until then....
Sailing Into The Wind
Long and Short Stories
By Lou Marin
Deer
Black Wind
Dead Man’s Bouquet
Dream Catcher
Having My Cake
Immortalized In Wax
Saltwater Surprise
Skin Art
That Old Car
Under The Rug
A Small Fishing Tale
Sideburns
Road Tripping
Radar Detector
MOUSE
Dorothy Sanchas
Cheltie, A Puppy
This collection of micro fiction and short stories is dedicated to my father, Al Marin, who was a great storyteller and who instilled in me a love for reading and writing your own tales!
Deer
We saw a spotted fawn today, skipping across the road on its merry little way. He did not see Emily and me, quietly fishing and reading in the shady splendor created by two spring-leafed cottonwood trees. Neither moved nor sighed; doing so would scare her away, upsetting this peaceful gift of nature. Memories of how the Pingree boys from my childhood, who lived in Beggar's Hollow, used to call fawns 'lambs' caused suppressed laughter. My boyhood is long gone, it's true, but I suppose that left alone those deer and Pingrees are still happily breeding like jackrabbits in those bushes.
Black Wind
From the Black Sea came the cold hellish wind that took my brother. It screamed and cried for two days and nights without ceasing. Wakening on the second morning, we found him bloodied and dying in the corner.
Father had fastened the oak shutters over the French windows when the tell-tale moaning of breeze in the eaves started. Now he nailed large timbers taken from the floor in the master bedroom across the windows and entrance door. There was a somber darkness in the Great Hall where I cowered in a corner, casting fearful glances everywhere. The sixteen-candle chandelier could not dissipate shadows.
I huddled in the comfort of Mother's bosom and tried to block out the hungry wind and Father's ominous foresight. "Remember my prediction. Before the dawning, this one will be gone too."
I fell into a restless nightmare scarred sleep but was woken from a harsh jerk and even harsher words. Father stood over me grasping a wicked looking knife. Flames’ reflections gleamed and danced upon the blade and his feverish eyes. "Let me send the boy to the Black Wind so that the rest may see the morning."
Dead Man’s Bouquet
In the early part of the last century, in the town of South Paris, in the western part of Maine lived a poor young man who was deeply in love with a girl who lived on the edge of Lake Christopher.
One Sunday evening the guy started on the five mile walk across town to visit the young lady who he was sure he would love for all eternity. He had no gift nor fresh flowers to present to her as was the custom in those far gone days, so he walked along somber and dejected.
Walking past a cemetery beside the dirt road, the young man spied a bouquet of daisies left near an unattended and newly filled grave. After careful deliberation he sneaked into the graveyard and took the arrangement. Thinking that the dearly departed soul would not begrudge the petty larceny, he proceeded on in the moonlight.
Suddenly he heard a ghostly voice proclaim, "Bring those back, they belong to the dead."
Though he tried to ignore the voice, the bone chilling shrieks continued and echoed behind him. "Bring those back, they belong to the dead. Bring those back, they belong to the dead!"
He hurried the last hundred yards at a rapid pace, only to find the young lady's front door bordered in black, and her swooning in tears of grief at the sight of the flowers. Her father had died and was buried just that morning.
The young man dropped the bouquet and ran into eternal darkness, followed by a mournful voice calling, "They belong to the dead!"
It is a sin to court a young lady with flowers that belong to the dead.
Dream Catcher
I lay my newborn son down in his bassinet and hung the new dream catcher I had carefully crafted above him.
I had woven a black widow spider into the rawhide pattern, to ensnare evil dreams that sought to escape into the night. Call me a non-traditionalist; I believe in adding an extra measure to the Great Spirit's power.
Being a writer by vocation, if not by nature, I headed back to my office to pound my keyboard into submission, or at least, to add another 500 words to my ongoing saga of Maine fishermen and their trials in the North Atlantic. Minutes and hours slipped away, until it was time to take a break and ease strained and cramped muscles. On the way to heed the call of nature, I tiptoed down the hall and peered into little Michael's room.
My first son, a gift from God, was covered in a tightly spun cocoon of gossamer thread, like the sleeping bag that entombs a caterpillar awaiting rebirth.
I fell to my knees, begging to The Holy Father and the Spirit Father to let my baby come forth the strong warrior he deserved to be, not something bastardized by the bite of the spider who can only bring forth evil.
I fear what pupa may emerge from this chrysalis.
Having My Cake
I am by nature a pretty generous man. In fact, I would share my last dime with a beggar on the street. I would give the shirt off my back to a man in need. If you want a handout, come to me. That is the kind of guy I have always been.
However, I do have one downfall in life. I do not like to share cake. I have been called gluttonous, greedy, and even a miser when it comes to sharing a chocolate dessert. No one else gets even a bite on my birthday, and I do not smile and offer children a slice of ice-topped wonder.
God knows, I would do almost anything for more. He also knows I hate cockroaches. There they were, boiling out around the knife blade as I cut the cake. How the hell did they get in there? Why would they invade the one sinful delight I have left?
I had expected a slice of fudge frosted heaven. Up the handle, across my fingers march the nasty vermin. To my arm, across my shoulders and toward my face scurried 10,000 or more. Their legs scrabbled for purchase and tickled the hairs, making my entire body tickle and itch.
My skin crawled as I opened my mouth to scream. They began to rush into the opening.
I was about to have my cake and eat it too.
Immortalized In Wax
What price would you pay to be immortalized forever?
I awoke screaming in agony. The beautiful dark haired lady I have been sharing my art studio, loft apartment, and intimate moments with said, "look, I made a beautiful wax sculpture of your talented hands. Now I will have a piece of you forever." I slipped into unconsciousness from the searing, burning pain of the flesh of my fingers melting.
