Aunt Sadie's Locket

She was the last in my family of her generation to die. Aunt Sadie lived to be one hundred and two. She was actually a great-aunt, my grandfather’s sister.

Over the years my reasons for returning to a small Indiana farm town became less and less, but Aunt Sadie was always on my agenda. This year will likely be my last.

Aunt Sadie was dead and I sat alone in a funeral home sixteen miles from where she was born, raised, lived, and died. She never married although it was said she was engaged many years ago. She was a mystery to many in the family and community. She lived a quiet life. She was the town clerk for fifty years and held all the town’s secrets.

She was special and kind to me. She had the ability to pass on a pearl of wisdom at the most opportune time.

“The most precious things in life are no larger than your heart or a memory,” she always said and she would press her hand against a locket she wore around her neck. It was in the shape of a heart.

“What is inside the locket, Aunt Sadie?” I asked her when I was very young.

She smiled contentedly and said, “A teardrop.”

A skinny young man with curly blond hair arrived with a hurried stride.

He extended his hand as he looked around the room with only me and a closed coffin. “I’m Reverend Archie, youth pastor at…,” he motioned with his head toward Aunt Sadie’s closed coffin and continued, “her church.”

I smugly looked over his attire of well-worn running shoes, jeans, a t-shirt, and a cross carved from wood around his neck. “I wasn’t aware she,” I motioned to the coffin with my head and continued, “I wasn’t aware she belonged to a church.”

“Yes,” Reverend Archie said. “She never attended, but sent a hundred-dollar check the first of every month.”

“Did you know her?” I said.

“No,” Reverend Archie said.

“Did anyone know her?” I said.

“No,” Reverend Archie said. “I was sitting with the head pastor and the assistant this morning and they didn’t know her either. I’ve never done a funeral before so they sent me. They thought I needed the training.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You gotta start someplace.”

“Is this it?” Reverend Archie said.

“Yeah,” I said. “So listen, why don’t you just go if that’s not asking too much?”

“Sure,” Reverend Archie said. “But who pays me?”

“Look, Reverend Archie,” I said placing my hand on his back and gently directing him to the exit. “It’s only the fifth of the month. She’s not around to use up her monthly contribution, take it out of that.”

Reverend Archie left and I sat for another ten minutes.

Before leaving I stopped into the office of the funeral director. He was a bald round man with a nervous manner.

“I’m leaving now,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “And again, sorry for your loss.”

I smiled. “Is everything taken care of?”

“Yes,” he said. “And you want us to take care of the ashes.”

“Yes,” I said. “Per her instructions.”

I nodded and turned to leave his office.

“Oh, sir,” he said. “There is something for you.” He reached into his desk drawer and handed an envelope to me.

“Thanks,” I smiled.

I walked to the car and got in. I opened the envelope. Inside was Aunt Sadie’s locket and a note.

It read:

“Inside the locket is a picture of a doughboy who lost his life in France six months after it was taken. He was my love. He was my passion. I should tell you that besides his photo is one teardrop. Possess nothing larger than your heart and a memory, my dear lad. It is the small things that bring you the greatest joy and happiness.”

Aunt Sadie

The Chair

painting by James Augsburger

Daniel stood in the living room of a cabin designed by his own imagination, built with his own two hands, and finished by his own grit. Half of it rested on the pebbled shore. The other half was supported on eight by eight pilings above the small lapping waves of a blue water lake.

He was arranging the furniture; sort of the finishing touch to his project. Everything fit but the leather chair inherited from his father. Well, not inherited—nobody else wanted it and Daniel was far too sentimental to leave it at the curb as junk for waste removal. However, for its age, it was surprisingly in good shape.

The view from the living room spanned across a lake dyed blue by the sky above. Rock bass, bluegill, and catfish swimming on the ten-foot bottom seemed close enough to touch. The oaks and maples a half-mile across the smooth blue lake huddled in green masses like clusters of moss.

Rushes of wind parted and bent the trees almost like the waves of wheat near harvest. They swayed and twisted as if dancing to some ancient song heard and known only by them.

“It is no wonder natives built legends and myths around nature,” Daniel thought. “I think it started out knowing that nature is scientific and logical but the creativity in them wanted to make it romantic and fear-inspiring beyond something as simple as—‘God created the heavens and the earth.’”

