Lynne Griffin is the author of the acclaimed novels Life Without Summer (St. Martin's Press, 2009), Sea Escape (Simon & Schuster, 2010), and Girl Sent Away (SixOneSeven Books, 2015). Her next novel--a domestic suspense story--will be published in fall 2021 by Crooked Lane Books. Lynne's short stories and essays have appeared in Solstice; Chautauqua; The Drum Literary Magazine; Salon; Brain, Child; Craft; Library Journal; Fiction Writers Review, Psychology Today, and more. To learn more about her work, visit LynneGriffin.com or follow @Lynne_Griffin on Twitter. Love Affair with Mr. Boston It took three months for Juliet Collins to work her way inside the Baines family. She had no idea she’d spend the next three fantasizing about how to get out.
Within days of marrying Vic and his children, thirteen-year-old Patsy and seven-year-old Owen, Juliet had begun to have fleeting daydreams about scheduling a break, taking time off for good behavior, rewarding her self-sacrifice with a weekend away. Alone. Nothing extreme or desperate. Not then. Everything she’d read on the subject of step-parenting culled from the towering stack of self-help guides piled on her bedside table—while the slick black surface of Vic’s table remained clutter-free—said becoming a stepmother was a process. The experts promised that the hostility the children expressed would pass. That her feelings of insecurity were normal, to be expected. Juliet prayed these strangers were right, that things would get better. That Patsy and Owen would come to accept her. Or at the very least stop tormenting her. Still, several months in, nothing had changed. Here she was on the anniversary of her first date with Vic, in the waiting room of Neurobehavioral Associates of Boston, trying to control her husband’s son, rehearsing how to tell Vic she couldn’t do this anymore. Juliet was leaving. Tonight, if things went according to plan. It wasn’t that she could no longer take the insults Patsy whispered under her breath, or worse, the snide remarks she spoke out loud in front of her friends. Frankly, she’d expected the girl to give her trouble, to mark territory around her father like a fierce-eyed-cat. What Juliet hadn’t seen coming was how ill-equipped she was in handling little Owen and his constant demands for attention. He’d become so brutish lately, one minute pushing her away so he could zip his own coat or tie his shoes by himself, the next minute crashing into her body full force leaving bruises like those dots on a map marking the places one has visited. And that didn’t begin to describe the reach of his impact. The sight of his second grade teacher’s number coming up on Juliet’s cell phone prompted instant queasiness, accompanied by sweaty palms and racing thoughts. What had Owen done now? One day, not long after Vic had suggested Juliet take over walking Owen to school—a bonding opportunity, he’d called it—she hadn’t made it to work when Miss O’Hara rang her up to tell her Owen was being sent home for breaking the skin on Laney Treadway’s arm. Juliet had felt bad for the little girl, she did. Still, she couldn’t stop thinking of herself. The work that would not get done. Where else Owen might spend the day? Had the teacher even tried to call Vic? Forty-eight minutes stranded in a medical office waiting room and Juliet was tallying the bites, kicks, and scratches Owen had left in his wake since that day, and for a fleeting moment she wondered if the teacher might be right. Perhaps something other than a stepmother’s arrival on the scene was responsible for the boy’s escalating behavior. Juliet couldn’t remember her brother Adrian ever behaving so horribly when he was Owen’s age. Tall foreboding glass made it easy for Juliet to get lost out the window. Hoping to catch a glimpse of Vic entering the building, she played a childish game, one where she told herself that if she saw her husband by the time she counted to three then it was fate she should stay, call the whole escape plan off. The couple could go out to dinner tonight to that intimate bistro downtown, and she would open up to Vic once more. Oblivious now to her hazy reflection and the cars and cabs and people whizzing up and down the streets and sidewalks, Juliet tried to convince herself that all she needed was for her husband to say he understood how awful it could be, that Vic knew how hard she’d been trying. They’d sit at a back booth, starched linen napkins draped across laps, and Vic would take her hand. His and hers atop the table, their matching wedding bands would glimmer in the candlelight shadows made by a bud vase filled with freesia and baby’s breath. He would promise to take Owen’s issues more seriously, to be there for her. Together as a couple they would beat the second marriage odds and figure things out. But children are not things. And the pleasure of lingering on images of Vic and the respite a date night was known to provide was replaced with an altogether different scenario. One of Juliet slipping away before Vic arrived. Pulling a runaway wife move right out of an Anne Tyler novel. Her head might be telling her to stay. And her heart surely wanted a family; even this patchwork one could do. But every fiber of Juliet’s being told her to run. Done playing the attentive stand-in parent, she imagined following her wild-eyed stepson around the doctor’s office, replacing torn magazines on end tables, prying fistfuls of chalk from his small but surprisingly strong hands, urging him to let other children take a turn at the chalkboard. Ignoring the judging stares of the other mothers, she’d corral him into the play space created by back-to-back chairs where his disinterested sister sat sipping her second protein shake of the afternoon, texting her friends from the gym. Surely Patsy would be complaining about her, for the part Juliet played in Patsy losing time on the beam or extra coaching on the unevens. No, she wouldn’t wait for her stepdaughter to grill her again about why Juliet couldn’t stay with Owen in the waiting room while her father went in by himself to get the results of his son’s evaluation; the series of tests forced on them by Owen’s teacher. A woman certain Owen’s inability to pay attention and keep his hands to himself was diagnostic, despite Vic’s assertion that his son was just being a boy. Juliet could simply excuse herself, claiming an urgent need to use the restroom. As if she were having an out-of-body experience, she watched herself step toward the office door, turning back to take a last look at the children she didn’t know how to connect to. Then she’d just go. Saunter past the ladies room, head straight for the elevator, exit the building on Charles Street. Juliet would inhale the ambivalent spring air and walk in the direction of the only thing she had left from her single life—her haven, the stationery boutique on Newbury Street she co-owned with her brother. The place the very image of perfection she’d been selling to other women for years. Embossed Stationery was nestled in the middle of a two mile stretch once the salt water bay known as Boston Neck. The Back Bay rose from the sea as laborers moved dirt and fill, inching their way from Boston Common to Clarendon Street then to Exeter Street over a period of twenty years. The European style edifices all built around the same time were intended to be residences for the wealthy—and for many years they were—giving the street a sophisticated, still neighborly feel. One hundred years after the last mound of the soil was packed down, Juliet had arrived on the eclectic boulevard with its mix of exclusive salons and select shops along broad sidewalks, and knew at once it was the ideal place to house her picture-perfect merchandise. Better than any therapy, Juliet spent her afternoons replenishing the wrapping paper displays that lined the walls of the shop. Out of cardboard boxes and over the dowels went her favorite single-sheets. The moss-colored pools of pinwheels, the splash of marigolds on a pink matte background, the chocolate and cream cupcake pattern pretty enough to eat. “Juliet Baines?” The receptionist called out from the perch behind a sliding glass partition. The woman sidelined Juliet’s make-believe departure, replacing the soothing images of bittersweet and nightshade papers by thrusting yet another clipboard in her direction. “Collins,” Juliet said, shouting back across the waiting room, afraid to be more than arm’s length from Owen. He was clapping the eraser this way and that on the board, creating a dusty masterpiece, making her cough. When the receptionist gave her a curious look, repeating the name Baines, Juliet slid the eraser from Owen’s hand and moved him toward his sister, and herself toward the door to the inner sanctum. “Will you let him play a game on your phone?” she asked Patsy on her way by. In the sweet time it took her husband’s daughter to look up, asking with her smoky eyes courtesy of Maybelline cosmetics if she was really speaking to her, Juliet plopped her brother in the seat next to her. “I’m Owen’s stepmother,” Juliet said to the receptionist. “My husband Vic—his father—should be here any minute.” “E-vil stepmother.” Owen hopped out of his seat, raising his hands, shaping them like claws in front of his face. Whenever he heard Juliet or anyone else use the word stepmother, he took on a monster persona, coaxing a smile from Juliet’s lips. For as busy and forgetful and physical as this boy could be, Owen was anything but scary. When he wasn’t spinning, his hooded eyes gave him more of a bashful look and his wide grin, a mix of baby teeth, second teeth, and empty spaces, never ceased to make her want to love him. Juliet ruffled his curls, making a mental note to remind Vic to take him for a haircut. Patsy, on the other hand, rolled her eyes as only a seventh grader can do, a gesture that at times looked as though it might be painful. This particular talent came in handy whenever the girl wanted to alert someone that Juliet wasn’t her real mother. Out of her seat, Patsy bent down to Owen, withholding her phone at shoulder height. Without saying a word, she pointed to the chair, telling her brother to sit, making it clear that this was the only way she’d give him her cell phone. With the promise of his drug of choice—more tech-time—Owen did as he was told. The silky ponytail Patsy wore high on her head caught up in a grosgrain ribbon, swished as she walked toward an array of Us magazines strewn across an adjacent table. Even away from the gym, she was all grace; a sprite, a woodland faerie. Her impossibly thin legs, covered in cream-colored tights and accentuated by Capezio flats, made her look like a much younger girl. Her compact upper body, shoulders perpetually pressed back in dismount position—even with the absence of breasts—gave the pre-teen a regal air. Patsy’s look matched how Juliet felt; the definition of betwixt and between. The receptionist admonished Juliet, reminding her that the doctor’s busy, busy. “Maybe you should reschedule,” she said, furiously tapping her keyboard. “How’s April 28th at 1:15?” Juliet had spent nearly an hour alone with Vic’s kids waiting for the doctor and her husband. No way was she going to forfeit the effort she’d logged. “Yeah, do that,” Patsy said, hoisting her gym bag over her shoulder, making her way toward the door. “Reschedule. I’ll take the T back to the gym.” “I can meet with the doctor,” Juliet said to the receptionist. Patsy let loose a sigh that caused the delicate tendrils framing her face to lift and fall. “Fine. Wait till Dad gets here. He’s going to be pissed when he finds out you pulled me from practice so you wouldn’t have to babysit.” Juliet had no intention of telling the girl that she was actually doing them all a favor, since she wouldn’t be living with them a month from now, and who would accompany Owen to a rescheduled appointment would be up to them to figure out. “When my husband gets here, show him in,” Juliet said ignoring Patsy’s explicit threat. Warnings that, funny enough, only came when the girl’s father was nowhere in sight. Slurp. Slurp. “Owen! Put that down,” Patsy screamed, flying back across the waiting room like she was about to perform a handspring off the vault. The sound the straw made as Owen drained Patsy’s protein shake somehow sent all eyes in Juliet’s direction. Patsy sat down next to him and grabbed the cup away from her brother. “Shit,” she said. Owen reached over and pinched his sister’s arm through her cardigan. Her ouch ricocheted off the office walls. So of course that’s exactly when Vic decided to stroll in. It wasn’t hard for Juliet’s new husband to locate them among the other weary parents and whiny children, all of whom had been waiting far too long to see a-booked-for-months-in-advance specialist on children’s behavior. His family was making a scene. Victor Anthony Baines took Juliet Elise Collins for better or worse in that waiting room, kissing her on the lips right in front of his kids. At first she secretly triumphed over receiving his immediate attention for once. Then feeling petty, Juliet became discouraged that he’d found his children once again out-of-control in her care. The only good thing about the situation was that she had a fresh example to reinforce her argument: Juliet made things worse. It was time for her to go. “Owen, knock it off,” Vic said, his tone low and take charge. “Keep it up and there’s no computer tonight. Got it?” “Do not tell me you are skipping practice.” Vic looked at his daughter and then to Juliet. “What were you thinking letting her ditch? Qualifiers are in two weeks.” Juliet was about to take full responsibility for the girl being there. After all, the judgment would come down on her no matter what, and in this case, it was true that she’d been the one to orchestrate Patsy being there. “Chill. Coach let me out early.” When Patsy swallowed, Juliet could see every muscle tense along the length of the girl’s elegant neck. “Baines.” The receptionist barked again, coming off her high stool, her impatience reaching crescendo. Vic pulled his wallet from his slacks and handed Patsy a twenty. “You’re on the clock then, babysitter. I’ll double it if you get him to behave. We shouldn’t be long.” Vic’s wrinkle-free suit and his hair with its spiky wet look, reminded Juliet of morning. The run in her nylons and the mustard stain on her skirt said hard day’s night about her. Wasn’t it just a few months ago that she’d looked as unfazed and carefree as her husband. What a fool she’d been to summarily dismiss every one of her friends’ admonitions: motherhood is messy. Juliet watched Patsy pull on Vic’s sleeve as though she wanted Vic him to bend down and kiss her on the cheek. With her lips near his ear, the girl whispered something as she repeatedly tapped the empty sports bottle. The only words Juliet could make out were Owen and drank. Vic lifted his boy’s chin, momentarily severing the connection he had to his game, though Owen’s thumbs continued to dash across the keypad. “You doing all right, Mister?” Vic asked. The boy nodded, and ignoring his father went back to the phone. “He’s fine,” Vic said to no one in particular. Juliet took in her husband’s coal eyes and the way the children’s jaw lines ended in slight yet identical points. Anyone could see that Patsy and Owen belonged utterly and completely to him. The harsh reality of Juliet trying to insert herself into this ready-made family could only be tempered by the fact that she was in love with her husband. Vic held the door for his bride. The receptionist leaned out, looking first at Patsy and then to Owen. “You’re leaving them out there alone?” the woman asked. Juliet couldn’t tell if she hadn’t let go of the children’s seconds-ago squabble or was bothered by the fact that both of them looked so young. It wouldn’t be the first time someone commented on the children’s years-younger-than-actual-age appearances. “My daughter’s thirteen,” Vic said puffing out his chest. “Remember the name Patsy Baines. Women’s gymnastics, Paris 2024. She’ll win the gold for uneven parallel bars.” Without apology for the long wait or any hint of hospitality, the woman who’d had a front row seat for the kind of performance Owen was known to stage, the behavior that landed them there in the first place, led Juliet and Vic down the hallway to a conference room. You’d think someone who worked on behalf of impulsive kids and the families they exasperated could be a little more accommodating. Vic and Juliet took side-by-side seats. Before the receptionist had closed the door, he reached for her hand. Juliet let him take it, even knowing the pressure of his skin against hers might unnerve her. “That was so nice of Patsy,” he said. “Out of practice early, and she comes here to help you out. Sorry I was late. I might have an offer on the Clarendon loft. I kept meaning to call you but the back and forth on this thing’s been tense. If I can lock it in at asking, it’ll bode well for the rest of my listings in the building.” Vic put two fingers an inch apart in mid-air, shaking them with confidence. “Baby, we’re this close to having what it takes to move Patsy to a more elite gym.” “Fantastic. Maybe we can twist her arm to watch Owen tonight so we can celebrate.” Where was the damn doctor? Juliet crossed her legs at the ankles wishing she could twist her own arm. Celebrate? Hardly the right set up for telling her husband she loved him but bags had been packed. “Or I could ask Adrian to come over,” Juliet said, trying to minimize the impact, hoping Vic hadn’t registered her poor choice of words. Her brother would be closing Embossed right about now, hitting a meeting in the basement of Arlington Street Church on his way home from work. He’d be free before Vic and Juliet got out of the appointment, and would sit with the kids if she asked him. Adrian was better with Vic’s kids than she was, a real natural. Though her brother was quick to remind her, he wasn’t sleeping with their father. “Patsy hasn’t left for Pennsylvania yet,” Vic said, his happy mood vanishing as quickly as Juliet’s quiet Sunday mornings had, like her clean kitchen counters had, like spontaneous sex had. The list of disappearing rituals and routines was long, and at odd times like this, Juliet mourned them. “Oh, God, I didn’t mean I want to get rid of her. I was talking about the loft.” Juliet squeezed his hand, and then because she wasn’t so sure she hadn’t meant Patsy, she dropped it. The office was stuffy. Juliet fanned her face and removed her sweater. Turning back from having slipped it over the back of her chair, she saw Vic staring at her arm. To cover the days old scratch marks, she slid her manicured fingers over the cuts. “You can’t blame me for wanting a little time alone with you,” she said. “To talk without being interrupted.” Vic couldn’t blame her; he didn’t have time. The doctor entered the room from a side door. After placing a collection of folders on the table, she reached her hand out first to Vic and then to Juliet. The doctor used the generic Dad to acknowledge her husband. Conspicuously absent was any identifying relationship tag attached to her. Stop being so sensitive, Juliet told herself. “Let’s get to it, shall we?” the doctor asked. “I’m sure your eager to hear my impressions of your son and what’s making learning more challenging for him.” Vic must’ve met the fifty-ish pediatric neuropsychologist when he’d brought Owen in for the first of two appointments, a standard physical in a traditional exam room. Juliet couldn’t recall him mentioning whether he liked the doctor or not. Wasn’t sure they’d even discussed the appointment she’d taken Owen to either. When she’d brought the boy to the second assessment session, a round of tests disguised as games and puzzles, the results of which sat in the center of the trio now, Juliet had been immediately envious of the gentle way this woman guided her stepson in play. “Let me start by saying Owen is a delightful boy with many strengths for learning.” The doctor kept one hand flat on her pile, as though she were holding the couple back from knowing what was inside. The longer she took with pleasantries, complimenting the child who at this moment was likely wreaking havoc in her waiting room, the harder Juliet’s stomach worked to push acid into the back of her throat. She heard a sigh emanate from Vic, could almost feel his breath on her cheek. “As I shared with Dad at the intake,” the doctor gestured to Vic, “the evaluation’s comprised of a clinical interview, physical exam, intelligence testing, and behavioral inventories—one completed by you, another by Owen’s teacher. I promise to go over the results of all of that with you in a moment. Including my recommendations.” The doctor finally opened the folder and pulled a head shot of Owen and a laminaVic diagram of a face from it, placing the two upside down to her but right-side up in front of Juliet and Vic. Out of the lab coat with Dr. Caryn Monroe embroidered in red above the starched white pocket, came a Montblanc pen. “Three abnormalities stood out when I met Owen on our first visit.” She used the end of the pen to point to each feature, starting with his smiling eyes. “The small opening here and here. The thin upper lip. And see here, between the mouth and nose, there should be what’s called a philtrum groove. In children with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome the philtrum is smooth.” The doctor paused. She must’ve known to wait for the toxic words to travel from the couple’s ears along a network of nerves to some processing plant in their heads. Vic didn’t say anything either. “Miss O’Hara said he was attention deficit,” Juliet said. “Obviously the hyperactive kind. Says he needs Ritalin.” “It’s not unusual for teachers to jump to a label to explain behavior, or sadly, to arbitrarily suggest medication. But Owen is not ADD or ADHD—he’s not FAS for that matter. He’s first and foremost a boy. Though it’s true his neurologic condition explains why it’s harder for him to learn and behave compared with other children his age.” “This is ridiculous,” Vic said. “Owen does exactly what he’s told when television or a bag of candy’s involved. No one said anything to me when he was born. You’re telling me everyone but you missed this? He’s seven for chrissakes.” Before Vic finished ranting, the word alcohol finally reached Juliet. Waves of memory hit her. Her mother pulling the car off to the side of the Tobin Bridge, cars honking as they whirred past the Pontiac, rocking it with a gentle sway. Adrian, just a baby, asleep in the backseat. And at first, the feeling of relief Juliet had at seeing her mother put down the bottle of vodka and pull the key from the ignition. Minutes ticked by. Her mother’s tears falling, falling, landing like polka dots on her pretty black blouse. Then her mother gripping the door handle. Adrian never startling at the sound as it clacked open. Her mother, out of the car. Over to the side of the road. Her shoes off in seconds. Her mother standing barefoot on the rail. Charlotte Marie Collins never looked back at the car or her children. With arms outstretched like some kind of angel, Juliet’s mother leaned into the wind. Juliet turned to Vic, searching his perfectly formed lips for answers. He’d never told her his ex-wife drank. How many times had Juliet shared her horrific memories with him? How often, deep into the night, had she shared her loathing of her mother’s love affair with Mr. Boston? Vic knew full well about Adrian’s struggle to stay sober and his nightly dates with AA. So how was it that Vic had never once mentioned that Simone drank enough to drown a part of her baby’s brain? “Even if we had a complete history on Owen’s mother’s drinking during pregnancy, I’m afraid the findings are incontrovertible,” Dr. Monroe said. “No matter how many times you hear it, it’s a lot to take in. Still there’s good news.” The doctor tapped the reports in front of her. “Is there a surgery?” Vic asked, picking up his son’s photo, using it to cover the clinical picture. The quaver in her husband’s voice stole Juliet’s breath. “Oh goodness, no. Nothing invasive,” Dr. Monroe said. “The alcohol consumed during his gestation created a permanent brain injury, but the treatment is a symptom management approach.” Juliet looked at Vic to gauge how he was hearing the words, permanent brain injury. All the tension in his body showed in the hard angles of his face. She could almost hear him grinding the surface of his teeth. “Owen tested low average intelligence on the Weschler, but his language and memory skills are a relative strength,” Dr. Monroe said. “It goes without saying that his verbal skills and positive attitude will take him far.” How—in a ten minute period—had things deteriorated so that good news was measured in a low IQ and a winning personality? “Here’s some information about FAS.” Dr. Monroe pushed some papers across the table toward Vic. He made no move to take them. “I’m available by appointment to meet with Owen’s teachers to discuss his special education plan. Let’s get that set up as soon as possible. I’ll recommend extra attention be paid to behavioral supports and strategies—things I can go over with the two of you and his team.” Juliet saw the words early intervention at the top of one sheet before the doctor assembled more pages of advice, tapping the collection on the table, then handing the lot to her. She wanted to ask if Owen’s problems had been detected ahead of schedule or was seven far too late, but the heat coming off Vic’s body, the way his beautiful hands clutched the arms of his chair, told her to save that along with her most pressing question for another time. Why hadn’t Vic told her? “Included is a list of groups we offer here on weeknights so you can learn more, maybe fine-tune the strategies you’re already using to curb Owen’s aggressive behavior,” the doctor said. “I think you’ll find connecting with other parents, especially as it relates to minimizing secondary disabilities very beneficial.” Juliet resisted the urge to ask what could possibly be worse than Owen’s primary problem when the last piece of paper came her way, a pre-filled prescription with surprisingly legible handwriting. “I’d like to start Owen on a trial course of a relatively new drug. I’ve seen Focalin help children with his type of impulse control issues. It may or may not work for him, but it’s worth a try.” Okay, great, there was a pill Owen could take. Juliet would tell him it was just another morning vitamin; Pebbles and Bam-bam without the fruit kick. Dr. Monroe got up. So Juliet did too. Only Vic sat unmoving in his seat, his eyes glued to the picture of Owen at rest parked in the middle of the table. “Stop at reception and make an appointment for him to see me in two weeks. In the meantime, read through the material, and if you have questions, don’t hesitate to call. Alert the school. Have their special ed liaison call my secretary. Schedules can take some time to coordinate.” Back in the waiting room, the children sat perfectly still; neither of them spying Vic and Juliet standing on the threshold between before and after. Patsy had both hands curled around her algebra book and Owen squealed whenever he earned points in the game he continued to play on his sister’s phone. Juliet didn’t like the way Vic looked at his son. Thanks to Dr. Monroe it