Clyde Short:

As unkind as it is to say, Clyde Short was ugly. His name did not fit him any better than the baggy overalls or plaid shirt that drooped down his frame as though his shoulders were mere coat hangers. He was a long six feet tall, meaning he was a fraction of an inch over six feet from head to toe. He was as thin as a rail, bug eyed, buck toothed and jug eared. He also had a protruding adam’s apple that bobbed when he spoke. His gauntness made his larger than average hands and feet look gigantic. His uncle Charley said he looked like something from the bone yard. Even his mother said there was no way to pretty him up. Furthermore, his clothes and his slow drawl made him appear to be every bit the country bumpkin.

Times were hard. His folks did not need his mouth to feed. They did not need the model A Ford either. So he paid what he could afford to pay for the car and headed west. His destination was California. He really wanted to see the ocean, and he understood that folks were doing pretty well in that state. He literally worked his way across the country, picking up whatever odd jobs he could find to pay for the gasoline and a meal now and then. This was not easy because people were always reluctant to hire such a scarecrow. Somehow he managed. He arrived at Long Beach dead broke.

Hal Birch had a machine shop. His business had barely survived the worst of the depression, but things were looking up. There was a war in Europe and lend lease was allowing the allies to buy more war materials from the U.S. Hal seized the opportunity. He converted his machine shop into a factory to make shell casings for mortar rounds. He was standing on the loading dock watching his men struggling to load the trucks. A model A Ford pulled onto the property and stopped near the loading dock. Out of the car stepped a scarecrow.

“Need some help?” the scarecrow asked.

Although Hal could use another man he almost said no. The kid was so thin that a strong wind could probably break him. It was difficult to imagine him having the strength to load trucks.

“Those boxes are heavy. Do you think you can handle it?”

“I ain’t no stranger to hard work. If it needs movin’, I’ll move it.”

Hal gave the kid a good looking over. He was no more than twenty years old. Most kids his age were quick and agile. They also had endurance. Maybe he could put the kid on the packing line. He should be able to keep up with the flow if he had eaten recently.

“What’s your name?”

“Clyde Short.”

“I’m Hal. Follow me.”

They walked to Hal’s office. Hal handed Clyde the employment form and Clyde signed it. They then walked to the front of the factory and Clyde entered his name and the time on the appropriate line of the sign in sheet. It was a short walk from there to the packing line.

“Martin!”

“Yeah, Hal! The man that replied was forty some odd years old. He was short and stocky with a bulldog smoking pipe protruding from his round face. Most of the men where Clyde was from smoked corncob pipes when they were at work. If they owned a pipe made of briar they either inherited it or had some spare cash when they bought it. It was a prized possession, and they did not want to risk breaking its stem at work. So they put it on the mantle and smoked it while relaxing after dinner.

“Martin, this is Clyde. Start him off in packing and rotate Ben to the dock for now.”

There was no handshake or unnecessary words, which was fine with Clyde. He wasn’t much of a talker anyhow.

“Ben this is Clyde. Show him how to pack. Then rotate to the loading doc!”

The look on Ben’s face said he was not too happy about rotating to the loading doc early. He picked up a pair of gloves and handed them to Clyde.

“Here you go, Okie. Nothing complicated about it. Put one of the gloves on your weak hand to start out.” Ben picked up a mortar round casing to demonstrate what he was saying. “Cover the threads with one or more of your fingers, and turn the casing a couple of times like this. If the thread snags your glove it has a burr or rough spot and you toss it in the reject pile. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. This one’s all right. You don’t find a bad one often. It’s important to put them in the box right. The guys loading the powder don’t have time to look or turn them, and we catch hell if they’re not packed right. They stand in the box this way. Now start packing!”

Clyde quickly fell into a rhythm. Ben left for the loading dock. The rounds were heavier than they looked. Clyde had to lift with his left hand for a while to give his right hand a rest. He inspected and packed for two hours. Then the whistle blew to signal lunch time. He walked to his car and lit his corncob pipe. He could only afford to smoke two bowls a day. One after lunch and one after whatever he could afford to eat at the end of the day.

Hal had to walk past Clyde’s car to get to his. “Where’s your lunch?” he asked.

“Don’t have one.”

Hal sighed. “Well, I can’t have you passing out on me from hunger. Come on!”

Clyde reluctantly followed. They drove to a nearby diner.

“Order anything you want. It’s on me.”

“You should take it out of my pay.”

“I like your attitude, but if I do that it will take you too long to get on your feet.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

A waitress came to the table and took their orders. Clyde ordered a hamburger and coffee.

“You’ll be learning something new when we finish lunch.”

Clyde grinned.

“I thought you’d like that. The tasks are repetitive, and I’ve found out it’s better to rotate my workers after a few hours to keep them from burning out.”

The waitress brought the meals, and Clyde lit into the hamburger as though he had not eaten in days. This was understandable because it had been almost thirty hours since his last meal. Not that he was counting the hours. He had learned not to do that.

“I understand you did well at packing. How are you getting along with the other workers?”

Clyde knew it always took a while for people to get over his looks enough for him to prove himself to them, but that is not what a boss wants to hear. “I haven’t given it much thought,” he said. “I reckon holdin’ up my end of the log is doing right by them though.”

Hal smiled. “It’s doing right by everyone.”

“I won’t let you down.”

“I’m sure you won’t.”

Hal discretely watched Clyde several times during the day. The kid learned new tasks quickly, and he seemed to have an instinct for reducing the motions it took to perform each of the tasks assigned to him. At the end of the day Clyde was standing by his model A. He had his corncob pipe in his mouth but was putting off lighting it. Hal walked up to him.

“Where are you staying tonight?”

“I was hoping I could sleep in my car here.”

“No good. The cops check my lot, and we can’t have you getting arrested for vagrancy.”

“Tough place to live.”

“It’s all right. I’ve got a place for you to stay. The rent’s cheap, and you can pay it weekly, starting with the paycheck you’ll get this Friday.”

“You sure they’ll trust me to do that.”

“It’s my place.”

“That’s really kind of you.”

“Nonsense. It’s not making me any money sitting there empty.”

