had learned on this remarkable journey—a reminder to seize the good times, for they are but fleeting moments that grace our lives with their transient magic.

Blackie didn’t know as much as he thought he did, but one lesson had been mastered. When good luck rolls your way, hold it close and cheer. A guy stuck out his thumb and got one ride from coast to coast and then flew kites on the beach with two gorgeous women. That intense luck and its memories would have to be sources of light in the coming times of dark moments. This young man knew this. Yep, not all days can be filled with rainbows and ice cream dreams, but sometimes things turn out right. So, let the good times roll, as they sometimes do.

But there are also duties that come our way. They are a big part of life and can seem like the opposite of fun, but they need to be done. One of these duties was helping my normally calm, reasonable, mom to adjust to not being about to drive.

Mom was determined that she had to go shopping and today of all days. I had just started my business, landed an important contract and had a full day planned.

 “I’d be glad to take you when I get back this evening. Would that work?“

 “No, it won‘t. I need to go this morning,” she snapped at me.

 “You have got to be shitting me? “I mumbled mostly to myself. 

She had grown quite testy since her last fall, especially when the doctor forbid her from driving anymore. I was the designated driver and on most days, it would not have been a big deal. But I had clients lined up in two-hour-long sessions for the entire day today. I only get paid on contact hours, and canceling today would have cost me around 400 bucks. I needed many, many productive paydays. 

But today wasn‘t going to be one of them. Why fight the obvious?

“I still think I should be able to drive,” she repeated for the millionth time, like a computer loop. I was supposed to remind her of her spells of passing out and then she would give me her reasons, blah, blah, blah...!

 I refused to play and stuffed a huge mouthful of banana into my mouth to keep it occupied before I said something nasty and escalated the situation.

 “Want to go right now? I could finally get out in between massive chews.

“No, I’ve got to get ready. My hair is a mess, “she groaned while getting up from her chair and scooting off in her new purple walker I had bought her, despite her initial objections, toward her bedroom.

 I went through the options. I could call my brother, attempt a guilt trip and ask for his help, but knew that wasn’t proper. I could just up and leave and plead ignorance later. Now, that one was tempting, and I even touched my car keys in my coat pocket and visualized the soothing music in the car. I saw myself sipping on a quad shot white chocolate mocha and climbing the hill toward the Palouse.

 But then I remembered the twin cell phones I had purchased in a moment of madness that acted as near walkie talkies and knew the thing would ring every two minutes for the entire day. Hell, maybe I should just rub one off right here in mom‘s kitchen,” I said aloud as I dialed the phone and canceled all my morning appointments.

 We finally pulled into the Safeway parking lot at 11 am. The first mention of her very important shopping trip had been shared with me for the first time at 9 am. No problem, this should take 45 minutes or an hour. I should get out a little after noon and have plenty of time for the 45 minute drive up the hill. 

My 1:30 appointment had to be kept as it was with Eric, a fairly normal boy whose major problem was that his mother was a complete whack job and had shared that she had just entered menopause. 

This was a deadly combination that no counselor would ever mess with for any reason. Off to the store we go. Everything is in slow, slow motion. She can‘t decide if she wants to use the electric scooter cart or have me push the regular cart. Finally, she gets into the electric cart and within the first ten feet knocks over a display case of eyeglasses, which scatter everywhere.

“Oh, I hate these things. Maybe you should go get a regular cart. “

 “No,” I say from my knees as I picked up two more pair of glasses. 

I got her going straight and off she went at the speed of a lazy slug down the cereal aisle. I congratulated myself for not saying, “Now you see why they don‘t want you to drive.“

 I got the case back up and sloppily put back the last four pairs of glasses. It was already 11:20, and she had only a can of oatmeal in the cart. I am worried. I noticed a pretty woman checker, probably in her early forties, my new favorite age, smiling at me. This distracted me with some pleasant, horny moments of fantasy. I was about to go up to make some conversation when some asshole showed up with a full cart and made her go to work. Nice timing, jerk!

 So off I go to find dear ol‘ mom. I found her foundling bundles of hamburger. Then some sausage links were examined with the precision of a jeweler grading a fine diamond. Neither one made the cut and off she went at the speed of paint drying. She made it to the soup and actually quickly put in several cans with little inner turmoil. My heart jumped. Things were moving along.

 She motored on without a word toward the distant produce section on the far end of the store. She examined tomatoes, plunked melons, picked up and smelled several peaches, and sampled a couple grapes.

 But nothing went into the cart. Was she shopping or had she taken a job on the sly as a produce inspector? She did finally decide on a special cantaloupe and then suddenly announced, ”Oh, I forgot the chicken noodle.“

 She putt-putted all the way back to the soup section at the far end of the store. I stood stunned and frozen with my mouth wide open and started contemplating creative ways of committing suicide. Could one die from eating multiple boxes of Junior Mints? How about a simple motorcycle jump off the top of the hill leading out of town? No, that one would definitely make the front page of the paper and embarrass my son.

 Besides, I am not really the suicidal type. Maybe I could take out a few Wal-Mart shoppers with a good rifle from the highest rooftop. I saw people being interviewed. He was such a kind, wonderful guy. I can‘t believe he would do such a thing.“ 

But I remembered that the tallest building was only three stories high. What kind of lame sniper deal would that be? I was scaring myself a little and did the only sensible thing. I left the store. 

I smoked three cigarettes back to back, lighting one before the other was even out. I went to Starbucks, ordered my quad shot white chocolate mocha, no whip, and checked the time. It was 12:15 when I walked back through Safeway‘s automatic doors and was thrilled to see mom was in the checkout line. 

The line she had picked was the one where my possible future lover was working. She smiled again, and I heard a Lionel Richie line or two: Hello, is it me you‘re looking for? This pleasant feeling didn‘t last as I noticed Mom was now mesmerized by the magazines near the checkout counter. 

“Where did you disappear to? I needed some help to get some Cheetos from the top shelf and you were nowhere to be seen. I had to ask a stock boy to get them. Hey, where is The Star? It has the best crossword puzzle." 

Off she went for some more putt-putting. Smiling gal or not, I had seen enough.

 “The Star? Oh, I’ll get it for you. “and I started pulling things out of her basket and putting them on the conveyor belt way too fast 

“Why are you always rushing me?“ 

“Huh?“ 

That did it. I ran over two aisles and found a copy of The Star and slapped it down. I had to get outside for a quick word with God. The woman smiled as I hustled by and I thought, enough with the demure smiling lady, I want a cleavage shot or this relationship is over!

 I was hot and not in the horny way. I got outside, made a fist, pointed it toward the clouds and yelled, “Come on down, sucker and fight like a man! “I

It took me several minutes to get my shit together, and I wandered back into the store. No Mom. The smiling woman was no longer smiling and pointed toward the far set of doors, avoiding eye contact. 

“Oh, now the judgments begin, huh?“

 Mom was waiting outside and said,” I was getting a little cold. Why do you keep disappearing? I need to get home. I really think I should still be able to drive.“

 Wow, she really has a way with words, doesn‘t she? I raced to her house, unloaded the groceries, and flew out to the car. 12:52, the car clock said. I did the math. Thirty-eight minutes to get to Eric‘s house. I was weaving through traffic, cussing at every stoplight, and roaring at near eighty all the way to Moscow. 

I hit the city limits at 1:32, way ahead of expectations. The damn cell phone rang and, of course, it was Mom.

 “Remember, you have to take me to Bingo tonight and please get here a little early. I don‘t want to rush out there. “

I skidded to a stop in front of Eric‘s filthy yard and house at 1:40. Psycho Mom was waiting on the porch.

 “You‘re late and Eric is pretty upset. If you tell the boy 1:30, then it should be one fucking thirty!“ 

She stormed into the house and slammed the door right in my face. I stood there with a paragraph of eve1y cuss word I have eve1y used flying around in my head when Eric appeared. 

“Sony, man, “I said. 

“About what?“ Eric said with a strange look on his face.

 We got in the car and I said, “Well, your mom said you were really upset at me being late.“ 

“Hey, dude, haven‘t you learned yet that she is totally nuts? Here, I made a Larry the Cable Man tape for you. Can I put it in? “

 “Bless you, little brother, bless you. “

 The moral of the story? Watch out for quite a stormy adjustment period when your parent can no longer drive. Mom had always been a kind, compassionate person and was always more concerned about other‘s needs more than her own. 

But giving up the independence of the car was a major blow for her. It signaled that she was losing yet another thing that was a big part of her daily living and personality. You see, she had been a Mom for 62 of her 78 years and giving up her last part of independence had to have been extremely tough for her. The ultimate caregiver needed care herself? Tough change. 

Mom passed away shortly after this trip. I would give the world to have another slow as slug shopping trip with her.

We have swung all the way into the fall with this last September tale about my mother. Let us get into the month of October. 

I watched his launch from the truck, and his flying seemed to be in slow motion. I saw his head hit once, twice… by the third bounce I was up and diving toward my precious twin brother. I hit, rolled and ran on the one leg that still worked to Ronnie who wouldn’t move. The pavement was turning red, and I was screaming for him to get up. I was still yelling and pushing him when the deputy picked me up and ran me to the ambulance. I woke up a few hours later. Ronnie never did. But that isn’t where the story ends.

 You may have heard that twins have special bonds like when a brother breaks his arm and the other one feels the pain hundreds of miles away. I can tell you that is not just babble. In our twelve years together, Ron and I had many such experiences. So, it was not that big of a surprise when the first contact was made. 

It was a dreary day, and I had ridden my bike the three miles to our favorite fishing spot. It did not enthuse me while trying to catch one of the many rainbow trout swimming around in the creek. I had spent most of the day crying, as I had been really missing my brother and could barely put the spinner on through cloudy eyes. I noticed it from a distance because it didn’t fit here. 

A bright red balloon and drifted toward me. I tried to catch it but it would get so close and then it would float just out of reach. We did this dance for a bit until I dove and captured it. I was so pleased and then shocked when this child’s toy started slapping me on the head and face. Softly at first and then more and more violently until I felt compelled to fight back. But I was overpowered and finally covered up. 

 The balloon left with a final emphatic smack to my right ear in exactly the spot where Ron would attack with his precision flick while we waited at the bus stop on cold winter days.

 “Ron, is that you?”

 The balloon took off and headed toward the sky. It hit the top of a pine tree and popped, fell into the creek and started floating away. I found and grabbed my pole. I made a quick cast, hoping to get it. My pole bent over and five minutes later I was looking at the biggest trout I had ever caught laying at my feet. 

“Thanks, Ronnie!”

 The echo of my yell came bouncing back. 

 The next time was with Olga when I was sixteen. Olga was a Swedish exchange student beauty who I had somehow convinced to go to the Homecoming Dance. It was a delightful dance as I had caught the winning touchdown on a weird tip play in the closing seconds of the game. The ball just ended up in my hands. I got tons of praise and Olga was willing to give me some attention after the dance.

I parked us in my car on the river shore and I realized I was going to walk out of this car a man for the first time. I felt several sensations in that car, but one caught my subconscious and then was fast forwarded to my conscious mind. The car is moving! I jumped into the front while trying to get my pants up but didn’t make it in time. The car had slipped out of park and water started bubbling in. Olga and I had to swim to shore. I thought I heard a wicked giggle for a second.

 “You rotten asshole,” I mumbled, too cold and defeated to say much more.

 In my senior year I missed a simple, easy layup that would have sent us to the State Tournament. I got drunk that night and sneaked into my basement room. It started a few minutes after I was in bed. The drawers from my dresser started banging open and closed. This went on most of the night and I knew Ron was pissed not for the missed shot but for breaking our kid vow about drinking.

 “We’re never gonna be like dad,” he had often told me.

 He made certain I got the message by continuing on with the awful banging of drawers way beyond the point of necessity. He made his presence known a few other times once with a tender voice  in the hospital as I held my first son. 

“He’s in your hands. Do what’s right.”

 He was with me in court when I lost custody to my cocaine-addicted wife. His voice was soothing: “You’re going to lose him for a while, but he will return. Be ready.”

 This came true, and I ended up raising all my kids myself. He started a fire that almost killed me and several others one night. I know he did it. 

I was in an awful state mentally and had gotten involved with a rough crowd late in my twenties. I was convinced that it would be okay to take a hit off a meth pipe and was holding it in my hand as a guy tried to light it when the whole thing blew up and started a fire that engulfed the entire farm house. 

It burned completely to the ground. I got the message. 

On and off the contacts came over the years. The last one was a few weeks ago when I held my grandson for the first time. I was tossing him in the air and the poor little guy puked directly into my mouth.

 I was rinsing my mouth out in the bathroom when I said it. 

“You goddamn Ghostly Brother, you really need to die.”

I doubt he was listening. 

We knew we were too old to be out trick-or-treating. But the temptation to get a bag full of free candy was motivation enough to get the four of us junior high guys to throw on cheap plastic masks and head out into the fall night.

 My mother gave us pimple-faced goons a disapproving look, which I tried to ignore, but it didn’t totally work. That look haunted me on this night and I hung back in shame as we rang bell and after bell and held out our bags in our immediate neighborhood before hustling down the few blocks to the most popular and upscale area in town—Sunset Drive—which was called Candy Cane Lane during the Christmas season.

 This neighborhood was in a state of pandemonium as a wild gaggle of children decked out in colorful outfits raced around from house to house. I found the entire spectacle to be disgusting as parents had been talked into driving their kids to this area. Who drives their kids to go Trick-or Treating? It was against all the unwritten rules.

 The long lane took on the feel and look of a summer festival and got so bad that we had to stand in line at the houses, which became more than a little embarrassing as our group was by far the oldest. Nobody called our outfits cute or noted our costumes. The only sound we could hear was silence as we held out our bags like lazy beggars.

 I voiced my disapproval to my three mates and shared my intention of heading on home. But overweight Terry, who loved candy and had already started snacking on his bounty of sugar treasures, looked at me like I had gone crazy. 

Mike Jensen was with me, but his younger brother Mark sided with Terry, so we trudged on to another dozen houses. We turned the corner when Terry suddenly reconsidered, for there they were—the five notorious, mean Pooley brothers standing in line. They gave us menacing looks, which caused Terry to choke on a handful of Hot Tamales. 

He announced: “Okay, I think we have enough.”

 We hotfooted our way up a dark, quiet side street and bustled up the sidewalk, checking back with frequent glances, hoping that we had made a clean escape. We had and moved up a mere block away from the main lane toward our safe home area. It was getting pretty late, but greedy Terry begged us to make one more stop. 

Mike and I shook our heads as Mark and Terry raced up to a small house after seeing a group of little kids exiting the walkway. They hopped in the car as Terry rang the bell. No answer. Terry rang the bell again and even knocked loudly as I grabbed his shoulder and motioned to him it was time to leave. 

The door slowly creaked opened and a really old man pushed at the rusty screen door. He was hunched over and carried a cane in one hand. 

“Hi, boys. I’m sorry, but I ran out of candy. I hope these will be okay. Just a minute, please.”

 He hobbled off and returned a minute later with a silver bowl. He reached in the bowl and carefully placed a potato in each of our bags. I looked at this old guy and felt ashamed as he softly closed the door and switched off the porch light. We slowly moved away without a word, glancing at each other and shaking our heads.

 “That was really sad,” Mark finally mumbled, and we all agreed. 

“He gave us a potato because he was probably afraid we would do something rotten to his tiny home,” Terry said as he unwrapped a small Butterfinger. 

We didn’t notice the Pooley Brothers tramping toward us. When we finally saw them our first impulse was to run, but Mike put down his bag and folded his arms, blocking the walkway to the old man’s house. I reluctantly joined him as my heart raced. 

“What are you queers doing out here? Get out of the way, unless you want some trouble.”

 I didn’t want any trouble from these rotten buzzards, but heard myself saying these words to them. 

“The old geezer is out of candy, so you don’t need to bother him.”

 “Yeah, it ain’t worth the trouble,” said Mike. 

“Move your asses out of the way before I lose my temper,” ordered Marty, the older of the brothers. 

“Jesus, Marty. What the hell are you doing out here anyways? You’re in high school and out Trick-or-Treating?”

 Marty quickly dropped his bag and smashed Mike in the gut, dropping my friend to the ground. 

I yelled, “Knock it off Marty, unless you want a visit from my brother, Jack.”

 Jack was a feared senior whose fighting skill was well known. 

“Here, take my bag of candy.”

 I handed him the bag. He gave it to one brother, grabbed Mike’s bag too, and glared at me for a long few seconds. 

“Hiding behind your big, wicked brother, huh, punk? I’d love to get you in the Boys’ Club boxing ring and teach you a thing or two.”

 “Yeah? I’ll box you if you’ll leave the old man alone. Name the time.” 

“You’ll box Marty? He’ll kick your ass,” yelled one of the other brothers. 

“Be down there Saturday morning at eleven o’clock or I’ll come looking for you. Want me to leave the old man alone? Yeah, okay, but first I have one last surprise. Trick!,” he yelled. 

He picked up a rock and threw it violently toward the old man’s picture window. The hoots and hollers of the brothers drowned the sound of glass breaking out as they ran off down the street. The porch light flicked on as we stood there in horror and confusion. 

We helped the old guy clean up the glass from his living room and gave the police officer, who was called a full statement about the Pooley brothers, which would mean total war. We got a ride home in the police cruiser. While we were riding in the back seat, Terry handed me a Twinkie that we had all got from the home of the Hostess sales agent’s house. 

I ate the tasty cake later in my bedroom but got little pleasure from it because to top off the miserable night, Mom grounded me for two weeks for staying out so late. Thus ended my last Trick-or-Treat adventure. I spent days practicing my boxing moves in front of the mirror.

They decked everyone out and we had an afternoon trip to the nursing home where we visited each holiday planned for the afternoon. We were going to recite a poem and sing two songs that the music teacher had worked on for several days. We took off on the eight-block walk with me leading the way with my vacuum cleaner tail dragging along on the ground. I stopped traffic on the busy main road and my class received many friendly waves. We got into the nursing home parking lot and gathered around in a circle to review the agenda for our performance. Betsy was dressed up in white face paint and wore a green wig. She looked like an angry clown. She leaned over to me and whispered. 

“Do you think wearing a devil’s costume to a nursing home might be a problem? Won’t it scare the old people?” 

Oh my goodness, I thought. She was totally right! It had not even occurred to me that strolling into a group of people in their seventies and eighties realistically dressed as the devil was not even close to appropriate. I immediately ripped the fake tail out of the flap of my red long underwear and had one of the parent volunteers take the kids inside as I hustled into the nearest bathroom and washed off the face paint. 

Thank goodness for little Betsy and her awareness. I had no intention of freaking out some elderly people. We performed our poem and the two songs to an appreciative audience of elders who seemed to flourish among the energy of my kids. We stayed around and had some snacks with the residents.

 I heard loud laughter at one table where Wild Willie, a tough country kid often in trouble, and shy Isaac, had been playing cards with resident Carl. I wandered over to investigate. 

“Mr. Carl, show my teacher,” begged Willie. 