was as though he were seeing only what was wrong with Owen instead of all that was right. A few minutes ago, her husband’s youngest child was all Baines—dark eyes, jet hair, square chin. Now all Juliet could see was Vic’s ex-wife. Each melted feature on the boy’s face Simone’s fault. “Dad-dy.” Owen yelled a little too loudly, dropping the phone mid-level in Patsy’s lap, jumping up to run to his father. Vic held himself back from returning Owen’s hug. Juliet couldn’t blame him. Part of her was still back in Dr. Monroe’s office too, not able to get that line drawing of a damaged face out of her mind. But so what if Owen looked different? She hadn’t ever thought so before now. And what did the doctor mean, permanent brain damage? Owen knew his way around the Internet better than some of the brokers in Vic’s office at Boston City Development. Mister Mayor, they’d call him when she’d take him to visit. “Mr. and Mrs. Baines,” the receptionist called out from behind glass. “Dr. Monroe wants a two week follow-up. Can I schedule your next appointment?” Juliet whispered Collins under her breath. Vic shot her a look. From the beginning he’d wanted her to change from Collins to Baines. Said it would be easier on everyone if the whole family shared the same last name. But letting go of Collins had never been an option. Juliet held on to her name like the key to some secret escape hatch. “I’ll give you a call,” Vic said, dismissing the receptionist. “I’ve got to check my calendar at the office.” “I could do it. Bring Owen in,” Juliet said. She held the collection of papers—the case the doctor was making—to her chest. “I said I’d take care of it.” Vic’s tone was harsh, but with Owen trying to climb his leg and the receptionist badgering him, Juliet could tell he was desperate to get out of there. If he didn’t give Owen a bear hug right there, right then, his son would never let go and get going. As Vic sent an apologetic smile in Juliet’s direction, he pulled his son up, kissed him on the nose. She watched her husband pause, his eyes locked on to the smooth space above Owen’s lips. Once Vic put him back down, he refused, even as the boy tugged, to let go of his hand. Patsy got up to collect her backpack, shoving her phone in her jacket pocket. Half-way to the door, Juliet noticed she was limping. “What happened to you?” Vic asked. “Nothing. I landed wrong on a fly-away.” “You weren’t limping when you came in here,” Juliet said. The girl sighed, cocked her head, and adopted a sarcastic tone. “It wasn’t hurting when I came in here.” “Is that why you got out early?” Vic asked. “Did you wrap it the way I showed you?” Tight?” “It’s fine. Coach McAllister said if it swelled up or didn’t feel right in a couple days, I should go to the emergency room.” Patsy kept her head down as if she were surveying the condition of her shoes. Or avoiding Juliet’s questioning stare. “Can we just get outta here? I missed two hours of time I could’ve been doing homework. And I’m starved.” “I’m not,” Owen said, doubling over. Still fighting the grip Vic had on his hand, the boy curled in on himself at the waist, one arm pressed tight against his stomach. “Owen, cut it out. Stand up,” Vic said. “That reminds me,” Juliet said. “Your dad and I have some things to talk about, so we’ll get Owen to bed and then we’re going out for a bit.” “Sorry, not tonight,” Vic said. “Last time she favored it like that, it was a stress fracture. Doc Glenn will squeeze us in.” In a one-handed maneuver, out came Vic’s phone to call the sports medicine doctor affiliated with Patsy’s gym. Vic hit the single digit on speed dial and left a message before Juliet could get her arms through her sweater. “Funny, it wasn’t bothering her until you showed up,” Juliet said to Vic. Patsy hobbled back to her father and sat in a seat by his side. “We’re not going to jeopardize qualifiers when Mass General is right down the street,” Vic said. “Are you sure, Daddy?” Patsy asked, handing him her backpack. Juliet watched Patsy massage her ankle. She wouldn’t be winning any Oscars for the fake way she winced. Vic didn’t answer Patsy. Instead he dropped the backpack and moved closer to Juliet, lowering his voice. “Would you mind taking him home and putting him to bed?” He slid Owen’s hand into hers, making it harder for Juliet to refuse the boy. “And thanks for being here today,” Vic said rubbing Owen’s back, brushing the hair from his eyes. “We all appreciate it. Don’t we Mister?” Juliet half expected Owen to need more convincing. She wasn’t at all certain he would agree to go with her, though he did suddenly seem more subdued. Then Owen nuzzled his head of curls into her side, and like a primitive reflex, Juliet’s arm encircled the boy and came to rest on his shoulder. “Wait up for me, okay?” Vic asked. “Get Adrian for tomorrow.” He kissed Juliet tenderly, letting his lips linger on hers, leaving her with the hint of some kind of promise. And before disbelief about the afternoon’s sequence of events could set in, Vic picked up his daughter’s backpack, took hold of Patsy’s hand, and began to step away from his wife. With one push of a button, the elevator arrived and the pair was gone, leaving Juliet and Owen together in an unfamiliar hallway.
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THE GLORIFIED PILLOWCASE I'm a glorified pillowcase. Four feet of useless flesh clad in a horrid floral pattern.
My child-sized loafers caked with dried muck pass the lone, skinny gate dangling to the ground from a broken hinge; and into the bombed-out part where the sparse, browning grass faintly reeks of pee. Some fifty feet inside, the dirt-tracked footpath slithers through a handful of powder-white concrete benches with arched backs. Well, it fits the mood. There is nowhere more appropriate to peaceably mourn. I waddle toward the only bench with the backrest intact, and climb atop it. Between the medley of scuzzy stains, the seat crams with scratched-in names and phone numbers. My mouth pinches. These people are animals, and then they wonder why God provides them imbeciles for leaders. Anyway, it's this, or I find a cozy spot among the cow pies on the grass. My backside grates over the knobby surface to a somewhat unviolated patch. I don an overcoat of dust and grit from the long trek through town, though my costume eases the embarrassment: bold flowers, wheat-and-tan, etched on a tacky red shirt, and matching pants, baggy and with tapered hems. It's a goddamned travesty, even for a bottom-feeding clown. My calloused hands fussily brush over the lumpen attire. The sticky white-and-blue face paint prickles my sun-kissed cheeks; and a floppy bucket hat with torn edges, also red, chafes my mussy shoulder length locks. I drag two fingers across the paint and mop them on my thigh. Then I pluck off the hat and plop it beside me. A gauzy film of clouds floats over the hazy, dusking sky; and before me, an oblong sandbox encloses a playground slide—sans the slide—and a seat-less swing. The box litters with faded plastic wrappers and crumpled juice cartons. My doppelganger: a soulless shell. I slouch on the seat and rub my eyes. Another canceled gig. People don't want clowns anymore; they're entertained enough by the fools running this country. How am I going to pay the rent this month? My organ-grinder uncle says I'm still young. He'll loan me a streetwise monkey and I need only blow into a flute. And salute precisely when the monkey does: he knows the business. People are charitable here, uncle says, but more than a laugh, they crave a sense of superiority. Fair enough, there's nothing to laugh about these days. I kick off my loafers and scour my pocket for a pack of cheapjack smokes and a bent matchbook. On the pack, above the ornate crest, imprints a gruesome image: blackened, puffy lips and a mauled mouth. The result of a lifetime of cigarettes, the label says. Mother-lovers, just stash some rat poison beside the sticks and let's be done with it. I snort, and at once a hacking cough seizes me. The spicy aroma of fried samosas wafts from the grungy open-air stall across the road, and I salivate. Later, should I buy one samosa and two oranges, or the other way round? Two samosas will tide me till tomorrow afternoon, but they'll cramp my tummy. And I must wake early to go beg the circus manager for work. Then again, a judicious toot or two may help clinch the gig. I tear off a stem from the matchbook and light up a lung rocket. A deep drag and my chest tingles. Speaking of later... I tip sideways and reach inside my pants for the sewn-in pocket. A slim, gray tin box: square with round edges. Inside, a solitary oval pill, the shade of oatmeal, clinks round. In either hand, I balance the pack of smokes and the box. Now, what's heavier? Limping through life hoping for a do-over, only to find a slow, torturous death? Or ending this here and now? I look skyward and shout, "What say you, cosmic joker?" CAW-CAW! A dark, waxen silhouette sets on the far side of the bench. Under the buzzing, flickering streetlamp's amber glow, a most black crow with a collar of pewter-gray tufts. I flinch and swallow hard. "You scared the crap out of me, owl-spawn." He perches on the backrest, and fixes on me with inky, glinting eyes as his missile-shaped beak jabs back and forth. My brow knits as I straighten on the seat. Shouldn't this dunce be home and lullabying his kids? I draw in the final millimeter of moldering tobacco and lob the stump sideways. Then my hand outstretches and I flap my wrist a few times in his direction. "Get lost now and let me mope in peace." The crow eyes me, unblinking, and picks at its slick, Stygian feathers. Figures, a Pakistani. He needs a hefty twig to the noggin. My cheeks puff out and I exhale. Then I lean forward and browse the grass below my overhanging feet. He angrily caws and pounces on me asudden. My breath catches. You fiend, I'm not food. I jerk backward and my hands shield the face. He lands a few inches from me and claws at my hat with his scythe-sharp talons. My ears mightily throb. Bah, a swine like the others. Hmm, since when does a crow have ivory feet? His beak cinches my hat and abruptly sweeps it off the seat. Then he simpers and squawks. Goddammit, now dumb birds think they can bully me. Okay, I'll holler and thrash my arms round. If that doesn't scare him, he's the Tipu Sultan of crows. My lips curl as I inch to my feet and grip the backrest for support. I outspread my arms, ready to mimic Maula Jatt, but choke on the war cry. A creaky sound punctuates the noisy grinding of wheels. What owl-spawn is biking here at this time? Can't these people leave me be? Hands on hips, I squint at the footpath ahead. A battered wooden pushcart, cedary and with rubber-mounted slabs for wheels, plods toward us. The old-timer inside must be a beggar. He sports a scruffy, bib-length beard under a shabby newsboy cap, and straining the cart forward with his hands, gaily whistles. Humph, why's this wretch so happy? My nose crinkles and I suspire. The crow eyeballs the man and rocks on his scaly feet. Soon he flutters his wings, voices a soft snarl, and zooms into the sky. I gulp. The hobo scared him? The horizon holds no clues of his retreat. "Hello there, midget. I'm Yaya," the beggar says, cheerily waving at me. Midget? Sigh, what's the use? My jaw unclenches and I exhale. "Good timing, geezer. Ever heard of a psychotic crow?" Yaya trundles within spitting distance and halts. He props upright, outthrusts his chin, and tugs on the lapels of his garish inside-out jacket. How do these lowlifes do it? Find meaning in their sad lives. I stare at him, incredulous. "I've run into a bloodthirsty goat or two, but a crow, eh?" he says, coiling the corkscrews in his beard. "What's your name, son?" Why do you care? For all intents and purposes, I'm just midget. I lower myself to the seat and pocket the cigarettes and pillbox. Then I hop to the grass and replace my shoes. "Bakshu." Yaya chuckles and twists round to grab a dimpled aluminum bowl jangling with coins. "Such cruel parents. Named you 'God's gift' of all things." My face flushes crimson. Hardy-har-har, even the bastard-spawn beggars in this town are comedians. I best skedaddle before the crow returns with his other insomniac friends. The hat slaps back on my head and I scowl. "All right, see you around," I say, curtly. Unconcerned, he counts the coins with his tongue sticking out sideways. Sure, ignore the midget. I about-face and tread toward the gate. "What's the rush?" Yaya shouts. I hesitate and then glance over the shoulder. "More wisecracks, geezer?" He jiggles the bowl with a toothless grin. "I made a profit today. How about tea, eh? I'm full of riotous stories." Profit? I've clearly wasted my life. With painted on scars and an arm sling, people would unquestioningly pity me more than him. I wheel round to meet his stare and my face shapes into a crooked smile. "How's the hobo life these days?" Something swooshes overhead. In a halolike circle, the sable form streaks above us. I blanch. God's wrath, is the crow back? My notched fingernails dig into my palms. Yaya gazes skyward with a bemused smile and scratches his temple. My hand holding down the hat, I spin round and sprint toward the exit. He'll be fine; the bird can't snatch him away. But I risk turning into a late-night snack for his hellish brood. On the cruddy wrought-iron fence that links to the gate and slopes backward, feathers ruffle and deep rasps sound. On its edged posts seats a battalion of coaly birds with bicolored eyes and chalky feet. I pull up within sniffing distance and goggle at them, my legs twitching from terror. Impossible. Where'd they come from? Their bristly, wedge-shaped heads bobble as they close ranks and glare at me. Goddammit, what sin am I paying for today? I backtrack in small, unsteady steps. CAW-CAW! A piercing squawk rings through the night and straightaway a pained howl follows. My blood chills. Not good, not good. I swivel toward Yaya. His palms shielding his now capless head, the hobo bobs and weaves to dodge the dive-bombing crow. And each time the fiend's talons rip into his naked flesh, he whimpers. Ports ablaze! I face the gate, quivering, and peer beyond the birds to the street outside. A row of shops alight with shimmering, polychromatic signs; and the throng of idle chatterers grows thicker. My hands cup over the mouth as I lift my chin. "Help us," I yell. Not a soul glimpses in my direction. Can they not hear me? I warily step forward. "Please help," I yell again. The coaly villains ominously beat their wings that glisten purple. Spooked, I scurry toward the bench and cower behind the seat. Yaya's sobs louden as the crow flitters overhead and mechanically stabs his arms and neck. "Save me," he cries weakly, and his bowl clangs against the cart's side panel and thuds onto the dirt. My legs quake in the crouch. How do I escape? But what about the wretch? Should I try to save him? No, people disappear in this city every day. What's one more bum? I widen my stance for blood circulation and right away my toes bump into a chunky rock. Wincing, I feebly cuss. Shit, I can try, but I'll never nail the crow with my spastic aim. The geezer bawls and the crow cackles. My chipped teeth grit. For once in my life, I must go down swinging. Hmm, it's gone quiet. My fingers enlace the rock and I raise it to my waist. Then I creep out into the open and peek round. In the cart, Yaya sags broadside: motionless. The crow roosts on his stubbly dome and leisurely pecks. My pulse hastens and I blink on repeat. Is he dead? And here I did nothing, goddammit. The legless fool even offered me tea. The coaly thugs studiously stand guard on the fence and track my every move. I can't stone my way out of here. Never going to happen. I double-back to safety behind the bench and sough. My chin droops and the rock spills to the turf. I slot a cigarette between my parched lips and strike a match against the caramel sandpaper. It sizzles and bursts into a pale orange flame. My heart ba-dumps. Fire. What beast isn't afraid of fire? I rap my forehead and ransack the pack. Half the cigarettes couch in its folds; enough to produce a blaze I can swing at the crow. It's a shame to waste them, but I'll lift more later. Now, how to save my hands from scalding? The plastic will burn right through in seconds. I slip the unlit stick inside and shift my weight from one foot to the other. The pillbox jangles in my secret pocket. This might work, but I can't afford to lose the pill. I could stow it sans the box, but what if I tumble and it crushes? A painless death doesn't come cheap. I pinch the pill up and stick out a serpentine hand to rest it on the bench. Then I array the cigarettes in a neat bunch and tuck them between the flaps. The pack clamps between the two squares of tin and I tiptoe to the edge. The crow silently seats on Yaya's head and his beak rakes his feathers. My fist curls. You will pay for preying on the poor, you scum. I grip the contraption away from my face and strike another match. The smokes instantly crackle and set aflame. Hurry, Bakshu, before the damned thing melts your hands. I mutter a prayer, and with a steely face, bound out in plain view. The crow ceases his loafing and zeroes in on me. He unfurls his wings and grimly clucks. Adrenaline bolts through every sinew. The flame waves above me and emits milky fumes that singe my nostrils. I rush headlong toward him, roaring. Unperturbed, the crow stays put until I'm mere steps away. Then he uplifts, cackling, and whooshes skyward. Sweat sprouts on my forehead as I wheeze. The murky, moonless night shows no telltales of his next blitz. He'll be back, I know it. I pirouette toward the fence. An excruciating minute goes by, but the birds remain stoic observers. How to wheel out the geezer before they swap for the crow? I lean toward Yaya and jolt his limp shoulder, but the geezer only dips further to the side. Sister-lover, now what? I wipe my clammy brow. There's not an orb of light in the park's periphery, beside the faint outline of the far-side fence. Can I shinny over? Or should I ram it with the cart? Given the condition, a good shove may level the entire neighborhood. They'll thank me later. A bustle of beating feathers. The birds rise as one and soar into the night, screeching. I slump onto the ground and breathe deep. At the roadside, patrons lounge round the foldout tables and feast on cut-price snacks. None of those losers heard the commotion? Snorting, I unclamp the seared pack and kick away the slag. To my rear, a low, bestial growl and champing. A shadow slinks toward me from some twenty feet away: blending in the darkness, beside the twinkle of fearsome choppers. I yelp. For the love of God, what nightmarish portal opened tonight to unleash these monsters? I get to my feet inchmeal and put up my fists. The strapping quadruped crosses into the streetlamp's radiant spread; a lustrous obsidian coat and pointy ears above a long, twitchy snout. It's no use. I can't outrun or battle this. Should I surrender? My arms drop and I stagger backward. Slobbering, the hound pads toward me and Yaya is still comatose. My heart pounds out an S.O.S. I'm not confident I can save myself, much less push the nearly departed out of harm's way. Think, Bakshu, think. My hand shapes into a hammer and wallops my ribs twice. Then I plant my feet wide and puff my chest out. "Aaarghh," I thunder, driving my dukes into the air. He halts and eyes me keenly with his mailbox-wide head sloping to one side. My dry cough returns with a vengeance. That's it, goodbye shitty life. Hope we never meet again. Heaving, I crumple cross-legged to the grass. He uptilts his jaw and gazes overhead; his ears taut and spasmodic. Then he gnarls. Something scares the scourge after all. Now's my chance to... CAW-CAW! Black wings scud past my shoulder and their piked nibs clip my ear. I quail. Oh no, he's back. Now they'll join forces to gorge on my flesh. I do a belly flop and stare ahead, horror-struck. The hound hunkers down and his eyes shrink to slits following the crow's flight. Why's this big lug with the deadly fangs scared of a puny bird? A faint mechanical whine knells in the distance, and every few seconds, something sputters. The sky pulses with pinpricks of light. Is there a landing strip nearby? The crow lunges at the dog, and with his talons scrapes the face. The beast cries and unleashes a long-nailed paw that slashes empty air. The crow hovers teasingly out of reach and soon spears the hound's flanks with his beak. In response, the hound bays and gyres on the spot. Again and again he leaps, his powerful jaw snapping, but the bird expertly evades him and pecks at his peepers. Time to exit while the monsters occupy themselves. I sit upright and knead my torpid calves. Then I scamper over to Yaya, yank him upright, and fold his arms over his lap. I speedily collect the strewn about coins and stuff the aluminum bowl between his lotus-posed legs. My stiff fingers clasp the cart's loose back-panel and I push hard. The wheels creak and bump forward an inch, and then another. Above me the whining amplifies, and there's a new whirring sound. Okay Bakshu, remember the time your father tossed you out the rickshaw? This will hurt much less; hopefully. My shoulders hunch and my forearms cord as I plow the cart on ahead. Every few steps, the grass skins my low-slung knees. Behind me, the hound yowls from pain and the fanatical bird ferociously crows. Yaya mutely sways in the cart, while the nutty aroma of samosas and stewed meat makes me swoon. Happy thoughts, Bakshu, happy thoughts. You're halfway there. Remember the peach-flavored popsicle from yesterday? Though past its shelf life, didn't it taste delicious? A discordant sputter cuts through the whining. Round me, the park pinwheels. Happy thoughts, Bakshu. Paws gallop near, and my chest draws taut. Bakshu, don't look back. In a flash, the hound zips past me and out the gate. He's gone? Where's the crow? I pause and mop my muggy cheek. The whining and sputtering bayonets my ears. My eyes squinch. A few yards to the exit. I flex my wrists and onward I muscle the cart. An engine, definitely an engine. It screams and its spotlights blind the path before me. Son of a mother-lover. I duck and try to swallow the universe-sized lump in my throat. CRASH. BOOM. A sleek, single-engine plane slams into the samosa stall and erupts into an inferno. The shock wave flings me backward, and spine first, I smash down onto the turf. An eerie, overlong silence, and then a chilling orchestra swells: hysterical voices, hustling feet, and the distant shrieking of sirens. Ports ablaze, is the world ending? Concussed, I stab my elbows into the dirt and raise my head. The plane's scorched tail is barely visible through the voluminous shafts of soot. Some feet away, the cart pitiably topples onto its side. I should pop the pill. It's time the earth splits in half and evil geckos emerge from its bowels. Limb by limb, I arise, and sweep down my clothes with a palm. Then my skull prickles. Wings flutter and my gut churns. Sister-lover, not again. I cringe and thresh my hands above the head. The crow glides over to the cart and casually perches on an airborne wheel: a small, oval object cinched in its beak. My pill! I reach out a shaky hand. "No." He swallows it, and staring at me, softly caws. White heat blinds me. Infidel, is nothing sacred to you? My face scrunches in fury and my coiled fists tremble. The cart quivers and someone deeply yawns. Yaya clambers out from behind in two layers of tatty pants rolled halfway up to the knees. He can walk? I scrub my forehead with mouth ajar. Looking away, he arches his back and stretches his arms wide. Then he squats to scoop up his cap and neatly fits it onto the head. I shuffle up to him. "You're alive." Yaya duck-walks two steps ahead to grab his bowl and pokes the ground for coins. "Whew. They're all here," he soon blurts. He chucks them inside the bowl and flashes me an impish grin. Then he rises and pats the crow on the head. Humph, these mother-lovers are in cahoots. My nostrils flare and I snort. Sad-eyed, he gazes at the bedlam on the street. "Pity. We must do tea another time." Three sinister shadows, suspiciously resembling the hound, teleport round the blast site. They sniff about the debris, and with their teeth snap out strips of mist with human faces. I shudder. Are these reapers? I hug myself to stop the tremors. "W-what's going on?" I ask, keeping a wary eye on the crow. Yaya wears a stony face. "Tch," he says, pulling his jacket tighter round him. "Damned Legion, no class whatsoever." Then he meets my slack-jawed stare. "Ah, right," he mumbles, and folds his arms behind the back. "The crow saved your life, you know?" I wring my hands. "You see anything worth saving?" He holds his belly and chortles, and in chorus, the crow hoots. "No clue. The bird has a mind of its own. Sometimes he aids plucky fellows, even when they're destined for no-good." No-good? Is there a future past this train wreck? But what about the bills, all those goddamned bills? I'm not even halfway through paying off dad's loan... I lower to my haunches and suck in a lungful of stinging air. "Yeah?" I ask, snatching a fistful of dirt. "Oh yes," he says sunnily and extends a knuckled hand. The crow soars to his forearm and affectionately rubs his pate against the jacket sleeve. "The key to life, son, is hanging on." My eyes shut tight and a tear dribbles to my nose. "I'm not sure I can anymore." Footsteps shuffle away and I hear snickering. "You will after you meet the turbaned man tomorrow." Yaya dissolves into the park's umbra as I vault upright. "What man?" I cry. The ambulance klaxons are deafening, and so are the lachrymose voices. A glorified pillowcase. Maybe, somehow, I won't forever stay a glorified pillowcase. Bryan Young is an independent author from Mountain View, California. Author of the book, DOME, he enjoys writing short horror stories, basketball, and the philosophy of humanity. You can read his published work here: https://www.amazon.com/DOME-Bryan-Young-ebook/dp/B07QD1RXFY And keep up with what he's working on here: https://twitter.com/BryanIsTheKing Cheesy’s World |
Debra J. White is an award winning free-lance writer in Phoenix Arizona, originally from New York City. She has written for such publications as Cat Fancy (Nov 2010), the Bark Nov/Dec 08), Animal Wellness (Apr/May 2020), the Arizona Republic (1/18/17), Dogs in Canada (July 08), the Latham Letter (Winter and Fall 2018), Animal Sheltering (May/June 08), the Phoenix Business Journal (8/12/2011), Social Work (July 2010), Fostering Families Today ( Dec 07) Literary Yard (10/13/20), Indian Country Today (2/15/06), American Jails (Mar/Apr 2007), Potato Soup Journal (Oct 2019) Journal of the American Veterinary Medical Association (Mar 96), East Valley Tribune (9/6 and 11/12/08), the AZ Muslim Voice (2014-2016), and others. She reviewed books for Animal People (2009-2014) and contributed a chapter in Dogs and the Women Who Love Them (2010). She wrote a breed specific book for TFH Publications (2010). |
Worthless Woman, Worthless Dog
For $2.00 I got Maxine, a scrubby stray dog, from a drug dealer. That was 1988 when I was a social worker in a decaying Bronx neighborhood overrun with crack cocaine, gangs, and more shattered lives than my new social work degree could handle.
