English is Important

This was originally a post from 2020 from my blog, but I didn't feel like editing it to put it in a more story-like writing. Originally title "The Three Ay-Mmm Special"

 Once again that train rolled in this morning at that special time it loves. I actually was a bit miffed more than usual this morning, because as I woke at that ungodly hour, I realized that the dream I was having was quite enjoyable. No, no... No babes in bikinis with breasts bouncing out of their tops, while delivering me ice cold beers. No, naked Nubians with palm fronds gently waving above me, offering me grapes and dates to snack on. I was in high school. As a teacher. An English teacher to be more precise. Teaching and trying to instill my love of reading to a class of high school students.

The d00d family has been known to produce some teachers. I can think of three uncles that taught from Dad's side. From both sides, many were Pastors, Ministers, missionaries of one type or another, and Sunday School volunteer teachers. Many were some kind of combination of several of these titles. So it is no huge surprise that at one time in my life I wanted to be a teacher. A Professor, no less, of English Literature. I kept that little dream alive inside until my senior year of high school, and the one class that changed that idea. English Literature.

My senior year I needed only four credits to graduate. Of those four, only two of the classes were mandatory: Government and English. The junior year we had studied U.S. Literature, so it was no surprise that senior year would cover English Lit. I was excited! This is something that I had been waiting for! There were several teachers that taught this class (I think 4) and I ended up with Ms. B. Rumored for at least the prior three years, as being one of the worst teachers to get assigned class with  due to her hard grading scale, what was acceptable in class, etc. That one teacher that puts up with nothing. And I will admit, I was a little bit of a sarcastic juvenile... not the class clown, but openly sarcastic in class.... often. (RM, you may learn something about me!)

Needless to say, the year started off just as well as one can imagine. I spent some time in the hallway, excluded from class, with the "after-class talk" from teacher. But my homework was always done. I was ahead of the class in any reading we were required to do. I had the highest grade in the class... why wouldn't I? I loved this stuff! Then came the Spring... and a thesis paper. Yes the biggest paper we as high schoolers probably would ever write, and it made up 90% of our whole spring semester. I was ready! I have been waiting this day!

Obviously the topic would be on an English author/poet/playwright - cool! A biographical paper! No. It is to be a critical analysis of any work that the author being assigned to us had composed. We were to bring out three critical points in any work from one author - which was being assigned to us - by drawing the name from a hat. From my memories of that day, I still say it was rigged. Ms. B. put several small slips of paper in the hat, explained each contained the name of one author. There were no duplicates, so no one was going to be able to share work. We would spend library time, to look up sources of information, and of course, lots of time building our thesis, which was being graded in stages. Ms. B. announced that drawing would be by seating rows, except for me. I was to be the last to draw a paper. (See, I told you it was rigged, but my young mind did not realize this).

Each student drew a name and announced it to the class. Most of them we had talked about, if not read some of their work, so there was not problems of having to read someone's large manuscript prior to at least knowing one piece of written work they had completed. At last it was my turn, and before I could go up, Ms. B. announced that I would be doing my paper on Bram Stoker. 

I recall the sly, seemingly sinister smile that played across her 45+ year old face; the glint of malice and satisfaction of getting back at a sarcastic teen that had been a mouthy little troublemaker for at least half the year. As I looked at Ms. B. and what appeared to be her "gloating look", out of the corner of my eye I see students kind of look at each other....questioning who is Bram Stoker? Being the smart-ass kid I was (and maybe still am a bit) I gave Ms. B. my best Clint Eastwood smile, and said, "Sounds like an easy paper to me. I've read Dracula twice already." Her smile faltered just a bit, and her eyes showed signs of sadness, that maybe I had taken some of the "wind" from her "sails". But life went on.

I spent days going through tome after tome of information on Stoker. If I found any information at all, it was only related to Dracula, though there were supposedly a couple smaller works he had done as well. Creating a critical analysis was not going to be easy if everything was only  referring to his one book - that should make it easy, right? Not really. Even though I was living here in the Valley by then, there were some things that you weren't supposed to reference in your homework: sex was almost always prohibited, drinking (usually referring to alcohol, but could also include partaking of drugs - it was the "say no to drugs" era) and just smut in general. I cannot remember my complete thesis to this day, but it consisted of the three topics I was going to discuss: the use of blood as an aphrodisiac, the use of sex and virgins, and the third I don't remember, but it went just as far as the other two points.

