We of the west believe crackers are for soup. I don’t mean those sissy ones made of hi-gluten wheat flour and canola oil they hand out in fancy restaurants. I mean saltine crackers. They are also fantastic with crispy green salad. What would a bowl of firehouse chili be without a load of crumpled up crackers, and lots of catsup? One of my favorites as a kid was Campbell’s Pea Soup loaded with so many gooey saltines it looked like a big green glob of pasty peas. My family wasn’t too prosperous, and with crackers and ketchup you could almost double the subject matter.
Most restaurants in California, especially those with fancy-pancy menus, don‘t carry them. “Soup or salad, Sir?” They ask.
“Got saltine crackers?”
“Why, no we don’t.”
“Neither one then”
Growing up I would go to a Chinese Restaurant and order chop suey. The waiters would bring a piping hot bowl and a large tub of crackers. It was a delicious combination. After moving to California I ate at this Chinese restaurant. I ordered a bowl of chop suey and when it arrived I asked for some crackers.
“Clackers,” eyebrows raised, eyes wide the guy exclaimed, “We don’t have clackers!” He looked upset that anyone with any sense would order such a thing. I thought he was going to throw me out, and ban me from ever entering in his establishment again.
Denny’s has crackers, but they only give you two. There’s not much you can do with only two saltines. If you ask for more they always forget to bring them, and by the time you’ve waived your arm several times at a waitress, who by the by ignore the gesture, you’ve eaten your soup. Sometimes someone across the room will waive back. I go over and see if they have any crackers they’re not using and are willing to give up.
A few weeks back my wife and I went to the “C&C Bread Bakery an’ Café in downtown Grand Junction. The bakery is owned by two nice ladies, Brenda and Janet. It features home made soup, great sandwiches, and fresh baked bread. Pea soup was that day’s special.
“Got any crackers?” I asked.
“No we don‘t,” Janet said.
“Soup ain’t soup with out ’em, I’ll just have a sandwich.”
A few minutes later Brenda came out from the back. “You know we should have some crackers. Back home we always had crackers with our soup. Next time you’ll have them.”
Sure enough on my next trip as soon as I walked through the door they announced, “We got your crackers!,” and a load of saltines were ushered forth. I crumpled as many as I could into that hot homemade black bean soup. I can’t wait for the next pea soup special so I can load it down into a big green glob of pasty peas.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Sunday, May 8, 2011
The Braggert
Jim Thomas was a braggart, and could talk your ear off. He was so full of verbal lather it’ed fill a shaving mug. Wind him up on a subject, and he could brag on and on. He just wouldn’t shut up. If you said you had ten head a cattle ready for sale, why he’d say he had twenty. If you said you had the fastest horse in the county, his was fastest in the state. If you said you’d walked all the way up Pike’s Pike, he’d say he crawled up and never rested. You knew he was fabricating, and he knew you knew, but it didn’t make no difference.
One Sunday morning after church I set to go fishing with my friend Tom Bryers. Driving up to his ranch house I could see he was headin’ for the barn. I walked over to greet him, and saw Tom had a cow hitched to a corral board.
“How’s it goin’, Tom?”
“Pretty good. Cows got some grub worm sores I gotta’ lance. We kin take off after I do that an’ take care of a couple other things.” There’s always something needs to be done, or fixed, when your in the ranch business.
If you didn’t know, grub worms are the larvae of bomb flies that travel through cattle’s hair. They borrow into skin, then head for the back of the cow. A sore develops as the larvae grows, full of green puss. You have to stand aside when you cut and squeeze as the contents can fly about ten feet. Tom opened his razor sharp knife.
Jim pulled up in his pickup and climbed down. “Hey, fella’s what’s up?” Jim yelled as he shuffled towards us from his pickup.
“Man here he comes,” Tom said under his breath. “I hope he don’t wanna’ go fishin’ with us.”
“Yeah,” I said, “that guy‘s as full of wind as a bull at corn time. Don‘t know how we‘ll get rid a’ him.”
”You fixin’ to lance that sore?” Jim said when he walked up.
“Naw,” Tom answered, “I’m fixin’ to skin this cow. What does it look like I’m doin’?”
Jim ignored the question, “I had a cow one time had a sore twice that size…”
“Yeah,” I interrupted, “an’ I suppose you had to use a chain saw to lance it?”
“Almost. Say, what you guys up to today?”
“We’re goin’ fishing.” Tom said, and realizing he’d said the wrong thing turned and proceeded to do the surgery. He brought the knife up to lance the thing…
“Hey, if’n it’s all right kin I get my rod an’ come along. I was fishin’ last week and come up with a trout. Yeah, took me twenty minutes to land that sucker. An’ it weighed fi…”
Tom cut into the sore and squeezed. Jim, standing directly behind us, mouth wide open, didn’t get to finish his brag. He gagged, spit on the ground; turning he ran for the ranch house. Twisting the knob of the garden hose next to the house he washed his mouth out, over, and over, again, and again.
I helped Tom finish his other chores, and the three of us took off for the lake. We sat an’ every once in awhile Tom an’ I would think of the incident at the barn and chuckle. We never got a bite. Jim didn’t speak much.
One Sunday morning after church I set to go fishing with my friend Tom Bryers. Driving up to his ranch house I could see he was headin’ for the barn. I walked over to greet him, and saw Tom had a cow hitched to a corral board.
“How’s it goin’, Tom?”
“Pretty good. Cows got some grub worm sores I gotta’ lance. We kin take off after I do that an’ take care of a couple other things.” There’s always something needs to be done, or fixed, when your in the ranch business.
If you didn’t know, grub worms are the larvae of bomb flies that travel through cattle’s hair. They borrow into skin, then head for the back of the cow. A sore develops as the larvae grows, full of green puss. You have to stand aside when you cut and squeeze as the contents can fly about ten feet. Tom opened his razor sharp knife.
Jim pulled up in his pickup and climbed down. “Hey, fella’s what’s up?” Jim yelled as he shuffled towards us from his pickup.
“Man here he comes,” Tom said under his breath. “I hope he don’t wanna’ go fishin’ with us.”
“Yeah,” I said, “that guy‘s as full of wind as a bull at corn time. Don‘t know how we‘ll get rid a’ him.”
”You fixin’ to lance that sore?” Jim said when he walked up.
“Naw,” Tom answered, “I’m fixin’ to skin this cow. What does it look like I’m doin’?”
Jim ignored the question, “I had a cow one time had a sore twice that size…”
“Yeah,” I interrupted, “an’ I suppose you had to use a chain saw to lance it?”
“Almost. Say, what you guys up to today?”
“We’re goin’ fishing.” Tom said, and realizing he’d said the wrong thing turned and proceeded to do the surgery. He brought the knife up to lance the thing…
“Hey, if’n it’s all right kin I get my rod an’ come along. I was fishin’ last week and come up with a trout. Yeah, took me twenty minutes to land that sucker. An’ it weighed fi…”
Tom cut into the sore and squeezed. Jim, standing directly behind us, mouth wide open, didn’t get to finish his brag. He gagged, spit on the ground; turning he ran for the ranch house. Twisting the knob of the garden hose next to the house he washed his mouth out, over, and over, again, and again.
I helped Tom finish his other chores, and the three of us took off for the lake. We sat an’ every once in awhile Tom an’ I would think of the incident at the barn and chuckle. We never got a bite. Jim didn’t speak much.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Huh, What Did You Say
Hearing loss can be quite frustrating for the one who can’t hear and the speaker. You might be having a dialogue with a deaf guy, and all he hears is a jumble of nonsense, or he just might hear something quite different from what the other conversastionalist said. You might ask the fella, or filly if they voted, and they may come back stating they don’t have a boat, but wished they did. And so it was for Craig Boumount, a part time farmer; full time sheet metal worker. In his fifties, Craig’s hearing had been terrible for years due to the loud banging of metal at the sheet metal shop, and the fact he didn’t use hearing protection when he went bird hunting. He started losing hearing in his forties. At the time he couldn’t understand why everyone was whispering to me. “Huh!“ became a large part of his vocabulary. An audiologist got him hearing aids, and said when he turns eighty he’d be completely deaf.
Telephones, unless you have a loud volume control, are just out of the question for a deaf person. The phone rang one evening, Martha , his wife, was out of the room, and out of desperation Craig picked it up. He could faintly hear a voice coming through the receiver. Martha back in the room ,sat down, and watched Craig nodding his head and saying “yeah”, for about twenty minutes, and hang up.
“Who was that?” Martha asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You talked to them a long time. You must have known who was on the other end.”
“Nope!, I was just too embarrassed to hang up. I could tell they were trying to tell me something, but didn’t know what.” Two weeks later six magazines arrived, none that he would ever order. Playboy, New York Review, Women’s Home Companion, Birds & Bloom, Prevention, and Gay Blade.
Fred, an ex-Marine, was retiring after 31 years at the shop, and Craig went to his retirement party. The company had gave him a certificate for him and family to eat at Harris Ranch, a fancy steak house.
“How ya goin’,” Craig asked. “Ya flyin’, takin’ a ship?”
“What’cha mean fly?”
“I mean Paris France, that’s great their sendin’ ya to dinner in France.”
The old Marine slowly walked over to Craig, put his nose on Craig‘s, like a DI in boot camp, and screamed, “It’s HARRRRIS RAAAANCH!”
Craig stepped back. “Jus’ kiddin’ Fred. I knew it was Harris Ranch.”
Craig and his wife, went to Pepe Delgatos one evening for dinner. They planned to eat and go to a movie. The waitress came to their table, handed them a menu and said a few inaudible words to Martha.
“The waitress sounds English,” Craig said.
”The waitress is from London.”
“Oh,” he said, “I didn’t hear her tell you that.”
“She was standing next to you.”
“Landing, what landing?”
“STANDING NEXT TO YOU,” she said.
The waitress came back to take the order. She gave the specials for the day speaking so low Craig leaned over asking Martha what she’d said. “The specials are, chicken enchilada’s, or carne asada.”
“I’ll take the asada.”
The waitress looking at Craig and mumbled something, He figured she hadn't heard and wanted to know if I had chosen an item.. She looked a little perplexed when h replied, “Asada.”
Martha nudged him with her elbow, “She wants to know if you want FLOUR, or CORN tortilla’s.”
“White.”
“He means flour,” Martha said.
The meal came and as always, delicious. The margaritas were made just the way they like them. While eating, a family sitting across from them, suddenly stood up, and with puzzled expressions, looked around the room . The waitress came rushing into the dining room, cocking her head to the side, trying to locate a sound. Martha placed her hand on Craig’s shoulder and mouth next to his ear informed him his hearing aid was buzzing. Sometimes, while eating, it would work a little way out, and make a loud buzzing noise, the pitch too high for him to hear. Craig twisted it back in. Everyone in the room relaxed, and those standing ready to exit at any minute thinking it was a fire alarm, sat down. .
Martha loudly informed the room, “It’s his HEARING AID!”
In a whisper he mumbled, “Thanks for letting everyone know,” .
Driving home after the movie he asked Martha to explain what the girl in the movie said to the man to make him forsake his job, and get on the ship that sank on its way to Istanbul?
“What movie were you watching, for heaven sake? There wasn’t anything about a man forsaking anything to go anywhere. It was about the sinking of the Titanic.”
It was his turn to look confused, and he uttered, “Ahhhh, I see.”
On the way Craig and Martha laughed at the silliness of it all. They say losing ones ability to hear is a serious matter, but if you can’t laugh at your ailment, and take it too seriously, you’ll soon be crying in your ear trumpet.
Telephones, unless you have a loud volume control, are just out of the question for a deaf person. The phone rang one evening, Martha , his wife, was out of the room, and out of desperation Craig picked it up. He could faintly hear a voice coming through the receiver. Martha back in the room ,sat down, and watched Craig nodding his head and saying “yeah”, for about twenty minutes, and hang up.
“Who was that?” Martha asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You talked to them a long time. You must have known who was on the other end.”
“Nope!, I was just too embarrassed to hang up. I could tell they were trying to tell me something, but didn’t know what.” Two weeks later six magazines arrived, none that he would ever order. Playboy, New York Review, Women’s Home Companion, Birds & Bloom, Prevention, and Gay Blade.
Fred, an ex-Marine, was retiring after 31 years at the shop, and Craig went to his retirement party. The company had gave him a certificate for him and family to eat at Harris Ranch, a fancy steak house.
“How ya goin’,” Craig asked. “Ya flyin’, takin’ a ship?”
“What’cha mean fly?”
“I mean Paris France, that’s great their sendin’ ya to dinner in France.”
The old Marine slowly walked over to Craig, put his nose on Craig‘s, like a DI in boot camp, and screamed, “It’s HARRRRIS RAAAANCH!”
Craig stepped back. “Jus’ kiddin’ Fred. I knew it was Harris Ranch.”
Craig and his wife, went to Pepe Delgatos one evening for dinner. They planned to eat and go to a movie. The waitress came to their table, handed them a menu and said a few inaudible words to Martha.
“The waitress sounds English,” Craig said.
”The waitress is from London.”
“Oh,” he said, “I didn’t hear her tell you that.”
“She was standing next to you.”
“Landing, what landing?”
“STANDING NEXT TO YOU,” she said.
The waitress came back to take the order. She gave the specials for the day speaking so low Craig leaned over asking Martha what she’d said. “The specials are, chicken enchilada’s, or carne asada.”
“I’ll take the asada.”
The waitress looking at Craig and mumbled something, He figured she hadn't heard and wanted to know if I had chosen an item.. She looked a little perplexed when h replied, “Asada.”
Martha nudged him with her elbow, “She wants to know if you want FLOUR, or CORN tortilla’s.”
“White.”
“He means flour,” Martha said.