Clyde followed Hal to the property. Much to Clyde’s delight the place was near the beach. An oil field bordered the property, and flames shooting out of the stack of a topping plant would obviously light up the night. It was the oil field and topping plant that had spoiled Hal’s plan for the place. His property held a large house and six small bungalows. He had built the bungalows thinking he could rent them out to people who wanted to stay at the beach during their vacations. The rotten egg smell from the topping plant soon made that plan impractical. Four of the bungalows were now rented out to workers at the factory. The main room of the one where Clyde would be staying had two beds, a gas cooking stove, a small refrigerator and a sink. The other room was a bathroom. Clyde could not have been more pleased if it had been a palace. There were still a lot of folks back home who did not have electricity or indoor plumbing.

“Come to the main house for dinner after you move in your things.”

“That’s right neighborly of you.”

“Your first week’s rent includes dinner, and I’ll have my wife pack a lunch for you.”

Clyde took a shower, put on his cleanest dirty shirt and slicked back his hair. Hal opened the door and introduced Clyde to his wife, Laura, and his children, Alice and Brandon.

“Pleased to meet you all. I hope I didn’t keep you waitin’ dinner on me.”

“Not at all,” Laura said. “I just put it on the table.”

Hal said the grace, and they started passing the food around the table.

Clyde helped himself to the pot roast. He smiled as he put some gravy on the mashed potatoes. “I’m a lucky man tonight. What with this meal and you kind folks invitin’ here.”

“Think nothing of it,” Laura said. Where are you from?”

“Kentucky, but folks at the factory seem to think it’s Oklahoma.”

Hal did not look pleased. “I’ll bet you’re not the only one they’re calling Okie.”

“No sir, I’m not.”

“I’ve been trying to discourage that.”

“So it’s not a polite name.”

“Far from it. It’s used by people to tell folks who escaped the dust bowl that they’re not welcome here.”

“I’ve been called worse things, and by total strangers.”

Laura smiled, but there was no joy in it. “People are far too mean.”

“That must be upsetting to someone with your kind heart.”

“Thank you for saying I have a kind heart. I think you do too.”

“A fella who looks like me has to display kindness or they’d run him outta town.”

This made everyone laugh. After dinner they walked into the living room. The men lit their pipes and Laura served them an after dinner coffee.

“I’d turn on the news now, but my radio conked out this morning.”

“Probably a tube. Bet I can fix it for you.”

“Where’d you learn about radios?”

“I picked up a book on electrical things, and I enjoy tinkerin’.”

“Well, tinker away.”

Clyde was able to fix the radio, and when a switch on one of the lathes broke he was also able to fix that. One day he walked into Hal’s office. “If we can get some ramps with rollers on ‘em, I think we could speed up the loadin’ of the trucks.”

“How do you figure?”

“The doc is just a tad higher than the truck beds. It ain’t much but it’s enough. Pull the hand trucks up to the ramp. Set the boxes on the rollers and just let ‘em roll. With no one carryin’ we can put a man in the truck to help the driver stack.”

“How much time do think that will save?”

“Don’t know. I think we should test it without letting the trucking company know what we’re doin’.

“Why the secrecy?”

“I’m guessing the high mileage rate is to compensate for the time they spend at the doc. If we can get ‘em to lower the mileage and charge us an hourly fee at the dock we’ll come out ahead because they’ll be figurin’ how long it normally takes.”

“All right, I know where I can borrow a truck. It’s your project.”

Clyde’s test went well. The trucks were loaded much quicker, but he thought the men worked faster than they would on daily basis so he left himself some wiggle room. Clyde bought some new clothes so that his appearance would let the trucking company know he was part of management. It was some hard haggling but he got what he wanted. He presented the contract to Hal with a big grin on his face.

“Here’s what we’ve been payin’ per round trip and here’s what we’ll be payin’.

“I can’t believe how low the hourly rate is. How did you get them to do that?”

“They were figurin’ a longer loadin’ time. We’ll have our men do the stackin’ to keep their drivers from gold brickin’. The drivers will go for it because it means they won’t have to heft the cargoes.”

“Human nature.”

“Yes sir. And my good looks played a part in it. No one wants to believe that someone who looks as goofy as I do can get the better of ‘em in a deal.”

Hal was laughing. “Then I guess there are some advantages to not being pretty.”

“Damn few, but I make the most of what there is.”

After the Japanese bombed Pear Harbor, Hal landed an even bigger contract with the government. Clyde tried to join the army.

“I recon I ought to kill some of those damn Japs for what they done to us,” he told Hal.

“Yes, but don’t hate them all. The ones I know here are good people. They consider themselves to be Americans now. I’m afraid this war is going to be very hard on them.”

“I suppose you’re right about that. Folks are too riled up to look beneath the surface. Some of the men fighting us probably don’t have a choice either.”

Fortunately Clyde had flat feet. The army doctor thought he was too fragile to be a soldier anyhow. The factory was now full of female workers because most of the men were serving in the military. Clyde married one of the female workers. She was no raving beauty, but she was not downright ugly. Because of the housing shortage Clyde and his bride lived in the little bungalow they rented from Hal. As bad as the smell from the topping plant might have been there were people who had it far worse. Some of the oil workers were actually camped out in the oil fields. Hal was making so much money and Clyde was so valuable that he let Clyde buy an interest in the company. When he became an old man Clyde liked to tell the story about how an ugly country mutt became an industrialist. He always laughed as he finished the story: “And I did it in the glamour capital of the world!”

First published in macsbackporch.fictionforall.com on Nov. 25, 2010

Ho! Ho! Oh!

Can't get there from here

Although peace on earth and good will to all people is a wish or prayer we should like to have all year, people who think it would be nice to have Christmas all year round do not know how undesirable that would be. It is not the message that is the problem it is the celebration. There is only so much celebrating a person can do. I cannot even imagine myself getting up in the small hours of the morning to bargain hunt on the day after Thanksgiving. Celebrations are a sprint rather than a marathon. Two weeks is more than enough time to prepare for and enjoy the festivities. I have often heard that holidays are stressful. You would think that starting my shopping a mere two weeks before Christmas would be stressful, but it is not. I still manage to go with the flow. This year was different.