The day we had to show our thesis statement for grade was interesting. As with seemingly everything since the start of the thesis paper, I was always last. Last to be called on for attendance, last to be called up to discuss where my progress is on the paper, etc. It was a small, petty thing Ms. B. did, seeming to be the teacher way of retaliation. I didn't care. When I presented the thesis, she brought up that maybe I could find some other points. I said no. All the sources provided by the school library, only pointed at Stoker's one work, and these were the only three things I could determine from that analysis in which to write my paper. 'Surely,' she would say, 'there has got to be newer works that provide other information.' I flat out told her, if there was, our school did not have them. I had no access to the main public library as it was 15 miles away. If everyone was to use the same available resources (school library) then this is what it would be. An eyeroll from her, a long sigh, and she nodded. I saw her right my grade (an A) for thesis creation. Then with that long look that only women can do, she turned to me and said, "But it will be on you to write this in such a way that it will not be a sex-driven piece of drivel, that will cost you a repeat of this grade, and my job." Literally, that's what I remember her saying..... but it was 30 years ago.

Needless to say, the weeks went on, and I wrote. I tore it up. I re-wrote. I tossed it away. I used a thesaurus for the first time ever in my life (I think). I wrote two copies, did the red pen edit on both. Scrapped them and wrote again. My grade did not suffer. I could always show work that the first paragraph was done in the time frame required, etc. It was just that the content and phrasing would change constantly. If Ms. B. ever noticed that change she never said. She always made me stand next to her while she read silently each addition I made to my paper. Then she would give me that look, and repeat that I knew what was on the line. Finally the due date came, and being called last yet again, I turned my paper in, smiling at Ms. B. with a confidence that only a brave kid could show. A Confidence that showed that it made no difference to me how it turned out, but if I was going down, I was taking her with me.

Life went on for the next two weeks. We had "busy work" during class, as Ms. B. read through the papers. Sometimes we could see her smile. Other times we would see that red pen come out and expressive hand movements as she noted some form of good/bad. I felt the true feeling of Dread as the 2-week period came to a close, and the date of grade reveal was upon us. Being last throughout that semester, I watched as each day thinking, is that the last paper (mine) to grade? How many red slashes will we see? Will I pass?

Finally the day arrived, and I, more than most in my class, felt the most anxiety about what this day would reveal. Ms. B. actually smiled as she addressed the class with the starting pleasantries. She was glad to see so much growth of knowledge in her class over the last year, and how great students we all were. Her eyes and smile met everyone as she spoke.... except me. She regaled stories of how in past years her students have written great papers, many on the same authors, and how some this year had brought out points she would never have suspected. At this point, I was pretty much feeling in the gutter. I knew it hadn't panned out... and now was I going to pass or not?

"So many good papers were written this year,' said Ms B. "But only one paper received a grade of A+. There are a good number of A's, and lower grades, in this stack before you, but only one made an A+, and I will read that one to the class." I sat slouched in my seat, my mind just kind of wandering, trying to figure out how bad this was going to be, when I hear the first sentence of my paper. As I sat up in surprise, I saw the slight smile and quick look Ms. B. sent my way over the top of the paper, as she continued reading. At the end, she mentioned something about not revealing who wrote the paper, and maybe some remembered I had Stoker, but it was the furthest thing from my mind at that time. 

The rest of the class time was spent with her giving us "free time" and her walking around the room in random order, passing back our papers. Ms. B. never approached me, never gave my paper back, and never made eye contact the rest of the class period. As the bell rang, Ms. B. spoke out, asking for me to stay a minute after class. This had been a common off and on thing for the year, usually to chastise me for my outburst or whatever. Today was different. 