A horrible feeling wrenched me awake yet again. The terrible pain in my wrists started just as it had in my hands. The agony moved up my arms, encasing them in a napalm-like grip of sulfurous hell.
"I think I shall work on capturing the intricacies of your face as it captures the greatness of a masterpiece after I finish detailing your strong muscled shoulders."
I really wish that if my countenance was going to be highlighted forever it did not have such a grimace on it. I groaned, tears coming to my eyes, wondering what part of me was next going to be trapped eternally.
What price would you pay to be immortalized forever?
Saltwater Surprise
"Mmmmm saltwater taffy. I can't wait." I quickly looked around, then picked up the mostly full
New England Taffy box from the counter of the break room and headed back to my desk. "I
wonder who left these here...Ah well, their loss."
I opened the white box and grabbed a pink and brown piece, quickly unwrapping the paper and
slipping the candy into my mouth. A red and blue, green then black piece rapidly followed.
The sugar and confection ran down the back of my throat like pure heaven. Heaven, quickly
turned into hell; fire and a painful constriction in my larynx.
Pure, liquid wax seemed to burn my mouth and esophagus, choking me. A sticky vomitous mass
exploded from my mouth onto my desk calendar in the middle of the stack of candy wrappers as I
collapsed onto the floor.
Sometimes the biggest surprises are the worst.
Skin Art
I was sure the inks and tattoo needle could not be dirty or dangerous. The shop looked sterile and clean, maybe a bit too clean, but I was eighteen, and lots of friends my age already had tattoos.
Now I am in my mid-thirties, and every time I take off my shirt, the skeleton etched on my breast looks a little bigger and definitely more angry.
This morning, I woke up sore, and looked at my chest. It was scarred and gory, missing something. A deep, vile coffin shaped gash is ripped open; like looters tore a temple asunder searching for treasure. From my rib cage to my right breast was a gore covered trench.
Now, seconds later, a swinging harvester's blade cleaves the air above my face. Grave dirt peppers down, sticking to my tears of anguish and fear. First the man craved the ink, now the ink craves the man.
That Old Car
The old car sits at the top of Hall Hill in Robin's Field, alone and abandoned. It is forgotten for months and years as time marches on, until some errant boy or local hunter stumbles upon it, often peppering its steel hull with shot, to simulate death and destruction.
I discovered it long before I knew what a Chevrolet was and before I could contemplate an era known as the 1950's. My daddy and I had walked the trail over Tumbledown Mountain one Saturday in my eleventh summer. After four miles of rocks, bushes, and brambles, we came upon a twisted, mostly grown over logging road left over from an era where tall timber regularly fell to the woodman's ax and chainsaw, as they built Maine's paper mill dynasty.
"Daddy, what is that over there behind the bushes and tall grass? Can I go see?"
"That is Crazy John's Fleetline."
"What is a Fleetline?"
"It is a big old car, from back when they built them to last."
"Can I go look at it?" I asked, already edging closer, through the bushes and weeds.
"Well, I guess, but he killed himself in it, back in the late 50's."
"Eeewww..." I looked around quickly and fearfully, thankful for the sunlight and daddy's presence. You never know when ghosts and haunts are going to be around. The hairs on my neck stood up, begging me not to take a step closer, but my curiosity won the battle.
I pushed aside blackberry bushes, and skirted a few poplar trees, to behold the hulking old car. Sun glinted and played along dented chrome and a myriad of broken glass in open window spaces and windshield.
"Don't get too close...could be haunted..."
I laughed a bit, and tried to lean further into the broken front driver's side window, imagining I saw rust colored blood stains on the side of the cracked and torn wide front seat.
"Be careful or you will cut yourself."
"Damn! Ouch..."
"What did you just say?"
I cradled my left hand with my right. I was already dripping fresh blood on my t-shirt. I had pierced my palm on the jagged rust flecked remnant of a side mirror mount.
The drops had landed on the dull door paint, causing the oxidation to creep away, and be replaced with a shining black obsidian surface, deep and magnificent.
The wide door creaked open, moaning and protesting, a tomb sealed for hundreds of years, now hungry for the tasty new soul presented to it. Suddenly the interior of the car was all fresh vinyl and soothing big band sounds. A soft voice said, "would you like a ride?" Suddenly my hand no longer ached from the cut. I knew that everything about this car was a mystery that begged exploration.
"What the hell are you doing?" My dad's voice was loud, high, and streaked as he grabbed my arm, yanking me away from the car and clear of the creepers and vines that had begun to entangle my feet. I closed my eyes, and remember little else from the day, except waking, lying on cool white sheets.
My left hand, mantled in gauze and bandage burned from the cut, and I could see my daddy, sitting in a bedside chair, reading from the Bible, slowly moving his lips as he sounded out the words.
The old car sits at the top of Hall Hill in Robin's Field alone and abandoned. It is forgotten for months, except when some errant boy or local hunter stumbles upon it with extra bullets or shells to waste, and time to simulate death and destruction. Pray they do not get too curious or too close.
Under The Rug
The wind howled, across the waters of Pleasant Bay in the late evening's gloom. I ducked into our weather beaten family home, after a long day spent fishing in the cold waters off Cape Split.
I looked at the wet snow and muddy footprints my rubber boots tracked onto the worn kitchen floorboards. “I will sweep that up as soon as I warm my fingers a bit."
"Don't worry,” my sister said, rolling back the threadbarren rug. “Sometimes I sweep the dirt under here if I can't find the dustpan." I rolled my eyes. Mom looked at my youngest sibling with wide-eyed terror, fingered her rosary beads and crossed herself.