First there was a blown engine in the truck. It cost a small fortune to replace that engine, and once it was replaced the starter conked out on me. The gifts this year were going to be much smaller than usual. That is disappointing but not disastrous. It is not really about the gifts; they are merely tokens of love. The love is still there whether the gifts are grand or small. The big thing was all the time that was lost on those repairs. Now another time bandit reared its ugly head. It was seven days of unrelenting rain. When I drove home from work on Monday I was playing dodge rocks in the fog. The rules are simple. You take a road cut into the hill. Then add to that hill enough water to loosen the hill’s grip on the boulders and rocks it is holding until it lets some of those boulders and rocks fall down onto the road. The challenge for the driver is to avoid hitting those rocks and boulders while driving through the downpour and the fog. It helps if the driver is able to ignore the strong possibility that a boulder might land on his head while he is doing this. Fortunately I arrived home in tact. The game, however, made me realize that slides of a greater magnitude were probably in the offing.

Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays are my days off of work. In spite of the rain, I was able to complete most of my shopping on Tuesday. On Wednesday the rain, which was already heavy, greatly increased. I spent a large part of Wednesday diverting the water flowing from the hill behind my house so that the water flowed around the house rather than through it. Then it started snowing. I would normally call the volume of snow that fell a dusting, but this was really more of a slushing. It was wet, heavy and slicker than snot. There was no way I was going to drive through it if I had a choice, and I had a choice. I poured a cup of coffee and stayed at home.

On Thursday the rain let up. Now it was time to make another foray into the market place for the last few gifts. The closest highway that would take my brother and I down the hill to the city was closed because of slides. The other highway that would take us down the mountain would also take us twenty miles out of our way, and there was a long detour around a slide on that highway. When we joined up with the highway again I could not help noticing the rocks and debris piled along the side of the road. CALTRANS obviously had its hands full trying to keep most of that road open. We took the highway to the 10 freeway and headed east. The traffic was doing the infamous stop and crawl. We decided to get off the freeway and take the surface streets only to find that they were also jammed up.

One of the things that made this area so ideal for growing oranges is the rich topsoil that washed into the valley from the mountains. So seldom do we receive so much rain that it is all too easy to forget where that topsoil came from. When we do get that much rain it becomes all too obvious that those things we call washes are actually washes, and that the roads cutting through those washes are a part of them. Now that the flood reclaimed the washes those roads were useless. Detour after detour mocked us by saying “you can’t get there from here.” And the “there” we were trying to get to soon turned into the anywhere we could travel to get somewhere to the south east of where we were. Everyone was trying to navigate through a clogged maze. It was an exhaust spewing mass of confusion and frustration. We turned onto a road taking us northwest.

“There is no southeast today,” my brother said.

“It’s a forbidden direction, and only those foolhardy souls who have far more time and patience than we do would think of challenging the prohibition,” I said.

It was now two o’clock in the afternoon, and we stopped to have lunch. After lunch we went with the flow. Which is to say we traveled northwest. The only thing flowing in the other direction was water and mud and rocks. We played dodge rocks on the rim, took the detour, and had a stiff drink when we got home. The television news broadcasts were showing houses filled with mud, houses sliding down hills, and cars that were almost completely buried. We were lucky. The price we paid for being reminded of where the topsoil came from was only our time and a bit of frustration. It is now Christmas eave. I did not shop where I wanted to shop today, but I did managed to finish my shopping. The gifts and the fact that I am working half of Christmas day do not seem that important. It is still Christmas, and I am grateful for my family, my friends, and for a warm place to sleep. I understand we are supposed to get another storm on Christmas day. I never thought I would say this, but I would rather have snow than rain right now.

First published in macsbackporch.fictionforall.com on Dec. 24, 2010. 

Dog Days Of Winter

Mabel the snow Schnauzer

Our Miniature Schnauzer, Mabel, literally swam through the snow at times because her legs were too short for her feet to reach the ground when the snow was deep. She loved the snow anyhow. In this picture the snow clinging to her got there because she rolled in it. Frequently, the only way to get all the snow out of her hair was to wait for it to melt. Imagine me chasing her around the house with a towel in an effort to keep her from soaking our furniture.

The first real snow of this winter reminded me of Mabel.  My memories of her are happy ones. 

Happy Hanukkah!

Our most joyful season is well under way.  Whether we are wishing each other a Merry Christmas, a Happy Hanukkah, or Happy Holidays we are embracing the spirit of “peace on earth and good will to all people.”  I believe Hanukkah begins on Tuesday, the 16th of this month.  As you light the candles to celebrate the miracle know that I wish the best for you and your family.  Shalom Aleichem my friends, and happy holidays to all!

Watch the Language

Clarity of thought and clarity of expression are what we strive to achieve. Learning a language, particularly one as rich as English, is a life long endeavor. We have incorporated so many words from so many different languages. As a result we have many words with very similar meanings and many words that sound similar but have very different meanings. While this large vocabulary allows us to express our thoughts more precisely it also makes it far more likely that we will commit some rather colossal blunders. Indeed we even have words to describe those blunders, words such as malapropism and oxymoron.

In Richard Brinsley Sheridan’s 1775 play, The Rivals, Mrs. Malaprop is a pretentious character. She tries to use ten dollar words to express nickel thoughts. This causes her to use words that sound similar to the words she intends to use but which have different meanings than she intended.

Examples of malapropisms:

“The politician stated that the greatest challenge we face today is the defecate.” This sentence makes no sense. Does the politician consider our greatest challenge to be a shitty subject or did he mean to say deficit?

“He placed a copy of the legal document in a suppository.” If the document was a complaint I am sure the person against whom it was filed would be quick to tell the filer where the suppository should be placed.

This is fun. Hey, I’m on a role. Oops! I just used a word that sounds like the one I wanted to use but which has a different spelling and a different meaning than I intended. I am blaming it on my spell checker. Can we call it a spellcheckaprop? If we can, will “spellcheckaprop” become a new word? In this case the creation was intentional. What do we call it when the creation is unintentional, such as President Harding’s inadvertent coinage of the word “normalcy?”