Maxine and I shared a special bond. On January 6, 1994 we took our usual stroll after work when a car struck me and threw me into a ditch. Rendered unconscious, I lay bleeding and battered. Maxine was unharmed but shaken up. Neighbors said she refused to leave my side, licking blood oozing from a gash on my face. She whimpered and whined as the ambulance sped off. Fortunately, friends cared for her in my two-month absence.
After I left the ICU a week later, the hospital allowed friends to bring Maxine for a visit. Although I have no memory of her bedside calls, friends said I knew her name. At the time, I didn’t know my own.
Two months later I came home on the verge of slipping into a deep depression. How could I, an active, vibrant 39-year-old woman, live as a disabled person? I had always earned my own keep. Exercise was routine, jogging nearly every day. I ran in the New York City marathon three times and bicycled in the Rocky Mountains. I hiked in state parks. Maxine’s warm nose nudging me out of bed after the accident made the difference. Slowly, I shifted my angry attitude and realized life had a purpose.
In the years that followed, Maxine took my disability in stride. She rode on my motorized scooter like the happiest dog in the world. As she aged, my scooter became as vital for her outdoor activity as it was for mine. We went everywhere together.
By 1999 my beloved Maxine faded from old age and diabetes. I feared the end was near. Judy, my other rescued dog, was never alone. I asked my friend to visit an animal shelter to adopt a new companion.
Hundreds of cast-off mixes and purebreds yapped for attention. Their eyes melted my heart, pleading for love. I could only take one. Who would it be?
Luke wasn’t on my list. Other dogs had more spunk. A fat black mix with a cute wiggle grabbed my attention but my friend steered me towards Luke, a large curly-haired terrier mix with sad eyes.
Originally brought in as a stray, Luke was adopted then returned a month later. The new owner said Luke was inconvenient because he was moving.
Once outside, Luke brightened up and smothered me with doggie kisses. Tail flapping, he howled as if belting out a top ten hit. My motorized scooter was no impediment for him although he tried lifting his leg on the rear wheel. Luke handed me his paw, rolled on his back and kicked his legs in the air. There was no way to resist his canine charm so I adopted him that sweltering July afternoon.
Surprisingly Maxine hung on for another two years, sleeping nearly all day. Luke, however, loved and adored everyone. He had personality plus. What about pet therapy?
Luke showed potential and I wanted to share his gifts with sick or injured patients, just as Maxine uplifted me when my life unexpectedly capsized.
Luke breezed through a behavior test and passed a medical examination, allowing us to join the Companion Animal Association of Arizona, a requirement for therapy work. We were assigned to visit sick, elderly, or injured patients at a rehab center.
On the first week, Luke endeared himself to the recreation assistant, a gregarious young woman with a Julia Roberts smile. Luke and Kim developed a comical routine that never wavered. At 9:00 a.m. Luke and I waited in the lobby. As Kim approached, Luke’s tail wiggled in circles. He yipped and yowled. I let go of his leash, cracking up as my dog dashed down hall throwing himself into Kim’s open arms. My twice abandoned dog was on a roll.
Patients welcomed us. Reactions were priceless, such as Maria, the older Latina woman with a brain hobbled by a stroke. Only two words remained in her vocabulary – Maria, Maria. Grinning, she stroked Luke with her good hand and said, “Maria, Maria.” I always said hello and asked how she was. Nodding, she replied, “Maria, Maria.” As Luke brushed against her wheelchair, the gleam in eyes showed appreciation. "Maria Maria," she said as I rolled out of her room, always smiling at Luke.
Bald and be-speckled, Will saved treats for Luke, such as bacon strips, hard-boiled eggs, and soggy wheat toast, which my dog gobbled up in seconds. Luke’s bad manners tickled Will. Two years later, Will suddenly died. As we bypassed his room, Luke yanked on his leash as if to say, “What about Will?” He missed the old man’s affection and the tasty treats he saved for him.
And there was Frank. For reasons I never understood, Luke picked Frank as his special friend. Luz, Frank’s mother, was stricken with lung and heart disease. In his younger years, Frank drank to excess, was chronically unemployed and often gambled away his mother’s meager earnings as a janitor. Frank finally spruced up his act and visited Luz daily. Every time Luke saw Frank he bellowed as if he’d seen his best friend. Although Luz was on a ventilator, she smiled at their tender interaction.
Not everyone at the rehab center withered away. Some patients recovered and moved into assisted living facilities where pet ownership was permitted, sometimes even encouraged, so seniors stayed active and vibrant. Patients asked me for shelter contacts to adopt older cats or dogs for company. I was always glad to help.
Luke not only brightened up patients’ lives but he brought relief to over-worked staff too. Nurses, doctors, aides, and therapists benefitted from Luke’s weekly visits. Everyone loved Luke.
On a chance encounter at a now closed dog bakery, I met Pam Gaber in July 2001. She is founder and president of Gabriel’s Angels, a non-profit organization that tries to break the cycle of violence in bruised, battered, and at-risk children through healing pet therapy. I liked Gabriel’s Angels philosophy and signed on as a volunteer.
Initially, I retained dual memberships. Disabled, I no longer worked so I had enough time for two pet therapy visits. Luke had plenty of love and compassion to share as well.
We were assigned to a homeless shelter. Homeless children had their lives torn apart by poverty, parental unemployment, domestic violence, or divorce. Left behind were their friends, community connections, classmates, extended family, neighbors, and pets. Luke and I would follow Gabriel’s Angels’ philosophy and spread kindness, respect, dignity, and compassion to all living beings. Children who absorb humane messages are less likely to be shackled by violence.
Luke bonded with seven-year-old Kevin. Wheel-chair bound, Kevin’s bodily movements were awkward and spastic. He was speech impaired. I presumed cerebral palsy. Luke sidled next to Kevin, making him giggle. Despite staff assurances that Kevin couldn’t speak, I heard him say, “The dog” several times. One week, Kevin wasn’t around. I asked about the boy with CP.
“CP?” The staff worker shrugged no. “His mother’s boyfriend beat the crap out of him.” As a toddler, Kevin fussed a lot. One day, Joe flew into a rage, pummeling Kevin with his fists. Joe went to prison but Kevin’s sentence is a lifetime of profound disability. Luke brought him brief moments of solace.
When I met ten-year-old Linda her mother served time for child abuse. Although Linda escaped physical damage, she was emotionally shredded. Her mother also killed her dog. Her father assumed care but recently lost his job. Homelessness followed. Linda adored animals and talked to Luke as if he was her personal confidant. From her vacant stare, I wondered how much we reached her.
Teaching compassion extended beyond animals. A petty spat between two pig-tailed girls erupted into a brawl while other children assembled a jigsaw puzzle. I separated them and said, “Ladies, please stop fighting. Tell me what this is about.”
“She called my mother a name,” Veronica said jabbing her finger at Tracy.
“Did not,” Tracy said, lunging at Veronica.
“Did too.”
I pressed myself in between the feuding girls.
“This has to stop,” I said. “No screaming, yelling, or hitting. You two make up. Who says sorry first?”
Faces gnarled, the two girls wrapped their arms around their chests and snapped their heads in opposite directions.
“Veronica? Tracy?”
When neither girl spoke, I grabbed Luke’s leash and headed towards the door.
“Wait, where’re you going?” wide-eyed Veronica asked. “What about Luke? Why is he leaving?”
“As long as you two act up, there’s no point in us staying. The other children don’t like it when you fuss and argue. Luke doesn’t either. We’ll come back next week.”
Veronica and Tracy quickly made up. Although I earned a master’s in social work, I lacked training in early childhood development. I wasn’t sure what to do but my idea seemed to work. We finished the puzzle without incident.
Three years as a multi-pet therapist posed no scheduling problems for me. However, the rehab center, changed corporate ownership. I disagreed with management philosophy about patient recreation and pet therapy. By mutual agreement, we parted ways.
I brought Beanie Baby dolls to play a pretend game of compassion to animals. Instead, a group of children played violent games with the stuffed animals.
“Stop that, please,” I said. “I brought these dolls so you kids could have something fuzzy to cuddle and learn about compassion. Please don't act out games that hurt.”
A few children continued to act mean spirited despite my pleas to behave gently. Finally, I said, “That’s it. I want them back. All of them. I come here to spread kindness and compassion.”
No one said a word as I collected the dolls. On my way out, children not involved in violent games asked me if they could have the dolls back. I said yes but only if they played with them nicely.
Due to the vagaries of shelter life, homeless children may do poorly in school. Large families cramped into one or two small rooms deprive children of quiet time for studies. With Luke as the focus, I sometimes brought math or vocabulary cards to bolster learning. No sooner had I whipped out the math cards when Stevie, a twelve-year old boy, started sobbing. Surely, it couldn’t be the math so I asked, “What’s wrong?”
Sniffling, Stevie said, “My brother and I got beat up on the school bus.”
Down went the flash cards. Math would wait. “What happened?”
A group of girls egged the brothers on because they lived at a homeless shelter. Stevie and his freckle-faced brother John were shy, reticent boys. Both were slightly built. When the girls pounced on them with blows to the face and neck, the boys didn’t fight back. No other students stopped the fight either. The bus driver said nothing.
Our staff worker called the principal. I led a discussion that day about bullying. Why it happened? How it can be prevented? What to do if you are a victim?
On my way out, Luke cuddled up next to Stevie. He rested his paw in the boy’s lap. Stevie’s eyes were still red and puffy. I hugged him and said I was sorry. I felt so inadequate that I couldn’t offer more. Violence hurts children in so many ways.
Every Christmas, a friend volunteered for an organization that collected toys for needy children. I always got to pick out toys, books and games for the shelter. I wrapped each child’s gifts and brought them before Christmas. Seeing their excitement was precious. They ripped open the presents as if they were gold. For a treat, I rented Christmas music CD’s from the library. We sang to tunes like Jingle Bells, Silent Night and Hark the Herald Angels Sing. Luke sang along too in his own special way. He howled at various parts of the songs and the children cracked up.
On December 26, 2004 tragedy struck half way around the world. A giant tsunami nearly swallowed up Asian countries like Thailand, Sri Lanka, and Indonesia. Thousands died while the savage storm left millions without homes or jobs.
Moved by the frightful situation in Southeast Asia I shared my thoughts with the children. Despite being homeless, their hearts were full of empathy for the people whose lives were shattered by the tsunami. With a little help from me, they wrote letters to the ambassadors of the most severely impacted countries. I added cover letters explaining who we were and mailed them to the United Nations. Several weeks later, the phone rang. The ambassador’s office from Sri Lanka called to thank me for the kind and thoughtful note sent by the children. The woman’s name escapes me but she promised that as soon as the country recovered from the frightening devastation, she’d read our letters to schools across the country. I felt so proud. I returned the next week with the good news. A few children had already moved. Too bad they weren’t around to hear the touching message.
Every summer the shelter asked me to extend my visits to one hour. I looked for interesting, humane, and educational opportunities. I prodded the owner of a yoga parlor to offer free yoga lessons to the kids. I arranged a visit to Whole Foods, a natural grocery store. At the end of our visit each child received a gift bag filled with wholesome snacks. We visited a ranch for abused and unwanted horses. I invited speakers from the Sierra Club to talk about our natural environment and how they could be kinder to Mother Nature. A woman who raised guide dogs for the blind showed us how the dogs were trained. The Great Arizona Puppet Theatre put on a fabulous, entertaining performance every year that made the kids laugh, smile and giggle.
At the end of 2008, Luke and I retired as a therapy team. During sessions kids asked me, “Why does Luke sleep so much?” One boy laughed at Luke’s snoring.
Age slowly crept up on Luke. My dog had to be at least twelve years old although I was never sure. He showed more interest in curling up for a good snooze than interacting with the kids.
Over the seven years I visited the homeless shelter I met hundreds of children. Each one touched me in a special way. Some came from families who fell on hard times. Working class people often scrape by on the edge. Loss of a job, lack reliable transportation or a serious illness can throw many to homelessness. Other children had mothers who escaped from domestic violence with nothing more than the clothes they wore. A handful were raised by single fathers or extended family members. Lots of children lived with both parents. Most had at least one parent who worked. Lack of affordable housing was their enemy. Demand outstripped supply. I saw some children for a few weeks. Others remained for the four-month maximum stay. Almost all the children loved Luke. They hugged him, kissed him, put a radio headphone around his ears, danced with him, and begged him to stay. Wherever the children ended up, I hope they remember our messages about kindness, compassion and love. For a dog considered worthless and unwanted, Luke developed into a champion. He never strutted around the show ring but he was always my best boy. He was top dog. All those homeless kids molded me into a better person. For that I will always be grateful.
Luke died on January 23, 2010. I still miss him. During his short time on this planet, a shelter dog considered worthless brought hope, kindness and compassion to hundreds of lives.
Buzzy the Bear
It was a Steiff bear, complete with the button and tag in his ear, light brown fur and dark brown eyes. The bear had arrived on the Brightsons' doorstep that morning in nicely wrapped box. The package had not been mailed, and that was strange. So it had come from someone within walking or driving distance, someone who didn't want to be identified. But why a Steiff bear?
Madeline Brightson knew that Steiff bears came from Germany and were probably the most expensive bears a person could buy. She'd never had one as a child, and if someone had given her a Steiff bear her mother would have put it in a glass case under lock and key. Instead, she had a cheap bear, Buzzy, that she played with for years until he fell apart and her mother threw him away. One day when she was in fourth grade, Madeline came back from school and Buzzy was gone.
"Where's Buzzy? I can't find him. He was sleeping in my bed when I went to school."
"That old thing? He was falling apart. He's gone. In the garbage truck that came this morning."
"You threw him away?" Madeline had started to cry.
"He was so dilapidated, an embarrassment to the decor of your lovely bedroom. You're too old for teddy bears anyway."
The loss of Buzzy had left a hole in Madeline's heart. Even now, years later, when she herself was a wife and mother, she thought fondly of Buzzy and still mourned him. She shuddered to think of him still lying in a landfill, but maybe he had disintegrated by now. Probably not. He was probably still there lying in the middle of trash and garbage, still thinking about his friend Madeline.
Now Madeline stood with her family looking at a brand new Steiff bear.
"That's a Steiff bear. I used to have one, " said her husband Geoffrey.
"You had one? Lucky you."
"I guess you didn't. Well, you were a girl."
"So what! I liked teddy bears. My mother bought me a cheap little bear. I named him Buzzy. If I had had a Steiff bear it would probably have been locked up in a display case. I wouldn't have been allowed to play with him."
Little Johanna looked at her mother. "Locked up? Wow. I'm glad you didn't do that to my guys. That's sad."
"Yes it was. But I had Buzzy for a long time."
"What happened to him?"
"Well, Johanna, I hate to tell you this, but my mother threw him away one day when I was at school."
Geoffrey looked alarmed. Johanna looked shocked.
"Sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it. I don't want you to think badly of your grandma."
Geoffrey frowned. "How can she avoid it? Listen, Johanna, people do things for different reasons. Usually people believe that they're doing the right thing." He looked to his wife for support.
"Yes. That's true. Grandma Betty thought the old bear made my room look messy. Plus, she thought that I was too old for a teddy bear. I was in fourth grade."
"I'm in fourth grade."