"I told you to never, never lift that rug," she gasped.
The house was built on an old Miꞌkmaq burial ground, according to local legend. "Every time new dirt is allowed to sprinkle through these floorboards, another spirit is released from its earthbound prison."
“Oh mom,” I said, rolling my eyes at her silly old superstitions.
Mom pulled out her worn deck of tarot cards, hoping to make the right arrangement that would save one of us from certain death. The rough hewn walls and floor creaked and moaned around us, seeming to call out for our souls.
The Hanged Man showed, and the spirits licked their lips in anticipation of a sacrifice.
A Small Fishing Tale
While fishing this morning, I saw a spotted fawn, some muskrat, a beaver, a mallard duck, and three ducklings among stands of river weeds. In a sheltered hollow where cell phone coverage doesn't reach, I saw the beauty that noise often drives away. I caught no fish, and still I left with a thankful smile.
Sideburns
We called him "Sideburns." Somehow in some long forgotten childhood reasoning that seemed a good moniker for the guy who prowled alleys and back porches rummaging through trash cans and piles of cast away items.
His old rusted shopping cart would squeak and rattle along uneven pavement in early morning and late evenings. An occasional glimpse from afar would induce taunts and dares. "I dare you to throw something at "Old Sideburns. I dare you to push his shopping cart over...I dare..." In Ryedale, Maine in the 1980's, he was our Boo Radley.
Parents would warn us to stay away, and to leave the old man with his dirty unkempt hair alone. You know kids though. We would taunt and terrorize daily, becoming more bold and brazen, as our teen years advanced.
Maybe it was summer break boredom, but our minds were leading us to mischief. "Let's find out where Sideburns lives and..." So went the planning to rob a destitute man of his worldly treasures. It was decided that very evening that we would meet and trail the creaky cart to wherever the vagrant spent most hours shut away from we who were superior in this world.
"I usually see him on Puller Street by Bill's Quick Stop, let's meet there." At ten pm, we gathered at the rendezvous to await Sideburns making his rounds.
"He should be somewhere around here, maybe by the dumpster out back, or by Mary's Pizza… Hey, do you smell smoke?" We looked around, and saw an orange glow lighting the sky from a few blocks over.
"Maybe the school is on fire," said Dave. "Let's go see where it is!" Suddenly a fire truck and police car screamed by the store. "Come on, let’s see what is going on!"
We ran through the warm dusk air, and down the next street, where flames were roaring through the walls and front windows of a two-story house. The fast moving firemen were unrolling hoses and connecting to a hydrant on the corner. A cluster of people milled about, talking. Mr. and Mrs. Sutherland, the home owners were visibly distraught, and arguing with Police Chief Sanderson and another officer, who were trying to keep them from running back inside the inferno. "My Maggie is in there." "The firemen will get her out." "What if they can't. I don't want to lose my baby!"
Suddenly the front door opened, letting out a ball of fire and a disheveled figure. Through the smoke and flames stumbled a charred ball of rags. "My baby!" The dirty, disheveled man held a crying baby in his protective arms. Mrs. Sutherland snatched the offered bundle, just as the man fell onto the sidewalk.
The now sizable crowd gasped in awe and then drew back as EMT's ran to the baby and stranger who had collapsed. With screaming sirens and flashing lights, the ambulance transported the victims to the hospital. Slowly the fire was beaten down and finally extinguished, and we scattered to our homes.
When I awoke the next morning, just past 10:00, my mind slowly recounted the previous evening's events. I thought I would wander by Sutherland's house to see what the burnt structure looked like in the daylight, after a little breakfast. I walked into the kitchen for a bite to eat. My parents had long since left for work. The morning newspaper was still on the breakfast table next to my dad's dirty coffee cup.
The headline caught my eye; "Vagrant Dies Hero! Nicholas “Sideburns” Bennett
Saves Baby."
"Bennett, a decorated Vietnam Veteran, and sometimes patient at the Augusta V.A. Hospital seemingly came out of nowhere carrying the sixteen-month-old baby in his arms through the flames..."
We still refer to the homeless man as "Sideburns." But somehow, on one hot summer evening, our childhood contempt turned to awe and wonderment.
