Whistling And Missing

Today, for some reason, I found myself whistling the song Three Coins In The Fountain. (I don’t whistle well.) It is a song few know or remember. It is a Sinatra song and made popular at the same time the movie entitled Three Coins In The Fountain came out in 1954.

I immediately thought of my sisters, Becky and Charlene. They were teenagers then and if still alive would be in their 80s today.

They gushed over the male leads in the movie. The plot developed around three American girls who worked in Rome and hoped for love.

I remember my sisters singing the song when it came on the radio.

“Three coins in the fountain

Each one seeking happiness.

Thrown by three hopeful lovers.

Which one will the fountain bless.”

Likely they dreamed of venturing to Rome; finding happiness, blessings, and romance. They never went to Rome—and I hope they found the other things.

Anyway, I was just whistling and thinking about my two sisters and how much I miss them.

I've Been Gone

Well, not really; just sort of a break. Not really; been writing. And currently recovering (I hope) from COVID--bummer. 

Starting Monday, September 19th, my newest novel, A Place Called Serenity will be serialized. 

The setting is the first years after World War Two. Bo Tanner returns from the war. He tries to pick up on a life that barely started before going off to war. Bo trudges through life looking for answers and meaning. To reveal more; well you'll have to follow along.

Often folks wonder where novels spring from. I don't know about other folks. This novel comes from a time when I was very young. I remember the men who came back from the war and just went on as if nothing happened. They didn't tell war stories. In fact, it was the absence of war stories that fascinated me. 

Does it carry a message? Indeed, the absurdity of war. 

The goal, as in the past, is to post three episodes a week. Sometime before serialization is complete it will be made available in its entirety on Amazon.  

Hope ya'll enjoy. 

LGBTQ-Friendly; What Does That Mean?

I’ve noticed lately a few retail companies and restaurants post a notice they are LGBTQ-friendly. Does that mean they weren’t at one time and now they are? So they’re letting everybody know they are now? Are they now reformed? When did this reformation come about? How can we be sure every vestige of intolerance has been eradicated. What has happened to those former intolerant employees? Have they moved on to a competitor? This only creates too many unanswered questions.

If I were L, G, B, T, or Q it would start me thinking. Why all of a sudden are they so friendly? Have they got something up their sleeves? Are they trying to lure me in only to beat me up or exploit me?

Aren’t these places supposed to be friendly to everybody anyway? The old business motto used to be the customer is always right not the customer is always straight.

So if a place declares itself LGBTQ-friendly, are they unfriendly to “straights?” Just asking. Can a redneck, straight, homophobic guy expect the same level of service as a flaming, transgender, dike lover? Just asking.

No one in US society has ever been more discriminated against than blacks. Have we ever seen a retail company or restaurant proclaim they are “black friendly?” What about “Asian friendly?” What about “Jewish friendly?”

However, in one way, LGBTQ sounds like it’s the kind of place kids or straights ought to shy away from. You know, like those places that say, “Adults Only or Pretty Girls.” I don’t want anybody being “friendly” to me, one of my kids or, grandkids—if you know what I mean. Actually, a waitress, clerk, or stewardess being a little too “friendly” gives me pause for concern.

It’s all that they call virtue signally. It is their way of declaring their moral superiority over Hank’s Muffler Shop, who treats everybody the same except little old ladies who are a little short of cash.

Likely, I have an unusual way of looking at things, just treat everybody good. And I’m a little skeptical of people who feel compelled to proclaim they’re good and morally superior.

Manager Wanted

If we listen carefully to how a person responds to a simple greeting, it tells us a whole lot about that person. An unconsciousness and seemingly innocent response is the window into a person’s psyche; who the person really is—his soul.

For instance, you see an old acquaintance, Joe.

“How ya doin’, Joe?”

“I’m managin’.”

It sounds sort of lame. It almost sounds like Joe ain’t doin’ so good. But scratch below the surface.

That says a lot about Joe; he’s managing. Look around you; 90 % of the people you see from day to day aren’t managing it. They’re overworked, overdrawn, overextended, over mortgaged, overweight, and by the looks of things, over the hill. And they’re underpaid, under stress, underdressed, under-achieved, and under the gun. In other words, they ain’t managing it well but good ole Joe, “I’m managin’.”