“Well, the boys and me were playing some poker, and they asked what I had. I told them I had four aces,” answered Carl as he quickly rolled up his sleeve and exposed his faded tattoo—four aces. 

The Time I Chose to Be a Coward

I caved into the new, popular kid who had recently moved to town from California. He wore a fashionable bleeding madras shirt, and everyone wanted his attention. The girls whispered and giggled whenever he came into their view. The boys his age wanted his approval. Bigger and stronger than most other eighth graders, he had led the football team to six straight victories. He ruled the school even though he had only been around for two months. 

His spell had even captured me a bit. I was also a football starter, and he did have my admiration as a player. I had noticed and ignored his asshole behavior toward others I knew. Until he pulled some mean crap on the crippled Harley. 

It was lunch hour, and Harley was late. Harley lived across the street in my neighborhood, and I had known him for years. We played together once in a while. His father, Bert Steiner, had developed into an inventor. He did things like converting a school bus into a camper for his large family and built a bicycle that could have been in the circus that he rode around the neighborhood. It had an extension on the frame on which he had welded a seat over six feet high! He also welded some high stilts, and all of us took turns trying to master and failing. Mr. Steiner let us take turns on the bike, as well as the unicycle he had made. 

Harley had been born crippled and undersized. He stood less than five feet tall and used crutches that helped him drag around his worthless left leg. The shy, quiet boy had to stay home often, as even the simplest tasks for him were exhausting. Harley spent most of his time on the couch of his crowded 1950s-era tiny living room. 

Our neighborhood sat a good rock’s throw from the Snake River in this river valley, Idaho town. It would get boiling hot, over 100 degrees for days in a row during August each year. I was running around in my underwear standing next to the one fan trying to cool our entire upstairs on one of those days. Nobody had air conditioning back then, as that luxury was years in the future. I peeked through the drapes and imagined I was a Hardy Boy spying on the neighborhood happenings, a long-ingrained habit.

Harley appeared on his new giant tricycle his father had welded together for him. He began pedaling up the steep hill next to his house. This captured my attention, as I had to grunt and pump hard myself to make it to the top of that hill. Up he would go, slowly in a diagonal pattern, trying like crazy to make it to the top. I often had to stop and push my bike up the last few feet. 

The determined Harley would make it up about a third of the way, then lose control and back down to the bottom he would come. He did this three times. I began soon rooting for him. “Go, go, go! Come on Harley, get up there,” I started almost yelling before long.

When he would lose it and come back down, I felt like I had failed myself. Harley finally made it past the alleyway, which was the toughest part and half-way to the top. I was pounding on the window as he kept going, slowly but surely, up a foot or so at a time. The determined boy got within only a first down from the top when he lost control and down the hill he came, the hot wind racing through his soaked head of hair.

 His mother came to the rescue, hurrying out with a glass of what looked like lemonade. His older brother picked Harley up and carried him inside to the safety of his couch, I guessed. I clapped for my neighbor.

 Now, here it was at school and my little hero was in trouble. The lunch bell rang, signaling the end of the lunch break. Harley began moving as quickly as he could to get to his class. He always tried to avoid crowds, for the packed junior high hallways were a hazard for him. 

A few feet away from the English classroom, his crutch slipped on the waxed floor and down he went. His book bag opened and all his pencils, paper, and books scattered down the hall. Harley landed in front of Larry, the California star, and three of his minions.

 Harley’s tumble had also knocked his bottle thick eye glasses off. I stood frozen a half hallway away and witnessed Harley’s tumble. The second bell rang. Within seconds, the empty hallway was teeming with teenagers heading to their lockers and class. Larry took this opportunity to seek even more attention, using my friend Harley as the prop. 

He yelled, “Here, let me help.”

 He booted Harley’s crutch away, picked up the glasses, and put them on making silly, stupid sounds, his way of imitating a retarded boy, I guessed. I saw the scene and knew I must help. Instead, I took a sharp left into the boy’s bathroom. I heard loud, cruel laughter and looked out to see Harley crawling around, looking desperately for his glasses. He kept slapping the floor, trying to locate his crutch, which Larry’s kick had sent off at least twenty feet. 

]Kids were pointing at Harley, and the hallway echoed the terrible sound of cruel young teenage laughter. Luckily, Mr. Chenoweth came out and took control. He found Harley’s things and tried to comfort him.

 But Harley’s nightmare had come true. The humiliated boy slumped into a loud, uncontrollable session of sad sobs. Mr. Chenoweth finally picked him up and carried him away from it all. The teacher’s eyes caught mine and his glare said all that needed to be said. 

He knew I had, at a key moment, chosen to act a coward. I lowered my eyes, took my seat in the one of the back desks, and didn’t notice my tears of shame until they hit my open reading book pages. When I got home, I couldn’t look at Harley’s house as I walked by. I stayed in the basement until I heard the blaring sirens at around eight o’clock. I ran to the back porch and saw the ambulance at Harley’s house. 

The men were sprinting and came out seconds later with a body on a stretcher. They attached an oxygen mask to a little body. The flashing lights and blasting sirens attracted the neighborhood's complete attention. 

The details of what happened to Harley that night were never revealed. They were many rumors and guesses made around the neighborhood. But something bad had taken place and even my confused eighth grade brain could understand that my little buddy being carried off was related to the horrible incident at school.

 I tossed and turned, humiliated by my yellow-bellied choice. I should have been there for my crippled, defenseless friend. I knew what I would do the next day. Harley would have his cowardly champion defend him a day late. But defend him I would.

 I couldn’t concentrate all morning. I kept watching the clock and planning for my encounter with Mr. Popular. I didn’t care what happened. Larry was going to get what was coming to him. Finally, the lunch bell rang.

 I didn’t bother to eat. I sat down in the hallway. I waited for my prey. Larry and his admirers took their positions, the same ones they had used while tormenting my little friend. I ambled slowly up to the group. Before anyone knew what had happened, I dropped Larry with three rapid, precise moves.

 I gave him a solid left hook to the stomach to take his breath away, followed with a right cross that broke his nose and kicked him with a direct shot to his privates. He tumbled down, and I pounced. I wasn’t done yet.

I hit him over and over until he no longer moved. His bleeding madras shirt was now covered with actual blood, as were my hands. I ran out the back door and the two miles home.

 This became a turning point in my life. I took the suspension, the grounding without a care. I was outside doing some yard work—part of my punishment—when Harley’s father stopped his pickup and got out. 

“That was a brave thing you did for Harley.”

 He had never spoken to me directly before. I nodded in shame. I had to go to court over and got probation. Harley survived, returned home, but did not attend school for the rest of the year. He rode with me in my various cars every day to high school in the years that followed. 

I learned great resolve from this experience. I vowed that one night after they carried away Harley that I would rather die myself than ever be a coward again. I am proud to say I have been the champion of many since that time. If there was someone being abused or treated poorly in my presence, I never wavered. I have been there and never, ever been scared. Being a coward is too terrifying. 

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

 One Spring vacation, many years ago, I was visiting my parents when I read an article in the local paper that told of how Harley’s crutch had slipped one rainy night after a spring downpour. He had fallen into the traffic while trying to cross the busiest street in town. He passed away because of the injuries. I took a glass of wine out and pointed it at Harley’s old house. “You made me a man, Harley. I can never thank you.” I took a drink and waved him a tearful goodbye. 

I told this story on the first day of school every year I taught. I said I did not condone violence of any kind. I said that anybody who ever tried to play the game of mocking or making fun of someone to get attention for themselves was going to be stopped. It would not be allowed in my presence.

 One year while teaching eighth grade, I was joking around with one of my basketball players, Carl, and making fun of him. 

Reuben, a mostly silent Nez Perce Indian young man, raised his hand and said this: “Aren’t you doing what you said you didn’t allow in the Harley story?”

 Everything stopped. The entire class looked at me. I walked over and shook his hand.

 “You are absolutely right, Reuben. Carl, I’m sorry I made fun of you, so the class would laugh at my joke. It wasn’t right.”

 Never forgot that brave move by Reuben, who ended up being my best pitcher ever in baseball. You can’t be a walking contradiction in front of kids without some noticing. Reuben taught me that.

Now we get to read some stories of inspiration from the month of November. I hope you are enjoying this swing around the sun. This next story is one of my favorites. Come and meet Hollywood Eddie and his wonderful wife, Annie.

I hit the icy steps at full speed, did a fancy spin or two, and made it over to the gate at Annie and Eddie’s once beautiful Victorian house in less than thirty seconds. The goddamn thing had frozen shut, so I jumped the fence and banged open the door.

 “He’s over here,” Annie yelled. 

I picked up a rumbled pile of what I hoped was still Eddie and hustled down the steps. He had not moved. 

“Take the Volvo,” Annie called as she caught up to me and put the keys in my jacket pocket as I kicked open the gate. I gently placed Eddie in the backseat and zoomed toward the hospital with Annie calling out directions and warnings a few seconds later. We made it in record time. 

Four muscular arms picked up the unresponsive Eddie, put him on a stretcher, and hurried into the Emergency Room. My gorgeous wife picked me up a few hours later when Eddie woke up. 

 We left the white, sterile hospital room with the scene of Eddie and Annie holding hands, still wild about each other after nearly fifty years, blazed into our memories. Eddie had passed out because of a blood sugar problem. Some glucose solved that and normal Eddie returned to the world alert and happy. He looked skinnier every week; I noted. 

The next day, the day before Thanksgiving, I got a call from Annie at school. 

“Bob, I’m over at the nursing home with Eddie.”

 “Here in Sequim?”

 “Yeah, they didn’t have any place to put him in Port Townsend.” 

“I’ll be over at one o’clock; it’s early release today.” 

I told my fourth graders about Eddie and they made cards and artwork for him. I made it over to the home with a bundle of fourth-grade blessings. Annie started showing the semi-awake Eddie the different cards and pictures created by the tender hearts of my students. I excused myself and headed downtown to get something to eat and just one Irish coffee. I returned and poor Annie had fallen asleep.

An IV dripped its medicine into sleeping Eddie’s skinny right arm and the hum of the machines keeping him alive filled the room. 

“Ann, let me take you home. It's getting dark and a storm is about to hit."

“I don’t want to leave him, Bob.” 

“I know, but I’ll bring you back tomorrow; the nurses say he’ll be out for the night. Keep care of yourself." 

“I guess you’re right,” she sighed and picked up her thrift store treasure of a coat and wool hat. 

“You sure you don’t mind bringing me back tomorrow?” 

“Not one bit.” 

I opened the door for Annie and we entered a different world. An unexpected, furious blast from the howling wind attacked us as if we were undesirable evaders entering a foreign land, blowing snow and bits of ice into our faces. Annie had to snatch at her hat, which almost blew off. We had to dodge a series of branches and pine cones that raced across the parking lot until smashing into the gray cement walls of the nursing home. 

The force of the wind was not rare in this area, but the amount of snow on the ground was beyond surprising. I had to warm up the car and scrap off the windows as the flakes coming down hard filled the gray sky. Shivering, Annie smiled at me from the passenger seat as I entered the car while rubbing and blowing on my hands incessantly. 

“Can you believe this, Annie?”

“Unreal—never, ever seen this much snow here. Think we can make it home?”

“Yeah, we’ll just take it slow. Oh, here comes the heat, finally. Here, wrap up in this.” 

I reached in the backseat and grabbed a blanket I used for covering up the seats when moving things and tossed it to her. She put it around her shoulders as I looked at her with raised eyebrows and let out a sigh. 

“And we’re off to see the wizard.”

She patted my arm, smiled, and nodded. The first five miles or so had been easy driving as the road crew had just finished plowing, but after that things got interesting quickly.

 As we progressed further, the blizzard's full force began to manifest. The wind howled with wild gusts, violently shaking the Subaru and hurling snow from the roadside toward us. The snowfall intensified, creating a mesmerizing and almost hypnotic effect as it descended upon us. The Subaru's poor windshield wipers struggled to keep up with the onslaught, and the clouds hanging low added a dull gray hue to the surroundings. The beginning rumbles of the predicted, historical  blizzard had arrived. 

I knew this road's every turn and twist, for I had been making this usually scenic, mellow drive of 35 miles for years. But by the time we passed Dickie Bird's Tavern, only ten miles from our starting point, I couldn't see much of anything. 

Few other cars moved down the white, lonely highway, even though it was a holiday the next day. The weather folks had been screaming warnings for days about this crazy, wild storm hitting. My slow-moving little station wagon made the first tracks through the fresh inches of silent snow, dropping from the sky like a long cosmic popcorn popping.

 I tried not to imagine how tough a drive this could become. My gorgeous wife compares my driving on a good day to Mister Magoo and I do admit to being overly cautious. It could be the four near-fatal accidents I have lived through, the last being a fun little cruise over a ninety-foot cliff on the mountain pass the year before when my sister and her friend started fooling around by putting sunglasses on her dog. She lost control while I slept in the backseat. I didn’t see the wreck; it had been an audio only deal and a near-death experience. 

Thankful for Annie’s words and company, I shifted the Subaru station wagon into four-wheel drive and putted along at thirty-five miles per hour. Having the road almost to myself, helped. She began telling me their story.  

“I was a bit actress in Hollywood in the fifties, if you can believe it,” she started.

 “I can. Eddie told me you were a beauty queen.”

“You know I was—at least to him. He has always treated me like one. It sounds trite, but I knew he was the one from the first time I spotted him… on the set of a movie I had a bit part in. You knew he won an Academy Award, didn’t you?” 

“Yeah, I did. Marty, right? I rented the movie and watched it several times when I first met you guys. Like what, three years ago?”

“Yes, three years seems about right. You know you and your wife have been a real blessing to us, don’t you?” 

“Well, thanks. We love you both. We agree you two are the most interesting characters we’ve ever met.”

“Wow, characters? What’s that mean? What, you think we’re nuts or something?”

 Her reaction caught me off guard. I glanced over at her. She flashed me a grin.

 “Well, actually, yeah, you two are kinda nuts, but in a good way. You know, the artistic nutty sort of thing.”

 “Well, you’re not alone in your opinion. You should have heard what the Hollywood crowd said about us. They couldn’t believe we would walk away from all the money and glamour. Eddie couldn’t wait to get out of there. He bought all the books, knowing they would get more valuable with time.”

 “He told me all about it and explained the collection. Sounds like there are some valuable pieces in there. It’s an impressive collection.”

 “He really likes you. You got him right away, the second or third time you visited . . . You might not remember.”

 “I don’t.” 

“Well, he said you started teasing him, giving him some shit. It’s when he had fallen and was laid up.” 

“I don’t remember exactly. I owe him so much, Annie. He taught me to paint, and like I said, showed me the collection of books and taught me the value of them. I’ll never forget him gifting me the volume of Henry Clay bound in buckskin that he left for me in the car.”

“So that’s where that went. I wondered, but said nothing. He thinks of you as the son we could never have. Since he got Lou Gehrig’s disease, I haven’t heard him laugh so hard and be so interested in anything as when your wife comes over and tells about you latest dipshit experience.”

“She overuses the word, I think.” 

“I don’t. You are our wonderful dipshit hero.” 

“Oh, now you’re starting.”

She merely smiled and patted my arm with her gloved hand.

“Eddie told me if I married him, I would never have a day without flowers in my house. Even in his weakest days, he hasn’t missed a day in forty-eight years. Not one day, Bob. He’s my hero, my friend, my lover. I can’t stand to see him suffer so. One day last week he couldn’t get up and drew me a red rose in pencil. He gave it to me with an apology.” 

She turned her head and starting sobbing weakly, which made me tear up. I hit a patch of ice on the steepest part of the trip and spun a bit before the tires caught and we kept plugging along. We were down to twenty-five miles per hour, but I didn’t want this trip to end. I relished being alone with her and following her melodic tales, which painted such vivid, happy images.

“Eddie could really dance. All the girls said so. Each dance with him became an experience, an entity unto itself. I felt so warm and loved when he held me.” 

“He claimed it was one of the first things he loved about you—the way you could dance and how you loved it."

“You should take your wife dancing more. Of course, you’d probably split your pants, or break one of her toes.”

“Hey! Do you want to get out here? I’d have no problem leaving an old lady out in the snow, trust me. And by the way, I do a mean Twist and can Limbo with the best of ‘em.”

She laughed for a couple of miles on that one.

“Do you ever think about if you could have become a famous actress? Do you miss performing?”

“No, never think about it. I had minor talent and didn’t need attention all the time like most of the actresses I've met do. Being with Eddie every day has been enough for me. Bob, we retired when we were both in our late forties. We have traveled all over the country and Europe. I love our little home and the location. It has been a wonderful life. I found a gem in Eddie. I see the young us in the way you two kids act with each other. I can barely take watching him waste away a little more each day.” 

“He’s the one who found the gem. The way you care for him each day is beyond inspiring. I can only hope we end up like you and Eddie as time goes by.”

Tough drive for you, Magoo, huh?”

“Yeah, sort of. Luckily, no cars were out all the way home.” 

“Thanks, Bob. And not just for the ride. For everything you do. Eddie loved the art your kids made for him. What a wonderful thing to do for us.” 

She gave me a tender kiss on the cheek. We saw the lights from our quaint Washington coastal town come into view as the sky cleared for a brief few moments. 

“I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll go see Eddie, I promise.”

 I woke up in our rented Victorian house freezing. The power had gone out, so I went downstairs and lit a fire. It started popping, which turned into a roaring, comforting fire. My gorgeous wife came down to get warm with me. We grabbed some more blankets and headed back to bed about an hour later. 

I think I got lucky. I got up and added wood to the fire. The power remained off and didn’t come back on until around nine o’clock. 

The weather reports announced even more snow in an area that almost never sees much of the white stuff. They reported several accidents on the news and a winter warning had been issued with a strong recommendation to all to stay home and off the highways. 

“Stay home today. This is one of the worst storms in Peninsula history,” the newscaster had said.

 Annie came over and the two women started preparing a feast. Soon the steaming pots and a turkey roasting in the oven filled the kitchen with delicious smells. My gorgeous wife brought me a glass of wine, but I turned it down. 

“I’m going over to see Eddie today, so none for me.” 

“What?” they both yelped at once. 

“You aren’t serious? Bob, I called over there and Eddie is doing just fine. We can go when this storm breaks,” Annie said.

 We ate, told stories, and cleaned everything up as a crew. I finished wiping off the counter, dried off the last couple of dishes, threw the towel in the sink, and let out an impressive burp.

“I’m serious as a heart attack, me ladies. I’m taking Eddie over a plate. I’m going to drive real slowly and listen on the radio to the Seahawks get their asses kicked again. Don’t worry. It will be fine. So hurry and get this show on the road, I have places to be.”

“Get Eddie’s plate ready, please. I’m heading out to warm up the car.”

I buttoned up my coat, pulled on my wool hat, and moved outside into a white, silent world. No wind could be felt, but the intense cold made me shiver. Nearly a foot of snow had stacked up on the Subaru’s roof, and I had to pull on the door hard to get it to open.

Amazingly, the little car started on the first turn of the key. I gave it some gas until it idled strongly. Two sets of glaring eyes welcomed me back. 

