Category: Uncategorized

The Perfect Santa

Cruising through Facebook on the last day of November, I ran across a woman’s plea to find a Santa. She did not want any old Santa, but a particular Santa, who, for at least three years, had captivated her daughters’ hearts. As far as that woman was concerned, she had found the perfect Santa. No one else would do.

Many of us want to believe in the “Jolly Old Elf” residing at the North Pole, even knowing that Santa is a myth. There are thousands, if not tens of thousands people out there willing to put on a red suit and a fake beard to keep the myth alive.

I quit believing in Santa when I was quite young. A combination of being growled at by one of a legion of imitation Clauses in the Men’s room of the Brookpark (Ohio) Civic Center at the end of a party, and discovering my Dad stuffing my stocking by my bedside in the middle of the night. After telling my parents of my discoveries, I kept my disbelief to myself as a courtesy to my younger siblings.

I began to believe again twenty-five or so years later when I owned and operated a combination balloon delivery business and costume shop in Chillicothe Ohio.

It was mid-November when I met Tim. The previous owner of the shop had used him to play Santa for the previous two Holiday seasons. We talked, I liked him. We came to an arrangement where I would arrange dates and he would show up, collect the fee, and cut me in for 10% just for making those arrangements.

I didn’t realize that Tim had a following until just after Thanksgiving. The phone in the shop was ringing almost constantly by people more than willing to put cash on the barrelhead for his services.

Tim Lived in Circleville, working at the box plant driving a loader all day. He wasn’t a burley man – to look at him he was probably the last person one would believe as being Santa. But he worked around his physical self, creating an illusion that he was the real deal. Even adults believed the illusion he created.

Tim and I were quite pleased with our take that first Christmas Season and agreed to do it again the following year.

That second year went on as well as the first. Unfortunately, Tim as Santa was one of only three bright spots in my first year in business. I ended up throwing in the towel the following Summer, barely able to pay my outstanding debts and feeling sorry for myself.

Six years after losing the business (and losing touch with Tim), I ran into another “Real Santa” working in the Santa House in Central Center.

The Gentleman in question, Jim, was the proprietor of the Dairy Queen over in Bainbridge Ohio. His store was closed for the season and he decided to buy a Santa suit so he could play the “Jolly Old Elf” at his leisure. Jim had more of the Santa build, but he also had the magic.

We chatted one afternoon about a problem I had with my then pre-school daughter, Sarah. Sarah was dead set against any sort of costumed character, especially Santa Claus.

I ended up taking Sarah on a shopping trip one evening, suggesting we go visit Santa before going into the store. Somehow I managed to coax her into the Santa House. She was immediately impressed that Santa knew who I was, and just as impressed that Santa knew who she was!

Magic Managed.

My daughter believed.

I believed.

Thirty years down the road – Both of my Santas are gone. But they live on, at least in the mind of a woman in Southern Illinois who is looking for that one person to re-create that magic for her family at least one more time.

I hope she finds him.

Be Seeing You!

A Pause so I Don’t Feel Sorry For Myself

Going through my files, I came up with this little essay…

Quoting American author Kurt Vonnegut:

“When I was 15, I spent a month working on an archeological dig. I was talking to one of the archeologists one day during our lunch break and he asked those kinds of “getting to know you” questions you ask young people: Do you play sports? What’s your favorite subject? And I told him, no I don’t play any sports. I do theater, I’m in choir, I play the violin and piano, I used to take art classes.

“And he went WOW. That’s amazing! And I said, “Oh no, but I’m not any good at ANY of them.”

“And he said something then that I will never forget and which absolutely blew my mind because no one had ever said anything like it to me before: “I don’t think being good at things is the point of doing them. I think you’ve got all these wonderful experiences with different skills, and that all teaches you things and makes you an interesting person, no matter how well you do them.”

“And that honestly changed my life. Because I went from a failure, someone who hadn’t been talented enough at anything to excel, to someone who did things because I enjoyed them. I had been raised in such an achievement-oriented environment, so inundated with the myth of Talent, that I thought it was only worth doing things if you could “Win” at them.”

Me:

I was struck by this quote, posted by a Facebook friend from my old haunts in Chillicothe Ohio. While no one has asked me the typical questions asked by the other archaeologist he talked with on his lunch break, I can certainly relate to Kurt Vonnegut’s response. I’ve engaged in quite a few occupations (paid and otherwise) in my 70+ years on this planet without really excelling at any of them. Vonnegut’s revelation that having wonderful experiences and developing different skills makes one a more interesting person is a personal revelation.

            Been there, done that, have the T-shirt.

