Romance At A Rest Stop

Jim was driving out of the desert and through the pass. Actually, driving over the pass would be more accurate. It was a hell of a climb. It was snowing hard. It was the damnedest snowstorm he had ever seen. It was not the blizzard that made it so exceptional; it was the frigging fog. This combination of fog and snow was not something he could remember seeing on the east coast. It had to be a western phenomenon. Staying on the road was almost impossible. He crested the hill and was now feeling his way down the steep slope. The highway had four lanes. He was straddling the line marking the two lanes on his side of the road. Brief glimpses of that line were all that told him where the road was.
 
The line disappeared in the snow. He almost crashed into a rest stop sign that promised gas, food and lodging. He then fishtailed down the off ramp and spun out at the bottom of it. When he stopped spinning he found himself off the road and pointed in the wrong direction. He released his clutch. This caused the wheels spin. He put the car in neutral and got out of it. He was in a drainage ditch. A Goddamn drainage ditch! No matter how hard he tried, he could not get enough traction to drive out of the ditch. “What now?” he asked himself. He pulled out his cell phone. He had not paid the bill and his phone was out of service. Few people were foolish enough to be out in this storm. He could be there all night before anyone found him. “Gas, Food & Lodging” the sign had said. The establishments referenced by such signs are usually close enough to provide drivers with easy access to and from the main highway. With that thought in mind, he started hiking.
 
What a hell of a mess! He had been lured to California by a high paying job that evaporated when the sub-prime loan market crashed. Well, he was still capable of swinging a hammer or doing some plumbing. He had heard there were some construction jobs in the desert where land was still inexpensive. So he went there to check out the opportunities. It was too no avail. He was now down to his last thousand dollars. It would not have taken long for him to burn through that if he had not moved out of the apartment in West Wood. He had to find employment soon or he would be out of money and sleeping in his car.  Even the dive of a motel where he had spent the last few nights was better than that.

The falling snow pelted and numbed his face as he walked. He slogged along for a mile and half before he saw the lights through the drifting patches of fog. He high stepped his way through deepening snow for another half mile before he reached the source of those lights. The gas station there had closed for the night. Next to it was a hotel with a neon sign that was now missing the O in hotel. It was an old, two story building with fifty rooms. The lower floor featured a beer and wine bar along with a restaurant. He was shaking from the cold as he entered the restaurant. Thawing out and getting something to eat were his first concerns. The car could wait. It was not like it was going to go anywhere.

There were only five people seated at tables, and no one greeted him when he entered. A young lady finally approached him. She pointed at the nearest table. “Sit here,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Cold out there, huh?”

“Let’s just say I’m experiencing an embarrassing stiffness without the enlargement that normally causes it.”

This comment elicited a blank stare, which was soon followed by an exclamatory rising of the eyebrows and then laughter.

“You laugh, but if you see me walking to the men’s room, please remind me not to shake out any residual moister. Shaking it could be disastrous!”

She was absolutely roaring with laughter. She leaned against the table to steady herself until the spasms ceased. “Coffee?” she asked.

“Please.”

She returned with the coffee. “The special is chile con carne.”

“Is it hot enough to thaw me out before the coffee wends its way through my system?”

She was laughing again. “Most people say it burns the other side, but it should thaw you out quickly enough to save your imperiled manhood.”

“Oh, thank God! Then that’s what I’ll have.”

“Coming right up.” She now realized that what she just said could be taken as a pun, and that thought made her start laughing again. She walked behind the counter and said something through the opening to the kitchen. The laughter of another female now added to the merriment.

A few minutes later a lady emerged from the kitchen carrying a large bowl. She was a shapely brunet and very attractive. He guessed that she was in her early thirties, which made her close to his own age. She set the bowl of chile con carne on the table in front of him.

“You’re a naughty boy,” she said. “You really shouldn’t implant such images in a young lady’s mind.”

“Sorry. I guess my sense of propriety wound up in the same ditch as my car.”

“Any damage?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t called anyone to tow it out yet.”

“I’ll get you the number of the towing service.” She walked out of the room and returned with a business card. “Here,” she said as she handed him the card. “The pay phone is next to the rest rooms.”

“This must be one of the few places that still has a pay phone, and it’s a good thing because my cell is dead.”

“It’s an old place, and that phone is one of the few things that still works the way it should.”

“Sounds like you need a handyman.”

“Can’t afford one.”

“At this point, I’d work for room and board.”

“I’ll have to think about that. Why don’t you call the tow truck?”

Jim had just enough change in his pocket to make the call. “Roadside Towing. This is Fred.” The man who answered was less than enthusiastic.

“Hello Fred. I’m stuck in a ditch near the off ramp. It’s just a few miles from the Stanfield Hotel.”

“The car must be off the road then.”

“Yes.”

“Are you calling from the hotel?”

“Yes.”

“If I were you, I’d just get a room there. The snow is really deep. I know I don’t want to drive in it.”

“Well, I want to get the car out of there before a snow plow hits it.”

“No problem, I drive the snow plow. I’ll have one of my men dig it out and tow it in the morning.”

“Won’t you need my keys?”

“He’ll pick you up at the hotel.”

“You’re sure my car will be okay there?”

“Positive.”

“Okay.” He hung up the phone and walked back to the table. The attractive woman was still sitting there. “It looks like you’ll have all night to think about it.”

The last of the people in the dining room were now leaving.

“Oh?”

“He doesn’t want to go out in this storm. So it looks like I’ll need a room.”

She laughed. “I can’t say that I blame him, and we have plenty of empty rooms.”

May, the waitress, now approached the table. “Excuse me Bernie, but I’d like to close up and get out of here before the snow gets too deep.”

“It’s too deep now. Go ahead and close up, but take a room for the night.”

“All right.” She started to walk away.

“Oh, May! Please refresh this gentleman’s coffee and bring a cup for me.” She then turned her attention back to Jim. “You’re probably thinking that Bernie is an odd name for a woman. It’s actually Bernice, Bernice Stanfield.”

“I’m Jim Lansdale.”

“Nice to meet you Jim. What I’m afraid of is that you’ll get a job offer and walk away right in the middle of a project.”
 
May brought the coffee and then started cleaning the place.

“I can see where you’re coming from. Why don’t I pay for the room tonight and put down a three hundred dollar deposit as insurance against that?”

“Three hundred doesn’t cover much. Can you make it four?”

“Four it is.”

She smiled. “It’s a deal. But don’t worry about working tomorrow. Get your car back and settle in first.”

“Thank you.” She showed him to his room.

He was awakened by a knock at the door very early in the morning. He put on his trousers and a shirt before answering. The girl standing there was not one he had seen before.

“Sorry to bother you but Miss Bernie said Mr. Fred called. The tow truck driver will be here to pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you.” Jim hurried to finish dressing. He was hoping he could grab a quick cup of coffee before he had to leave. He was a bit disappointed to find the tow truck driver waiting for him. Fred had already plowed the road, and it was a quick ride to his car. Fortunately the car was undamaged. He put the price of being towed out of ditch on his credit card, and he drove back to the hotel. A change of clothes, and a shower were setting his world right again. What the low pressure in the shower told him was that the old galvanized pipes were pretty clogged with corrosion. He walked down to the dining room for breakfast. The same five diners that were there last night were there this morning. They were contentedly eating the food in front of them. He took a table near the kitchen.

May approached the table and set a cup of coffee in front of him. She had an impish smile on her face. “How’s the water spout?”

“Pliable and functional.”

She arched her left eyebrow. “Good, we wouldn’t it dysfunctional.” They both laughed. “Have you had a chance to look at the menu?”

“Yes, and I’ll have the Denver Omelet.”

She turned and took the order to Bernie. It was Bernie who brought him the food. May refreshed his coffee and poured a cup for Bernie.

“I see you were able to drive your car here,” Bernie observed.

“I was lucky there was no damage.”

May giggled. “There’s no damage to his water spout either.” She turned and walked to the other tables to refill the cups of the people dining there.

“I could be wrong, but I think she was flirting with me.”

“It’s your fault for making those suggestive comments when you first arrived here.”

“I’m too old for her.”

“She’s much too young for you.”

“I don’t care for the ‘much’ part, but I’m afraid you’re right. I wouldn’t want to be that age again.”

“Neither would I. So what are you going to do with the rest of your day?”

“I thought I’d take an inventory of what needs to be done, unless you have a list.”

“Most of the rooms could use some fresh paint.”

“You might want to hold off on that until you replace the pipes going to the bathrooms.”

