Maybe It's Just Me, Corny 50s TV

  Maybe it's just me, and it usually is, but I like old 1950s television shows. I find them on YouTube. 

Captain Midnight; from left to right, Ikky Mud
(Sid Milton), Captain Midnight (Richard Webb), 
Dr. Aristotle "Tut" Jones (Olan Soule)

  It takes me back to a time when life appeared simple. Those shows and plots that I watched were not complicated or riddled with preachy messages. If they were, it was about honesty, courage, obeying authority, respect, diligence, and many other positive traits. 

  We saw how to act around adults and figures of authority. Indeed, some of those things were a bit overplayed. The message was, This is proper conduct. 

  The TV of yesteryear is scoffed at as being unrealistic and a portrayal of an idealistic world that did not exist. To be clear, TV programs are fiction.

  The last week or so, I've watched several episodes of Sergeant Preston of the Yukon and Captain Midnight. Unbelievable plots, structured dialogue, stiff acting, cheap sets, rudimentary special effects. Like many have said, radio with pictures.

  Sure, it had its faults. We saw no African Americans. That was not society's fault. It was the writers, producers, and programming
executives. Mexicans were portrayed in extremes, humble and gracious or violent and cruel. There was a lot of stereotyping, not just among ethnic groups and races, but also among whites. The short guy was always the sidekick and comedic relief. The fat guy was always dimwitted. 

  Do I wish now that more time was taken to provide fair and believable representations of all people? Of course, but they didn't. And now is not the time to whine about it or overcompensate.

  Looking back at the influence these programs had on my interaction with people outside my racial and ethic group, they did not have any effect on me. I knew it was a show.

A Cult in Paradise; Episode 20, Goodbye to Pago Pago

This is episode twenty of the fifth book in the Trace Troy Adventures in  Paradise series. The Title is A Cult in Paradise. It will be featured in episodes over the next few months. It will eventually be published in full on Amazon. All of the Trace Troy books, as well as my other novels, can be purchased on Amazon by clicking the Bookstore tab above. I hope you enjoy. And thanks for stopping by. 

Goodbye to Pago Pago

Everyone shared two-hour shifts each in the pilothouse. Trace, though not knowing what was in the crates, thought it was best to at least have somebody watch the deck.

Adam returned at a quarter past ten. He rapped lightly on Trace’s cabin door. 

“Come in,” Trace said, lying on the bed, reading. 

Adam came in, and Trace sat up on the edge of the bed. “Have a seat.”

Adam sat on the bed. “What’s in the crates?”

“We don’t know,” Trace said. “Cally said we’ll find out as soon as we’re out to sea. We had a contest. Your pick was a nuclear weapon.”

“Hmm,” Adam said, “that’s the first thing that popped into my head.”

“How was your day with Talei?” Trace asked.

“It was a good day,” Adam said. “We both found it easy to speak openly. At this moment, we have feelings for one another. We think it’s premature to call it love, but we don’t know what else to call it. And before you go wandering too far, I’m still in on this thing. I didn’t tell her anything about it, other than it is important. She respected my privacy on the matter, and we moved on.”

“We will be coming back to Pago Pago,” Trace said. “A fella showed up today who has a daughter on the island. It’s Franks’ son’s girlfriend. The girl’s parents will be waiting here.”

“Rich folks?” Adam said.

“No,” Trace said, “the guy is a mailman.”

“A mailman?” Adam questioned.

“I thought at first that was strange,” Trace said. “Demeter targets rich kids, and solicits rich parents for money. However, the girl is attractive in a cute way. We have a picture of her. She might have been used to recruit Franks’ kid. He’s some sort of mathematical computer whiz. I don’t know anything about the girl. She may have talents beyond cute.”

“How has Cally been?” Adam asked.

“He’s been good,” Trace said. “He has everybody guessing about what’s in the crates. He told me that what’s in the crates will give us a huge advantage.”

“Changing the subject back,” Adam said, “someday you’ll return to the ranch, right?”

“That’s my plan,” Trace said.

“What if Talei is there?” Adam said.

“That would be great,” Trace said. “Did you ask her how she felt about me coming back?”

“I did,” Adam said. 

“And?” Trace asked.

“What do you think?” Adam said.

“Well,” Trace said, “if you are happy, I’d sleep in the barn.”

“Yeah,” Adam said, “that’s where she said you should sleep. But just to be sure, nothing is certain. We’ve had only a little more than two days together. There’s a lot before that and a lot after that.”