Ms. B. spoke about how she had seen at the beginning of the year I was going to be a problem. The mouthiest kid in class, always had something to say about anything, especially if it went against what point she was making. But after seeing my first basic paper early in the year, knew it was because I was ahead of the class. There was no way for her to "push" me intellectually as we did the required material, as I had already seemed to know it all. She explained her intentional positioning me to the end of the list for everything, because I needed the least help. how she saved Stoker for me, because in her words, she had never had a student capable of finding anything to write, or at least to be able to stand up to the "system" and use what was given. She continuously commented on how the topics I was using to make sure I used them in the right way, not just to flagrantly say them to say them, but to truly make them part of the reason, and why they had to be used. Ms. B. showed me my paper, with the "A+" in bright red at the top, then surprised me even more, and asked if she could keep my paper, to use for following years as an example. How do you say no to that, especially after that little talk?

Over the past 30 years since that one year, I have thought about Ms. B. quite a bit. And I know this all sounds like that feel-good movie you see on Disney, but it is true. And I have seen similar things happen in real-life where all it takes is one person to see someone's potential, and drive them to it. Especially when they don't even see it themselves. My dream changed that year. If I were going to teach, it was going to be high school... not some professor at some small college. And though that part of my dream has not come true (well, as of right now anyways) it is always here with me...because of a high school English Literature teacher.

Dinner Conversation

This is one that kept me up all night one time. Just the opening line kept running through my head, like a movie, flipping between tuxedoed waiters and penguins... and I kept thinking 'So what?!? Where is this going?' Well, about 2 1/2 hours later, and revisions/editting/read-thrus this is the end product. I am hoping it is enough to let me get some sleep. And as always, who know where this could lead...

   The small ensemble filled the air of the place with soft music that the tuxedo-wearing waiters danced to, like penguins going through the crowd with a meal for their nest. The soft sounds of knife and fork against delicate china mixed through the soft rumble of quiet conversations, masking the quick melodic clinks of crystal being touched lightly to one another. Occasionally, the entrance of another couple would divert the attention of the suited man sitting alone at a back table.

   After a momentary glance, he would again turn his sights inward, to watch the mental projection he alone played. A glass held slightly off the table in one hand, tilted as if frozen in its journey to bring drink to his mouth. His lips but inches from its edge, parted slightly in preparation for the amber colored fluid contained in the glass. A flash of light, reflected off the inner front door catches his attention, and his eyes focused on the woman entering the room.

   Soft, brown hair flowed down and slightly around her shoulders, glinting golden flashes as the lighting reflected from the trembling tresses as she removed her coat and handed it to the cloak attendant. Framed by her hair was a face that women would look twice at, and then be jealous. No age lines, and just a touch of make-up, accented the natural high cheek bones and penetrating gray eyes beneath lustrous lashes.

   He gave her the once over as she spoke to the maitre d', who began to escort her in his direction. The dress she wore was black, and from one step to the next, he could not tell if it was skin-tight, or flowing, as she approached. The glass was set down forgotten as he rose from his seat.

   Their eyes met with a quick intensity as she neared his table. A chair across from him was offered and accepted by her with a small smile. A brief nod to the maitre d' and he sat again, carefully adjusting the napkin back to his lap. She glanced to his glass, and then rose taking in the details of his suit, to his face, noticing the slightly showing age lines, the soft whisper of evening beard, and the crispness of his returning stare.

   "It is good that you were able to make this appearance," he said in a soft baritone. He leaned back and gestured to a passing tuxedo. He pointed to his glass, and glanced to her questioningly, quickly dismissed by a brief nod to her. "Two ," to the waiter, and he turned back to the table. "You make such an entrance, dressed as lovely as you are. You look good in that black dress."

   "It is said 'A lady always has a black dress for the occasion that warrants one'," she smiled.

   "Ah, so you are one that has several black dresses, then?"

   "No." Her eyes hardened slightly, and she gave her head a slight twitch, as if to slightly throw back a stray lock from her forehead.

   "But you said a black dress for the occasions that need them. Do you not have many occasions to dress so nicely?"

   "To complete the saying, 'A lady always has a black dress for the occasion that warrants one, but the whore has one for each day of the week.' Now, why would a man of your means, want to be talking about the dressing styles of ladies, such as myself, when said lady does not even have a drink yet?" She leaned forward, and placed her hands together in front of her.