"Yes, I know, Johanna, but don't worry. We're not throwing away any of your guys or your dolls. And no one is going into a glass case, locked away forever. Not even this new Steiff bear."
Then little Jonah spoke up. "Can it be my bear?"
"You'll tear it apart. You'll get food on it. You're too little."
"I'm not," Jonah shrieked as he pushed his sister.
It was Geoffrey's turn. "Listen, kids, we don't know where this Steiff bear came from. The box had a name on it."
The children looked at their father. "Whose name?"
"Well, Johanna, it said The Brightson Family. That means your dad, your mom, your little brother, and yourself. We're going to have to share the bear. Somehow."
"You don't want a bear."
"Why not, Jonah? I had a Steiff bear very much like this one when I was a boy. I named him Brownie because of his light brown fur and his big brown eyes."
"What happened to him? Did your mom throw him away?"
"No, Jonah. I have a feeling he's still in her house. Next time we visit, I'm going to have to check."
Jonah looked relieved. "Can I have him?"
"Well, we'll have to find him first and then check with Grandma Louise. And if he's not in good condition, maybe Grandma can get out her sewing equipment and fix him up. If it turns out that Grandma Louise has Brownie and is willing to give him up, you'll have to grant me visitation rights."
"What's that?"
"It means that I'll be allowed to visit Brownie any time I want so we can talk about old times."
Johanna laughed. "Dad, you're kidding."
"Actually, I'm not. Brownie and I had good times together."
"Does that mean I get the new bear?"
"Johanna, do you remember what I said a few minutes ago? This bear came in a box addressed to The Brightson Family. That means all of us."
"How can we all have the same bear?"
"First, I think we can all vote on a name for the new bear. Then we can set up a schedule so that each of us gets to take care of the new guy, one day at a time. Do you think that would work?"
"I know what we should name the bear."
"What, Johanna?"
"Mom, I think we should name him Buzzy, after your bear that you had when you were a little girl."
"What a sweet idea, Johanna."
"Great idea," said Geoffrey. "Are we all in agreement?"
They all nodded.
"And I think it should be Mom's bear."
"My bear? Why can't we share him, Jonah?"
"Well, we'll all get to see him, so in a way he belongs to the family, and he'll be living in our house. But I'll be getting Dad's old bear, Brownie."
"How do you know that Grandma Louise will part with him?"
"Because she likes me. A lot."
"What about me, Jonah?"
"Dad, you already said you would have some kind of rights. I forget. But you said you would visit Brownie if I got him."
"Well then, what about Johanna?"
"Dad, I've got a zoo in my room, bears and a lion and a giraffe, and dolls. I'm OK. I think Mom should have this bear. I wonder where he came from."
There was a knock on the back door. Then the door opened. "Anyone home?" It was Grandma Betty. Suddenly the entire Brightson family felt uncomfortable.
"In the dining room, Mom." Madeline wondered what her mother would say when she saw the bear.
"What's going on? Oh, what a nice bear. A Steiff bear, I see. He has the button and the tag. He's definitely the real thing. Whose is it?"
"Mom, we found a box on the front steps. Someone left it. It was addressed to The Brightson Family. So I guess the bear is for all of us."
Jonah spoke up. "No, it's Mom's bear because you threw away her old bear when she was a kid."
"Jonah!"
"Well, it's true, Mom."
No one spoke for a few minutes.
"You're right, Jonah. It should be for your mom, if she still wants a bear. Over the years I've thought about Buzzy. I shouldn't have thrown him away." She gave a little smile to her daughter.
And suddenly Madeline knew who had given her the new Buzzy, though she never did find out how the bear happened to get to the front steps.
Madeline Brightson knew that Steiff bears came from Germany and were probably the most expensive bears a person could buy. She'd never had one as a child, and if someone had given her a Steiff bear her mother would have put it in a glass case under lock and key. Instead, she had a cheap bear, Buzzy, that she played with for years until he fell apart and her mother threw him away. One day when she was in fourth grade, Madeline came back from school and Buzzy was gone.
"Where's Buzzy? I can't find him. He was sleeping in my bed when I went to school."
"That old thing? He was falling apart. He's gone. In the garbage truck that came this morning."
"You threw him away?" Madeline had started to cry.
"He was so dilapidated, an embarrassment to the decor of your lovely bedroom. You're too old for teddy bears anyway."
The loss of Buzzy had left a hole in Madeline's heart. Even now, years later, when she herself was a wife and mother, she thought fondly of Buzzy and still mourned him. She shuddered to think of him still lying in a landfill, but maybe he had disintegrated by now. Probably not. He was probably still there lying in the middle of trash and garbage, still thinking about his friend Madeline.
Now Madeline stood with her family looking at a brand new Steiff bear.
"That's a Steiff bear. I used to have one, " said her husband Geoffrey.
"You had one? Lucky you."
"I guess you didn't. Well, you were a girl."
"So what! I liked teddy bears. My mother bought me a cheap little bear. I named him Buzzy. If I had had a Steiff bear it would probably have been locked up in a display case. I wouldn't have been allowed to play with him."
Little Johanna looked at her mother. "Locked up? Wow. I'm glad you didn't do that to my guys. That's sad."
"Yes it was. But I had Buzzy for a long time."
"What happened to him?"
"Well, Johanna, I hate to tell you this, but my mother threw him away one day when I was at school."
Geoffrey looked alarmed. Johanna looked shocked.
"Sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it. I don't want you to think badly of your grandma."
Geoffrey frowned. "How can she avoid it? Listen, Johanna, people do things for different reasons. Usually people believe that they're doing the right thing." He looked to his wife for support.
"Yes. That's true. Grandma Betty thought the old bear made my room look messy. Plus, she thought that I was too old for a teddy bear. I was in fourth grade."
"I'm in fourth grade."
"Yes, I know, Johanna, but don't worry. We're not throwing away any of your guys or your dolls. And no one is going into a glass case, locked away forever. Not even this new Steiff bear."
Then little Jonah spoke up. "Can it be my bear?"
"You'll tear it apart. You'll get food on it. You're too little."
"I'm not," Jonah shrieked as he pushed his sister.
It was Geoffrey's turn. "Listen, kids, we don't know where this Steiff bear came from. The box had a name on it."
The children looked at their father. "Whose name?"
"Well, Johanna, it said The Brightson Family. That means your dad, your mom, your little brother, and yourself. We're going to have to share the bear. Somehow."
"You don't want a bear."
"Why not, Jonah? I had a Steiff bear very much like this one when I was a boy. I named him Brownie because of his light brown fur and his big brown eyes."
"What happened to him? Did your mom throw him away?"
"No, Jonah. I have a feeling he's still in her house. Next time we visit, I'm going to have to check."
Jonah looked relieved. "Can I have him?"
"Well, we'll have to find him first and then check with Grandma Louise. And if he's not in good condition, maybe Grandma can get out her sewing equipment and fix him up. If it turns out that Grandma Louise has Brownie and is willing to give him up, you'll have to grant me visitation rights."
"What's that?"
"It means that I'll be allowed to visit Brownie any time I want so we can talk about old times."
Johanna laughed. "Dad, you're kidding."
"Actually, I'm not. Brownie and I had good times together."
"Does that mean I get the new bear?"
"Johanna, do you remember what I said a few minutes ago? This bear came in a box addressed to The Brightson Family. That means all of us."
"How can we all have the same bear?"
"First, I think we can all vote on a name for the new bear. Then we can set up a schedule so that each of us gets to take care of the new guy, one day at a time. Do you think that would work?"
"I know what we should name the bear."
"What, Johanna?"
"Mom, I think we should name him Buzzy, after your bear that you had when you were a little girl."
"What a sweet idea, Johanna."
"Great idea," said Geoffrey. "Are we all in agreement?"
They all nodded.
"And I think it should be Mom's bear."
"My bear? Why can't we share him, Jonah?"
"Well, we'll all get to see him, so in a way he belongs to the family, and he'll be living in our house. But I'll be getting Dad's old bear, Brownie."
"How do you know that Grandma Louise will part with him?"
"Because she likes me. A lot."
"What about me, Jonah?"
"Dad, you already said you would have some kind of rights. I forget. But you said you would visit Brownie if I got him."
"Well then, what about Johanna?"
"Dad, I've got a zoo in my room, bears and a lion and a giraffe, and dolls. I'm OK. I think Mom should have this bear. I wonder where he came from."
There was a knock on the back door. Then the door opened. "Anyone home?" It was Grandma Betty. Suddenly the entire Brightson family felt uncomfortable.
"In the dining room, Mom." Madeline wondered what her mother would say when she saw the bear.
"What's going on? Oh, what a nice bear. A Steiff bear, I see. He has the button and the tag. He's definitely the real thing. Whose is it?"
"Mom, we found a box on the front steps. Someone left it. It was addressed to The Brightson Family. So I guess the bear is for all of us."
Jonah spoke up. "No, it's Mom's bear because you threw away her old bear when she was a kid."
"Jonah!"
"Well, it's true, Mom."
No one spoke for a few minutes.
"You're right, Jonah. It should be for your mom, if she still wants a bear. Over the years I've thought about Buzzy. I shouldn't have thrown him away." She gave a little smile to her daughter.
And suddenly Madeline knew who had given her the new Buzzy, though she never did find out how the bear happened to get to the front steps.
THE BIG WINNER
He saved a bird once.
Or did the bird save him?
Trapped in his neighbor’s torn window screen this bird was.
His neighbor was old and crying over the little bird’s loud flapping distress in Hell while Biscuit, her cat, only saw the dinner bell.
Mrs. Parker her name was.
Angelo heard the commotion and ran out, saw the deal and took the window screen off with the bird still attached and gently, slowly extracted the little birdy from the now somewhat shredded screen. The little birdy, took a look at Angelo, then took a breath, and flew away.
Angelo the surgeon of the occasion noticed the old lady looking at his hands. They were bleeding.
He told her, “ Don’t worry, from the screen, it will make a great war story”.
She was OK with that.
This woman had been sick. Sick, tried, and pale.
But nothing like the sick, tired, and stark white of the present, that made her old shade of pale look black.
Angelo took care of all that and she was now flush and thriving.
Soon she will be back to her natural pale pallor.
He once upon a time or two thought about getting a pet, but he had seen how fast and terrible they go and could not, would not handle that, or the vet bills.
His pets were on you tube and any neighbor that would let him walk or pet their livestock.
He liked children, as long, as they were not his.
He could not for the life of him figure out how he always felt alone but cool.
He was brought up good, he was decent in school. No beatings. No divorcing parents.
His folks didn’t even have the desire to sexually or verbally abuse him.
Not even a little bit.
A little birdy
Stuck in a screen
Reminded me
Of a world so mean
He could have decided right there to become a doctor. Maybe a surgeon considering the way he worked that screen. Maybe an E.R. guy. Something.
But he did not.
You see, Angelo was not a misanthrope. But kept his distance with his mind but made up for with his heart and hands.
His love life was come and go. Mostly go.
His fantasy was to meet a cute girl with a nice pet that did not need a cigarette.
So far, no candidates.
He had a low opinion of High Tech.
He liked voices instead of text and E. and sounds.
Like animals do.
Angelo’s life would become a number of things.
Maybe something other than, “Take a number please”.
The gratitude Angelo was shown from his neighbor overwhelmed him and from that time on, it never turned off. He showed nothing but love and was the type of man that is here on this earth to lend a hand.
Most responded to that aura of his in a reciprocal manner.
That was nice, and it stayed that way throughout Angelo’s days.
Angelo liked life but as he looked around, he didn’t feel a part of it.
He always knew that if he dropped dead, not a thing would change, and he wouldn’t or couldn’t blame it.
Humble in victory, humble in defeat was the way Angelo tried to play on his streets and under his sheets.
Humble in loneliness from the beginning was always calling and became his calling.
In his story, loneliness was number one on the charts, the villain , and forever hold that ranking.
Angelo, no matter what day it was, was an early riser.
Four or so early.
Didn’t have to be at work till nine.
He would make instant coffee then wait for the coffee shop on the corner to open and have what he would call his real coffee, face to faces with all the different races.
His thing was to put groceries on the table with a bit extra to dish out to whoever or whatever.
Another neighbor in the apartment building he lived in was quiet in a loud style. She was on the slow side but optimistic . Always did her own shopping although it wasn’t easy.
A lot of it from all the stores in walking distance.
She had this way about her . Maybe it’s her vulnerability.
Under any other circumstances Angelo might have bedded her down but one day she asked him what the movie, “Cowboys And Aliens”, was about. That did it, and led to, don’t do it.
That and having to live under the same roof that would become a roof of shame was not in the house of cards his fantasy mind built.
He helped her in an out a lot with her daily haul. He referred to it as a haul ever since she told him she was into stealing some of it.
When she grew up, she said she wanted to be a spy.
She was 45.
All he liked doing, other than his job, was writing little stories and poems. He was happy that when he sent them in to magazines that at least when they rejected them, they sent a letter making it all official like.
He liked that. He was getting close!
So, Angelo was a writer, and he called his little apartment, “A writer lives here’’.
He never gave anything he wrote out to anyone to look at because he did not want to put them on the spot, and he felt it was like giving out homework assignments.
It was enough to keep it to himself and the rejectors.
After high school he got a job in a department store run by a swell family that also happened to run the small town he lived in.
He started in the stockroom and his beautiful spirit of a soul soon put him in the complaint department.
People would feel guilty about complaining after a bit of time with Angelo.
But he made good on everything bad.
One day a women thew up on Angelo’s complaint counter and Angelo lovingly comforted her and wiped her mouth clean with his sleeve.
She even got a new coffee machine.
The store was his half life. The writing was the other half.
He loved his job and his job loved him.
The hours just flew by as he turned the customers complaints into play dates.
He got along with everyone as usual except one guy.
Just didn’t like him like he liked everyone else.
This guy was always putting everything and everyone down.
And you could tell he really liked it.
This guy did not like working. He didn’t like anything except bad news for others.
Well don’t we all .
Not Angelo. He would gladly die for your sins.
He would rather have bad news for himself than hear someone else’s.
All his co-worker wanted was to retire at age 40 and get high and watch T.V.
And Angelo was all for that, but, kept his opinion to himself.
But this card - carrying prick was only 37.
Anyway, we all become the worst minority.
Old and alone.
One day the woman who threw up came in the store and gave Angelo a lottery ticket with a birthday card,
“Fill in your birthday and thank you”, she said.
It was her birthday and she wanted to show Angelo her gratitude for showing her that the human condition was not in that bad condition.
Angelo lost the ticket and did not lose a second regretting it.
Angelo knew that the human condition has never changed, and that the human condition would never change except for the invention of air conditioning.
All you could hope for is a dash, or sprinkle, or ration of happiness once in blue or any other color moon.
Angelo was happy all the time.
Not idiot happy but confident happy.
He missed his job on the weekends.
Time crawled by. Sometimes over the weekends it stopped completely.
If he ever got a tattoo it would read. “Thank God It’s Monday”.
He missed the people he worked with.
Except one of them.
Only at work did his mind play happily.
He began to study thru the,” Internut, as he called it, the machine he wanted to take over form the guy he wanted to run over.
He didn’t have a car but a bus would do in a pinch.
He couldn’t wait to get back to work where he could see and hear the machine he was devouring knowledge on.
He also enjoyed reading rise and fall stories.
The Roman Empire, Persia, Germany, France, Great Britain and on and on.
What goes up, must go down.
He liked to see what the Hell happened.
He never thought of the concept of why.
He knew why.
They were humans.
He also found out how to get an untraceable pistol.
He didn’t have a plan yet, but, thought he would need one when the next civil war broke out.
He didn’t have to know all the answers of why he was lonely as Hell and always would be.
Anyway, it saves money.
But he liked that lend a hand stuff and was pleased, after research, to determine that he wasn’t a sociopath.
His job at the small factory in the big city was his path.
There was one thing blocking to way to Bliss Blvd.
That prick that also worked there. Angelo, every time he was near the guy it reminded him of those stories on T.V. where a guy is in prison for 40 years for losing his temper in a bar or wherever after knocking a skull in.
They always ask the inmate if he is sorry.
They usually say. “No fucking way”.
This particular guy, who Angelo worked with, knew how to operate this particular machine, so that was that for the time being.
He cursed in front of the owners pre-teen children who helped in the store/factory.
Angelo did not like that or the way he looked at them.
In Angelo’s rather tiny social orbit this guy took up a lot of real estate.
Only person he ever met that made him feel this way.
He must be asking for it.
Begging for it.
It would be an understanding jury.
One day into night after Angelo finished his shift. They had a day shift, and a night shift, Angelo once asked the head of the family he so adored if he could work both shifts, the owner asked him sincerely when would he sleep, Angelo had to admit he forgot about that part of his life.
His dreams were nothing to dream about.
They were mostly of his first and only love that did not work out and he was always begging for her to reconsider this, reconsider that in dreamland and she always said no, you’re dreaming honey.
Maybe it was for the best he reasoned in the morning.
She was a family girl.
He was not a family man.
Not his own family anyways.
One Saturday his neighbor was sitting on the porch listening to a book
He asked her what she was listening to, and she said, The Count Of Monte Cristo:’, It’s about revenge.
William Shatner was doing the taking.
.
She started in as usual proclaiming she felt good about the lottery tonight.
Angelo could not count the times she banged on his door to tell him that she thinks she won the lottery and would he be kind enough to double check for her and there would be certainly something in it for him when she gets her hands on the cash!
He always had to tell her, “Not this time Sweetie”.
Then Angelo would say, said, “Yeah, not this time cupcake, but, you’re due!”.
.
She went back to her book of revenge and Angelo went back to his
Angelo would look in the mirror with the gun and repeat, “You talking to me?’’, a lot.
That soon morphed into, “Who am I kidding. You?”, “You kidding me ?”.
Angelo filled a certain sex prescription in his name for the foreman on the night shift that did not want his wife to know he was fucking. She thought he went off the sex trail a month after the honeymoon, not that he simply left the reservation of passion.
Like her mother told her it would be.
He let Angelo come in at night just to touch the machine he was studying at home on.
The machine was saying to Angelo, why don’t you shoot the guy who is working me in the head, then you can be at my controls instead?
On Angelo’s walk home he felt a bit of a fever coming on and thought of what Pete Townsend wrote, “Sickness will surely take the mind where minds don’t usually go”.
It made sense.
His way home was blocked thanks to his running up to him lottery neighbor wanting him to verify if she was due liked he promised.
This time was different.
This time, she didn’t even get one fucking one number right.
They walked back together to the place they lived separately under the same roof and saw an ambulance out front and a gurney carrying Mrs. Parker out.
Angelo picked up the pace and walked alongside the gurney telling Mrs. Parker that what ever the fuck it was, it would be alright.
She asked if the bird he saved ever came back to visit with him.
He said, all the time,
She smiled and closed her eyes as she was taken away.
Way away.
A few weeks later Angelo found a card under his door from a lawyer that wanted to contact him.
When Angelo contacted him, the lawyer asked him to come his office and bring identification.
When he went to the lawyer’s office, he produced his drivers license for the car he didn’t own, and a passport that never went anywhere.
He wanted to ask the lawyer if he wanted a stool sample too on his desk but kept his mouth shut which he always thought was a good idea rather letting one of his witty thoughts out.
He was told before he went there he was left something in Mrs. Parker’s will and figured it would be something like a pillow with some kind of embroidery on it that he would who the Hell know what to do with or where to put.
He only knew he would not throw it away.
She left him a hundred thousand dollars, and the lawyer would pay the taxes.
Neighbors.
Go figure.
After a few days he got fifty thousand in cash out of the bank in one hundred-dollar bills and re-deposited it in a suitcase he had that travelled as much as his passport.
He went to work the next morning and offered the suitcase with all of the fifty thousand in it to that machine operator he wanted to shoot in the head to take the money and disappear.
When asked why Angelo simply said he wanted his job and was paying for it.
The guy asked Angelo if he won the lottery.
Angelo said no.
You did .
Or did the bird save him?
Trapped in his neighbor’s torn window screen this bird was.
His neighbor was old and crying over the little bird’s loud flapping distress in Hell while Biscuit, her cat, only saw the dinner bell.
Mrs. Parker her name was.
Angelo heard the commotion and ran out, saw the deal and took the window screen off with the bird still attached and gently, slowly extracted the little birdy from the now somewhat shredded screen. The little birdy, took a look at Angelo, then took a breath, and flew away.
Angelo the surgeon of the occasion noticed the old lady looking at his hands. They were bleeding.
He told her, “ Don’t worry, from the screen, it will make a great war story”.
She was OK with that.
This woman had been sick. Sick, tried, and pale.
But nothing like the sick, tired, and stark white of the present, that made her old shade of pale look black.
Angelo took care of all that and she was now flush and thriving.
Soon she will be back to her natural pale pallor.
He once upon a time or two thought about getting a pet, but he had seen how fast and terrible they go and could not, would not handle that, or the vet bills.
His pets were on you tube and any neighbor that would let him walk or pet their livestock.
He liked children, as long, as they were not his.
He could not for the life of him figure out how he always felt alone but cool.