Then you see Frank; haven’t seen Frank for about as long as you haven’t seen Joe.

“How ya doin’, Frank?”

“Hangin’ in there.”

It almost sounds like Frank and Joe are walking shoulder to shoulder in some sort of miserable mundane macrocosm of life as we know it today.

Let’s look at Frank’s words a little more closely; “Hangin’ in there?”

Where? Where’s Frank hanging? We know it’s not in a closet, from a streetlight, or from a flagpole; else we wouldn’t be seeing Frank. If he was hanging from a flagpole he could at least say, “Hey, I’m up here, hangin’ in there.” But Frank is lying. No rope, no chain, no hanger, no string, no hook. Frank is unreliable. Maybe he means he’s hanging out—but where? He’s not there. He’s not where he should be hanging. He should be there if he’s “hangin’ in there.” We don’t even know where there is. If it was here, we’d see Frank hanging off something. The least he could do is bring “there” with him, so we’d at least know where he is supposed to be hanging.

If I was hiring, I’d hire Joe before I’d hire Frank any day. At least Joe can manage.

Why Do Writers Write?

I don’t know why writers write. I’m speaking of creative writers.

Speaking for myself, it is much more than telling a story.

Personally, I only know of one other writer. Hours have been spent talking with him. He’s a good man. To me, he tries to make sense of the world through the use of his stories.

At times that requires manipulation of the facts. What I mean is to arrange things to make sense of something. It’s like the baseball batting order in the starting lineup; batters are arranged in the order that their skills are most needed. There’s an old adage often quoted by fiction writers. “life doesn’t make sense, fiction has to make sense.”

Many of my friend’s stories follow a common thread; the downtrodden and oppressed have more to offer than what others are willing to accept. There is goodness and value in all. Give all a chance because there is value in everyone. Like I said, he’s a good man.

There is so much more to be written on this subject. And by people who are more contemplative and deeper things than I.

As for me, some of my stories are often fiction but based on real things experienced or witnessed. However, I have a rule. When I write a story it is best to be considered fiction as described in the first sentence of this paragraph. When I tell a story it is factual and truthful remembered.

My novel, The Desperate Summer of '62, is somewhat autobiographical. The first chapter describes a time when Rich Larsen ate at a restaurant with two of his friends at the same time they went to a movie. In reality, the time at the restaurant took place a year later. However, everything else in the first chapter is as I remember. The reason for this manipulation of facts was to give more context to Rich Larsen’s personal conflicts.

My meandering thoughts boil down to a question an old high school buddy asked a few years back. “Why do you write these stories, an alter ego?” Tough question.

Like many artists; painters, sculptors, song writers, etc, they try to reshape reality in order to make sense of it. They want to discover the beauty, grace, and elegance of life and existence in a more perfect way.

Yes, I know, that is not the reasons for many but those are mine for the moment and they can be shared by whoever wants them.

It’s Not Writer’s Block, It’s Something Else

 I don’t ever recall having writer’s block. However, I’ve experienced writer’s—well, I don’t know what to call it. I just don’t feel like writing.

It’s a period I’m going through right now. I’m working on a novel. I have the direction to proceed. I really like the characters, setting, and plot.

Maybe it’s like ignoring a friend you really like but just don’t want to put the energy and emotion into engaging them. You always have a good time with them but you don’t always need a good time.

The feeling soon passes. Old friends get together and before you know it everything else in life has been placed on the back burner. You sort of catch up on what you have been avoiding.

I suspect I’ll get back to my novel. Those characters are in a crowded waiting room in my head waiting for me to give them life, dialogue, and thoughts. They don’t know where the story is going and likely some anxiety has set in.

Just in passing, I’ve started two characters as being near villains. But I couldn’t do it to them. One will remain a pain in the neck but there will be sympathy for him. You have to do good wherever you can.

Writer’s Neglect is what I’ll call it. And that’s what it will remain until something more descriptive comes along. 

People Worship The Grass They Walk On

 People who spend more time on their lawn than with people are sick. They are to be avoided but don’t worry, if you are not one of them they will avoid you anyway.

“Grass worshipers” is what a couple of friends called them. And it fits.