Sarah Palin refutes, disputes and hoots. She does not repudiate she refutiates. I will give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she meant repudiate when she typed “refutiate” on her blog or twitter. Her error amuses me, but some of my mistakes are as bad. I almost abbreviated twitter as twit. Using that abbreviation would not have been a good thing to do. People should be careful about how they abbreviate words and names. I know my friends at the Assembly of God have a strong objection to people abbreviating the name of their church as “Ass of God.” Gee, I wonder why.

Acronyms: “Sears handy indoor toilet comes out as shit.” This phrasing is not as accurate as saying that the acronym is SHIT, but the first phrase could be appropriate if you are making a statement about the quality of Sears’ toilets. I have also heard DOG, the Department of Oil and Gas, referred to as the kennel because of its acronym. I am sure you can probably come up with some funnier examples of acronyms.

The humorous results of acronyms are because of the position of the letters. The same results can occur because of the position of words even when that positioning is perfectly proper. If the Master at a school has the surname of Bates, for instance, he is bound to cringe a bit when he hears his students referring to him as Master Bates.

Oxymoron: I enjoy the use of a good oxymoron, which in and of itself may be an oxymoron. The humor, of course, arises from the apparent contradiction. “The manufacturer of this car really spared no skimp. You can’t even open the back windows.” Then there is Samuel Goldwyn’s, “include me out.”

Well, I have had enough fun with the language for now. I may strive for clarity of thought and expression, but I will admit that I do not always achieve it. Given the amount of time I give myself to proof read and edit what I write I am bound to make a few mistakes that will cause you to laugh at me rather than with me. I am not insulted by your laughter on those occasions. I also laugh when I discover those errors.

First published in macsbackporch.fictionforall.com on Nov. 9, 2011

How Do You Know It Ain’t Broke?

Everything that moves wears out, breaks down, and has to be repaired. I suppose the human body is no exception, but there is a very wonderful difference between it and none living objects. The human body will protect and repair itself. It fights off dangerous bacteria and viruses every day. It will seal off and patch cuts, and it will fuse broken bones. Over the centuries of our existence we have learned how to help it do those things by stitching up cuts, setting bones and taking antibiotics to fight infections. All of those medical advancements are good, but for the most part we still depend on the body’s ability to protect and repair itself. I have to admit that I depend on my body’s ability to do that more than most people do. As I have stated before, I have the white coat syndrome. The moment I walk into a doctor’s office my heart rate and blood pressure increase, which makes it very difficult for doctors to get an accurate reading. I hate being poked, prodded and examined. Because of this phobia I have always followed the philosophy of if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. Even on those rare occasions when I am sick I just let the old body do its healing thing.

Recently, however, I have experienced some digestive tract problems. There was a sharp but intermittent pain. Then I noticed that I was passing black stools. Black stools often indicate bleeding in the upper digestive tract, and that scared the hell out of me. I went to urgent care. The doctor there examined me and ordered blood tests. There was no indication of blood in my rectum and the blood tests did not reveal an infection. Still the sharp pains continued off and on. The doctor referred me to a gastroenterologist for a procedure that required the doctor to insert a camera into my throat to my stomach and then into the small intestine. The fasting before the procedure was not all that difficult, but I wondered how was going to keep from gagging during the procedure.

“Don’t worry,” the doctor said as the nurse inserted a needle into my arm. “You will be awake during the procedure but you won’t remember it.”

I do not know what drug was in that syringe, but it sure worked its magic. I do not remember anything that was done from that point on. This procedure did not indicate that anything was wrong with me. Nor did the scans done of my digestive system. Unfortunately, the intermittent pain continued. The severity of the pain, however, decreased and eventually ceased entirely. Now I was faced with what I considered to be a difficult choice. The problem was that the gastroenterologist had also scheduled me for a colonoscopy. There were two things that kept me from canceling that appointment. Since the pain had been intermittent I could not be sure it would not return. I was also past the age when doctors say you should have a colonoscopy as part of your preventative health care program. I fought off my phobia and tried to prepare myself for the unpleasant procedure.

They gave me a gallon container that had a white powdery substance in the bottom of it. If that substance had been mailed to me I am sure I would have viewed it with a great deal of suspicion. Hazmat teams are often called out for less than that. I must admit that I viewed the powder with some foreboding even though I knew what it was. All of the literature about it mentioned its dreadful taste. I was supposed to fill the gallon container with water to dissolve the powder. Then I was supposed to drink all of it at a rate of eight ounces every ten minutes. It came with a flavoring I could add to it, and the instructions said to gulp the eight ounces as quickly as possible. My brother told me the flavoring seemed to make it worse when he had to drink it in preparation for his colonoscopy. He advised me to man up and take it straight. I followed his advice. I cannot say I was pleasantly surprised when I ingested the first eight ounces. It did not go down easily, but the taste was not as dreadful as I had been led to believe. The problem was that I had to drink so much of it, and the taste was cumulative. By the time I finished drinking the full gallon it tasted as dreadful as the warnings indicated.

The fact that this concoction did what it was supposed to do was no great joy either. I had been very strict about my diet for two days and I fasted on the day that I ingested the laxative. I was not about to go through this procedure more than once. As a result of the strict diet and fasting what I expelled was mostly water, and there so damn much of it. I awoke the following morning with a very sore rectum; the thought that someone was going to shove something up it was absolutely appalling. But it was too late to turn back. Believe me, no one in his right mind would go through that preparation without following through with the procedure.

I undressed in one of the examining rooms and put on the gown that left my posterior exposed. They had me lie down on a gurney and wheeled me into another room. The doctor entered.

“We met in another galaxy a long, long time ago. Do you remember?” she asked.

I remembered her, but I did not remember the procedure. I probably should have said yes, but my mind was on what was about to be done to me and I said no.

“You were complaining about black stools at the time.”

“Yes,” I answered.

“The thing to remember this time is not to try to push out the scope I’m trying to insert.”