“Trying to get that done without disrupting business is difficult right now. My husband could only get as far as replacing the pipes under the building and the ones running to the kitchen before we needed the income too much for him to continue.”

“Your husband sounds handy. I’m guessing he’s busy with second job right now.”

“He was handy. He was killed in the first Gulf war. I still can’t figure out how he got run over by one of our own tanks.”

“It must have been a terrible shock to you.”

“It was, but at least he didn’t leave me destitute. This place doesn’t bring in much, but the fact that it’s paid for really helps.”

“I’m impressed that you were able to pay off the mortgage.”

“There was no mortgage. He inherited it from his grandparents, and I inherited it from him.”

“Why didn’t they leave it to his parents?”

She laughed. “Kid syndrome. They grew up here and couldn’t wait to leave the place behind. But what about you? How did you learn about plumbing and such?”

“My father was a general contractor, and I paid my way through college by working in construction during the summers.”

“What was your major?”
 
“I have an MBA and a general contractor’s license. I’m also a stock broker.”

“Quite a diverse resume.”

“The product of a misspent youth. I couldn’t decide on what I wanted to do. I think that was partially what caused my divorce. That and the fact that I caught her cheating on me.”

“That must have been very painful.”

“It’s what made me move to California, but I’m over it now. I can’t say that I blame her much. I was too busy chasing the dollar to give her the time she needed.”

“What did you do here?”

“I was a project manager for a large developer before the market crashed.”

“Ouch! Well, you could do taxes and things like that on the side if your classes included accounting.”

“That’s not a bad idea. I could also help people manage their investments, such as they are today.”

“I’ll put out the word about you.”

“Thank you, but I think we should concentrate on your needs for now.”

“That’s what I want hear. My need right now is to get back to work.”

The rumbling of snow plows invaded the quiet building. Someone was plowing out the parking lot, and Fred was plowing the road. The snow was really coming down. After the man finished plowing the parking lot he came inside.

“Okay, May. You can get your car out now.”

“Thank you, Don.” She looked over at Bernie.

“Get out while you can,” Bernie said. “Flo can handle it form here.” May smiled and ran out to her car.

“Fred said people are already getting stuck on the freeway,” Don said. “He expects the CHP to close it soon. They’ll funnel the ones that are stuck down to here.”

“Then we’d better get those other rooms clean.”

“I’ll wait on tables during lunch so Flo can concentrate on the rooms,” Jim said.

Jim did not have any experience as a waiter, but the only people who showed up for lunch were the five who were staying at the hotel. He did not have any trouble keeping track of such few orders. Flo had finished the rooms by the time the dining room cleared. She then set about cleaning the dining room. Bernie turned on the radio to catch the latest weather forecast. The broadcaster said that Cal Trans was struggling to keep up with the snowfall and the Highway Patrol was now escorting people through the pass. He also said the blizzard should last through tomorrow. Jim picked up a shovel and started clearing the walk and steps to the hotel. Fred turned off the road and made quick run through the parking lot with his plow.

“Thanks Fred.”

“Be prepared. The Highway Patrol will be closing the pass soon!”

At two o’clock twelve cars entered the parking lot. They were the last ones to enter the pass as the Highway Patrol was preparing to close it. It quickly became apparent that it was too dangerous for those drivers to continue through the pass. The choices offered to them were very limited. They could stay at the hotel or sit in the pass all night. They were in a surprisingly good mood considering their options. During the evening meal Jim served as the bar tender and the bus boy.

The next day broke bright and clear. May showed up early. “How’d it go, yesterday?” she asked Jim.

“No problem.”

“Good. We’re going to have a large brunch crowd.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s easy. People have been cooped up in their houses for two days. After the roads are plowed and they dig out, they’re going to want a change of scene and a place to relax for a few hours.”

She was right. The parking lot began to fill with cars at ten o’clock. The restaurant did a brisk business until one o’clock. That was when Cal Trans finally finished clearing the snow from all the lanes of the freeway. The Highway Patrol then opened the pass to traffic. The hotel and restaurant quickly emptied upon receipt of this news. Even the local residents headed for home. It seemed odd to find the restaurant empty at that time of day, but it was understandable under the circumstances. Flo and May started cleaning up after the diners. Bernie decided to take a break. She took two sandwiches into the bar.

“The lunch rush ended early today,” she said. “Pour yourself a glass of wine or beer if you want. I’ll take a glass of Riesling.” She sat at a nearby table. Jim poured the Riesling and a glass of beer for himself. He then joined her for lunch.

“You’re a good worker. You did okay today.”

“Thank you. I’m afraid I wasn’t completely honest with you about my past, though.”

“Oh?”

“I didn’t lie; I just gave you the resume version. The truth is that I was more than a project manager. I had experience in negotiating large loans when I was back east, and that is a large part of what I did here. We were developing miles of land and selling hundreds of new houses. This gave us some leverage with the bank. We increased that leverage by steering prospective home buyers to that bank. I was even able to negotiate the commission they paid to us for bringing in those loans. I guess the bank made up for the commission by having its appraisers greatly inflated the value of the houses. I know the developer usually sets the price, but the bank kept waving the comps in our faces. And I have to admit that we were greedy enough to increase our prices accordingly.”
 
It was his honesty about the greed that impressed her. It made her think she could trust him. “I’m guessing that many of the loans were sub-prime.”

“Yes, and we were wiped out when the house of cards fell. We were sitting on homes we couldn’t sell and property we couldn’t pay for. Some of the securities my boss and I personally invested in also involved derivatives that crashed. Fortunately for me, my ex-wife still has a good job and is not putting a lot of pressure on me to keep up the child support payments.”

“But you were making them when you could?”

“Absolutely. Kip and Jill are important to me. I want to provide for them.”

“So you have two kids. You’re lucky. I’m afraid time is running out for me.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. I’m surprised some man hasn’t swept you up already.”

“I’m afraid my choices are rather limited here. Which brings up another topic. You’re new blood and at least some of the available ladies are bound to come here to check you out.”

Jim laughed. “Is that a bad thing?”

“I suppose it depends on which side of the table you’re sitting.”

“Right now, I’m sitting on the side with the great view.”

She looked back at him with a big smile. She correctly interpreted his statement as a compliment. “I guess we should get back to work,” she said, after a long pause.

Jim worked closely with Bernie over the next few weeks. He set about changing washers in some of the fixtures. He also replaced some of the fixtures and sinks in the bathrooms, and he painted several of the rooms. He did those things during the day. At night he worked as the bar tender, and he filled in as a bus boy when needed. He also convinced Bernie to let him make wine cocktails with the inexpensive, boxed wines. This increased the profit Bernie made per glass, and it increased the volume of the wine they sold. The flirtation and her trust in him increased daily. One night they wound up in bed together.
 
The next morning May watched them interact with each other. It did not take long for her to guess what had happened. She waited until she was alone with Bernie in the restaurant before she asked. “So how was he?”

“What?”

“You did it, didn’t you?”

Bernie blushed. She turned away from May and starting walking toward the kitchen with a hip swinging gait that said it all.

“That good, huh?”

“I’ll never tell!”

Jim and Bernie eventually dropped all pretenses, and he moved into her room. By this time he was helping her balance the books. He also offered some sound advice on how to increase her profits. It was not until July that he proposed to her. It was in the morning, and they were showering together.
 
“Our finances are very tight,” he said, “but I think we could get married and start that family if you want.”

“Was that a proposal?”

“A pre-proposal.  I’m still trying to figure out how I’m going to buy the ring.”

“Well, don’t let something as silly as a ring stop you.”

He placed a hand on each of her shoulders and looked directly into her the eyes. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes. And if you need a salve for your ego, you can use whatever money you have to buy my old rings from me.”

“That’s a hell of a recycling, don’t you think?”

“Things can be recycled, people can’t. What we share is fresh and new.”

“And wonderful,” he agreed.

They held the wedding at the hotel in August. He found some work outside of the hotel, but it was only for a few days per week. He sent a large part of that money to his ex-wife. Bernie was very understanding about that. Her understanding was important given their struggle to make ends meet. It was not an easy life, but they had each other. There would soon be a baby as well. Having the baby might seem foolish, but they both knew that the hard times would actually strengthen their bond if they remained optimistic and supported each other. They were looking to the future. They were convinced that things would get better as the economy improved.

First published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms.com on May 19, 2010

It’s A Phone, Damn It!