Grass worshipers have lawn globes. That’s where they worship and sacrifice earthworms to the great grass god and founder of Scott’s Miracle-Gro, Orlando Scott. 

For the grass worshiper, the globe serves several purposes. First, it is their place of worship. It is their holy shrine. It is their statue of Mary. Sometime between midnight and sunup grass worshipers bow down to the holy lawn globe. It gives strength, vitality, and a brighter shade of green to their grass. Second, grass worshipers believe the lawn globe is an intergalactic communication medium. This is where messages are transmitted from the cosmos; “Use more nitrogen.” Third, the lawn globe is a beacon for intergalactic space transport. When “they” come. That’s where “they” will be attracted. It is a friendly beacon from earthly believers. The grass worshipers will be spared what is destined to occur. Grass worshipers have actually been known to have been abducted by little green humanoids. 

The grass people are competitive about their lawns. They always brag about it. If you say you don’t care, you are marked as an infidel. 

They take care of their lawns for no other reason than to make themselves superior to others. Conversion is not their purpose; it’s separation. If you make any attempt whatsoever to prove your lawn better they will spray it with grass killer as you sleep.

They will mow when not needed and trim closer than a barber giving a six-week haircut.  They do it for no other reason than to convince others their grass is really growing that fast. They’ve been known to mow three times in one day.

Grass worshipers don’t ever use their lawn for recreation—it’s hallowed ground. You will never see one with a croquet set or volleyball net. 

They can’t bear to watch golf or baseball on real grass. They can’t imagine walking on grass in spikes or cleats. It would be like a vegan watching a Ted Nugent video.

Here’s all a person needs to do to care for their lawn; a used mower and spray tank of weed killer. The weed killer is for the trim.

If you have to mow more than once a week you’re living wrong. Most folks I know work on a ten-day cycle. That way you ruin only about one weekend a month. And if you’re really lucky it will be raining that weekend.

All kidding aside, I respect a person who cares for their lawn. Without a lawn, they could be doing something else that may actually bring harm to others. 

Yet, we want to get along in the world around us; be a good neighbor, and don’t cause needless offense. For that reason mow your grass but reasonably. Once a week is enough.

You might even buy a trimmer. The sound will put a grass worshiper to sleep. 

You don’t have to be a jerk or join their cult; just mow your lawn.

I just don’t want them lecturing me on fertilizers, pre-emergents, and aeration methods. They have their religion and I have mine.

A Guest For Supper

 Lucille stepped from her apartment for the first time in over a year. Groceries and necessities were always delivered. What led to her self-imposed isolation had little to do with COVID. That came along as a convenience.

Indeed nervousness and anxiety made her quiver inside, however, she was determined to reacquaint herself with old friends. She wanted to see the old neighborhood. The friends she acquired over the years and the young folks who kept her thinking young and challenged her wit danced in her mind like a grand ball.

In fact, on this first day she planned to do something she had not done in quite some time; have a guest for supper.

Her first stop was no more than two doors away from her apartment building, Benson’s Grocery.

She grabbed a small cart and started down one of the aisles of the small store. She placed a number of items in the cart. The feeling of actually shopping excited her; seeing, examining, and choosing.

Closer to the far end of the store the white refrigerated meat counter stretchered the entire width of the store. She pushed towards it excited to see Mr. Benson. “I shall invite him and his wife,” she thought and smiled.

“Next please!” Benson said.

“Hello, Mr. Benson,” Lucille said. “If you had to pick something to eat tonight what would it be?”

“Look, lady,” Benson said, “I don’t have time for twenty questions. I got work to do. What is it you want? I got chicken on sale.”

Lucille forced a smile. “Yes, I can see you are busy; I’ll take a rump roast.”

He wrapped it, weighed it, marked it, and handed it to her over the counter.

“He’s a busy man,” she thought and smiled to herself making her way to the cashier.

“Margie, the cashier,” Lucille thought and smiled. “I’ll invite her.”

Lucille placed the items on the counter. Without looking up, Margie scanned and placed them in bags.

“Can you have these delivered, Margie?” Lucille said.

“Sure, Lucy,” Margie said. “where?”

“Lucille, Lucille Martin, two doors east, two ten.”