            I remember writing down a list of my accomplishments when I was in my late teens to early twenties. There were certain accomplishments I had not mentioned, but I recall my list as being somewhat extensive. That list has grown over the years. I have not kept track as I did at one time, but the list has grown.

            Until I read the quote, I was down on myself. I “retired” a little over five years ago with few, if any prospects of going back into the workforce. With the economic slowdown going on at the time, my prospects were even fewer… especially when you consider that age discrimination is really a “thing”, despite being told that age discrimination is not really a “thing.”

            My real problem has had to do with where would I fit in? I looked at politics, free-lance voice work (while finding out that the market is saturated), free-lance photography (phone cameras do as good a job as the electronic SLRs), or should I continue in my attempts to be a best-selling author? My prospects as a writer were slim to none. I had been writing for the better part of five years when I was “retired”. To date, I have made a total of less than $100 after an outlay of ten times that amount over six books.

            As a self-publisher, I was luckier than most. People have spent many thousands more than I’ve spent for even less return. I kept my wits about me and limited my exposure to a host of people catering to the vanity crowd. Between editors wanting a penny a word (cheap until you realize that a 60,000 word novel would cost a would be author $600), vendors selling book covers, and other vendors selling interior formatting (just at the tip of the iceberg), one can easily rack up three to four thousand dollars to produce a single book which likely would not sell because no one knows who the hell you are.

            And that’s publishing on the cheap. There are “Vanity Publishers” out there who are selling publishing packages for $10k and up. Mostly up.

            Enough. I took pencil to paper and did an inventory of what I have done since the tender age of 14 when I took over a paper route for the Chillicothe Gazette (Not mentioning the couple of times I substituted a Cleveland Press route for the carrier two doors down from me). I may have missed something, but here goes:

  • Newspaper carrier
  • Route supervisor for Newspaper carriers (District Sales Manager)
  • Entrepreneur (Mowing lawns, washing cars)
  • Grocery stocker (Cookies and crackers for the local cookie salesman)
  • Photographer (High school yearbook/student newspaper)
  • Slide show producer/writer/narrator (Free-lance and for employer)
  • Videographer (Free-lance)
  • Television Producer/writer/presenter
  • Writer (Radio commercials, op-ed pieces, novels (6 to date), short stories
  • Radio “personality”
  • Public speaker (Motivational talks)
  • Actor/Entertainer
  • Musician
  • Clown
  • Tour Guide
  • Served on a Church Vestry (Board of Directors)
  • Plumber
  • Electrician
  • Mechanic (Auto and Bicycle)
  • Offshore oil worker
  • Licensed lifeboat operator
  • Salesman – Advertising – Automobile (new and used) – power equipment – flooring – major appliances – electronics

As I mentioned, this list may not be complete. I’ve said nothing about other skills I’ve learned on the way.

            The silver lining to my various experiences are the various anecdotes coming out of those experiences and the people I’ve met on the way. I’ve included pieces of those anecdotes in some of my writing… as author Vonnegut has incorporated his experiences into his own writing.

            Anyhoo, now that I’m through with my little diatribe, it’s time for me to get off my soapbox and see what else I can cook up.

Be Seeing You!

Who Needs a Gym Membership When They Have a Dog?

This morning, I took the dog Filbrix out for an extended walk on the Chaparral Trail from the Farmersville trailhead while strangers came to look at my house.

The strangers were there for a good reason. The better half and I have put the house up for sale so we can move ourselves and the dog Filbrix to southern Illinois. Our hope is that the strangers who came to look at our house will find it at least tolerable and will want to move in straight away.

Or at least after the fifth of November.

Why the move is because of several factors… among them being two stepchildren and one and two-thirds of a grandchild already living in southern Illinois. After making several trips up there over the past few years, we have found less expensive housing (some of that actually “cheaper” as you will find out as you continue to read this essay), the people are generally friendly, and there are actual hills and forested areas nearby.

Shades of southern Ohio!

After having suffered through Chemotherapy in the past twelve months, both the better half and I decided it was time for a change. Except for one stepdaughter, we no longer have a good reason to stay here in what I have called, “My own little corner of the DFW Metromess.” The strongest tie we had was my Mother-in-Law, until recently, living in San Antonio. My wife drove there once a month or so over most of the past year while the M-I-L wasted away due to Parkinson’s. She passed in May. Her ashes, as well as the ashes of her late husband, are in what the better half calls our “Conservatory.”

One other reason for us to “Head for the Hills” is that the better half’s job will come to an end in early November. She is a day nurse for a juvenile with physical “issues”. Her patient will age out of the system, meaning he will turn 18, meaning she will no longer have a patient to attend to. So, she has decided that she will retire at about the same time the two-thirds of a grandchild will make his appearance among the living.