The meal came and as always, delicious. The margaritas were made just the way they like them. While eating, a family sitting across from them, suddenly stood up, and with puzzled expressions, looked around the room . The waitress came rushing into the dining room, cocking her head to the side, trying to locate a sound. Martha placed her hand on Craig’s shoulder and mouth next to his ear informed him his hearing aid was buzzing. Sometimes, while eating, it would work a little way out, and make a loud buzzing noise, the pitch too high for him to hear. Craig twisted it back in. Everyone in the room relaxed, and those standing ready to exit at any minute thinking it was a fire alarm, sat down. .
Martha loudly informed the room, “It’s his HEARING AID!”
In a whisper he mumbled, “Thanks for letting everyone know,” .
Driving home after the movie he asked Martha to explain what the girl in the movie said to the man to make him forsake his job, and get on the ship that sank on its way to Istanbul?
“What movie were you watching, for heaven sake? There wasn’t anything about a man forsaking anything to go anywhere. It was about the sinking of the Titanic.”
It was his turn to look confused, and he uttered, “Ahhhh, I see.”
On the way Craig and Martha laughed at the silliness of it all. They say losing ones ability to hear is a serious matter, but if you can’t laugh at your ailment, and take it too seriously, you’ll soon be crying in your ear trumpet.
Grass Triming
“Grass Trimming”
Carlos Ortega owns the most popular restaurant in the little Colorado town of Sprucedale, Population 2000, located in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains Range. La Tia Elena Restaurant, named after a favorite aunt, served breakfast and lunch. He opened at five-thirty each morning to accommodate the early rising farmers and ranchers. Carlos was born in Durango, Mexico, but moved to Alamosa, Colorado working the fields as a Bacerro, then to Sprucedale, and proudly became a U.S. citizen. Carlos worked hard, saved his money and bought the place thirty years ago.
Carlos is short, heavy set, with black hair tinged in gray. On a friendly, wrinkled brown face a grayish moustache hangs under a large nose, continuing straight down to his chin. Carlos’ heart is big and you could not meet anyone who would say a bad word about him. People gave their confidence to Carlos as he knew their fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, girls, wages, hopes and fears. Always their friends, sometimes their philosopher.
Last summer Carlos moved ten miles out east of town. He purchased a twenty acre place located up a winding five mile dirt road into the mountains. It had some out buildings, and a house needing a lot of repair. He worked on the old house everyday until he could move in. It had a good well, lots of water and he put a nice lawn in front of the house. At the time of this telling there is was no electricity, or telephone, and Carlos gets by with a butane tank, and generator. He hates talking on the phone, so he doesn’t own a cell phone. When he’s at the place there isn’t any contact with the outside world. Carlos never married liking the freedom of a bachelor’s life.
“Carlos, why do you want to live so far out of town? That’s a long, hilly, curvy road to drive everyday?” I asked one day sitting at the counter chomping down on a red chili and bean burrito.
“It’s so peaceful, Charlie.” he said,. “I go there an’ jus’ relax. No one round to bother me. It’s nice, real nice.”
Last week I went to the La Tia Elana for breakfast. It was late morning and the early crowd had left to fill their day. I sat at the counter eating green chili and eggs and drinking coffee. Carlos refilled my drained cup.
“Hear what happen, Charlie?”
“What?”
“I got robbed.”
“Here?” I asked.
“No, no, no, at my place, around three yesterday afternoon.” Carlos leaned flat handed in front of me, a stern look on his face.. “I come to work, and after closing drive home. When I come aroun’ the corner I see this big truck sitting in my driveway. A man comes outta’ the house carryin’ sompthin‘, and puts it in the truck. I watch. He goes back inside an’ I drive slowly in back of the house. I grab my thirty-thirty from the back window rack of my peekup. I get out, stan’ hidden ‘ahind the corner a the house. ‘Bout a minute later he come out carrying my, what you call it, eh, plata ensillar..
With my sleeve I wiped some chile off my moustach . “Siver Saddle?”
“Si…si, my saddle given to me Jorge, my tio, when he gone." Carlos crossed himself. I jump out an’ point my rifle at him and yell, ‘Up with yer hands, senior!’ He look surprised an’ scared. He drops the saddle; up goes his hands. I have him move out to center of driveway. He’s a white guy, ’bout six feet tall an‘ mean lookin‘. But, now I fine I have a problemo. Know what that is?”
I leaned way back on the stool, with one finger tipped my cowboy hat back. “No bullets?”
“No. no, no, its’ I have no phone, no cell thing, no nothing to call police. I have this guy standing in my driveway, his hands are up. I think, now what do I do with him? What you think I did, Charlie?”
“Shoot him?”
“No, no, I look around to find something to keep him occupied while I think what to do. I tell him to mow my grass. I keep a cover on him. He pushes the mower up the grass an’ down the grass. Not a big lawn took him ten minutes. I still want to keep him busy. I have him chop wood. He picked up the axe an‘ glared at me. Ka-pow-ee! I fire one in the ground next to him, an’ tell him not to get feisty. He looks real terrified thinking’ he has some nut on his hands, an’ he chops the wood fast. When he’s done choppin’ I have him put everythin’ back into my house from his truck. I finally figure out what I’m going to do with this crook… Guess what, I do, Charlie?”
“Now you shoot him!” I said taking a bite a green chili.
Carlos refills my half empty cup. “No, no Charlie, I let him go.“
“You what?,” I was stunned. “Just let him go after he tried to rob you?”
“ Ah, si, Charlie, but first I tell him to give me his divers license. He reach in his pocket, takes it outta‘ his wallet an‘ geeves it to me. I tell him to get you truck and get a goin‘. He jumped in an’ took off in a cloud a dust. I drove back to town, called the sheriff and gave ‘um the crooks license.”
Finished I shoved my plate to the side and held out my empty cup. Carlos refilled it, put the pot back and leaned with one arm back on the counter. I asked. “Have they caught’em?”
“Sure, last night they catch him at his house in Alemosa. He wasn’t too smart.“
“That was good thinking, Carlos. You’re a pretty smart fella’. I probably a jus’ shot him.”
That afternoon I found Sheriff Juan Ortiz sitting in his squad car at the Cream Bowl drive-in drinking a cherry soda. I leaned down, placed my hands above the door, and spoke to him through the rolled down window. “Juan, Carlos told me about the robbery attempt up at his place.”
Juan chuckled, “Yeah, Carlos was smart letting’ this guy go. He was one bad dude, an ex-convict with a bad disposition. He lived in Alamosa, brought him back here a couple hours ago”
“Got him locked up, huh?”
“Yeah,” Juan laughed, sipped the last of his soda, “but before we did that we had him do some yard work around the jail.”
Carlos Ortega owns the most popular restaurant in the little Colorado town of Sprucedale, Population 2000, located in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains Range. La Tia Elena Restaurant, named after a favorite aunt, served breakfast and lunch. He opened at five-thirty each morning to accommodate the early rising farmers and ranchers. Carlos was born in Durango, Mexico, but moved to Alamosa, Colorado working the fields as a Bacerro, then to Sprucedale, and proudly became a U.S. citizen. Carlos worked hard, saved his money and bought the place thirty years ago.
Carlos is short, heavy set, with black hair tinged in gray. On a friendly, wrinkled brown face a grayish moustache hangs under a large nose, continuing straight down to his chin. Carlos’ heart is big and you could not meet anyone who would say a bad word about him. People gave their confidence to Carlos as he knew their fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, girls, wages, hopes and fears. Always their friends, sometimes their philosopher.
Last summer Carlos moved ten miles out east of town. He purchased a twenty acre place located up a winding five mile dirt road into the mountains. It had some out buildings, and a house needing a lot of repair. He worked on the old house everyday until he could move in. It had a good well, lots of water and he put a nice lawn in front of the house. At the time of this telling there is was no electricity, or telephone, and Carlos gets by with a butane tank, and generator. He hates talking on the phone, so he doesn’t own a cell phone. When he’s at the place there isn’t any contact with the outside world. Carlos never married liking the freedom of a bachelor’s life.
“Carlos, why do you want to live so far out of town? That’s a long, hilly, curvy road to drive everyday?” I asked one day sitting at the counter chomping down on a red chili and bean burrito.
“It’s so peaceful, Charlie.” he said,. “I go there an’ jus’ relax. No one round to bother me. It’s nice, real nice.”
Last week I went to the La Tia Elana for breakfast. It was late morning and the early crowd had left to fill their day. I sat at the counter eating green chili and eggs and drinking coffee. Carlos refilled my drained cup.
“Hear what happen, Charlie?”
“What?”
“I got robbed.”
“Here?” I asked.
“No, no, no, at my place, around three yesterday afternoon.” Carlos leaned flat handed in front of me, a stern look on his face.. “I come to work, and after closing drive home. When I come aroun’ the corner I see this big truck sitting in my driveway. A man comes outta’ the house carryin’ sompthin‘, and puts it in the truck. I watch. He goes back inside an’ I drive slowly in back of the house. I grab my thirty-thirty from the back window rack of my peekup. I get out, stan’ hidden ‘ahind the corner a the house. ‘Bout a minute later he come out carrying my, what you call it, eh, plata ensillar..
With my sleeve I wiped some chile off my moustach . “Siver Saddle?”
“Si…si, my saddle given to me Jorge, my tio, when he gone." Carlos crossed himself. I jump out an’ point my rifle at him and yell, ‘Up with yer hands, senior!’ He look surprised an’ scared. He drops the saddle; up goes his hands. I have him move out to center of driveway. He’s a white guy, ’bout six feet tall an‘ mean lookin‘. But, now I fine I have a problemo. Know what that is?”
I leaned way back on the stool, with one finger tipped my cowboy hat back. “No bullets?”
“No. no, no, its’ I have no phone, no cell thing, no nothing to call police. I have this guy standing in my driveway, his hands are up. I think, now what do I do with him? What you think I did, Charlie?”
“Shoot him?”
“No, no, I look around to find something to keep him occupied while I think what to do. I tell him to mow my grass. I keep a cover on him. He pushes the mower up the grass an’ down the grass. Not a big lawn took him ten minutes. I still want to keep him busy. I have him chop wood. He picked up the axe an‘ glared at me. Ka-pow-ee! I fire one in the ground next to him, an’ tell him not to get feisty. He looks real terrified thinking’ he has some nut on his hands, an’ he chops the wood fast. When he’s done choppin’ I have him put everythin’ back into my house from his truck. I finally figure out what I’m going to do with this crook… Guess what, I do, Charlie?”
“Now you shoot him!” I said taking a bite a green chili.
Carlos refills my half empty cup. “No, no Charlie, I let him go.“
“You what?,” I was stunned. “Just let him go after he tried to rob you?”
“ Ah, si, Charlie, but first I tell him to give me his divers license. He reach in his pocket, takes it outta‘ his wallet an‘ geeves it to me. I tell him to get you truck and get a goin‘. He jumped in an’ took off in a cloud a dust. I drove back to town, called the sheriff and gave ‘um the crooks license.”
Finished I shoved my plate to the side and held out my empty cup. Carlos refilled it, put the pot back and leaned with one arm back on the counter. I asked. “Have they caught’em?”
“Sure, last night they catch him at his house in Alemosa. He wasn’t too smart.“
“That was good thinking, Carlos. You’re a pretty smart fella’. I probably a jus’ shot him.”
That afternoon I found Sheriff Juan Ortiz sitting in his squad car at the Cream Bowl drive-in drinking a cherry soda. I leaned down, placed my hands above the door, and spoke to him through the rolled down window. “Juan, Carlos told me about the robbery attempt up at his place.”
Juan chuckled, “Yeah, Carlos was smart letting’ this guy go. He was one bad dude, an ex-convict with a bad disposition. He lived in Alamosa, brought him back here a couple hours ago”
“Got him locked up, huh?”
“Yeah,” Juan laughed, sipped the last of his soda, “but before we did that we had him do some yard work around the jail.”
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
HENRY
We were living on Cedar Street, Pueblo, Colorado, in a house with a little rental in back. By the rental house a tall apple tree rested, growing small, sour apples mom baked into pies. When I was little, six or seven, I liked to climb up its trunk, into its branches, climbing higher and higher, until I was in the loftiest of the tallest limbs, and could look down on the whole neighborhood. Nellie, a heavy set black women lived in the small house. Part of her rent was watching my sister Myra, and I when my mother worked, and she was the one who had to coxed me out of the top of the apple tree I had scaled, and to scared to climb down. My legs shaking she would say, “Now, honey, put yer foot on that limb an’ let yerself down to it. Now put yer other foot on…” Twenty minutes later I would be on the ground getting into some other mischief. Nellie’d stomp off, look over her shoulder, and remark, “Chile‘, if’n ya climb tha’ tree one more time ya’all ken stay up thar.”
I believe it was at the Whitman Hotel my mother, Annabel, met Henry, and married him on May 2, 1953. Mom had me and Myra to raise, and I think she needed the money for security, as Henry was making 500 a month, when 300 dollars was a good wage. We were just getting by on her pay as a night nursing attendant at St. Mary’s hospital, and the 87 dollars in social security from dad dying.
Shortly after mom and Henry married he brought home an Emerson 12” T.V. incased in a large, purple console. Now, I didn’t have to go to a neighbors house to watch Captain Video. He brought ten live frying hens home in a wooden crate, and with a one handed swing snapped their heads off. Our back yard was full of bloody chicken heads and their counterparts flopping all over the place. A galvanized tub was filled with boiling hot water, and it was Myra’s and my job to dunk the chickens, and holding them by the legs, pluck feathers. With Henry around we had more food in the house. I was nine at the time, and it seemed we were moving up in the world.
Henry was a beer-a-holic, an alcoholic who only drinks beer, because whiskey makes him go mad, nasty, and want to fight. He was vastly over weight, had short, black wavy hair, and round, fat face. It was discovered later he had spent time in San Quentin Prison. There he had learned his trade as a Chef. At the Whitman Hotel, Henry received a tip of fifty dollars for his pork tenderloin with a special lemon sauce, from Gene Autry, who was performing at the state fair. (Autry also liked to drink the spirits and while 2000 spectators watched, could not mount his horse in the middle of the arena). Henry’s drinking was put up with at the Whitman, as no one could put a meal together more economical and delicious than Henry. The management would fire him for being drunk, and hire him back later.