“Sure, will have them there in thirty minutes,” Margie said.

“That will be forty-five twenty, Lucy,” Margie said looking out the front window.”

Lucille removed the billfold from her purse and said to herself, “She’s not even sure of my first name. She wouldn’t make a good supper guest. She’d be embarrassed to know my name is Lucille.”

Lucille paid and left. She strolled and stopped to window shop. “Wanda! At the dry cleaners,” she thought. “She’s such a delight. I should have brought some dry cleaning. Never the mind, I’ll stop and invite her.”

Lucille walked into the dry cleaners. Behind the counter stood Wanda, the cheerful bundle of smiles and joy that brightened up the gloomiest of days.

“Hi, Wanda,” Lucille said.

“Hi, Lucille,” Wanda said not cracking a smile. “Where have you been, Petersen’s around the corner? He raised his prices; now ya comin’ back ta us. Ya know when he opened up they cut my hours.”

“I had no idea,” Lucille said. “I’ve been staying inside a lot lately.”

“You could have sent out, ya know,” Wanda said.

“I just saw no use in sending out when I wasn’t using anything that needed to be dry cleaned.”

“For two years?” Wanda said.

Lucille forced a smile. “It’s been just a little over a year.”

“Seems like two,” Wanda scowled.

“Well,” Lucille said, “I just came by to say hi and cheer you up.”

“Thanks,” Wanda said and smiled with her mouth only. Her eyes could have melted steel. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, I’ll bring some dry cleaning soon,” Lucille said and left the store.”

“My,” Lucille said meandering along the sidewalk, “I don’t think Wanda is in the mood for supper, at least with me.”

“Oh my goodness,” Lucille thought. Her chest felt free and relaxed. “My sweet sweet Melinda. We’ve been friends since grade school. I was her bride’s maid. She named her daughter after me. She and Robert for a meal; oh my, just like old times. She can catch me up on the ole gang. Those wonderful bridge nights. And the book club. Oh yes, the book club; hours of talk. We never wanted to leave. And Melinda was such a gifted reader. I think she could have been an actress. Robert’s, Robert’s Florist Shop. I loved going there; curious little gifts. My apartment is full of their little knickknacks and gifts; even when there was no need. I always found a place for them or they made such wonderful gifts. I can’t wait to hug her. And Robert, his warm smile and a full mustache, so manly and warm. They are such great fun.”

Lucille opened the door the Robert’s Florist Shop. The tiny little bell above the door tinkled. Familiar odors greeted like a warm fire on a chilly damp evening.

Melinda sat behind the counter. She smiled and sprung to her feet. “Can I help you?”

“Melinda, it’s me, Lucille.”

Melinda reached for her glasses hanging from her neck. She squinted until they firmly rested on her nose.

“Can I help you?” Melinda said.

“It’s Lucille,” Lucille said. “I’ve come to visit.”

“Visit!” Melinda said. “You could have visited when Robert died.”

“Robert died!” Lucille said. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. But you see, I’ve been ill. It’s hard for me to explain but I’ve just been sick.”

“Sick, ha!” Melinda scoffed. “The least would have been a card or phone call. Some friend. Are you in for the friend-to-friend discount we always gave you?”

Lucille’s eyes fell to the counter. To the side, a small hoya plant sat with wilted leaves. In a strange sort of way it immediately reminded Lucille of herself.

“How much for the hoya?” Lucille said. “No friend to friend discount. I think it will make a wonderful house plant.”

“Just take it and leave,” Melinda said.

“Thank you, my dear Melinda,” Lucille said. Her smile was not forced but as sincere as she felt in a long time. She clutched the plant and left through the door with the little tinkling bell.

Walking back to her apartment building she cradled it in her arm next to her chest.

“You look only a little neglected. You will make a wonderful guest for supper this evening; just a little water and some conversation, that’s all you need, and you’ll spring back to life.”

Learning to Play Guitar

 My name is Jake Smithers. When I was eleven or twelve years old there was this guy next door who sat on the front porch with an electric guitar and small amplifier. He played hillbilly music every Wednesday night. Folks in the neighborhood showed up in his front yard every time he’d start playing.