Two-third’s older brother can hardly wait. A brother, Nana, and The Colonel (an inside joke) will all be in Illinois along with much of the rest of the family.

The decision to move was made in early July. I started perusing Zillow and found several houses available in what I thought would be an attractive price range. That in mind, I girded my loins and made a solo trip to look at a couple of candidates in a town once known for producing washing machines.

I made an appointment with a Realtor to look at what I thought was the best candidate for the money. The appointment ended up being a total bust. The neighborhood was nice, the house looked nice from the outside, but once inside, it was a total disaster. It seems that the house had been repossessed and that the lein holder was anxious to get at least some money for the money he or she was about to lose. If someone would have left the electricity on, the basement would not have gotten wet, leading to several other problems.

One of the other homes I was half interested in viewing was a rambling place on the other side of town, again at a bargain price. I had a quick glance and that was all I needed to convince myself that I didn’t want to even think about the place. There was a four to six foot ditch in front of the house. Seriously. Evidently, it was on the wrong side of the tracks.

My trip in July wasn’t a total wash, though. I left with a favorable impression and was able to touch base with the kiddos. It became a further win-win on the way back to Texas when I concluded that there were certain stretches of road in Oklahoma I didn’t really want to drive on.

I returned with a determination that I wanted to relocate. Plans for a second trip in August, this time with the better half, started to come together. We made reservations, found a place to park the dog, worked on getting pre-approval for a mortgage, had a handful of houses we thought we might be interested in viewing, and were practically on the road when something came up.

More later. The story will get interesting, I promise.

Be Seeing You!

Past Due for an Update

This one may take a while.

For those of you who follow me solely on WordPress, I’m still here and I’m relatively healthy. Chemotherapy is now four months behind me. From the looks of it, I’m thriving. I had a CAT scan, a visit with my Oncologist’s Physician’s Assistant, and a session with the nurse in the infusion room to clear my port. The only lingering effect has been the neuropathy in my fingers and my feet. My Primary Care Physician put me on a drug that was supposed to help… two months (and $120) into the recommended therapy and I don’t feel as if there has been any difference. The PA at the Oncologist’s office told me that healing takes time. (Lord give me patience… RIGHT NOW!!!)

Part of my tardiness on this platform was due to my Mother-In-Law’s illness and eventual passing back in May. She had been having a tough time with her health, exacerbated by the death of my Father-In-Law just before Christmas last year. My wife, with my blessing, drove down to see her mother in San Antonio on average once per month. I pointed out to her that while the distance was daunting, she would appreciate having time to spend with her mother before her eventual demise. Not to pat myself on the back too hard, but I was right in my assessment. My wife returned to the house from her last trip to see her mother less than 48 hours before her mother died. My wife was grateful that she went on my insistence.

With death comes responsibility. We have spent more than a little time attending to details involving my M-I-L’s estate and planning a get-together for a memorial service in San Antonio. We were able to gather for the memorial service with little or no problem. I arranged for hotels and a couple of meals for an assortment of family from as far away as Southern Illinois. It was good to see the grands and to marvel at how much they had grown in the past two years or so since we last saw them. The service was on Saturday and some of us deliberately took time on Sunday to go down to the Riverwalk in Downtown San Antonio. It had been a while since I last went there, and it will likely be a while before I head back down there.

Now I could say something to the point that life returned to normal after we returned to our home base in our little corner of the DFW Metromess… but that would be less than truthful.

During the last of my Chemotherapy sessions, I started taking a look at our family’s fiscal position in anticipation of my wife’s retirement. Not long before losing her mother, my wife’s hours as a nurse for a patient in the next town over were cut to accommodate a situation with her patient’s care. Her patient was allocated so many hours of care per week. She had been working overtime – a situation not appreciated by the agency she worked for. After doing some calculations it was decided that she would continue with fewer hours with her income supplemented by Social Security. In the short term, we would be a bit better off. In the long term, we came to the realization that since her patient turned 18 in the first part of November, her job would go away. Since she turned 67 in March, she decided that enough was enough and that she would just go ahead and retire at that time.

So the question came up – “What comes next?”

Three years ago, my stepdaughter and her husband moved to Southern Illinois. Her brother, my stepson, joined her about a year later. The attraction was a lower cost of living (as compared to the DFW Metromess). Both of the stepchildren were able to purchase homes of their own for considerably less than what they would have to pay here in the Metromess. I did some prowling on the internet and found more than an ample supply of housing we could purchase, again at a reasonable price, leaving us with a considerable nest egg after selling the house we are living in now. I started prowling on the internet well before the demise of my Mother-In-Law, keeping it mostly to myself until a few weeks after the memorial service. My wife warmed up to the idea after I took a solo trip to the area to get a feel for it… well, that and the presence of a grandchild (soon-to-be grandchildren).