Henry staggered in one evening, while we watched Snooker Lansing sing an Irish tune on Lawrence Welk, mom’s favorite program. Henry slithered through the front door drunker than a skunk. His personal joke; how do you order lima beans, was a sheep bleat and the implied blowing of wind. “Hellooh,” he slobbered. “Mhaha, Mhaha, thpppththth!” Henry plopped into his easy chair. You could have lit his breath with a match. Mom didn’t say anything, just folded her arms, and gave him a dirty look. This would not be the last time he came home late wobbly smashed, as it became a weekly feature.
One day I arrived home to find mom in the bathroom bending over the bath tub wringing out something. The bath tub was all the way to the faucets in bright, red bloodied water. There was a shirt floating in the redness, and mom was dunking a pair of blood soaked pants.
“What’s happened, mom?”
“Henry was stabbed!” she said drying her hands. She seemed calm, not hysterical.
“Where is he?”
“In the hospital,” she declared, “ and I have to get down there. Leave the tub alone, and shut the bathroom door I don’t want your sister to see it.”
Henry had been fired from the Whitman and was working at the Steel Center Club restaurant. He was to deposit the days receipts, and carried the money in a bank bag. A man stabbed Henry in the side, and tried to snatch the money. Henry held on to the robber with one arm and money with the other. The police were called and Henry hung onto the thief, who continued stabbing him. The police arrived, cuffed the bad guy, and called for an ambulance for Henry who was stuck six or seven times. He was lucky, the blade was short, and couldn’t penetrate through his fat. He was in the hospital a few days. When he came home he was fresh faced and healthy looking. He went back to work, and that night came home drunk.
I was sleeping in our dining room on a roll-away. I was awakened by the slamming of the front door. Henry stumbling in and went into their bedroom located just off the front room. Through the wall I could hear arguing. I laid in bed, eyes wide , scared, holding my breath. On the other side of the wall shrill voices, and a loud bump against the wall. Mom come rushing into my room, right hand covering her face, and into the bathroom she closed the door and switched on the light. A shaft of light escaped out from under the door, and I watched her shadow dancing in the beam as she moved about. When she came out I could see her upper lip was bruised and swollen.
“What happened, Mom?”
“Nothing! You lay down and go back to sleep,” she said walking past me and back into their room.
The stillness was deafening…I got up,… my whole body shook. I walked into the kitchen, opened the utensil drawer, and looked down at the variety of knives. I picked a long bladed butcher knife, turned, walking to their bed room. I went in, knife blade pointing downward, raised it over my head. Henry sat up a surprised, a quizzical look on his face. My hand was trembling. I blurted out, “D-Don’t y-you ever hit my mom again ‘cuz I’ll, I’ll, I’ll kill ya.” and swiftly walked out. Back in my bed, through the walls I heard Henry sobbing.
On Halloween, I went trick-or-treating, came home to find Henry passed out on his back in front of the door reeking of beer, Myra on the couch; mom in the easy chair.
“He fell there and we can’t pick him up.” Myra said with a loathsome look and her arms folded.
Henry was breathing heavy, and with each breath would emanate a loud raspy groan, sucking air in, and loud grown out. There was a knock on the door, I opened it. Three little kids dressed in costumes yelled “Trick or Treat” and stood mesmerized ,staring at Henry lying there. The candy bowl was next to the door. I grabbed some candy, threw it into their paper sacks and quickly shut the door.
“Don’t open that door again, and turn off the porch light!” Mom screamed.
“What about the little kids?”
“I said, turn off the light!”, Mom said, “do you want them to see that stinkin’ drunk lying there?” I turned the light off. Myra reached over and shut the table lamp off, putting us in the dark. ”We’ll go in the kitchen and sit.” mom said. We followed her into the kitchen, sat around the table, and listened to Henry’s bellowing breathing in the living room.
Mom had had her fill…Henry moved out.
Henry was fired from the Whitman for the last time after coming in drunk and slobbering over a kittle of green beans, picking them out with his fingers and slurping them down. He then proceeded to pass out during the busy lunch hour. After being kicked out of the house by mom, and burning bridges at other restaurants in town, he landed a job in Estes Park at the Stanley Hotel. (The hotel was used in the 70’s for the movie “The Shinning”.) Located above Loveland, Colorado in the Rockies, it’s the gateway to the wondrously beautiful, Rocky Mountain Park. In August Henry came back to Pueblo trying to get back in the good graces, but mom had had it, and told him in no way could he ever come back to live with us.
He asked if I wanted to go back with him for a month before school started. Henry said I could ride horses at the hotel, and there was lots to do there. Horses? Mountains? Mom said take off if I wanted, and I wanted to go.
It was getting late in the evening as we started our climb up the two lane, serpentine road to Estes Park in his 1948 Plymouth coup. As the sun started to set, Henry speeded up, screeching rubber as we rounded turns in a flash. I could see over the edges of the road into the canyon that I was sure any minute we would be flying off, as the car zigzagged on both sides of the road. I hung onto the armrest, squeezing so tight my knuckles turned white and I had the sickening, queasy feeling my stomach was about to erupt. “Slow down, Henry, why are you going so fast?”
“The headlights are out. We need to get there before dark… I didn’t realize how late it was getting…” Henry said, both hands holding tightly to the steering wheel as we traversed each turn.
The sun disappeared on the horizon leaving us in darkness. There was no moon to help guild us, and he slowed down to a much lower speed, slowly creeping round turns, hoping to heaven not to see a flash of headlights. “We have parking lights, but that’s it. It’s only another mile or two. We’ll make it.” He said with the hint of a doubt.
After driving blindly for the longest ten minutes of my 11 years I saw the lights of a town ahead and we were soon driving into the hotel entrance. Henry parked the car in a back area designated for workers. He placed both arms to the elbows on the steering wheel, lowered his head, resting it on his hands, took a deep sigh, looked over at me and said, “Well, here we are, safe and sound.”
I spent three weeks there, no supervision. I could go anytime to the stables, have a horse saddled, and ride anywhere for a couple hours. I played tennis with a young women, who after finding out I couldn’t hit the hairy ball worth a dang, said she forgot something in her room and would return soon. I waited an hour before I realized she wasn’t coming back. If I got bored there was a movie in the village. The only movie playing was an Ethel Merman musical and beyond belief I enjoyed the movie, even though Ethel’s voice reminded me of a rusty hinge. I had the run of the hotel until management asked who is the unkempt kid running lose. Henry told me to stop and desist running through the halls and causing problems.
I never saw Henry take a drink for the time I was there. He kept questioning me about mom. “Is momma seeing anyone?” I kept saying no, though I knew she had.“Do you think momma will ever let me come home?” He’d ask, and I would shrug my shoulders.
When it was time to leave. Henry said his friends would take us to Denver where Henry would put me on a bus home. There were three men, Henry and I packed into a 1951 grey Dodge. I sat in the back seat between Henry and this man smelling of whisky and cigars. We drove down the mountain and a few miles out of Loveland a loud BANG!, made me jump. The car was shaking badly as the driver pulled over. We all climbed out and milled around looking at the flat. All the men nervously looked up and down the highway. The drive said, “Everyone, back in the car,” and I thought there must not be a spare. He drove slow, bumping along on the flat until we reached a Texaco station. The trunk was opened, there sat a spare and the station attendant changed the tire. Soon after Henry put me on the bus home telling me to tell mommie he loved her. Mom found out later when Henry phoned, the car was stolen, and the why the driver wouldn’t stop to fix the flat They were worried the Highway Patrol, driving by, would stop to check. Henry said he didn’t know; Mom said, likely story.
Six months passed, Henry began drinking heavily again, and was fired from the Stanley. He moved to Cheyenne Wyoming to look for work. One evening Henry went with two men he met in a bar, to an apartment to play poker. Henry brought a six pack of Coors Beer. A bottle of whiskey was handed around and the three slugged it down. The stakes were high. Henry was losing. Around nine o’clock there was only one can of Coors left in it’s cardboard container. The man picked it up and attempted to open it with a church key.
“Thas my beer, “ Henry slobbered and reached for it.
“Mine now!,” the guy said jerking it away.
Henry stood up, “ I bought it an’ I’m drinkin’ it”
The man stood facing Henry. “They’s ony one way you’ll get this beer, an’ thas threw me, mister!” He took a step back and raised his fists.
Henry reached around pulling a 22 pistol from his back waistband. Pointing it at the guy, “Gemmie my beer…”
“Ya think I’m scared, Henry?… You think that scares me?… You ain’t got the guts..”
BLAME!
Henry shot him in the shoulder…the man fell over the table, dead. The bullet entered his right shoulder, hit bone, and tumbles end over end downward to his heart. Henry fled to a relatives house. The gun was in his trembling hand as he begged for money. “I just shot a guy. I got to get out of town.” He pleaded, showing the expended shell casings in his other hand.
“I don’t have any money, Henry!”
“I ain’t goin’ back to the joint…Tell momma good-by,” Henry put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.
Mom wondered where Henry got the gun. I knew, I was there, but didn’t say. Before leaving for Estes Park we drove to a butcher shop on the North side. He said he had to pick up something, and I fallowed him into the market. He asked the butcher behind the counter if he had “it“. The man went in the back, coming out with an apron wrapped around something heavy. Henry told him he’d get it back to him and we left. In the car he unwrapped the apron revealing a silver, 22 caliber Smith & Wesson pistol, with a short barrel. “Wow!,” I said eyes wide. “Can I hold it?”
“Sure, here.” he said and handed it to me
There was just five or six people at his funeral. My mom and I were the only ones from our family. The butcher sat in the front row with us. He knew that I knew, but nothing was said. There was three people at the grave site ceremony, mom, me, and the preacher. I couldn’t blame Henry for not wanting to go back to prison. I felt sorry for him in a way, and in another, thought, ‘I guess ya had it coming to ya, ya drunkin’ bum!’
I believe it was at the Whitman Hotel my mother, Annabel, met Henry, and married him on May 2, 1953. Mom had me and Myra to raise, and I think she needed the money for security, as Henry was making 500 a month, when 300 dollars was a good wage. We were just getting by on her pay as a night nursing attendant at St. Mary’s hospital, and the 87 dollars in social security from dad dying.
Shortly after mom and Henry married he brought home an Emerson 12” T.V. incased in a large, purple console. Now, I didn’t have to go to a neighbors house to watch Captain Video. He brought ten live frying hens home in a wooden crate, and with a one handed swing snapped their heads off. Our back yard was full of bloody chicken heads and their counterparts flopping all over the place. A galvanized tub was filled with boiling hot water, and it was Myra’s and my job to dunk the chickens, and holding them by the legs, pluck feathers. With Henry around we had more food in the house. I was nine at the time, and it seemed we were moving up in the world.
Henry was a beer-a-holic, an alcoholic who only drinks beer, because whiskey makes him go mad, nasty, and want to fight. He was vastly over weight, had short, black wavy hair, and round, fat face. It was discovered later he had spent time in San Quentin Prison. There he had learned his trade as a Chef. At the Whitman Hotel, Henry received a tip of fifty dollars for his pork tenderloin with a special lemon sauce, from Gene Autry, who was performing at the state fair. (Autry also liked to drink the spirits and while 2000 spectators watched, could not mount his horse in the middle of the arena). Henry’s drinking was put up with at the Whitman, as no one could put a meal together more economical and delicious than Henry. The management would fire him for being drunk, and hire him back later.
Henry staggered in one evening, while we watched Snooker Lansing sing an Irish tune on Lawrence Welk, mom’s favorite program. Henry slithered through the front door drunker than a skunk. His personal joke; how do you order lima beans, was a sheep bleat and the implied blowing of wind. “Hellooh,” he slobbered. “Mhaha, Mhaha, thpppththth!” Henry plopped into his easy chair. You could have lit his breath with a match. Mom didn’t say anything, just folded her arms, and gave him a dirty look. This would not be the last time he came home late wobbly smashed, as it became a weekly feature.
One day I arrived home to find mom in the bathroom bending over the bath tub wringing out something. The bath tub was all the way to the faucets in bright, red bloodied water. There was a shirt floating in the redness, and mom was dunking a pair of blood soaked pants.
“What’s happened, mom?”
“Henry was stabbed!” she said drying her hands. She seemed calm, not hysterical.
“Where is he?”
“In the hospital,” she declared, “ and I have to get down there. Leave the tub alone, and shut the bathroom door I don’t want your sister to see it.”
Henry had been fired from the Whitman and was working at the Steel Center Club restaurant. He was to deposit the days receipts, and carried the money in a bank bag. A man stabbed Henry in the side, and tried to snatch the money. Henry held on to the robber with one arm and money with the other. The police were called and Henry hung onto the thief, who continued stabbing him. The police arrived, cuffed the bad guy, and called for an ambulance for Henry who was stuck six or seven times. He was lucky, the blade was short, and couldn’t penetrate through his fat. He was in the hospital a few days. When he came home he was fresh faced and healthy looking. He went back to work, and that night came home drunk.
I was sleeping in our dining room on a roll-away. I was awakened by the slamming of the front door. Henry stumbling in and went into their bedroom located just off the front room. Through the wall I could hear arguing. I laid in bed, eyes wide , scared, holding my breath. On the other side of the wall shrill voices, and a loud bump against the wall. Mom come rushing into my room, right hand covering her face, and into the bathroom she closed the door and switched on the light. A shaft of light escaped out from under the door, and I watched her shadow dancing in the beam as she moved about. When she came out I could see her upper lip was bruised and swollen.
“What happened, Mom?”
“Nothing! You lay down and go back to sleep,” she said walking past me and back into their room.