“Oh my God this is beautiful,” Daniel cried to no one but God.

In almost a reverential mood he slid the leather tufted chair across the hard oak floors until it rested in front of a large glass picture window. He stood back to gage if it sat in the right place.

He sat in the leather chair. A familiar soft odor surrounded him. He continued his gaze at the lake. He could not sit in that chair without thinking of his father. His father sat in that chair for years reading and occasionally looking off into the distance.

“Dad had to have seen something besides smokestacks and utility wires,” Daniel thought. “That’s all that was outside our window.”

Daniel recalled a day when he was about fourteen. “What are you looking at, Dad?”

“Just looking,” Dad said.

He never told Daniel what he was looking at or imagining. At one time Daniel thought his dad may be going insane.

Daniel now thought, “Why didn’t he just once share what was on his mind?”

“There was the day I turned 18,” Daniel thought. “I asked him when he was ever going to tell me what he was thinking or what he saw.”

His dad replied, “Someday you will know what I’m looking at and what I thought.” His dad continued. “When I was 18 my Uncle Warren, you remember me telling you about him don’t you? Not much of a real Uncle. More like an older guy your parents tell you to stay away from. He told me for my graduation he’d take me on a road trip to California. He said he saved a lot of money for it and we take the entire summer. Truth is, Uncle Warren had just enough to make as far as Wyoming. The car broke down. He had no money for repairs. I had a buck fifty in my pocket and Uncle Warren said you’re on your own, kid. I eventually made it back home. Found a couple of odd jobs on the way. There was this one place I will never forget. It was a blue water lake surrounded by trees. I still see that lake and I have no regrets about what good ole Uncle Warren did. Because of him, I have a place to go whenever I want to.”

Daniel smiled soft and easy and thought as he sat in the chair, “This has to be the lake. Sitting here in this chair, I know, I know what he saw. He saw this long before I did.”

Daniel stood and moved behind the chair. “I’ve picked a good place for this chair. Dad, look all that you want to.”

No Camels, No Love

 John Smith had no time for love until he was 40.

He explored the Amazon. Scaled 10 of the most famous mountains in the world. Sailed around the world 3 times. Spent a winter in Siberia, led an expedition to the South Pole, fought in two African wars, sipped coffee in cafes along the Champs Elysees, played snooker with the Duke of Wellington and the Prince of Wales, lived with Bedouins, hunted seals and Reindeer with Laplanders, killed a lion with his bare hands in Kenya, herded yaks in Mongolia, raised cattle on a ranch in Montana, and mined gold in the Yukon. He was an Alaskan bush pilot, worked on oil rigs in Saudi Arabia, smuggled diamonds out of Botswana, owns a coffee plantation in Honduras, a rubber plantation in Indonesia, a winery in California, and an olive grove in Greece, owns a golf course in Spain, a cattle ranch in Argentina, a restaurant in New York City, a movie production company in India, a Hotel in The Azores, a software firm in Ireland, an automobile parts manufacturing plant in Poland, and a Bank in the Caymans.

That was all by the age of 30.

For the next 10 years, he was even more active.

In all that time love had alluded John.

And finally, one day while sipping cognac at the ancient ruins of Loulan, a frontier outpost on the Taklamakan Desert in China love happened. After living with Chinese goat herders for a month he proposed to a herder’s daughter.

She declined his proposal. He promised her the world and her father 1,000 goats. The father insisted on three camels. John could not meet the bride price.

Years later when a journalist asked him how love and marriage managed to avoid him? He simply replied, “When the price of love is three camels in a two camel village it is not meant to be.”

Yet it is rumored there is a lad who herds 4,000 goats and has twelve camel dealerships in the Taklamakan Desert who bears a striking resemblance to John Smith. 

Jim's Painting

Painting by James Augsburger 

Jim's favorite coffee shop was a short walk from his home. Since retiring five years ago he hardly missed a day there. The coffee shop catered to the college crowd. However, nonscholars frequented enough to keep the place real. 