   A small look of surprise crossed his face, and he reclined in his seat. A glance to the side showed the waiter had arrived, placing their drinks on the table. The waiter glanced at each quickly then addressed the man. "Monsieur, Are you ready to order?" With a look of renewed study to the woman, he ordered for them both, and watched as the waiter left the area. He reached for his glass as he turned to the woman.

   "Shall we raise our glass in salute for something? Or show how low we really are by just slamming them back?" she asked, as a smile crossed her face. She had raised her glass up halfway, waiting for him to do the same. The glasses chinked softly.

  "To each their own," he softly said, and sipped softly. Her eyes held his, watching as he drank, then she followed his action, taking a small sip before setting it back on the table. “I see you do not want to rush through things. Shall we wait until after dinner to finish our conversation?"

   She sat quietly in thought, studying the blank look on his face, and then she put a neutral one on her own. Her hand tentatively brushed against her cheek, a habit from years past when she is deep in thought. Finally, she laid her finger against her lips, and gave a short, firm nod of her head.

   "That would probably be best." Their eyes met once more, and locked for a long moment. The arrival of the waiter with their meal broke the spell. Both kept their eyes on their food, and between glances to each other, and a sip of scotch, the meal was eaten in silence. He began to glance frequently to his watch, showing impatience with something. She took it in, knowing he was feeling some discomfort. He noticed her slightly gloating look, and realized she knew he is tense. He pushed his plate back and drank his scotch in a gulp. Catching her eye, he looked down at her plate only half finished, and glanced back up. Her eyes tightened softly as he saw her irritation, and quickly he turned, signaling to the waiter for drink refills. Reclining again, he smiled.

   She slowed down eating her food, glancing his way with a smirk on her face. After several moments, the silence was broken.

   "This is the parting of our ways," his soft, low voice barely reached her. "One would like to think that our parting should not be of such sorrow, but of joy, knowing that one day, we might meet again, and raise a toast to the time spent apart. Ahhh. But here we are, mixing what could be pleasure, with what we call our own business." A long sip of scotch went down, and her eyes have locked onto his. "Such as it is," he whispered.

   Time seemed to have stopped. A muffled crash from the kitchen brought movement back to the room. With deliberate motions, she folded her napkin across her plate and raised her drink to her lips. Her tongue traced her lips after a slow sip, and soft sigh is released. She directed her gaze back to his again, and said in soft, husky breath " 'That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet'," she exhaled. "Oh, mince not your words with me."

   "I applaud you, clever lady." Another sip of scotch was taken. "Are you ready to depart?"

   "I am."

They sat for a moment in silence, sipping their drinks. At a glance to his empty glass in hand, he set it down and stood from his chair. A waiter appeared to assist her in rising.

   "Arrangements were made previously for this encounter. Nothing need be done but through the door now."

   He indicated that she should lead toward the cloak room. Both were quiet as their coats were returned to them. He held her coat for her in assistance. Their eyes met once more. Both saw the thoughts churning behind each other's eyes, but neither said a word. At some unknown signal, the door was opened and both walked out.

** Optional Ending **

The doorman saw the couple sharing an intense gaze, and paused a moment. He saw no one taking advantage of the moment, and opened the door, allowing a brisk breeze to enter, which interrupts the gaze of the couple. They walked out and the door swung slowly shut.

Maeslstorm - part I

Prologue

The story has been passed to me to carry, of the times before my fathers' fathers' lives. Of the world long before the People we are, came to know it. From the stories, it is said that the grounds we live off of were once as barren as the skies when the clouds do not come across them. A land so desolate that only the sands covered them and the wind blew only to shift the grains.

The stories tell of a man that traveled those sands alone. A man that walked heavily with the burden he carried on his back, and what lay within his heart. This man many say did not have a name to be called by, yet others say that it was a name no one was to say again, and has been taken from our language. His journey carries him across the sands with no destination in sight, and the only purpose is to deal with the feelings of guilt and betrayal that were his burden alone.