Adam took a deep breath and blew it out. “There, that’s done.”

Trace smiled and patted Adam on the back and pretended to be fatherly. “There, son, you have my blessing.”

Adam stood, and grasped the door knob. He turned to Trace. “What time are we leaving tomorrow?”

“Immediately after breakfast,” Trace said. 

“Good night,” Adam nodded.

“Sweet dreams,” Trace grinned. 

Adam went to his cabin, and Trace turned off the light above his bunk and went to sleep. 

He woke a little before six and relieved Sage, who stood deck watch from 4:00 to 6:00 AM. Makani served breakfast at 7:00 AM, and at 8:00 AM, Trace started the engine. Sage and Coyote untied the lines, and The Tramp Islander slowly pulled away from the dock and into the bay. Soon, they were beyond the grip of the island at full sail and slithering effortlessly through the waves.

Trace sat at the wheel. He saw Adam on the port side of the foredeck. He leaned against the shroud of the aft mast, looking back at Samoa. He turned toward the pilothouse. He removed his hat and ran his hand over his hair. He gave Trace a half smile and placed the hat snugly on his head. He walked to the port bow and gazed at the shimmering blue open seas.

Trace saw something he never thought he would ever see; his dad was in love.

The Porcelain Perambulator

  Alex held a small porcelain perambulator between his forefinger and thumb. He twisted it slowly, examining the intricacies. His eyes slowly rose and looked around the shop of porcelain figurines of all varieties. The shop had not changed in thirty years. It was full of memories. Only one figurine was of interest to him. 

  The hardwood floor creaked as before and in the identical places. The smell was as he remembered - the faint odor of lilac and cinnamon from a potpourri on a small table next to the door. His attention returned to the perambulator. For a moment, he returned to a forgotten time - an innocent and carefree time, a time long ago. A tear of longing formed in his eye. A deep sadness hovered over him like a cloak.

The shopkeeper asked politely, "Can I help you with something today, sir?"

"Yes," Alex said, quickly shaking his melancholy and replying adroitly. "I wish to purchase this. No need to wrap it."

The shopkeeper chuckled and leaned forward, propping himself with his hands against the counter. Looking over the tops of his spectacles, he said, "Oh, I'm afraid, sir, that one is not for sale. It is special, but if you're determined to purchase something, we have many others, and I think you will find something to your liking."

Alex smiled politely as he instantly took an estimate of the middle-aged shopkeeper with a broom mustache and a worn brown button sweater. "I was quite surprised that I would find this one still here. It has been thirty years, and I will pay ten times its value."

"Others have inquired of that one over the years, but it is not for sale at a thousand times its value, sir."

Alex pulled on his French cuffs from beneath the sleeves of his custom-tailored Italian suit. "Is this not a shop, and do you not earn a livelihood from selling porcelain?"

"Yes, but everything else you may purchase, except that one," the shopkeeper said, reaching over and tapping the perambulator with his finger. He picked it up. He smiled and looked at it fondly.

Alex pulled it from the shopkeeper. "If you knew how special it is to me, you would fix a price and sell it to me. You see, thirty years ago, my young wife and I bicycled to this town every Saturday. We were poor then. We came to this shop, and each time she picked up this very perambulator and admired it. We had no money for it at the time. It would mean so much to me if you would fix a price and send me on my way."

"Oh yes, I remember you two well. She was pretty, lovely, and kind. One does not easily forget beauty, loveliness, and kindness. Yes, I remember. Every Saturday at nearly two, you strolled into and out of the shop, and down the street you continued. You had tea down the way. She was very much in love with you. I could tell. I was a young lad then dusting the shop for my father, who dusted for his father, who dusted for his father."

"I remember your father, a kind man who wore a monocle. I believe the right eye." "Yes, that was him."

"Is he still with us?"

"He tends the shop on Mondays only."

"If he were here, what price would he fix upon it?"

"You should have inquired from him thirty years ago."

"Are you being flippant, sir?"

"Why should I do that, sir? I stated my case, and that is the much of it."

"Confound it, man! Sell me the perambulator."

"Sir, it is not for sale."

"It is important to me," Alex pleaded.

"When it was important to her, you would not even consider buying it. You did not even inquire about its price then. My father told me he would have given it to the young lady if only you had asked, but you had no intention or interest in it, but she did."

"Do you know who I am? I am Alexander Crowley. I have crushed corporations and banks. I've met half the Prime Ministers and heads of state in the civilized world. I could buy this shop. I could buy this town. I could buy you."