I’m still running the numbers, but it looks as if a move could be likely in a few months. Allow me to expand on the idea at a later date.

Be Seeing You!

Continuing the Journey – Four weeks later

Continuing the Journey – Four weeks later

Four Weeks

April 12, 2024

I’ve had normal days for four weeks, now. Just a couple of minor complaints at this point in my recovery. Still some tingling in my feet and fingers – not bad enough to complain about. Yet. I still get tired somewhat easily, but not as easily as I did a couple of weeks ago. There is the occasional slight feeling of vertigo – the feeling is fleeting. Most of my other bodily functions seem to be working well. One small victory noted this evening – my sense of taste is back. It’s nice to sit down to a meal and be able to taste it. What I need to do, though, is to watch what I eat so I don’t gain back the 30+ pounds that I lost in the past six months.

The visit with the Physician’s Assistant (almost typed Apprentice) went well. I was spared an exam of the problem mentioned in my previous update. Not that I was against the exam. I’ve been probed by female doctors in my nether area enough to not let it bother me. The only inhibition came about from the fellow suspended by a rope and washing the third floor window while I was talking with the PA. We had a nice conversation about my condition and she was able to provide advice as how to alleviate the problem until the colonoscopy next month. It was intimated that there was something that could be done during the colonoscopy. I may ask later, or when I’m about to be put under.

Her hint that there might be a stitch or two involved reminded me of the story told by the boy’s health class I had in my sophomore year in high school. The teacher was a colorful character who peppered his language in relatively crude terms. Seeing as how he was teaching tenth-grade boys, he did well by using the language he did as most of our minds were in the gutter at that point in our lives. Anyhoo, the instructor told the story of going to the local VA Hospital to have his hemorrhoids surgically removed. It went well until he got home, telling us that he felt as if “A wildcat was loose in my ass!”

Naturally, his description was well-received.

Later that year, I was walking with a female upperclassman to the student parking lot where her boyfriend (and still a friend to this day) was waiting to give me a ride somewhere. As we passed the classroom where another group of tenth-grade boys were being instructed in matters of health, my escort shook her head at the open door and declared that she wondered why the man would keep the door to his classroom open, considering his language.

My visit with the PA ended with a scrip, instructions, and confirmation of my date with the person doing the colonoscopy.

More immediately, I am less than three weeks from seeing my Doctor for the first time since becoming the human chemistry set. I do look forward to seeing my Doctor. He is usually in good humor. Aside from the story I’ve passed on about one of my teachers, there’s little else to tell. I’ll probably catch up after the colonoscopy coming in May.

 Be Seeing You!

Story Time

One of my sisters sent me a packet of information about a distant relative – Cousin Julius – a Civil War veteran whose 102nd birthday was celebrated in Life Magazine. Part of the package included a story written by my father. I transcribed the story, intending to print it and send it to my siblings. Well, somehow the writing program didn’t recognize my printer. So, here is the story. As written by my father nearly 75 years ago – along with all his little misspellings and quirks that made the story uniquely his…

MacPheerson and the Smiling Nude

 

        “Whenever I visit you in Norfolk there are always two things of which I can be sure: First, you like me as a friend but do not wish to put any money in my venture. Next, there will be an ad in the Sunday paper which will ask for information concerning Doris Batker.”

               “Right on both counts.”

          “Now you insist on the reason that you will not back me is that you think that my ideas are good in theory but will not be good in practice. The reason for mentioning Miss Batker is to disprove your ideas of me. Look at this ad.”

                    Reward: For information of the whereabouts of

                    Doris Batker who was last seen boarding a train

                    for Washington 15 March 1943. At the time she

                    was wearing a mink coat and had but one small,

                    leather bag with her. She is blond, has a star-shaped

                    scar on the left side of her face, and should be now

                    twenty-six years old.

                    No other information is known.

                    Contact J.M. Mason, Selden arcade, Norfolk for the

                    reward.

          “I have seen the ad; I do not need to read it again.”

          “Well, Tom, here are my ideas on the subject. Miss Batker is of no relation to Mason. He is a well known bachelor and so would hardly be a foster parent. He is the best and most expensive lawyer in town. The cost of employing Mason, together with the mink coat, tells us that more than the girl’s personal safety is involved. All the facts tell us someone other than Miss Batker is to gain, else there would not be this long ad each Sunday.”