The stillness was deafening…I got up,… my whole body shook. I walked into the kitchen, opened the utensil drawer, and looked down at the variety of knives. I picked a long bladed butcher knife, turned, walking to their bed room. I went in, knife blade pointing downward, raised it over my head. Henry sat up a surprised, a quizzical look on his face. My hand was trembling. I blurted out, “D-Don’t y-you ever hit my mom again ‘cuz I’ll, I’ll, I’ll kill ya.” and swiftly walked out. Back in my bed, through the walls I heard Henry sobbing.
On Halloween, I went trick-or-treating, came home to find Henry passed out on his back in front of the door reeking of beer, Myra on the couch; mom in the easy chair.
“He fell there and we can’t pick him up.” Myra said with a loathsome look and her arms folded.
Henry was breathing heavy, and with each breath would emanate a loud raspy groan, sucking air in, and loud grown out. There was a knock on the door, I opened it. Three little kids dressed in costumes yelled “Trick or Treat” and stood mesmerized ,staring at Henry lying there. The candy bowl was next to the door. I grabbed some candy, threw it into their paper sacks and quickly shut the door.
“Don’t open that door again, and turn off the porch light!” Mom screamed.
“What about the little kids?”
“I said, turn off the light!”, Mom said, “do you want them to see that stinkin’ drunk lying there?” I turned the light off. Myra reached over and shut the table lamp off, putting us in the dark. ”We’ll go in the kitchen and sit.” mom said. We followed her into the kitchen, sat around the table, and listened to Henry’s bellowing breathing in the living room.
Mom had had her fill…Henry moved out.
Henry was fired from the Whitman for the last time after coming in drunk and slobbering over a kittle of green beans, picking them out with his fingers and slurping them down. He then proceeded to pass out during the busy lunch hour. After being kicked out of the house by mom, and burning bridges at other restaurants in town, he landed a job in Estes Park at the Stanley Hotel. (The hotel was used in the 70’s for the movie “The Shinning”.) Located above Loveland, Colorado in the Rockies, it’s the gateway to the wondrously beautiful, Rocky Mountain Park. In August Henry came back to Pueblo trying to get back in the good graces, but mom had had it, and told him in no way could he ever come back to live with us.
He asked if I wanted to go back with him for a month before school started. Henry said I could ride horses at the hotel, and there was lots to do there. Horses? Mountains? Mom said take off if I wanted, and I wanted to go.
It was getting late in the evening as we started our climb up the two lane, serpentine road to Estes Park in his 1948 Plymouth coup. As the sun started to set, Henry speeded up, screeching rubber as we rounded turns in a flash. I could see over the edges of the road into the canyon that I was sure any minute we would be flying off, as the car zigzagged on both sides of the road. I hung onto the armrest, squeezing so tight my knuckles turned white and I had the sickening, queasy feeling my stomach was about to erupt. “Slow down, Henry, why are you going so fast?”
“The headlights are out. We need to get there before dark… I didn’t realize how late it was getting…” Henry said, both hands holding tightly to the steering wheel as we traversed each turn.
The sun disappeared on the horizon leaving us in darkness. There was no moon to help guild us, and he slowed down to a much lower speed, slowly creeping round turns, hoping to heaven not to see a flash of headlights. “We have parking lights, but that’s it. It’s only another mile or two. We’ll make it.” He said with the hint of a doubt.
After driving blindly for the longest ten minutes of my 11 years I saw the lights of a town ahead and we were soon driving into the hotel entrance. Henry parked the car in a back area designated for workers. He placed both arms to the elbows on the steering wheel, lowered his head, resting it on his hands, took a deep sigh, looked over at me and said, “Well, here we are, safe and sound.”
I spent three weeks there, no supervision. I could go anytime to the stables, have a horse saddled, and ride anywhere for a couple hours. I played tennis with a young women, who after finding out I couldn’t hit the hairy ball worth a dang, said she forgot something in her room and would return soon. I waited an hour before I realized she wasn’t coming back. If I got bored there was a movie in the village. The only movie playing was an Ethel Merman musical and beyond belief I enjoyed the movie, even though Ethel’s voice reminded me of a rusty hinge. I had the run of the hotel until management asked who is the unkempt kid running lose. Henry told me to stop and desist running through the halls and causing problems.
I never saw Henry take a drink for the time I was there. He kept questioning me about mom. “Is momma seeing anyone?” I kept saying no, though I knew she had.“Do you think momma will ever let me come home?” He’d ask, and I would shrug my shoulders.
When it was time to leave. Henry said his friends would take us to Denver where Henry would put me on a bus home. There were three men, Henry and I packed into a 1951 grey Dodge. I sat in the back seat between Henry and this man smelling of whisky and cigars. We drove down the mountain and a few miles out of Loveland a loud BANG!, made me jump. The car was shaking badly as the driver pulled over. We all climbed out and milled around looking at the flat. All the men nervously looked up and down the highway. The drive said, “Everyone, back in the car,” and I thought there must not be a spare. He drove slow, bumping along on the flat until we reached a Texaco station. The trunk was opened, there sat a spare and the station attendant changed the tire. Soon after Henry put me on the bus home telling me to tell mommie he loved her. Mom found out later when Henry phoned, the car was stolen, and the why the driver wouldn’t stop to fix the flat They were worried the Highway Patrol, driving by, would stop to check. Henry said he didn’t know; Mom said, likely story.
Six months passed, Henry began drinking heavily again, and was fired from the Stanley. He moved to Cheyenne Wyoming to look for work. One evening Henry went with two men he met in a bar, to an apartment to play poker. Henry brought a six pack of Coors Beer. A bottle of whiskey was handed around and the three slugged it down. The stakes were high. Henry was losing. Around nine o’clock there was only one can of Coors left in it’s cardboard container. The man picked it up and attempted to open it with a church key.
“Thas my beer, “ Henry slobbered and reached for it.
“Mine now!,” the guy said jerking it away.
Henry stood up, “ I bought it an’ I’m drinkin’ it”
The man stood facing Henry. “They’s ony one way you’ll get this beer, an’ thas threw me, mister!” He took a step back and raised his fists.
Henry reached around pulling a 22 pistol from his back waistband. Pointing it at the guy, “Gemmie my beer…”
“Ya think I’m scared, Henry?… You think that scares me?… You ain’t got the guts..”
BLAME!
Henry shot him in the shoulder…the man fell over the table, dead. The bullet entered his right shoulder, hit bone, and tumbles end over end downward to his heart. Henry fled to a relatives house. The gun was in his trembling hand as he begged for money. “I just shot a guy. I got to get out of town.” He pleaded, showing the expended shell casings in his other hand.
“I don’t have any money, Henry!”
“I ain’t goin’ back to the joint…Tell momma good-by,” Henry put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.
Mom wondered where Henry got the gun. I knew, I was there, but didn’t say. Before leaving for Estes Park we drove to a butcher shop on the North side. He said he had to pick up something, and I fallowed him into the market. He asked the butcher behind the counter if he had “it“. The man went in the back, coming out with an apron wrapped around something heavy. Henry told him he’d get it back to him and we left. In the car he unwrapped the apron revealing a silver, 22 caliber Smith & Wesson pistol, with a short barrel. “Wow!,” I said eyes wide. “Can I hold it?”
“Sure, here.” he said and handed it to me
There was just five or six people at his funeral. My mom and I were the only ones from our family. The butcher sat in the front row with us. He knew that I knew, but nothing was said. There was three people at the grave site ceremony, mom, me, and the preacher. I couldn’t blame Henry for not wanting to go back to prison. I felt sorry for him in a way, and in another, thought, ‘I guess ya had it coming to ya, ya drunkin’ bum!’
Thursday, April 7, 2011
The Gift
The old woman sat in her rocker in front of the fireplace watching the yellow and blue flames dance, and hearing the crackle of burning dry oak wood spitting red glowing embers up the chimney. The house lights were off; the only illumination coming from the fire. The flames made shadows jump like phantoms on the walls, and played tag on the old ladies wrinkled face. An old tom, tortoise shell, cat sauntered across the room, jumped onto her lap, kneading the red wool blanket across her legs, and rolled into a furry ball. She played with a rustic gold chain around her neck , and placed her other shaky, arthritic hand on his head, gently patting it. “Well, Markus, it’s just you an’ me tonight,” she said, sadly stared at the fire. It was Christmas Eve.
She thought of her two sons and daughter, in their fifties, married, with grown children, married or in collage. All had decided to travel to Utah this year and celebrate Christmas, and the New Year skiing. They insisted she go with them, but she explained she would not be able to take the cold weather. Go, have a good time, and please, don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. But it won’t be a real Christmas without you, they said. I’LL stay in California where it’s warm, thank you.
The family had been gone four days, and she missed them. Oh, how nice it would be , she thought, to have them here this Christmas Eve with their smiling faces. They would be standing around this fire, drinking eggnog, laughing; grandchildren running to and fro, excited, anticipating tomorrow mornings opening of presents. Well, they weren’t there, and she would just have to make the best of it. She hoped they would stay safe. I expect they know how much I love them, she thought, sometimes you forget to say how you fee, and then they are gone.
She rocked back and forth in her rocker. A chill rushed through her body; her trembling hands brought her shawl up over her shoulders. The warmth of the fire made her eyelids heavy, and she nodded off. She did not know how long she had slept. She had no dream, and awoke hearing her as the grandfather clock stroke twelve. Half awake and groggy she saw the fire was almost out It seemed a mist had settled in the room. She felt weighted down when she attempted to stand. Through the grey mist she could make just see figure sitting cross legged on the carpet, next to the fireplace. She felt strange, but not afraid. The haze covered the persons face and with a shaky voice asked, “Who… who are you?“
“Don’t you know me, Lucy?” a man asked leaning towards her.
A sudden shock rushed through her body as she recognized her long dead husband’s dark, handsome features. He raised his hand brushing his sandy brown hair away from his forehead, as he had the habit of doing. To her amazement and confusion, In front of her sat the crooked, slender nose, and large brown eyes that she had loved so dearly. His smile the same sweet one she remembered, and dreamed about, for so long.
“I’m imagining this,” she said placing her hand over her mouth with astonishment. “Is it really you Mark? Oh, I wish I weren’t dreaming.”
“What is a dream, but a part of reality, ‘ Is all we see or seem, but a dream within a dream.’ Lucy, to you I’m real…touch me.” Mark said holding his arm out. She stretched out her arm and her fingers touched his hand.
“Mark, it’s been thirty-two years this Christmas, since you left us. I’ve missed your touch all of these years. Oh how I’ve longed to see you and feel you once more, and here you are. I‘ve prayed I could have just one more day with you to be able to say all the things I should have said.”
“I’ve come with your gift, Lucy.”
“Gift?…”
“Yes.… Do you remember when we were young. You were so beautiful…”
“And you so handsome,” Lucy interrupted. “Remember the first time we met. You and your friends were skinny dipping in the river, and my friend Irene and I stole you boy’s clothes, an’ spread ’em all over the country side.” Lucy giggled thinking how mad the boys got and had threatened revenge. “You figgered out who did it and came looking for me an’…”
“Yeah, but when I saw how pretty you were I forgot all you’d done, an’ asked you out.”
Lucy closed her eyes for a moment thinking and said, “ On our wedding day you were nervous. I didn’t think you was going through with it. But you did. You made me so happy. We had many good times, didn’t we. Then along came our life’s joy, our children. June first, then Roy and Jimmy. They just made things better than ever. I wish you hadn’t had to work so hard to feed an’ take care of us, but you always said you were the luckiest guy in the world.”
“Yeah, we had a great life together…I only wish…”
“Oh, Mark, why did you have to leave us so soon…so suddenly,” Lucy paused and reached for a hanky on a table next to her. “ I’ve missed you so.”
“I‘ve missed you too, Lucy. But, I have always been constantly in your heart; in your mind; in your dreams.”
“Yes!”
“We were one in life, and we will be one again…”
Lucy closed her eyes for only a second, and Mark was gone! The mist had disappeared, and morning light filtered in through the window. A tear came to her eyes as she thought, it was only a dream, so real, so warm, so nice to feel his nearness. She took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes, and threw off her red blanket. Standing up she went into the kitchen, made a pot of coffee Lucy sat at the kitchen table looking out the window. It was a beautiful California morning, the sun shining and a few white clouds doting the sky. She watched the neighbors black cat sneak on his belly towards a blue jay. Lucy went into the bathroom. Removing her glasses, she filled the sink with hot, steamy water, splashed it onto her face, and scrubbed. Eyes still closed she grabbed a towel off the bar to dry. Through drying she wiped off the steamed mirror. When the glass cleared there was a strange women looking back at her. Young, no gray hair; no wrinkles. She thought, I must be seeing things!, my eyes must be playing tricks, and rubbed vigorously on the glass mirror. She stepped back, hand to her mouth in astonishment.
“My God, it’s me!,” Lucy exclaimed.
Her hands, and arms looked young and fresh. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She felt dizzy and sat on the edge of the bathtub. She thought, I must be dreaming again. She Stood up looking at the person in the mirror. It’s was her as she looked thirty-two years ago. There came a tap, tap, tap on the door. “Mom, common, hurry,” a voice said, “We‘re all waiting. Hurry!”
“Hold your pants on. I’m coming!” Lucy said opening the door she walked into the living room. A Christmas tree sat in the far corner of the room, lights blinking, it’s tinsel carefully hung from its boughs, and sitting on top a beautiful white and gold angel. Stacked under the tree were colorfully wrapped presents . June, 22, was still in her robe, sitting on the couch, her legs tucked under her. Roy and Jimmy lay spread out on the carpet in front of the tree. June was attending collage, Roy had enlisted in the Army, and would be leaving for boot camp, and Jimmy still had high school to finish .
Mark, already dressed sat in his easy chair. “’Bout time honey, these kids are eager to tear into these presents,” he said with a smile. “Come, sit with me.”
Lucy sat on his lap, placed both arms around his neck. “I love you, sweetheart. Merry Christmas,” she said and kissed him.