"But you can't buy that perambulator. I know who you are. Everyone knows who you are. I read the papers and watch TV. Your wife is dead now, isn't she, Mr. Crowley? I truly mourn your loss."

"Thank you, sir. Then you know how important this is to me."

"You see, sir, I won't sell it to you because it is important to you. Thirty years ago, you had no intentions of buying it, and she knew it. Did the years continue to be selfish ones, Mr. Crowley? You are buying this for yourself, Mr. Crowley, not for her. It will now only bring you pleasure. It will only make you feel good. Your opportunity to please her has long passed."

"I gave her everything she wanted," Alex exclaimed angrily.

The shopkeeper retorted, "Except the perambulator, sir. If you had asked, Mr. Crowley, what do you think Mrs. Crowley would have held most dear?"

Alex held the perambulator tightly in his grip. "Sell it to me, you stubborn fool." He slammed his fist to the counter, and the perambulator snapped into several pieces. Alex frightfully looked at it as it fell and crumbled from his hand. He was horrified to see blood pool like beads of sweat in his palm. He murmured slowly, "What have I done?"

The shopkeeper looked at him pathetically and handed him a tissue. "I was about to say again, Mr. Crowley, it is not for sale, but it is yours for the taking."

A Cult in Paradise; Episode 19, Guessing Game

This is episode nineteen of the fifth book in the Trace Troy Adventures in  Paradise series. The Title is A Cult in Paradise. It will be featured in episodes over the next few months. It will eventually be published in full on Amazon. All of the Trace Troy books, as well as my other novels, can be purchased on Amazon by clicking the Bookstore tab above. I hope you enjoy. And thanks for stopping by. 

Guessing Game

Mid-afternoon, a truck brought four large crates. Cally said to leave them on deck. 

Trace walked around them, rubbing the back of his neck and trying to figure out what was in them. 

Cally walked up to Trace. “Got your attention, does’t it?”

“What’s in them?” Trace said.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Cally grinned.

“Anti-aircraft guns?” Trace guessed jokingly.

“Could be,” Cally said.

“Hope it comes with instructions,” Trace said, “because it looks like it's come in pieces.”

“What’s it these crates will give us an incredible advantage?” Cally said.

“We’re not going nuclear, are we?” Trace quipped.

“Shoot,” Cally said, “you ruined the surprises.”

Trace ordered pizza, and it was delivered. The crew gathered on deck and sat on the crates. There were several guesses. Cally gave everybody a guess. The one closest, he would give them a hundred dollars.

“It’s a hot air balloon,” Sage said. “We will float over the island, lower a rope, and climb down.”

“Nah,” Coyote said, “it’s a submersible craft. We’ll have to assemble it on the way.”

“Makani think it big blow up Polynesian warrior. One hundred feet tall. They worship it and we sneak in and get boy and girl.”

“Hey,” Trace said, “if that’s not it, let’s scrap all our plans and go with what Makani said.”

“What about you? Cally said to Pete.

Pete scratched his head as his mouth turned downward. “Trace and Adam go to the island and say we have a package to deliver. They say they didn’t order anything. Trace says, ‘Sign here. It’s yours. A sign on the crate says, Don’t open until Christmas.’ When everybody is asleep, me, Sage, Coyote, Makani, and Cally go find the boy and girl. Everybody gets back in the box. The next day, Trace and Adam come back. Adam says we are so sorry, but my idiot son delivered to the wrong island; sorry for the mix-up. Take the box back to the boat, and everybody goes home.”

“Okay, everybody, you’re all wrong,” Cally joked. “I just saved a hundred dollars.”

“What about me?” Trace said. 

“You already said nuclear weapon and anti-aircraft gun,” Cally said. “You already got your guess and you stole Adam’s.”

“Somehow, this doesn’t seem fair,” Trace said.

“Hey,” Cally said, “my game, my money, my rules.”

Maybe It's Just Me: Cracker Barrel

  Maybe it's just me, and it usually is, but I haven't eaten at Cracker Barrel in a few years. I used to eat there once or twice a month. For one stretch, I ate there every week.   

  When my wife and I went back home a few years ago. We met her family at Cracker Barrel, as we customarily do. There may have been as many as twenty of us.  Good food, great atmosphere, reasonable prices, and good service - what else can you ask for?

  I heard that Cracker Barrel's business had fallen off since COVID. That's happened to a lot of places. Due to deaths, my wife's family has gotten smaller. I don't think the fall off in her family would affect Cracker Barrel's bottom line that much.