Road Tripping Gather round me people there's a story I would tell About a brave young Indian you should remember well From the land of the Pima Indian A proud and noble band Who farmed the Phoenix valley in Arizona land Down the ditches for a thousand years The water grew Ira's peoples' crops 'Till the white man stole the water rights And the sparklin' water stopped -------------------------ONE-------------------------------- Not really, but remember when you were a kid? The end of summer, or more precisely, the beginning of the school year rolled around, and you were once again jammed into a scarred up desk in a stuffy classroom? The teacher, who surely was a disciple of all the dark forces in the universe, wrote on the blackboard, (remember them?) with chalk, "What I Did On My Summer Vacation." Then, if he was Pete McKenna, he took a huge bite of that chalk with equally large green teeth... The Summer Vacation essay may have been the biggest wake up call that summer was indeed over for many a desk-bound child. I remember looking around and seeing the rich Suzie's and Bobby's scribbling away. I knew they had been to the Disney Parks, away to other countries; here and there, while I had pretty much either worked in the garden fields at home, or cleaned barns. My highlights may have been something like working with my father at the Farmer's Market, or loading into an old rusted out International Harvester pickup with five sisters and three brothers and going for a swim or bath at Concord Pond. I always found it was better to make things up, than to write of my realities. How silly and remiss of me not to mention evenings fishing, when I would have dad all to myself in a 14 foot aluminum John boat, or days spent climbing Tumbledown Mountain to pick buckets of wild blueberries. Did you know we used to get together with our cousins and neighbors to play hide and seek, sometimes 20 or so kids all around our place? Sure we did. Did I ever write it down to share? Nope. Too boring of a summer. Look at this short lazy guy, who rarely even wrestles with the other airplane guys, because I am smaller and always end up bruised up. I used to run down the road to Big John Hallesy's fields to play tackle football with a couple of neighbors and cousins. Hmmmm... must not have mentioned it. Well, in my mind and hindsight, summer vacations are what you make of them, and this tale was supposed to be about this summer's vacation, so let me get that cooking, and put bygone's on the back burner again. I like bygones with lettuce and tomato, Heinz Fifty-seven and French fried potatoes. Big kosher pickle and a cold draft beer... --------------------------------------------------------- Road tripping, Man!!!!... I was totin my pack along the long dusty Winnemucca road When along came a semi with a high canvas covered load If your goin' to Winnemucca, Mack with me you can ride And so I climbed into the cab and then I settled down inside He asked me if I'd seen a road with so much dust and sand And I said, "Listen! I've traveled every road in this here land!" I've been everywhere, man I've been everywhere, man Crossed the deserts bare, man I've breathed the mountain air, man Travel - I've had my share, man I've been everywhere I've been to: Reno Chicago Fargo Minnesota Buffalo Toronto Winslow Sarasota Whichta Tulsa Ottawa Oklahoma Tampa Panama Mattua LaPaloma Bangor Baltimore Salvador Amarillo Tocapillo Pocatello Ampollo I'm a Killer I've been everywhere, man I've been everywhere, man Crossed the deserts bare, man I've breathed the mountain air, man Travel - I've had my share, man I've been everywhere I've been to: Boston Charleston Dayton Louisiana Washington Houston Kingston Texas (County) Monterey Faraday Santa Fe Tollaperson Glen Rock Black Rock Little Rock Oskaloosa Tennessee Tinnesay Chickapee Spirit Lake Grand Lake Devil's Lake Crater Lake For Pete's Sake I've been everywhere, man I've been everywhere, man Crossed the deserts bare, man I've breathed the mountain air, man Travel - I've had my share, man I've been everywhere I've been to: Louisville Nashville Knoxville Omerback Schererville Jacksonville Waterville Costa Rock Richfield Springfield Bakersfield Shreveport Hackensack Cadillac Fond du Lac Davenport Idaho Jellico Argentina Diamantina Pasadena Catalina See What I Mean I've been everywhere, man I've been everywhere, man Crossed the deserts bare, man I've breathed the mountain air, man Travel - I've had my share, man I've been everywhere I've been to: Pittsburgh Parkersburg Gravelbourg Colorado Ellisburg Rexburg Vicksburg Eldorado Larimore Adiamor Habastock Chadanocka Shasta Nebraska Alaska Opalacka Baraboo Waterloo Kalamazoo Kansas City Sioux City Cedar City Dodge City What A Pity I've been everywhere, man I've been everywhere, man Crossed the deserts bare, man I've breathed the mountain air, man Travel - I've had my share, man I've been everywhere ---------------------------------TWO------------------------ Back to my tale and away from someone else's songs. After exhaustive planning and probing from her mom, it was decided that my itinerary for traveling out to California to get my daughter Emily was acceptable. I was to leave sweet home Minot on 15 July, and drive out to Edwards Air Force Base, in the beautiful deserts of Southern California. A green canvas Air Force Issue "A" bag full of shorts, socks, and underwear, tank of gas, four bald tires, 200 bucks, cash, pretty much all thrown together was followed by a beat up ATM card, forgotten shaving kit, printed travel map and a thermos of rugged coffee. I headed west into the black. We ain't going to Disneyland! Highways rolled by; 83 south, 52 West, 85 South, North Dakota 200, Montana 16, and US 94 West. I needed to go 156 miles on Interstate 90 West. Hmmm... Directions say East, well, since I am trying to escape North Dakota, I think west. West it was and on I went. Jack Rabbit Lane? What the hell? Where is the Interstate. Damned crazy small town interchanges always get me. Interchange? Is that the word? Ahhh.... I had to take US 191, to 20 West. I was hoping to sleep somewhere when I got on 15 South. I guessed Idaho, How far is Pocatello, not sure, but that seemed as good a sleep spot as anywhere? I didn't know there were so many mountains in the desert. Damn hot out there. Climbing mountains at nearly 90 miles an hour and 110 degrees Fahrenheit with the air conditioning set at subarctic made the Mighty Stratus angry. I saw the temperature gauge climb faster than we were traversing the hills. If that was all the little Dodge had to weather, life would have been groovy... Ahhh... 85 miles an hour with the window down. Hot dry air whipped my face and I guzzled bottled water. Onward and upward we flew. A few hours of sleep at a 30 dollar hotel. No English, but they spoke green. Amazing. No TV, no phone, and the shower curtain was missing. I set my cell phone alarm