Telephones are a convenience. It is difficult to imagine being without one. As far as advancements in telephone technology are concerned the one I most appreciate is the answering machine that allows me to screen my calls and allows other people to leave messages for me. I do not own a cell phone. There is no one I want to talk to enough to pay the high rates phone companies charge for wireless communication. I know something about cell phones only because my employer insists that I use one at work. The cell phones I use there are occasionally replaced with newer models that have most of the newer features. This proliferation of features and functions leads me to believe that it is in regard to wireless communications that technology has really run a muck. What I mean is that the manufacturers have lost sight of what a phone is supposed to do and are making the basic function a secondary concern. Because of this I have to read pages of literature just to figure out how to answer the damn thing or make on outgoing call. Keep it simple, dumb ass! It is a phone first and all those other functions are secondary.

All right, so I am a grumpy old man, but I do not give a rat’s dork about anything beyond a phone’s most basic function. I do not want a phone that can kiss my butt, photograph it, and send the photo to another cell phone, face book or some other device. I believe the ability to do that merely adds a new dimension to obscene phone calls. And why would I want to text people when I can talk to them or leave them voice messages? Anyone who has tried it will tell you that it is a lot quicker and easier to dictate what you have to say than it is to type it. I suppose I could compose some doggerel on my cell, but even if I were silly enough to do that, I am not demented enough to inflict it on anyone. What I am saying is that the only way I would use the text function is if they made the huge improvement I really want. To wit, I want to send a big “GFY” to all telemarketers, and I want it to override the machines they are using to send those shitty, recorded sales pitches. The ability to insult and thwart telemarketers is something I would gladly pay for.

Now that I think about it, I do not believe I have received any sales calls on the cell phone I use at work. I might have to think about replacing my land line with a cell phone. I know cell phones can receive messages, but can they screen calls? Would a cell phone behave like the remote control for my television and go missing on me? There is also the question of inter net service for my computer. This is too much for the old noggin to process. I think I am getting a headache. I am going to hoist a cold beer or gin and tonic while I wait to see what the technocrats and the companies they work for come with next. Here is a hint for them, the boomers are not getting any younger; there is going to be a large market for products that are friendly to the elderly. Think bad eyes and fat fingers. Make the basic function of your product easy to use, and leave the heavy lifting to younger people who do not mind straining the brain a bit or punching their way through a maze of small buttons in order to take advantage of the more advanced features.

First published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms.com on May 11, 2010

What Happened To April Dawn?

It was nine o’clock at night. Alvin and his wife, Martha, were sitting on the front porch. The county was going through another one of its droughts, and it was unusually hot and dry for November.

“I’ve been listening to the radio,” Martha said. “They were talking about clouds to the north. Do you think they’ll drop down far enough to do us any good?”

“I sure hope so, but what happened to April Dawn?”

This apparent non sequitur was something only a local resident would understand. A loose translation of it is, “who knows?” The disappearance of April Dawn was a mystery the sheriff had been trying to solve for almost forty years. It was not like April could blend into a crowd at the train station or anything like that. She did not look like the rest of the people in the town. Her mother was a Mexican, and April had Indian features. Her father was an Anglo Saxon, a fundamentalist Protestant, and a very mean binge drinker. April escaped her abusive father by marrying the first man who proposed to her. Her husband, Mr. Dawn, was thirty years her senior. Although he did not physically abuse her, he was an overbearing ass and a skinflint of the first order. Furthermore, he was always chastising her because she was so well liked. Mr. Dawn claimed he woke up one morning to find her gone. Perhaps it was because of his unpopularity, but no one believed him. Solving the mystery soon became a cause celebre. Nobody wanted to let him get away with the foul deed they thought he had committed. The local newspaper offered a reward of one thousand dollars to anyone who could provide information leading to her whereabouts or knowledge of her fate. A thousand dollars was a lot of money at the time. It would be reasonable to expect her disappearance to become old news, but the paper continued to offer the reward and even increased the size of it from time to time. This kept the story alive, and the mystery became a part of the town’s identity. The reward was now up to twelve thousand dollars.

“I guess you’re right,” Martha said. “You know, I think about her sometimes. I’m sure they could raise the reward to a hundred thousand dollars without having to worry about anyone collecting it.”

“Probably, but they wouldn’t do it. People do get hit by lightning, you know.”

Martha smiled. “And by some believable hoaxes as well.”

Alvin laughed. “You mean like the one CBS pulled for Halloween.” They were referring to the radio broadcast of the War of the Worlds. They were both laughing now.

“The newspaper said it scared the bejabbers out of half the nation. I’m glad we were listening to the Chase Sanborn Hour instead.”

“I guess pretending to cut away from the normal programming for news bulletins made it seem realistic. A Martian invasion, though? I don’t think I would’ve fallen for that.”

That is when it happened. The sky lit up. It was not the usual colors; there were no blues or reds or steaks of gold. The sky turned green, and it was bright. Then there was a thunderous boom. This was followed by a dull thud, and a sharp jolt as the night recaptured the sky. Martha would later claim that her house actually jumped.

She placed her hand over her heart, and took a deep breath. “What was that?”

“I don’t know. In all my twenty-nine years, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It was like something from another world!”

“There has to be a logical explanation. I better check on the animals.”

Checking the animals was not too difficult. He only had four cows, a bull, and two horses. They were all fenced in. Whatever had scared him also scared his animals. The cows moved close together and were aimlessly wandering around their enclosure. The bull was pawing the ground, ready to charge any intruding creature. The horses had their ears perked up, ready flee at the slightest provocation. The hens in the chicken coop were frozen in place, and the rooster was hiding. Alvin did a quick inspection of the barn. He did not see any damage. He walked back to the house.

“Is everything all right?” Martha asked.

“They’re all scared but unharmed. No sense in stumbling around in the dark. I’ll try to find out what it was tomorrow.”

Alvin went to bed at ten o’clock. He was not there long because he was too anxious to sleep. He put on his trousers and walked out to the living room. He heard a vehicle outside. He picked up his shotgun and looked out the window. It was a sheriff’s car. Deputy Brad stepped out of it. Alvin set down the shotgun and he met the deputy at the front door.

“Sorry to bother you at this hour, Alvin. I’m just checking on the light and thunder. Do you know anything about it?”

“I couldn’t miss it.”

“Do you have any idea where it was coming from?”

“They sky was so bright and the sound so loud that I couldn’t tell.”

“I know what you mean. Part of the sky looked brighter than the rest. It was roughly in this direction, but I couldn’t pin it down.”

“Did you feel the jolt?”

“The jolt?”

“Yeah, like an earthquake, but with a single shake.”

“No, and that means you must have been closer to where it struck.”

“Do you think the military is screwing around with a rocket or something and hit the other side of the hills with it?”

“I can’t imagine them having anything powerful enough to light up the whole sky like that, but I like the idea of it hitting the back side of the hills. It would explain why no one saw it crash.”

“Are you going to look over there?”

“Too far, and it’s out of our jurisdiction.”

The fact that the deputy had been investigating the event was reassuring. If it was anything too menacing, Alvin was sure the deputy would have seen or heard about it. He set the shotgun next to his bed just in case he was wrong.

It was more than his breakfast sitting on the table when he entered the kitchen the next morning. The Smith & Wesson forty-four his father had given him was also sitting on the table.

“Is it loaded?”

“Yes,” Martha answered.

“Do you think it’ll do any good?”

“Don’t scare me by asking such things. I’ll feel better if you’re armed.”

“I know what you mean. I’m going to look on the back side of the hills, and that’s rough country.”

“It’s also a long drive.”

“I’m riding the motorcycle.”

“Why?”

“Because I can walk it out if the wheels are getting stuck.”

The sun was barely up when Alvin set out. He could see some of his neighbors inspecting the perimeters of their properties. The whole scene was eerie; it was far too normal given the events that took place last night. There were no police cars or government vehicles in sight. Was he the only one crazy enough to try to chase down the source of the light?

It was almost eleven when Alvin reached the other side of the hills. He was still on the main highway, and he stopped at the Last Chance gas station. It was aptly named. There was not another one within thirty miles of it. He filled his motorcycle with gasoline and walked it to the sandwich stand next to the station.

The man behind the counter looked at the pistol strapped to Alvin’s waist. “What’s with the artillery? Are you looking to pick a fight with things that go bump and light up the night?”

“My wife insisted on it. She’s afraid those things might pick a fight with me.”

The man laughed. “I guess old Orson really did it to us. His stunt either made folks more afraid of what happened last night, or it made them afraid of making fools of them selves by reacting to it.”