His name was Dexter Turley. He was a skinny guy, not too tall, and hands with long thin fingers. He had a milk route and played in a hillbilly band on the weekends.

Folks gathered and listened for a spell. It wasn’t like there was a big crowd; maybe twenty-five at the most. Some folks brought lawn chairs, a wooden crate, or sit on the grass. When he’d play something familiar, folks might join in.

It was the poor side of town but for an hour or so on Wednesday nights, everybody had a pocket full of twenties.

Down the street lived this old lady (she was a lot younger than I am now). She wore a long housedress, three/quarter heels, and a bonnet. She was a widow and too religious to have a good time.

Every time Dexter started playing. she’d come marching down the street like she was about to barge into a salon and bust open every keg of beer and smash every bottle of whiskey. The closer she got to the music you could almost see the righteous indignation strip off her like boys shedding their clothes heading for the swimming hole on a hot summer. She’d get up on the wooden porch and do some barnyard clogging that angles tapped to.

She’d do two or three songs and smile like a man ‘on the wagon’ who just had a nip. She departed the same manner in which she arrived. Clothing herself with righteous indignation the further she got from the music.

The Wilson girls would get up on the porch and sing a couple of songs. They were hefty gals. They always said we don’t overeat, we overcook. The honest truth is neither girl was much to look at. Most generally you can say a person has pretty eyes when nothing else looks right. They didn’t even have good smiles or teeth. But when they sang together they were the most beautiful girls in town. It’s funny what music does to the person who sings it and those who listen. However, you can’t sing all day long, and ugly is a permanent fixture.

Lester Crowly lived in a little house in the alley. He worked at a local laundry. Usually, he’d mouth the songs, never singing out loud.

One night Dexter cleared his throat and started singing an old standard, In The Pines. He hardly got through the first verse before Lester stood up. He grabbed the wooden kitchen chair he brought with him and sat it on the porch. Dexter stopped playing. Everyone stirred around and uncomfortably cleared their throats.

“Ya got a good voice,” Lester said, “but it’s never lived the song your singin’.”

“Touched you deeply, didn’t it?” Dexter said to Lester.

“In places men can’t talk easily about,” Lester said, “so ya got to sing about it.”

“Lester,” Dexter said, “I’ll start playin’ and you start whenever ya feel it.”

Lester sung. At times his voice sounded like a wounded dog near death. Everyone listened without a twitch but there were a lot of hard swallows and a few sniffs.

When Lester was done he nodded politely to Dexter and returned to his seat.

“I don’t know if I can go on,” Dexter said.

Lester smiled. “Sure ya can. How ‘bout The Wabash Cannonball?”

“That’s a good one,” Dexter said and began to play and sing.

Seems as if I was always the first there and the last to leave.

One night when everybody left and Dexter played his last song, he unplugged his guitar and asked me to carry the amplifier inside. I sat it down next to a chair.

“Sit down, boy,” he said.

I sat in the chair.

“Would you like to learn how to play guitar?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said.

My heart was about to burst out of my chest I was so excited but I tried to hold back my exuberance.

“Reach around the chair, boy,” he said, “and bring me that guitar.”

So I did. 

I handed him the guitar. 

He tapped it on the floor and dust kicked up from it. He tuned it. "There, she's ready."

He held the guitar and said, “Watch where I put the fingers on my left hand.”

So I did.

“Finger here and the other finger there,” he said. “And then you strum.”

“That’s called E minor,” he said. “Sit down.” He handed me the guitar.

It was awkward.

“Hold it like dancing with the prettiest girl in school,” he said and smiled. “Well, you’ll know what I mean someday and when that day comes and you're dancing with the prettiest girl in the school, hold her like you’re holdin’ your favorite guitar.”

I had no idea what he was talking about but I knew I was going to get there someday.

He helped me place my fingers and I strummed. It sounded as dead as beating the bottom of a washtub. He had me strum real slow until each string sounded clean.

“Now I’m gonna show you one more chord,” he said and this time he placed three of my finger on the strings. “That’s called C.”

I strummed a couple of dozen times. Eventually, it sounded like it might be music.

“Let’s go back to E minor,” he said.

And it was like I forgot all he taught me. He patiently helped me.