and made 7 hours of dead sleep before I hit the road again. I did a low level through Las Vegas. No Air Force Dime, no gambling time. I was excited because I was going to be a day earlier to get Emily. So much for her mom's planning...smiles! More snacks from a bag of cleaned out cupboard food, another travel mug of coffee or two, a couple of Diet Cokes and I rode on. There is 220 miles between North Vegas Boulevard and the Billeting office at Edwards, AFB, and I made it in a near classified time...speed is easy on flat and empty desert roads. -------------------------------THREE---------------------------- "You need a room?" "Maybe one night. Hang on." Cell phone, search contacts. Emily. "Hello?" "Tesa? Hey, if I got to base today, could Emily and I leave tomorrow morning instead of the next day?" "Where are you?" "Billeting." "Oh, we are still on the way back from my mom's, and she still has to pack. I will call you when we get back to base." A quick trip to the Base Exchange for Popeye's Chicken and the Commissary for more Diet Coke and a case of water. I will get at least 3 hours of nap time before I finally get to see Emily again. Damn it has been a year. Sleep? Right... Ever have a big event coming up, like the first day of school. You can't sleep. Emotional Lou has been anticipating seeing Emily again since the day he last saw her. Yup I am tossing and turning on the sofa in my rented room, because I thought that if I went to sleep in the bed in the second room of the place, I would sleep through them beating on the door. Ha. I only slept a wink or two. "We are on our way." Tears and cries. "Hug and kiss your mom and brother goodbye..." "Daddy, you tricked me with bright yellow hair, and mom didn't tell me where we were going or that you would be there..." -----------------------------------------FOUR--------------------------- Early the next morning we were heading to New Orleans to see my fiance, Monica. We started the day with a grand tour of Edwards Air Force Base, because I went out the wrong gate and then had to come back on, and all the way across to finally leave the right way. I did not want to wander aimlessly in the desert until the coyotes and condors found us. There is miles of nothing besides winding roads through the dry lake beds and desert scrub if you do not head toward Las Vegas or Los Angeles. We took 58 East and Interstate 15 through Vegas again. Leaving Nevada there were miles and miles of Interstate 40 East, that I took at a screaming, highly illegal pace. In South Texas, in the desert, I met a state trooper in mirrored shades and a Smokey Bear hat. He flashed blinding snow white teeth and amazing pleasantry while handing me a Texas sized speeding ticket. After a stern warning and directions to mail the ticket, we were on our way again. Sleeping was a little more expensive that night. Emily insisted on a better hotel with a pool. The second day out from California was a blur of gray ribbon, food, road snacks and Diet Cokes. Following an endless parade of gas pumps we headed east toward the Gulf Coast. East and Southeast we plunged. I remember Interstate 287 and 114 and TX-183. There were more signs and route markers; Merge onto I-30 E via EXIT 428A on the LEFT toward TEXARKANA. If we had taken Exit 20 East we would have gone to Shreveport, Louisiana, but we rocketed by that place. I would have given it the finger but Emily was against that, so instead we took exit 11 toward Alexandria and merged onto I-49 S and then 10 East. We were running fast through late evening and gathering dusk and it would have made sense to get a hotel after hours in motion, but were a little too close to New Orleans to stop. I was wired and Emily wanted to get somewhere for sure because car seats are only comfortable for so long when you are seven. We turned on Interstate 12 East and took the Slidell/Pearl River Louisiana exit. We had made it to see Monica. Hello and where the hell is the hotel? The place we had reserved was kind of run down but it had beds and I was soon asleep. Emily wanted to bounce off some car energy and Monica wanted to cuddle, but sleep stole me away. ------------------FIVE--------------------------------------- Slidell, Louisiana is across Lake Pontchartrain, and about 30 miles from the city of New Orleans. We spent nine days visiting zoos, aquariums, and museums. We wandered the French Quarter shopping, spending money, and basically being a tourist family. One night we got a flat right front tire, with Monica driving, but luckily it was in town, and at low speeds, with more damage then torn up rubber. Despite having consumed a high quantity of beer with Monica's dad, I changed it to the donut. The next day we bought two new front tires for 240 dollars, but kept the slicks on the back of the Dodge Stratus. The nine days of fun and excitement flew by, then it was time to load up and head north toward North Dakota and my home. It was Friday, and I had to go to work on Monday. I planned on being home on Saturday evening...So go the best laid plans they say... ------------------------------SIX-------------------------------- I wanted to leave before the sun rose. That's what I do; leave early, drive hard until late, sleep a bit, repeat the next day. To me, everywhere in the continental United States, except for southern Florida is two twelve hour days by road from my home in Minot, North Dakota. I wanted to go north a bunch and west a little and be home in a couple of days. Emily stayed the night in Slidell with Monica's parents, so Monica and I could have time to ourselves. I had already asked her to marry me, Moe, not Ems. And we just wanted time together. Goodbyes were not really easy, they never really seem to be. By the time we had the car loaded and were situated, with last minute pee breaks and tears and all, it was after 10 a.m., about half way through a normal travel day for me. I was tanned, fit, and rested. Smiles. I was thinking I could still maybe put in eight hours of driving that day if the weather was good. I planned to be in a hotel by 6 p.m. get a hot shower and have time for Emily and I to relax by the pool and get a good dinner. There really was no need for Emily and I to beat ourselves up on the road. We would be home soon, so she could meet the puppy and kitty, and see some old friends around Minot. ---------------------------SEVEN---------------------------- Soon we were back on highways and interstates, turning right and left; down Country Club Lane and Robert Avenue and taking the ramp onto I-10 and back across Lake Pontchartrain. Traffic was getting thicker and slower going into New Orleans. I was not scared of city traffic, despite growing up in the back woods and living in an extremely rural area. We were nearly creeping at 10 miles an hour below the posted speed limit. I figured that once we got out of the city and onto Interstate 55 north we would