“I admit that shock, maybe even fear, was my first reaction. Now I’m just curious. I want to know what the hell happened.”

The man handed Alvin a sandwich. “Everyone does.”

Alvin carried the sandwich to one of the picnic tables. The music on the radio in the sandwich stand stopped as he started eating. “I have an explanation for the lights and thunder last night,” the newsman said. “A scientist at the university called. He said an unmanned object from outer space crashed into us. Take that, Orson Welles! Seriously folks, the scientist said it was one or more meteorites falling from outer space. So Chicken Little was not as crazy as we have been taught to believe. Parts of the sky really can fall. In this case there are no reports of any damage. In fact, the scientists are still trying to figure out where the meteorite or meteorites landed.”

Alvin smiled. “So we were hit with a space rock. Are Meteorites space rocks?” It did not matter. It was a good enough definition as far as he was concerned. He felt a bit foolish for packing the pistol. It was not like little green men were going to climb out of a space rock and shoot him with a death ray. Well, he had already spent hours getting to the other side of the hills. He might as well do a little exploring while he was here. It would be kind of neat to find something that came from outer space.

He rode down the highway until he came to a very narrow dirt road. It was really more like a horse trail. He turned onto it. In all likelihood other people searching for the meteorite would start by searching from the paved roads. The trail he was on was deceptive. The land looked flat, but he was actually climbing at a gradual angle. He realized this when he crossed a wider, smoother, dirt road that intersected the trail. The trail became much steeper now, and it was in poor shape. He had to dodge the rocks and the brush. The brush was a particular problem; it was so dry that he was afraid the exhaust from the bike could set it on fire. Controlling the bike well enough to avoid the brush took a lot of energy. His clothes were soon soaked with his perspiration and caked with the dirt kicked up by his tires. The trail was snaking its way toward the crest. It turned to the east. He now entered a stand of pines and oaks. The trees were spaced far enough apart so that he was able to ride between them. He could not tell if he was still on the trail.

He came upon a log cabin, or what was left of it. Most of the roof had fallen, there was no glass in the windows, and the door was missing. The cabin was too old to have any plumbing. No one would build such a place without a source of water. He parked the motorcycle and dismounted. The rotting planks were partially covered with dirt. They probably covered a well. It was all too easy to imagine some unsuspecting soul falling through them. The hill to the north was steep. He hiked up the slope until he was standing on a flat surface. The hill that descended to this flat surface was very steep and very high. The place where he was standing was probably a natural ledge. Someone had taken advantage of the terrain to build a road there. Logging had been a big industry here. He was guessing that this had been a logging road. He started walking down the road, in an easterly direction. The road bent around a large boulder. He rounded the bend to find the road blocked by a huge pile of debris. “That must have been one hell of a landslide,” he thought. He changed his mind as soon as he looked up at the source of the debris. The face of what had been a steep hill was now a cliff. It was as though someone had used dynamite to blow a very large chunk out of the hill.

He climbed the debris. Roots were poking up though the soil. The plant was upside down. Furthermore, the roots were fresh. The event that caused the collapse of the hill had happened very recently. He cautiously moved to the cliff face. There was a hole in it. He crawled inside and dropped two feet. He continued crawling. He descended another two or three feet. What saw there took his breath away. It was a skeleton. It was well preserved and mostly intact. What was missing was the lower part of the right leg, from the knee down. He climbed out of the cave and up to the top of the debris. He heard an airplane. It was flying low. It flew over him and then made a wide turn. He pulled his gold watch out of his pocket as the plane circled back towards him. Alvin used his watch to reflect the sun. The only Morse code he could remember was the signal for mayday. He flashed that signal at the approaching plane three times. The plane flew over him and turned towards the valley. After it straightened out it wagged its wings.

He was confident that help would soon be on the way. He sat on the top of the debris waiting for the search party to arrive. Hours went by. It would be dark soon. “Were the crazy bastards hiking up to him? Why weren’t they using the logging road?” That is when he thought he heard a motor. The sound was too faint for him to be sure. A half hour later he heard voices. At long last he saw four men approaching. They were wearing the uniforms of the volunteer fire department.

“Hey search and rescue! I’m up here!”

“Are you out of your frigging mind? That pile of crap could start sliding again at any moment!”

“It’s stable. I’ve been up here for hours.”

“Yeah, but your insane.”

Oddly enough it was the smallest member of the group who agreed to climb the debris.

“Please bring a canteen. I’m about to die from thirst.”

The man climbed the debris and handed Alvin the canteen. Alvin was so thirsty that he started pounding down the water without even saying thank you. He finally removed the canteen from his lips. “God, I’m glad you’re here. I’m Alvin.”

“I’m Jim. You’re lucky we all decided to look for the meteorite or it would have taken us a lot longer to get here.”

“Well, I think you’ve almost found it. It has to be under the dirt and rocks here. There’s something else though. There’s a skeleton in that cave.”

“You mean that hole?”

“It’s actually a cave. The entrance has probably been sealed off for decades. I’m guessing that the slide uncovered it again.”

“Holly shit! Hey Joe, he says there’s a skeleton here. Better notify the sheriff.”

“We have to leave anyhow. The road is too treacherous to wait until its dark.”

“I’ll wait here with Alvin.”

“Alvin Graf,” Alvin said. He also gave his address and phone number. Joe wrote the information down on a small pad he carried. “Okay, see you in the morning,” Joe said with a parting wave of his hand.

“I’d rather not sit up here all damn night,” Jim said.

“I was thinking the same thing. Follow me.”

They hiked down to the cabin, thinking the walls might serve as a windbreak. Forget about it being hot for November. The breeze that kicked up was really cold. All Alvin had to protect him was the thin jacket he wore to keep the road dirt off his shirt. The dry brush made it too dangerous to start a fire. Alvin mounted his motorcycle as soon as it was light out. “Are you sure you don’t want me stay?”

“No, I’ll be okay. We’ll remove the skeleton.”

“Thanks. You’re a good man.”

“Get out of here, and be careful. Don’t crash or set the mountain on fire!”

Alvin rode down the trail to the warm valley floor. He continued around to the other side of the mountains, but he did not go home. He went into town and stopped at Millie’s Diner for lunch. He called his wife from there to tell her the news.

She was excited by what he told her. “Do you think it’s April Dawn?”

“Hard to tell.”

“Go to the newspaper now. You don’t want those men to claim they found her if it is.”

His wife had a good point. He had had the same thought. Twelve thousand dollars was a lot of money. He found Clarence sitting at the news desk.

“Alvin, what brings you here?”

“I might have found April Dawn.”

“Really!”

Alvin then told Clarence the whole story.

“I’m not going to conjecture about whether its her at this point, but it’s a hell of a story," Clarence said.  "They’ll probably take the remains to the county coroner. I’ll start by checking with him.”

“I don’t think they’ll get it there in time for him to examine it today.”

“You’re probably right about that, but I’ll keep checking in with him.”

“Thanks. Keep me posted.”

“Will do.”

“The coroner was kind enough to promise Clarence that he would call as soon as he had the remains and finished his examination. He called the next day. “The remains are those of a female. She was just a shade over five feet tall. I’m guessing, and it is a guess, that she was between nineteen and twenty-five at the time of her demise. Her facial structure is not Caucasian. I’m turning her over to the university because I think she was an Indian.”

“Is there any way to tell when she died?”

“Well, the skeleton was well preserved, but that could be due to the environment.”

“Would you say she could have died forty years ago?”

“Could be. She might even be a lot older than that. The university and museum have archeologists and paleontologists and such. They’re probably a lot better than I am at determining the age of remains this old.”

“Thanks, I’ll check with them.” So far all of the information was consistent with April Dawn, but how do you prove it. Clarence was now feeling a bit foolish. He should have asked about the cause of death or if there was anything that was distinct about the remains. He called the university and spoke to Professor Wright.

“So you’re looking for a missing person. Some of the ones we find have been missing for a thousand years,” he joked.

“This is serious. We’ve been trying to solve this mystery for forty years.”

“All right. I’ll make it a priority.”

“Thank you.”

Clarence then had one of the copy boys pull all of the stories about Mr. Dawn from the paper’s morgue. It turned out that Mr. Dawn owned a large share of the company that was logging that part of the mountain. He also spent a good deal of time at the site. He may or may not have owned the cabin. It is not like anyone bothered to file a deed on it.