He was brought up good, he was decent in school. No beatings. No divorcing parents.
His folks didn’t even have the desire to sexually or verbally abuse him.
Not even a little bit.
A little birdy
Stuck in a screen
Reminded me
Of a world so mean
He could have decided right there to become a doctor. Maybe a surgeon considering the way he worked that screen. Maybe an E.R. guy. Something.
But he did not.
You see, Angelo was not a misanthrope. But kept his distance with his mind but made up for with his heart and hands.
His love life was come and go. Mostly go.
His fantasy was to meet a cute girl with a nice pet that did not need a cigarette.
So far, no candidates.
He had a low opinion of High Tech.
He liked voices instead of text and E. and sounds.
Like animals do.
Angelo’s life would become a number of things.
Maybe something other than, “Take a number please”.
The gratitude Angelo was shown from his neighbor overwhelmed him and from that time on, it never turned off. He showed nothing but love and was the type of man that is here on this earth to lend a hand.
Most responded to that aura of his in a reciprocal manner.
That was nice, and it stayed that way throughout Angelo’s days.
Angelo liked life but as he looked around, he didn’t feel a part of it.
He always knew that if he dropped dead, not a thing would change, and he wouldn’t or couldn’t blame it.
Humble in victory, humble in defeat was the way Angelo tried to play on his streets and under his sheets.
Humble in loneliness from the beginning was always calling and became his calling.
In his story, loneliness was number one on the charts, the villain , and forever hold that ranking.
Angelo, no matter what day it was, was an early riser.
Four or so early.
Didn’t have to be at work till nine.
He would make instant coffee then wait for the coffee shop on the corner to open and have what he would call his real coffee, face to faces with all the different races.
His thing was to put groceries on the table with a bit extra to dish out to whoever or whatever.
Another neighbor in the apartment building he lived in was quiet in a loud style. She was on the slow side but optimistic . Always did her own shopping although it wasn’t easy.
A lot of it from all the stores in walking distance.
She had this way about her . Maybe it’s her vulnerability.
Under any other circumstances Angelo might have bedded her down but one day she asked him what the movie, “Cowboys And Aliens”, was about. That did it, and led to, don’t do it.
That and having to live under the same roof that would become a roof of shame was not in the house of cards his fantasy mind built.
He helped her in an out a lot with her daily haul. He referred to it as a haul ever since she told him she was into stealing some of it.
When she grew up, she said she wanted to be a spy.
She was 45.
All he liked doing, other than his job, was writing little stories and poems. He was happy that when he sent them in to magazines that at least when they rejected them, they sent a letter making it all official like.
He liked that. He was getting close!
So, Angelo was a writer, and he called his little apartment, “A writer lives here’’.
He never gave anything he wrote out to anyone to look at because he did not want to put them on the spot, and he felt it was like giving out homework assignments.
It was enough to keep it to himself and the rejectors.
After high school he got a job in a department store run by a swell family that also happened to run the small town he lived in.
He started in the stockroom and his beautiful spirit of a soul soon put him in the complaint department.
People would feel guilty about complaining after a bit of time with Angelo.
But he made good on everything bad.
One day a women thew up on Angelo’s complaint counter and Angelo lovingly comforted her and wiped her mouth clean with his sleeve.
She even got a new coffee machine.
The store was his half life. The writing was the other half.
He loved his job and his job loved him.
The hours just flew by as he turned the customers complaints into play dates.
He got along with everyone as usual except one guy.
Just didn’t like him like he liked everyone else.
This guy was always putting everything and everyone down.
And you could tell he really liked it.
This guy did not like working. He didn’t like anything except bad news for others.
Well don’t we all .
Not Angelo. He would gladly die for your sins.
He would rather have bad news for himself than hear someone else’s.
All his co-worker wanted was to retire at age 40 and get high and watch T.V.
And Angelo was all for that, but, kept his opinion to himself.
But this card - carrying prick was only 37.
Anyway, we all become the worst minority.
Old and alone.
One day the woman who threw up came in the store and gave Angelo a lottery ticket with a birthday card,
“Fill in your birthday and thank you”, she said.
It was her birthday and she wanted to show Angelo her gratitude for showing her that the human condition was not in that bad condition.
Angelo lost the ticket and did not lose a second regretting it.
Angelo knew that the human condition has never changed, and that the human condition would never change except for the invention of air conditioning.
All you could hope for is a dash, or sprinkle, or ration of happiness once in blue or any other color moon.
Angelo was happy all the time.
Not idiot happy but confident happy.
He missed his job on the weekends.
Time crawled by. Sometimes over the weekends it stopped completely.
If he ever got a tattoo it would read. “Thank God It’s Monday”.
He missed the people he worked with.
Except one of them.
Only at work did his mind play happily.
He began to study thru the,” Internut, as he called it, the machine he wanted to take over form the guy he wanted to run over.
He didn’t have a car but a bus would do in a pinch.
He couldn’t wait to get back to work where he could see and hear the machine he was devouring knowledge on.
He also enjoyed reading rise and fall stories.
The Roman Empire, Persia, Germany, France, Great Britain and on and on.
What goes up, must go down.
He liked to see what the Hell happened.
He never thought of the concept of why.
He knew why.
They were humans.
He also found out how to get an untraceable pistol.
He didn’t have a plan yet, but, thought he would need one when the next civil war broke out.
He didn’t have to know all the answers of why he was lonely as Hell and always would be.
Anyway, it saves money.
But he liked that lend a hand stuff and was pleased, after research, to determine that he wasn’t a sociopath.
His job at the small factory in the big city was his path.
There was one thing blocking to way to Bliss Blvd.
That prick that also worked there. Angelo, every time he was near the guy it reminded him of those stories on T.V. where a guy is in prison for 40 years for losing his temper in a bar or wherever after knocking a skull in.
They always ask the inmate if he is sorry.
They usually say. “No fucking way”.
This particular guy, who Angelo worked with, knew how to operate this particular machine, so that was that for the time being.
He cursed in front of the owners pre-teen children who helped in the store/factory.
Angelo did not like that or the way he looked at them.
In Angelo’s rather tiny social orbit this guy took up a lot of real estate.
Only person he ever met that made him feel this way.
He must be asking for it.
Begging for it.
It would be an understanding jury.
One day into night after Angelo finished his shift. They had a day shift, and a night shift, Angelo once asked the head of the family he so adored if he could work both shifts, the owner asked him sincerely when would he sleep, Angelo had to admit he forgot about that part of his life.
His dreams were nothing to dream about.
They were mostly of his first and only love that did not work out and he was always begging for her to reconsider this, reconsider that in dreamland and she always said no, you’re dreaming honey.
Maybe it was for the best he reasoned in the morning.
She was a family girl.
He was not a family man.
Not his own family anyways.
One Saturday his neighbor was sitting on the porch listening to a book
He asked her what she was listening to, and she said, The Count Of Monte Cristo:’, It’s about revenge.
William Shatner was doing the taking.
.
She started in as usual proclaiming she felt good about the lottery tonight.
Angelo could not count the times she banged on his door to tell him that she thinks she won the lottery and would he be kind enough to double check for her and there would be certainly something in it for him when she gets her hands on the cash!
He always had to tell her, “Not this time Sweetie”.
Then Angelo would say, said, “Yeah, not this time cupcake, but, you’re due!”.
.
She went back to her book of revenge and Angelo went back to his
Angelo would look in the mirror with the gun and repeat, “You talking to me?’’, a lot.
That soon morphed into, “Who am I kidding. You?”, “You kidding me ?”.
Angelo filled a certain sex prescription in his name for the foreman on the night shift that did not want his wife to know he was fucking. She thought he went off the sex trail a month after the honeymoon, not that he simply left the reservation of passion.
Like her mother told her it would be.
He let Angelo come in at night just to touch the machine he was studying at home on.
The machine was saying to Angelo, why don’t you shoot the guy who is working me in the head, then you can be at my controls instead?
On Angelo’s walk home he felt a bit of a fever coming on and thought of what Pete Townsend wrote, “Sickness will surely take the mind where minds don’t usually go”.
It made sense.
His way home was blocked thanks to his running up to him lottery neighbor wanting him to verify if she was due liked he promised.
This time was different.
This time, she didn’t even get one fucking one number right.
They walked back together to the place they lived separately under the same roof and saw an ambulance out front and a gurney carrying Mrs. Parker out.
Angelo picked up the pace and walked alongside the gurney telling Mrs. Parker that what ever the fuck it was, it would be alright.
She asked if the bird he saved ever came back to visit with him.
He said, all the time,
She smiled and closed her eyes as she was taken away.
Way away.
A few weeks later Angelo found a card under his door from a lawyer that wanted to contact him.
When Angelo contacted him, the lawyer asked him to come his office and bring identification.
When he went to the lawyer’s office, he produced his drivers license for the car he didn’t own, and a passport that never went anywhere.
He wanted to ask the lawyer if he wanted a stool sample too on his desk but kept his mouth shut which he always thought was a good idea rather letting one of his witty thoughts out.
He was told before he went there he was left something in Mrs. Parker’s will and figured it would be something like a pillow with some kind of embroidery on it that he would who the Hell know what to do with or where to put.
He only knew he would not throw it away.
She left him a hundred thousand dollars, and the lawyer would pay the taxes.
Neighbors.
Go figure.
After a few days he got fifty thousand in cash out of the bank in one hundred-dollar bills and re-deposited it in a suitcase he had that travelled as much as his passport.
He went to work the next morning and offered the suitcase with all of the fifty thousand in it to that machine operator he wanted to shoot in the head to take the money and disappear.
When asked why Angelo simply said he wanted his job and was paying for it.
The guy asked Angelo if he won the lottery.
Angelo said no.
You did .
I can see a tree from the forest!
Springtime is my favorite time of the year. I can see for miles down the valley, and the forest, covered by a thin layer of gentle rolling clouds, welcomes me to a new day. The warm breeze energizes my old aching muscles. As the breeze whips the thick forest canopy, it creates a “conversation” amongst the bird life and trees. As the morning sun grows warmer, I see the dew evaporate, and I’m invigorated for another day which will be like every other, serene, marvelous, but lonely.
I’ve been walking about the tower with a 360-degree view of the forest, peering through my long-range binoculars for signs of fire for hours, and a stretch is welcome. I’m pushing seventy-five, and been fortunate to work many seasons atop this fire lookout tower which I call home and work.
I remember growing up on our family ranch in Montana. I would look up in amazement at the beautiful mountains in the distance, the towering trees hovering over me, and realize how small, and vulnerable I was. Time moved slowly as a young man, and each new day was magical.
I sip a cup of something resembling coffee, and remember awakening to the aroma of the freshly brewed coffee awaiting me in the kitchen, fondly prepared by my wife of fifty years. I’d enter the kitchen wearing my freshly pressed, Forest Ranger uniform, and enjoy small talk with Marge before heading to work, after finishing a grand breakfast of bacon and eggs or flapjacks.
When Marge passed away, I couldn’t tolerate living in our home without her. I handed the keys to the Realtor, saying, “Sell it as quickly as possible, furnished, and everything in the closets. I’ve boxed my framed photos and will only be taking them with me.”
I needed to relinquish the pain of losing Marge, and the only way I knew possible was to get back into the forest. I had a stellar record and many high placed friends within the Forest Service. I was fortunate to be assigned as a volunteer “Fire Lookout”.
My lookout station is a 52’ tower, surrounded by windows and an exterior catwalk, deep in the woods of Montana. My equipment includes binoculars, telescope with tripod, a compass, maps, a two-way radio, and an "alidade," which is a combination of a telescope and compass to determine the distance to a suspected fire. The lookout season started March 1st, and will end on November 1st, when the snows come.
The tower has no telephone lines, no cellphone coverage, internet cables, gas, water, or sewer systems. I fill buckets of water from a storage tank at the base of the tower. There is an electric generator with an adequate supply of petrol for the season, and a septic tank also located beneath the tower.
I sleep in a bunkbed, cook on a two-burner propane cooktop, have a portable heater, a table, and a few chairs. I have a toilet with a tank above it which I fill with water allowing me to flush the toilet. I shower in a corner of the tower, surrounded by a plastic curtain, with water sprinkling down from a bladder hanging above the shower which I must replenish with water. My showers are short, cool, sometimes cold, and remind me of those showers we took in the Army during battle.
Climbing the many stairs up to a 52’ tower with jugs of water and propane tanks is becoming more arduous. I struggle for breath with each step, and at times, must sit as I become dizzy from the climb. My heart is beginning to “skip a beat”, which tells me it’s getting ready to fail. It’s all worth the struggle, because, although, my living conditions are sparse, the work of spotting potential fires is important, and my “office” has a better view than any Park Avenue executive suite.
As autumn approaches, bright flashes of lightening light up the valley, followed by tremendous thunder, and the rain falls. I love the rain and the beautiful melody it provides. The sound of the pelting rain is similar to a pianist’s fingers pounding out notes on a grand piano. The rain invigorates me, but I remain vigilant, and carefully scan the horizon for any fires started by the lightening. It may take days for the smoldering tree to burst into flame, and I remain on high alert for days.
I noticed a bolt of lightning split a tree apart, revealing what appears to be a tower which had been camouflaged by the dark patch of forest surrounding it. I raised my long-range binoculars in the direction of what appears to be an abandoned fire lookout tower, caught a glimpse of somebody in a rain coat and hood, ascending the final flight of stairs, and closing the door behind them. According to my alidade, the tower is thirteen miles away. I was excited to have a new neighbor.
It became my practice, to occasionally swing the telescope towards the tower in hopes of catching a glimpse of my new neighbor. To my surprise, my new neighbor was a beautiful woman, likely in her late sixties. How delicate, graceful, and elegantly she walked about her tower, like a dancer! She was slender, and wore her long, straight, gray hair in a braid. I felt rude intruding upon her privacy, and turned the telescope away. I surmised she was one of the lucky few who rent these vacated towers to enjoy the quiet, solitude, and privacy of the woods.
I want to introduce myself to my neighbor, but how can we communicate? We’re thirteen miles apart, and I can’t abandon my tower. I can’t physically undertake the long walk at my age, and I have no vehicle.
My only mode of communication is a two-way radio connected to headquarters. I attempted to locate somebody transmitting on my old, vacuum tube, short wave radio which hadn’t been used in decades. As I slowly turned the dial, all l could pick up on each frequency was static. I decided to give it a good cleaning, hoping the cleaning would awaken the tired old vacuum tubes. If I’m lucky, she’ll pick up my communication, if she has a shortwave.
After cleaning up the old shortwave, I turn it on, and it struggles like a sleeping old soul, to awaken. I slowly turn the dials and hear only static. I may wear out the old vacuum tubes, and keep it on for only short periods of time.
I also attempt to get her attention with sunlight bouncing off a mirror. No response.
For weeks, I tried to get her attention with the mirror and old shortwave. I noticed that with each session on the shortwave, I’d was able to pick up barely audible, unrecognizable chatter or music. I remained hopeful.
One sunny afternoon, I placed the mirror in her direction. After no response, I gave up, and returned to my work. A flash of light began dancing about the walls of my tower. I ran to the catwalk with my mirror, and replied. We made contact! I brought out my telescope and shortwave to the catwalk, hoping she would see both through her binoculars or telescope. As I peered through the telescope, she pointed to both a telescope and modern shortwave. I pointed to my shortwave, and gave the “thumbs up.”
For days, we’d peer through our telescopes at each other, after sending a message from our mirrors. We waved and attempted to communicate with crude sign language.
One evening, the dark sky was the clearest, I remember. The forest was still. I fired up the old shortwave, slowly turned the dial, and clearly heard a ballet. I wrote down the frequency, ran to the telescope, pointed it towards my neighbor, and to my delight, saw the beautiful woman, dressed in a leotard, and ballet slippers, dance to what I believed was “Swan Lake”, the only ballet Marge ever “dragged” me to. My neighbor was nimble, leaping about, and completed a Pirouette, which Marge explained to me. I watched until the dancing concluded. Assuming she had finished, I grabbed the vintage hand mic to the shortwave,
“This is Forest Service Lookout Station 8. Calling unidentified tower inhabitant previously contacted via telescope and mirrors.”
There was no response. She must have had her shortwave off or on another frequency. I repeated my call for a half hour, but fearing the wear and tear of the old vacuum tubes, I was ready to turn the old shortwave off when I heard,
“This is Gracie calling Forest Service Lookout Tower 8. Can you hear me?”
I was so excited, my heart, almost leapt from my chest, and I dispensed with the formal radio communication chatter.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Gracie. My name is Brad. I’m the Fire Lookout you’ve been communicating with.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Brad.”
“May I suggest you write down the frequency you reached me on?”
“I already have you on “autodial”, Brad. How far away are you?”
“13 miles according to my alidade. I’m transmitting on a vintage shortwave with vacuum tubes which are barely holding on for life. I suspect you have a modern shortwave system.”
“Yes, I do, Brad. I came prepared. I don’t want to lose communication with you should your shortwave go down. May I suggest we speak again tomorrow, say, after dinner, around 8:00 pm?”
“That sounds wonderful, Gracie. I hope the weather conditions are conducive to the great reception we’re experiencing tonight?”
“Don’t worry, Brad. We’ll let nature takes its course, but I’ll say a prayer, just in case. Goodnight!”
“Goodnight, Gracie.”
My conversation with Gracie awakened long dormant feelings I haven’t felt since I met Marge for the first time. I couldn’t wait to speak with Gracie tomorrow.
It was Sunday evening and I felt it appropriate to treat our conversation like a date. I cleaned up, put on fresh clothes, and turned on the old shortwave to the frequency I had written down. At 8:00 pm, sharp, my shortwave came to life with an angelic voice,
“Calling Brad. Are you there?”
I reached for the hand mic,
“I’m here, Gracie. Good evening.”
“Good evening to you, Brad. How was your dinner?
‘I had beans and franks. How about you?”
“I made a dandelion and “Miner’s lettuce” salad along with “Stinging Nettles” soup.” I was able to gather the ingredients from the woods.”
“You eat healthy, Gracie. Please be careful of what you pick from the ground and trees to eat as many are poisonous.”
“Thank you for the warning, Brad. I came prepared with an illustrative text of wild, edible plants and berries. You can do better than beans and franks. What else do you eat?”
“I have a supply of “MRE’s”.
“What are those?”
“Meals Ready to Eat” in plastic pouches containing entrees which heat up once you tear open the pouch. I have quite a variety of different meals.”
“Are they tasty, and what do you drink with your meals?”
“You’d be surprised how a little Tabasco sauce make them palatable. I drink water and coffee, but miss a cold beer!”
“I brought a variety of freeze-dried gourmet meals including Thai Curry with shrimp, Miso salmon, and Tika Masala. I also made certain to bring a case of red and white wines. I wish I could share these with you, Brad.”
“If this old body could make the 13-mile hike, I’d be right over, but I can’t leave the tower. Even for a seasoned hiker, the trek is very hilly, full of hungry wildlife, and the weather can change quickly. My advice is not to hike too far from your tower, Gracie. You were smart to come well prepared for your stay.”
I could tell the old shortwave was tiring as it was becoming harder to hear Gracie. It would be prudent to give it a rest.
“I’d enjoy speaking longer with you, Gracie, but my old shortwave is telling me it’s growing tired, and I don’t want to permanently damage it. When would you like to speak again?”
“I understand, Brad. Let’s speak again next Sunday, same time? We can say “hello” during the week with the mirrors and telescopes, ok?”
“Your idea sounds wonderful. I enjoyed speaking with you Gracie, and look forward to getting to know you. Goodnight.”
I enjoyed our impromptu “mirror conversations” and amateur sign language while peering at each other through telescopes. We developed a habit of saying ‘good morning” as the sun rose with the mirrors. We resorted to flashlights in the evenings with two on and off signals denoting, “Goodnight”. Our daily “chats” enriched my life in the tower.
I treated the old shortwave as if it was a valuable antique. I gently cleaned it, and kept it covered, hoping it would stay alive.
On Sunday evening, at 8:00 pm sharp, my shortwave came to life,
“Hello, Brad. Are you there?”
“Good evening, Gracie. It’s nice to hear your voice.”
“Likewise, Brad. It was fun communicating all week with the mirrors, flashlights, and sign language.”
“I enjoyed it also, Gracie. Tell me about yourself and what brought you here?”
“I recently retired as Chairperson of the Literature Department at a small, liberal arts college in the northeast. I’m writing a book on Frost and Thoreau. I believe the solitude, quiet, and beauty will give me inspiration to write about these giants of literature.”
“My knowledge of literature is limited to Zane Grey and Mickey Spillane. I knew you were a learned and sophisticated woman the moment we spoke. Was your retirement mandatory?”
“It was a lifetime appointment but the politics, workload, and pleading for grants burned me out. I was happy to retire. Tell me about yourself, and why you become a Forest Lookout?”
“I was born on a ranch in Montana. Mom died from cancer when I was a toddler. Pop raised me while running a cattle ranch with a dozen ranch hands who taught me the “cowboy way.”
“What is the “cowboy way?”