“We forbid you from doing this. We both agree it’s just damn stupid,” my upset but still gorgeous wife said. 

“Yeah, maybe for some who don’t have my driving ability. It will be fine. I have four-wheel drive and it’s only thirty miles. Haven’t you seen the commercials? This car will go anywhere.”

I hit the road with a picnic basket filled with goodies for my pal Eddie. I made it over with no problem and called up my gorgeous wife to gloat. 

“Magoo lives. No problem, gorgeous.” 

“This isn’t funny. Get home before we both have breakdowns.”

 “Worry warts. I’ll make it quick with Eddie and be back before it’s too dark.”

 I stopped at the Red Ranch Inn bar for a quick Irish coffee to warm up before heading to the nursing home. Parking near the nursing home’s entrance saved some slick steps as I hauled in the picnic basket and knocked off the snow from my boots. I proceeded to Eddie’s room, hoping he would be awake. Perhaps we could watch part of the game together on TV. 

The room sat dark and empty. I walked down to the nursing station. 

“I have some food here for my friend. He must have switched rooms.” 

“Are you talking about Eddie?” 

“Yeah, brought him so food. ” 

“Um… I’m sorry, sir. Eddie passed away a little over an hour ago. I’m so sorry. Here are his things. We contacted his wife, and she wants you to bring his stuff home.”

She reached down, pulled up a clear plastic bag, and slid it across the counter toward me. I glanced down and there they were, stacked on top of his clothes, staring at me—his thick black glasses. I saw him pushing them back up on his nose while reading, which I ‘d seen him do hundreds of times. I saw his beaming blue eyes filled with laughter and twinkling teases, peering at me through the glass orbs in their distinctive, thick, black frames. 

“Sir? Are you okay, sir?”

 I looked away from the glasses and focused on the owner of the voice. Through my wet, blinking eyes, a young woman’s concerned face came into focus. Her name tag on her blue uniform said Brenda.

“Ah… well—excuse me, but this is a shock—I had this basket. Sorry.”

I had to get out of there. I swooped up the plastic bag and took off.

“Sir, you forgot your basket, sir.” 

I turned around, still moving, and yelled back, “Happy Thanksgiving, Brenda. There’s some wonderful food in there.”

I picked up the speed and jumped outside, sobbing like a toddler. I could barely breathe as I threw in the bag and got the hell out of there. My visit had been to comfort my friend. Now all I had was a bag of rumbled old clothes and what used to be the lens in which he viewed the world. A fucking plastic bag.

 I found a pay phone. My gorgeous wife picked up on the first ring. 

“Are you okay?” 

“No, I’m not. They gave me a bag, and his black-rimmed glasses were there looking at me.”

 I broke down. 

“Oh, honey. Get home, honey, we both need you.” 

I started out and got three miles before the state patrolman put on his lights and stopped me. 

"The highway’s closed. There are two jack-knifed semis up ahead and a couple of enormous trees down.” 

“I’ve got to get home.”

“There’s no way, man. We hope to have it open tomorrow. Hopefully, before noon.”

 I reluctantly turned around. The small town had closed down for the night except for the convenience store where I stopped. Next door sat the Ho-Hum Heaven motel, where the irritated owner demanded fifty bucks before tossing me a key. I spent the night fooling with the antennas to get a poor picture on the tube where I watched the hated Dallas Cowboys smear the Detroit Lions. 

I felt hungry, so I bought myself a Swanson’s turkey dinner, which I heated on the motel stove. There’s how I spent Thanksgiving, in a dumpy motel room, eating a Swanson’s TV dinner, with Eddie’s glasses staring at me. 

I made it home the next day. My wife sprinted out to the car and said, “Come with me dipshit.”

She grabbed my hand and took me upstairs, where she gave me a trip to paradise, which took away the rough hands of the world for a few wonderful moments. I got up before sunrise, built a fire, and sat down with my second cup of coffee, where I viewed a sunrise filled with colors that stunned me.

 I looked through the window for a bit before grabbing a jacket. I had to get a better look. I often got up early and took a walk or sometimes even a jog down through the park that hung on the cliff next to the beach. I had seen many sunrises, but this one was special and captivating.

I marched over the few feet to Annie’s yard. She sat on the porch in an old rocker with her head down. Her house needed some repairs and yard work but had one of the best views of the water in town. I waved to her, but she turned away, rocked more intensely, and gazed out toward the water as the sky exploded with colors.

She finally came down the icy stairs while buttoning her coat and stuck her small hand under my arm. We started walking toward the water that reflected an unusual, vibrant combination of colors. We watched in silence until the colors vaporized. Another masterpiece lost.

 Annie stretched herself up and gave my cheek a soft kiss. 

“I’ve been sitting up all night questioning myself for leaving him. I felt guilty and ashamed he had to die alone. Now, I know, I really know, it’s all right. It looked like one of his paintings, didn’t it? The purples; he always put in the purples.”

 We arrived at the gate. 

“Come inside, dipshit. Eddie left you something.”

She gave me a big smile while wiping her eyes with the back of her once white glove. I stood in the living room packed with shelves filled with the hundreds of books Eddie had collected since their Hollywood days. Healthy plants in all different-sized pots, drawings, paints, pencils, and at least a dozen canvases leaning against the walls, the shelves, and covering the couch and love seat occupied the room.

Some might have called it messy, but I had never felt more at home in a house in my life. The place felt alive, and it was as the many potted herbs strained toward the windows and released their marvelous scents as the cedar wood popped in the wood stove. One of the semi-tame cats jumped into my lap for a quick couple of pats and bound off as Annie handed me an elegantly designed box made of what looked like rosewood. 

“Here, sit down.”

She moved some books and paintings to clear a spot for me to sit.

“Open it,” she said with toddler-like excitement in her voice.

 I rubbed the top of the smooth wood and gave her a nervous glance. My hands shook as I lifted the lid. An envelope with my name on it sat on top of a hardbound book. I opened it and pulled out a typed paper that had come from his old relic Corona typewriter.

 I started reading. I reached in, touched the book with reverence, and slowly thumbed through it. I held it up for Annie to see, but couldn’t make eye contact with her yet. 

“His very favorite book of all of these,” she whispered, waving her hand toward all the books.

 I continued thumbing the gift until I heard her sobs in the kitchen as she added more wood to the firebox. I walked in and hugged her. Our spontaneous rocking together for several lovely seconds spoke volumes. I gave her a quite good dancing spin as we broke apart. 

“Wow, dipshit, not bad at all,” she said with admiration in her voice. 

“Annie, come have breakfast with us.” 

She surprised me by immediately agreeing. The wind’s intensity picked up as we came down from the porch. We got to the gate when it appeared from the beach. It came over us, gliding on the wind currents. It circled and hovered next to the 50-foot tall pine tree in the yard. We followed his flight, moving the few yards to the base of the tree, our eyes not leaving this grand performance. A powerful gust came up and a small green pine cone dropped at my feet. When I looked up. The eagle had disappeared.

I planted the cone the next day in really wet soil. It took and made roots. Eddie’s tree is now nearly thirty feet high in my backyard, hundreds of miles away from Annie and Eddie’s old place. Its shade covers the windows of my writing studio where a prized first-edition copy of a book is, and always will be, on display.

 Henry David Thoreau’s Walden Pond

I saw Annie nearly every day for two years after Eddie’s Sunset. We took many walks together in the early morning. I convinced her to get a dog. She picked out an Afghan puppy that grew into a monster, but gave her much pleasure. Ann would walk him every morning and it was amusing to watch as he pulled her all over the place. She named him Steward, a name I heard her yell perhaps a million times as she chased him through the nearby park and neighborhood streets.

I ended up moving back to Idaho and never saw her again. Eddie and Annie were two wonderful, fascinating people. I think of them every Thanksgiving. The shock of seeing Eddie’s glasses on the top of his clothing is an image that will stay with me forever. I will make certain Eddie’s special gift will remain in my family as part of our legacy. 

Enjoy the special moments is the moral of this tale.  

I Almost Killed Hundreds of You

My name is unimportant. I am an Iraqi man. If I said it aloud, you would know I was from the Middle East. You would then treat me differently, suspect me, perhaps even want me arrested. Perhaps even wish me dead. So, I will write to you in just a voice. I will not yell or threaten you. I will stay with my training and try to teach you.

I was once a respected, educated man in my country. I would spend some time each week at a coffee house joking with my friends, playing chess in the open air, eating fruit, and discussing the events of the day or things happening in our lives. My job as a university professor allowed me the time to do this. I believe I was quite a good professor.

 Good enough to have taught in one of your universities for two years in a small town in your western United States. A clean, quiet town where my son and I learned your game of baseball. We made friends in a small American town where people smiled on the street and complimented my wife on her different clothes and her cooking of Middle East food.

 I had hoped to return one day. My coffeehouse friends and I cursed the radicals from Saudi Arabia who blew up your buildings and killed your citizens that September day.

 But then your bombs and missiles rained down on my neighborhood and changed everything. I now work in your Green Zone, a little America fortress in my torn apart city of Baghdad. I push a broom and pick up garbage every day. 

I have to respond to the barked orders from your men in uniform, many of whom are half my age and with less than half my knowledge. I stay quiet and keep sweeping. I sneak peeks at the small television in the corner where I watch how the daily brainwashing happens live on CNN.

The killing of my people takes place as if it a video game or a baseball game with your team always ahead. I fight the urge to grab an officer and drag him from the safety of this false world and to my old neighborhood, where we now have electricity for only an hour or two a day and our water smells. 

I want him to see the pile of rubble that has replaced my favorite corner coffeehouse where I used to defend America, and share stories of the small town where I had once been welcomed. I want him to see the small meetings we now hold in a dark corner of an apartment building. Whispers of revenge and pity have replaced the laughter and stories. 

We worry about friends who had to flee or were killed by your precise, clean bombings. The ones the television people report as successes as if exploding a building in a large city can be done with no one’s leg getting blown off, or without fire burning the flesh off a baby boy’s fresh face or killing a soul or two or ten. I no longer trust the distant smiles from the people in the western town.

I wonder about my decision—about my soul. The false Jihad preaching of violence has never appealed to me, and I couldn't care less about virgins. I just want my wife back and my only son to rise from his grave. I will not tell of the awful day they both were murdered. I don’t want your pity. Ha!

As if I would receive even that token emotion. A Muslim woman and a teenage Muslim boy dead. Shrug, more sympathy is shown to an old dying dog. Some say this war has killed a million or more of us, but you Americans are told by the television talking heads that the number is only 30,000. 

A million or a few thousand, what is the difference? After all, you lost 3,000. I can do the math, my specialty, in my head. So, one American life is worth 333 Iraqi deaths. I guess that is a ratio that makes sense.

 I will meet that ratio in reverse tonight if I have the courage. I move around sweeping more vigorously, hoping nobody notices the sweat pouring off me because of my big coat or spots the bulges in my legs where I taped the explosives with such care. This moment of panic subsides. Nobody ever notices me. 

An old, bearded man sweeping. I had checked myself in a mirror and a cracked shop window; I had done the concealment well.  I glanced at the clock. Fifty-eight minutes I have left on this earth. \

A quote from another evil western man pops into my head: The loss of a single life is a tragedy; a million is a statistic. From the Russian murderer, Stalin. I see George Bush’s face on the small screen of the hanging television smiling and I want to push the button right then. 

This “Christian” man who has murdered millions and spread such suffering can still smile his evil grin. I want to ask him why he picked us as payback for September 11th. Why not bomb Saudi Arabia? You dim, idiot. My friends were right. He wanted our oil and if people had to die, then so be it. What are a few Muslim lives when compared to the American lifestyle of driving big automobiles and racing from place to place?

 I hope he is smiling when he gets the news of this Green Zone explosion.

“You like him, don’t you?” a voice from a handsome young American face says to me.

 He hands me a glass of juice.

“You’re working too hard, old friend. You need some fluid man,” his clear blue eyes are smiling at me.

“Oh, thank you. That is very kind.” I say as I take the glass.

“Wow, your English is perfect. How did you learn that? I can’t learn this language over here, no matter how hard I try. Of course, I’m just a dumb jock—on my fifth tour to this hell-hole.”

“You must be a second baseman, maybe a shortstop; no, you have the body of a second baseman.”

“You’re right, my friend. You are full of surprises. Second base, had a full ride scholarship to Gonzaga before I got sent here. How do you know about baseball?

Full of surprises? If you only knew, young man.

“I worked at a university in the states and a friend got me into baseball. My son even learned to play the game.”

“Bring him over, sometime. I have an extra glove in my locker. We’ll play catch.”

“He passed away, as you say, a year ago today.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Really, I’m sorry. This place is nothing but death. By the way, I hate that asshole, too.”

 He pointed at the television where Bush was still laughing away.

 “Do you get the word asshole?”

“I had a Catholic friend who taught me all the better English words while in the states.”

“Really, what town?.”

“A little place in Northern Idaho, called Lewiston.”

“Hell, I’m from Spokane. Lewiston is a hell of a baseball town. You taught at LCSC? I played down there many times. What a small world. Hey, I’ve got to go or I’ll get my butt chewed. Hey, by the way, I’m sort of a Catholic boy myself,” he yelled back as he hustled out of the room.

I checked the clock. Thirty minutes to go. I looked around and the place was empty for the time being. The crowd would gather in another twenty minutes. I had timed it. I took a seat, wiped the sweat off with a small napkin, and sipped on the juice. My mind wandered to the baseball town.

”You need to come with me to this game tonight,” Tommy said to me as he turned off the lights in his office.

“No, I don’t understand the game.” I had answered.

“Well, I’m an expert and I have an extra ticket. My son is playing and you are going. I have one for your son, too.” 

A long pause.

“Okay, but you could find better company.

”We walked over to the game with my ten-year-old son. We sat with a group of other parents whose cheers were the loudest of the packed-in crowd of over 4,000 watching this championship. Tommy explained in great detail the workings of the game. He showed me how the pitcher could make the ball curve, and I noticed the speed of the pitches right away. He shared the strategy, the little chess moves of the game. The home team was down 7-5 with two outs and the bases loaded in the ninth inning. 

Up strolled Tommy’s son, Danny, the star second baseman, swinging his bat with vigor and digging his feet into the red dirt around home plate.

Tommy turned to me and said, “Here we go, my friend, one of these glorious moments in life.”

He yelled, “Get a good pitch and drive it, son!” 

Danny did just that. He smacked the third pitch down the left field line and the place exploded. One run, two and the throw to the plate, a slide and a third. The place went crazy. People hugged, they threw cushions in the air, and Tommy’s jump knocked my soda all over me. 

Danny was picked up and hugged by his teammates, and they piled on each other at the pitcher’s mound in pure jubilation.

“I have to warn you, it isn’t always this exiting,” Tommy said.

We walked onto the field where Tommy hugged his son. He introduced us, and Danny was so calm and respectful in his response to my son and me. His blue eyes looked squarely at mine.

“Thanks for coming, sir.”

Down to fifteen minutes. My memory trip had cost me precious time. I reviewed the checklist. The fuel I had put in several key places would make the initial explosion spread. I started sweeping and checked the clock. 

Two guys ran in joking and bumped into me.

“Hey, move it, carpet rider,” one uniform said to me. 

I merely nodded. Another grabbed the guy and punched him hard in the stomach.

”Don’t ever use that term around me again, you racist fucker.”

He turned to me and said, “Sorry, sir. Thanks for keeping this place so clean. My country has no lack of idiots.” 

I nodded, again startled by yet another set of clear, kind blue eyes. 

I returned to my one-room apartment, ashamed and confused. I slowly unwrapped the explosives from my body and fell on my cot.

“One of those glorious moments in life,” I kept hearing over and over.

In my dreams, I could only see blue eyes.

I wrote and decided to share such a troubling story for several reasons. I think people should know the stress of that time when the United States had over 500,000 troops in Vietnam. These troops were people and many of them were emerged in nasty, soul-retching situations that damaged them. They returned home and many had trouble adjusting to the dark music that often played mixed-up symphonies of anger, confusion, and sadness. But most of them made it out of the hole and walked toward the sunshine. 

This is not a terrible world.  There are tough times for every generation. This awful myth that today's life is awful and humanity is circling the drain, is pure poison.  Believing it and sharing it with other troubled, bedazzled people only increases discontentment and nurtures increased suffering.  And no, kids, this is not the worst it has ever been.  Nonsense, of the highest order.  Okay, excuse the lecture. I am proud of this next poem.  Hope you enjoy it. 

Goodbye to November. We are taking our final swing and it will be a great ending. December is filled with favorite stories as we conclude. Thanks for the honor of your time, dear readers. Enjoy these last stories.

 We start with a genuine Montana cowpoke, my hilarious, cantankerous, Grandpa Art with his big ears and huge hands.  

Wanda and I rolled into Grandpa’s driveway in our neatly packed Subaru wagon containing our luggage, colorfully wrapped Christmas presents, and our Siberian husky dog, Bogart, the Wonder Dog, at the time our only child. The screen door swung open and there he stood, ninety-two-year-old Grandpa Art coming out to greet us, I assumed. That is until I saw the shotgun. 

“Get off my land!” bellowed Art as he lifted the gun to his shoulder with his huge, gnarled up hands both developed and damaged by decades of farm work, shipbuilding, and manual labor. 

The gun’s shaking shook me up, so I slowly and carefully stepped out of the driver’s side.

“Grandpa, it’s me, your grandson, Bobby. We’re taking you to Dorothy’s.” 

Unfortunately, wife Wanda had not noticed the weapon, jumped out, and opened the back door. Bogart jolted out and ran for the nearby fence. A shot rang out and missed him by inches as the pellets sent up a puff from the newly fallen snow. 

“Goddammit Grandpa put down that gun,” I yelled in my best coach’s voice. 

The sound of my words echoed through the Bremerton, Washington night air. I took three quick strides into the porch light aura. 

“Who the hell are you, anyways?” questioned Art.

I had jumped up on the porch and wrestled the gun from his hands. It took all my strength.

“I’m Bobby and that's Wanda, my wife. We’ve been here before, remember? We picked dahlias from Grandma Marie’s garden last summer. Look what I brought you.”

I pulled out a bottle of Four Roses whiskey, the cheapest rock-gut crap sold in the liquor store, but Grandpa’s favorite.

“Four Roses! I don’t know who the hell you are but come on in.”

He grabbed the bottle and disappeared into the kitchen. Wanda wisely put Bogey back in the wagon. 

“Jesus Christ, now I’ve really got to pee!” she whispered, “I told you to call him first you dipshit.”

She ran to the bathroom.

Art took a glass out in his tidy, little country kitchen, added one ice cube, and poured himself a good three fingers of the cheap whiskey. 

“You must be one of Billy’s kids. What are you doing here? That girl better not steal none of my silver coins.” 

He drained the glass in one swallow. 

“Want a snort young buddy?”

“Sure, I’ll take a drink. Actually, I’m Dorothy’s son and we’re taking you over to spend Christmas with us. Remember, she lives in Idaho.”