“You’re doin’ good,” he smiled. “Now take this guitar home with ya and practice those two chords for a week. Each time you strum make sure it’s better than the last. And next week I’ll show ya another.”

After a year of lessons, Dexter invited me up to sing a couple of songs with him. I was nervous. My voice cracked a couple of times. “Keep a gone,” Dexter said. 

So I did.

That night I helped him put away his amplifier and we sat down for a lesson.

“Have you ever written any songs yourself?” I asked.

“Nah, not really,” Dexter said, “I’ve written a couple—that’s it. It doesn’t come to me but it has a couple of times. I’m a player. I play other people’s songs. Just can’t come up with anything on my own.”

He showed me a couple of cord changes. I heard his voice but didn’t understand the words. It was like riding on a bus; houses blur by without recognizing any of them but you know they are there.

“What’s wrong, boy,” Dexter said.

“Just thinking,” I said.

“How to write a song?” Dexter said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Someday you’ll be strumming some cords. Suddenly you’ll try something different,” Dexter said. “It will touch you in a way you never thought. From those thoughts will come the words. On another day you’ll hear some words or think of some words. They’ll be words full of emotion. And you’ll find some cords to go with it.”

I nodded and smiled uncertainly.

“You got some cords, don’t ya, boy,” Dexter said.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I got some.”

“Let’s hear ‘em. Start playin’, son,” Dexter said.

And so I

That’s how it all started.

Innocent Bystanders? Thursday Morning at the Jittery Goat Café

 “Coffee,” Wilbur said.

Newt poured a coffee. “What’s new?”

“Same ole same ole,” Wilbur said. “What about you?”

“Just saw in the news six people were shot up in some bar in LA or New York or Detroit or it might have been Chicago,” Newt said.

“Any survivors?” Wilbur said.

“Nah,” Newt said. “They said the shooters were aiming to shoot only two guys; terrible, four innocent bystanders.”

“When did it happen?” Wilbur said.

“Midnight,” Newt said.

“Innocent bystanders?” Wilbur said.

“Yeah,” Newt said, “just customers, the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“They were in the wrong bar at the wrong time? Nobody’s innocent being in a bar at midnight,” Wilbur said. “Ya can’t be thirsty at that time ‘cause ya already have had a couple of hours of drinkin’ behind ya. The only thing left is lookin’ for loose women or trouble. By midnight you’re so buzzed you’re susceptible to any sort of human degradation that walks into the place or enters your pickled brain. Never seen a guy come into a place at midnight and say I’m lookin’ to do some good. Anybody know some clean jokes? Hey, what’s your favorite Bible verse. What usually happens is some guy thinks, I think I’m gonna flirt with the babe sitting next to the biker dude. What is this a gay bar? Everybody looks queer. Or sometimes a guy just might say to the guy next to him that he looks like the guy he chased out of a bar last week—a real jerk. Are you that jerk? You sure remind me of him. He may say he’s lookin’ for a good time but he’s not lookin’ for good. Good walked by the place hours ago and didn’t even look in.”

“You tellin’ me everybody who’s out at midnight ‘s guilty of something?” Newt said.

“Sooner or later,” Wilbur said. “Anybody going out that time of night is likely gonna find trouble. They always say nothing good happens after bedtime. Nobody’s innocent that time of night.”

“What’s bedtime?” Newt said.

“At least two hours before those guys got shot,” Wilbur said.

When Trees Were Tall

They were days of the tall trees

they swayed in the summer breeze

sunny days

running barefoot on stones

swimming in mud bottom creeks

days of frosty mornings

bright-colored leaves, burning leaves

cold nights around a bonfire

toasting marshmallows,

stars shoot across the sky

days of knee-high snow

frosty windows

chilly mornings

runny noses, mittens

warming hands over a gas kitchen stove

days of soggy ground

croaking frogs

muddy shoes

tadpoles

pussy willows

hoot owls

and jumping puddles.

They were days of the tall trees

A Sunset For Claire

It was unusual that Chet Winters drove his tractor into a rut because he had plowed the field for more than half of his fifty-five years. He knew the location of every rut, rock, and fence post in the field. He tried restarting, but the engine stalled.

“Flooded! Dag gone it!” He thumped the stirring wheel.