“Wake up early, work hard, keep out of other people’s business, and be kind to wildlife. They worked hard, and played hard, but, despite their drunken brawls, and womanizing, they told me not to emulate them, respect women like I would my mom or sister if I had either.”
“I’m happy to know they were a positive influence in your life, Brad. What about school?”
“I attended kindergarten through high school, in a tiny school house with twenty kids who lived on ranches miles away from the school house. It was quite a trek to get to school given the distance from home, especially during winter.”
“How did you get to school?”
“I rode my horse, “Linebacker”. He was a big “Draft” horse, strong as steel, and could plow through the heaviest snow. Pop gave him to me when I started kindergarten, riding alongside me on his horse until he was certain I could ride alone. Linebacker passed away when I was in Vietnam. I heard the old fella died in his sleep. I loved him. Pop buried him with a tombstone in the local cemetery.”
“It’s unimaginable riding a horse to and from school! Your life springs from the pages of a Louis L’Amour, novel. What about Vietnam?”
“I enlisted in the Army so I could become a paratrooper.”
“Why did you want to become a paratrooper? Getting shot at is dangerous enough!”
“Montana is called “Big Sky Country” because the unobstructed skyline overwhelms the landscape, averting your attention from the beautiful mountains, valleys, and plains. If I could parachute, I’d enjoy the landscape parachuting down. I was assigned to the 101st Airborne Division and served two tours. My fondest memories were the beautiful landscapes of Vietnam I witnessed parachuting into a firefight. I’m sorry we destroyed much of that beautiful country with bombs and napalm.”
“I’m grateful you survived that bloody, unnecessary war, Brad. What did you do after the war?”
“After I was discharged, a Greyhound bus dropped me at the end of a ten-mile dirt road leading into pop’s ranch. I was wearing my full-dress uniform carrying a duffle bag over my shoulder when Ranger Rudy stopped and offered me a ride. After welcoming me home, he noticed my “Airborne” patch, and said, “If you can jump out of planes into battle, you sure as hell can jump out of planes and fight forest fires. Check out the Forest Service Smokejumpers as a career.” I saw pop out in the distance on his horse racing to greet me at the house.
I witnessed the ugly side of life fighting in Vietnam, and working hard on our ranch, in the wide-open space, helped me work through some emotional trauma I suffered from battle. It wasn’t long before I craved the exhilaration of parachuting into danger, and I found myself reporting for Smokejumper training.”
“Were you married and have children?”
“I met Marge as a young “Smokejumper”. She was a nurse in the E.R. treating me for smoke inhalation. When I awoke from being on a ventilator, the most beautiful eyes and angelic face was staring at me. Her hands delicately held my hand as she took my pulse, and I noticed she wore no rings. Marge said, “You have the biggest, most beautiful smile, I’ve ever seen!”. I replied, “When a guy awakes to an angel like you, it’s easy to smile!” She blushed. I reached for her hand and held it tight. She later told me, “When you reached for my hand, I felt an electrical charge run through my body, and I knew I found my beloved.”
We married a few months, thereafter. My wife and I had a stillborn baby. Marge couldn’t conceive again. We were married for fifty years. She passed several years ago. I’ll bet a beautiful and brilliant woman like you had her choice of suitors?”
“You were a fortunate man to have a long, successful marriage, Brad. I’m sorry for the loss of your wife, best friend, and companion.
I was an only child of academics. Before I was born, my father was a professor of physics at the Technical University of Munich. The United States was hard at work on a secret weapon and smuggled mom and dad out of Munich as Hitler was sending Jews to the concentration camps. My parents settled in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Dad was hired as a full professor of physics at MIT and mom taught Art History at Radcliffe.”
I dated a few men and found their masculinity appealing, but their inability to access any emotional awareness was unfortunate. I became ambivalent towards dating, never married, and chose to concentrate on my teaching career. As I matured, my emotional and sexual feelings changed, and were not in keeping with the traditional sexual mores of the time. I feared they could negatively affect my career, so I choose abstinence.”
You’re the first man I’ve had dinner with alone, and by shortwave radio!”
“Gracie, you’re the only woman I’ve spoken at length with since marrying. After Marge died, I had no interest in finding another woman.”
“Why did you remain in “The Big Sky State”, Brad?”
“In Montana, I can stare into the pitch-black sky, dotted with shining stars, revealing a moon so large, I believed I can pull it from the sky, but Mars and Venus would scold me. They all resemble sparkling diamonds, rubies, and emeralds on the Creator’s wrist.”
“That’s very poetic!
Weren’t you frightened parachuting into wild fires?”
“It was like jumping into the flames of hell, Gracie. I had some close calls. They issued us fire retardant blankets to cover ourselves, because when the wind changed, and suddenly the fire was roaring towards you, your only escape was to wrap yourself within the blanket and let the flames roll over you. I have sympathy for barbecued meats to this day.”
“How did you become a Fire Lookout?”
“I volunteered to become a Lookout after Marge passed, wanting to put my experience spotting fires to good use. They have a forced retirement age of forty within the Smokejumpers. I spent ten years training jumpers, and fifteen years as a Forest Ranger. I had some close calls as a Ranger.”
“What were they, Brad?”
“I was called to rescue a little boy who crawled out on a limb above a freezing, raging river. I assembled a pole from a long, thin, tree branch, attached my belt to it, and instructed the lad to place the harness around himself. He complied, and I pulled him safely back to land. He was no worse for wear. I gave him a Hershey bar from my lunch pail.”
“I’m certain his parents were grateful to you.”
“When I confronted his parents, they simply grabbed the boy by the hand and walked away without saying a word.”
“What was the scariest part of your job, Brad?”
“I was driving along a narrow trail and came upon a bear cub. Sometimes a cub strays from its mother, and gets lost. They’re unable to survive without mama at that age. It’s risky to approach a cub because its mother is probably close by, and mamas are very protective of their cubs. I slowly passed, noticing the cub was alive, and parked down the trail, watching the cub through the rearview mirror. I waited fifteen minutes, before I decided to rescue the lost cub. I slowly rolled the rig back to the cub, kept the rig running, scooted across the seat, opened the passenger door, and reached down to pick up the cub. Suddenly, heavy tree branches parted like twigs, and an 800-pound mama bear, shot out of the woods towards me, howling for my blood. I recoiled backwards into the driver seat, unable to close the door, and hit the gas pedal just as mama reached in with her razor-sharp claws, shredding the upholstery inches from my body as I roared away. Mama and her cub walked back into the forest.
Thinking back, the most frightening part of my job wasn’t fire or wild animals, but drunken campers. The war taught me to handle myself in hand to hand combat. Fortunately, I found rational conversation would quell any confrontation with drunks, and never pulled the 45 Colt holstered under my shirt.”
“We’ve been speaking longer than usual, Brad, and I’m concerned about the health of your shortwave but, before we sign off, I want to tell you how impressed I am by your bravery, humility, and sensitivity. I don’t want to embarrass you, but you embody every facet of the “Noble Savage”.
“What’s a Noble Savage”, Gracie?”
“A “Noble Savage” is an extraordinary man, not corrupted by civilization, and symbolizes humanity’s innate goodness. November is quickly approaching and my lease expires on the first of November at which time I’ll be moving out. Would you have dinner with me in town?”
Gracie’s invitation revived my dormant feelings of emotional attachment. For the first time since my wife’s death, I felt the desire to engage with another woman, possibly romantically. I took nothing for granted with Gracie, and prepared myself for simply a platonic meal.
“It would be my pleasure to dine with you Gracie. November 1st coincides with the expiration of my volunteer contract as a Fire Lookout. All the towers are closed for the winter and won’t reopen until March.”
“Where do you suggest we dine, Brad? I didn’t see any restaurants on my way up the mountain.”
“I suggest the “Pine Cone Diner”. Don’t let the name fool you. The diner is a “Michelin 2 Star” restaurant. The chef is a New York City transplant with the ability to whip up more than the basic staples you’d expect out here. He’s quite an expert preparing wild game entrees.”
“My tour guide will be moving me out and taking me down the trail into town at 5:00 pm. May I suggest we dine at 7:00? I’ve made arrangements to spend the evening at the “Big Sky Inn” for the night. My transportation to the airport arrives the following morning.”
“Sounds like a date. Excuse me, Gracie, sounds like a wonderful opportunity to finally meet in person. The “Big Sky Inn” is nearby and I’ll have the Forest Service rig with me to drop you off at the Inn after dinner.”
“I’m looking forward to our rondeaux, Brad. Goodnight, my Noble Savage.”
Sure enough, the old shortwave finally wore out, and I’m only able to communicate with mirrors, flashlight, and sign language. Time no longer stands still. Each moment is electric and bursting with anticipation. I believe we both developed the ability to read into the sun’s reflection off the mirrors, and through amateur sign language, our thoughts and feelings. Gracie’s hand gestures and facial expressions convey to me she marvels at the ability to see for miles, revels in the warm sun, and gazes in wonderment at the moon and bright twinkling stars. She’s overwhelmed by large puffy clouds rolling across the sky. I’m certain Gracie marvels how quickly the sky changes from blue to gray before a storm. How blind and selfish I was to consider each day as mundane and ordinary! Gracie has reminded me to revel in each moment. Time moves quicker now as we enjoy our moments together. I no longer take time for granted.
My heart beats rapidly when I think of meeting Gracie! Each new day is full of eager anticipation of our dinner date. I awake with eagerness and vitality.
Life was beautiful, and I counted the days to meeting Gracie on November first.
I was eager to meet Brad and felt the “butterflies” of a first date which eluded me my entire life. I primped in the woman’s bathroom before returning to my table to find the cup of hot water with lemon I ordered. I selected a beautiful, tan, cashmere skirt, black silk, turtle neck, and stylish ankle high, suede and leather booties. I wore my hair, unbraided, which fell neatly to the midpoint of my back, and covering my shoulders. I watched the clock, and patrons enter, none of which resembled Brad. The clock showed Brad to be fifteen minutes late, but I refused to believe a man of Brad’s character would “stand me up”. I began to worry for Brad’s safety.
The door opened, and a tall, handsome, Forest Ranger, entered the diner, scanning the room with his eyes. I was embarrassed to think the Ranger could be Brad since he was young enough to be my grandson. The Ranger approached my table,
“Excuse me, Ma’am, are you Professor Roth?”
“Yes, I am, Ranger. How may I help you?”
“I have some tragic news. May I sit?”
“Certainly, Ranger. This must concern Brad. Please tell me where he is?’
“I drove to the tower to pick him up and deliver him to the diner to meet you. I found him sitting in his chair, in full dress uniform, smelling of cologne, his hair neatly combed, freshly shaven, all suggesting how eager he was to meet you. He was still, Professor. He passed with his eyes open as if staring out into the valley, one last time. He passed with a big smile on his face. I’m very sorry for the loss of your friend. We all miss him at headquarters. If it’s of any consolation, he asked me to find and deliver to him, a gift he selected for you, along with some wrapping paper. He planned on presenting it to you tonight. Here’s the gift. I’ll excuse myself now, Professor. Please accept my condolences. He’ll be given a dignified and beautiful Forest Service funeral. You’ll receive an invitation.”
I was stunned. My hands trembled as I held the gift. It was light, rectangular, and wrapped in beautiful paper depicting autumn leaves, including an orange ribbon. I carefully unwrapped the gift to find a familiar book,
I’ve been walking about the tower with a 360-degree view of the forest, peering through my long-range binoculars for signs of fire for hours, and a stretch is welcome. I’m pushing seventy-five, and been fortunate to work many seasons atop this fire lookout tower which I call home and work.
I remember growing up on our family ranch in Montana. I would look up in amazement at the beautiful mountains in the distance, the towering trees hovering over me, and realize how small, and vulnerable I was. Time moved slowly as a young man, and each new day was magical.
I sip a cup of something resembling coffee, and remember awakening to the aroma of the freshly brewed coffee awaiting me in the kitchen, fondly prepared by my wife of fifty years. I’d enter the kitchen wearing my freshly pressed, Forest Ranger uniform, and enjoy small talk with Marge before heading to work, after finishing a grand breakfast of bacon and eggs or flapjacks.
When Marge passed away, I couldn’t tolerate living in our home without her. I handed the keys to the Realtor, saying, “Sell it as quickly as possible, furnished, and everything in the closets. I’ve boxed my framed photos and will only be taking them with me.”
I needed to relinquish the pain of losing Marge, and the only way I knew possible was to get back into the forest. I had a stellar record and many high placed friends within the Forest Service. I was fortunate to be assigned as a volunteer “Fire Lookout”.
My lookout station is a 52’ tower, surrounded by windows and an exterior catwalk, deep in the woods of Montana. My equipment includes binoculars, telescope with tripod, a compass, maps, a two-way radio, and an "alidade," which is a combination of a telescope and compass to determine the distance to a suspected fire. The lookout season started March 1st, and will end on November 1st, when the snows come.
The tower has no telephone lines, no cellphone coverage, internet cables, gas, water, or sewer systems. I fill buckets of water from a storage tank at the base of the tower. There is an electric generator with an adequate supply of petrol for the season, and a septic tank also located beneath the tower.
I sleep in a bunkbed, cook on a two-burner propane cooktop, have a portable heater, a table, and a few chairs. I have a toilet with a tank above it which I fill with water allowing me to flush the toilet. I shower in a corner of the tower, surrounded by a plastic curtain, with water sprinkling down from a bladder hanging above the shower which I must replenish with water. My showers are short, cool, sometimes cold, and remind me of those showers we took in the Army during battle.
Climbing the many stairs up to a 52’ tower with jugs of water and propane tanks is becoming more arduous. I struggle for breath with each step, and at times, must sit as I become dizzy from the climb. My heart is beginning to “skip a beat”, which tells me it’s getting ready to fail. It’s all worth the struggle, because, although, my living conditions are sparse, the work of spotting potential fires is important, and my “office” has a better view than any Park Avenue executive suite.
As autumn approaches, bright flashes of lightening light up the valley, followed by tremendous thunder, and the rain falls. I love the rain and the beautiful melody it provides. The sound of the pelting rain is similar to a pianist’s fingers pounding out notes on a grand piano. The rain invigorates me, but I remain vigilant, and carefully scan the horizon for any fires started by the lightening. It may take days for the smoldering tree to burst into flame, and I remain on high alert for days.
I noticed a bolt of lightning split a tree apart, revealing what appears to be a tower which had been camouflaged by the dark patch of forest surrounding it. I raised my long-range binoculars in the direction of what appears to be an abandoned fire lookout tower, caught a glimpse of somebody in a rain coat and hood, ascending the final flight of stairs, and closing the door behind them. According to my alidade, the tower is thirteen miles away. I was excited to have a new neighbor.
It became my practice, to occasionally swing the telescope towards the tower in hopes of catching a glimpse of my new neighbor. To my surprise, my new neighbor was a beautiful woman, likely in her late sixties. How delicate, graceful, and elegantly she walked about her tower, like a dancer! She was slender, and wore her long, straight, gray hair in a braid. I felt rude intruding upon her privacy, and turned the telescope away. I surmised she was one of the lucky few who rent these vacated towers to enjoy the quiet, solitude, and privacy of the woods.
I want to introduce myself to my neighbor, but how can we communicate? We’re thirteen miles apart, and I can’t abandon my tower. I can’t physically undertake the long walk at my age, and I have no vehicle.
My only mode of communication is a two-way radio connected to headquarters. I attempted to locate somebody transmitting on my old, vacuum tube, short wave radio which hadn’t been used in decades. As I slowly turned the dial, all l could pick up on each frequency was static. I decided to give it a good cleaning, hoping the cleaning would awaken the tired old vacuum tubes. If I’m lucky, she’ll pick up my communication, if she has a shortwave.
After cleaning up the old shortwave, I turn it on, and it struggles like a sleeping old soul, to awaken. I slowly turn the dials and hear only static. I may wear out the old vacuum tubes, and keep it on for only short periods of time.
I also attempt to get her attention with sunlight bouncing off a mirror. No response.
For weeks, I tried to get her attention with the mirror and old shortwave. I noticed that with each session on the shortwave, I’d was able to pick up barely audible, unrecognizable chatter or music. I remained hopeful.
One sunny afternoon, I placed the mirror in her direction. After no response, I gave up, and returned to my work. A flash of light began dancing about the walls of my tower. I ran to the catwalk with my mirror, and replied. We made contact! I brought out my telescope and shortwave to the catwalk, hoping she would see both through her binoculars or telescope. As I peered through the telescope, she pointed to both a telescope and modern shortwave. I pointed to my shortwave, and gave the “thumbs up.”
For days, we’d peer through our telescopes at each other, after sending a message from our mirrors. We waved and attempted to communicate with crude sign language.
One evening, the dark sky was the clearest, I remember. The forest was still. I fired up the old shortwave, slowly turned the dial, and clearly heard a ballet. I wrote down the frequency, ran to the telescope, pointed it towards my neighbor, and to my delight, saw the beautiful woman, dressed in a leotard, and ballet slippers, dance to what I believed was “Swan Lake”, the only ballet Marge ever “dragged” me to. My neighbor was nimble, leaping about, and completed a Pirouette, which Marge explained to me. I watched until the dancing concluded. Assuming she had finished, I grabbed the vintage hand mic to the shortwave,
“This is Forest Service Lookout Station 8. Calling unidentified tower inhabitant previously contacted via telescope and mirrors.”
There was no response. She must have had her shortwave off or on another frequency. I repeated my call for a half hour, but fearing the wear and tear of the old vacuum tubes, I was ready to turn the old shortwave off when I heard,
“This is Gracie calling Forest Service Lookout Tower 8. Can you hear me?”
I was so excited, my heart, almost leapt from my chest, and I dispensed with the formal radio communication chatter.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Gracie. My name is Brad. I’m the Fire Lookout you’ve been communicating with.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Brad.”
“May I suggest you write down the frequency you reached me on?”
“I already have you on “autodial”, Brad. How far away are you?”
“13 miles according to my alidade. I’m transmitting on a vintage shortwave with vacuum tubes which are barely holding on for life. I suspect you have a modern shortwave system.”
“Yes, I do, Brad. I came prepared. I don’t want to lose communication with you should your shortwave go down. May I suggest we speak again tomorrow, say, after dinner, around 8:00 pm?”
“That sounds wonderful, Gracie. I hope the weather conditions are conducive to the great reception we’re experiencing tonight?”
“Don’t worry, Brad. We’ll let nature takes its course, but I’ll say a prayer, just in case. Goodnight!”
“Goodnight, Gracie.”
My conversation with Gracie awakened long dormant feelings I haven’t felt since I met Marge for the first time. I couldn’t wait to speak with Gracie tomorrow.
It was Sunday evening and I felt it appropriate to treat our conversation like a date. I cleaned up, put on fresh clothes, and turned on the old shortwave to the frequency I had written down. At 8:00 pm, sharp, my shortwave came to life with an angelic voice,
“Calling Brad. Are you there?”
I reached for the hand mic,
“I’m here, Gracie. Good evening.”
“Good evening to you, Brad. How was your dinner?
‘I had beans and franks. How about you?”
“I made a dandelion and “Miner’s lettuce” salad along with “Stinging Nettles” soup.” I was able to gather the ingredients from the woods.”
“You eat healthy, Gracie. Please be careful of what you pick from the ground and trees to eat as many are poisonous.”
“Thank you for the warning, Brad. I came prepared with an illustrative text of wild, edible plants and berries. You can do better than beans and franks. What else do you eat?”
“I have a supply of “MRE’s”.
“What are those?”
“Meals Ready to Eat” in plastic pouches containing entrees which heat up once you tear open the pouch. I have quite a variety of different meals.”
“Are they tasty, and what do you drink with your meals?”
“You’d be surprised how a little Tabasco sauce make them palatable. I drink water and coffee, but miss a cold beer!”
“I brought a variety of freeze-dried gourmet meals including Thai Curry with shrimp, Miso salmon, and Tika Masala. I also made certain to bring a case of red and white wines. I wish I could share these with you, Brad.”
“If this old body could make the 13-mile hike, I’d be right over, but I can’t leave the tower. Even for a seasoned hiker, the trek is very hilly, full of hungry wildlife, and the weather can change quickly. My advice is not to hike too far from your tower, Gracie. You were smart to come well prepared for your stay.”
I could tell the old shortwave was tiring as it was becoming harder to hear Gracie. It would be prudent to give it a rest.
“I’d enjoy speaking longer with you, Gracie, but my old shortwave is telling me it’s growing tired, and I don’t want to permanently damage it. When would you like to speak again?”
“I understand, Brad. Let’s speak again next Sunday, same time? We can say “hello” during the week with the mirrors and telescopes, ok?”
“Your idea sounds wonderful. I enjoyed speaking with you Gracie, and look forward to getting to know you. Goodnight.”
I enjoyed our impromptu “mirror conversations” and amateur sign language while peering at each other through telescopes. We developed a habit of saying ‘good morning” as the sun rose with the mirrors. We resorted to flashlights in the evenings with two on and off signals denoting, “Goodnight”. Our daily “chats” enriched my life in the tower.
I treated the old shortwave as if it was a valuable antique. I gently cleaned it, and kept it covered, hoping it would stay alive.