He handed me a Seattle World’s Fair 1963 glass now twenty years old but looking brand new. It now held a full to the brim load of whiskey. He headed to the living room, and I followed as memories exploded in my head of childhood stays in this always cold, scary house. A vivid one popped up as soon as I spied the cuckoo clock on the wall and remembered how that damn thing had frightened me late at night years ago as I slept on the couch with too few blankets. 

“It’s time for Northwest Wrestling,” Art said with excitement as he flipped on the small black-and-white television, one he had probably owned since the mid-sixties. 

He flopped into the rocking chair located less than three feet from the tube and took a sip. Wanda came out, took off her wool hat, shook her head, and played with her hair. She moved over to Art and planted a good kiss on his cheek. 

“Hey, Grandpa! Happy Holidays to you.”

I looked over at this beautiful woman, my gorgeous wife and best friend, and plotted how I might convince her to do the nasty with me in the freezing cold guestroom later that night. Hey, we all need plans.

“Oh, hi, Dorothy. Why don’t you make Billy’s son and me something good to eat?”

“Yeah, Dorothy, get on it, would you?” I joked. 

Hey, why fight it? thought I.

“Okay, Billy Jr.” 

A perfect answer without missing a beat. She dug through the old fridge after flipping on the lights. 

“Oh, great Scott, it’s Pretty Boy Pat Patterson! He’s me and Marie’s favorite,” announced Art.

 It felt like a walk-in freezer inside. I hurried to the outside front porch and started splitting cedar kindling to start a much-needed fire. I could hear Grandpa yelling in the background; he took the fake wrestling seriously it appeared. 

“I started the cedar blazing and returned to gather larger pieces but Art protested.

“No, no, no! Not that stuff. Get some madrona over there, it will burn all night.”

He pointed with his finger that looked like it had been broken in a half dozen places over the years and seemed at least eight inches long. I glanced around and all the pieces were hefty and needed splitting into at least quarters in order for them to fit into the firebox of his wood stove.

I grabbed one and put it on the huge chopping block and took a mighty swing. The ax stuck, and I wrestled around with it on the floor of the porch trying with all my might to get the thing out. 

“No, no, no! Jesus Christ, are you a damn city boy or something? You got to use the maul not the ax. That madrona’s hard when it dries out.” 

He took a sip of whiskey and pointed to the maul in the corner. I took his advice, grabbed it, and put a different piece on the chopping block. I swung with all I had and the tool just bounced off the wood which felt like a piece of granite. I swung again and the same thing happened. 

“Jesus Christ, have you got a screw loose? Can’t even chop a piece of wood? Here give me that damn thing.” Art said with disgust in his voice.

Now, let it be known that I have heated my home with a cast-iron stove, cut and split at least three cords a year myself, and for most of my adult life. But I had never encountered madrona. He grabbed the maul and handed me his glass. 

He spun the enormous hunk of wood around and took a blow. The thing split perfectly in half. He grabbed one half and with one hit split it again. He picked up the other half and did the same. He left me there humiliated. I loaded up my arms with the bounty and began placing a piece into the fire when Wanda came out.

“Hey, Art, the only things I could find were some canned pears and a bunch of TV dinners and pot pies.”

“Yeah, I’ll take three turkey dinners and one pot pie.” Art answered. 

“Them pears are Marie’s and taste like candy. I guess you can open them.”

He returned his focus to the wrestling. Grandma Marie died while working in her garden last August. Art had stumbled down to the nearest neighbor when he had become panicked at Marie’s disappearance. The neighborhood couple searched and found her dead body hidden by her famous six-foot-high-prize-winning dahlias. 

She always returned from the county fair with dozens of ribbons each year. Their marriage lasted for 71 years. They spent the last fifty on their little farm that used to be on the outskirts of town but had become a green twenty-acre dot surrounded by four-lane roads, the new Silverdale Mall, and a housing development.

We ate the TV dinners, Wanda took Bogey for two walks and put him back in the car. The wrestling ended about the same time the whiskey ran out. He had little comprehension or interest concerning our plans for heading out for the big trip the next morning.

Instead, he started spinning stories about how he had been a champion ice skate barrel jumper, bull rider, and how he had built lots of ships during World War II at the local shipyard. His final story of the evening turned out to be a memory of how he and Marie had married in Wolf Point, Montana. He shared how he had guided his horse up to the Indian Reservation nearby and visited the Indians. 

“They was just like real people.”

He headed to his bedroom and slammed the door. We heard his snoring minutes later through the walls. We quietly got Bogey into the bedroom and crawled under the covers. Four of Grandma’s heavy, homemade quilts pinned us to the clean sheets, but we still shivered. My earlier plan of having some fun with my gorgeous wife seemed unreasonable now. 

Luckily, she came to the rescue after I returned from a quick trip to the bathroom. She murmured in a sexy voice: “Oh, Billy, could you warm me up some?” 

She grabbed my hand and slowly guided it into a fine, private neighborhood where I was welcomed as a not a frequent enough, returning visitor. 

“Doing it in Grandpa’s house seems so nasty and forbidden, so go ahead, Billy, but hurry before my husband catches us,” were the golden fantasy words she whispered in my ear. I swore I heard harps in the distance and then the damn cuckoo clock chimed in.

The Trip 

Okay, we packed the car, the sky was clear and I felt as content as a Holstein cow after the morning milking. The 400-mile trip east in our little Subaru wagon would be a breeze even though snow had been forecast as long as we drove in the daylight. 

We would have to shoot across Snoqualmie Pass but I had new tires, and the Subaru had proven to be a great snow car. I saw no problems with the trip other than catching the nine o'clock ferry to Seattle. That was important. 

Art rose at around five o'clock and I got up with him. I asked if he needed any help in packing his stuff. He shook his head and flew into his morning routine. He started a fire, collected some eggs and scrambled a bunch that he smothered in maple syrup before inhaling them.  

Afterward, he  started his ancient chainsaw that could be heard for miles—no muffler.  He disappeared in his pickup and I heard the saw in the distance. Wood-cutting day I guessed.   

Wanda got up at around seven and was walking around with Bogey when Art showed up from the upper field with his truck filled with newly cut wood. 

He saw our dog and said, “What the hell is with that beast running around here? I'd shoot that damn thing if you wasn't around.  I hate dogs.” 

Wanda took the hint and locked Bogey in the car's back seat. She came in while Art watched some old Three Stooges reruns and sipped coffee. 

He noticed her entrance and said, “Marie always made me pancakes after I cut wood.”

“Grandpa, we have to catch the ferry at nine. I don't think we can have pancakes this morning. We have a long trip.”

“How can I make it all the way north without some damn pancakes? We could stop and get some down the road. I have a hankering for pancakes.” 

I looked at Wanda.  She shrugged and went to work. We were eating pancakes as the clock ticked. The old man ate at least a dozen and took his time savoring each bite. It was now 8:10 and I hoped there wouldn't be a big line at the ferry. He burped and handed his plate to Wanda.

He came out with two suitcases, wearing a leather aviator  coat, and a matching hat with ear flaps covering his gigantic ears. 

“I'm ready to head north to Billy's place. I got to start the Plymouth.” 

Before I could blink, he had marched to the garage and started his old mint-condition 1958 Plymouth Fury up. He took the wheel and backed out of the driveway. 

“Grandpa, you're going with us, in our car. We don't need the Plymouth.”

“Bullshit, I'm only going north in the Plymouth so hop in. But first, I have to check the oil."

He opened the hood of this green boat of a car with its wide fins and nearly bald tires. He checked the oil and then took off hiking toward one of his out buildings. The time read 8:30 straight up. 

“Now what?” I asked Wanda. 

She shook her head.

“I guess I could drive and follow you.”

“I can't drive that thing over the pass, it's snowing up there and there is no way to keep that beast on the road in this weather. And he wants to fucking drive!” I said as I felt my blood pressure rising to near critical levels.

“Hey, Grandpa, can I please drive the Plymouth? I always liked these big old cars.”

 “I don't know, you'd have to be careful,  Me and Marie bought it brand new.”

 “Oh, I will, I promise. You wouldn't happen to have any snow chains would you?” 

“Yeah, I'll get them. There up in the shed.”

To my horror, he took off toward his toolshed again. The time was now 8:45 and we were not going to make the nine o'clock ferry. I made some calls. The next ferry left at noon. That put us in Seattle at one. Two hours to make the pass followed by four hours to make it across the state to Idaho. 

But the weather report showed snow so it could be snow all the way. It was going to mean at least three hours guiding the Plymouth boat through the snow in the dark and if it got real crazy then six hours wouldn't be a stretch. 

“This is going to be a nightmare.” 

And it was.  Kind of like the one you may have had where  you're falling and falling and trying to scream but nothing comes out.  Seriously, it felt almost that bad.

We got on the ferry with me trying to get used to the Plymouth and wishing I could be home sleeping in my own bed.  Wanda and Bogey had followed closely behind in the Subaru. To my surprise, Grandpa was startled when the ferry started up and told me the last time he had been on the ferry had been over twenty years ago. 

I tried to convince him to come upstairs but he couldn't leave the Plymouth unattended so we sat in the car with the wind howling and the waves smacking into the boat. We got out of Seattle with no real problem but it started raining like crazy as soon as we started up the  pass. 

Forty miles later, the rain had turned to huge snowflakes and the wipers could barely keep the front window clear. I could only go thirty miles an hour. Art started mumbling about an hour into the trip. It became like a computer loop. 

“I ain't never going north again. We're in a damn blizzard. This is like snow in Minnesota. I was a champeen ice-skating barrel jumper, you know. My brother and cousins all tried to beat me but I could fly over them barrels. In Montana, it would snow way worse than this. One time it even froze two of our pigs. You know, pigs ain't dirty animals. Damn this cold makes my hands hurt. Guess I'm about ready for the hole. Marie wouldn't have never let me go with this guy.” 

He would look back and see the blue Subaru and then continue,“Well, there she is, still there and with that damn dog. I'd shoot that dog, if they weren't around. I hate those damn dogs.” 

He would pause, roll the window down, and the snow would blow in. He would roll it up, sigh, and then start the whole routine over again.

The driving conditions on Snoqualmie Pass 

No other conversation, no matter what I tried. The radio wouldn't work, I was starting to get nearly hypnotized by the incessant snow, and the wind picked up to make things even more fun. The boat was really influenced by the wind and I had to be on constant alert to keep from swerving. It started getting terribly slick right as we reached the summit of Snoqualmie Pass. 

Pitch black and we had at least six to eight hours left. I pulled off and kept the beast running. I got the chains out and fooled around with them using the headlights of the Subaru to see under the car. I nearly got them hooked several times.  

Finally, it became obvious these things were not the right size. So, I had burned another 45 minutes idling up there on the pass. A weather warning came out but luckily traffic remained light as no sensible soul would be out in this nonsense.   I took a deep breath, put the huge car into gear, and started down the east side of the Cascades.

It went straight downhill now for at least sixty miles and gas had become a concern as this old vehicle probably only got fifteen miles to the gallon and there were no stations open for at least a hour. Grandpa kept up his loop of sayings complete with a rolling down of the window each time as I slid down the mountain's steep curves. My knuckles were white as the snow outside.

I finally couldn't stand it and had to have a cigarette. I got a smoke going, which helped some. It also broke the loop or rather added a new part to it. He started sharing how he had smoked roll-your-owns while herding sheep and how his mean wife had made him quit smoking forty years ago.

This helped some, as at least the words were different. I got the Plymouth down the curviest part of the east slope and the snow actually stopped. I relaxed a little and even picked up the speed to 45 miles per hour. I was lighting another Old Gold when it happened.

 I took my eyes of the road for just a second, to focus on the cigarette lighter. We rounded a long curve and a gust of wind caught us. I tried to ease it back but the next thing I knew we were spinning, spinning, and spinning.

Luckily, I was too shocked to hit the brakes which would have been a fatal error. We did two full three-sixties and then one of the fins clipped the guardrail just right and straightened us out. 

Grandpa Art yelled out, “Ride 'em cowboy, yeee-haaaaaa! “ and started laughing and slapping the seat. 

“Hey, boy, do that again!” 

Wanda had eased by us slowly, trying to avoid us as we spun. She found a turnout and pulled out and let us pass. She returned to following and we got to the Columbia River about nine o'clock where it was clear and cold with snow on the ground and road but none falling.

I put on the blinker at Vantage, a little stop with two restaurants, two gas stations, and one motel. I pulled into the motel and told Wanda I couldn't go another mile. We got a room and Art sat on his bed fully clothed mumbling his loop of things.

Instead of rolling the window down, he would open the door and the wind would blow in a bunch of snow. I finally had enough.

“Grandpa, let's go get a shot of whiskey.” 

We went over to the little store and I got some cigarettes and he surprised me by buying a pack of Tiparillos, which are little cigars with plastic tips. He lit one up in the bar as I ordered us shots of Jack Daniels. 

He sipped on it, smoking away for the first time in four decades and polished off a steak—eating every morsel and almost licking the plate. The bartender came over and asked if we wanted another drink. 

“Yeah, but I want some good whiskey this time. Got any Four Roses?”

Remarkably, they did. We made it to Mom's house the next afternoon with Grandpa now a chain smoker, and a pal of Bogart's after Bogart  jumped on his bed late that night and licked his face after we returned to the motel room.

Art loaded up Bogart in the back seat of the Plymouth the next morning and gave him little pats all the way home. Wanda told me later that Bogey had started barking and howling when we went into the spin. 

She swears to this day he knew we were in trouble. I will never forget hearing Grandpa yelling with delight— “Yeeeeee Haaaaaaa.!” 

The only real adventure of the day on the still-slick roads was when Art put a still burning Tiparillo in the front pocket of his Pendleton wool shirt. I noticed the smell before seeing the smoke coming from his pocket. 

We had several other adventures before he passed on at age 95.  The best one being talking with the cops after he blew out the back window—with his shotgun— of a teenage couple's car parked out on his side road where they were necking, probably thinking the place was isolated. 

It had to have been a life-altering event for the stunned young lovers. Another one was a bit sad.  I had to search the town after Art escaped from the rest home but didn't remember to bring his false teeth or wallet with him on his last odyssey of his life. 

I found him at a booth inside of a filthy KFC joint. Oh, and I flew with him home after the holidays which is yet another story for a different day.  It is worth telling but after remembering this unpleasant, dangerous traveling experience of sledding across the mountain pass  with Art, I have this yearning for something warm to drink with a kick to it.  I'm not fussy; anything will do as long as it's not Four Roses.

We head to the group home for our next holiday tale.

“Warm Piss Down Leg. That's your Indian name,” were the first words I heard as I entered. 

“Well, Merry Christmas, to you too, Sylvester.”  

 I tossed him a carton of Sonoma cigarettes, terrible, harsh things, but his favorite.

“What’s yours, Man Who Walks with Stick up Ass?” Hey, it's the best I could do on short notice. 

“Wow, I get a full carton?”  

He moved close, bowed his head, and gave me a pat on the shoulder before scurrying to his room to hide his smokes. 

His gentle tap—the first physical demonstration of appreciation he had ever shown in all our years together—had  surprised and touched me.  The simple move coming from him seemed like a hearty bear hug. I heard an upstairs door open, then slam. The stairs of the old group home creaked and groaned in response to each quick step made by big Tom.

“Hey, Bob,” came the curt greeting from the large, gentle fifty-year-old guy as he yanked open the frozen door to the outside smoking porch, flopped on his rocking chair, and lit up.

I smirked at his amazing outfit for the day. He wore a pair of jean cut-offs with new white long Johns underneath, knee-high wool socks he had stretched up over the kneecaps, a red-and-white checkered hunting type coat, and a matching cap complete with ear flaps already down even inside the house. I half expected him to announce his intention of hunting for some Waskalee Wabbits. He just needed a shotgun.

“How are you, Tom? I said, but he didn’t respond for his first-morning smoke had all of his attention. My first adult client of my new counseling service turned out to be Tom and what a gift. We had been together for over a decade and it had been years of pleasure. He’d come visit after his smoke.

I brushed off the bit of snow on my coat and hung it around one of the kitchen chairs. Sly had coffee going at all times summer or winter so I grabbed a cup. I smelled potatoes frying in a skillet and gave them a quick stir when Sly returned.

“Your mother never loved you. That’s your problem,” he said and let out a fart along with a too-loud howl of laughter

.“Well, that could be, you ass-wipe, but what about you? They always left you in the squaw tent and never allowed you to join with the warriors in the hunt, isn’t that right?”

He mumbled something I couldn’t understand, grinned, and turned his attention to stirring the spuds. He loved the banter.

This may read like fiction but I assure you that this is a day in my life. I have the best job in the country. I work with six clients all with the same diagnosis-Paranoid Schizophrenia. I am like a fireman. 

Things roll along with ease on most days, followed by times when a crisis of some sort pops up that needs intense attention. Basically, my job is to prevent any of them from returning to the hospital. I teach basic social skills and get them out of the house and into the community. I write a treatment plan each year and the state Medicaid office gives us weekly hours. I am off the clock today as I have used up the hours for this week. I am not supposed to see them other than the hours allocated but I ignore the rule. I ain’t much of a rule guy for I'm an old hippie.

I prefer hanging out with these guys on this special day as I view them as friends and like other sons. My two boys are on their own today busy with celebrations with their mom and her relatives and I need the distraction. If not here, I’d be home thinking of sweet Brenda who died recently. I may tell you that story someday when I can type it without tears splashing on the keyboard. I’m not there yet.

When I first met Sly, he rarely spoke. He used grunts, motions, and laughter to communicate, not words. He tried living with his mother an art graduate student at the University of Idaho which worked until she graduated and moved. I suggested he get a room at the group home and he has become a success story. Jail, mental hospitals or restrictive group homes had been his home most of his adult life.

He has not returned to the mental ward, has become well known and liked throughout the community, and lives independently including managing his own money, cooking, and cleaning. He often mentions his tribe and being a warrior, so I play along. It’s now a running joke. I first got him to talk by trading insults. 

It went like this. Because of his background, the state gave me a bunch of hours for the first month in hopes I could get him assimilated into his new surroundings. I met with him for a few hours every day for two weeks.  

I taught him to ride the bus so he could get around without having to bother his mother, took him on activities, out to eat, and on daily walks. I tried a variety of tricks to get him to talk but none worked. He seemed to like our time together as he was always ready to go when I showed up. He'd laugh and occasionally mumble a response but grow irritated when I would ask him to repeat himself. I tried  something unorthodox.

We were at a crosswalk and I said, “Hey, Sly, how about we trade insults?  I'll go first.  What color undies you wearing today, pink ones, you little girlie?”

 He merely stared at me. No response.

 We continued walking and I shrugged to myself.

“Guess that didn't work.” 

We came to another intersection.  He looked over and in crystal clear English with proper volume said this: “Hey, Bob, what happened to the jolly part of being fat?”

He hustled across the street leaving me stunned and nearly fell down laughing like a wild man. Now, we start off almost all are visits with his rehearsed insults directed toward me. He comes up with some damn clever shit, too. 