          “Mac, you have done nothing but tell me what is obvious. What you do not know is that the girl is my cousin. The exact reason for wishing to find her is this: Soon after Doris vanished an uncle left a will which divides his estate among Doris, my mother, and me. The will is so worded that the money will be in the form of trusts, but the money from the trusts will go to certain charities until Doris is found or is proven to be dead; she cannot be declared dead.”

          “And so you still offer the reward.”

          “Not I; mother is the one offering the reward. My interest in the case ended when Doris’s parents were killed in an auto crash. But all of this puts us back where we started: you are rather good with theory, even if the theory is a well known one.”

          Tom stood up.

          “Would you care to see a copy of the picture which Pinkerton’s used while trying to find the girl? See how the scar shows there by her eye.”

          MacPheerson studied the photo of the girl for a while before he spoke. “Tom, if I were to find the girl, say within a month, would you be willing to add enough money to the reward, but in the form of a loan, to put my venture into action?”

          “Only to say no more of the loan if you do not find the girl.”

          “Agreed.”

Three weeks later, Tom opened a thick envelope that had come in the morning mail. He found it to be the following report from MacPherson:

          To Tom Ashman, Report on Doris Batker.

          The face in the picture of Doris that you showed me was a face I had seen before. Three days before, my brother-in-law had, as a joke, given me a photo of a sexy nude. The face of the nude was that of Doris. The question that presented itself was one of tracing the photograph to the model.

           My brother-in-law told me that he had gotten the photo at a shop on Madison Avenue in Chicago. So I took the next plane. The keeper of the designated shop refused to admit that he had sold this or any other photograph of a nude. He was not open to bribery, so I threatened to call for intervention by the police if he did not wish to aid me. Just how I should have gotten the police to do something was not clear to me; but it was not clear to the shop-keeper, either. Quickly he told me that the photo had come from an establishment on the south side.

          When I gave the address to my cab driver, he told me to wait while he made a phone call. He returned and we were off on a brief but hazardous ride across town. The number that the shop-keeper had given me turned out to be over a bar; the sign on the door said that it was a photographic studio. My driver followed me in like a faithful dog. At the top of the steps two large and unshaven men grabbed me by the arms and told me to come with them; there was nothing else that I could have done. Two other gentlemen cared for my faithful dog.

          We were taken into one of the nicest offices that I had ever seen. Every object was expensive and well chosen. From the far side of a desk we were viewed by a well dressed Italian of about forty.

          “The boys and I found out you were on the way to see us. Now why?”

          While I told him that I wished to find Doris, my two escorts emptied my pockets and put what they found in front of the Italian. It was more than obvious that he did not believe a word I was saying.

          “The boys and I do not wish to get rough; tell me who sent you.” His voice was not rough, but it was one of authority. His lighting a cigarette was the signal for one of my escorts to slap me soundly on the left side of my face. Till then I had thought of such a blow as being a sort of token resistance offered by a woman. I hope that they never find what a deadly weapon they have. “Who sent you?” My lack of what he considered a proper reply was rewarded by another blow in the face, but this time with a closed fist.

          This sort of thing could have gone on for a long while but I thought it was time to use my head and not let it be used. “Let’s stop all this nonsense, and I will give it to you straight,” I said picking myself up from the floor. The Italian offered me a chair near the center of the room and I gladly took it. “Where is my driver?” I asked.

          “The boys took him into the next room. But remember this: from now on I ask the questions. You had best be full of the proper answers.”

          “If you do not believe that there is a Doris Batker, send one of your lads out for a Norfolk paper; there should still be one in the stands. And if you do not believe that I am trying to find her, you may phone Tom Ashman at my expense.”

          “You are doing nothing but playing for time. It may be that you enjoy being knocked in the face. So, if you do not…”

          At this point the place was alive with police. They took one look at my battered face and muttered something about assault while they put the cuffs on the Italian and his boys. “If those lads are sent to gaol,” thought I, “I should never find more information of Doris.” So I spoke up: “Officers, you have the entire thing wrong. You would never arrest a mother for spanking a naughty child, would you? Well, these gentlemen are of the opinion that I am not a very good in-law, and they are right. As long as we were not disturbing the peace, and as long as I don’t mind, let us drop the matter. What do you say?”[1]  

          Their leader said that if I did not press charges he could not take them to the station; he also said he thought I was a fool for not doing so. He gathered his men and left.

          “Look,” I said to the Italian when the last of the police left the room, “I could have gotten out of here when they left, but I did not. I could have even pressed charges. But that would not have helped me with finding Doris.”

          “You know, I liked that remark you made of ‘in-laws’. I was almost ready to believe you when the police arrived. Now, tell me why is finding this Doris Batker is so important to you?” His voice was no longer one of authority; he had reached a personal level. “Are you in love with her?”