On Sunday evening, at 8:00 pm sharp, my shortwave came to life,
“Hello, Brad. Are you there?”
“Good evening, Gracie. It’s nice to hear your voice.”
“Likewise, Brad. It was fun communicating all week with the mirrors, flashlights, and sign language.”
“I enjoyed it also, Gracie. Tell me about yourself and what brought you here?”
“I recently retired as Chairperson of the Literature Department at a small, liberal arts college in the northeast. I’m writing a book on Frost and Thoreau. I believe the solitude, quiet, and beauty will give me inspiration to write about these giants of literature.”
“My knowledge of literature is limited to Zane Grey and Mickey Spillane. I knew you were a learned and sophisticated woman the moment we spoke. Was your retirement mandatory?”
“It was a lifetime appointment but the politics, workload, and pleading for grants burned me out. I was happy to retire. Tell me about yourself, and why you become a Forest Lookout?”
“I was born on a ranch in Montana. Mom died from cancer when I was a toddler. Pop raised me while running a cattle ranch with a dozen ranch hands who taught me the “cowboy way.”
“What is the “cowboy way?”
“Wake up early, work hard, keep out of other people’s business, and be kind to wildlife. They worked hard, and played hard, but, despite their drunken brawls, and womanizing, they told me not to emulate them, respect women like I would my mom or sister if I had either.”
“I’m happy to know they were a positive influence in your life, Brad. What about school?”
“I attended kindergarten through high school, in a tiny school house with twenty kids who lived on ranches miles away from the school house. It was quite a trek to get to school given the distance from home, especially during winter.”
“How did you get to school?”
“I rode my horse, “Linebacker”. He was a big “Draft” horse, strong as steel, and could plow through the heaviest snow. Pop gave him to me when I started kindergarten, riding alongside me on his horse until he was certain I could ride alone. Linebacker passed away when I was in Vietnam. I heard the old fella died in his sleep. I loved him. Pop buried him with a tombstone in the local cemetery.”
“It’s unimaginable riding a horse to and from school! Your life springs from the pages of a Louis L’Amour, novel. What about Vietnam?”
“I enlisted in the Army so I could become a paratrooper.”
“Why did you want to become a paratrooper? Getting shot at is dangerous enough!”
“Montana is called “Big Sky Country” because the unobstructed skyline overwhelms the landscape, averting your attention from the beautiful mountains, valleys, and plains. If I could parachute, I’d enjoy the landscape parachuting down. I was assigned to the 101st Airborne Division and served two tours. My fondest memories were the beautiful landscapes of Vietnam I witnessed parachuting into a firefight. I’m sorry we destroyed much of that beautiful country with bombs and napalm.”
“I’m grateful you survived that bloody, unnecessary war, Brad. What did you do after the war?”
“After I was discharged, a Greyhound bus dropped me at the end of a ten-mile dirt road leading into pop’s ranch. I was wearing my full-dress uniform carrying a duffle bag over my shoulder when Ranger Rudy stopped and offered me a ride. After welcoming me home, he noticed my “Airborne” patch, and said, “If you can jump out of planes into battle, you sure as hell can jump out of planes and fight forest fires. Check out the Forest Service Smokejumpers as a career.” I saw pop out in the distance on his horse racing to greet me at the house.
I witnessed the ugly side of life fighting in Vietnam, and working hard on our ranch, in the wide-open space, helped me work through some emotional trauma I suffered from battle. It wasn’t long before I craved the exhilaration of parachuting into danger, and I found myself reporting for Smokejumper training.”
“Were you married and have children?”
“I met Marge as a young “Smokejumper”. She was a nurse in the E.R. treating me for smoke inhalation. When I awoke from being on a ventilator, the most beautiful eyes and angelic face was staring at me. Her hands delicately held my hand as she took my pulse, and I noticed she wore no rings. Marge said, “You have the biggest, most beautiful smile, I’ve ever seen!”. I replied, “When a guy awakes to an angel like you, it’s easy to smile!” She blushed. I reached for her hand and held it tight. She later told me, “When you reached for my hand, I felt an electrical charge run through my body, and I knew I found my beloved.”
We married a few months, thereafter. My wife and I had a stillborn baby. Marge couldn’t conceive again. We were married for fifty years. She passed several years ago. I’ll bet a beautiful and brilliant woman like you had her choice of suitors?”
“You were a fortunate man to have a long, successful marriage, Brad. I’m sorry for the loss of your wife, best friend, and companion.
I was an only child of academics. Before I was born, my father was a professor of physics at the Technical University of Munich. The United States was hard at work on a secret weapon and smuggled mom and dad out of Munich as Hitler was sending Jews to the concentration camps. My parents settled in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Dad was hired as a full professor of physics at MIT and mom taught Art History at Radcliffe.”
I dated a few men and found their masculinity appealing, but their inability to access any emotional awareness was unfortunate. I became ambivalent towards dating, never married, and chose to concentrate on my teaching career. As I matured, my emotional and sexual feelings changed, and were not in keeping with the traditional sexual mores of the time. I feared they could negatively affect my career, so I choose abstinence.”
You’re the first man I’ve had dinner with alone, and by shortwave radio!”
“Gracie, you’re the only woman I’ve spoken at length with since marrying. After Marge died, I had no interest in finding another woman.”
“Why did you remain in “The Big Sky State”, Brad?”
“In Montana, I can stare into the pitch-black sky, dotted with shining stars, revealing a moon so large, I believed I can pull it from the sky, but Mars and Venus would scold me. They all resemble sparkling diamonds, rubies, and emeralds on the Creator’s wrist.”
“That’s very poetic!
Weren’t you frightened parachuting into wild fires?”
“It was like jumping into the flames of hell, Gracie. I had some close calls. They issued us fire retardant blankets to cover ourselves, because when the wind changed, and suddenly the fire was roaring towards you, your only escape was to wrap yourself within the blanket and let the flames roll over you. I have sympathy for barbecued meats to this day.”
“How did you become a Fire Lookout?”
“I volunteered to become a Lookout after Marge passed, wanting to put my experience spotting fires to good use. They have a forced retirement age of forty within the Smokejumpers. I spent ten years training jumpers, and fifteen years as a Forest Ranger. I had some close calls as a Ranger.”
“What were they, Brad?”
“I was called to rescue a little boy who crawled out on a limb above a freezing, raging river. I assembled a pole from a long, thin, tree branch, attached my belt to it, and instructed the lad to place the harness around himself. He complied, and I pulled him safely back to land. He was no worse for wear. I gave him a Hershey bar from my lunch pail.”
“I’m certain his parents were grateful to you.”
“When I confronted his parents, they simply grabbed the boy by the hand and walked away without saying a word.”
“What was the scariest part of your job, Brad?”
“I was driving along a narrow trail and came upon a bear cub. Sometimes a cub strays from its mother, and gets lost. They’re unable to survive without mama at that age. It’s risky to approach a cub because its mother is probably close by, and mamas are very protective of their cubs. I slowly passed, noticing the cub was alive, and parked down the trail, watching the cub through the rearview mirror. I waited fifteen minutes, before I decided to rescue the lost cub. I slowly rolled the rig back to the cub, kept the rig running, scooted across the seat, opened the passenger door, and reached down to pick up the cub. Suddenly, heavy tree branches parted like twigs, and an 800-pound mama bear, shot out of the woods towards me, howling for my blood. I recoiled backwards into the driver seat, unable to close the door, and hit the gas pedal just as mama reached in with her razor-sharp claws, shredding the upholstery inches from my body as I roared away. Mama and her cub walked back into the forest.
Thinking back, the most frightening part of my job wasn’t fire or wild animals, but drunken campers. The war taught me to handle myself in hand to hand combat. Fortunately, I found rational conversation would quell any confrontation with drunks, and never pulled the 45 Colt holstered under my shirt.”
“We’ve been speaking longer than usual, Brad, and I’m concerned about the health of your shortwave but, before we sign off, I want to tell you how impressed I am by your bravery, humility, and sensitivity. I don’t want to embarrass you, but you embody every facet of the “Noble Savage”.
“What’s a Noble Savage”, Gracie?”
“A “Noble Savage” is an extraordinary man, not corrupted by civilization, and symbolizes humanity’s innate goodness. November is quickly approaching and my lease expires on the first of November at which time I’ll be moving out. Would you have dinner with me in town?”
Gracie’s invitation revived my dormant feelings of emotional attachment. For the first time since my wife’s death, I felt the desire to engage with another woman, possibly romantically. I took nothing for granted with Gracie, and prepared myself for simply a platonic meal.
“It would be my pleasure to dine with you Gracie. November 1st coincides with the expiration of my volunteer contract as a Fire Lookout. All the towers are closed for the winter and won’t reopen until March.”
“Where do you suggest we dine, Brad? I didn’t see any restaurants on my way up the mountain.”
“I suggest the “Pine Cone Diner”. Don’t let the name fool you. The diner is a “Michelin 2 Star” restaurant. The chef is a New York City transplant with the ability to whip up more than the basic staples you’d expect out here. He’s quite an expert preparing wild game entrees.”
“My tour guide will be moving me out and taking me down the trail into town at 5:00 pm. May I suggest we dine at 7:00? I’ve made arrangements to spend the evening at the “Big Sky Inn” for the night. My transportation to the airport arrives the following morning.”
“Sounds like a date. Excuse me, Gracie, sounds like a wonderful opportunity to finally meet in person. The “Big Sky Inn” is nearby and I’ll have the Forest Service rig with me to drop you off at the Inn after dinner.”
“I’m looking forward to our rondeaux, Brad. Goodnight, my Noble Savage.”
Sure enough, the old shortwave finally wore out, and I’m only able to communicate with mirrors, flashlight, and sign language. Time no longer stands still. Each moment is electric and bursting with anticipation. I believe we both developed the ability to read into the sun’s reflection off the mirrors, and through amateur sign language, our thoughts and feelings. Gracie’s hand gestures and facial expressions convey to me she marvels at the ability to see for miles, revels in the warm sun, and gazes in wonderment at the moon and bright twinkling stars. She’s overwhelmed by large puffy clouds rolling across the sky. I’m certain Gracie marvels how quickly the sky changes from blue to gray before a storm. How blind and selfish I was to consider each day as mundane and ordinary! Gracie has reminded me to revel in each moment. Time moves quicker now as we enjoy our moments together. I no longer take time for granted.
My heart beats rapidly when I think of meeting Gracie! Each new day is full of eager anticipation of our dinner date. I awake with eagerness and vitality.
Life was beautiful, and I counted the days to meeting Gracie on November first.
I was eager to meet Brad and felt the “butterflies” of a first date which eluded me my entire life. I primped in the woman’s bathroom before returning to my table to find the cup of hot water with lemon I ordered. I selected a beautiful, tan, cashmere skirt, black silk, turtle neck, and stylish ankle high, suede and leather booties. I wore my hair, unbraided, which fell neatly to the midpoint of my back, and covering my shoulders. I watched the clock, and patrons enter, none of which resembled Brad. The clock showed Brad to be fifteen minutes late, but I refused to believe a man of Brad’s character would “stand me up”. I began to worry for Brad’s safety.
The door opened, and a tall, handsome, Forest Ranger, entered the diner, scanning the room with his eyes. I was embarrassed to think the Ranger could be Brad since he was young enough to be my grandson. The Ranger approached my table,
“Excuse me, Ma’am, are you Professor Roth?”
“Yes, I am, Ranger. How may I help you?”
“I have some tragic news. May I sit?”
“Certainly, Ranger. This must concern Brad. Please tell me where he is?’
“I drove to the tower to pick him up and deliver him to the diner to meet you. I found him sitting in his chair, in full dress uniform, smelling of cologne, his hair neatly combed, freshly shaven, all suggesting how eager he was to meet you. He was still, Professor. He passed with his eyes open as if staring out into the valley, one last time. He passed with a big smile on his face. I’m very sorry for the loss of your friend. We all miss him at headquarters. If it’s of any consolation, he asked me to find and deliver to him, a gift he selected for you, along with some wrapping paper. He planned on presenting it to you tonight. Here’s the gift. I’ll excuse myself now, Professor. Please accept my condolences. He’ll be given a dignified and beautiful Forest Service funeral. You’ll receive an invitation.”
I was stunned. My hands trembled as I held the gift. It was light, rectangular, and wrapped in beautiful paper depicting autumn leaves, including an orange ribbon. I carefully unwrapped the gift to find a familiar book,
Selected American Poems
By,
G. Roth, PhD.
By,
G. Roth, PhD.
I noticed there was a bookmark on page 8, and a poem I included by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, was highlighted in the center of the page,
“Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again, and a silence.”
At the bottom of the page, Brad wrote,
“I’m a fortunate man to have lived and worked within the forest nearly my entire life, which chose to reward me with a beautiful, and lovely neighbor. Thank you for awakening the wonderment of newfound love within my old, saddened heart.”
I reached for the cup of lemon water, and my hand continued to tremble as I raised the cup to my mouth, and sipped, struggling to hold back tears. I reached for a napkin, placed it against my face, and began to cry tears of love for a man I never met. My tears inspired words, as I wrote a note back to Brad, within the margin of the page above his inscription,
“We may have been only ships passing, but our signals, looks, and voices, joined, speaking romantic poetry to my heart. Marge would be pleased you crossed over with your big smile she fell in love with. Goodbye, and, thank you, Brad.”
I made a note to the editor of my new book, titled, “Robert Frost and Henry Thoreau: A Comparison and Contrast”, to include the following dedication,
“This book is dedicated to my “Noble Savage” whose friendship and life inspired me.”
“Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again, and a silence.”
At the bottom of the page, Brad wrote,
“I’m a fortunate man to have lived and worked within the forest nearly my entire life, which chose to reward me with a beautiful, and lovely neighbor. Thank you for awakening the wonderment of newfound love within my old, saddened heart.”
I reached for the cup of lemon water, and my hand continued to tremble as I raised the cup to my mouth, and sipped, struggling to hold back tears. I reached for a napkin, placed it against my face, and began to cry tears of love for a man I never met. My tears inspired words, as I wrote a note back to Brad, within the margin of the page above his inscription,
“We may have been only ships passing, but our signals, looks, and voices, joined, speaking romantic poetry to my heart. Marge would be pleased you crossed over with your big smile she fell in love with. Goodbye, and, thank you, Brad.”
I made a note to the editor of my new book, titled, “Robert Frost and Henry Thoreau: A Comparison and Contrast”, to include the following dedication,
“This book is dedicated to my “Noble Savage” whose friendship and life inspired me.”
Keith Burkholder has been published in Creative Juices, Sol Magazine, Trellis Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Journal, New Delta Review, Poetry Quarterly, Scarlet Leaf Review, and Birmingham Arts Journal. He has a bachelor's degree in statistics with a minor in mathematics from SUNY at Buffalo (UB).
Human life evolving through time
Human life has changed over time. This change is drastic in every sense of the word. The human life is definitely bizarre in appearance.
It is 3000 AD. Humans are now breathing through their ears. The only speak when they look in the direction of someone. They speak through their vision.
Human life changes all of the time. However, these changes have taken place this time in the future. It will be interesting to see such life interact with each other during this period of time.
Imagine humans having these physical characteristics. Human life always evolves as time continues to pass by.
There is nothing one can do about changes. Changes happen in technology as well as human life. This is just the way the world evolves.
This world has changed for the better. Wars have plagued the planet Earth for many years and humans needed a new way to exist.
War is not a pleasant concept to deal with. However, these experiences happened a lot in the later 2000’s AD to 3000 AD.
Serenity will take place in 3000 AD. This comes along with a lot of changes within the human race.
The human race will continue to thrive. However, they will use their vision to talk and their ears to breathe.
This unique world known as planet Earth will change for the better. Wars during this period of time will not exist.
Happiness will exist in people’s lives more often. The government will strictly be for the people and to help out others more often.
These changes in surroundings will be great for planet Earth. However, human life will exist in different ways.
Planet Earth is a unique world in its own right. However, in 3000 AD these changes in appearance will be felt by all and that is the way life will be as time continues to pass by.
The human race has always been difficult to understand. So many people in this world have different viewpoints on life.
3000 AD is such a long time away. Could the human race change such drastically in physical appearance? This is a question one should think about. Humans are more sophisticated now than they were many hundreds of years ago. Technology is at the forefront and the human race continues to grow at such an alarming rate.
We don’t know what really happens to life in such a long period of time. I will not be around to see these occurrences.
All anyone can do is have an open mind. The human race is very sophisticated and complex and only the future really has such answers.
Now is the time for this race to explore the world. It is now 3000 AD. The human race is in existence and there is nothing else to do.
The human race is building an entirely new empire from the one before it. It is stressing pacifism amongst its race of people all around the world.
What will come of this new empire? What will happen to the human race with new emphasis of total pacifism?
Only time will tell during this period in the future. The future will continue to exist and it will change. The only question can people change for the better.
As you know, societies have changed in history. This has happened in the past and even now in the present.
The concept of war is huge in history and even now. We live in a world that is hostile and really cares only about themselves and not one another. Could this new race of people change this phenomenon? Only time will tell.
These are only extrapolations to the future in 3000 AD. For now, live life as it is. This is all that you can do.
The future will be here before you know it. You will age another year. The human race will adapt to the year 3000 AD. Whether there will be pacifism during this time is left up to debate. However, for now try to make this planet a better world. Make this planet a place that will bring our future a new and better beginning. Take care and keep an open mind as time passes us and the world’s status will be heard for years to come.
It is 3000 AD. Humans are now breathing through their ears. The only speak when they look in the direction of someone. They speak through their vision.
Human life changes all of the time. However, these changes have taken place this time in the future. It will be interesting to see such life interact with each other during this period of time.
Imagine humans having these physical characteristics. Human life always evolves as time continues to pass by.
There is nothing one can do about changes. Changes happen in technology as well as human life. This is just the way the world evolves.
This world has changed for the better. Wars have plagued the planet Earth for many years and humans needed a new way to exist.
War is not a pleasant concept to deal with. However, these experiences happened a lot in the later 2000’s AD to 3000 AD.
Serenity will take place in 3000 AD. This comes along with a lot of changes within the human race.
The human race will continue to thrive. However, they will use their vision to talk and their ears to breathe.
This unique world known as planet Earth will change for the better. Wars during this period of time will not exist.
Happiness will exist in people’s lives more often. The government will strictly be for the people and to help out others more often.
These changes in surroundings will be great for planet Earth. However, human life will exist in different ways.
Planet Earth is a unique world in its own right. However, in 3000 AD these changes in appearance will be felt by all and that is the way life will be as time continues to pass by.
The human race has always been difficult to understand. So many people in this world have different viewpoints on life.
3000 AD is such a long time away. Could the human race change such drastically in physical appearance? This is a question one should think about. Humans are more sophisticated now than they were many hundreds of years ago. Technology is at the forefront and the human race continues to grow at such an alarming rate.
We don’t know what really happens to life in such a long period of time. I will not be around to see these occurrences.
All anyone can do is have an open mind. The human race is very sophisticated and complex and only the future really has such answers.
Now is the time for this race to explore the world. It is now 3000 AD. The human race is in existence and there is nothing else to do.
The human race is building an entirely new empire from the one before it. It is stressing pacifism amongst its race of people all around the world.
What will come of this new empire? What will happen to the human race with new emphasis of total pacifism?
Only time will tell during this period in the future. The future will continue to exist and it will change. The only question can people change for the better.
As you know, societies have changed in history. This has happened in the past and even now in the present.
The concept of war is huge in history and even now. We live in a world that is hostile and really cares only about themselves and not one another. Could this new race of people change this phenomenon? Only time will tell.
These are only extrapolations to the future in 3000 AD. For now, live life as it is. This is all that you can do.
The future will be here before you know it. You will age another year. The human race will adapt to the year 3000 AD. Whether there will be pacifism during this time is left up to debate. However, for now try to make this planet a better world. Make this planet a place that will bring our future a new and better beginning. Take care and keep an open mind as time passes us and the world’s status will be heard for years to come.
Constant darkness that is engulfed on planet Earth
Planet Earth has had a lot of problems of late. This one situation is about how this world has been covered in complete darkness.
Planet Earth has had a massive war with Saturn. Saturn won the war and has casted total darkness on Earth. This is obviously devastating to the people on this planet.
The only way normalcy can be brought back to Earth is if the Earthlings allow Saturn to have control of finances on Earth. Saturn is noted as a frugal planet. Saturn does not like how Earthlings spend so much money on pointless things.
Planet Earth is willing to try this change. It will affect many people on Earth, but Earthlings need to have sunlight again. They need to have their way of life back to them.
The darkness scenario has lasted too long on Earth. The people of Earth want this change to take place. This is something that needs to happen.
The ambassador of armed forces is now willing to discuss this change with Saturn. They want humans to have their lives back to normal and that means see sunlight again.
Saturn feels the need to change Earth. They also believe that frugality will help with Earth’s enormous debt as well. Earth needs to be more practical with its money.
The meeting of the two heads of each planet will meet tomorrow. Planet Earth needs to have light in its domain.
Planet Saturn wants Earth to be happy again. This is how it will be when they agree upon the concept Saturn wants Earth to follow.