Presents were opened. A sweater for Jean, a watch for Roy, and a knife for Jimmy. The Children opened all their presents, and handing mom and dad theirs. Two were saved for last. Mark smiled as Lucy slowly opened hers. “Oh, how beautiful, a gold chained heart. And it says, I love you. How beautiful, thank you darling. I love you so much. I hope you know how much?” She felt a tear, bit her lip, and kissed him.
“Gee, precious, I’m glad you liked it. I love you. Now I’ll open mine.” He said. He fumbled with the wrappings, and brushed his hair back off his forehead. A fancy pen set with his name inscribed on the barrel. His eyes sparkled. He smiled and said, “Thank you honey. Just what I asked for and need.”
“Well, I wanted to buy you that new Corvette, but it’ll just have to wait for next year.” she laughed as she clasped the shiny new chain and heart around her neck.
“That’s alright, I’d rather have the pen set. I just wish I didn’t have to work this afternoon.”
“Stay home, dear, please. You shouldn’t have to work on Christmas.”
“Yeah, well maybe next year. “
“Please, please stay home. I love you.”
“Boy, you haven’t givin me this many ‘I love you’ since we were first married. I thought you were just putting up with me. I love you too, honey. Merry Christmas,” his arms around her waist, he kissed her neck.
At one o’clock Christmas dinner was served, and they sat down to glazed ham, sweet potatoes with marshmellows, potatoes, and corn. Through dinner Lucy would look at Mark, a faraway look in her eyes.
“What you thinking, Hon?,” Mark asked.
“How much you mean to me. You are a wonderful husband.” She said, her eyes misting up.
“Your awful emotional today. I know it’s Christmas an all, but I haven’t seen you this soulful since you ran over the neighbors cat.” He said and laughed.
“I don’t know,… I just wanted you to realize it,” Lucy said pushing away from the table. She started picking up dishes. “ June, give me a hand with these, and you guys go and take it easy and stay out of our way.”
Mark dressed for work came out of the bedroom. Lucy had packed his lunch with leftovers from dinner. It was three-thirty and he had to be at work at four. Mark grabbed his lunch pail, gave her a kiss on the cheek, waved goodby to the kids, and walked out the door. Lucy stood there a second after the door closed, then ran out after him. He was opening the car door ready to climb in when she reached him. “Don’t go Mark. Stay home.”
“You know I can’t. Someone else would have to leave their family to cover behind me.”
She rushed into his arms, “Hold me, Mark.”
“What’s this all about? I’ll be home before you know it.”
“I just…I just want you to know how much I care for you an’ apreciate you. I love you so much.”
“I know you do honey. And I love you, but I have to go.” Mark got in and started the car. He rolled down the window. “Come here.” She bent down to the window and Mark gave her a long kiss. “You are the greatest wife, most wonderful mother, and I don’t know what I would do without you.” He shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway.
As he drove away Lucy waived good-by and yelled after him, “I love you!”
Mark’s arm came out the window and waved as he drove up the street. Lucy walked back into the house. The children were gone their separate ways. She had a screeming headache and went into the bedroom and layed down. Through the throbbing of her head her mind’s eye saw the drunk speeding down the street and running the red light. She didn’t think she she could take the notifying phone call. Lucy closed her eyes and drifted off…
The old women opened her eyes. The early, morning sun was shining through the window. Markus still lay on the red blanket. Her glasses had fallen off her nose, and lay next to the cat. She picked them up and put them on. Lucy pushed Markus off and stood up, grimacing, as her legs ached, from sitting so long. The fire had gone out and it was chilly. She shuffled into the kitchen and took down the coffee. After it was brewed she sat down at the table and sipped from her cup. Looking out the kitchen window she saw the neighbors cat sneaking through her flower garden hoping to find a bird. The phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Hello mom, it’s June. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, dear. Are you all having a good time?”
“Yes, we’re having a wonderful time. I hope everything is okay with you. We worry about you.”
“No need, I’m fine here. You all have a swell time. I had a dream last night. Your father gave me a gift.”
“A gift?…”
“A new day, a chance…”
June interrupted, “Mom, are you sure you’re alright?”
"Fine. I love you guys. Hear me? I love you all.”
“Yes, mother…We love you too. Well, we gotta’ get to the slopes. See you in a couple days.”
“Please drive careful…Love you. Bye.”
Lucy sat back down, took a sip of coffee, played with the golden chain around her neck, and thought of the Christmas so many years ago. “Thank you Mark for the wonderful gift. On that fateful day I hadn't said,... I loved you.”
She thought of her two sons and daughter, in their fifties, married, with grown children, married or in collage. All had decided to travel to Utah this year and celebrate Christmas, and the New Year skiing. They insisted she go with them, but she explained she would not be able to take the cold weather. Go, have a good time, and please, don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. But it won’t be a real Christmas without you, they said. I’LL stay in California where it’s warm, thank you.
The family had been gone four days, and she missed them. Oh, how nice it would be , she thought, to have them here this Christmas Eve with their smiling faces. They would be standing around this fire, drinking eggnog, laughing; grandchildren running to and fro, excited, anticipating tomorrow mornings opening of presents. Well, they weren’t there, and she would just have to make the best of it. She hoped they would stay safe. I expect they know how much I love them, she thought, sometimes you forget to say how you fee, and then they are gone.
She rocked back and forth in her rocker. A chill rushed through her body; her trembling hands brought her shawl up over her shoulders. The warmth of the fire made her eyelids heavy, and she nodded off. She did not know how long she had slept. She had no dream, and awoke hearing her as the grandfather clock stroke twelve. Half awake and groggy she saw the fire was almost out It seemed a mist had settled in the room. She felt weighted down when she attempted to stand. Through the grey mist she could make just see figure sitting cross legged on the carpet, next to the fireplace. She felt strange, but not afraid. The haze covered the persons face and with a shaky voice asked, “Who… who are you?“
“Don’t you know me, Lucy?” a man asked leaning towards her.
A sudden shock rushed through her body as she recognized her long dead husband’s dark, handsome features. He raised his hand brushing his sandy brown hair away from his forehead, as he had the habit of doing. To her amazement and confusion, In front of her sat the crooked, slender nose, and large brown eyes that she had loved so dearly. His smile the same sweet one she remembered, and dreamed about, for so long.
“I’m imagining this,” she said placing her hand over her mouth with astonishment. “Is it really you Mark? Oh, I wish I weren’t dreaming.”
“What is a dream, but a part of reality, ‘ Is all we see or seem, but a dream within a dream.’ Lucy, to you I’m real…touch me.” Mark said holding his arm out. She stretched out her arm and her fingers touched his hand.
“Mark, it’s been thirty-two years this Christmas, since you left us. I’ve missed your touch all of these years. Oh how I’ve longed to see you and feel you once more, and here you are. I‘ve prayed I could have just one more day with you to be able to say all the things I should have said.”
“I’ve come with your gift, Lucy.”
“Gift?…”
“Yes.… Do you remember when we were young. You were so beautiful…”
“And you so handsome,” Lucy interrupted. “Remember the first time we met. You and your friends were skinny dipping in the river, and my friend Irene and I stole you boy’s clothes, an’ spread ’em all over the country side.” Lucy giggled thinking how mad the boys got and had threatened revenge. “You figgered out who did it and came looking for me an’…”
“Yeah, but when I saw how pretty you were I forgot all you’d done, an’ asked you out.”
Lucy closed her eyes for a moment thinking and said, “ On our wedding day you were nervous. I didn’t think you was going through with it. But you did. You made me so happy. We had many good times, didn’t we. Then along came our life’s joy, our children. June first, then Roy and Jimmy. They just made things better than ever. I wish you hadn’t had to work so hard to feed an’ take care of us, but you always said you were the luckiest guy in the world.”
“Yeah, we had a great life together…I only wish…”
“Oh, Mark, why did you have to leave us so soon…so suddenly,” Lucy paused and reached for a hanky on a table next to her. “ I’ve missed you so.”
“I‘ve missed you too, Lucy. But, I have always been constantly in your heart; in your mind; in your dreams.”
“Yes!”
“We were one in life, and we will be one again…”
Lucy closed her eyes for only a second, and Mark was gone! The mist had disappeared, and morning light filtered in through the window. A tear came to her eyes as she thought, it was only a dream, so real, so warm, so nice to feel his nearness. She took off her glasses, rubbed her eyes, and threw off her red blanket. Standing up she went into the kitchen, made a pot of coffee Lucy sat at the kitchen table looking out the window. It was a beautiful California morning, the sun shining and a few white clouds doting the sky. She watched the neighbors black cat sneak on his belly towards a blue jay. Lucy went into the bathroom. Removing her glasses, she filled the sink with hot, steamy water, splashed it onto her face, and scrubbed. Eyes still closed she grabbed a towel off the bar to dry. Through drying she wiped off the steamed mirror. When the glass cleared there was a strange women looking back at her. Young, no gray hair; no wrinkles. She thought, I must be seeing things!, my eyes must be playing tricks, and rubbed vigorously on the glass mirror. She stepped back, hand to her mouth in astonishment.
“My God, it’s me!,” Lucy exclaimed.
Her hands, and arms looked young and fresh. She couldn’t believe her eyes. She felt dizzy and sat on the edge of the bathtub. She thought, I must be dreaming again. She Stood up looking at the person in the mirror. It’s was her as she looked thirty-two years ago. There came a tap, tap, tap on the door. “Mom, common, hurry,” a voice said, “We‘re all waiting. Hurry!”
“Hold your pants on. I’m coming!” Lucy said opening the door she walked into the living room. A Christmas tree sat in the far corner of the room, lights blinking, it’s tinsel carefully hung from its boughs, and sitting on top a beautiful white and gold angel. Stacked under the tree were colorfully wrapped presents . June, 22, was still in her robe, sitting on the couch, her legs tucked under her. Roy and Jimmy lay spread out on the carpet in front of the tree. June was attending collage, Roy had enlisted in the Army, and would be leaving for boot camp, and Jimmy still had high school to finish .
Mark, already dressed sat in his easy chair. “’Bout time honey, these kids are eager to tear into these presents,” he said with a smile. “Come, sit with me.”
Lucy sat on his lap, placed both arms around his neck. “I love you, sweetheart. Merry Christmas,” she said and kissed him.
Presents were opened. A sweater for Jean, a watch for Roy, and a knife for Jimmy. The Children opened all their presents, and handing mom and dad theirs. Two were saved for last. Mark smiled as Lucy slowly opened hers. “Oh, how beautiful, a gold chained heart. And it says, I love you. How beautiful, thank you darling. I love you so much. I hope you know how much?” She felt a tear, bit her lip, and kissed him.
“Gee, precious, I’m glad you liked it. I love you. Now I’ll open mine.” He said. He fumbled with the wrappings, and brushed his hair back off his forehead. A fancy pen set with his name inscribed on the barrel. His eyes sparkled. He smiled and said, “Thank you honey. Just what I asked for and need.”
“Well, I wanted to buy you that new Corvette, but it’ll just have to wait for next year.” she laughed as she clasped the shiny new chain and heart around her neck.
“That’s alright, I’d rather have the pen set. I just wish I didn’t have to work this afternoon.”
“Stay home, dear, please. You shouldn’t have to work on Christmas.”
“Yeah, well maybe next year. “
“Please, please stay home. I love you.”
“Boy, you haven’t givin me this many ‘I love you’ since we were first married. I thought you were just putting up with me. I love you too, honey. Merry Christmas,” his arms around her waist, he kissed her neck.
At one o’clock Christmas dinner was served, and they sat down to glazed ham, sweet potatoes with marshmellows, potatoes, and corn. Through dinner Lucy would look at Mark, a faraway look in her eyes.
“What you thinking, Hon?,” Mark asked.
“How much you mean to me. You are a wonderful husband.” She said, her eyes misting up.
“Your awful emotional today. I know it’s Christmas an all, but I haven’t seen you this soulful since you ran over the neighbors cat.” He said and laughed.
“I don’t know,… I just wanted you to realize it,” Lucy said pushing away from the table. She started picking up dishes. “ June, give me a hand with these, and you guys go and take it easy and stay out of our way.”
Mark dressed for work came out of the bedroom. Lucy had packed his lunch with leftovers from dinner. It was three-thirty and he had to be at work at four. Mark grabbed his lunch pail, gave her a kiss on the cheek, waved goodby to the kids, and walked out the door. Lucy stood there a second after the door closed, then ran out after him. He was opening the car door ready to climb in when she reached him. “Don’t go Mark. Stay home.”
“You know I can’t. Someone else would have to leave their family to cover behind me.”
She rushed into his arms, “Hold me, Mark.”
“What’s this all about? I’ll be home before you know it.”
“I just…I just want you to know how much I care for you an’ apreciate you. I love you so much.”
“I know you do honey. And I love you, but I have to go.” Mark got in and started the car. He rolled down the window. “Come here.” She bent down to the window and Mark gave her a long kiss. “You are the greatest wife, most wonderful mother, and I don’t know what I would do without you.” He shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway.
As he drove away Lucy waived good-by and yelled after him, “I love you!”
Mark’s arm came out the window and waved as he drove up the street. Lucy walked back into the house. The children were gone their separate ways. She had a screeming headache and went into the bedroom and layed down. Through the throbbing of her head her mind’s eye saw the drunk speeding down the street and running the red light. She didn’t think she she could take the notifying phone call. Lucy closed her eyes and drifted off…
The old women opened her eyes. The early, morning sun was shining through the window. Markus still lay on the red blanket. Her glasses had fallen off her nose, and lay next to the cat. She picked them up and put them on. Lucy pushed Markus off and stood up, grimacing, as her legs ached, from sitting so long. The fire had gone out and it was chilly. She shuffled into the kitchen and took down the coffee. After it was brewed she sat down at the table and sipped from her cup. Looking out the kitchen window she saw the neighbors cat sneaking through her flower garden hoping to find a bird. The phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Hello mom, it’s June. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, dear. Are you all having a good time?”
“Yes, we’re having a wonderful time. I hope everything is okay with you. We worry about you.”