This man, the One that brought a new world from the sands that thrived after the destruction; the One who traveled the sands that covered the Land as far as one knows; many call him Omanji, the Destroyer.

We called him Maelstorm.



Chapter I


The snow was falling fast and heavy, even though the wind was doing its best to blow it away from the ground. The trees had grown top heavy with the build up that he groans echoed as far as one could hear, intermittently with loud creaks and cracks of branches breaking under the stress. I couldn't open my eyes, but somehow in my exhaustion and weariness knew the sun was up, somewhere beyond the heavy cloud cover. As I lay there, wondering how did I come to be in this situation, my stomach made noises of hunger. 'Food,' I thought. 'What a wonderful item that would be.' At the same time, I recalled that my pack was empty, lost days ago in the days I have been lost in the hills. The cold was creeping higher up my legs, and I could no longer feel beyond my elbows. The blackness came over me again.

The past can be remembered in so many different ways between many people. Some may remember images. Other may do best with smells or colors. My first memory is of a sound. It was deep and reverberated against my chest, calming me. I could not open my eyes, but that sound was comforting, though it pulled at my heart with sadness. The next thing that comes to mind is of my father, Meelo, working the ground with a hoe ahead of me, sternly telling me how to drop the seed and cover it in the garden. I must have been about 4 summers at that time. All I can remember is that it was father and I. We lived in a one room shack on the outside of Tilston and raised a garden for most of our sustenance. None bothered us, and I don't ever recall anyone coming to visit.

What I knew of town was from one trip Father had made me partake with him. Though only a couple miles out, the entire day was spent there whilst Father did some trading with others for items we needed. I was mostly told to sit and watch, not to wander and play with some of the other children I saw. In my memories I was content. I felt no need to mingle. At near day's end, we would walk back home, and complete the evening chores. One day was like another for the most part. Until the soldiers came to Tilston.

It was late summer, and harvest time was near. Father and I were in the fields weeding, and deciding which crops were going to be the first to be picked. I was in my seventh summer and still not grown into the clothes Father had arranged for me. My brown hair constantly fell into my face as I weeded, causing me to look handicapped in some way as I shuffled through the garden. I would toss my head, flipping the hair back, and as I shuffled to the right, give each leg a short kick to empty the dirt catching in the folds of the rolled up pants legs. With a final wave of my arms above my head to slide the arms of the shirt back to my elbows, I would then again bend over to attend the next plant.

"Meelo!"
I heard the yell first. It was coming from the house front. I stood glancing that way strangely, as I had never heard anyone yell for my father before, let alone a visitor to the home.
"Meelo! Hurry, you must help!"
I glanced quickly over to Father, who had heard our visitor this time. Several emotions passed across his face, many I could not recognize. Only the main one that I knew to mean dreaded concern. Concern like if we lost half the crop to the bug, and how would we manage.
"Mal. Stay here and continue. Do not come to the house until I call. Understand?" father asked me as he moved quickly towards the home.
"Yes, sir," I answered and bent back to my duty, wondering what was happening.

Form the corner of my eye, I watched as father rounded the front and waited to see if he would invite the visitor back, or holler for me to attend. For many minutes I could hear nothing, but then the rise of voices in anger and fear reached my ears. I stood up, trying to find out what more I could. Father came back around from the front and stopped, catching me looking that way. His eyes fell to the ground, and his shoulders slumped. He looked more dismal than I had ever seen him, and it brought a coldness to my gut. For a moment, I knew not what to do, when father suddenly straightened back up, a determined look on his face, and a fire in his eye. He waved me over, and I jumped at the chance to find out what is going on.

"Mal. The time has come for us to move along in the world. With no questions asked, you must do exactly what I tell you, as quickly as possible. When there is time, I will tell you what is going on, but for now, we must move quickly. Back to the garden with the basket and harvest everything that is even a week close to being ready. Some of them you know can be picked early and will ripen as we go. As much as possible, in as many trips to the home until I say. Got it?"
"Yes, father," I said, eagerness for something new filling my voice. I jumped for the basket and headed back to the garden to follow his orders. Father disappeared into the home and I could hear the banging of the cupboards as he searched through them.