I headed back to the living room and out popped Matthew, my youngest client.  He tossed me a CD. 

“I made a song for you. Want to listen to it?”

He handed me a set of expensive headphones. I listened to the song in awe. This kid is a straight-A-college student, works as a caregiver for a paraplegic man on the weekends, writes, and can play several musical instruments. He makes these fabulous Techno albums. His latest song before this one had over 1400 listens on his Internet site. He has taught me about schizophrenia through his writings and thoughts over the last two years. After four minutes of pure musical entertainment, I gush out my praise. He smiles and nods.

“I’m walking downtown and to Dad’s campus office. He’s taking me up to the house for a couple days. See you on Monday.”

He’s gone in a flash into the snowstorm. Sly is now eating, and we’ve lost Tom in thought in his rocking chair on the porch. I go upstairs to search for Oscar, who spends a lot of time in his bedroom. He is in his mid-fifties and was once an up-and-coming, talented guitar player and singer in Seattle. He carries around a tragedy with him as his constant companion.

Late one night he and Robin, his wife, exited the downtown Seattle club where his band had performed. They hopped on his prize Harley he had designed and helped build. He took a turn too fast on a wet road, lost control, and downed the bike. Robin died at the crash. He has never recovered. 

He ended up in a mental hospital for five years.

Oscar told me he spent the entire time memorizing rock songs from every era.  He often breaks into song and often prefers singing to talk. Here’s an example. I convinced him to travel with me to the mall, which is not his favorite thing, being out among people. 

We were ambling along and came across a young mother pushing a stroller who had stopped to discipline her active toddler boy who was supposed to be walking by her side.

Oscar sees this and sings: “♪ Teacher, leave that kid alone ♪ in his deep, professional sounding baritone.  

The mom looked up but didn't respond.  I did, however. 

“Come on, Oscar, you can't being doing that or mall security will show up.” 

He stopped walking and aggressive sang: ♪ Hey, you, get off of my cloud! ♪ and ran out the nearest exit.

I hustled after him and found him lighting a cigarette on the cement bench outside.  I opened the door and sang, “♪ On the road again.  I can't wait to get on the road again. ♪

Luckily, he smiled.  I had been saving a treat for this day and tossed him a small black bullet of a cigar I had picked up at the smoke shop. 

  ♪ “I bet there's rich folks eatin' in a fancy dining car.  They're probably drinkin' coffee and smokin' big cigars...” ♪

 I sang and motioned for him to come with me.  We drove to the park smoking our stogies and agreed that the mall might not be our best place to visit. We bonded with this exchange:
“My favorite rock song of all-time is the long version of Layla,” I told him once.

 He immediately picked up his guitar, turned on the amp, and out came the famous opening licks of the rock anthem.

“Duane Allman would be jealous of your playing of those licks, Oscar.”

There was a long pause. He looked up as if I had shaken him awake.

“Everybody thinks that was Clapton. He didn’t come into the song until later. You’re the first guy who ever knew that.” We were pals after that. Don’t doubt us, either. Check the facts.
I tapped on his door.  ♪ “Walk right in, sit right down”♪  came his voice in a low tone.

 I slid open his door a crack, and he waved me into his private domain.  I moved a cardboard box full of books from his only chair and sat.   

“This is for your Brenda.” 

He started playing an acoustic tune. It took me a bit  before I picked up the song.

I tried to hold back my tears, but it didn't work. I had always loved the song. He played like a master, adding beautiful guitar flourishes in perfect spots that turned Don Henley's classic tune into his own. It was like being at a private concert. This wasn't your talented but amateurish Uncle Pete playing at a family gathering, this was a professional musician who lived for nothing but mastering his craft. Because of his personal loss, few would ever get to see his talent in action but here I was sitting in awe at a moment nobody would ever believe. The last note echoed.

“That was beautiful, Oscar. Thanks. You really are a great friend.”

I ran out for his carton of smokes and gave them to him.  He nodded and returned to his private world playing some soft tune.  I knew when to leave him be and closed the door. 

I remembered Tom's gift—two big bags of tobacco that he used to make his roll-your-own smokes he loves so much.  I took them to the smoking porch where Tom sat chain smoking. 

“Here you go, old buddy.  Merry Christmas.” 

“Jesus, Bob!  That much will last me two or three months. Thanks.”

He picked the bags up and cradled them like they were precious gems. 

“Tom, want to ride with me over to the store? I'm going to pick up our Christmas Eve dinner.” 

“Don't think, I can today, Bob.  I gotta go roll me some smokes.” 

He crushed out his cigarette, tossed the butt into the can, grabbed the bags, and disappeared downstairs before I could zip up my coat. My phone rang in my pocket and Marlene's happy voice sounded in my ear. 

“Bob, you up in Moscow today? It's finally quit snowing.  Kary and I are coming into town. We'd love to get with you.  Been days since Kary's seen you.”

“I'm so glad you called! Getting up to your place is awfully tough this time of year.  I'm at the group home.  Do you need to do some shopping?  If so, you can drop Kary off at the home.  We're having a big dinner about four, if you can make it.”

“Okay, see you in about two hours.”

“Thanks for calling Marlene.  You should come eat with us, too.”

Two cars pulled up and a group of people came walking up, their arms full of presents and food.  Holy shit, thought I.  I'm witnessing an event as rare as a solar eclipse—the appearance of the board members of the group home.  

They rolled in and filled the kitchen table with homemade pies, cookies, and colorfully wrapped presents.  Seemed like the perfect time to head to the store.  I motioned for Sly to come with me and we sneaked out the back way.

“Who are those people, cops or something?” asked Sly as he lit yet another smoke and climbed in my car.

“A conman like yourself should always worry about cops, but in this case you're in the clear. Those are the board members. Roll down the window before you smoke me out.”

Rosauer's had our entire meal ready which filled up the cart. The bags contained a full turkey, already carved, mashed potatoes, jello, green beans and three dozen dinner rolls.  I had paid beforehand and wanted to head out but Sly had vanished.  I spotted him at the quick checkout fumbling around with change.  I watched with interest until I figured out his game.  The active young woman at the checkout wore a low-cut red blouse that covered an all-world cleavage that Sly was enjoying every second of gazing at, the sick puppy. 

 I had seen this trick before.  He has a way of acting like he's retarded to distract trusting women from his horny glances. I got close and whispered into his ear. 

“Knock it off, Sly. Count out the money yourself.”

He flashed me a wicked grin as the unsuspecting girl dug through his change thinking she was helping  an intellectually challenged dude. The guy had been in gifted programs before the schizophrenia kicked in so lack of intelligence had never been a problem.  I shook my head feigning disgust but I kind of admired his devious playtime.  Even from a distance I could tell how impressive the view had to be.

“You damn conman.  Caught you again, didn't I?” 

He smiled and chortled on the ride back and jumped out without bothering to help unload the food. The place had turned quiet again.  Tom's rolling session downstairs had not ended yet, Oscar remained doing his thing in his room, and Sly sat watching an old Perry Mason rerun. I organized the food and set the table. 

The doorbell rang and there sat Kary outside with Marlene waiting in her still-running van. I grunted his wheelchair up the slick front stairs and rolled him into the living room noticing the food stains on his black shirt which meant he wouldn't need of a bib for dinner. He smelled like urine, which had become a problem since he got hit with MS to go along with his schizophrenia challenges, an awful combination. 

 I knew from experience he definitely needed to use the bathroom after the long trip so I wheeled him in there without asking.  He nodded, his way of saying thanks and closed the door. Never have to worry about this guy dominating a conversation.

 I ran out and chatted with Marlene who had taken me up on using the time away from caring for Kary to do some shopping.  I love her to death this tiny firecracker.  She fell victim to the old killer and crippler, polio as a child on the reservation and has been in a chair her entire life.

Hasn't stopped her, though. She drives all over the area in her special vehicle with her little dog always on her lap. She is also a talented singer and guitar player who performs at local bars and at Pow Wows. 

I got everyone at the table and started dishing things up. The door opened and in came Matt and his father Allen, a mathematics professor at the college. They both carried guitar cases. The professor came over and shook my hand. 

“Merry Christmas, Bob.  My wife turned us two boys out for the night. Thought we'd drop over and see if we could convince Oscar to play a few tunes with us.  Hope that's okay.”

“Fantastic! Glad to have you two. Dig in, we have plenty of chow.”

They joined us at the table. We were having a great time when the phone rang.  Matt answered. 

“Hey, Tom. It's for you.” 

Like I mentioned, I have been with Tom for a decade.  He is the mellowest guy ever.  He wanders around with a permanent grin on his face and never says a bad word about anyone.  I looked over at him as he had stopped in mid-bite.  He tossed down his fork, which splashed gravy and moved toward the phone with a smoldering look on his face that would have had Lucifer calling for his mommy.  He grabbed the phone from Matt and barked: “Yes, what is it.”

He stood there without saying another word and finally said curtly, “I gotta go.”

He hung up. “Hell's bells, that was my mother again!” 

I had never seen him so upset. It turned out that his mother, who is in her eighties, had been calling him up several times a day. Tom hates to talk on the phone to anyone so getting regular calls bugs the hell out of him. 

“She keeps asking me about buying a burial site and bugging me to go to the doctor.”

He was at wit’s end. 

“What’s the story? She hasn’t called you in years and now she calls every day?  Does she have some problems?”

 “You bet. I think it started when she had that mean third-grade midget teacher who made her stand up in front of the class and shaved her head.”

 “Oh, come on, Tom. Did that really happen?” 

 “Could have,” he answered. 

Oscar smiled at me and sang. 

 ♪“Roll out those lazy, hazy days of summer...” ♪

These guys scarfed down the grub for it seemed like gourmet food to them compared to the many meals of boxed mac and cheese and such. Two of the pies the board members had left were gone in minutes.

 I got them to scrape their plates and loaded the kitchen sink with the mess.  Fortunately, the housemother, Rachel, and her precious legally blind teenage daughter Mimi appeared through the door and took over the cleaning.

This freed me up to hang in the living room. Surprisingly, Marlene showed, parked, guided her electric chair up the back ramp, and joined the group. This event had turned into quite a gathering. I started talking as everyone sat down.

“I have to tell you about what happened to Kary the last time we were at the mall.  We were sitting out front of Rite-Aid.  Out of nowhere comes a slap on Kary's back followed by a yell. 

 'Get a damn haircut, you damn Indian!' 

 Kary and I flipped our heads around and spotted a smiling Indian guy. He stood at least 6'8” and had hair down to his butt.”

Rhonda passed out the presents the board had left.  Each guy received small gifts. Tom slipped back downstairs to finish his rolling session. Allen took over. He flipped open his guitar case and sat next to Oscar, who, to my astonishment, had not yet disappeared.

“Can you show me the cords to this?  I can't get it right."

He took out a music sheet. 

Oscar said, “I'll be right back.”

He returned with his guitar and started showing Allen the cords and demonstrating. Marlene watched for a moment before blurting, “My God, is that a Martin D-45?”

Oscar looked up with the widest grin I had ever seen on him. He nodded. 

“Can I touch it?”

“Sure, do you play?” He handed it to her. 

“Some, yeah,” she answered as she cradled the instrument like a new baby.

“Go ahead and play.” 

“No, I just want to hold it and look at it.  My goodness, what kind of artist are you anyway?  You have a museum-piece guitar.” 

 “Got it from my great grandfather. The weather here is tough on it. Really, go ahead.  Play something. You can't fully appreciate it until you hear the tone first-hand.”

She timidly strummed it, made a few chords and then took off playing an old Jim Croce song, Operator, which she sang in her soft liquor gold-like voice.

“Oscar stood up and almost yelled, “You're playing the Marty part not the Croce part.  Are you kidding me?  How did you know how to do that?” 

The song captured Mimi's attention.

“What song was that and who was singing?”

“My friend Marlene sang it.  It's an old Jim Croce tune.  Know that guy, Mimi?" I asked.   She started singing. 

   “That's the only one I know from that guy. Can I touch your face, ma'am?  I can see you then.”

“Little girl, you have the voice of an angel. I want you to sing it again, this time in a little higher key. 

Wait a second,” Oscar said. 

He vaulted up the stairs and returned with another Martin guitar and handed it to Marlene.

“Here try this one. It's a D-28. Might fit you better.”

“Matt, go get your microphone and amp.  Record this stuff,” I asked. 

He raced to his room. There is no way I can capture the absolute unbelievable trance that came over the living room of that sparse group home.  How does one try to explain magic? Because that's what it became, pure magic.

At one point, I met Allen in the kitchen.  He rushed up to me.

“Bob, can you believe what's happening out there? That guy is a maestro with that old Martin and Marlene is almost as good. Mimi sings like an old pro. This is one hell of a party.  I'll never forget this night.” 

“Yep, you said it perfectly. You're keeping up with them, it seems.”

“Nah, they're tolerating me.  I'm like a little boy with a jumbo crayola in his hands trying to model two artists with calligraphy pens.  I'm telling you that guy should be in a studio somewhere. I can't believe my luck, coming over here tonight.”

“What's also incredible is big Tom. Let me tell you about that guy and music.” 

I shared how I had been bedazzled by Tom who had performed one night at a coffee shop and got a standing ovation. We sat as I told began the tale.

"Bob, did he sing an old Sam Cooke number—♪A Change is Gonna Come.♪?"

"Yep! How did you know?" 

A pal of mine was there and told me about the entire deal. He said the place went crazy and the guy simply disappeared. He said nobody knew him or had ever heard of him. So, that was old Tom?  Wow!"

"Oh, it was the best thing I have ever seen. Seriously."

"Think we could get him to sing some?  I would die to hear it,” asked Allen.

Tom picked that moment to come upstairs.

“Tom did Oscar teach you to play that song you did last year?”

 “Yep.” 

“Think you might sing it again?”

“Nope.” 

“I'll give you a whole pie.”

“They got pumpkin?” 

“Right over there. Come on in and watch for a couple minutes.”

He followed me and listened. I whispered to Oscar. A few seconds later, he started the introduction to A Change Is Gonna Come. Tom leaped up, ran to the bathroom, and started singing loudly with the door open.

Marlene joined in on her new Martin, followed by Allen and Tom kept going, from the bathroom. Matt had added an electric drum kit to the impromptu band. The song ended and everyone cheered.

Tom grabbed the pie and bounded down the stairs to safety. Hear that plop?  

The sound of the cherry on the sundae to a perfect day. Tom singing like old Sam Cooke himself, in the bathroom. Allen and I laughed until we cried about that. I looked around at all the talent and beauty that had assembled together for this spontaneous, magnificent little concert. 

 Oscar, a man haunted by grief that wouldn't leave him alone.  He had tried to commit suicide twice and lived his life in isolation. Blind Mimi, who could tell if the day was beautiful. She just could never see it. But she could sing the rainbows and sunsets.  Marlene, a crippled up, tiny genius living on a lonely road outside of a remote Idaho village. Genius Matt had captured it all and later took the recordings and played with them until he got five minutes of near perfection that he produced into a techno masterpiece.

Big Tom, my gentle giant friend, clever conman Sly, and Kary who had ingested two boxes of rat poison a few months before tonight after going blind. They got his sight back with a hospital stay and steroid treatment, but he had almost given up.

Too many think all these people, way too many, are  “throwaway” people.  Scorned, teased, ridiculed, ignored, jailed, tortured, and disregarded by a too savage world. Oscar asked if he could play one last song as the evening came to a close. He nodded at Marlene and Allen, who started strumming. 

He moved to the microphone and began. I could not believe my ears.  He played an original tune that I describe as his grief tale.  He told the story in song of the night he lost Robin. The night he can never forget because he thinks the fault had been all his.

I tried many times to open his private door to his grief, but he ignored my gentle knocks. He looked at me as he finished and nodded. I got his message. I always have liked and appreciated Christmas Eve more than Christmas Day because the eve is looking forward to something, like a rebirth.

I experienced a rebirth later that evening after the music and magic had stopped.  I drove home on the icy roadways lost in thought. It had been an incredible day. I could still hear one stanza from Oscar's song he dedicated to my Brenda. 

 ♪“I'm learning to live without you now but I miss you sometimes.”♪ I did it that night.  I wrote about Brenda.

There is more to the tale but for now we shall stop.  Oscar's singing and sharing pushed me into entering my grief world. Grief is challenging, bewildering, confusing, and all so common. Unresolved grief can become pure torment. 

Nobody can escape the impact of grief for none of us gets out of this life unscathed.   The magical Christmas Eve night at the quiet group home opened my eyes, once again, to the incredible mysteries that are part of this world. I don't think any of us there that night will ever see anything close to that again. I wished you all could have been there to witness it yourself.  I wanted you to know my friends and perhaps now you do, if only just a bit. 

The Witch Stole Her Coat is the next story that comes from this book.

“I told you she was coming, now didn't I?” Grace said from her spot sitting with legs crossed on the kitchen floor. 

“Yes, you did. You certainly did,” I answered. 

“What no joke, no smart remarks?” Grace challenged as she wiped her hand through her still wet hair. Her vivid, intense brown eyes were usually twinkling pools that contrasted with the unusual mocha-colored skin. She looked like a Jamaican or Polynesian girl but was really a combination of her Mississippi white mother and an L.A. handsome black man. Her eyes were not twinkling today. She was stressed. 

“We're worried, Grace.  We don't want you to leave and get messed up,” wife Wanda spoke. 

“Hop up. We're going shopping,” I announced with a clap of the hands.

I jumped up, got the car keys, and flipped them in the air. 

“What? I have to order two women to get in the car and go shopping? Jesus Christ—move it, ladies.” 

“What the hell, dipshit—when did you decide this? I just got up, no makeup, no morning tea,” Wanda said with a begging tone. 

“You look great, as always.” I gave her a kiss, grabbed her, and spun her around.

“Oh, Christ, my life is going down the drain and you two are all kissy facing around. Fuck  me,” Grace spoke as she took a drink straight from the sink faucet. 

“Grace, how many times have I got to tell you to watch your damn shitty language?  You should not talk to your foster daddy that way—And in front of your innocent foster mother? I am shocked. Shocked, I say.”

 I gave Wanda a deep kiss on the lips that she cut short with a too hard of a push.

 “Go warm up the car and give us girls a few minutes.” 

She sprinted to the hall closet, got out a shopping bag, and tossed it to Grace.

“Early present, put it on. We'd better hurry—if our cheap bastard suggested shopping.”

She hustled up the stairs. Rodney Dangerfield would have received more respect than me around this beautiful, once proud Victorian house now serving as the Bellingham, Washington runaway shelter. I lived for the banter. 

“Holy shit, look at this.” Grace held up an obviously expensive pearl white sweater to her chest and rubbed it to make sure it was real, it seemed.

“Glad you like it. I spent a bunch of time picking it out for you,” I lied. 

I was just as impressed and surprised as Grace and tried to calculate how Wanda pulled this one off. Money was tight. 

“Yeah, right, you liar. I'm gonna put it on,” she squealed and ran upstairs.

It was December 23rd, and we had the day free. The shelter home was empty for the first time in months. We usually had six kids, mostly girls at a time. Grace had been one of the girls a year ago and was now the house resident combo peer counselor and house mascot. 