make good time. "Holy Shit!" I remember hearing screaming tires and realizing that I was seeing brake lights in front of me. I was standing on my own brake pedal. There were three blocked lanes of traffic in front of me and barely time to make a choice. It was like a losing lottery. Which lane should I pick, the one blocked by a Pontiac Grand Am, Boat Trailer, or Trailer truck. Yes, needless to say, I hit the car in front of me. Someone was changing a tire in the far left, and generally, the fastest lane for whatever reason. I had plowed into a 7 vehicle pile up. "Oh God, I thought. "I hope Emily isn't hurt!" No blood... "Hon wake up." "What Daddy? Where are we?" "Still in New Orleans." We had made it 35 miles and were in an accident. "Hon are you O.K.? We were in an accident." "Oh, can we go now?" We waited for the police and other emergency vehicles, though no one seemed to be hurt. Statements and insurance and registration and injury checks were completed relatively quickly, and everyone was free to go, except for the gentleman who had stopped on the traveled surface with a flat. He left before the New Orleans Police Department arrived on the scene. I delayed at a truck stop to make sure the hood was not too bent up to continue on. I beat it flat and strapped it down with some bungee cords. With a pee break and a quick prayer we were ready to head north again. I thought our bad luck was behind us. My car was not so pretty, but I thought I could make it home and get it fixed somewhere locally. -------------------------------EIGHT------------------------------------------ We had no injuries, and since the person who started the trouble had departed the scene, I was not getting a ticket, for rear ending another vehicle, so I decided to get back on the road. "Ready to Rock and Roll?!" Back up the ramp to Interstate 10 west bound we went, then on to 55 North. "GoodBye Louisiana, Hello Mississippi... How many S's? Dad..." "Like four and I miss the second SS, and No pee pee in my eye..." We were barreling up Interstate 55 through the countryside. Emily was sleeping and I was admiring the tall Mississippi loblolly pine trees and a blissful country scene on either side of the busy highway. In case you ever wonder, when your hood flies up at 75 miles an hour, it really looks like the NASCAR in car camera, maximum visibility to a peep hole in less than a second. The windshields broke but remained intact. I am thankful for the miracle of safety glass. The moon roof though was standard plate glass and instantly became flying shards. With no time or thought, I steered us safely to the side of the road. I have no real memory of piloting the car, just a stream of "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit..." issuing forth from within me and Emily asking me if I was OK. In seconds, after assessing that once again Emily and I had escaped a car wreck unscathed, we were standing beside yet another Interstate in another southern state. It had already been a hell of a ride! A flat topped state trooper was soon on the scene. -------------------------------------NINE---------------------------------- Despite being called "boy" way too many times, we had a wrecker on the way, a ride to a hotel, and a cell phone call to the insurance company in about twenty minutes. It was Friday afternoon. We had a broken car, motel, and wrecker bills. We have made a grand total of 330 miles, out of the 1800 miles it would take to get home from this vacation. I had to use my Government Travel Card for charges that I really wasn't authorized to make or sit beside the road until payday. We belonged home in bed, but we were safe, and Emily's only complaint was having to pee. We had dinner and since it was too late in the evening to get anything accomplished, settled in for another evening in a strange hotel in an unfamiliar town. Saturday morning slowly unwound. I needed to get to the place where my car was by noon to get our belongings or everything would be locked up until Monday. Enterprise Rent A Car, in Oxford, Mississippi, only picks people up at their convenience. That didn't make it into the advertisement. The local Progressive Insurance guy closed his office to drive Emily and I 30 miles to get the rental. We loaded up and headed north on Interstate 55 with No CD player. We spent 1400 miles listening to AM talk radio and top 40's Country and Rock music. After Intestate 55 came 270, then US-40 and 61. I wondered why the hell anyone would write a song about Wentzville. There was nothing there to catch my eye except that was where I had to merge onto Interstate 70, in an effort to get closer to home. We took Interstate 70 West to 435 North. After we got on Interstate 29, we decided to stay overnight in St. Joe, Missouri. On Sunday we cruised a few hundred miles to Interstate 94 West, and I finally started to relax, feeling like we would actually make it to the end of our journey. I decided to take US Highway 2 and 52, and we rolled into Minot, North Dakota, finally home, in the early evening. We picked up the puppy and kitty and Emily was instantly in love with them. The babysitter who had promised to watch her while I was at work had a new full time job, and I had to be back to work in the morning, so it looked like vacation was officially over. I unpacked the car, dyed my hair back brown, and crawled into bed exhausted. ----------------------------------------------TEN----------------------------------------------------- Alarm. Shower. Uniform. I woke up Emily and we drove up the highway to the Air Force Base. "Joe, I am taking today off too." I went grocery shopping with Emily, since the cupboards and refrigerator were mostly empty. We paid all the bills that had been waiting for our return, then found a babysitter. Phone calls and pleasant chats with the insurance company and garages in Mississippi filled my afternoon. They decided to fix my car, not total it, which I thought was pretty cool. We spent two weeks of me and Emily time, which was broken up by work, and learning my brand new job, which I liked so much that if Emily wasn't here I would have worked both shifts. I had forgotten just how much I truly enjoyed aircraft maintenance. Sure I was older and slower than when I had done it as a young Airman and I was a little rusty on the simple stuff, but I really liked the work. Emily and I watched a lot of TV shows on DVD that I loved as a kid and went to see some movies. She tries to teach me to play Nintendo and we read to each other. We also shopped for school clothes, but mostly just cuddled and enjoyed our time together. Time flew and fun sped the clock more. Soon it was our last evening before she went back to California. We were pretty short on spending cash, so I decided to con her into going to look at airplanes. Some different kinds had flown in for the air show that she and I would be missing. I was sure Emily