The fact that people would try to do that came as no great surprise. She was, after all, inserting that scope into an exit. Trying to expel the wrong way driver would be pretty instinctive. But I resolved to try to fight that instinct, and I told her that. I do not know whether I kept that resolve because they gave me the same drug they had given me before. When I became aware of my surroundings again I saw a nurse looking down at me.

“Since I can’t remember the procedure I can only hope that I behaved myself.”

“You were better than most.”

I hope she was not just being polite. The doctor entered and told me she detected no problems that needed further treatment. That was a relief to say the least.

“You’re bound to be a bit sore,” the doctor said. “I know you want to get out of here and get something to eat, but avoid rough or hard to digest foods for the next few days.”

In spite of the bloating from having them treat my bowls like a balloon I really enjoyed my breakfast and the dinner I ate that night. It was not until the next morning that I had finally blown out all of the air they pumped into me, and it was not until I had blown out all of the air that I began to think about doctors and nurses. The doctor who treated me was a very personable lady. I am sure I would enjoy interacting with her when she is not shoving things down my throat or up my butt. That I suppose is one of the problems with being a health care provider. Since doctors and dentists often have to do things that cause pain or discomfort most people do not look forward to seeing them in a professional setting. I hope my phobia does not cause me to do things that make it more difficult for those good people to treat me. I also hope that I have not discouraged any of you from getting the preventative care you need.

The incident I have written about here makes me realize I am reaching an age when more things can go wrong and at a time when my body is less able to heal itself. Early detection is particularly important as you age. I doubt that I will seek all of the preventative care I should get, but I am going to try to get better about doing that.

First published in macsbackporch.fictionforall.com on Nov. 3, 2010

To Life

He could not hear or see. He could not even feel the weight of his own body. Then all of the painful sensations returned and the nightmare began. His car broke down on an isolated road miles from home. Making matters worse was the fact that he was struggling to hold back a bowel movement. He got out of the car. He decided to take a shortcut through the woods to a neighbor’s house. The urge to empty his bowels increased with each step he took. The woods were thick and dark, and he knew it would take a long time to work his way through them. As much as he regretted not having any toilet paper, he did what came naturally. He dropped his trousers and squatted. That is when it happened. A mountain lion decided to punish this other predator for marking what the cougar considered to be its territory. It attacked and mauled Dale viciously. The pain of the injuries was excruciating, but the attack quickly ended and so did all physical feeling. He was back to being weightless. He could not hear or see in the manner we all take for granted, but he could sense objects and sounds. It was as though he was experiencing everything on a whole different level. He thought he was having an out of the body experience.

“You died.”

“What?”

“Passed away is the euphemism I think you use.”

“You mean I’m lying there in a pile of my own shit with my pants down around my knees?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What an undignified way to go!”

“Shit happens.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s an expression I’ve always found amusing.”

“Well it’s not. Why did you let the cougar attack me?”

“We don’t control such things. We just observe how you react to them.”

“Thanks a lot!”

“You’re welcome.”

“That was sarcasm.”

“I know.”

“Who are you?”

“Does it matter?”

“What you’re going to do to me sure does.”

“You get to start over.”

“What do you mean I get to start over?”

“You haven’t learned all you need to know to move on.”

“You mean I flunked life?”

“I wouldn’t put it in those terms, but, in a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Is it like having to repeat the third grade or something?”

“Not exactly. When you repeat a grade in school you remember what you learned the first time around.”

“Wait a minute. Are you saying I’m going to be a baby who can’t control his bladder or bowels; that I have to relearn all those very basic things and how to communicate?”

“It doesn’t take that long, and you won’t remember it.”

“Not remembering is what I object too. We are our experiences and what we have learned from them. I won’t even be me.”

“That’s correct.”

“But I want to be me!”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it. I’m not going to do it.”

“Suit yourself, but you’re not a part of this world in your present form.”

“I’m here aren’t I?”

“Yes and no. You’ll see what I mean.”

“Then leave me alone and let me discover it on my own.”

“As you wish. No need to try to call me. I’ll know when you change your mind.”

He was tempted to call that disembodied voice an arrogant bastard but thought better of it. It is not wise to piss something off when you don’t know how much power it might have. The one thing Dale knew was that he was here. He tried to re-inhabit his body. He passed through it like a vapor. He could not even get back into it let alone control it. Still he was here on this earth. He now indulged in a bit of rationalization. If I’m here, I’m not really dead. What I need is medical attention. I need someone to repair and revitalize my body so I can use it again. Then he had a glimmer of hope. If this is a nightmare, I’ll wake up. But he was sure it was not a nightmare. If I’m in a comma time is of the essence. Someone has to repair my body while I’m still alive. He could not just sit there and hope someone would find him in time.

He started drifting. That was the only way he could describe what he was doing. He was not walking or flying he was thinking his way along. He was literally passing through the trees; they offered no resistance. There was the house of his neighbor. He oozed through the wall of the kitchen. There was Esther cooking dinner. She turned and walked through him on her way to the refrigerator. She opened the refrigerator, removed several items and walked through Dale again. She then set the items on the counter near the stove.

“Van did you open a window or door?”

“No dear.”

“I wonder if women my age ever experience the opposite of hot flashes.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Well, if it happens again I’ll ask the doctor.”

Dale was afraid he would scare Esther so he decided to try to talk to Van. He drifted into the living room where Van was watching television.

“Van! It’s Dale.”

The words were crisp and clear, but Van did not hear them. Dale tried shouting, but Van could not hear him. Thinking seemed to be the thing. It was all Dale had. Maybe he needed to try someone who had connected to his thoughts better. His ex-wife came to mind. They had been close once, but that was a long time ago. The emotional connection had been broken. They no longer shared their feelings or deep thoughts. It had to be someone who would think his call for help was an intuition.

He was drifting again, into town and then the tavern. He had been spending a lot of time in the tavern lately. He thought he was having fun, but he now realized he had been using alcohol to numb the pain. Most of the regulars were there. They were friends. They shared their feelings and their joy, but what they shared the most was the inebriation that made jokes seem funnier and sadness more overwhelming. He tried to talk to some of them, but they could not hear him. The connection between him and them was not that great because it did not extend beyond the tavern.