  What happens when business falls off? The company starts looking for why. Looking is the operative word, not just speculating or asking others to speculate for you. 

  After the Cracker Barrel CEO likely thought it all out, she said, "Hey, it has to be the decor and our logo. It doesn't reflect today. We can't live in the past. I don't." 

News flash, even when the decor and logo were new, they didn't reflect the present. That was the charm and appeal; it took the customer back to a simple time. I liked looking at and reminiscing about all the old stuff hanging on the walls. It gave me something to do and talk about while waiting - a long time for my food!

  Changing the decor when business falls off is like getting a new paint job on your car, thinking it will run better, when all it needs is new sparkplugs. 

  Food, service, and decor are the Cracker Barrel brand. 

  I'm here to say that my last visits to the Cracker Barrel have been less than what I had previously been accustomed. The meals were not nearly as good, and the service was lacking. That's it.

  I would go so far as to say that the CEO of Cracker Barrel has spent scant time working on the floor or in the kitchen. If so, she would know the food's quality has slipped and how to remedy it. She would know the core of the problem is likely good hiring practices and training. That's the hard work. It's not a quick fix. They didn't lose customers overnight, and they won't gain them back overnight. 

  What the CEO proposed was waving a magic wand. 

  The CEO's previous experience was at places like Taco Bell and Starbucks. Enough said. Frankly, I don't blame her; I blame those who hired her.

A Cult in Paradise; Episode 18, Sylvia

This is episode eighteen of the fifth book in the Trace Troy Adventures in  Paradise series. The Title is A Cult in Paradise. It will be featured in episodes over the next few months. It will eventually be published in full on Amazon. All of the Trace Troy books, as well as my other novels, can be purchased on Amazon by clicking the Bookstore tab above. I hope you enjoy. And thanks for stopping by. 

Sylvia

The next morning at 7:00 AM, Talei picked up Adam in her car. Before getting into the car, he gave an informal wave to Trace, who sat in the pilothouse. Trace reached out the window and gave a short wave.

Trace spent the rest of the day either on The Tramp Islander or taking a couple of short walks. During one walk, he stopped at a bar for a beer. 

Trace sat at the bar and ordered a dark draft. A tourist, a bald, round man in his sixties, sat three stools away.

“I saw you get off the schooner,” the man said. “Are you the captain?”

“That’s what the hat says,” Trace said and sipped his beer.

“Where did you sail from?” The man asked.

“Suva,” Trace said, “Fiji.”

“That’s quite a way,” the man said. “How long did it take you?”

“I’m not sure,” Trace said. “I just got here when I got here.”

“I’d say about five days,” the man said.

Trace ignored him.

“You heading back to Suva or going elsewhere?” The man asked.

“By nature,” Trace said, “I’m not rude, but I really have some serious things on my mind and I’d just like to be left alone.”

“I find the beach is a good place to go when you want to think things over,” the man said.

Trace took a couple of large gulps from his glass of beer. He set the half-full glass on the bar. He stood and walked toward the door.

“You are rude,” the man said. 

“Just heading to the beach,” Trace said. “Taking your advice.”

Trace didn’t go to the beach. He walked a little further and returned to The Tramp Islander. He didn’t want to take any chances of the inquisitive stranger showing up at the beach and engaging in any further attempts at conversation. 

Trace returned to the pilothouse and read through some reports on Demeter’s cult. Something on shore caught his attention. It was the man from the bar. He paced back and forth next to The Tramp Islander.

After a few times, he stopped at the gangplank. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy!”

Trace placed the file on the chart desk and walked to the gangplank.

“What is it you want?” Trace said.

“I knew you wouldn’t go to the beach,” the man said. “We had an accidental meeting back there, but I was looking for you all along.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Trace said. “What is it you want?”

“Can I come aboard?” The man said.

“No,” Trace said. “And like I said back at the bar, I have a lot of things on my mind, and I want to be left alone.”

The man reached into the side pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a white envelope and tossed it onboard. It fell next to Trace’s feet. Trace looked at it lying on the deck and back at the man.

“Inside is twenty-five thousand dollars,” the man said. “I know where you are going. I have a daughter on that island.”

Trace motioned with his head toward the pilothouse. The man came aboard and followed Trace to the pilothouse.

They stepped inside, and Trace said, “Have a seat on the bench.” Trace sat on the chair at the chart desk.

“Who sent you?” Trace said.

“Franks,” the man said.