I brought in the one basket I had filled so far, looking down the path to see if the visitor was still here, but there was no one in sight. Father had spread out two blankets and was stacking items in the middle of each. So far it was few clothes, some salted meat we had traded for, and a plate and cup apiece. When he eyed the basket I brought in, he motioned me over.

"Split this up between both stacks here. There is no time to get more, so this will have to do." He glanced at me seeing the many questions upon my face."There is trouble in town and it is trouble we don't need to find us. Don't ask more now."
"What would we be in trouble for? We are nothing but farmers, and have done nothing," I stated though he asked quiet of me.
"Aye, we are only farmers and cause no trouble for any. There is more to this than I can explain for now. Do this and be ready. I must get one more thing." Father stood and moved off to a small sectioned off area of the room that I was never to bother. I heard a trunk opening and some metal rasping. Father returned with a sword that had definitely seen better days. My eyes widened in wonder, as I never had known such a thing existed in our home. But before I could say a word, father gave me that look, and I knew to finish what I was doing before a switching came.

Within moments I was done sorting, and with Father's help, we tied up the blankets into a pack of sorts. At the front door, with a heavy hand on my shoulder, Father glanced once more around the room, as if he were remembering where everything was, then out the door we went. Back through the garden, father grabbed and pocketed as many more foods as he could, up to the edge of the woods that started the easy slopes of the Endiback mountains. Father set a quick pace moving for the peaks, and I followed as fast as I could behind. Nothing was heard but the stepping of our shoes through the undergrowth as the sun went down into late afternoon.

A couple hours past sundown father stopped us for the night. As I found some deadwood, he prepped a campfire and laid out a small portion of food to eat. As we sat there eating, I watched his face for signs that I could ask some of the many questions going through my mind. Father sat staring into the fire for a while, then glanced my way. Seeing my questions, he exhaled slowly, then slowly leaned back against his pack, again gazing into the fire.

"The questions running through your mind are clear upon your face, Mal. I would wish we had the time to sit here and answer them all, even if I did have all the answers, which I don't. But I can start some of it now, and give you more each night when we stop. Is that fair?" With this last comment, he looked askance to me. This was a first I had seen this side of father, and it intrigued me.
"I understand father. But first, where is it we are going? Why are we leaving all behind?" More questions wanted to follow, but I snapped my lips shut as his face shifted into a grimace of great strain.
"I do not know where exactly we are going. I have heard over the peaks is another land, just as good as this one. As to why we are leaving, it has to do with the leader of this land. I had not planned on teaching you about this for another few years, so bear with me as I try to do it in easy terms. The leader has sent soldiers to our town to collect his share. These soldiers take our monies, our foods, our items of trade to their hearts content, and only give a portion to the leader. They keep and squander the rest to their liking. It has been many years since they have come this far out from the main of the land to do this. The last time was before you were born. We have nothing of value to give them, even if we would go hungry during the winter. If we do not give anything, we will be killed as examples. Does this make sense?"

I thought over father's words, and realized what he was saying. So we were moving on, in order to save our lives by going to another place. I felt peaceful inside knowing that Father and I could do this. Then everything sort of blanked when I realized he had mentioned about my birth. This was a topic never mentioned.
"Could I ask about my mother now?" I tentatively spoke. Father's eyes met mine, and I could see the sorrow he held inside at the mention of my mother. The tears started to fill his eyes.
"No," in a gravelly voice he answered."Tonight is not the night for that story. Time to rest now as tomorrow will be harder, and we'll be a bit sore." With that he used his pack and jacket to cover himself, and turned his back to the fire. I sat thinking for a short while and did the same. Pictures of far away lands, people I didn't know, and a beautiful woman that could be my mother all floated in my dreams that night.

Mind Freeze

It took a couple moments for my eyesight to adjust from the bright glare of the outdoors as I stepped into the pub. I could hear a jukebox on low in the background playing some country twang music, and the clatter of a couple empty glasses being picked up to be washed. As sight was restored, I casually walked up to a an open spot at the bar, there were plenty. The bartender was right there waiting for me, and I ordered a bottle of beer. As she went to get it, I placed a $5 on the counter and looked around at who would be in here.