wouldn't like airplanes, but I guess when your dad and mom are both airplane mechanics of a sort, it is just in your blood. We watched some flying aerobatics, and wandered around looking at planes. Emily got a bunch of pictures and autographs, and loved it, but it was soon time to go home and get a few hours of sleep before we hit the road again. ----------------------------------------ELEVEN--------------------------------------------- Sunday morning we started the 520 miles southeast journey to Sioux Falls, SD, where Emily would fly west, with an attendant and all, to Las Vegas to meet her mom. Emily pronounced Sioux Falls, "Sucks Falls," and kept telling me why it sucked so bad, which provided laughs the first few hundred times. She got on a plane the next morning amid tears and trepidation, mostly mine, and I headed south. I spent a night in St. Joseph, Missouri again, and then drove the remaining 635 miles to Mississippi to get my car. A blur of Interstates and numbers flew by. 29 and 435 and 70 and 40 East led to Interstates 61 and 270 and I-55 south and discount hotel fares and traveling. I spent a night in Batesville, Mississippi, and was ready to pick up my car at 9 a.m. I paid the Insurance deductible, thinking how new glass and paint made my Stratus look showroom new. I filled up my thermos with free coffee and topped off my tank with expensive gas. I took care of some personal needs in a dirty truck stop bathroom and headed north again. 1435 miles later I pulled into Minot, ND, almost home. I stopped at my best buddy's house on a Thursday afternoon, to see if Friday was still a down day at work. He was still on base, turning wrenches, even though it was over an hour past the end of his shift. I called the office number in his duty section. He was going to be there until 7 p.m, a 12 hour shift. I made the call to cancel the rest of my leave, which was supposed to go through Sunday. --------------------------------------------------TWELVE--------------------------- Friday morning, while most of the base got to sleep in, I was up bright and early shaving off a week's face and showering off thousands of miles of road grime. I suited up in a wrinkled uniform and bought donuts for the crew. While unlocking the shop and getting tools accounted for and signing for the truck, I remembered when I was really good at aircraft maintenance. My two Staff Sergeants and I troubleshot and jacked the airplane and ran through gear and finally fixed a problem (hopefully) that had plagued the same plane for the last six flights. I got home and drank beer and fell asleep and finally got to sleep in the next day, which was a Saturday. It had been a very eventful summer, and it was only mid-August! Are you glad you asked what I did on my Summer vacation? -------------------------------- It's been rough and rocky travelin', But I'm finally standin' upright on the ground. After takin' several readings, I'm surprised to find my mind's still fairly sound. ****Lyrics for Ira Hayes Written by Peter LaFarge Recorded by Johnny Cash on 3/5/64 Copyrite. Lyrics for I've Been Everywhere Written by Geoff Mack Recorded by Johnny Cash Copyright 1962. Lyrics for Me and Paul Written by Townes Van Zandt Recorded by Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard Copyrite.****
Radar Detector
“Radar Detector Detector Detector”
Did I read that right, you asked? A radar detector detector detector?
Before you turn the page, please let me explain. A military friend of mine who I was stationed with in Minot, North Dakota from 1994 until 2011 told me this tale and I thought I would share his misadventure.
He once got pulled over for speeding and for having a radar detector while racing down the interstate in Wisconsin, where using radar detection devices is illegal.
He showed the state trooper his license and military ID. The trooper said, "Since you are in the Air Force, I will let you go with just a warning as long as you put the radar detector in your trunk. I also will not write up the speeding ticket for going 10 miles over the speed limit."
My friend, Brian, asked the trooper how he knew he had a radar detector on, and the policeman said he has a radar detector detector.
Brain asked him, "Why the heck doesn't someone invent a radar detector detector detector?"
Brian received the hefty Wisconsin Speeding Ticket and his Radar Detector was confiscated, as is the state law.
"Thank you and drive safe!"
MOUSE
This morning while out raking last fall’s leaves and dead grass from the lawn in the warm springtime sun, I came across a discarded Little Debbie snack cake box.
A man bent upon his cleaning chore, and perhaps not blessed with curiosity would have raked it into the refuse pile and gone about his tasks. Not me. I have a wandering mind that welcomes interruptions, and knows that curiosity didn't really kill the cat; he just died happy with the knowledge he had gleaned.
I picked up the box, partly faded and a little battered from the weight of the snow that had held it in place in the corner of the rose bush for the last few months.
Inside the torn open end, I spied a little nest made of bits of cotton, shredded newspaper, and fallen rose petals. I glimpsed little pink babies squirming among the bits of cotton batten and paper. I thought how like heaven it is to be in a cozy home surrounded by loved ones.
I reached through the spokes of a steel wagon wheel and placed the box deeper under the rose bushes, endeavoring to place them in a better haven, safe from prowling cats and nosy neighbor children.
Mama Mouse, keep your children safe.
Dorothy Sanchas
Dot Sanchas, the lady who brought Christmas gifts to poor families for many years died on 28 October 2008. I wrote this about her:
I remember awakening on many Christmas mornings and wandering to our shabby Christmas tree, wondering if there would be anything that year for me. Most seasons, I saw had few gifts, wrapping paper, or bows.
But my eighth Christmas season had not spread feelings bright or cheerful that I recall. A knock on the door resulted in puzzled glances between my mother and father. When the front door was slowly pulled open by dad, there stood the infamous man in the red suit carrying a large bag of brightly wrapped gifts. Standing behind Santa was a lady with a big box of food.
I must confess that I do not remember the lady as a person, but more as a vague bright light with a halo of white hair. Funny how minds can distort reality and save beautiful images. A friendly, cheerful smile and a kind word were given, along with a toy and warm mittens for each of us. I wonder now how eight children and two adults fit into the budget of her small volunteer organization. I still praise our anonymous benefactor(s) all those years ago. Mother cried at such a windfall in such a lean year, ensuring we each gave a hug and thank you in return to both Ms. Sanchas and Santa Claus.