The place revolved around her, she knew it, and we allowed it. Her mother had re-entered the picture after a long absence and showed up three days ago with June—our favorite social worker and Grace's long-time advocate—and demanded in no uncertain terms, she be allowed to take Grace up to Mt. Baker for the holidays. 

This unscheduled visit concerned all of us. Grace had dissolved into a cauldron of changing emotions. The big problem being that the mother-of-the-year liked to show up just when Grace grew stable, semi-kidnap her for a few days or weeks, and then abandon her. This had happened multiple times and been the biggest factor in how Grace had burned through fifty-seven foster homes since age six.

June had been there for nearly every episode. There had been many sad, scary episodes in this girl's young life.  She had blossomed under Wanda's care, settled down, stayed in school, and we never wanted her to leave. She was ours now. 

I moseyed out onto the porch and took out a Marlboro. I was worried about this trip but proud of one thing. I had weaseled an agreement to include Grace's twin brother, Ray, Jr. in this trip. Ray had grown into a big young man, over 6'6” tall, athletic, sensible, and stable. June had found him a good home after Mom had dropped the two of them off at the welfare office one morning with a note pinned to Grace's skimpy sweater, that said: “I can't keep care of these kids.”

Mommie dearest left Ray alone and his first set of foster parents had adopted him. He turned out to be a frequent visitor at the runaway shelter and we were pals. I had cornered him two days ago. 

“Ray, take this.” I handed him a crisp $50 bill. 

“Jesus. Thanks a lot.” 

“It's part gift and part payment.”

“Payment for what?”

“Keeping Grace safe on this trip. I'll give you another one if she makes it back here in one piece.” 

“You can count on it man,” he answered looking me directly in the eyes. He saluted and started to take off on his bike.

“Oh, Ray. One more thing.” 

He stopped and looked up.

“Not one cent  is to go to buying dope.”

“I don't ...” “Ray, I'm an old hippie. I can smell weed from miles away. Don't bullshit me now.”

“Got ya, Captain.” 

He took off. The two women appeared, dressed, and made up. Wanda wore a skirt—a rarity—and a tight-fitting black sweater which showed off her near-perfect, petite body. She had on her high leather boots— had even curled her hair. I felt funny all over, especially in special places. 

Grace, looked like a young Whitney Houston. I had never seen her in makeup before. The white sweater looked amazing. I sat stunned. Luckily, it was winter or my mouth would have filled with flies.

“What—cat got your tongue, dipshit? Why didn't you start the damn car?” Wanda spoke ruining the mood.

She headed down the steps. Grace gave me a shy smile and followed. 

“You two stop right there,” I bellowed in my best authoritarian voice.

 It worked. They both froze and looked back at me. 

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” 

“What's your problem?” Wanda yelled with her hands on her hips. Grace looked puzzled.

 “The problem is simple. Now, I'm going to have to walk around all day with my gut sucked in and act all tough and protective—will be a nightmare.”

“Oh, brother.  Shut up and get in the car.” 

I smiled. I had gotten them good. 

We had the greatest time, especially after I took Wanda aside. 

“Madame, could I ask you how we are pulling this off?”

“Well, Chuck gave me a little bonus.” 

“What? I'll kick his professor ass, that son-of-a-bitch.” 

“Not that kind, you idiot. Cash—five hundred big ones.”

 “I love you Chuckie. You're the man,” I yelled to the sky. 

We went to three malls, listened to carolers, and roamed from store to store. We had lunch at the China Buffet. We bought a few gifts to send to our family members.  I noticed Grace fingering a large winter coat in one of the mall stores as we prepared to leave. I started the car and began backing up. I suddenly pulled back in and without anyone noticing pulled the trunk hatch. 

I said, “Shit—forgot my glasses again.”

I got out, ran to the store,  grabbed the coat, paid quickly, and hustled back with it hidden under my coat.  I got it into the trunk without them noticing.  I drove to the other side of the mall and stopped.

 “Grace, the trunk popped open. Get out and see what's blocking it from closing. Hurry up.” 

She got out, opened the trunk, and let out a scream of delight which made people look at us. She had it on and wrapped around her, rocking back and forth. 

“I've always dreamed of having a coat like this.”

 I got kisses from both beauties. We were headed for home when I had an idea. I turned off the freeway and took the Mt. Baker Highway exit. It seemed like a perfect day for a forest drive. We took off on the country highway toward the active volcano, an area I knew well as I had been a back-to-earth hippie out here years earlier. We passed through a couple of country towns and farmland before we started gaining altitude.

The rain turned to a light snow which made the stunning scenery stand out even more. The drive had a purpose.   I had a plan since this was the exact road Grace's mother was going to be traveling on to the base of Mt. Baker and the lodge up there. I was spitting sunflower seeds into the ashtray, getting into the ride, and enjoying the memory of living up here. 

“Hey, dipshit, would you mind telling us where we're heading?” the wife asked. 

“I'll show you soon. Hang on and enjoy the scenery.”

 It was magnificent country. The highway winded through sixty-foot high stands of Douglas fir, red cedar, and huge broad-leaf maples. The snow added a contrast to all the various shades of green everywhere. I steered into a pullout where three small cabins sat near the Nooksack River and stopped the car. 

“Get out, girls.” 

Grace hopped out and tried the zipper for the first time.  We walked about twenty yards and you could hear it. The Nooksack River flowed up here in this mountain paradise and its glacier-fed water was roaring this time of year. I hadn't been up here for a few years and the memories were flowing as quickly as the river.  My old hippie commune had been located only minutes away. This had always been one of my favorite spots up here. I got excited as we got near the majestic falls.  

 Nooksack Falls    

There was a large snowbank, several feet deep, directly to our right and below us. We stood there taking in the beautiful view for a few minutes and even ventured up to the fence  surrounding the falls.  We admired the falls for a few minutes and were heading back toward the car when Grace hooted. To our horror, she dove off the bank.

I watched as she dropped out of her swan dive that turned into a belly flop. She landed with a splat on the icy mound of snow, its crust as hard as granite. I heard the air gush out of her. It had to have been a hell of a blow.  

“Jesus Christ.” I zigzagged down the incline, slipping and sliding, and got to her. 

“Don't move.” I touched her and she started laughing.

“I thought it would be like cotton or something,” she said, “never been around a lot of snow before.” 

The new coat took most of the blow, it seemed and we stayed there for a few minutes. I looked around.  Luckily, we were several safe yards from the fence that prevented anyone from getting too close to the falls and the over hundred-foot drop to the river below. We got up the hill to a near-hysterical Wanda who was lost for words. She hugged Grace and sobbed. 

I brushed Grace off and headed toward the three little cabins nearby with the two girls, steps behind, arm-in-arm now laughing. 

“Grace, the top of the mountain is less than ten miles away. If something happens up there, this is where you come. There's a pay phone over by the store  and you have my permission to break into any cabin here.” 

“It will be okay. I know the owner. You call us then hide in the cabin—got it? If anyone says anything, tell them you're Outdoor Bailey's daughter.”

“Outdoor Bailey? Where did that come from?” Wanda questioned.

“Was my name at the commune we had a few miles from here.” 

“Oh, God—Grace, everything will always be okay for I am Outdoor Bailey's wife,” joked my once lovely wife. 

The two started howling with laughter. 

“Dipshit Bailey would have been a better name,” the comedian wife added as we headed back to the car.  

We drove toward home and returned to near sea level. The snow, which was really coming down, turned back to the usual rain. We glided home, had some hot chocolate, and watched a movie in silence. Christmas Eve morning came too soon. Ray showed up as I made French toast and sausage. Grace came down showing off in her new coat.

“Hey, Ray do you like the food? You should. Outdoor Bailey cooked it,” were the first words out of Wanda's smart mouth. 

The two girls thought it funny. Ray seemed confused.  Mother-of-the-year showed up and honked  several times until the two kids reluctantly got into the car.  They zoomed off and Wanda hugged me. 

“I won't be able to sleep at all until she gets back here.” 

“Well, maybe we'll have to find something to do if sleep isn't possible.”

 I had her in my arms. We rolled around on the couch and then the floor which released some tension. 

“Oh, Outdoor Bailey,” the smart-ass wife had to say.

Christmas Day came and went. Then another two days. I was dozing on the couch half—watching some college football bowl game— when I heard footsteps on the porch. Ray walked in seconds later. 

“Where in the fuck is Grace?” I exploded off the couch throwing blankets everywhere.

Ray explained she was supposed to come home tomorrow and had agreed with him leaving.

“There was too much partying, drinking, and drugging up there. I had my parents come get me before I started throwing punches. Grace ordered me to go—told me she'd be okay.”

 I couldn't get on the kid but I didn't sleep the entire night. I was frantic when Grace didn't show or call the following day. We were both smoking, pacing around, and getting on each other's nerves. We got pissy with each other.  She huffed off to bed while I stayed down on the couch.

The phone rang a few minutes later, and I got it on the second ring. It was Grace. 

“I'm okay—at the falls. Can you come get me?” 

“Yeah, be there in less than an hour. Get in the cabin; it will be okay, I promise.”

 I pulled on my pants as Wanda appeared. She took one look at me, ran and got our coats. We were on the road in two minutes flat. I have never driven like that before or since. 

Wanda stayed silent and kept lighting me cigarettes as we zoomed up the dark, curvy road. It was two o'clock when we got there. Grace came out and sprinted toward us.  She still wore her new white sweater which had become covered in dirt and pieces of bushes. She stood shivering. 

“The bitch got my coat. She got my new coat,” she sobbed as Wanda helped her in the back seat. 

“Yeah, but she didn't get you, honey,” said Wanda as she got in the back and held Grace like a little child.

I drove and plotted how I would get away with murder if Mommy dearest ever showed her sorry ass again. We got home and Grace was ready to talk. We sat at the oak table near the kitchen and she told us the story. 

“It started out okay for the first couple days. We went skiing which was fun.  Some people brought a bunch of food and we had good meals a couple nights. On the third night, Mom took my coat and put it on while parading around the party people saying, 'Look how much my daughter loves me. She bought me this coat.' She paused and looked up at the ceiling, trying not to cry. 

I could tell she was near tears. 

“I really wanted to kill her. There were some other teenagers around but by the third day, it was just Ray and me and a bunch of sleaze bags drinking and snorting coke. Mom became a total mess—talking shit about how much fun we would have when we moved back to L.A. and how grateful I should be for how much she had sacrificed for me.

Couldn't believe that shit—sacrificed—what the fuck had she ever sacrificed?  I never want to see that bitch again.” 

She got up, opened the fridge, got out some juice, and took a swig. 

“Ray couldn't take it no more. After nearly getting in a fight with some jerk who kept rubbing my face and telling me how pretty I looked, he just flipped out—threw Mom against the wall. Screamed at her to shut the fuck up.”

“Honey, I'm so sorry you kids had to go through that,” Wanda said. 

“Yeah, me too—I ordered Ray to get out of there. He got all bundled up and stormed out.  Hope he made it home okay.” 

“He did. We saw him after he got back,” I said, “go on, then what happened?”

 “Oh, well, I hid out upstairs, and people left me alone pretty much. I knew I had to get out of there as Mom kept babbling about taking me to California regardless of what I wanted. I was thinking of how to get down to the cabins when this asshole found me. He tried to kiss me but was too drunk to do much harm especially after I kneed him squarely in the nuts—knew I had to get out then.

Found a bike out behind a shed—just took off. It was icy and cold, especially with no coat. I slipped a few times but slowed way down and inched down the road. It was really dark. Seemed like a long time until I saw the falls lit sign come in sight. I started pedaling really fast then, lost control, and ended up wrecking. I got to the phone—time crawled until I saw you guys.”

She took a breath and looked up again.

“I really loved my coat.” 

She smashed her fist on the table and ran upstairs. June came by, per our request, the next day, New Year's Eve. We told her the story. A week later she reported back.

“I think I scared the bitch. Threatened her with child endangerment charges if she ever came back here again. Tried to get the coat back but she claimed Grace gave it to her. Plus, she's disappeared, for good I hope. Sorry.”

I wish I could report we got another coat but that wasn't possible. We were both students at the time and the bonus had been a blessing. We were flat broke.

About a week later, there was a knock on the door and a delivery man had us sign for a package. They addressed it to Grace. She opened it and there was an identical coat.

We never found out who sent it. 

“Bailey, can you believe what our girl has gone through in her life?  When I think back on what I was like at her age, I'm embarrassed.  My biggest worries were my complexion, cheerleader tryouts or if boys liked me. It all seems so petty when I compare my life with Grace's.” 

“Honey, I understand.  Hitchhiking by yourself at age ten? An insane mother. A violent father.  No little girl should have to go through such things.  I am so proud of you.  You've saved that wonderful girl.”

Story Four-The Vanishing Christmas Cat

Okay, I confess to spinning a few tales over the last years. I won’t admit that they were out and out lies, rather innocuous embellishments but this one is real. You will be forgiven if you put it in the hard to believe category but I swear to all that is holy that this happened.

 I grew up in a neighborhood in the late fifties and sixties with 56 other kids-I counted them up one time. We lived in modest homes typical of the era and most of the men worked out at the local lumber and paper mill. Most of the wives stayed at home and did things daily that now seem arcane. For example, every home had a yard and every yard a clothesline where the women would hang up the family wash with clothespins.

This, of course, led to young men,—not me—stealing teenage bras and panties and such but that's getting off track. Every house had a trash barrel in the alleyway where we burned the trash in the open air, a large vegetable garden, and lots of pets. The place was full of activity, as we were kids whose first mission each day was to get away from adults and play. 

We acted out the Hardy Boy books by spying on one another, built forts in the gulley played pickup ball games and ran around in the nearby park. We even had a built-in villain in the neighborhood as they had built small homes around a ten-acre junkyard inhabited by the Matthewson family. Junk cars and car parts surrounded their shack. There was a bunch to do each day in the neighborhood and I had many friends. 

But my best friend became our huge orange tabby cat, named Tiger. He was a big old tom and as an active hunter and brawler ruled the neighborhood. He would show up on the porch many mornings with his catch of the night. 

He was gnawing on a pheasant he caught one morning and scared everyone with an enormous rat, probably from the junkyard, another. He would always start out sleeping with me at night but would bother me into letting him out late at night. His favorite trick, if I didn’t respond to his requests to be let out, was to climb the drapes of the window over my bed, jump off and land on me with a thud.

I would hold him while watching Saturday morning cartoons and pet him as he purred. He licked me all the time. We were the best of pals and he was definitely my cat. I remember my dad tossing him as a kitten onto my bed and how much I loved the regal feline. Especially when he tormented my older brother who both hated and feared him. It was Christmas morning, and we were all up and waiting for my lazy-ass brother to get up so we could open the presents.

He came up in his tidy whites scratching himself and complaining. 

“That damn cat kept me up all night. I chased him around and finally caught him and threw him outside.”

“Go put on a robe and watch your language!” Dad yelled out at brother John. 

My two little sisters and I started opening the presents and moved on to eating Dad’s Christmas breakfast of little smokies, French toast and lots of bacon. It wasn’t until the afternoon that I first became concerned with Tiger. 

He hadn’t checked in and I even took a quick trip around the neighborhood calling for him. He would respond to my voice almost immediately. But not this time. In fact, I called and looked for him for days and weeks afterward. He was gone.

I admitted that he was never coming back and had a couple nights of crying. Mom noticed and suggested we go get a kitten. I wasn’t interested. 

The neighborhood had dozens of other cats and I learned to block out my thoughts of my cat as I saw other ones while playing or walking to school. For several nights after his disappearance, I heard cats fighting as it had disrupted the pecking order and the contest for supremacy was on.

Months went by and my nine-year-old life moved on to other things like if the Dodgers would win the pennant and keeping care of my new baby sister. It was a year later, and I was listening to Mitch Miller Christmas tunes early in the morning sitting on the heating vent and watching the lights from the tree.

Mom came out holding little Mary in her arms and spoke.

“Bobby, go out and check the milk box. There’s something in there for you.”

I was up and running as I knew what that meant! She had ordered me a bottle of chocolate milk. I opened the backdoor where the milk box sat and there he was. Tiger jumped up and I caught him forgetting about the precious gallon bottle of chocolate milk.

“Mom, mom, he’s back!” I yelled.

I was out of my mind. 

“Oh, my goodness!” Mom screamed, and Dad ran out from the bathroom and three-year-old Sandy ran out of her bedroom.

“Can you believe it! He came home. He came home.”

I was back on the vent, rocking and petting the now purring Tiger. 

“This is the best Christmas ever!” 

Sandy sat with me, petting and saying, “Nice kitty.”

Dad even came over and gave him a rough tap. Up the stairs came brother John. I heard him open the back door and remembered the chocolate milk. He came in with the bottle opened and chugged a big mouthful.

“Oh, no! Not that damn cat!” 

“Shut up you stupid asshole! And get your hands off my chocolate milk.” I roared. 

The only sound was the Mitch recording of Frosty the Snowman playing in the background. 

“Dad, are you going to let him talk like that?”

 “Well, you did insult our cat who just returned from death and drank the man’s chocolate milk. Bobby come here.”

 Tiger and I moved over. I kept brushing Tiger and got ready for a meeting with the belt.

 “You can’t use language like that in this house, young man.” 

He put his head down and Tiger licked him. He laughed. 

“Bobby, for your punishment, I order you to write up the story of how our cat disappeared for one full year and returned for Christmas. I want it done in your best cursive and you need to draw some pictures. Understood?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

And that is the story of my vanishing cat. You can believe it or not but it happened just as told. Hey, it got published in the local paper, January 1961, you can look it up. 

Welcome home! 

Gaze Upon the Ripples

 I drifted away listening to a Beethoven symphony the other day. A symphony is the best example of what humanity could and should be. Master musicians, all stars themselves, putting aside their egos for the greater sound of dozens of geniuses playing at once. It makes my heart smile. I wrote this deal afterward. Caring for Each Other.  

My granddaughter makes me happy to be alive. I made this for her second birthday 

A Genius break. Take in the words

 of the master Langston Hughes 

Yes, I love the ripple effect. I wrote this next one, as I feel like we are all a bit like Rosita. Our time on Earth is so limited in the whole scheme of things. 

Baseball is more than a simple game to me. This free verse tells some of my feelings about the great game. 

I have included some of my favorite poems from the masters as their words inspire. 

I was moved by a sad comment I happened upon after a music video. I wrote this piece afterward. 

I worked as a traveling mental health counselor in rural northern Idaho for over a decade. I visited clients dealing with the challenges of paranoid schizophrenia. This poem is dedicated to them. 

Women often say they are sorry, when they have nothing to be sorry for at all. 

The lovely, incredible nurses who helped me during cancer treatment deserve love.

We all have our opinions and that is good.  But some opinions are so ignorant and silly they deserve to be mocked. 

I experienced the death of several people close to me at a young age. Saying goodbye to those we loved is one of life's challenges. 