A couple of yahoo cowboys were over at the pool tables. You know their type. Dress up like city slickers, get a little dusty riding in the desert in their pick-up trucks, and say that they are true cowboys. These two looked like they had rolled in mud last night, woke up and started drinking. I ignored them, even though one nodded my direction.

The bar itself was a bit horseshoe shaped. Across from me was a elderly gentleman, with his hands clasped around a tall drink. His head was tilted back from watching a TV mounted above the bar I would guess. His mouthed and closed a couple times before he would raise the glass and sip some fluid down. I felt some air start blowing, but it wasn’t cool enough to deflect the heat from the outside air.

The bartender came back, placed a cocktail napkin down and popped the top off the bottle. Without a question, she took up the $5 and made change at the register. A nice smile came from her as she put the $3 in change in front of me.

"Anything else I can get ya?" she asked.

"Not for now. Here’s for you," I said leaving a $1 there and putting the rest in my pocket.

The little flair of curiosity went out of her eyes, and the smile lessened a bit as she said thanks. She turned and headed back to an office at the end of the bar. It was about 2 in the afternoon on a regular weekday, and this place was deader than Tombstone. I sipped my beer a bit and finished surveying the room. The tables and dance floor were all empty, but at the last end of the bar sat a guy with his nose in a book and a couple drinks in front of him. After turning a couple pages, he would sip a small drink from one glass, then follow with a swig of Budweiser.

I glanced up at the ceiling above the bar, as the lighting seemed sort of dim where I was sitting, and it didn’t look much brighter where he sat. Just the fact he was sitting in a bar reading a book brought the urge to me to go over and question him. I took another sip to make up my mind.

Damn, at least the beer was cold.

I got up and moved down the bar to where he sat. As I approached, I sensed him start to tighten up. He raised his head for a quick glance at me. With steel in his gaze, our eyes locked, and time froze.

I mean, it literally froze. As his steel grey eyes locked onto mine, we were transported somewhere. It was like getting a mind probe and being injected with memories of people and places you ain’t never seen. Like that big ass headache when you eat ice cream too fast. Your mind starts to burn after just seconds of information from over years are pile-driven into your brain. I feel myself screaming out, but I can’t hear myself. Hell, I don’t know if there is anything left of myself or not at this point anyways. I forgot whatever my purpose was, let alone where I was or what I was doing.

After what felt like minutes I realized that these were my memories being viewed in front of me. What the hell was this shit? Then a feeling of pure terror came over me as all my fears were exploited. The rejections, the insults, the fears of spiders and snakes. Writhing all around my conscience.

Suddenly, those steel grey eyes were in the front of my mind. The pain had lessened somewhat, but I was still frozen. I could feel my body trying to shake in pure terror of what was happening.

A voice bellowed throughout my body "Leave me be. Find someone else to waste your time on."

With all thought possible I agreed, and found myself sitting at the bar where I first walked in at. The bartender was coming from the back room headed in my direction. A quick glance around showed everyone was at the same spots as before.

"Can I get you another?" the bartender asks. I tip my hand a bit to check the fluid level of the bottle. It was completely empty. I debate if I should order another, and out of the corner of my eye I see that book reader just shake his head once sideways.

"No, ma’am. I think I need to head down the road. Have a good one." I tip my hat at her, and head out the front door, blinding myself in the sunlight for a few moments before I start up the road.

Scared the Punks

Note: This is just something I threw together in trying to get some more memories of my Dad down on paper so to speak. March 8th would have been his 60th Birthday. I miss you Dad.


Sometime not long after I was brought into this world, my parents moved into an old two-story home in Kirklin, Indiana. I don’t remember the year, but that would be dating myself too much. But I do know that I spent the early years of childhood in this home. It was peeling white paint, but had a huge lot size. My parents even had a couple horses in those early years. One was white, the other brown, and named Sugar and Spice, respectively. Spice, I am told, was supposedly mine. I only know this as Grandpa had some old 8mm film showing myself atop Spice, with my Dad walking alongside holding me up. I must have been about 2’ish then. Shortly after that filming, I guess due to financial issues they horses were sold. I never could recall any memory of them, excluding the film.