          “I told you I was searching for Doris for the reward offered, but I did not tell you that this Tom Ashman will let me have a tidy sum if the girl is found. I must have every cent from both sources in order to try a little venture that I have in mind. Importation of certain optical glass.”

          The Italian smiled in a friendly way. Offering me a glass of brandy, he said, “I am glad that you are not in love with this girl. That would complicate matters greatly. You see, those police would have loved to have gotten me to the station on any charge. They know that I am mixed up with white slavery, but they do not know how and they cannot prove a thing. But still, they would like to have a chance to question me. It stands to reason that if you had been from the police, as we first feared, we should have made that trip to the station.” He went on: “Einstein is a well known man not because he discovered anything new, but because he knew how to put Hamelton’s system of math before the scientific public. He used his head, not his strength. Suppose that you play Einstein for a week and let me be Hamelton. I will find the girl in the next seven days and report to you at your hotel. Register at the Bismark at my expense. Do not feel that was about the matter; white slavery is not my only income. And at heart I am an honest man.”

          There was little to do but to follow his advice. He insisted that I should most likely be murdered if I were to try to find the girl without his help. Some other person might not believe my story.

          My cab and driver were at the curb. “The police got here just in time. I phoned them before we came here. Always have them check me around here. Oh, I made some money at cards while you were being ‘questioned’.” I marveled at the insight of my driver, and I should like to have known how he got his keepers to play cards. And I wondered whether or the Italian, whose name I did not know, would be able to find the girl… or if he would try to find her at all. At that point it was interesting, but I was in no physical condition to honestly care.

          By Saturday I had begun to care very much. When I thought that my month was a quarter gone and that I had nothing to show for it, save the promise of an unknown man, I began to feel uneasy. There had been no word from the Italian. He ha d said he would give results in a week, and the week would not be over until Monday; but my inactivity had made my fears of never having my import company grow to enormous sizes. I had made up my mind to go out for a drink when there was a light knock at the door. It was the Italian. Behind him stood my cab driver.

          “I have good news for you. I had feared Doris to be dead. We generally do not use pictures of our girls while they work for us. Doris is alive and well. Anything else you wish to know of her you can ask her yourself. In the morning your old cab driver, whom you now see dressed as a chauffeur, will drive you to see Doris in my car.” The Italian was in a jovial mood. “Whenever I am looking for honest work, I shall expect you to give me a job.” He was out of sight before I could say a word to him.

          “I wish I was smart like you and the Italian. He told me that he checked on you and found that you made better grades in college than he. Yes, sir, he is a Harvard man. He told me to be by for you at six in the morning. Good night.”

          I had expected a short ride, but three days later we came to a medium size town in central Texas. My driver told me that in the morning I was to visit the doctor. And the following morning I was driven to the office of a Dr. E. S. Lowe. Just before I entered the office my driver handed me a note which told me that Dr. Lowe’s wife is Doris Batker. I found that she is more than his wife; she was his good right arm, in the form of a skilled surgical nurse.

          But there are some questions I am not able to answer even after these days at Dr. Lowe’s: Who the Italian was. How Doris came to be a nurse. And so on. But I have found out why Doris left. And her return will not be at all welcomed by your mother who offered the reward in the first place. For the past six years Doris has supressed evidence that will convict your mother for murder.

Notes on this story –

With just a couple of exceptions, I transcribed this story exactly as written by my father over 70 years ago. I would guess that this was written in 1949. It was a class assignment for which he earned a B+ with the notation that while the story was good, it could have been balanced better. Thanks to Janice Sing for including this with materials having to do with “Cousin Julius” sent earlier this year. I may have to toy with this story a bit after I’m clear with the Chemo.

Until then, have a Happy Christmas and a Merry New Year!

[1] Two notes on this paragraph: The word “gaol” used by the writer is another term for “jail”. For the other, this was an assignment. After the mention of “the Italian and his boys” the instructor left the words “Where from?” in red and off to the side.

Incognito

Incognito

The internet is a wonderful thing. It’s the font of all knowledge. The Sage to confound all sages. A wonderful meeting place. A place where a person can go incognito.

We’ve all seen it on the internet – the people with names like Jerry Mander, Connie Lingus, Frank Furter, and (almost anything) Smith. Some of the names can be used as jokes, some used as cover for someone wanting to keep from being traced. Going incognito, to be sure.

Something else to be sure of is that many of the people using cover names are the same people who insist that they are being totally honest all the time; insisting that what they hate the most are people who lie.

Ah, the skullduggery.

I ran into someone this past week looking to romance older men, stating her age as less than half mine.