He leaned against the back of the seat and propped his foot against the fender, waiting until it could be started. The sun in his face exposed every wrinkle like a sun-baked apple. Years of hard work and anxiety were etched on his forehead. His thick callused hands with fingers like little sausage links combed through his long gray strands of hair.

Peering over the tops of the spring foliage, he squinted at the most incredible sunset he had ever seen. He seldom watched the sunsets. There was always simply too much to do. The sun hung like a glowing ember behind blazing wisps of light pink and lavender. The clouds stretched above the horizon like silk scarfs freely fluttering in the wind.

“How magnificent!” he whispered. Chet jumped from the tractor and walked toward the house like a field hand late for supper. He stopped to examine the field and the work he might miss. He waved it away with his hand and continued walking. A pickup truck stopped on the road next to the field. The man inside leaned toward the passenger’s door, rolled down the window, and said, “I got a chain in the back. I can pull you out.” “That’s ok. It’s flooded. I’m just walking up to the house.” “Hop in. I’ll give you a ride.” “Sure, thanks.” Chet climbed in the truck.

“I don’t believe I know you,” Chet said. “You’re trying awful hard to look like a farmer, but you got city written all over ya.”

His clothing was new and stiff.

“I’m Bill Thies,” he said, extending his hand. “My uncle Drew lives down the road from you. I’m on spring break from college. Uncle Drew broke his leg and I’m plowing for him.”

Chet shook his hand. “I know Drew. Known him all my life. How’s his leg coming along?”

“He’ll be back on his feet in a month or so.”

“Chet Winters is the name, and thanks for the lift.”

“You’re a little old for college, aren’t ya?” “I teach there.”

Bill pulled the pickup onto the road. “I see, a professor. Well, I’m farm-o-cologist,” Chet grinned.

Bill laughed and said, “Chet, glad to know you. I hope you will not hold being a professor against me. I was raised on a farm.”

“Nah, just never knew a college professor before,” Chet said. “Well, that’s nice of you to help your uncle out. You ought to know if ya want to fit in, ya better dirty those jeans up a bit and get some cow shit under those fingernails. The lady cashier at the elevator don’t have nails that clean.” He scratched his cheek. “What do you profess?”

“I teach a course in poetry,” Bill said. “Writing it, understanding it, and studying it.”

“Claire, my wife, reads and writes poetry,” Chet said. “I got opinions about poets; they’re all perverts and misdirected liberals. Most are communists. A—Claire’s not one of them though.”

Bill chuckled and said, “Perhaps some of them are. Sure I can’t help you pull the tractor out?”

“Nah, I can get it myself. Just give me a ride to the house.”

“Where bouts?”

“Just a half mile down the road. I want to get home before the sun sets and show it to Claire.”

“It is very beautiful,” Bill said.

“College professor, humph! You can do better than that,”

Chet said. “That certainly is resplendent!” Bill smiled.

“Claire’s got a calendar picture from a few years back of a Pacific sunset. She hung it in the kitchen. She says it is the most beautiful sunset she has ever seen. We were supposed to go to California a few years ago, but I had a heart attack. Took nearly all we had saved to get me back on our feet. She said the Ohio sunsets are just fine with her, but she’s never taken down that calendar either.”

Chet gazed at the sunset as they rolled down the road.

“Bill, ya married?”

“No.”

“Been married for forty-four years this June.”

“You don’t see many lasting that long,” Bill said.

“It’s easy with a woman like Claire. That sunset reminds me of Claire’s smile. It makes me feel warm. Her smile unfolds like a blooming flower and satisfies like a soft summer breeze that rolls and rustles across a wheat field.”

“You’re a poet, Mr. Winters.”

Chet squirmed and ran his hand down his face and said, “I ain’t no poet.”

“There’s nothing wrong with seeing beauty in the things around you and expressing it in words.”

“You’re right, there. Claire’s as wonderful as they come. She’s the only woman I’ve ever known. Ain’t kissed nobody but her either.”

The truck pulled into a stone driveway beside the house. It was a white two-story house, typical of midwestern farms. A rusted windmill next to the house twirled madly, sounding like the rumble of a crop duster.