The house had been in the family for many years. I recall a time years later that Dad showed me a picture of his great uncle and aunt out in the front of the home. That picture had to been at least 50 years old, if not more, and the house still looked the same pretty much. Paint was peeling more, but the rest looked the same. That same uncle and aunt were the ones that adopted my Grandpa at the age of 12, and changed his last name to the one I carry now. But that is a story for another day.

I remember different things about that home that bring up different feelings. There was the front room that faced the street. My parents had set it up as a ceramics room. There they would pour, bake and paint ceramic pieces – same as my maternal grandma did in her home. The living room was carpeted with this awful green pile carpet. That was the room where I took my first drag off a cigarette. Another story for later.

Off the living room was the kitchen, which led to the back porch and exit. I remember us kids would always be running around asking Mom to make her special kool-aid. It was nothing more than cheap punch with some 7-up added to it. Out the back door the yard stretched as far as a kid could imagine. I know at one time there were several acres that Dad owned off the back yard. He would rent them out to a local farmer for crops. Halfway down the yard to the side was Dad’s firewood pile. Six feet high, 4-5 rows across about 20+ feet long. Definitely looked like we would never freeze in the winter. Beyond that was our swing set that had the rocking pony on it.

Back inside off the living room were the bedrooms. Sis and I shared one together for all those years. Upstairs was more of an attic than a second level, I guess, now that I think about it. Dad had a train set up there running N gauge. The track board was probably about 6x4, and it was rare that I ever got to see him run that train.

Yeah, my mind gets hazy trying to remember the important stuff of back then. But as I grasp these details, it helps drag me back so I can start the tale I figured I would share today.

My family had spent several years in that old home. I don’t know the exact details, but it was decided we were going to tear it down and replace it with a single level newer home. The house next door to us became available (for sale or rent I don’t know), so the family moved over to it, and we proceeded to dismantle the old home. It was old. Walls were the old plasterboard and slats, and the foundation was red bricks. After some time, the home was dismantled, and life went on.

Well, I guess Life sort of went on. Around that time is when my parents started their separation. That for sure is another story.

Dad had been working during this time a regular day job, and then also being one the four town marshals for the town. Eventually, it came down to just him, and he moved on up the road to be deputy in Michigantown. Now being the deputy there wasn’t too bad I guess, except it was like 15 miles, give or take, between towns. Dad got the wonderful job of patrolling the public High School football games. Needless to say, there were a few people, and HS students that didn’t like him doing his job. I can’t count the times he had to get a ride home because some one had sugared his gas tank on the truck. The town only had one patrol car, so Dad had to use his personal vehicle to/from the games.

Needless to say, being the small towns that they were, and my Dad’s involvement with the authorities, many locals knew him, and knew where we lived. Some nights kids would come by and toss rocks, or shelled corn at the windows. Easy to see how someone could get worried as to family safety. Never know how far teenagers are going to take things. Well, I remember one story Dad told me about, and that seemed to pretty much be the end of those incidents.

The new house going up next door was pretty much just starting. The crawlspace had been dug out, and cement block lined the hole. It was only about 3-4 feet deep. For a few nights in a row, some teenagers had been throwing things at the house late at night and yelling stuff that I shouldn’t repeat. Dad decided he was going to put a stop to it. One night after I had gone to bed, he loaded up the 12 gauge and went next door to hunker down in the crawlspace. Wasn’t long until here come them three boys again. Dad stayed squatted down and waited for them to start trouble. Sure enough, the rocks and words started flowing. That’s when Dad knew it was time. He jumped up out of the crawlspace, pumped a round into the chamber of the shotgun, and gave a blood-curdling scream like he was Rambo back in Vietnam.

There was a brief moment of silence. The next sound made was of rocks dropping from them boys’ hands, and the blood draining from their faces. They turned tail and ran as fast as they could. Dad said they took off like they had seen a ghost. Needless to say, I never heard Dad mention another night of people throwing things at the house. To this day, I don’t know if this was just a story he told me, or if it was true event. Either way, it doesn’t matter to me. It was my Dad.