Since retirement, he engaged in a passion once held at bay for decades—painting. He last painted his first year of college and from that point on, he simply could not find the time. His career as a surgeon, husband, and father left little time for anything else. There were, of course, no regrets; after all, painting, though a passion, was not a priority.

Over the years, in reflective moments, he’d catch sight of something and mentally paint it. He must have stored away a thousand images but painted none.

Jim walked into the coffee shop. It was a cozy place. A variety of comfortable chairs and tables; a place for folks to meet and exchange thoughts, theories, concepts, and reminisce. Before reaching the counter, Henry, the manager had his coffee ready.

“Thanks, Henry,” Jim said and handed Henry two dollars. “Keep the change.”

“Have any of my paintings sold recently?” Jim said. 

“Not since last month,” Henry smiled. He looked around to see if perhaps another had sold without his knowledge.

Jim also looked around to where four paintings remained hanging. “Perhaps I should just take them down and give them to friends. They seem to be doing no more than collecting dust.”

“I dust them," Henry said. “I’d hate to see them removed. Customers enjoy them.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Jim said. “I’m certainly not doing it for money, although there is a certain satisfaction in knowing somebody views them worthy of purchase.”

“By the way,” Henry said, “notice the man in the brown sweater.” He nodded to a man sitting at the front of the shop.

Jim glanced. “Yes, what about him?”

“He’s in here a little later than normal,” Henry said. “He’s usually one of our first customers. He sits in the same spot and looks at your painting all the time.”

“Coming here, I don’t doubt his taste in good coffee but to be that attracted to my painting, I doubt his taste for good art,” Jim smiled.

“You’re far too modest,” Henry said.

“You’re far too flattering,” Jim said. “Do you know who he is?”

“No,” Henry said, “but speaks with an accent. It may be German. It’s not heavy. I never ask him to repeat himself. Actually speaks better English than three-fourths of our customers. He’s polite and tips the same as you do.”

“Hmm, a big spender,” Jim quipped.

Jim sipped his coffee. “Very good coffee, as usual. I think I’ll introduce myself to the man. Perhaps he’d like to meet a modest artist.” Jim smiled and walked to the table where the man in the brown sweater sat.

“Hello,” Jim said to the man. “Allow me to introduce myself, I’m James Rupert. That is my painting above your table. The man at the counter, Henry, says you seem intrigued with my painting.”

The man leaned back and gazed at Jim. He smiled coyly.  “James, I’m Wolfgang Broeger. Please, have a seat.”

They shook hands and Jim sat at the small table across from the Wolfgang. 

“I retired from medicine a few years ago and started painting,” Jim said sensing something peculiarly familiar but unable to recall anything. “I brought my work in here; one reason, for people to enjoy and another reason, my wife said my paintings would clutter the house.”

“Wives,” Wolfgang grinned, “you can't live with them, you can't live with them.”

“She’s right,” Jim said. “What good are they unless someone at least looks at them."

"We are talking about the wives or paintings?" Wolfgang smiled. 

 "I guess it could be both," Jim said to play along. "But paintings have a way of calming folks.”

“I’m a retired professor from the university,” Wolfgang said.

“What department?” Jim said.

“Economics,” Wolfgang said, “Eastern European Economics is what I taught. I started out in med school but it was too challenging. So I switched to something I better understood.”

“You’re from Eastern Europe?” Jim said.

“Austria,” Wolfgang said. “I came here in the eighties.”

“Does the painting remind you of Austria?” Jim said.

“Yes,” Wolfgang said.

“Good,” Jim said, “because it is a scene from the Austrian Alps. I was there many years ago.”

“Fascinating,” Wolfgang said, “I know the place you painted. That’s why I come in here and look at it.”

“You know it!?” Jim asked.

“Yes,” Wolfgang said, “in fact, the house in the painting belongs to my family. Of course, it no longer stands as it does in your painting. It has been replaced by a more modern home. It remains with my family. It belongs to my brother.”

“Are you sure?” Jim said.

“Absolutely,” Wolfgang said. “And what brought you to Austria?”

“After my first year in med school, a pharmaceutical company sponsored a retreat for some med students,” Jim said. “I was chosen to go to Austria. We met with some Austrian med students.”

“The summer of ‘71?” Wolfgang’s eyes widened and he leaned forward.