I know the dark underbelly of society too well. I learned much about the struggles of women from my foster daughters and my time operating a runaway shelter. 

I wrote this as a tribute to making it to retirement. 

It had been one heck of a night of thunder and crazy, howling winds. The neighborhood had been assaulted and parts of the many mature, impressive shade trees had been thrown around. Leaves and branches were everywhere. Their were still puddles of muddy water filled with leaves and parts of branches.  I turned the corner and gasped. There he was blown up by the roots.

Share the love is next!

Yep, I think it all is another fib. We were all told that as we aged we would get more wisdom, more insight on how life works.  Well, "bah humbug" on that noise! 

A Real  Snow Dilemma.

Here is a reverse love poem. It is not serious, but an attempt at humor, or so I am saying. 

Let us get back to something a bit more profound. 

Words have such power. Sometimes our words and actions or lack of actions can lead to dream stealing.  

The world can seem a mess if you listen to the millions on television keeping us in a daily level of fear and stress so we will watch their shows.  Bah! It doesn't have to work this way. 

Time for a fishing trip in the early morning. Hop in!

Headed back in quietly toward the regular daily grind 

I looked back wondering, doubting another season 

Trips on the river water that is like blood to we lads 

Hours being boys again and living for just such times

I waved with too much vigor when 

Jerry yelled “What a trip!” before speeding away in his pickup

 Grabbed my three fish, headed on home with thanks

 Pink, sunrise mornings with my fishing buddies

And That's When I Found the Syringes

Content for Most of Each Day

Kick Back and Watch the Show

Time for a trip to Seattle . 

Greetings, reader! It is a thrill for me to finish this book. It has been an obsession of mine and my helpful printer friend, Jacob, to get these marvelous memories out for the public to enjoy. My much beloved and respected husband, Franklin “Duke” Wilde, died in a late-night crash several winters ago while returning from assisting a client of his who was in trouble. The outpouring of love, support, and affection from the community was beyond belief. I truly loved the man.

I was in my third day of mourning after the funeral. The supportive phone calls and weeping visitors had almost totally stopped, which was welcome, as I knew I needed to cry and reflect, which I really hadn’t had the time to do properly. I was sitting in my bathrobe out on the deck with a glass of iced tea when the doorbell rang. I reluctantly got up. Nobody was at the door, but there on the porch sat a package. I tore it open and found on the top page of a large stack of papers a neatly typed note.

I pulled out the finished story, smiled at the title, and started reading. Later, I thumbed through the rough drafts, notes, and photos that Duke had privately collected for years. The love Duke had for his clients was noticed in life and comes shining through in his writings. He never saw his clients as sick, imperfect, defective individuals who needed to be fixed. To him, they were special people and friends. He never demanded that they always conform to what the majority view as normal. Duke fully believed that “his guys”—that’s what he always called his clients—often unique way of viewing the world seemed valid, proper and their right. This master counselor enjoyed them as fellow travelers in this incredible life.

My First Day with Duke

Before we get started with Duke’s tales, please allow me to share with you a couple of stories from the first day I went out in the field to meet clients with Duke. He was blind in the left eye from a baseball beaning that destroyed the use of his eye and ended his professional baseball career. He wore a black eye patch, which he constantly fiddled around with and readjusted.

This short, fit guy liked to joke and tease everyone. He agreed to break me in to the mental health field work. Our first stop together started at Junie’s place. I am convinced he picked this sweet woman’s dwelling as a joke on me, as the condition of Junie’s little home shocked me.

 As we were driving toward her house, Duke pulled out a jar of Vicks VaporRub, opened it. He stuck his finger in for a glob of the stuff, which he immediately rubbed on his nostrils with great care to get a seal.

“Sherri, you had better use some of this. Junie’s place has some unusual smells. Trust me, it will really help.”

Junie, a chubby, tiny woman—perhaps 4’10” or so—opened the door and hugged us both. She had numerous cats and kittens, two big dogs and three pygmy pigs. The creatures seemed to be comfortable with each other and wandered around freely. I noticed this as we walked into the crowded living room.

A game show was blaring from the small television. The smell had attacked the Vicks VapoRub and was winning. Junie wore a loosely fitted, sleeveless summer dress that may have been white at some point and she had tied up her hair in a bun with a bright red ribbon.

 Her filthy bare feet with the chipped off bright red nail polish on her toenails were hard to ignore. She shooed the two dogs and a couple cats from the dusty couch and motioned for us to sit.

“How about some milk and cookies?” she said, and hustled into the kitchen. She returned a few moments later with two dirty plastic plates and two large glasses of milk.

“I just made them,” she announced proudly.

 She carefully placed them on a TV tray and went back into the kitchen.

“I’m in the middle of cooking, so excuse me.”

I could hear the sizzle of what I figured was hamburgers cooking on high heat. Duke looked at me with a grin while he tucked the cookies into his back pocket. I understood and put mine in my purse. 

He snickered, got up, and motioned for me to come with him to the kitchen. There she was at the cast-iron skillet that contained three burned burgers. She flipped them out of the skillet onto a stained towel spread out on the counter.

“So, Junie, how you been doing this week?” Duke asked.

“Oh, I got my box of food from the food bank and have been cooking some fine meals,” she said as she grabbed a hunk of raw burger and started patting it.

She tossed the meat quickly from one hand to the next several times and finished by putting it in her left armpit, squeezing and dropping the now finished patty into the skillet from her armpit.

It hit dead center. She kept talking and did the same with two others. The kitchen was filled with smoke within a few minutes, so she opened the back door. Around a thousand flies came buzzing in almost immediately. 

She returned to the burgers, turned them over, and smiled at us while wiping her hair out of her eyes.

“Could I interest you two in a homemade burger?”

“I wish we had the time, Junie. But we have a lot of people to visit today. Sherri is our new worker, who is going to be your case manager. I wanted to bring her over to meet you. You two should make up some times to meet.”

We made up a schedule and took off after Duke drank the entire glass of milk, but I couldn’t get myself to finish mine. We walked back to the car while grinning at each other. He opened the door for me.

“Quite the burger making technique, huh? You should have seen your face!”

“I’ve seen nothing quite like that,” I said, as I joined in with his laughter.

You’re going to be great at this work, Sherrie. That brief scene didn’t phase you at all. I think you deserve an award. Let me buy you a gourmet coffee. I drink quad-shot white-chocolate mochas. We have a long drive coming up this afternoon.

 Oh, you should know that I’m a really shitty driver. Don’t get concerned if I seemed spaced out. Behind the wheel, I get in a zone. I never speed. I drive like an old lady heading to bingo.”

Here come the tales from Duke’s memories

.These stories are based on true events but are embellished to where they are all fiction, although parts of the tales did indeed happen. The names of the characters are not real, and any resemblance to any person is pure coincidence.

 I hope you enjoy reading these as much as we relished putting them together. Duke had this part in his introduction.

“I enjoyed my time with my clients and saw working with them as more than a job. It was more a mission than work. I truly loved my clients. I am not making fun of my noble friends. Not one bit. Some things that they said and did were and are entertaining to me and I hope you.”

The Jehovah Witnesses Visit the Group Home

I walked down the rickety basement stairs of the group home. I heard some voices and peeked around the corner. There sat Tom and two men in black suits, crisp white shirts, and ties. All three were holding a separate Bible.

“Oh, this is going to be good,” thought I.

“Hey, Duke. I’ll be with you in a minute. We’re just reading the Bible.”

“Okay, Tom,” I managed to get out before drawing a little blood from my lower lip.

 I ducked my head back, tiptoed to a good vantage point, for I had to see this. A crack through the wall next to the washing machine gave me a perfect view as I prepared for what I figured had to be an epic show. 

Disappointment remained a stranger as I choked back tears of laughter. The older of the two guys in the suits began with a reading from Matthew something and the other followed with his reading from the Book of Revelations. They had obviously done this before. Before they could start on the next part of the script, Tom interrupted.

“You know, what does God think about smoking? You know, that guy who stuck his head in here, well, he’s my counselor and we like to go all over the place and smoke. Hell, sometimes, I think we would like to have a smoke up on the moon.”

Complete Silence...

 Until Tom continued undaunted.

“Are there any stories in the Bible about midgets? I think about midgets sometimes. In fact, there was this one midget who could beat anyone, and I mean anyone, in 8-Ball at the bar. He won so many games that they threw him into a garbage can and kicked him down the alley. I had to run down and get him out. His hair got all messed up, but he seemed okay. Anything about midgets in here?”

He started thumbing through the Bible way too fast. I heard a synchronized emphatic twin thump as the two men’s Bibles snapped shut. They rose as one.

“Oh, we have to get going. Nice to meet you.”

They hustled up the stairs with bedazzled looks on their faces that, to me, were priceless.

“You’re coming back tomorrow, aren’t you?” Tom yelled up at them.

Their answer came as a slammed door at the top of the stairs.

“Hey, Duke, it’s time for a smoke.”

Big Tom bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

I caught him on the porch just as he was lighting up one of his roll your own cigarettes he loves so much.

“Hey, what’s with those guys? They don’t know nothing about the Bible,” he shared with me as he took a long drag on his smoke.

“I don’t know, but it sounds like you are doing some cartoon talking today, huh?” I asked.

“Nah, I just wanted to know if there were any midget stories. Do you know? “

“I don’t think the Bible has any midget stories, but I could be wrong. But let’s make certain of dropping the cartoon talk. I’m not into it today.”

“Okay, I’ll watch it. Ready to go?” he said and suddenly smashed out his smoke and took off toward the car.

We were halfway to Starbucks when he said, “Those guys know nothing, nothing, I mean nothing about the Bible.”

He was polite, appropriate, and pleasant with everyone for the rest of the day we spent together. All his comments were regular. He thanked me for the outing as I dropped him off.

“No, thank you, Tom,” I murmured when he was out of hearing range and entering the group home.

I had just seen something as rare as a solar eclipse. The two Jehovah Witnesses blessed me with the forever memory of seeing them running from a home. I giggled in spurts all the way home.

Tom and I have been together for years. He became my first adult client and introduced me to the challenges and mystery of paranoid schizophrenia, which somehow became my specialty. This big guy has become like a brother. He is a wonderful, gentle soul and good for incredible quotes and stories. In fact, let me tell you a couple more.

Two More Big Tom Tales

I walked down the stairs and noticed it was simply freezing down there. It was December 12th, and eighteen inches of snow had been on the ground there for weeks. It was about 20 degrees outside and not much warmer in Tom’s basement room. He was sitting in the dark with the window wide open, wearing a pair of cutoffs and no shirt.

“What in the world are you doing? It’s freezing down here!” I said as I closed the window.

“I’m hurting all over the place, Duke. If I were an old dog, they’d shoot me.”

“What happened? You were fine Monday.”

“I hurt my knee really bad.”

“How did you hurt your knee?”

“I was up in the barn and Mr. Ed, the talking horse, jumped out and bit me in the damn knee. Then Hoss Cartwright came out and told me no way he was going to tell me where Little Joe was.”

“Hey! I watched TV too, pal. I want you to go take a shower, put on clean clothes and tell me what really happened to your knee when I get back here in two hours. We’re going to Denny’s and get you something to eat.“

I raced up the stairs, hoping my timing had been right. Two hours later, I walk through the front door and there’s Tom all dressed in clean clothes. He jumps up. Before I can say a word, he speaks rapidly.

“I know how I hurt my knee. I was riding in Del’s pickup in the back and he hit some ice and I fell really hard and dinged up my knee.”

“Why, that’s certainly a lot better than that nonsense about Mr. Ed and the Cartwrights.”

He leaned toward me and whispered while looking around the room: “I left out the outer spacemen."

The next week, I made my usual stop at the group home. I walked in and normally calm Tom was sitting at the kitchen table. Something has upset him as I had ever seen him so stressed. It turned out that his mother, who is in her eighties, had been calling him up several times a day. Tom hates to talk on the phone to anyone, so getting regular calls bugs the hell out of him.

“She keeps asking me about buying a burial site and bugging me to go to the doctor.”

 He was at wit’s end.

“What’s the story? She hasn’t called you in years and now she calls every day? Does she have some problems?”

“You, bet. I think it started when she had that mean third grade midget teacher who made her stand up in front of the class and shaved her head.”

“Oh, come on Tom, did that really happen?” I asked.

“Could have,” he answered immediately.

King Tut Ate All the Minestrone

Tom was lying flat on the tired old couch of the group home, which was unusual and I knew something was up.

“What are you doing, Tom? Come on, get up. Let’s go to lunch.”

“No, I can’t today. King Tut ate all the minestrone.”

“What? That can’t be true because King Tut wasn’t an Italian.”

“That’s what you say,” he answered, as his eyes stayed focused on the ceiling.

“Seriously, let’s go. We’ll go to Starbucks and get a mocha.”

“Duke, I can’t go anywheres. The Japanese Jerry Springer is driving me crazy today.”

“You’re staying home, right? I’ll be back in a couple of hours.“

Yeah, I’ll be right here watching the Queen of England’s midgets flying around.”

He was sound asleep on the couch when I returned after seeing my other guys. I drove home with Tom on my mind as his cartoon talk could portend a psychotic break which could put him in the hospital.

I made certain to get there early the next morning. I walked through the door and there he sat at the kitchen table with his shirt off, eating an enormous bowl of macaroni and cheese. 

He gave me the football touchdown hand sign and said:“I’m doing a lot better today.“

“I certainly hope so. Yesterday, you were telling me about King Tut and the Japanese Jerry Springer.”

“Well, Duke, that’s why when I play in the band, they never give me the microphone.”

I could not help it. I laughed so hard at that statement that I almost fell off the chair. I still think it is the single best thing I have ever heard spoken. 

Big Tom returned to his normal self. I never found out what caused his odd talk. Merely a part of his cycle in dealing with the befuddling challenges of schizophrenia.

He works part time, roams around the community on his daily long walks, and has lived successfully in the group home, which is right in the center of town for many years.

Me: Hey, Tom, you ever play any sports when you were in high school?

Tom: Nope. I was once a substitute, part-time bench warmer.

Two Schizophrenic Minds in the Bagel Shop

I so love my job as a traveling mental health counselor in Northern Idaho. A dozen adult male clients are my weekly companions, all with the same diagnosis, paranoid schizophrenia. I have been visiting them for years now and want to invite you along and have you listen in on some things I hear in my travels. I have learned to turn on my writing mental recorder during the conversations that are on certain days quite entertaining. Tuesday of this week was one of those days.

My routine of visits during the Labor Day weekend got messed up a bit as I skipped my usual days for the first time in years in order to take a trip. 

On Friday and Monday—both regular visiting days—I didn’t show. I made it up to the group home on Tuesday morning where three of my guys live in an independent residential home located right in the center of town. People dealing with schizophrenia, I have learned, feel things way more intensely than the population at large. I know this after nearly a decade of working with them.

Still, I was surprised at the greeting I got. Sly jumped off the couch when I came in and informed me of his status in machine gun like verbal bursts.

“Hey, ugly. I thought you abandoned us. I have been having some real weird thoughts. Somebody left the TV on last night, the refrigerator is all dirty, I woke up with a bad headache, I think my Mother did the best she could in raising me and my bed is a mess,” Sly said as he grabbed a cigarette, popped it into his mouth and dropped down and did three quick push-ups.

I put down my backpack, took off my light fleece coat, and answered back.

“You always have weird thoughts because you’re a weirdo. Turn off the TV if someone leaves it on and it is bugging you. I’ll help you clean the fridge, take some vitamins for your headache, and I have told you that your mother’s only really big mistake was not holding on tightly enough to you when you were a baby. She dropped you too many times. Come on, you con man. I’ll help you fix your bed,” I finished.

“That’s your perspective. You went to the dog show and won all the blue ribbons,” he mumbled as he followed me into his room, where I had stripped off the covers and threw them on the floor.

“Jesus, here I am making your damn bed. You’re such a con man; always getting me to do stuff for you. Yeah, making a bed is tough duty,” I said as I straightened the sheets that I had already on and tucked in.

 I added a blanket and then another before speaking.

“There you are. You put on the last one and don’t just throw it on there.”

He threw it on anyway and laughed.

“I got a question for you, old man. If you ask a liar if he is a liar and he says :’Yes’—how do you know if he’s telling the truth?” he asked me.

“Now, Sly, that is one good question. I have no answer. Let’s do the fridge now,” I said.

“Nah, got to take a smoke break,” he answered as he lit the cigarette and headed out to the smoking porch. I heard a door slam upstairs, and soon the stairs were creaking and moaning under the weight of Big Tom, who popped out and said, “Duke! All right. Do we get to go do something today? I’m ready to go,” he said.

He was dressed in one of his famous outfits. He had on a pair of unevenly cut cut-offs, gray wool socks stretched to their limit almost to his knees, bright white brand new tennis shoes, a white hooded sweatshirt and an orange stocking cap. 

It was quite a sight seeing this fashion combination covering his six-four and over three hundred pound frame.

“Well, Tom, are you predicting a snowstorm or what? It’s almost lunchtime. Where should we go to eat?” I asked him.

“I was freezing out there having a smoke. I could go for some bacon. Could we go to the smoke shop, too?” Tom asked.

“Okay, the smoke shop it is, but I can only pay for half of a can today if you want lunch.”

“Oh, that would be great. You sure it’s okay, Duke? I have some money to chip in,” Tom said.

“I got lunch. How about the bagel shop? We can get an iced coffee and a can of Bugler,” I said.

“Okay, let’s go. Is Sly gonna come with us?” Tom asked.

“Yeah, let’s get his lazy ass to come, too.”

I opened up the door of the smoking porch and yelled, “Hey, con man, are you coming with us for lunch?”

“Yeah, I want to go. I got to take a whiz first.”

He took a last drag on the smoke, put it out in the overflowing coffee can full of butts and disappeared into the bathroom. Tom was already outside on the front porch. I looked out, and he said, “Where is he? Let’s head out.”

Sly came running out while zipping his pants.

“Damn, that water’s cold,“ he said, and let out a truly crazy laugh. I was closing the front door when a sleepy-looking Ricky came out of his bedroom.

“Hey, Duke. I was up late and finished a new song. Want to hear it?”

“Shit, yeah, Ricky, but I am taking the boys out for lunch. Make me a CD so I can take it home, okay?” I said.

“Yeah, I’ll do it now and leave it on the kitchen table. I have to get to class,” Ricky said.

Tom took off and was a full half a block ahead of us in no time. He was focused and on a mission. Sly and I sauntered side-by-side, and he lit another cigarette. He let out a puff of smoke and said, “Duke, you know why your mother abandoned you? Excessive masturbation,” he said.

I faked throwing a punch at his gut and said, “Man, Sly, are you expecting twins?” 

I slapped his gut, and he laughed. We got to the crosswalk, and Tom was already across the street, pacing back and forth. A pretty young college girl came up behind us on her bike. I grabbed Sly and moved him out of the way.

“Jesus, dipshit. Pay attention! You didn’t even notice a beautiful woman behind you?”

She smiled at me and cars immediately stopped for her and she zoomed off. We followed.