“Come on in, Bill. I’ll introduce you to Claire. She’d like to meet you. Did I tell you she reads and writes poetry?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, that’s right. Maybe she could show you some. If it don’t embarrass her.”

“I’d be happy to meet your wife and read her poetry.”

Chet walked through the back porch door, with Bill behind him. Chet turned and whispered, “Better wipe our feet.”

Then he called, “Claire, got company. Drew Thies’s nephew. He’s a poetry professor.”

Chet spotted a stack of newspapers and said, “Should have been burned this morning. I better take care of them before Claire gets on me.” He sniffed, smelling the garbage overflowing the basket next to the door. “Better take care of that too.” He sat it outside the back porch door and fanned the door open and shut a few times. “Gotta get that smell out of here.”

“Claire!” Chet called, “Claire! Come on out here and take a look at this sunset! It’s as pretty as that Pacific sunset! You just got to see it.” He turned to Bill. “Any minute now she’ll say, ‘Chet, hold your horses. I can’t drop everything every time you call.’”

“Claire! Claire! Claire?”

He searched the house.

The professor went only as far as the dining room.

The sun cast a dull light through rain-specked windows. Although the room was cluttered, it seemed empty, void of care or breath. Bill noticed discarded unopened mail in disarray on a mahogany table covered by a white lace tablecloth. An artificial red rose centerpiece laden with dust and entombed by cobwebs. The constant tick of an oak tabletop clock on the buffet slowly relinquished its seconds. Powder blue candles in silver holders stood like sentinels at each end of the buffet. A silver knife wrapped in a white ribbon lay in front of a picture of a woman and Chet. The woman was stunning. Bill starred at the woman. The vibrant eyes, wide smile, and graceful flowing hair with silver strands made her irresistible. In the picture, they were holding the silver knife and cutting their twenty-fifth-anniversary cake. The picture had a thin layer of dust as well.

Chet entered the room with his head down. He picked up the picture, cradled it in his hand, and wiped the dust from Claire’s image with the sleeve of his shirt. He stood idle and tranquil. “What did I tell you, that’s some smile-right?”

“Yes, it is indeed an exquisite smile,” Bill said.

“I’m sorry, Bill, you must think I’m crazy,” Chet said, “but she’s been dead for just over a year. Sometimes it gets like this—you just get so used to her being around. I don’t feel crazy—just lonely.”

The buffet clock loudly ticked away the seconds, but it did not drown the quiet whimper of a broken, lonely man.

“Of all the poetry I have come to memorize and instruct—the very moment for which such lines were written, none come to mind and nothing seems more appropriate than. I’m so very sorry, Mr. Winters. You must miss her terribly.”

Chet cleared his throat. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Claire’s grave is a mile from here. I want to be with her right now. Can you drive me to it for just a minute and then maybe you can give me a hand getting my tractor out?”

“Let’s go, I’ll take you there.”

At the graveyard, Bill leaned against the front of his truck.

Chet stood next to Claire’s gravestone. His right hand stroked the top of the stone. There was a nip in the westerly breeze, but the stone still held the warmth of the setting sun.

“Claire,” Chet said, “You ought to see that sunset. It ain’t the Pacific, but the Pacific ain’t Ohio either.”

Chet walked back to the truck.

“Thanks, Bill,” Chet said. “Can you take me home now? Let’s forget that tractor.”

“Sure and how ‘bout I read some of Claire’s poetry to you,” Bill said.

“She wrote one called Sunset. I think I would like you to read that one."

 I’m pleased to announce the current serialized story, The Ship of His Dreams, is now available at Amazon in a digital format as well as paperback. 

Of course, one can continue to read it three episodes per week on this site. That will take you to the middle of March. However, if you wish to complete it now it is available for $5.00 or $10.00; Kindle or paperback.

A Word About The Title

There was some hesitancy in using the word “dream” throughout the writing and title. “Dream” sometimes suggests doing nothing. It seemed appropriate to settle on “dream.” The main character, Lincoln Abbot persisted. He made his dream a reality rather than just a dream.

If you decide to purchase a copy; enjoy and thanks much. If you should decide to continue to visit this site and finish reading The Ship of His Dreams; enjoy and thanks much. 

Also, an invitation is extended to all to visit my author's page at Amazon. There you will find a complete list of my novels.