“Drifting,” the word struck him like a blow. He had spent the last two years of his life drifting in an alcoholic haze, trying to anesthetize himself from his feelings of failure. But was he a failure? He was not what you would call a howling success, but he was still doing reasonably well at his work. He drifted into the home of old friends. Carl and his wife Jane were eating dinner. Dale had been neglecting the relationship he had with those wonderful people. He was suddenly overwhelmed by how much he cared for them.

“Carl, I have this terrible feeling. I know it’s going to sound silly, but I think Dale’s in trouble.”

“Maybe he got drunk and ran off the road.”

“That’s not funny.”

“No it isn’t.”

Carl got up and dialed Dale’s cell phone number. When he didn’t get an answer he dialed the home number.

“He’s not answering.”

“Try the tavern.”

“No one at the tavern had seen Dale that night.”

Dale suddenly felt the weight of his body. His muscles flexed but he was constrained. He opened his eyes to discover he was in a room.

“Don’t try to talk,” a female voice said. “You’re in the hospital.”

“You’re lucky that motorist had to take a leak or he wouldn’t have wondered into the woods,” a male voice said.

So Dale had been bleeding out in a pile of shit, and he was saved because someone had stopped to take a leak. Dale would have laughed, but he blacked out again.

He was at the beach with his son and his daughter. They were looking at the creatures in the tide pools. He had his son lightly touch a sea anemone. Robby pulled his finger away as the anemone closed up.

“It’s sticky,” Robby observed.

“What you’re feeling are stingers that are too short to penetrate your skin. Let me show you how it protects itself from creatures like us.”

Dale poked the anemone, and it squirted water. The children laughed, and their delight made Dale smile.

He had been neglecting his children. It was all too easy to do after the divorce. Now he missed them terribly. Teaching them and sharing discoveries with them was one of life’s greatest pleasures.

He opened his eyes. A doctor was looking down at him.

“It’s nothing short of a miracle that you’re still alive. Your face is going to look terrible after we take the bandages off, but the plastic surgeon can come close to making you look like you did.”

Dale could not talk because there was a tube down his throat. Close would be good enough. He would still be who he was. He would still have his memories and his love for all the beautiful things on this earth. He could still share who he was with his children, his siblings and his friends. He now remembered walking down the pier with his ex-wife, Carl and Jane. A religious fanatic who was determined to convert the converted accosted them. She told them to stop worshiping God’s creation and see the light, because true happiness was only found in the kingdom of heaven.

“If you reject the gift of the father how can you accept the gift of the son?” Carl asked.

“What?”

Life itself was the greatest gift. Dale told her to think about it.

Her retort was a threat to pray for them. It was a threat because it was her way of calling them fools.

Dale now realized there were many ways to reject life. Failing to appreciate it by withdrawing from the people he loved is how he had been rejecting it. He realized he would never be a celebrated humanitarian, but the positive impact he could have on the lives of the people he knew was still a good way of measuring success. He had been given a second chance. He still had the time to share, to help and to enjoy.

First published in macsbackporch.fictonforall.com on Oct 14, 2010

The Prophet Jons

Bones of the past were scattered across the table in the form of fragile pieces of paper. Those skeletal remains were no longer imbued with the illusive quality we call life yet they still exhibited many of the emotions that are so much a part of life. The emotions did not merely add interest to the remains, they were also the glue that determined which facts clung to accounts and explanations too often warped by beliefs, misunderstandings, and motives that might be less than pure. As always, the inaccuracies would increase the difficulty of fleshing out the larger story once the underlying structure was assembled.

The heavy marine air must have seemed strange to the apostles. The lights in the firmament were hidden above thick clouds casting the salt marshes into darkness.

“I seen it from a distance. Twas a mere will o’ the wisp floating above the water and peaking its fiery head out through wafts of fog.”

“Now Amel,” Daniel said, “you know there’s no such thing as a MEAR will o’ the wisp. Tis a false light luring you into the fogs and the bogs till you can’t tell left from right nor up from down. Iffen yer lucky you’ll only sink arse deep and will be able to wait for the true light of the sun to escape.”

It was no will o’ the wisp according Arthur. “Ball lightning, that’s what it was. I read about it once but never imagined I’d see such a rare sight. A ball of light rolled and bounced erratically over the wet surface until it struck something solid and exploded. The brighter flash of the explosion was reflected and distorted by the mist, and then it was gone taking with it whatever it struck, I’m guessing.”

What it apparently struck was the modern prophet, Jons. One of his followers, disciple Ron as he preferred to be called, took umbrage. He said this phenomenon could not be anything as malevolent as a will o’ the wisp or the devil’s fireball.

“The prophet Jons was a holy man, so holy that God spared him the death that ends our miserable earthly existence. I was there. I saw it as clearly as you see me now. A chariot of fire floated above the surface of the water to the prophet. And it took prophet Jons unto heaven as surely as God’s chariot took the prophet Elijah.”

Say what you will about prophet Jons (one disgruntled former follower called him the great profit) but prophet Jons certainly knew how die. Although there were few witnesses to his spectacular demise, that might have worked to the advantage of his disciples. More witnesses might have come up with different accounts of what actually happened. The descriptions of the few who witnessed the event must have presented disciple Ron with a dilemma as it was. It was not like he could go back to the flock and report that God or the devil blew the prophet’s ass off. Ah, but the death was caused by a rare phenomenon nobody could explain with scientific certainty.

Oh, sweet mystery! Life itself is mysterious enough to make most people believe in God. Why not a chariot of fire? Why couldn’t God whisk the prophet up to heaven in a chariot of fire? If you believe in God the explanation is as logical as a will o’ the wisp or some phenomenon so rare that no one can come up with a scientific explanation for it.

Unfortunately, the only description of the remains said there was a pair of burned boots and a pile of burned bones and flesh. It did not say whether the pile of bones and flesh resembled prophet Jons or even a human. The only conclusion that is certain is that the prophet, if those were the remains of the prophet, was not transported to heaven in his earthly form. But that is getting ahead of the story. The fragments of which were still scattered across the table.