“Hey, Sly, how come all the pretty, young things smile at me but give you the finger?”

“She wasn’t smiling. She was laughing at you. They don’t give me the finger they are just saying I’m number one.”

“I am going to hurt you someday, asshole,” I said.

We continued on with this type of bullshit banter for the seven blocks to the smoke shop. Tom was inside and had made his purchase before we even got to the entrance. I had given him a twenty as my share of supporting his roll-your-own cigarette habit.

“Geez, thanks Duke. This tobacco makes the best smokes known to man,” he said and took off.

 I looked around for Sly, who was still inside.

“Now, where did he go?” Tom said.

I said, “Oh, let’s book. He’ll catch up.”

We walked down two blocks and took a seat on a park bench.

“I feel like Hoss Cartwright waiting for Little Joe all the time,” Tom said.

We sat there for a minute until Sly came racing around the corner and ran up to us. We walked together down three more blocks to the bagel shop.

“What do you gents want today?” the young woman, Ashley, according to her name tag, asked us.

I smiled at her and pointed to Tom.

“I’ll have some coffee, a bacon supreme on a blueberry bagel and… Hey, Duke, can I get a banana, too?” Tom asked.

He took the nearest seat and fondled his can of Bugler.

“Man, what a great day! I am set,” he said and then started a far off smiling gaze.

 He looked like a blissful Buddha, going on a hunting trip. Sly was mumbling and confusing Ashley.

“Don’t worry, Ashley. He’ll spit it out, eventually.”

“Excessive masturbation,” Sly said, and gave me a dirty look.

 This, of course, shocked the girl, but she kept her cool. He then ordered a ham and cheese bagel and a pickle. He paced around the place. I took a seat next to the smiling Tom. 

He suddenly jumped a bit, as if awakening from a dream.

“Man, Duke, it almost happened last night, but it didn’t. At least, I don’t think it did. Did it?”

“Everything is perfect today, Tom. We are out and about and walking on the sunshine path. We are doing fantastic. Nothing happened last night, as far as I know,” I said.

“I hope so, because the cops followed that one guy and then the satellites hooked up and were taking pictures of him and sending them around. I hope we’re doing okay. I think we are. But not that one guy,” he said to me and took a huge bite out of the banana.

“Well, we are on the sunshine path, not on the dark, crooked one, Tom,” I said, knowing after visiting him for eight years what was going on.

He rarely talks this much and sometimes when it is time for small talk, like now waiting for our food to be prepared, he fills in the silence with his own brand of small talk. I could tell him he wasn’t making any sense and he would stop but I didn’t see the harm in playing along today, so I allowed it to go on.

“So, Tom, who is this guy?” I asked.

“Oh, he was kind of a midget with messed up hair. But he ate a banana and everything was okay,” he said.

He took another huge bite, which finished the banana. My cousin, one of my best friends here in this college town, said that schizophrenia, in his opinion, is just an odd form of enlightenment. His words popped into my head as I looked over at my old pal, Big Tom, and wondered for a second if he was serious or just messing with me.

But he was serious. The rest of the time, while eating and walking back to the group home, everything he said made perfect sense. I grabbed Ricky’s CD and patted them both, and headed out.

“Wow, Duke, we did it all today, didn’t we?” Tom said, smiling in the stuffed rocking chair.

“People were laughing at you today,” Sly said from his prone position on the couch.

“Screw you, asswipe. Clean the fridge yourself.”

I left and got on my bike to go for a ride. The phone rang. It was Gary, another client.

“I’m at the mall,” he said.

“Be right there, Gary.

”I took off flying on my bike for the twenty-block ride up to the mall where my car was parked. Gary was eating a large pizza while I drank iced tea. I then pushed him in his chair- (he has MS and schizophrenia-a nasty double whammy)- up to Hastings, where he looked around for movies and some music. 

He complained almost non-stop about them not having anything good. He bitched about how the pizza hadn’t been that good. Gary was not exactly Mr. Happy until I mentioned maybe we should go swimming at the college.

 This perked him up for a few seconds until we got outside when he told me all the reasons he couldn’t go swimming today. I was pushing him when we heard a voice speak up from behind us.

“Get a damn haircut, you hippie Indian,” the voice said.

Gary looked around, shocked at the voice, as did I. There stood a smiling, tall Indian guy with hair down to his waist. He slapped Gary on the shoulder and took off. Gary looked at me and beamed.

“He had longer hair than me.”

We went swimming until 3:15. I loaded my bike on the bus and headed home, where I listened to Nate’s song. It had been a good day. I have the best job in America.

Josh and the End of Times

Josh was a 21-year-old kid who had just entered the world of paranoid schizophrenia. It all started for him at age 18, when he started hearing the coyotes howling at night on his farm, his name along with insults and obscenities. He ended up in the hospital for four months, was diagnosed with schizophrenia, prescribed psychotropic medications to help him cope with life and lower his signs and symptoms and released. 

He stayed med compliant for just a short time and then went off on a common negative odyssey of self-medication, homeless and getting arrested for petty crimes. His high intelligence finally got him to accept his mental illness challenge, and he began taking his meds, enrolled in college and maintained his own apartment, personal finances and settled into a fairly stable and productive existence. Then it happened. 

The dispensationalism End of Times Christians got a hold of him. One of our psychosocial objectives that we designed together and worked on weekly dealt with decreasing his social isolation and getting involved in weekly community activities and events. 

We went to college plays, football games, joined a pool league, went out to restaurants and coffee houses, went to the Saturday market each week and took mini-trips to parks and other nearby communities. 

On his own, he started expanding his community activities, which was the whole point, so I encouraged him. He joined a church and started attending services, which I also supported and encouraged. It all seemed to go well, and he seemed happy to be a part of a group. Then he went on a weekend retreat.

I got a call late Sunday night from the sheriff’s office who informed me he was in their custody and they wanted to know if I would ride with them to the state hospital where he had been ordered by the crisis mental health team.

 I agreed. I pieced the story together after our trip and it appeared that he had returned from the retreat and went into a psychotic blackout, gotten drunk, ended up at the 24-hour supermarket yelling incoherent things and eventually got tasered and thrown in jail.

A month later, I met with him and since he was clear-eyed and coherent, I asked, “What happened at that retreat?”

He smiled, “Promise you won’t laugh?”

“I’ll try,” was my answer.

“They had this guy who gave a seminar Saturday night who was really focused on the End of Times, gave us all the signs that things were coming to and end and demanded that we all get ready for the Rapture, which he explained in great detail. I thought of you.

 One voice said this is just catastrophic thinking. I knew you would say that, but another chorus of voices started screaming in my head to “Get ready!”

 I went to bed totally scared. He paused and took a sip of pop.

“Oh, boy, keep going,” I said.

“I had to get out of there, so I walked to the casino.”

“From the lake? My god that has to be at least ten miles.”

“I could hardly move and went in there. All the lights and bells going off set me off. I ran into an old high school buddy who took me out to his truck and gave me a couple of hits from a bottle of Jack Daniels. We stayed around until sunrise and he gave me a ride home. I went into the apartment and puked all over the place and passed out.”

“Oh, my goodness, Josh. Then what?”

“I had this dream that was so vivid and in color. I remember that. Everyone was getting on these different vehicles, weird spacecraft, shiny things, and every time I tried to get on the door would slam and the engines would start and off they’d go. “

“So, you missed the Rapture?”

“That’s what I thought. I remember nothing other than that.

 I had to get out of the apartment and away from the knives.”

“You were going to cut yourself?”

“Yeah, I started to carve, ‘Help Me’ into my arm when I threw down the knife and ran and I mean ran to the bar.”

“Holy shit ...

“No, holy anything, please. I am done with those sick idiots. They are way worse than me. Would you do me a favor?” he said while picking up his bottle of meds.“

Sure, what is it?”

“Take some of these meds and put them into the wine they serve for communion. 

"They need this shit way worse than me,” he smiled.

I Thought I Found a Dead Body

It was snowing, to where I couldn’t stand the stress of being on the main highway. I turned off and took the back way, which hadn’t been plowed. It was slow going and took twice as long as usual before I reached Gary’s isolated farmhouse. Gary normally greeted me in his wheelchair at the top of the ramp when he heard me drive in. He didn’t show this time. I gave a knock on the door and walked in uninvited while yelling his name.

I walked through the filthy kitchen, ignoring the counters with dried spots of food and the overflowing sink and garbage bags. The television was on, but I got no response. I went into his bedroom, which was totally dark as he had covered all the windows with blankets. 

It took me a few moments for my eye to adjust to the darkness, and then I saw him stretched out on his back. He didn’t respond to my words or my first shakes. I turned on the lamp next to the bed and saw them. His medication bottles were there, empty. 

I checked for a pulse and there was one. There was no help available. The nearest hospital was twelve miles away. I was in a panic. The first problem was how to move him. Like many who live in wheelchairs, he had gained much weight. He weighed in a 323 pounds, a number that flashed through my brain from the last doctor’s visit. 

I went and got his chair and positioned it near the bed. I grabbed him with my arms locked around him and with what had to have been a flash of pure adrenaline, grunted and flopped him into the chair.

His head slumped to the side. I wheeled him down the icy ramp, struggled to get him out of the chair to the backseat, where I propped him up with three pillows and covered him in blankets.

 I had to control my speed until I got to the main road and then floored it.

 The snow was coming down so hard that my wipers could barely keep up. There was nobody on the road. I made it up the first small grade with no problem and geared down to take the second one when my old van started coughing and sputtering. 

I kept it steady, and the engine smoothed out as we descended the grade. Only one more to get before Moscow. It was the toughest one, though. I made it up with no problem, got to the hospital and yelled for help.

They pumped his stomach and got him awake. He stayed in the hospital and was taken to the mental hospital as soon as he stabilized. I visited him and knew he was going to be okay when he complained about how awful the food was.

I Really Needed a Smoke

I WAS TRYING TO QUIT SMOKING AND WAS USING SUNFLOWER SEEDS to keep my hands and mouth busy as I tried to find the remote home of my newest client. The ashtray brimmed over with spit-out shells overflowing onto the floor as I crept up the winding gravel road miles from nowhere. I finally pulled over to take a whiz and noticed a dumpster at the edge of the turnout. I grabbed some garbage and the ashtray and headed over there.

I flipped over the heavy top of the dumpster and nearly crapped my drawers when a small black bear jumped out.

He sprinted off in one direction and I dove toward my Subaru. My heart did not return to a normal beating pattern for several turns up this isolated, winding gravel grade. 

I had directions, but cruising around in this primitive of an area takes some practice and knowledge. The new client and I had met once in town, and I now wished I had been more precise in asking for directions.

 I stopped at one turnoff and sat and enjoyed the incredible view. Before continuing, I doubled checked my directions and figured the place had to be coming up in the next couple of turns. I noticed the narrow side road and took the turn with crossed fingers. 

A few minutes later I came to a clearing where a log cabin sat with smoke coming out from the chimney. This had to be the place.

I had only taken a few steps when two dogs came sprinting toward me. The huge black Rottweiler kept barking while the pit-bull circled me with his tail twitching with the hair on his back standing up. I looked up at the porch and there stood my new client, Roger. He had a rifle pointed at me.

“Who the hell are you?” Roger yelled out.

“Roger, it’s me, Duke. We met in town for lunch last week, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. Don’t worry about them dogs. They won’t do nothing.”

The first thing I did was buy a carton of Marlboros when I got to town. 

Bears, mean dogs, spooky isolation, and having a gun pointed at me did not seem the time to give up tobacco.

Me: “You are getting out of control, Jessica. You need to calm down.”

Jessica: “Fuck you! I get so sick of you giving me shit about having an anger problem, you cocksucker!”

 Her yells echoed all over the trailer park.

Eric’s Brave Confession

ERIC WAS A GOOD KID BUT ALWAYS IN TROUBLE at school. He rebelled against any authority, no matter what. He lived in a remote town with a population of around two hundred. I had been visiting him for several months. One of our hangout spots was the Logger’s Inn Restaurant, and that is where it happened.

While sitting in a booth in the empty place, I suspected something and decided this was the time to explore that suspicion.“

Hey, Eric. Do you enjoy goofing around with fire?”

“Oh, yeah. The other day, I nearly started the upstairs on fire. I got dad’s lighter and was lighting some papers in the waste can and it flamed up. I started some more papers on fire on my desk and had to grab the blankets off my bed to put it out, “he said as he smiled and took a bite of his burger.

“Oh, wow! Must have had been scary. Was that your first time experimenting with fire?” I asked.

“Well, no. I started a big campfire down by the creek once and it got huge and started some bushes nearby on fire.”

“Jesus, are you a pyro-manic, Eric?”

 “What’s that mean?” he asked.

“The name for someone who gets off playing with fire,” I answered.

“Could be then,” and he smiled, but only briefly. My suspicion had been correct, I now knew. I moved in for the kill. I was going to get this story out today.

“Eric, something really weird happened to me once. If I tell you, do you promise not to say anything to anybody about it?”

“Okay, but I don’t like secrets,” he said.

 More evidence, I thought.

“One time I was spending the night at a friend’s house and this guy came over to my sleeping bag late one night and started rubbing my balls through the sleeping bag. It was really weird,” I said.

There was a pause as he dunked a handful of fries in some ketchup and played around with them.

“Yeah, that happened to me, too."

The story then flowed as I took notes. It turned out that his father’s best friend had been molesting him for over three years during what was supposed to be ‘tutoring’ sessions.

 We strolled down a path in the forest as he told his deep, sick secret. He finally plopped down on a tree stump and began weeping. I so joined him, for I had also been a victim.

“Eric, I am going to ask you to do something brave. I mean really brave. I am going to drive you down to town and we are going to tell Sheriff Collins the whole story. He needs to be stopped. You can be the man who stops him from doing this to others.”

“He said he would kill me and my whole family,” he said.

“He won’t have the chance, Eric. I promise you! That fucking creep won’t have the chance.”

This brave kid kept his composure as he told the story. The prick getting lead away in handcuffs has remained a pleasant memory. This shy, slow boy testified at the trial which ended with other victims being exposed and the guy got a forty-year sentence in the state pen.

Eric ignoring the threats and fear and sharing the truth, remains one of the bravest things I have ever witnessed. It always shocks people to learn that these types of crimes are way more common in rural areas than most people imagine.

Me: “Hey, Chris, want to go to the Breakfast Club with us today?”

Chris: “I would, but they serve Eggs Benedict down there and I don’t eat traitor eggs.”

Big Kind Ol’ Tom Threatens Violence

I was pissed. The new Nurse Practitioner was using Tom as a science experiment and didn’t know what the hell she was doing. Against my objections, she decided Tom needed to change medications. He had been taking Dispersal with success for years. She put him on Zyprexa, which she thought would be an improvement.

Tom has times when he gets paranoid about any kind of change, and this was a big one. We are sitting there in the group home watching some old Andy Griffin reruns when an add pops up during a commercial telling people who have had unsatisfactory experiences with Zyprexa to contact a Spokane lawyer firm.

 I look over at Tom, who is now sitting straight up, his eyes glued to the screen.

“That’s what I’m taking!” he yelled and headed to the smoking porch. 

I let him sit out there for a bit and then eased myself out. His leg was tapping at full speed and he had two smokes going. He looked up and said: 

” Well, the cops are probably gonna come over any minute and take me out of here. That lady is out to get me.”

 Before I could answer, a big smile popped out on his face. His eyes were off somewhere.

“Tom, how come you’re smiling all of a sudden?” I ask.

“What, you didn’t see ‘em?”he asked.

“See what?”

“Some teenagers were stuffing some midget in a garbage can and kicking it all around the yard. Right there across the street.” 

He pointed toward a vacant lot. I excused myself and raced out to the mental health regional office and met with an ally, Jim, there. He agreed to meet me back at the group home. Tom was out on the lawn with no shirt on, yelling at anyone who walked by and wouldn’t come inside until I promised him a butterscotch latte if he did.

 Jim came in and the three of us talked in the living room after I went and got the latte for Tom. Jim sighed and motioned for me to step out on the smoking porch.

“Duke, you have got to take him to St. Joe’s fifth floor. I already called and they are waiting for him. Before you object, he is gone. Psychotic break and we need to get him to a safe place. It is either you or the cops. Sorry, man. We’ve got to get him out of here." 

I know when I am beat, but I was not looking forward to the thirty-mile drive

.“Tom, I have to take you to the hospital.”

“How come? I didn’t do nothing.”

“People are worried about you and want you to get a check-up. You have to go. It is either with me or in a cop car,” I said.

“Geez, Louise. Just minding my own business and now I got to go to the funny farm,” he said.

“Come on, let’s head out. I’ll buy you a couple packs of smokes,” I said.

“Really? Two packs? Wow, thanks, man.” 

To my surprise, he put on his coat and hat and headed out to my car. We drove down the road listening to a hard metal rock station as he told me several stories, all of which contained midgets. We got to the hospital and were escorted into a room. 

A young woman, obviously new, came in and started asking Tom questions from a sheet. When she told him that no smoking was allowed even outside now, he turned to me and said,”You didn’t bother to tell me that!”

The next question up was spoken. 

It was: “Do you ever have violent thoughts?”

Tom answered: “Well, I’ll tell you what. If I can’t have a smoke for three days, I may have some real violent thoughts.”

They put him back on his old meds, and he was released three days later. He called me up a 5 am and begged me to take him home. We got to the group home at 6 am and he jumped out.

“Geez, thanks Duke. You are the best friend I got.”

The Taser Didn’t Work, So They Used a Shotgun

This is the story of how I was introduced to my newest client. It was told to me by his father.

"We were going on vacation and told Donnie he could stay at the house for the three weeks until we got back. He came over as soon as we told him. Honestly, the kid ran the twelve miles from Moscow to here. No kidding; he ran the entire way in street clothes.

 When he got here, he was all hyper and immediately started ordering me to take everything out of the house and put it on the lawn. Donnie wanted us to get all the furniture, all the photos and paintings, everything, and put it on the lawn. He took down two painting and placed them on the lawn. When I told him we would not do that, he yelled.

“Bullshit. Everything must come out now, so I can put it back in where it belongs. Now you and Mom have to help me.“

I told him that would not happen, and he went ballistic. He ran in and got a huge butcher knife and started waving it at me. He wouldn’t calm down and kept threatening to kill me if I didn’t help him move the stuff. His mother called the cops.

They showed up in less than five minutes. The sheriff surveyed the situation and then told me to go in the house and stay there. Don’t look out the windows or anything. You don’t want to see this. 

Three other cop cars showed up. Donnie was waving the knife and yelling at them. He wouldn’t put down the knife. They tasered him, but it didn’t stop him, so they took out a shotgun with non-lethal rubber bullets and fired. You can’t believe what hearing that shotgun blast was like, Duke.

 It took four cops to get him down. They involuntarily committed Donnie to the state hospital, where he stayed for nine months. 

He has been more than fine ever since. My brilliant son is a poster child success story for psychotropic medications. This was an eye-opening story for me to hear as this young man was quiet, reserved, and calm in my encounters with him. He is a straight-A student at the university and holds down a job.