“How do you know Franks?” Trace asked.

“I don’t,” the man said. “What I mean is, I didn’t know him until a couple of days ago.”

“And how did you meet?” Trace asked.

“I visited him,” the man said.

“What brought you to Frank's?” Trace asked.

“My daughter is Franks’ son’s girlfriend,” the man said.

“And she’s with Franks’ son?” Trace asked.

“As far as I know,” the man said.

“She’s the one who contacted Franks?” Trace asked.

“Yes,” the man said.

“And you want us to rescue her, too?” Trace said.

“Yes,” the man said.

Trace turned away. He rubbed his cheek.

“Look,” the man said, “I don’t have anywhere near the money Franks has. I’m a mail man. That money is all I have. I had to borrow from an uncle and a friend to scrape that together. If it takes more, I’ll sign an IOU.”

“Where are you from?” Trace asked.

The man twisted his head slightly to the side as if not quite hearing or understanding. 

“You know, town or state,” Trace said.

“Wichita, Kansas,” he said.

“What are the zip codes?” Trace said. 

“There’s quite a few,” the man said. “They all start with six seven.”

“What zip code do you deliver?” Trace asked.

“Six, seven, two, zero, eight,” the man said.

“You’re kind of chubby for a mailman,” Trace said.

“I haven’t walked a route in years,” the man said. “I delivered from a jeep.”

“Are they in love?” Trace asked.

“Yes,” the man said. 

“What’s Franks’ boy’s name?” Trace asked.

“Paul Parnell,” the man said. “My daughter’s name is Sylvia Bedford. My name is Wallace Bedford, they call me Wally.”

Trace hung his head and looked at the floor. 

“I can get more money,” Wally said. 

Trace looked up. “It’s not that. You see, whoever I try to rescue, I believe their lives will be at greatest risk. Demeter has likely trained his guards to recapture or kill one of his before one of ours. He will create martyrs. Your daughter will be at greater risk.”

“I think she will be willing to take that risk,” Wally said. “She has already risked a lot to get word to me and Paul’s mother.”

“So Paul Parnell brings your daughter into this cult,” Trace began speaking. “If I’m able to get Sylvia out with no problem, do I leave Parnell behind?”

“You have it all wrong,” Wally said. “My daughter brought Paul into it.”

“Hmm,” Trace said, “he leaves a possible career in a rapidly growing industry for the woman he loves, and a member of a cult. That guy was in an emotional knot. Then you have a girl risking everything to make contact for help.”

“The sums it up,” Wally said. 

“If that’s the case,” Trace said. “I don’t think one would leave the other behind under any circumstances. If we find Parnell first, he won’t leave without Sylvia.”

“I guess I’ve complicated things,” Wally said.

“Hardly,” Trace said. “You’ve probably given us one of the most important bits of information we have. It changes a lot of things. Not knowing this, we would have been doomed to failure. We may not succeed as it is.”

“Then you will rescue Sylvia?” Wally said hopefully. 

“A picture would be nice,” Trace held out his hand.

Wally pulled his wallet from his back pocket. He opened it to the pictures and handed it to Trace. Trace removed the picture and handed the wallet back.

Trace looked at the picture. It looked like a picture taken at an arcade. Her face was full of life. Her dark hair turned up on the ends. She had a wide, full smile showing plenty of straight teeth.“Pretty girl,” he said. 

“She looks like her mother at that age,” Wally said. “I married up. Her hair is longer now.” 

“I’m taking this,” Trace said. 

“Sure.” Wally gestured to take it. “When do you plan on everything happening?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you,” Trace said. “Right now, I have a good story, a picture, and a worried dad. Don’t get me wrong, I believe you, but sometimes it’s not good to trust your instincts. Folks can be mighty cunning and deceptive.”

“I understand,” Wally said. “Knowing you’re this cautious is assuring. I’m on vacation and you know…”

“Yeah, I understand,” Trace said, “you have got to get back to work.”

“I have a whole month coming to me,” Wally said. “And I can take a leave of absence for up to a year.”

Trace stood. It indicated he was done. Wally hesitated and stood. Trace shook Wally’s hand.

“If Sylvia’s there, we’ll get her back,” Trace said. “Every man on this boat is as tough as nails.”

“Thanks,” Wally said.

“On your way out, pick up that envelope full of money. We’re running a two-for-one sale this month,” Trace said. “Call your wife. Use the money to fly her here. Support each other. And when we bring your daughter back, have a good vacation. Samoa is a great vacation spot.”