“No need, I’m fine here. You all have a swell time. I had a dream last night. Your father gave me a gift.”
“A gift?…”
“A new day, a chance…”
June interrupted, “Mom, are you sure you’re alright?”
"Fine. I love you guys. Hear me? I love you all.”
“Yes, mother…We love you too. Well, we gotta’ get to the slopes. See you in a couple days.”
“Please drive careful…Love you. Bye.”
Lucy sat back down, took a sip of coffee, played with the golden chain around her neck, and thought of the Christmas so many years ago. “Thank you Mark for the wonderful gift. On that fateful day I hadn't said,... I loved you.”
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Ah House is on Far
It was late August when the fire happened, during laid back days of summer. It was the year of Rock and Roll, Bandstand, and Elvis, 1958, Pueblo, Colorado, steel city USA. I was thirteen, Chance fifteen, and we’d palled around for a couple of years. His nickname was “Beaver” as he was short, chubby, and his large two front teeth looked like a beavers. Chance and I tried to cram as much activity as we could before school started in September. We spent the days fishing the muddy banks of Mennequa Lake, catching catfish, with minnows, then throwing them back, as they aren’t fit to eat, being bottom fish scavengers, tasting like mud. The rest of the days, afternoon movies, going to the park, or just hanging out with neighborhood kids.
I spent most evenings at Chance’s house as my mom worked nights and my step-father was a cook, working the late shift at the Stanley Hotel. Jess and Sylvia Baker became like second parents. Jess was short, half Missouri Indian, with black curly hair, and strong muscular arms. Sylvia, a petite dark haired woman, who could cook up the best fried chicken, mashed ’taters & gravy, and the most scrumptious rhubarb pie, always insisted I eat supper with them, with no argument from me.
During warm summer evenings we’d sit in the side yard next to their trash barrel, in a circle around a old galvanized wash tub they used for a camp fire, bucket of water handy just in case, talking, and throwing cedar wood on to keep the fire going. D.B. Brown and family from next door would come over and join us. The events of the day, or yarns would be told. Jess, would tell a few good ones, and wink to let you know it might not be the whole truth. Sylvia, called them fabrications The fire would shoot skyward and yellow tipped, blue flames would dance, casting flashing shadows on faces. “’Member when ol’ Bradley stepped on the gofer snake an’ almost messed his pants?” someone would say, and everyone would laugh at the memory. “Well, that’s not as funny as…” and another tale would begin.
One night I asked, “D. B., wuz you in the war?”
“Yep,” He answered,” I wuz , in 19 an’42. in’a Pacific. Them jap’s wuz meaner’n a bitin’ boa. Had us‘a penned down on a beach fer long time. But we‘ans finally beat‘um.”
"What rank was ya, Brownie?”, Chance asked.
“Lootenant.”
Sylvia, spoke up. “Did’ja get wounded?”
D.B. poked the fire with a big stick, red sparks danced into the night air. “Yess’um, see this here scar,” and pointed to a white line from his ear to his
adam’s apple. “Bayonet.”
“Yer a real hero, D.B..” Jessie said getting up and stretching, “’Bout time to go in, getting’ late.”
“Kin we stay out a little longer, dad?” Chance asked.
“A little while,” Jess said as the grownups headed inside.
While stirring the fire with a old broom handle I said, “Boy, old D.B. got bayoneted in the war. I jus’ can’t see him given directions’ to anybody. He said he was a lieutenant.”
“Aw, Brownie’s a B.S.er. I don’t believe him. He kin really color up a story.”
The Brown’s lived in a dilapidated wood framed house on the corner of Orchard Street. The roof of shingled rotting redwood had a distinctive sag near the arch by the old brick chimney. Small Isles of tall grass doted the brown dirt in the unkempt front yard. In the back yard was the resting place of an old 1932 Packard, on blocks; a 1949 dusty, brown Chevrolet coupe, with it‘s hood saluting; and various motor parts, scattered here and yonder in the dirt. In the back window of the Packard a hand written cardboard sign read “I may be slow, but I’m a head a you!“.
Not many had seen the inside of the house, but Chance kidding said D.B.’s old hound dog, Jake, buried his bone in their living room. Three bantam hens and a roaster roamed the back yard, laying eggs in the back seat of the Packard. Mrs. Brown, each morning, would yell at the youngsters, “ You go get them eggs from the Packard so‘s we kin et‘!“ A pen next to the knot holed fence to the alley held a sow pig weighing 300 pounds or more. You could hear her squealing when they slopped her in the evenings. One of the neighbors stated, confidentially to another neighbor, “Molly Brown is the better looking of all the Brown‘s.”
They had lived in Pueblo for ten years, moving from Flipping, Arkansas, in the heart of the Ozarks. Mrs. Brown was a squatty, big boned women, black hair tied in a bun, with a mustachioed upper lip, on a brown wrinkled face. No one had ever seen her crack a smile. She wore 40’s type print dresses, with a well worn apron and tennis shoes with slits in the ends to give her corned toes relief. There were 8 kids ranging from 2 to 18, five boys and three girls. During the summer the younger ones ran around barefoot, in old ragged jeans, and in winter, noses running constantly down to their upper lip.
D.B. was a big man, pants worn two inches above his waist, held up with a shabby black belt and large copper colored belt buckle, pants cuffs two inches above his socks, when he wore socks. He never sported a hat and never combed his messy brown hair, except Sundays when it was slicked down with Rose Pomade, and he and his brood went to the Valley Baptist Church of the Holey Brethren. With his unkempt hair sticking straight up, his owlish brown eyes, and ruddy complexion he looked like an embarrassed hoot owl. His voice was high pitched with a southern nasal twang. He worked on the railroad with Jess, repairing boxcars for the Santa Fe.
One afternoon Chance and I were at his house sitting on the couch watching Bandstand. Two of the youngest Brown boys walked through the front door. They said nothing and sprawled out on the rug in front of the T.V. leaning their heads on their hands, elbows resting on the floor. They watched for what seemed like a long time, when the oldest of the two turned his head towards us and nonchalantly, without a worry said, “Ah house is on far!”
Chance and I sat up on the couch, looked at each other. Alarmed we asked in unison “What did you say?”
As if annoyed by someone who doesn‘t understand , “Ah said, ah house is a far!”
Chance and I rushed next door. We could see smoke billowing up on the opposite side of the their house. We ran full speed through the side-yard gate, and rushed around the corner. D.B. sat in the window of his bedroom his legs inside the burning room, ballooning smoke pouring out on both sides. He held a garden hose in his hand and would shoot water on the fire, then put the hose to his face to clear smoke from his eyes. He saw us coming. “I got’er un’er control boys, far’s ‘bout out,” he yelled.
Across the street a fire engine pulled up and firemen jumped out. They stood there looking at the smoke and sparks flying out around D.B. One fireman pulled a short stogie out of his mouth and yelled, “Ya got it under control over there? We can’t help ya, yer in the county.”
In those days, if your house was on fire, you’d better live within the city. Several blocks of streets on the south end of town were beyond the township and considered to be in the county. So it wouldn’t be beyond reason for a fire truck to pull up to one side of the street and watch as a house burned on the opposite side, not permitted to fight it, as the owner did not pay city tax.
D.B. leaned back too far and fell backwards out of the window onto the ground. He handed me the hose. “Heah, put water on the far!” I stepped up to the window, turned my head away, and shot water into the room. D.B. yelled across to the firemen standing across the street, “Eh, we got it out men. Jus’ smoke now. Ya’al kin go on.”
“Gotta’ stick around. Make sure it don’t spread over to the city side.” the fireman shouted back, then placed the snubbed cigar back to his lips.
I handed the hose to D.B, and the fire out we walked back to Chance’s house. “I saw into his closet an’ hangin’ there was his army uniform,“ I said as we hopped the fence into his yard.
“Was it on fire?”
“Nope, but he wasn’t no lieutenant. There was sergeant stripes‘.”
"Boy,” Chance exclaimed, “I can’t wait for tonight.”
That evening Chance and I couldn’t wait for the Browns to come over We sat around the old galvanized wash tub. Jess had filled it with sand so we could build a fire without burning the bottom out.. It was later than usual around eight when everyone gathered round.. The fire blazed up, throwing red sparks into the night. We sat in old lawn chairs, and moved them occasionally to escape the smoke and the heat of the fire. There was a chill in the air and sitting by the fire your front was burning and your backside was cold. Mrs. Baker had brought out the marshmallows and wire coat hangers to hold over the flames. It was 8:30 before the Browns angled over from next door. They’d brought their chairs and sat around the bonfire.
“Hey, D.B. we caught ya in a big tail. Chuck saw yer uniform. You was a sergeant, not a lieutenant. Boy, you told a big one!” Chance said.
D.B. Brown stared at Chance with a quizzical look. “Ya’all callin’ me a liar?”
“Well, yeah,” Chance said. He could see the hurt cross D.B.’s face. “It was just a story…but we caught ya on it. Dad tells big ones sometimes an’…”
D.B. stood up, grabbed his lawn chair and headed back toward his house, his wife following. Their youngest asked for marsh-mellows to cook.
“His eyes were all watery,” I said.
“OK, everyone in the house, except you boys,” Jess said angrily looking at Chance and me. Mrs. Baker grabbed her chair and went into the house. The Brown’s kids wanted to argue as they hadn’t roasted their marshmallows. Jess pointed at their house and they left, their heads lowered in dejection.
“Now, you guys sit. Listen boys, that was down right mean. You jus’ called a man a liar afore you knew the whole account. The only thing a man has in this life worth anything is his word, and pride. Listen, back in the early forties the Japanese over ran island after island in the pacific. The U.S of A. needed information about logistics and troop strength. MacArthur formed an elite group, the Alamo Scouts. These scouts silently slipped onto islands to find out the enemies intentions. The men were sworn to secrecy, even so after the war. Not many a these men would return… As one leader fell, the next in line would move up and Brownie moved up in rank to Lieutenant. He was shot and bayoneted, but, one a the lucky ones, lived to get home. He was decommissioned as a sergeant, an’ received a load a medals. If’n I remember right, he received the Purple Heart, Silver Star, Bronze Star, Distinguished Service Cross, and Presidential Unit Citation for his part in the rescue of POW’s.” Chance and I waited for his wink, it didn‘t happen. “How do I know it’s true?…I’ve never mentioned it to nobody but Sylvia, as the memory of those times of death and fighting are best not discussed… I was one of those scouts.”
How many times have we judged a person, discovering later they were the opposite of our thoughts? A boy teased for being a slow reader; a published author. A poorly dressed girl; a famous dress designer. An asthmatic as a child becomes President, The boy stuttered, a King. … and a poorly educated man from Flipping Arkansas, a war hero.
I spent most evenings at Chance’s house as my mom worked nights and my step-father was a cook, working the late shift at the Stanley Hotel. Jess and Sylvia Baker became like second parents. Jess was short, half Missouri Indian, with black curly hair, and strong muscular arms. Sylvia, a petite dark haired woman, who could cook up the best fried chicken, mashed ’taters & gravy, and the most scrumptious rhubarb pie, always insisted I eat supper with them, with no argument from me.
During warm summer evenings we’d sit in the side yard next to their trash barrel, in a circle around a old galvanized wash tub they used for a camp fire, bucket of water handy just in case, talking, and throwing cedar wood on to keep the fire going. D.B. Brown and family from next door would come over and join us. The events of the day, or yarns would be told. Jess, would tell a few good ones, and wink to let you know it might not be the whole truth. Sylvia, called them fabrications The fire would shoot skyward and yellow tipped, blue flames would dance, casting flashing shadows on faces. “’Member when ol’ Bradley stepped on the gofer snake an’ almost messed his pants?” someone would say, and everyone would laugh at the memory. “Well, that’s not as funny as…” and another tale would begin.
One night I asked, “D. B., wuz you in the war?”
“Yep,” He answered,” I wuz , in 19 an’42. in’a Pacific. Them jap’s wuz meaner’n a bitin’ boa. Had us‘a penned down on a beach fer long time. But we‘ans finally beat‘um.”
"What rank was ya, Brownie?”, Chance asked.
“Lootenant.”
Sylvia, spoke up. “Did’ja get wounded?”
D.B. poked the fire with a big stick, red sparks danced into the night air. “Yess’um, see this here scar,” and pointed to a white line from his ear to his
adam’s apple. “Bayonet.”
“Yer a real hero, D.B..” Jessie said getting up and stretching, “’Bout time to go in, getting’ late.”
“Kin we stay out a little longer, dad?” Chance asked.
“A little while,” Jess said as the grownups headed inside.
While stirring the fire with a old broom handle I said, “Boy, old D.B. got bayoneted in the war. I jus’ can’t see him given directions’ to anybody. He said he was a lieutenant.”
“Aw, Brownie’s a B.S.er. I don’t believe him. He kin really color up a story.”
The Brown’s lived in a dilapidated wood framed house on the corner of Orchard Street. The roof of shingled rotting redwood had a distinctive sag near the arch by the old brick chimney. Small Isles of tall grass doted the brown dirt in the unkempt front yard. In the back yard was the resting place of an old 1932 Packard, on blocks; a 1949 dusty, brown Chevrolet coupe, with it‘s hood saluting; and various motor parts, scattered here and yonder in the dirt. In the back window of the Packard a hand written cardboard sign read “I may be slow, but I’m a head a you!“.
Not many had seen the inside of the house, but Chance kidding said D.B.’s old hound dog, Jake, buried his bone in their living room. Three bantam hens and a roaster roamed the back yard, laying eggs in the back seat of the Packard. Mrs. Brown, each morning, would yell at the youngsters, “ You go get them eggs from the Packard so‘s we kin et‘!“ A pen next to the knot holed fence to the alley held a sow pig weighing 300 pounds or more. You could hear her squealing when they slopped her in the evenings. One of the neighbors stated, confidentially to another neighbor, “Molly Brown is the better looking of all the Brown‘s.”