Dorothy “Dot” Sanchas believed Jesus' words encouraged everyone to help each other and to pray everyday. "There are always people who can be helped, no matter where you look. Something as simple as a hug and reassurance spreads His Word." She did not just help my family, but also founded "Santa's Helpers" in the Rumford, Maine area in the late 1970s to help provide clothing, gifts and food for all in need over the Holiday season.
Santa's Helpers spun off another helping idea for the off-Christmas season called The Free Store. Starting in the back of her station wagon, where she would sometimes park in needy areas in the surrounding communities until the car was empty. From the cargo area and seats of a family car she moved on to working out of her well stocked family garage as the donations poured in to help the needy. The Free Store is now a large building in Mexico, Maine, a community with a slowly withering economy. People still stream in to get donated necessities for free.
Right after Dot died at 3:30 a.m. on that October day, this beautiful lady who has meant light and hope to so many had a divine visitation. Family members said the Savior in all His Glory appeared on the side of her house in the moonlight. Like Christ at Gethsemane kneeling at the rock with angels at his feet, it seems He was coming to lead another of His angels home. When the rain came, the family said, it was like tears from heaven.
She was buried far away in my old hometown, so I did not make it to her funeral to say goodbye. Instead I said a prayer of thanks for this beautiful lady who gave to so many. Dot, you gave my family so much more than a sack full of wrapped toys long ago. You gave us the fruit of human kindness, nurtured in your loving, Christian heart. You taught me that the season is for giving, just as God gave his only Son that others may live.
For those of you in the Rumford and Mexico, Maine area, and her beautiful family, wherever you may be, continue to carry the torch Ms. Sanchas lit, I thank you and praise you. Remember there is always human need and poverty. Thank you for keeping her dream of giving alive. May God bless and watch over you as you help others on Christmas Day and every day.
Cheltie, A Puppy
"Daddy can I have a pet?"
My daughter, Emily had asked me a dozen times, and I had answered no, the same amount of times. "My apartment is too small. I am hardly ever home when you are at your mom's. I am already watching Kimi's puppy and kitty."
"Dad, I want a pet of my own, I will watch him and take care of him, and clean up after him. I promise!"
"Hon, I don't know. Remember what happened to your hermit crabs?" Ah yes, hermit crabs. The easiest pet in the world to watch. "Great interactive fun for kids aged 8 to 88." They just needed a damp sponge and a pinch of food a day. They stay happy inside their crab cage and make no noise. In fact, MJ, the first, was not vocal enough to say: "Hey, don't leave me in the car in the Louisiana sun!"
Emily's grief at her first pet dying and my subsequent "this crab’s eternal shell," words at a burial spot in the corner of my fiance's flower garden slightly diminished my fervor for allowing her another pet.
Two weeks later, her replacement crab, Dakota, fell out of its painted shell in a wad of stilled legs and motionless tentacles. A pet? Live? "Hmm, this is going to be tricky."
"Please daddy?"
"Well, what do you have in mind?" How easy I wavered whenever Emily wanted anything. No begging, no pleading, just repeating herself was usually enough.
"I want a puppy of my own. Kimi is going to get hers back after she has her baby. You said."
"A puppy? Puppies are expensive."
"What if I find one?"
"Find one? People don't just find puppies."
"But I found one daddy. He is on the steps eating milk and cereal."
I bounded over and pulled open the front door. There sitting on the front deck was a brown handful of dirty fur and baleful eyes lapping Cheerios out of one of my Disney soup mugs.
"Hun, he has to be someone's pet. Where did you find him?" I asked, sure that he belonged to one of the neighbors, who had a tendency to let children and pets run free.
"I saw him up by the highway when I was coming home from the store."
"Were you up by the highway Emily?" I asked, worried.
"No dad, he was by the store road." An independent seven year old, I sometimes let her walk the two blocks to the country store. I was beginning to regret it.
"He was hungry and all alone, and I thought if I were hungry and all alone, I would want a friend and a home."
How could I argue with that logic? "Well, let me look at him and see if he has a tag."
"Cheltenham. That's a different name." 701-623-6623...hmmmm.... "Hun, he has a name and telephone number on his tag!"
"Dad, I know where that is."
"Where what is? The phone number?"
"No Cheltenham. I know where it is."
"In North Dakota? Never heard of it."
"No. It is in England. Remember? My friend Maisie and her mom live there."
"Ems, sweetie, this dog is not from England."
"How do you know dad?"
"If it was from England, it would bark with an accent."
"Dad!" Exasperation was evident in her tone.
"Grab my cell phone for me baby."
"Why?"
"I am going to call the owners and tell them they lost their puppy."
"But dad... I bet they didn't want it, or they were mean and he ran away. Does your cell go all the way to England? What if he's Maisie's puppy?"
Ring. Ring. "This number has been temporarily disconnected."
No problem. I can do a Google search and it should tell me where they live, the number can't have been disconnected for long.
www.google.com.
Your search - 701-623-6623 - did not match any documents.
Suggestions:
- Make sure all words are spelled correctly.
Suggestions? Suggestions. Maybe we should take him inside and let him warm up, then give him a bath while I think of how to get him reunited with his family.
"Hun don't pet him and play with him too much or you won't want him to leave."
I spent two days half heartedly calling friends, asking them what I should do. Then I made the kind of decision only a dad can make.
Under Emily's guidance, I took off the puppy's ragged blue collar and bought him a red one with a tag that said "Cheltie," then bought him his own bowl and a sweater, just in case he got cold.
Now boy puppy, girl puppy, kitty and me, sit and snuggle on the sofa. We wait for Christmas, when Emily will return to visit.
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