Professor Wright called back the next day. “I’m afraid we can’t really date the remains,” he said. “The problem is that there are no clothes or other artifacts to help us do that. If the clothes rotted off, I would have expected the skeleton to deteriorate a bit more, but that could depend on the material used for clothes. There is also the possibility that she was left there naked. I might add that that would not be consistent with a formal burial.”

“So there could have been some foul play involved?” 

“Quite possibly. We can’t really tell if she was strangled or poisoned or suffered any trauma to soft tissue. They only sign of violence might be the missing part or her right leg. The problem is that I can’t tell if that was post-mortem. I suspect that it might be what killed her. I say this because of where she was found and the condition of the rest of the skeleton.”
 
“Is there anything distinguishing about her?”

“I don’t know if I would call it distinguishing, but there’s a noticeable gap between her incisors. It’s not large enough to be disfiguring, but it’s noticeable.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. It looks like I’ll have to do some more research on our missing gal.”

There were still some people around who remembered April. Clarence called all of the ones he knew about. They all said the same thing. She did not have a gap between her incisors.

So the mystery continued. What happened to April Dawn? If she simply walked away from her husband, she certainly got even for any grief he caused her. The crotchety old fart lived the rest of his life under an unforgiving cloud of suspicion.  But, given his temperment, no one was going to feel guilty about that. This was a town that never gave up, and it still had a mystery to solve.

First published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms.com on May 5, 2010

An Imperfect Union

The great hoopla was about to begin. It was the bicentennial of the nation’s declaration of independence. Robert Bowls was a young history professor. He was trying to write a prospective on the nation’s history for the celebration. He looked down at the paper on his desk. He had typed, “An Imperfect Union of Fallible People,” at the top of the page. It was too long for a title. He crossed out the last three words. He had a particular aversion to the pledge reciting, flag waving type of patriotism that too often resulted in a “my country right or wrong” mind set. “The attitude is actually worse than that,” he thought. “It’s a self-righteous belief that our country is always right. The remarkable thing is that so many still believe it in spite of Vietnam and Watergate.”

He was beginning to regret accepting a faculty position with a conservative mid-western college that required freshmen and sophomores to attend chapel once a week and that put pressure on faculty members to attend chapel at least twice a month. They always began the chapel by having everyone recite the pledge of allegiance. That is fine for a private college like this one, but reciting the damn pledge was also required in public schools. Robert believed that the insertion of “under God’ into the pledge made that requirement unconstitutional. Judging from the way conservatives deify our founding fathers, he believed it would have been every bit as appropriate to have inserted “under gods” into the pledge. He wondered why the people most inclined to talk about the wisdom of our founding fathers and the Constitution are the very people who know the least about either of those subjects?

What he was writing was bound to raise some hackles. Well, the hell with it. What he wanted to celebrate was not the myths but the realities. And they were wonderful realities in spite of the flaws. The first page of what he wrote contained the following:

“If you ask someone who has not put much time and effort into studying our history to name the greatest founding father other than Washington, that person would be hard pressed to give you an answer. If you ask someone who has spent a great deal of time and effort studying our history to name the greatest founding father other than Washington, that person would also be hard pressed to give you an answer. If you asked me that question and you were talking about independence and the revolution, I would choose John Adams. Many historians call him the father of independence. The problem is that he is not who I would hold up as a model for what a President should be. Thomas Jefferson’s views on democracy are very appealing, but his endorsement of slavery was hardly consistent with the proposition that all men are created equal. The founding father I would choose, other than Washington, would be Benjamin Franklin, but that is beside the point.

The fact is that fallible human beings worked out imperfect compromises to give us our start. What we quite correctly celebrate is not their intent. If we followed their intent, only white male property owners could vote, and we would still have slavery. Fortunately, what we celebrate are the great principles they stated. I am not one who believes that taking our founding fathers in their time excuses things such as slavery, but we cannot ignore their times either. What they did was very courageous and wise for those times. The wisest thing they did was to provide a peaceful mechanism for change. This has allowed us to change our laws in a manner that makes them more consistent with the stated principles upon which our nation was founded. The true patriot is not the person who thinks this country is sacrosanct and above all criticism. The true patriot is the one who tries to make this country better and helps it live up to its ideals. This was true of our founding fathers, and it is true of us.”
 
Robert rose from the chair behind his desk and walked to the men’s room. Was he about to figuratively piss on the festivities? He could almost hear the other professors saying: “Bob, you talked about the mechanism for peaceful change. Did you forget that it took a civil war to end slavery? Did you forget that many of the other social and legal changes were not all that peaceful? Obviously, those changes are not what we want to talk about at this time. We want to hear you say how great we are. This is supposed to be a celebration! What with the anti-war demonstrations, the civil rights movement, and Nixon resigning in disgrace, we’ve heard far too much about change as it is. Forget the strife. Let us wave our flags, recite the pledge of allegiance, and shoot off our fireworks in peace! Let us celebrate the myths and the reality.”

When Robert tried to zip up his trousers he could only get the zipper to raise a few inches. He had been so distracted by his thoughts that he had allowed his shirttail to catch in the zipper. No matter how hard he tried he could not get the zipper to budge. He would have to race home and change his clothes before his next class. “This demonstration of my fallibility is far too graphic,” he thought. “It is not what I care to display or anyone else cares to see.” College life is not all books and study; it is also spilled beer, unzipped trousers, and a grumpy professor who will tell you our founding fathers were not perfect even as you are trying to celebrate their virtues. That is as it should be.

First published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms.com on Apr. 27, 2010

Lost Son

The schoolmarm was pregnant. She looked in the mirror and sighed. She was not showing yet. She had already informed her lover, and he had informed his parents. That might sound odd, but both she and her lover were very young. She was eighteen. He was only seventeen. He was the eldest son of the powerful Drum family. The extended family had an agricultural empire, and they were politically influential. This could easily turn into a tragedy, depending on what they and he decided to do. None of the signs looked good. He would be leaving for college this fall. He would be the first of his family to attend college, and it was very unlikely that his family would let her jeopardize their plans for him.

“I know I’m able to buy much of what I want from the politicians,” Calvin’s father had said, “but they’re not dependable. They’re far too likely to compromise away some of the things I want from them. I think it’s time to raise a few politicians rather than buying them. That’s why you’re going to college, Cal.”

Grooming Cal to be a politician seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do. He was tall, handsome, and charming. He was also a natural leader who was comfortable in front of an audience. The problem was that he was not very diligent when it came to his studies. Math came easy to him. Reading and writing were subjects he had to work at, and he was too lazy to do it. His parents enrolled him at a private school, where he became barely literate. “His language skills are good enough for most things,” the master of the school said, “but he’ll need a private tutor to raise those skills if he wants to succeed in college.”

Miss Ethel had become the new teacher at the public school during Calvin’s last year at the private school. She was very bright and very pretty. The children adored her. She quickly gained a reputation for being almost a miracle worker when it came to teaching them how to read. So Calvin’s parents approached her about tutoring him during the summer. In doing this they unwittingly set the wheels in motion. He was used to getting what he wanted, and it did not take long for him to realize he wanted Ethel. He would show up at the schoolhouse after the children had left. She taught him there, but it was not long before he said it was embarrassing to be attending a class there again. He also complained about the small desks. She should not have done it, but she finally agreed to tutor him at her house. That was when the seduction began.

In spite of the fact that she was a year older than he was, she was actually more innocent about such things than he was. The odds were stacked against women like her. One of the very few occupations open to educated women was that of schoolmarm. The catch was that the women had to remain single. Very few of them taught for more than a few years before the natural desire to start a family made them accept a marriage proposal. She was lonely, but it was not like she set her cap for Cal. She was not foolish enough to believe this man-child would marry her. She simply gave in to a natural urge and let him charm her into doing it. Now she felt foolish and desperate. Calvin’s parents blamed her for the affair, and they gave her the only option she thought she had.

She resigned from her teaching job before the pregnancy became obvious. She then took a train east. Mr. Drum had made all of the arrangements. She went to a home for fallen women. There she delivered her child and stayed until she recovered from the birth. Her boy was put up for adoption. One of the nuns was kind enough to tell her that a very fine couple adopted her baby. “You know he’ll have good life,” the nun assured her. “They’ll give him lots of love, and California is as close to being paradise as any place in the wicked world can be. Now if you’re truly repentant, you will be forgiven. You can start a new life with a clear conscience.” She was handed her hush money on the way out the door. Mr. Drum, of course, did not call it hush money. He called it a generous grubstake that would let her start a good new life. He could call it anything he liked, but it was hush money. He even made her sign a document that swore her to secrecy in return for the money.
 