They had lived in Pueblo for ten years, moving from Flipping, Arkansas, in the heart of the Ozarks. Mrs. Brown was a squatty, big boned women, black hair tied in a bun, with a mustachioed upper lip, on a brown wrinkled face. No one had ever seen her crack a smile. She wore 40’s type print dresses, with a well worn apron and tennis shoes with slits in the ends to give her corned toes relief. There were 8 kids ranging from 2 to 18, five boys and three girls. During the summer the younger ones ran around barefoot, in old ragged jeans, and in winter, noses running constantly down to their upper lip.
D.B. was a big man, pants worn two inches above his waist, held up with a shabby black belt and large copper colored belt buckle, pants cuffs two inches above his socks, when he wore socks. He never sported a hat and never combed his messy brown hair, except Sundays when it was slicked down with Rose Pomade, and he and his brood went to the Valley Baptist Church of the Holey Brethren. With his unkempt hair sticking straight up, his owlish brown eyes, and ruddy complexion he looked like an embarrassed hoot owl. His voice was high pitched with a southern nasal twang. He worked on the railroad with Jess, repairing boxcars for the Santa Fe.
One afternoon Chance and I were at his house sitting on the couch watching Bandstand. Two of the youngest Brown boys walked through the front door. They said nothing and sprawled out on the rug in front of the T.V. leaning their heads on their hands, elbows resting on the floor. They watched for what seemed like a long time, when the oldest of the two turned his head towards us and nonchalantly, without a worry said, “Ah house is on far!”
Chance and I sat up on the couch, looked at each other. Alarmed we asked in unison “What did you say?”
As if annoyed by someone who doesn‘t understand , “Ah said, ah house is a far!”
Chance and I rushed next door. We could see smoke billowing up on the opposite side of the their house. We ran full speed through the side-yard gate, and rushed around the corner. D.B. sat in the window of his bedroom his legs inside the burning room, ballooning smoke pouring out on both sides. He held a garden hose in his hand and would shoot water on the fire, then put the hose to his face to clear smoke from his eyes. He saw us coming. “I got’er un’er control boys, far’s ‘bout out,” he yelled.
Across the street a fire engine pulled up and firemen jumped out. They stood there looking at the smoke and sparks flying out around D.B. One fireman pulled a short stogie out of his mouth and yelled, “Ya got it under control over there? We can’t help ya, yer in the county.”
In those days, if your house was on fire, you’d better live within the city. Several blocks of streets on the south end of town were beyond the township and considered to be in the county. So it wouldn’t be beyond reason for a fire truck to pull up to one side of the street and watch as a house burned on the opposite side, not permitted to fight it, as the owner did not pay city tax.
D.B. leaned back too far and fell backwards out of the window onto the ground. He handed me the hose. “Heah, put water on the far!” I stepped up to the window, turned my head away, and shot water into the room. D.B. yelled across to the firemen standing across the street, “Eh, we got it out men. Jus’ smoke now. Ya’al kin go on.”
“Gotta’ stick around. Make sure it don’t spread over to the city side.” the fireman shouted back, then placed the snubbed cigar back to his lips.
I handed the hose to D.B, and the fire out we walked back to Chance’s house. “I saw into his closet an’ hangin’ there was his army uniform,“ I said as we hopped the fence into his yard.
“Was it on fire?”
“Nope, but he wasn’t no lieutenant. There was sergeant stripes‘.”
"Boy,” Chance exclaimed, “I can’t wait for tonight.”
That evening Chance and I couldn’t wait for the Browns to come over We sat around the old galvanized wash tub. Jess had filled it with sand so we could build a fire without burning the bottom out.. It was later than usual around eight when everyone gathered round.. The fire blazed up, throwing red sparks into the night. We sat in old lawn chairs, and moved them occasionally to escape the smoke and the heat of the fire. There was a chill in the air and sitting by the fire your front was burning and your backside was cold. Mrs. Baker had brought out the marshmallows and wire coat hangers to hold over the flames. It was 8:30 before the Browns angled over from next door. They’d brought their chairs and sat around the bonfire.
“Hey, D.B. we caught ya in a big tail. Chuck saw yer uniform. You was a sergeant, not a lieutenant. Boy, you told a big one!” Chance said.
D.B. Brown stared at Chance with a quizzical look. “Ya’all callin’ me a liar?”
“Well, yeah,” Chance said. He could see the hurt cross D.B.’s face. “It was just a story…but we caught ya on it. Dad tells big ones sometimes an’…”
D.B. stood up, grabbed his lawn chair and headed back toward his house, his wife following. Their youngest asked for marsh-mellows to cook.
“His eyes were all watery,” I said.
“OK, everyone in the house, except you boys,” Jess said angrily looking at Chance and me. Mrs. Baker grabbed her chair and went into the house. The Brown’s kids wanted to argue as they hadn’t roasted their marshmallows. Jess pointed at their house and they left, their heads lowered in dejection.
“Now, you guys sit. Listen boys, that was down right mean. You jus’ called a man a liar afore you knew the whole account. The only thing a man has in this life worth anything is his word, and pride. Listen, back in the early forties the Japanese over ran island after island in the pacific. The U.S of A. needed information about logistics and troop strength. MacArthur formed an elite group, the Alamo Scouts. These scouts silently slipped onto islands to find out the enemies intentions. The men were sworn to secrecy, even so after the war. Not many a these men would return… As one leader fell, the next in line would move up and Brownie moved up in rank to Lieutenant. He was shot and bayoneted, but, one a the lucky ones, lived to get home. He was decommissioned as a sergeant, an’ received a load a medals. If’n I remember right, he received the Purple Heart, Silver Star, Bronze Star, Distinguished Service Cross, and Presidential Unit Citation for his part in the rescue of POW’s.” Chance and I waited for his wink, it didn‘t happen. “How do I know it’s true?…I’ve never mentioned it to nobody but Sylvia, as the memory of those times of death and fighting are best not discussed… I was one of those scouts.”
How many times have we judged a person, discovering later they were the opposite of our thoughts? A boy teased for being a slow reader; a published author. A poorly dressed girl; a famous dress designer. An asthmatic as a child becomes President, The boy stuttered, a King. … and a poorly educated man from Flipping Arkansas, a war hero.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
The Oar
About thirty miles above San Francisco sits the small fishing port city of Morro Cove. It’s a wee dot on a Wal-Mart Road Atlas, population 2,000. A large breakwater, built in the 40’s by the U.S. Core of Engineers, forms a small cove of water a half mile long, with an oyster farms, a museum and in the low backwater a hatchery for albacore. The body of water separating the breakwater from the town is 200 yards, and scattered length to breadth of the cove, anchored boats of all descriptions. A pier jets out of the embarcadero 600 feet, T-ing on the end. Fishing boats tie up with large ropes wrapped around metal tie downs on pier . It’s the summer fishing season, early afternoon, and back from the days activities fishermen are busy unloading their catch. Seagulls swoop down to the decks to pick and fly away with fish innards. Two, flapping their white wings, have a tug-a-war with a piece of sea perch. A cluster of pelicans fly south over the boats and skim the tops of the waters in the bay searching for schools of smelt.
A boy, his white mongrel dog following, parked his bike at the end of the pier and walked up past the boats tied to their slips He was well known on the docks as he spent all his spare time visiting the fishermen. He was small for his fourteen years with windblown auburn hair, ruddy cheeks, and a freckled face. The boy, a pest at times, with his frequent questions was well liked, and most didn’t mind his hanging around. Each summer afternoon he could be found there when the fleets arrived.
At the end of the pier an old dilapidated wooden line vessel had tied up. The boy hadn’t seen it before and he raced over to look at it. It had been painted dark blue and the paint was cracking. The rails were showing rust spots. On the aft side, in black, was the name, El Pilar. An old man sat on a upside down silver bucket, bent over working on some fish lines. “Hello,” the boy shouted up at the man.
The old salt stood up, walked over to the edge and looked down. His face was weather beaten and dark brown from sun and salt air. His grey beard glistened in the afternoon sun. A blue captains cap was pulled down over long silver hair, and a briar pipe perched on his lips. The old salt removed the pipe, blew a grey ringlet into the air and placed his foot on the railing. “Lo,” he said, “What’s yer handle?”
“Rodney, sir.”
“You from here, Rodney?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m ‘bout to fix some lunch, care to join me?”
“Sure,” Rodney answered and to his dog, “Sit…stay, Oliver.”
The man offered a hand up and Rodney grabbed hold and was swiftly brought up to the deck by his powerful, huge hand. Rodney followed the sailor into the cabin sitting aft. It was small, with a bunk at one end and a tiny galley in the opposite corner. A smell of freshly caught fish whiffed in the cabin. The walls were covered with various maps and charts.
“Aye, grab a seat, son.”
Rodney sat down at a little kitchen table on a wooden bench swung down from hinges on the wall. He felt a little uneasy as he sat there as he was taught be aware of strangers.
“You can call me Captain Mac,” Mack said tossing his cap into a corner. He walked over to a cupboard above a small sink. “Now what’ll ya have?,” he asked, “Peanut butter an’ crackers, err salmon an’ crackers?”
“I’m not really hungry…a little thirsty…do you have some pop?”
“Aye, I think I might have one in here.” Mack smiled a friendly yellow toothed smile, and taking a coke out of an ice cooler tossed it to Rodney. Mack reached back down in the ice and brought up a small bowl of salmon and taking a box of crackers from a shelf he sat down.
“Well, Rodney, what do you think of me boat?”
“It’s nice, sir.”
“I bought her twenty-five year a go. This boat’s taken me up an’ down this coast from Canada to Mexico. She’s been durm good to me. We’re both getting on in years. I think this’ll be our last summer. Can’t hardly afford to hire anyone and layin’ these pole lines is back breaking. I’ve got a couple men hired but they want over half the profits an’ that don’t leave much fer me an’ the boat. It’s just too much to keep up any more.”
“Have you been to sea all your life, sir?”
“Call me Mack. All my life I haven’t been fifty miles inland. I’ve been all over the world on the sea. It’s been a good life, a few bad times, but mostly I wouldn’t want ta be anywhere’s else.. Are ye gonna’ take to the sea when ya grow up?”
“Oh, yes Mack, I’m going to sail to all the sea ports.”
An aged, weathered oak oar about eight feet long was draped on two hooks above a porthole. Etched in the flat end was “1970 - “Savior“. “Gee, what’s the story behind this oar?” The boy asked.
“Well, son it’s a long story an’ if’ ’n you have time I’ll tell it. Let’s go up on the foredeck.“ Mack wiped his mouth with a dirty handkerchief from his back pocket. Shoving it back in, he grabbed his sailors cap, put it on and walked out onto the deck. Rodney followed and sat on the rail opposite Mack who sat back down on the upturned galvanized bucket. The old salt attempted to relight his pipe, sucked on it, tapped the old grey ash out against the rail, refilled it from a pouch from a pocket of his shirt, tamped it down with his thumb and lit it again. He blew a cloud of grey cloud smoke into the air. The sailor picked his hat off and scratched the top of his head. He looked up at an overcast sky trying to recollect his thoughts. Rodney waited patiently.
The old man took another drag from his pipe. “We sailed September 30th, 1970. I was the third mate on a freighter out of San Francisco. It was a small ship , called “Vast Provider“, 296 feet long, with goods for Japan. There was twenty-one sailors aboard her. No problems ‘till October 13th as we entered the North Pacific, 40 miles south of the Philippine Sea. Our short wave said a storm was brewing. We didn’t know it but one of the largest typhoons of the decade was forming 300 miles south of Yap, called Kate. We were heading directly towards it’s path.
We were on the latitude of Manila and our cap’s intentions were to outrun the storm. The next advise on our radio stated Kate had winds of 65 knots and I was hopin’ the cap would change his mind about the dash across the front of Kate. Better to sacrifice a day and stay safe. Then the word on our radio stated it was now running at 85 knots. I wanted to advise the cap, but it would hardly pass muster for the third mate to advise the ships master of anything. The seas begun ta swell violently with waves reaching the desk. Heavy winds became more frequent. There was a greenish, sickly light within the oncoming clouds and a leadenness to the air and electricity made the hair on my arms stand on end. The winds increased as the barometric pressure declined. The winds of Kate were now whipping along at 96 knots and would eventually reach an astounding 240 knots or 150 miles per hour. We thought the storm was 100 miles north, but in actuality much closer and directly in our path.
At 8 bells Kate hit us ferociously with sheets of water spay and winds that made visibility impossible. The crew attempted to lash down and secure anything top side before retreating below deck. A tie-down was loose on a mid ship life raft. The small boat swayed wildly half way over the ships edge. The nylon strap whipped through the air like a freed python. It had to be caught and secured or we would loose our escape if’n the ship went to Davy Jones. The 2nd mate and I fought the howling wind and stinging rain. The strap lashed inches from me head, and I jumped up, caught it in me right hand, and fell to the deck to secure it. The 2nd mate grabbed the end of the strap and we attempted to secure the line to the deck.
A sudden gust of tremendous wind hit the upswing of the boat dragging us over the edge and into the maddening, swirling void. I felt myself falling! Falling! Falling! through wind swept wetness until I was engulfed in the sea. It seemed I plunged down in swirling water for a long spell . I held my breath until my chest throbbed in pain and thought this is it, but started rising rapidly until I bobbed to the surface of a raging sea. Gigantic waves lifted me to their peak, then slammed me down again. My head hit something’ hard and I must have passed out. When I opened my eyes there was blue sky above and the sea had calmed. I was riding on a round piece of wood under which barely kept me afloat. My head ached from the blow an’ I realized it must be from the pole I was floating on. I felt along it’s edge and discovered it was one a the oars from the lifeboat.
Me eyes scanned about for the second mate and our ship, but they were gone. All the way to the horizon nothing but blue waves surrounded me , and above a misty grey cloudless sky. I clung steadily to me host, and floated onward from wave to wave throughout that first day and into the night. The following morning luminous, dark clouds were forming in the east. I had not slept for forty-eight hours as I was afraid to close me eyes and lose, my rescuer. Although I hadn’t eaten I was not hungry, but me mouth was dry, me tongue swollen. I thirsted for a drink of clear cool water. The sun blazed away on me head and I would dip down, and stay under as long as possible to escape the blistering heat. On and on we floated the oar and me.