“This particular platform is not where you want to be if you are looking for romance,” I told her.

“Have you ever dated someone on the Internet?” she asked.

I told her that I first met my current wife on the Internet. Her response was, “Oh. Are you married?”

Her oblivious question (posed several times during our exchange) and a few other comments she made led me to believe that there was something up. Well, that and her telling me she could not wait to meet me in person.

I didn’t have the heart (or the stupidity) to tell her that I would be within a two-hour drive from where she said she was from at least twice in the coming week. And yes, my wife would be with me and so would the dog.

Something recommended by the AARP is that if someone wants to meet you, or have you send money/gift cards/candygrams, or want you to invest in (Crypto comes to mind for some reason or another), it’s a good idea to have a video chat first before taking that next step. Chances are that if the person on the other end is having problems or has objections to having a video chat, there’s something rotten in Denmark.

A video chat is a good way to call someone’s bluff. It makes me feel good about calling that bluff.

Yes, there’s the possibility that the person I had been “talking” with was sincere about wanting an older man, or that she was lonely, or that what she really wanted was a family, or she really didn’t care that I was married; but I’m not making book on it. She might not even be a she. Someone incognito, for instance.

For that matter, I may be incognito myself!

Be Seeing You!

Fifty

Fifty

I did the math. An acquaintance posted that her fiftieth birthday will be coming soon. I honestly think that she is a little panicked about the coming milestone – not really an unusual occurrence. The woman I married turned fifty when I first met her. She was one of several women I met at the time as a recent divorcee making the rounds on the internet.

One of the first women I met after separation from my first wife was an agent of an apartment complex I was looking at. I was a little taken aback by how easy it was to take her to lunch and have my invitation accepted. We went to a Thai place about a mile from where she worked. We had a lovely conversation that led nowhere romantically, but I did take a neat suggestion from her. She told me that when she and her husband separated, the first thing she did was make a list of things she wanted to accomplish now that she was “footloose and fancy-free.” One of the items on her list was to sample new foods. She had never had Thai, so our date enabled her to scratch that item off her list. The idea had merit, so I adopted it for myself.

My current wife (#2 – with no #3 even being considered) was goaded out of her comfort zone by her daughter. She had just turned fifty and her daughter talked her into going onto a dating website to see what might turn up… something out of her comfort zone at the time.

I had been dating a woman in her forties. It was a case of we were biologically compatible and not much more. I found the future Mrs. on a dating website, messaged back and forth a time or two and finally met her in a rainy parking lot of an all-you-can-eat pizza joint. Wouldn’t you know, I pull up in a parking space, look in my rear-view mirror, and there she is, driving a vehicle identical to mine! Our first date included her youngest son, her granddaughter, and the granddaughter’s mother. (Her older son is still with but has yet to marry the mother of his children – although by this time, their union would be covered under common law. It’s complicated.)

We spent a lot of time talking over the next month and a half, finding our likes and dislikes before proving that we were biologically accommodating. The time I spent getting to know the fifty-year-old woman, became the basis of a relationship that has lasted for a total of 16 years (to date).

While I was musing on the significance of fifty, I recall being in contact with a few other women of a similar age prior to the interim relationship mentioned above. I wasted time with a Harley rider (when she said she liked to ride her cycle, I understood it to mean her bicycle), a woman living in Russia (too far to commute, besides, all she wanted was out of Russia on my dime), and the woman who never married living in the mid-cities (between Dallas and Fort Worth) who called one evening, conducting something akin to a job interview before flat-out telling me that she wasn’t interested.

Good to find out before making a commitment.

My brother’s wife made an “Out of the comfort zone” list for her 50th birthday. The wife and I were both amused and amazed by her list – including overseas trips and jumping out of an airplane. With a parachute. More than once. What was really amazing was that she convinced my brother to jump, too.

You’d have to drug me and throw me out of the plane.

This new acquaintance of mine could use a list. She needs to go out of her comfort zone if she wants the companionship she appears to want. I understand raging hormones combined with a need for reassurance that she is still desirable. We all need human connection. I’ll be a friend without benefits – someone she can talk with every once in a while. But the first step she needs to take if she is serious about finding a new partner is she needs to make a list featuring at least two feats of derring-do that are clearly out of her comfort zone.

If she does that, I’m sure she’ll find her Prince Charming. My wife wishes the same for her.

Be Seeing You!

New Chapter

Taking an opportunity this afternoon to revisit the first chapter of Still Life. Hope you’ll enjoy it.

Quarter to Three

Horsepower, torque, elapsed times, tires, gasoline.