“The least among you shall rise against the arrogance of your inventions, your corruption, and the rapaciousness that causes you to believe you can change the world in defiance of God’s will. And they shall cleave to each other as the true children of God. And they shall follow the prophet Jons into the wilderness, forsaking the wickedness of the cities and the land speculators to form a society of honest, God fearing, shepherds until the coming of our Lord.”

The forgoing was an excerpt from a tract written by prophet Jons.  So he was a Luddite. No big surprise there. The envelope that held this tract was mailed from Massachusetts and that part of the country had a long history of revivalist preachers who condemned the industrial revolution and its evils. A paper in that state announced revival meetings to be held on Saturday and Sunday by the “Prophet Jons and the Modern Apostles of the Lord’s Light.” The next edition of that paper contained a review of the first of those meetings.

“The many people who were able to ignore the conceit of a modern man calling himself a prophet really enjoyed the meeting. Prophet Jons is not just a hell, fire, and brimstone preacher he is also quite a showman. He really connects with his audience. They laughed with him, and they cried with him. They shouted amen and hallelujah, and they sang at the top of their voices. At one point he talked about what we hail as our great knowledge and all of the wonderful things we produce. ‘And what will happen to all those things our great knowledge allows us to produce?’ he asked. He then used a torch to set off what must have been black powder in an open trough. There was a bright flash and a billow of smoke. ‘All gone, gone in a flash!’ he shouted. ‘What I just ignited was an invention of destruction, but they’re all inventions of destruction. I don’t need to tell you that. You feel it in your sore muscles, your stiff joints, and the sweat of your brow as you struggle through the long hours to produce the temporary things that are supposed to make life on earth better. True happiness is only found in the hereafter and only by they who have committed themselves to a Christian life!’

His idea of a Christian life is a pastoral life. That is impractical for most people in this day and age, but what he said was well received by the workers in his audience. There is little doubt that he made some converts last night.”

What happened next is described in a diary kept by prophet Jons’ first wife, Margaret.

“We moved our flock to God’s own country. My husband is the showman and the speaker. He is the one who draws the followers who invested in our new Christian society, but it is the logician, disciple Ron, who is the practical one. He pointed out that there was no free range to speak of. We cannot wonder the wilderness with flocks of sheep. We bought two large tracts of land. One tract was purchased in my husband’s name. The other deed lists disciple Ron as the owner. The deeds are a mere formality. Both ranches belong to the Modern Apostles of the Lord’s Light.”

Another entry: “We have just constructed a large, beautiful house. Most of the cabins inhabited by our flock are also complete. We have some chickens, milk cows, and a large flock of sheep. We have also bought spinning wheels to make cloth.”

There was a long lapse of diary entries and then the following: “I fear that many members of our society have succumbed to jealousy and earthly greed. They accuse my husband of philandering and complain about not receiving a fair share of our bounty. Will Smith turned traitor. He left our ranch and shot his mouth off to a reporter. He called my dear husband the great profit, and accused him of keeping all the money. He also repeated the accusations about the philandering. Will Smith is a liar!”

Several weeks later: “Most of our flock have left. They have set out on their own to rejoin the wicked world. No matter. We can hire help. Disciple Ron proposed something far bolder. He said we can hire overseers to manage the ranches. He pointed out that the great prophets did not live pastoral lives; they preached. This idea greatly appeals to my restless husband. Preaching is his God given talent. He really misses the audiences who so adore him.”

Railroad tickets and the bank books kept by disciple Ron show that prophet Jons took his show on the road shortly after Margaret’s diary entry. Railroads must not have been one of the inventions he objected too because he made liberal use of them. It was the practical thing to do. He hired a young organist, eighteen year old Peggy Peters, and they took with them a pump organ. They also took with them the large meeting tent and several smaller tents to sleep in as well as the props, such as the black powder and ignition trough. Prophet Jons hired several young men to travel with him and do much of the physical work.

An entry in Margaret’s diary said: “I had a very difficult decision to make. As much as I wanted to be with my dear husband, I thought the journey would be too arduous for our infants. After much prayer and thought I decided to stay here where I could keep an eye on the overseers.”

The best description of Prophet Jon's tour can be found in Peggy's letters to her sister Ann.

"This is not merely a job," Peggy wrote, "I am doing the Lord’s work. Prophet Jons is magnificent. The people who come to our revival meetings hang on his every word. His reputation grows by the day. He is now drawing large audiences wherever we go. At one meeting Mr. George How was so moved by the spirit that he offered the most rousing testimony I have ever heard. Disciple Ron said the young man had a gift. Mr. How has now joined us, and he repeats his testimony at all of our meetings.


Affectionately yours

Peggy”

In her next letter to Ann Peggy said the entourage had grown considerably. Most of the new recruits were under twenty-five years old. Young ladies in white flowing robes now walked the aisles to accept the contributions from the audience. And the contributions were finally providing enough money for the apostles to stay at inexpensive hotels and boarding houses. Prophet Jons and disciple Ron secured private rooms for themselves. The rest of the crew packed into as few rooms as possible.

“Prophet Jons is very personable. Everyone loves him, but he has an almost unreasonable need for privacy. It is as though he talks to the Lord hourly. He does not indulge in alcohol except for an occasional glass of wine with supper. Until recently I did not know much about disciple Ron because he traveled ahead of us to make the arrangements. He has now trained Robert Gomes to do much of what disciple Ron calls the advance work. My increased exposure to disciple Ron has revealed much. He is a brilliant man but far less temperate and far more demanding than prophet Jons. I would not say that disciple Ron is a drunk but he is known to imbibe a bit too much at times.”