That evening I heard in the far distance a loud rumble of thunder and lightning bolts lit up the edges of the darkness. I saw bands of curtained rain rushing towards me, and I knew we were in for it. It was not long before the deluge was upon us, the waves rose into mountains, and I was thrust up and slammed down into a bottomless black abyss, and shot up again through continues wetness. I felt the oar, my salvation, slip out of me hands and into the void. I preyed the Lord me soul to take for this was the end. At the crest of a wave I said an our Father and was slammed into nothingness.
I dreamed terrible dreams of evil spirits and the devil. Tied to a post, I was surrounded by burning wood, and next to me, the oar, engulfed in flames. I awoke suddenly to a ominously cloudy sky. The sun peaking through in the east, casting a back-light to the clouds on the horizon., announcing a new day. But I was doomed, for how long could I hang on without me rescuer. It was me end for sure. It was sprinklin’ rain and I turned on me back, opened me mouth and drank the falling water. Out of the corner of me eye something was bobbing a few feet in front of me. The Oar! With all my strength I swam to it, grabbed it and held on. It t’was another miracle.
Throughout that day and into the night I prayed and hung on to me oar, and on the following morning another miracle, a ship. The Lord answered me prayers. The El Bllena out of Manila pulled us up and they could not understand why I would not let go of the oar. I was told me ship the Vast Provider had made it safely to port a day ago and they had given up on me.” Mack took a long drag on his pipe, found it unlit, and tapped the ashes out on the rail. “So, that’s me tail an’ a true one. An’ why I’ve always kept the oar to remind me of miracles, and the power of the seas.“
Rodney visited the Captain everyday for a week, and sitting on the foredeck Mack would tell of his adventures which kept the kid spell bound. Mack did not go out to fish each day, but would stay painting and fixing things. Rodney noticed that Mack was in pain at times, and would hold his gut, and pause for a second, then continue whatever he was doing. On Monday, upon returning to the docks, the El Pilar was not harbored. Rodney asked a fisherman if Mack was out fishing. The man gave him a quizzical look. “He’s gone ta San Diego. This was only a stop off for him. Didn’ja know? Old Mack is dyin’ of cancer. He won’t be comin’ back, lad.” Rodney felt his eyes watering and he turned away. “But, he’s left ya sometin’. It’s over yonder.”
Rodney lives in San Francisco now, and has his own fishing boat . In the cabin, hanging on the wall is the oar, and you can barely make out the writing, “1970 - Savior,“ and in small black printing on the flat side the words , “Call on me and I will answer you, and show you great and mighty things, which you do not know. - Jeremiah 33.2” Some nights while at sea Rodney, sitting aft, looks out at the moon glistening on open waters and imagining Mack, sailing on his boat, The Pilar, one hand is on the rudder, the other holding the oar, a smile, and contented look, on his wind blown face.
About thirty miles above San Francisco sits the small fishing port city of Morro Cove. It’s a wee dot on a Wal-Mart Road Atlas, population 2,000. A large breakwater, built in the 40’s by the U.S. Core of Engineers, forms a small cove of water a half mile long, with an oyster farms, a museum and in the low backwater a hatchery for albacore. The body of water separating the breakwater from the town is 200 yards, and scattered length to breadth of the cove, anchored boats of all descriptions. A pier jets out of the embarcadero 600 feet, T-ing on the end. Fishing boats tie up with large ropes wrapped around metal tie downs on pier . It’s the summer fishing season, early afternoon, and back from the days activities fishermen are busy unloading their catch. Seagulls swoop down to the decks to pick and fly away with fish innards. Two, flapping their white wings, have a tug-a-war with a piece of sea perch. A cluster of pelicans fly south over the boats and skim the tops of the waters in the bay searching for schools of smelt.
A boy, his white mongrel dog following, parked his bike at the end of the pier and walked up past the boats tied to their slips He was well known on the docks as he spent all his spare time visiting the fishermen. He was small for his fourteen years with windblown auburn hair, ruddy cheeks, and a freckled face. The boy, a pest at times, with his frequent questions was well liked, and most didn’t mind his hanging around. Each summer afternoon he could be found there when the fleets arrived.
At the end of the pier an old dilapidated wooden line vessel had tied up. The boy hadn’t seen it before and he raced over to look at it. It had been painted dark blue and the paint was cracking. The rails were showing rust spots. On the aft side, in black, was the name, El Pilar. An old man sat on a upside down silver bucket, bent over working on some fish lines. “Hello,” the boy shouted up at the man.
The old salt stood up, walked over to the edge and looked down. His face was weather beaten and dark brown from sun and salt air. His grey beard glistened in the afternoon sun. A blue captains cap was pulled down over long silver hair, and a briar pipe perched on his lips. The old salt removed the pipe, blew a grey ringlet into the air and placed his foot on the railing. “Lo,” he said, “What’s yer handle?”
“Rodney, sir.”
“You from here, Rodney?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m ‘bout to fix some lunch, care to join me?”
“Sure,” Rodney answered and to his dog, “Sit…stay, Oliver.”
The man offered a hand up and Rodney grabbed hold and was swiftly brought up to the deck by his powerful, huge hand. Rodney followed the sailor into the cabin sitting aft. It was small, with a bunk at one end and a tiny galley in the opposite corner. A smell of freshly caught fish whiffed in the cabin. The walls were covered with various maps and charts.
“Aye, grab a seat, son.”
Rodney sat down at a little kitchen table on a wooden bench swung down from hinges on the wall. He felt a little uneasy as he sat there as he was taught be aware of strangers.
“You can call me Captain Mac,” Mack said tossing his cap into a corner. He walked over to a cupboard above a small sink. “Now what’ll ya have?,” he asked, “Peanut butter an’ crackers, err salmon an’ crackers?”
“I’m not really hungry…a little thirsty…do you have some pop?”
“Aye, I think I might have one in here.” Mack smiled a friendly yellow toothed smile, and taking a coke out of an ice cooler tossed it to Rodney. Mack reached back down in the ice and brought up a small bowl of salmon and taking a box of crackers from a shelf he sat down.
“Well, Rodney, what do you think of me boat?”
“It’s nice, sir.”
“I bought her twenty-five year a go. This boat’s taken me up an’ down this coast from Canada to Mexico. She’s been durm good to me. We’re both getting on in years. I think this’ll be our last summer. Can’t hardly afford to hire anyone and layin’ these pole lines is back breaking. I’ve got a couple men hired but they want over half the profits an’ that don’t leave much fer me an’ the boat. It’s just too much to keep up any more.”
“Have you been to sea all your life, sir?”
“Call me Mack. All my life I haven’t been fifty miles inland. I’ve been all over the world on the sea. It’s been a good life, a few bad times, but mostly I wouldn’t want ta be anywhere’s else.. Are ye gonna’ take to the sea when ya grow up?”
“Oh, yes Mack, I’m going to sail to all the sea ports.”
An aged, weathered oak oar about eight feet long was draped on two hooks above a porthole. Etched in the flat end was “1970 - “Savior“. “Gee, what’s the story behind this oar?” The boy asked.
“Well, son it’s a long story an’ if’ ’n you have time I’ll tell it. Let’s go up on the foredeck.“ Mack wiped his mouth with a dirty handkerchief from his back pocket. Shoving it back in, he grabbed his sailors cap, put it on and walked out onto the deck. Rodney followed and sat on the rail opposite Mack who sat back down on the upturned galvanized bucket. The old salt attempted to relight his pipe, sucked on it, tapped the old grey ash out against the rail, refilled it from a pouch from a pocket of his shirt, tamped it down with his thumb and lit it again. He blew a cloud of grey cloud smoke into the air. The sailor picked his hat off and scratched the top of his head. He looked up at an overcast sky trying to recollect his thoughts. Rodney waited patiently.
The old man took another drag from his pipe. “We sailed September 30th, 1970. I was the third mate on a freighter out of San Francisco. It was a small ship , called “Vast Provider“, 296 feet long, with goods for Japan. There was twenty-one sailors aboard her. No problems ‘till October 13th as we entered the North Pacific, 40 miles south of the Philippine Sea. Our short wave said a storm was brewing. We didn’t know it but one of the largest typhoons of the decade was forming 300 miles south of Yap, called Kate. We were heading directly towards it’s path.
We were on the latitude of Manila and our cap’s intentions were to outrun the storm. The next advise on our radio stated Kate had winds of 65 knots and I was hopin’ the cap would change his mind about the dash across the front of Kate. Better to sacrifice a day and stay safe. Then the word on our radio stated it was now running at 85 knots. I wanted to advise the cap, but it would hardly pass muster for the third mate to advise the ships master of anything. The seas begun ta swell violently with waves reaching the desk. Heavy winds became more frequent. There was a greenish, sickly light within the oncoming clouds and a leadenness to the air and electricity made the hair on my arms stand on end. The winds increased as the barometric pressure declined. The winds of Kate were now whipping along at 96 knots and would eventually reach an astounding 240 knots or 150 miles per hour. We thought the storm was 100 miles north, but in actuality much closer and directly in our path.
At 8 bells Kate hit us ferociously with sheets of water spay and winds that made visibility impossible. The crew attempted to lash down and secure anything top side before retreating below deck. A tie-down was loose on a mid ship life raft. The small boat swayed wildly half way over the ships edge. The nylon strap whipped through the air like a freed python. It had to be caught and secured or we would loose our escape if’n the ship went to Davy Jones. The 2nd mate and I fought the howling wind and stinging rain. The strap lashed inches from me head, and I jumped up, caught it in me right hand, and fell to the deck to secure it. The 2nd mate grabbed the end of the strap and we attempted to secure the line to the deck.
A sudden gust of tremendous wind hit the upswing of the boat dragging us over the edge and into the maddening, swirling void. I felt myself falling! Falling! Falling! through wind swept wetness until I was engulfed in the sea. It seemed I plunged down in swirling water for a long spell . I held my breath until my chest throbbed in pain and thought this is it, but started rising rapidly until I bobbed to the surface of a raging sea. Gigantic waves lifted me to their peak, then slammed me down again. My head hit something’ hard and I must have passed out. When I opened my eyes there was blue sky above and the sea had calmed. I was riding on a round piece of wood under which barely kept me afloat. My head ached from the blow an’ I realized it must be from the pole I was floating on. I felt along it’s edge and discovered it was one a the oars from the lifeboat.
Me eyes scanned about for the second mate and our ship, but they were gone. All the way to the horizon nothing but blue waves surrounded me , and above a misty grey cloudless sky. I clung steadily to me host, and floated onward from wave to wave throughout that first day and into the night. The following morning luminous, dark clouds were forming in the east. I had not slept for forty-eight hours as I was afraid to close me eyes and lose, my rescuer. Although I hadn’t eaten I was not hungry, but me mouth was dry, me tongue swollen. I thirsted for a drink of clear cool water. The sun blazed away on me head and I would dip down, and stay under as long as possible to escape the blistering heat. On and on we floated the oar and me.
That evening I heard in the far distance a loud rumble of thunder and lightning bolts lit up the edges of the darkness. I saw bands of curtained rain rushing towards me, and I knew we were in for it. It was not long before the deluge was upon us, the waves rose into mountains, and I was thrust up and slammed down into a bottomless black abyss, and shot up again through continues wetness. I felt the oar, my salvation, slip out of me hands and into the void. I preyed the Lord me soul to take for this was the end. At the crest of a wave I said an our Father and was slammed into nothingness.
I dreamed terrible dreams of evil spirits and the devil. Tied to a post, I was surrounded by burning wood, and next to me, the oar, engulfed in flames. I awoke suddenly to a ominously cloudy sky. The sun peaking through in the east, casting a back-light to the clouds on the horizon., announcing a new day. But I was doomed, for how long could I hang on without me rescuer. It was me end for sure. It was sprinklin’ rain and I turned on me back, opened me mouth and drank the falling water. Out of the corner of me eye something was bobbing a few feet in front of me. The Oar! With all my strength I swam to it, grabbed it and held on. It t’was another miracle.
Throughout that day and into the night I prayed and hung on to me oar, and on the following morning another miracle, a ship. The Lord answered me prayers. The El Bllena out of Manila pulled us up and they could not understand why I would not let go of the oar. I was told me ship the Vast Provider had made it safely to port a day ago and they had given up on me.” Mack took a long drag on his pipe, found it unlit, and tapped the ashes out on the rail. “So, that’s me tail an’ a true one. An’ why I’ve always kept the oar to remind me of miracles, and the power of the seas.“
Rodney visited the Captain everyday for a week, and sitting on the foredeck Mack would tell of his adventures which kept the kid spell bound. Mack did not go out to fish each day, but would stay painting and fixing things. Rodney noticed that Mack was in pain at times, and would hold his gut, and pause for a second, then continue whatever he was doing. On Monday, upon returning to the docks, the El Pilar was not harbored. Rodney asked a fisherman if Mack was out fishing. The man gave him a quizzical look. “He’s gone ta San Diego. This was only a stop off for him. Didn’ja know? Old Mack is dyin’ of cancer. He won’t be comin’ back, lad.” Rodney felt his eyes watering and he turned away. “But, he’s left ya sometin’. It’s over yonder.”
Rodney lives in San Francisco now, and has his own fishing boat . In the cabin, hanging on the wall is the oar, and you can barely make out the writing, “1970 - Savior,“ and in small black printing on the flat side the words , “Call on me and I will answer you, and show you great and mighty things, which you do not know. - Jeremiah 33.2” Some nights while at sea Rodney, sitting aft, looks out at the moon glistening on open waters and imagining Mack, sailing on his boat, The Pilar, one hand is on the rudder, the other holding the oar, a smile, and contented look, on his wind blown face.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)