So her baby was going to the golden state. It would make the term grubstake particularly appropriate if she moved there. It was unlikely that she would ever find him, but she wanted be as close to him as she could get. California was growing rapidly. The state was scrambling to provide for the new arrivals, and there was a real need for teachers. The teaching job she found was in Riverside. It was a beautiful place. Mountains still dotted with winter snow rose above the warm valley floor. It was spring, and the orange blossoms were just beginning to open. They added a light, pleasant scent that would become almost overwhelming in a few weeks when the pollen filled the air. Unlike the mid-west, teachers in Riverside were also allowed to wed. The nun was right; this was close to paradise. Several men were soon courting Ethel. She accepted the proposal of Mr. Black. It was a good marriage, but it was childless. There were no tests to confirm it, but she strongly suspected that he was shooting blanks.

Perhaps it was her frustration over her childless marriage that made her do it. She did not care to analyze it. All she knew was that Mrs. Drum never replied to the two letters Ethel sent to her. In her letters, Ethel swore that she would never introduce herself to her son or reveal that she was his mother. “I just want to see how he is doing,” she wrote. Mrs. Drum had nothing to fear on that score. “She probably thinks I’m too wicked to be worthy of a reply,” Ethel thought. “Well, I’m not.” If Ethel felt guilty about anything, it was the fact that she had given her baby to someone else; that and the fact that she never told her husband about it. Well, at least I won’t have to lie about any letters sent to me by Mrs. Drum.” There was, however, one more thing, and it did not make any sense to her. For some reason, she was keeping track of Calvin’s career. He was a congressman now, and she even obtained a picture taken of him during his unsuccessful gubernatorial campaign. She had no idea why she did that. “I can’t still be in love with him when I’m so happy with my husband.” She finally decided that it was just a part of the tangled web.

Ethel was only fifty-one years old when her husband died of a heart attack. Teaching kept her busy but not busy enough. She increased her involvement in civic projects in an effort to fill the void caused by her loneliness. She also wrote a book on teaching English. Then she received the letter. It was from Calvin’s younger sister, Jenny. Jenny said that her father had died recently. “I was going through his things when I found the agreement you signed. I am interested in genealogy, and I would like to know about the child. After weeks of pestering mom, she told me his first name is David and that he is a reporter somewhere in California. She was embarrassed by the topic and would not tell me any more. If you are able to find him, please tell me his last name and where I can reach him.” To Ethel the letter seemed like a cruel joke. California was a big place, and David was a common name.

The nameplate on his desk said: “Mr. Atwell, Managing Editor.” The other employees of the major Los Angeles newspaper where he had worked as a reporter told him he was insane to give up his job there for a position with some little rag in the boonies, even if the position was that of managing editor. “I’m getting too old to chase stories out in the field,” he replied. “With my kids now grown, I don’t need as much money or the aggravation.” He had been the managing editor for six months now. He still felt the stress of the publishing deadlines, but he was not out chasing ambulances, politicians, or policemen. He looked up at the wall where the plaques were hanging. One was awarded to him at a ceremony at the Press Club. It was for the reporter who wrote the best story of the year. It was not a Pulitzer, but it was still prestigious. The other plaque was an award for a book he had written about the history of Los Angeles. Although the book was well received by the critics, it did not earn him a lot of money. More money would have been nice, but it is not what drove him.

“I really enjoyed the writing, and the acclaim. There’s no denying that. But I don’t have to stop writing. I could research the history of Riverside or some of its more notable characters. There’s no reason why I can’t write about Riverside if I want to write.”

A light tapping at his door interrupted those thoughts. “Come in!”

One of his young reporters entered. “I thought I could write a brief piece about this,” the reporter said. He handed Mr. Atwell some papers from the high school. At the top was a flyer announcing a ceremony to commemorate the fortieth anniversary of the high school. The flyer also stated that Mrs. Ethel Black was the featured speaker. The next thing was a photograph of the original faculty members. Then there was a note identifying each and every person depicted in the photograph. Mrs. Black was one of the names on the list. Local newspapers routinely publish such things. It would have been all too easy to slough it off by telling the reporter to give it to the stripper to include in the layout of the next edition. The young reporter, however, had said he could write a brief article about it. This told Mr. Atwell the reporter thought there was a story there.

“Are you thinking of a historical piece about the school or is there something that interesting about Mrs. Black?”

“It’s Mrs. Black. She wrote two books. One was sort of a primer on how to teach English at certain grade levels. Her students are typically among the best in the state. The other book is about her experiences shifting from a one room school house to a modern school system, and then to the high school. She is also very active in civic organizations that help out during emergencies. She has helped a lot people who suffered some catastrophe. Many people think she’s heroic. This will be her last year as a teacher. She’s seventy-three now, and she announced that she would retire when the school turns forty.”

“She sounds like quite a gal. Okay, but keep it brief.”

There was something about this brief biography that interested Mr. Atwell. He went to the library and checked out her book about her experiences. The writing was nothing less than charming. She included anecdotes about her students that were amusing and instructive. She also said she changed their names to protect “the guilty.” Although the book was written in the first person, there was very little personal information about her. Her focus was on the schools, the curriculum, and, most of all, her students. More intrigued than ever, Mr. Atwell dug through the newspaper’s morgue for stories about Mrs. Black. This little woman worked tirelessly through fires, floods and epidemics. She really was heroic. The article his reporter wrote was good but far too brief to be a full biography. Mr. Atwell wanted to know more. That is why he attended the ceremony.

Mrs. Black was a small woman with perfect posture. She must have been gorgeous when she was young. She was still unusually attractive for her age. She sparkled with an enthusiasm that was captivating. She made him feel like she was talking to him rather than a large audience. She made him feel like he knew her. She must have made everyone feel like that because it was obvious that the people gathered there really loved her. He was so impressed that he called her the next day.

“Mrs. Black, this is David Atwell. I’m the managing editor of the Riverside News, and I would like to interview you.”

“I don’t know that I would be all that interesting, but I’ll be happy to give you an interview. Why don’t you come for tea tomorrow? Would four pm be all right?”

“Thank you! I’ll see you then.” Mr. Atwell thought about all of the changes a person her age had witnessed. She had gone from one room school houses to modern schools, from horses to automobiles, from oil or gas lamps to electricity, and from being earth bound to flying in airplanes. Those changes were impersonal, non-threatening subjects. He would start his interview by asking about her reactions to them. He could move on to her personal story after he developed a rapport with her.

David rang the door bell. Ethel opened the door and looked up at him. The sight of him took her breath away. He was the very image of his father. The left corner of his mouth even rose slightly higher than the right side when he smiled. She took a moment to calm down.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Please, come in.”

He entered the room. There was a platter of freshly baked cookies sitting on the coffee table in front of the sofa. A dainty tea set sat on a cart specifically made for that purpose. A chair from the kitchen was on the opposite side of the coffee table. She motioned toward the sofa. “Have a seat,” she said.

He sat on the sofa and watched her pour a cup of tea. “How do you take your tea?”

“Plain.”

She set the cup of tea on the table in front of him. She then poured another and put one cube of sugar in it. She smiled as she sat in the chair. He waited until she took a cookie from the platter before he took one.

“This is a delightful custom.”

“Thank you. I know it probably seems quaint, but there are still quite a few of us who enjoy it.”

“Quaint only because it’s leisurely at a time when so many of us seem to be in too much of a hurry to get things done.”

“I suppose that’s true. Your probably also thinking this old girl has witnessed many of the changes that have sped things up.”

“You must have read my mind. Which invention or change do you think has had the greatest impact?”

“My mother would say the elastic in undergarments.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You have know idea how much of a problem it caused when the drawstring of your drawers came untied or broke. If you were lucky, the legs of the garment were tight enough so that top only drooped down to your thighs. It made you walk like a penguin, but it allowed you to get somewhere that offered enough privacy to let you address the problem.”

“And if they fell farther?”

“If you were fortunate enough to avoid tripping over them, you had to step out of them. Many women were too embarrassed to pick them up. They simply walked away with as much dignity as they could muster. Of course that meant that they were now walking around with no drawers.”

David was laughing, and his laughter sounded exactly like Calvin’s. “Well, you’ve told me what your mother would say, but what would you say?”