“Dear Ann:

You should see us now! Remember how I wanted to join some of the traveling circuses and such when I was child. In some ways I have. We typically arrive at towns one or two days before the meetings. The unloading of the wagons and horses from the train is well orchestrated. The first wagons taken off the train cars are the ones carrying the tent and the seats and such. The men setting up the meeting place go there as quickly and efficiently as possible. The rest of us take part in a parade through the town. The girls who take the donations at the meetings are in the lead wearing their white flowing robes. I follow in a wagon designed to hold the organ, and I play hymns along the way. Prophet Jons likes the peppy ones. I even play a few Negro spirituals. The girls literally dance down the street passing out the flyers announcing the date and time of the meetings. Prophet Jons follows in an open carriage, the sides of which have been painted with a scene from the bible. He is followed by two men riding camels, and they are followed by a wagon in which Apostles dressed in biblical costumes are standing or sitting. The other two wagons that follow carry our wardrobes & etc. Those wagons would not be remarkable enough to include in the parade if it weren’t for the beautifully painted biblical scenes on them. Our parade always draws a crowd.

I am enjoying myself immensely. I suppose you could say I have joined the inner circle. Prophet Jons frequently takes his evening meal in his hotel room. I take his supper to him and join him for the meal. We have long talks. I will write again soon.
Affectionately Yours

Peggy.”

Margaret’s diary addressed a growing scandal. “Again there are accusations about philandering. It is said that my dear husband has impregnated the young organist, Peggy. I fear that the accusations might not be unfounded this time. My husband tries to be righteous but he is a man. Our separation must be difficult for him. He will be home soon. The tour ends with the onset of winter. I will not confront him about the scandal as long as he behaves himself here.  He and disciple Ron intend to build a church here. They have taken in several neophytes and intend to train and ordain them. The church here will be the first of what they hope to be many.”

Other diary entries indicate that many of the young people traveling with prophet Jons took up residence in the cabins that had been built when the failed society was started. Peggy discretely occupied a cabin on disciple Ron’s property. In some ways a polygamist relationship was established. Peggy kept a discrete distance at the ranch. Although they avoided the condemnation the Mormons were experiencing by not officially recognizing the union between Peggy and prophet Jons, Peggy was the traveling wife and Margaret was the home wife. The meeting house at the ranch was used as a seminary for the neophytes, and two more churches were eventually established.

Disciple Ron and several of the neophytes collaborated in ghost writing a book for prophet Jons. It described prophet Jons’ religious movement and contained autobiographical material. The acknowledgement in the book thanked disciple Ron and the neophytes for their help in writing the book, which was sold at the new churches and the revival meetings. Prophet Jons was now getting national attention in the press. He was particularly popular in the mid-west because of the contrasts he drew between the good clean life of the Christian farmers and the squalor and exploitation of the workers in the industrialized cities. He was also popular with the workers in the cities because of the way he lambasted their employers. Some of the industrialists actually threatened to fire any workers who attended his meetings. He drew large crowds in the cities in spite of the threat. Some reporters seemed particularly amused by that and by the accusations that he was a subversive rogue who fomented the discontent of the great unwashed.

In response to a veiled threat published by one newspaper prophet Jons said: “My kingdom is not of this world. If workers choose to return to the farms because of what I preach, their employers will simply bring in more immigrants to exploit and corrupt.” In some cities he drew large enough crowds to hold his meetings in theaters rather than the tents.

According to Margaret’s diary the last tour was to end on the Pacific Coast. For some reason disciple Ron, who did not keep a diary, actually chronicled prophet Jons’ last days and the events leading up to his demise.

“I traveled to the Pacific coast. I did so well in advance of the tour.  My goal was not to do the advance work by making the necessary arrangements for our tour but to assess the potential profitability of a tour there. The prospects were appealing. I must confess that I was particularly enamored with southern California. The climate is superb. Los Angeles has a reputation for being lawless. Many of its citizens still carry firearms. It is, however, no more rowdy than is San Francisco. During my visit to Los Angeles I met with some of the more prominent businessmen. It is not an industrialized area and I did not sense any of the hostility that greets us in industrialized areas. We talked about the availability of land, the ranches and farms and other business enterprises. They told me of an area down the coast. The landowners there were ranchers and farmers with huge spreads. I was warned that they would not be eager to part with good land, but some of the land they owned was useless to them. I took a long carriage trip to an area characterized by salt marshes. I was told it was tideland. Neither the brine nor the asphalteum deposits in some of the pools are good for livestock. I was able to talk one of the ranchers into selling me fifteen dry acres near those marshes at a very cheap price. I registered the ownership of that land jointly in my name and in the name of prophet Jons.

This location seemed like the perfect place for a resort, and my purpose in buying that land was to build a resort there. When I returned to my ranch I pitched the idea to prophet Jons. He, predictably, wanted to build a religious retreat rather than a resort. I pointed out to him that a resort would be far more profitable, and we could still build a chapel where we could hold services. He agreed in principle but wanted to see the land before making his final decision. We planned to start our tour in spring, and to go to Los Angeles first. We would then work our way up the coast and then to the mid-west. We arrived in Los Angeles between storms. It turns out that the winter there is mild and spring is the stormy season. The weather held and our meetings there went well. I had the foresight to plan three days of down time so we could explore the land before moving on. I had also arranged for prophet Jons and I to stay the night at the house of the rancher who sold us the property. I did this because of the long carriage ride to and from Los Angeles.

Since we had a place to stay nearby I was not concerned about arriving at our property in the afternoon. Nor was I concerned about hiking the trail in the marshes. The marine air was heavy and damp and it was still, deathly still. When I had been there before the abundance of game birds was astounding. They were all hiding now. The darkness descended upon us suddenly, making it very difficult to stay on the trail. I paused for a breather. Prophet Jons scouted the trail for a short distance ahead of me. We called back and forth to each other so I could find him again. I was a short distance from him when it happened. I will not go into his last moments here. I have already said all I have to say about that. We carried out the rest of the tour with young George doing the preaching. He did a pretty good job, but he is no prophet Jons. I’m afraid our touring days are over. All that remains of the movement are our churches.”

In a later reminiscence disciple Ron said prophet Jons’ simple vision was too difficult to sustain. “In the hands of a charismatic leader it traveled well but it sat poorly.”

What happened to prophet Jons is as mysterious as will o’ the wisps and ball lightning. The folks who believe he was taken to heaven do so as a matter of faith. It can be argued, particularly the part about the chariot of fire, but no one can prove it or disprove it.  Therein lies the futility of engaging in debates about religion.

First published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms on Sep. 30, 2010