            The bragging began shortly after midnight, lasting until a quarter to three. Chester O’Reilly, Ray Wheeler, and Roy Thomas were holding court in the parking lot of the Buffalo Gulch public library talking about a variety of subjects; most of the talk centering around Chester’s ancient Chrysler 300.

            It was his pride and joy. That and a dozen cases of white lighting hidden underneath piles of old periodicals leaving room for no one other than the driver.

            The car was potent enough. Back in the day, it would have had a glorious career, sneaking around the “Revenoors” from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms to deliver the dozen or more cases of white lightning hidden underneath piles of old periodicals leaving room for no one but the driver.

            That was back in the day.

            On this early Monday morning in the first week of October, the car, the white lighting, and Chester himself was part of a ruse. There were no “Revenoors” chasing after Chester O’Reilly and his cargo of white lightning. His operation was quite legal – in fact, ATF agents were aware of Chester’s distillery, or, “Still” he was running out of a large garage behind his house on his property between Buffalo Gulch and Cottonflower.

            It should be noted at this point that Ray Wheeler was attached to the county sheriff’s office as a duly sworn deputy, assigned specifically to the portion of the county which included Buffalo Gulch and Cottonflower. His side gig, of which the county sheriff was well aware, was helping Chester O’Reilly brew, distill and bottle the white lightning made on Chester’s property.

            “When should we get started on the next batch?” deputy Wheeler asked Chester after spitting out what remained of the toothpick he had been chewing.

            “I’ll get the grain we’ll need when I take Tabasco up to Paris tomorrow afternoon,” Chester answered. “We can get started on that next batch before I have to go into the hospital Friday.”

            “Will your ticker make it till then?”

            “Hell, Ray, he’s been overdue for the operation since last year this time,” Roy Thomas chimed in. “A few more days ain’t goin’ to hurt him.”

            Roy took one last drag of the cigarette he’d been smoking and tossed it so it landed in the hollow of a root of a tree ten feet away.

            “The way you been puttin’ away them cancer sticks, it’s a wonder you’re still alive,” deputy Wheeler remarked as he pulled another toothpick out of his front pocket so he could start chewing on it. Something he didn’t note was one of his business cards falling on the ground next to Chester’s car.

            “I suppose I’ll be givin’ them up the day I die,” Thomas mused.

            He lit up another and the subject drifted in another direction.

            “When are you gonna tell that colored gal what you really been doing?” Wheeler asked.

            “Before I go to the hospital,” Chester promised. “And quit calling her a colored gal. She’s smarter than the three of us put together.”

            The trio laughed. Deep down they knew Chester was right.

            “What do you see in her, anyway?” Wheeler asked. “You pushed awful damn hard to have the library hire her when Ms. Swisher resigned.”

            “I have my reasons,” Chester told him. “You’ll find out in due time.”

            “Before or after the anesthesia wears off?” Thomas laughed.

            “When the time is right.”

            Chester wore a knowing smile as his mind drifted off to an incident over sixty years ago.

            “And Ray, if you don’t quit talking about her as “that colored gal,” I might take a notion to cut you out of the business.”

            Ray Wheeler grumbled for a few moments before changing the subject again.

            “What’s this I hear about you going and making a new will?”

            “I needed to update it before the operation,” Chester explained. “Standard stuff. Things change. People go out of your life, new people come in. My daddy changed his will every five years until he died.”

            “That’s good thinking,” Roy Thomas chimed in. “I damn near lost the business when my daddy died. He left half to my brother Joey, but Joey had been gone for ten years by the time daddy kicked the bucket.”

            “Joey was nowhere near the mechanic you are,” Chester complimented him.

            “Had he lived, he would have run the business into the ground. Took about a year for the probate court to find in my favor. Well, that and a few thousand dollars to that shyster Benjamin.”

            “I wasn’t too confident of him, either,” Chester revealed. That’s why I hired that new kid, Greg Barclay, and set him up with an office in Buffalo Gulch.”

            “Ain’t heard of him,” Wheeler harumphed.

            “He specializes in probate law; although I believe he could defend a DUI if worse came to worse.”

            The three men laughed. Each of them knew that they had evaded getting DUIs by the skin of their teeth on more than one occasion.

            The conversation made the rounds for a couple more hours, until Roy and Ray excused themselves so that they would be ready to roll in the morning.

            At a quarter to three, Chester O’Reilly sat in the driver’s seat of his ancient Chrysler, awash in memories of a time when he was young and in love. He was going to marry that woman, no matter what anyone said. The Korean War and the U.S. Army had other ideas and his love was lost to him.

            “I’ll take good care of our grandchild,” he promised to the memory of the woman he would never have.

            Chester laid his head back and closed his eyes.

            He fell asleep, never to wake up again.