Planet Earth is ready to see Saturn and end this lack of light. The civilians on Earth want this change to take place.
Frugality is hard for many people to follow. However, this needs to be followed for Saturn to return light back to Earth.
The next day has arrived and Earth will meet with Saturn today. The rulers from Saturn have traveled to Earth via warp speed for this meeting.
The meeting will be held at the White House in Washington, DC. The meeting will be long and intense in nature.
The rulers from Saturn should arrive on Earth very soon. It is important for everyone to meet and make sure the lights do exist again for Earth.
As time passed, the rulers of both planets came to an agreement. They followed the frugal agreement.
Planet Earth became more aware of spending. They are now a better world because of this and spending has gone down a lot. The overall deficit is not as great as well.
Planet Earth feels better as a world. They have their light back and the darkness was lifted from its world as well.
Time will continue forward in a positive way for both Saturn and Earth. This is how it will be for time everlasting. The agreement has worked, and time will continue forward in a positive way every step of the way. This is all anyone can ask for and hope for no matter what the situation from here on out.
Planet Earth has had a massive war with Saturn. Saturn won the war and has casted total darkness on Earth. This is obviously devastating to the people on this planet.
The only way normalcy can be brought back to Earth is if the Earthlings allow Saturn to have control of finances on Earth. Saturn is noted as a frugal planet. Saturn does not like how Earthlings spend so much money on pointless things.
Planet Earth is willing to try this change. It will affect many people on Earth, but Earthlings need to have sunlight again. They need to have their way of life back to them.
The darkness scenario has lasted too long on Earth. The people of Earth want this change to take place. This is something that needs to happen.
The ambassador of armed forces is now willing to discuss this change with Saturn. They want humans to have their lives back to normal and that means see sunlight again.
Saturn feels the need to change Earth. They also believe that frugality will help with Earth’s enormous debt as well. Earth needs to be more practical with its money.
The meeting of the two heads of each planet will meet tomorrow. Planet Earth needs to have light in its domain.
Planet Saturn wants Earth to be happy again. This is how it will be when they agree upon the concept Saturn wants Earth to follow.
Planet Earth is ready to see Saturn and end this lack of light. The civilians on Earth want this change to take place.
Frugality is hard for many people to follow. However, this needs to be followed for Saturn to return light back to Earth.
The next day has arrived and Earth will meet with Saturn today. The rulers from Saturn have traveled to Earth via warp speed for this meeting.
The meeting will be held at the White House in Washington, DC. The meeting will be long and intense in nature.
The rulers from Saturn should arrive on Earth very soon. It is important for everyone to meet and make sure the lights do exist again for Earth.
As time passed, the rulers of both planets came to an agreement. They followed the frugal agreement.
Planet Earth became more aware of spending. They are now a better world because of this and spending has gone down a lot. The overall deficit is not as great as well.
Planet Earth feels better as a world. They have their light back and the darkness was lifted from its world as well.
Time will continue forward in a positive way for both Saturn and Earth. This is how it will be for time everlasting. The agreement has worked, and time will continue forward in a positive way every step of the way. This is all anyone can ask for and hope for no matter what the situation from here on out.
An Adventure with time travel in the mix
Beyond the cracked sidewalk, and the telephone pole with layers of flyers in a rainbow of colors, and the patch of dry brown grass there stood a ten-foot high concrete block wall, caked with dozens of coats of paint. There was a small shrine at the foot of it, with burnt out candles and dead flowers and a few soggy teddy bears. One word of graffiti filled the wall, red letters on a gold background: Rejoice!
This is how goodness can be felt. There was something positive that happened that led to such a word be highlighted this way. This is what this can mean and feel to anyone involved. This is the way it is.
Contentment of any kind is hard to find in our world. Society today is full of unpredictability and this can befuddle and baffled many of us. This is how they can be, and events can turn out in such a way.
People come in all shapes and sizes and beliefs. This what makes the world interesting and hard to predict and even understand. This can lead to any interpretations and as time passes people are led to go in any direction with such beliefs at hand.
What can be imagined with such a word? Rejoice can mean so many different things to different people. This is how it is and will continue to be. Rejoice is a powerful word and it can affect people in different ways at different times.
This time period can be known as a time of change. What else can be said of it with such a belief or interpretation? Change depends on the person at hand or the people who want such an event to happen to them. This is how it can be in general.
There is an amusement park nearby where various ride and attractions exist. It is a time to rejoice and have fun as well. People from all over are coming to it. They love to escape and enjoy the rides and the refreshments that are sold in the concession stands
This woman drove herself to this amusement park in her fast and versatile car. She will reach this amusement park soon. She is excited about her time alone and wants to see people and be near the rides and use them.
The people attending this amusement park are coming in droves. She will go here alone and just have fun the best way she knows possible. This would make her life feel complete now. This is what she really wants to do.
She is ready to have fun and enjoy her day today. She has a youthful disposition in life. This makes her feel good. She cannot wait to use the rides and enjoy the food here. This would make her thrilled beyond all belief.
She is single and unattached. She feels free and happy at amusement parks. Today will be no exception. She has wanted to do this for a long time. Today is the perfect day for her to do this. She feels content.
Having fun depends on people. This woman knows how to have fun alone and enjoy life all that she can. Her marriage was on the rocks for years and she is divorced. She wants to have time alone and just recharge her batteries and have fun today.
This is how she feels about her life and will continue this way. However, having too much fun can be detrimental. This varies from person to person in life. She wants to have a great day today. This would mean a lot to her.
She is driving to the amusement park now. She should be there in a short period of time. She is making great timing. She does not want to stop driving. She is excited and relieved all at once. She has worked a lot and needs this time to herself and unwind.
It is a beautiful to be at the amusement park. The sun is shining and there are no clouds in the sky. It is a day for her to just be herself and unwind. There is a breeze in the air, and this should be refreshing for her as well.
The day progressed quickly for her. She had a blast on the rides and alcohol to drink. She was able to get in her car and drive. She left the amusement park and was happy with how her day went. She had a blast, and this meant the world to her.
She was able to drive and go about safely. However, she managed to find a place that she was not familiar with. She managed to drive into a part of town she was not too familiar with and she drove into a garage in town.
She drove into part of town that was not familiar to her. She did not harm anyone or get into any auto accident. She was driving with caution and kept going. Her judgment was impaired a little by the alcohol she drank. However, she did pull into a garage area for her own safety.
She went into this garage area. Then she parked her car and then as she left it to walk, she passed out. She was found by a kid and she was carried by him. This kid aged 16, was strong and built in size.
When the ride ended, she was lifted again. The kid slid her body onto a soft pile of clothing among the boxes in the garage. He pulled an old coat over the top, creating a cave that emanated the sweetness of old ladies who frequently powdered themselves—a light rose motif that played ironically well in the deep recesses of Rainbow’s ancestral brain. The pizza kid lifted her head to help her lap water from a hubcap. He broke bits of pepperoni and crust into bite-sized pieces and left them where her tongue could reach them. Much later, she heard him practicing his orations like songs. Like monks chanting in the distance, they were a comfort.
After some time had passed, she came to. She could hear singing in the distance. The pizza and pepperoni pieces came off her when she awoke. This was a unique and bizarre feeling to her. This is how it was for her now.
She wondered where she could be. She did drink a lot at the amusement park but managed to be elsewhere in town. This whole experience for her was weird and bizarre all wrapped into one. This is the way it was for her as well.
She saw this sixteen-year old kid singing. She managed to get up and walked toward him. The sounds he was making through singing really interested her. They peaked her interests. She listened into him very clearly. This is how it was for her.
She walked over to him and asked him what he was doing. “I am practicing orations, it may sound like singing, but this is how they go,” responded the sixteen-year old. His voice sounded loud but in pitch while he sang.
The two talked for a while. He said to her that he saw her on the ground. She told him about her day at the amusement park and had a little too much to drink. She has a blast at the amusement park.
The woman feels better now and the sixteen-year old told her he had to leave. He has more work to do on his pizza route. He wants to get back to work and he enjoyed speaking with her. She is ready to leave her as well.
The two enjoyed speaking with one another but he is happy to see her up and about. She thanked him for comforting her when she was drunk. She feels a lot better and is ready to leave this garage. She wants to go home.
This woman goes back to her car. She feels more alert and cannot wait to leave here and go home. She is glad she is up and about and wants to leave this garage. She must have been feeling too buzzed to make it home and decided to here where it was safe for her.
The sixteen-year old goes back to his pizza truck and will leave the garage as well. He will go back to delivering pizzas. They both go their separate ways and will now leave this garage. They leave at different times.
It is still quiet outside. It is dark and there is full moon in the clear sky above. The woman will leave this garage soon. She walks toward her car and goes near and then gets inside. She feels capable enough to drive. She is alert.
The woman has now gotten into her car. She then turns on the ignition and will now leave this garage. She then pulls her car out of a parking space and then will now leave the garage. She is out of the garage now.
The sixteen-year old has since left and is back on the road delivering pizzas. He is long gone. He is happy to be out on the road and doing his job. This means a lot to him now.
The woman now pulls out of the garage and goes onto the road again. She has an idea of where she is. She is safely on the road and driving. She feels happy and is thrilled to be safe. This means the world to her.
She will now head home. However, as she does this, she notices something changes before her. Her world around is starting to look different. She can really place a finger on what is happening to the area around her. It is unique.
She is now traveling in time. She no longer is in the present. She has traveled back in time to 1975. Everything looks so different to her. It feels as though she has gone into the past. This really is baffling and stranger to her.
She knows she is alert and sober. However, she looks around and it seems so different to her. She sees a sign that reads 1975 as the date. 1975 was a long time ago. She is amazed that she is time traveling.
She cannot believe she is this far into the past. This was even a time before she was born. This is captivating to her. Time travel is unique and is opening her mind. She loves to have an open mind at hand.
This woman does not know it, but she will travel back to the present shortly. This is just a temporary glitch in her life right now. This is something that she wants to explore and see what happens. The drive continues.
She is happy to be in a different time period. Time travel has always appealed to her and this happening to her right now. She is in a time period she has never been a part of. This is amazing to her.
She wonders how she has traveled to the past. It is forty years into it. This is baffling and exciting to her. She continues forward with her ride in town and keeps an open mind of events that have taken place here even before she was born.
The orations she heard caused to this happen when the sixteen-year old chanted. This was a spell placed on her while she was asleep on the ground briefly. She was not harmed when the spell was placed on her.
Again, this will wear off soon and she has nothing to worry about. She is safe and continues her way down the road. She feels great and the alcohol has worn off. This means a lot to her and she keeps driving at a consistent pace with regards to the speed limit.
It is dusk now this time in the future. The town she is used to is now vacant because it is the start of subdivisions being built here. New neighborhoods are being developed and this can be seen by this woman as she continues to drive down the road.
After some time, she decides to pull into a coffee shop. She wants to clear her head and have a cup of coffee and a bagel and cream cheese. It has been a while since she has had a bagel and cream cheese with coffee.
She is happy to see this coffee shop. She wants to relax her mind. She still cannot believe she has traveled this far into the past. She is in 1975 and this amazes her a lot. She is in the past.
She finds a place to park. She is the only one here now. This makes her feel good. She parks her car. Then turns it off. She will then leave her car and go inside this coffee shop. This coffee shop is open twenty-four hours a day.
It is now night outside. It is a warm night because it is in the middle of summer here during this time in the past in her hometown. She sees that this coffee shop is quiet, and this makes her feel happy.
She went inside the coffee shop. She got a coffee and bagel with cream cheese. She sat at the counter to relax. This helped greatly. After some time, she went back to her car and then some happened when she drove.
When she got into her car and drove it, she went back on the road and then she went back into the present. Everything looked familiar to her. She continued her way home. She is safe and will reach home soon.
Everything stayed great for her. She had quite the adventure today and she is happy to be home now. She feels great and this adventure is something she never forget for as long as she lives. This is how she feels, and this memory will linger on.
This is how goodness can be felt. There was something positive that happened that led to such a word be highlighted this way. This is what this can mean and feel to anyone involved. This is the way it is.
Contentment of any kind is hard to find in our world. Society today is full of unpredictability and this can befuddle and baffled many of us. This is how they can be, and events can turn out in such a way.
People come in all shapes and sizes and beliefs. This what makes the world interesting and hard to predict and even understand. This can lead to any interpretations and as time passes people are led to go in any direction with such beliefs at hand.
What can be imagined with such a word? Rejoice can mean so many different things to different people. This is how it is and will continue to be. Rejoice is a powerful word and it can affect people in different ways at different times.
This time period can be known as a time of change. What else can be said of it with such a belief or interpretation? Change depends on the person at hand or the people who want such an event to happen to them. This is how it can be in general.
There is an amusement park nearby where various ride and attractions exist. It is a time to rejoice and have fun as well. People from all over are coming to it. They love to escape and enjoy the rides and the refreshments that are sold in the concession stands
This woman drove herself to this amusement park in her fast and versatile car. She will reach this amusement park soon. She is excited about her time alone and wants to see people and be near the rides and use them.
The people attending this amusement park are coming in droves. She will go here alone and just have fun the best way she knows possible. This would make her life feel complete now. This is what she really wants to do.
She is ready to have fun and enjoy her day today. She has a youthful disposition in life. This makes her feel good. She cannot wait to use the rides and enjoy the food here. This would make her thrilled beyond all belief.
She is single and unattached. She feels free and happy at amusement parks. Today will be no exception. She has wanted to do this for a long time. Today is the perfect day for her to do this. She feels content.
Having fun depends on people. This woman knows how to have fun alone and enjoy life all that she can. Her marriage was on the rocks for years and she is divorced. She wants to have time alone and just recharge her batteries and have fun today.
This is how she feels about her life and will continue this way. However, having too much fun can be detrimental. This varies from person to person in life. She wants to have a great day today. This would mean a lot to her.
She is driving to the amusement park now. She should be there in a short period of time. She is making great timing. She does not want to stop driving. She is excited and relieved all at once. She has worked a lot and needs this time to herself and unwind.
It is a beautiful to be at the amusement park. The sun is shining and there are no clouds in the sky. It is a day for her to just be herself and unwind. There is a breeze in the air, and this should be refreshing for her as well.
The day progressed quickly for her. She had a blast on the rides and alcohol to drink. She was able to get in her car and drive. She left the amusement park and was happy with how her day went. She had a blast, and this meant the world to her.
She was able to drive and go about safely. However, she managed to find a place that she was not familiar with. She managed to drive into a part of town she was not too familiar with and she drove into a garage in town.
She drove into part of town that was not familiar to her. She did not harm anyone or get into any auto accident. She was driving with caution and kept going. Her judgment was impaired a little by the alcohol she drank. However, she did pull into a garage area for her own safety.
She went into this garage area. Then she parked her car and then as she left it to walk, she passed out. She was found by a kid and she was carried by him. This kid aged 16, was strong and built in size.
When the ride ended, she was lifted again. The kid slid her body onto a soft pile of clothing among the boxes in the garage. He pulled an old coat over the top, creating a cave that emanated the sweetness of old ladies who frequently powdered themselves—a light rose motif that played ironically well in the deep recesses of Rainbow’s ancestral brain. The pizza kid lifted her head to help her lap water from a hubcap. He broke bits of pepperoni and crust into bite-sized pieces and left them where her tongue could reach them. Much later, she heard him practicing his orations like songs. Like monks chanting in the distance, they were a comfort.
After some time had passed, she came to. She could hear singing in the distance. The pizza and pepperoni pieces came off her when she awoke. This was a unique and bizarre feeling to her. This is how it was for her now.
She wondered where she could be. She did drink a lot at the amusement park but managed to be elsewhere in town. This whole experience for her was weird and bizarre all wrapped into one. This is the way it was for her as well.
She saw this sixteen-year old kid singing. She managed to get up and walked toward him. The sounds he was making through singing really interested her. They peaked her interests. She listened into him very clearly. This is how it was for her.
She walked over to him and asked him what he was doing. “I am practicing orations, it may sound like singing, but this is how they go,” responded the sixteen-year old. His voice sounded loud but in pitch while he sang.
The two talked for a while. He said to her that he saw her on the ground. She told him about her day at the amusement park and had a little too much to drink. She has a blast at the amusement park.
The woman feels better now and the sixteen-year old told her he had to leave. He has more work to do on his pizza route. He wants to get back to work and he enjoyed speaking with her. She is ready to leave her as well.
The two enjoyed speaking with one another but he is happy to see her up and about. She thanked him for comforting her when she was drunk. She feels a lot better and is ready to leave this garage. She wants to go home.
This woman goes back to her car. She feels more alert and cannot wait to leave here and go home. She is glad she is up and about and wants to leave this garage. She must have been feeling too buzzed to make it home and decided to here where it was safe for her.
The sixteen-year old goes back to his pizza truck and will leave the garage as well. He will go back to delivering pizzas. They both go their separate ways and will now leave this garage. They leave at different times.
It is still quiet outside. It is dark and there is full moon in the clear sky above. The woman will leave this garage soon. She walks toward her car and goes near and then gets inside. She feels capable enough to drive. She is alert.
The woman has now gotten into her car. She then turns on the ignition and will now leave this garage. She then pulls her car out of a parking space and then will now leave the garage. She is out of the garage now.
The sixteen-year old has since left and is back on the road delivering pizzas. He is long gone. He is happy to be out on the road and doing his job. This means a lot to him now.
The woman now pulls out of the garage and goes onto the road again. She has an idea of where she is. She is safely on the road and driving. She feels happy and is thrilled to be safe. This means the world to her.
She will now head home. However, as she does this, she notices something changes before her. Her world around is starting to look different. She can really place a finger on what is happening to the area around her. It is unique.
She is now traveling in time. She no longer is in the present. She has traveled back in time to 1975. Everything looks so different to her. It feels as though she has gone into the past. This really is baffling and stranger to her.
She knows she is alert and sober. However, she looks around and it seems so different to her. She sees a sign that reads 1975 as the date. 1975 was a long time ago. She is amazed that she is time traveling.
She cannot believe she is this far into the past. This was even a time before she was born. This is captivating to her. Time travel is unique and is opening her mind. She loves to have an open mind at hand.
This woman does not know it, but she will travel back to the present shortly. This is just a temporary glitch in her life right now. This is something that she wants to explore and see what happens. The drive continues.
She is happy to be in a different time period. Time travel has always appealed to her and this happening to her right now. She is in a time period she has never been a part of. This is amazing to her.
She wonders how she has traveled to the past. It is forty years into it. This is baffling and exciting to her. She continues forward with her ride in town and keeps an open mind of events that have taken place here even before she was born.
The orations she heard caused to this happen when the sixteen-year old chanted. This was a spell placed on her while she was asleep on the ground briefly. She was not harmed when the spell was placed on her.
Again, this will wear off soon and she has nothing to worry about. She is safe and continues her way down the road. She feels great and the alcohol has worn off. This means a lot to her and she keeps driving at a consistent pace with regards to the speed limit.
It is dusk now this time in the future. The town she is used to is now vacant because it is the start of subdivisions being built here. New neighborhoods are being developed and this can be seen by this woman as she continues to drive down the road.
After some time, she decides to pull into a coffee shop. She wants to clear her head and have a cup of coffee and a bagel and cream cheese. It has been a while since she has had a bagel and cream cheese with coffee.
She is happy to see this coffee shop. She wants to relax her mind. She still cannot believe she has traveled this far into the past. She is in 1975 and this amazes her a lot. She is in the past.
She finds a place to park. She is the only one here now. This makes her feel good. She parks her car. Then turns it off. She will then leave her car and go inside this coffee shop. This coffee shop is open twenty-four hours a day.
It is now night outside. It is a warm night because it is in the middle of summer here during this time in the past in her hometown. She sees that this coffee shop is quiet, and this makes her feel happy.
She went inside the coffee shop. She got a coffee and bagel with cream cheese. She sat at the counter to relax. This helped greatly. After some time, she went back to her car and then some happened when she drove.
When she got into her car and drove it, she went back on the road and then she went back into the present. Everything looked familiar to her. She continued her way home. She is safe and will reach home soon.
Everything stayed great for her. She had quite the adventure today and she is happy to be home now. She feels great and this adventure is something she never forget for as long as she lives. This is how she feels, and this memory will linger on.
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ABDULLAH "A.H." ERAKAT
ALAN BERGER
AMANDA LASKOWSKY
ANDREW HART
ANITA G. GORMAN
BRI EBERHART
BROOKE DITTMAR
BRUCE KAMEI
BRYAN YOUNG
CLAUDIA SPIRIDON
DEBRA J. WHITE
DR. BLAKE DANIEL PRESCOTT
GREGORY ARENA
JAMES HANNA
JOHN MARA
JONATHAN FERRINI
KEITH BURKHOLDER
LYNNE GRIFFIN
MARY GOULD
MICHAEL PAIGE
MR. S. SUNDAR RAJAN
PARKER STERNI
RICHARD THIEME
RUSA BHOWMIK
SARA TABIN
SETH KABALA
S. MUBASHIR NOOR
STEVE BAILEY
SUSAN CLEVELAND