“My mother’s opinion is illustrative of the fact that the things that have the greatest impact on our lives are the things that are most intimate or that we use on a daily basis. They are things like modern plumbing, electricity, and refrigeration. I think the automobile is fast becoming one of those things.”

“I know I sure depend on mine.”

“Yes, and the other innovations are magnifying its importance. Refrigeration, for instance, allows us to store enough food for a week. Can you imagine trying to carry that much food on a trolley or a bus?”

“No, I can’t. And the fact that we can purchase that much food at once saves time that we use to do other things; it sort of speeds things up.”

“Exactly. David… May I call you David?”

“Please do.”

She had vowed that she would not ask, but she could not resist the temptation. “David, are the Atwells your natural parents?”

He was too stunned to answer immediately. She waited patiently. “They will always be my real parents, but I’m adopted. They told me that when I was a teenager and started asking why I did not resemble any of the other members of the family. But why did you ask me?”

“I’m glad you feel that way about them. Maybe what I’m about to show you will answer your question.”

She walked over to a small desk and dug through a drawer until she found it. It was a small campaign sign. It was designed to be displayed in a window or tacked to a post. It contained a picture of the candidate, and the inscription below the picture said, “Calvin Drum for Governor.” Cal was almost David’s age when the picture was taken. She had sent Calvin’s campaign organization a small contribution and asked for a picture of him. They had mailed the sign to the school as she had requested. When her husband died she moved the sign to her desk at her home. She walked over to David and handed it to him.

He stared at it. “It’s like looking in the mirror. Do you think he’s my father?”

“Yes.”

“If he is my father, who’s my mother?”

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Me.”

“Would you like to tell me about it?”

“I will, but you have to understand that this is strictly off the record. You would have to be a real bastard, in the most pejorative sense of the term, to ever publish what I’m about to tell you.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

She then told him the whole story.

“You make a good case, but I’d like to gather a bit more evidence. Where did you say you gave birth?”

She handed him the other thing she had removed from the desk. It was a piece of stationery yellowed with age. The writing on it was in a masculine hand. After reading it, David picked up one of the small napkins and dried several tears that were forming in his eyes. Ethel also wiped the tears from eyes.

“Is this Mr. Drum’s writing?”

“Yes.”

“The son of a bitch!”

“I thought worse than that of him. You have no idea of how many tears I shed over the thought that I would never know you. But he was a parent, and this was a difficult situation.”

David smiled as he rose from the sofa. “You’re being very charitable. I don’t think I could be so kind.”

“Bitterness is an unpleasant taste, and it’s foolish to needlessly suffer it.”

“You’re a wise lady. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

“I hope I am your mother.”

“So do I.”

When he reached the door, he turned to face her again. “Would you like to meet my family?”

“Yes, but what if I you find out I’m not your mother?”

“Then you’ll become a very dear friend to all of us.”

He called Mrs. Atwell that night. “Mom, do you remember what organization you went through to adopt me?”

“I believe it was the Gentle Hearts Orphanage in Chicago?”

“Are they affiliated with the Sisters of Mercy Refuge?”

“I’m not sure, but I still have some of the literature. Why do your ask?”

“You and dad will always be my real parents, but I think I just met my natural mother.”

“And you want to confirm it.”

“I realize it might be hard to understand, but she is a part of me. I need to know.”

“All right. Let me get back to you.”

It only took her an hour to call back, but it seemed like an eternity. “The answer is yes. That is where they got most of the new infants.”

Ethel had finally found her son and her grand children. She loved her new family and they all loved her. She and David’s adopted parents also became good friends. Scandal be damned! They did not exactly announce it to the world, but it was not long before they stopped trying to hide the relationship from the people they knew.

First published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms.com Apr. 22, 2010

A Matter Of Boundaries

There are times when you are going to step in it. That you will be distracted enough to do it is inevitable. You have things to do and places to go. You are in a hurry, and there are those annoying events that frequently pop up to rob you of some of your precious time. Stepping in it is one of those annoying events. The one thing you can count on is that you will do it at a time that will magnify its negative impact. If that were not the case, you would not be distracted enough to let it happen. Regardless of this fact, people rarely blame their inattentiveness for this event. Instead, they go right to the source. They blame the dog.

“The son of a bitch did not have anything else he had to do. He had all day to plan on where he was going to drop his load. Why did he take a dump right where I walk.”

A person asking that question is thinking like a human. I do the same thing. At least I like to think I do. This means that I cannot speak for your dog. The one thing I do know about dogs is that they use their urine and dung to mark their territories. You would think that marking the boundaries would be good enough but it is not. Some creatures will either ignore the markings or enter the territory from a point not marked. So dogs add reminders within their territories. Marking territory is a serious business.

When it comes to recognizing territories we humans are at a disadvantage. We cannot detect dried urine unless there is a very high concentration of it. While we can see and smell a pile of crap, it is often difficult for us to determine what territory it marks. Determining human boundaries is not any easier for us. This is because many of those human boundaries are emotional rather than physical. Yet we must have retained some primitive instinct in regard to marking them. I believe this because we will say we pissed someone off or stepped in the shit when we have upset another person by crossing an emotional line. Our reaction to figuratively stepping in this shit is very similar to our reaction to literally stepping in shit. What I mean is that we rarely blame our inattentiveness or hasty actions for it. In this regard our apologies are normally peace offerings rather than admissions of guilt, and the other person usually responds in kind.

Other primates will let you know when you have crossed their boundaries by throwing shit at you. We do much the same thing. A warning shot thrown across the bow is not a problem. Most people are smart enough to heed the warning. The real problem occurs when the shit thrown is no longer a warning and it strikes the other person. The person struck is all too likely to respond by also throwing shit. It is still possible to restore the peace at this point, but it requires both parties to stop throwing shit at each other. A truce is always the first step to any peaceful resolution.

If the dispute takes place in public, it is far less likely that either party will make any peace overtures. Instead they will both insist that they were right, and they will try to convince the witnesses of that. Being a social animal makes us far too inclined to play to the audience. The witnesses, however, are a reluctant audience at best. They may be more sympathetic to one party than the other, but they would rather not take sides. They are much more inclined to call the dispute a misunderstanding that has become far too messy as it is. In most instances they are correct in saying this.

What we call pissing contests or throwing shit at each other is never pretty. If the disputing parties are throwing shit at each other on twitter, the British are very likely to call them twitter twits. If the disputing parties are throwing shit at each other on face book, we Americans are likely to call those face books ass books. If you must have a dispute with a friend, have it in private. E-mail each other or shout at each other over the phone. Then forgive and forget. Remember that the other person is a friend you have frequently invited into your territory rather than an invader who has set out to destroy your boundaries. Friends can disagree with each other.

First published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms on Apr. 6, 2010

Trombonists Don’t Wear Underwear

Hunkered own in the middle of nowhere is the town of Sagebrush. From all appearances, it does not amount to much. No more than twenty businesses line either side of Main Street. What entertainment there is can be found at the tavern, the bowling alley, or the picture show, unless you want to count the Foster’s freeze as an ice cream parlor. On the old Oar Road, at the fringes of the town, stands a white church and next to it is the elementary school. The high school is about five miles father out on the same road. Sage Brush may be small, but it is not stupid. Someone figured out a long time ago that putting all those teenagers that far out of town would allow them to drive their teachers nuts while leaving the rest of us in peace. You may wonder how such a small town can even support a high school. The answer is that it is the only high school within a radius of fifty miles, and it picks up a lot of out of towners. Since the only people crazy enough to live within that radius are the people who pretty much grew up there the vast majority of us graduated from or at least attended Sage Brush High. Faith in its football team is almost a religion with us, and we trot out its band to play at just about every occasion.

I always thought the coach of the football team must be under a lot of pressure. I still do, but the toughest job probably belongs to the band teacher, Mr. Waver. Once I was foolish enough to ask him how the band tryouts were going. He cupped his chin in his hand, cocked an eyebrow, and asked if I had ever heard of the great character actor, Slim Pickens. More than once Mr. Waver has looked up at heaven and asked God why He gave two left feet to any kid who had even the slightest amount of musical talent.

“This is a marchin’ band,” he bellowed. “That means ya all step out with the same foot at the same time, and ya all keep the same distance from the folks around ya. If ya can walk and play at the same time, the music should help ya keep in step.”

You could not accuse him of taking anything for granted, but he did exaggerate a bit. I would not ask him, but if you did, I am sure he would agree that the exception to the two left feet rule is a trombonist named Harvey Slider. Young Slider should have been the natural if unofficial leader who held the band together. The Problem was that all he could think about was gaining enough weight to play football.

“About once a week he cuts my class to use the football team’s weights,” Mr. Waver complained. “The rest of the week he eats everything in sight. The only thing that fool boy has accomplished is increasin’ the size of his butt and belly. I’m surprised he hasn’t busted his breeches.”

It would have been easy for Mr. Waver to blame young Slider for what happened. To his credit, he blamed the “dickheads” instead. That is his word not mine, but I know who he meant. He was talking about the principal, Dr. Schwanskopfmann, and the drama teacher, Richard Head.

I will get to what happened shortly. First I want to clear up any impression I might have given that Mr. Waver is bitter. Actually he tends to be rather philosophical about such things. I remember him telling me how he had spent a good deal of time wondering why he had to put up with those two. He said he finally concluded that it was just the natural order of things. It was his opinion that no institution or company reaches its optimum size without putting at least one dickhead in a position of authority. The quintessential number is two. Preferably, they head up separate departments that have to interact with each other. That way, if you go to one dickhead to expedite something, he will always tell you to talk to the other dickhead. Why does top management put up with it, you may ask? Well, he had a good answer. “They don’t know.” He explained that dickheads always carry out a direct request from a superior. They also stick up for each other because if one of those departments is taken over by someone else, that someone is bound to produce more work that will flow into the remaining dickhead’s department.

At this point I could not help questioning his assumption that no one in top management would know. I conceded the point but said it did not matter.

“Those who know,” he said, “think it’s a good way of distinguishin’ between the complainers and the employees who are clever enough to get the job done in spite of the dickheads.”

This is the ideal of course. He would be the first to tell you it is not always so. In fact, he said the worst situation is like the one at Sage Brush High where one dickhead is in a position to expand the responsibilities of the other dickhead.

“And he’ll expand the other dickheads responsibilities because it means fewer things will reach his desk?”

“Well, that’s what he’s thinkin’.”

Now that I have cleared that up, it is time to tell you what happened. You see our town really makes a big deal out of homecoming. People literally come from hundreds of miles away. The festivities begin with a lavish parade from Main Street, up the Oar Road to the high school. The band always pauses there and plays three or four tunes before marching into the stadium. Then there is a football game between Sage Brush and its arch-rival. After the game there is a barbeque followed by a dance.

Last year was Dr. Schwanscopfmann’s first homecoming as Principal, and he wanted to put on a good show. Naturally, he could not think of anyone more qualified to put on a good show than the drama teacher. So he put Richard Head in charge of everything. The first time Mr. Waver heard about this was when he was called into Dr. Schwanscopfmann’s office.

“Dick has this great idea,” Dr. Schwanscopfmann said. “Tell him about it, Dick.”

“Yes, I think we should put all your trombones right up in front of the rest of the band.”

“What?” Mr. Waver gasped.

Dick then affected his best Robert Preston voice and recited the order of the band in the song “76 Trombones.”

Mr. Waver almost gagged. “But we’ve been practicin’ with the band in a certain order all year. Changin’ it now would really mess those kids up.”

“If you were some ordinary band teacher, I’d agree,” Dick crooned, “but I’ve seen you drill. You’re brilliant, Mr. Waver! Three weeks should be plenty of time for a man of your talent.”

Dr. Schwanscopfmann’s words poured out like molasses. “We have faith in you, Mr. Waver. You’re the best. You can do it!”

The finality of Dr. Schwanscopfmann’s manner told Mr. Waver that no further protest would be tolerated. Mr. Waver rose from his chair a started walking toward the door.

“That’s the spirit,” Dick called after him. “Get right to it!”

Mr. Waver was reaching for the door knob when he heard Dick say: “I have this vision of the equestrian drill team out in front of the band, synchronizing their maneuvers to the music.”

Mr. Waver’s hand lightly brushed the door knob as he performed a pirouette with all the speed and grace of a figure skater. “Horse shit!” He blurted it out before he could stop himself.

Dick’s face flashed red. “What? What was that?”

Dr. Schwanscopfmann gently placed his hand on Dick’s shoulder. “I think he was inquiring as to the volume of manure the equines might produce,” he said with exaggerated gentility.

“How much could they produce?” Dick screeched. “We’re not talking about birds. And it will be well worth it.” He let his voice drop back down into the Robert Preston range. “Picture it: Twenty of those magnificent creature all moving in time with the music. And behind them, resplendent in their uniforms, is the proud, high stepping band playing a lively tune. The perfect blend of man and beast. A sight to inspire men’s souls. Boffo! It will be boffo!”

Mr. Waver wanted to barfo. From the very depths of this soul rose the unspoken phrase, “IT WILL BE HORSE SHIT!”

“Yes,” Dr. Schwanscopfmann oozed. “Yes, I can see it. It’s brilliant, Dick. Truly, creative genius!”

Mr. Waver almost ripped the door off its hinges as he opened it. Carefully and slowly, very slowly, he closed the door behind him. He knew that if he did not hold himself in check, he would tear down the entire wall. “Dickheads!” He stopped off down the hall.

Although Mr. Waver was still grumbling over the reordering of his band and the fact that it followed the equestrian drill team, the parade started off quite well. At the first mile mark, however, the extra weight young Slider had gained came into play. It seems that the brief under shorts Slider was wearing began to creep up in back. With each step they climbed farther up his behind, putting tremendous pressure on the front. Finally, the left leg band of his shorts slid up over part of his scrotum, pinning it in a vise grip against his leg. It was now with a painfully measured stride that young Slider marched and played. Increasingly his thoughts turned from his marching and playing to the question of how he could extricate his scrotum. Never before had he so regretted his choice of instrument. “What am going to do, let go of the slide?” he asked himself. In spite of the discomfort, he expertly played a difficult part of the tune. He tried giving his hips a twist as he stepped out with his right foot. The sharp pain this produced told him in no uncertain terms that this was not a good strategy.

By the time he reached the two mile mark, the pain was becoming more than he could bear. Still, he gamely tried to carry on. After another very painful half mile he had made up his mind. There are a lot of things one will give up for his art, but, the Vienna Boys Choir not withstanding, a scrotum is not one of them. He increased the grip his left hand had on the trombone and raised the instrument so that it was pointed at the sky. He then began working his right hand down the front of his trousers. This was not an easy task given the weight he gained.

The first clue the female trombonist next to him had that something might be amiss was the silence. She was used to keying on the clear, crisp tones he normally produced. She glanced at him and noticed that his trombone was pointed at the sky. She then looked at where the struggle was taking place in his trousers. She watched his hand worked its way across his body to the point of pain. Her reaction changed from curiosity to shock and then to the realization that you cannot play the trombone while giggling.

He had just seized the offending elastic when he stepped on a particularly wet piece of horse dung. His feet suddenly rose toward the sky. He probably would have landed on his head if his rotation had not been stopped by his right foot striking the female trombonist in the chest. Where the slide of his trombone struck the coronet player behind him would have been considered a serous foul in boxing. Inspired by the blow, the coronet player hit a note that sounded as if a bull mammoth had suffered it for him. All three musicians fell causing a chain reaction. Adding to the comedy was the fact that young slider had not extricated his suffering scrotum. He continued trying to do so while trying to stand. As a result, he kept stumbling into or falling on other musicians who were trying to stand.

Most band teachers confronted with this tangle of musicians, instruments, and road apples would have been tearing their hair out, but Mr. Waver seemed to be enjoying the farce as much if not more than the rest of the audience. “Horse shit,” he cackled. “It’s horse shit!”

The comedy of the event must have softened Mr. Waver’s opinion about the principal and the drama teacher. “I shouldn’t call ‘em dickheads,” he said. “I suppose they meant well, but you know I was right about the parade.” Not that he was foolish enough to think it would do him any good. “Dick will say the horses were magnificent and the band performed well, except for that incident caused by a deranged student digging inside of his trousers. I’ll then have to explain why Slider was digging inside his pants. Dr. Schwanskopfmann will be sympathetic to the point of not blaming me for the tug of war in Slider’s breeches, but he’ll also tell me to instruct all male band members not to wear under wear on the day of a parade.”

Judging by the fact that the equestrian drill team is going to be out in front of the band again this year, I would say Mr. Waver’s prediction was fairly accurate. Mr. Waver also talked young slider into marching with the band again. Since this is Slider’s senior year it is his last chance to redeem himself. I do not think that he or any other trombonist will be wearing drawers, but they would have to go a long ways to match last year’s performance anyhow.

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