Jim sipped his coffee and curiously looked closely at Wolfgang. “Yes, the summer of ‘71. This is very strange.”

“That painting is from a position on top of a rock, no?” Wolfgang said.

“Yes,” Jim said.

“It was me and you on that rock together, no?” Wolfgang said. “So brief and so long ago.” 

“Ten days,” Jim said, “we became such good friends.”

“And promised to keep in touch,” Wolfgang said.

“Yes,” Jim said with a slight tone of regret.

“But life is funny,” Wolfgang said. “So long ago and we meet here. It can’t be explained.”

I’m a physician,” Jim said. “My career was full of things that can’t be explained.”

Wolfgang laughed. “And economics can be explained!”

Both eased back in their chairs. They studied each other. They saw their faces young and slowly transform and age; twenties, thirties, forties, fifties, sixties, and now.

“When things happen like this, what next?” Jim said.

“We enjoy it,” Wolfgang said. “It is a gift neither of us expected and those are the best gifts.”

“I think my morning coffees have somehow become more meaningful and interesting,” Jim said.

God And Secrets

It was one of those nights; a night for reflection, regret, and whisky. Nights that we tell tales of lost loves, passions, and dreams. It is when the night goes on forever and the sun rises too early. Desperation fills the spaces between the stars and the stars are connected by a script that spells loneliness and emptiness.

Two men sat at a table in a cabin in the woods in the middle of nowhere.

“Tell me a secret no one else knows,” Mel said.

“It will no longer be a secret,” Nick said

“God knows,” Mel said. “So tell me.”

“God can keep a secret,” Nick said.

“Then tell me,” Mel said. “And both god and me will know.”

“Then let god tell you,” Nick said.

Optimism

 Allen dragged himself into the bar and pulled himself up to his favorite stool next to Zander. 

“Whoa,” Zander said. “It looks to me you’ve been run through the wringer twice. There ain’t enough left of you to bury.”

“It’s been a bad week,” Allen said.

“Couldn’t have been that bad,” Zander said.

“My wife left me for another man. My dog got ran over by a car. My son will be in juvy for six months. My daughter told me she’s pregnant. I’m three months behind on my house payment. My car was repoed in the middle of the night. I got fired today. The IRS wants to audit me.”

“You need to have a positive outlook on things,” Zander said. He slid his half-full glass in front of Allen. 

“I suppose you’re going to pull that is the glass half full or half empty crap on me,” Allen said. 

“No,” Zander said. “That’s how pessimists think. They want you to think it's water. The optimist pours his glass half full or half empty of vodka. It makes no difference. Just remember it’s not how much is in the glass, it’s what is in the glass.”

Allen smiled. “You mind if I have a sip?”

“No,” Zander said. “Take a good one.”

Allen slowly wrapped his fingers around the glass. He brought it toward his lips and as he did his eyes shifted to Zander. Allen smiled appreciatively. He downed a quick swig. “It’s water!”

Zander smiled. “But for a moment or two, you felt pretty good didn’t you?”

“Yeah, Zander, you know how to lift a guy's spirits,” Allen said. “Things will work out.”

“Sure,” Zander assured. “You’ll get a new dog. Your son will get out of juvy. You’ll have a beautiful grandchild to hold. That house was too much for you anyway. You’ll get another car. You’ll find another job. Make a deal with the IRS to take your house.”

“What about my wife?” Allen said.

“Just have her mail sent to my place,” Zander said.

Ripples

Jack was facing some tough choices in his life. He was thinking about changing jobs and moving. He drove out to his older brother, Ralph’s

Ralph was a quiet reflective man.

“Let’s take a walk,” Ralph said and pointed to a path that led through the high grass and into the woods. As they approached the path Ralph said, “Pick up a hand full of pebbles.”

Jack bent down and gathered a handful of pebbles. He looked at Ralph not knowing what to do with them.

“Put them in your pocket,” Ralph said.

Jack was confused, but he did what Ralph told him to do.

“We don’t take time for reflection,” Ralph said to Jack as they walked along the path.

“What do you mean?” Jack said.

“Our grandfather used to walk this same path nearly every day,” Ralph said. “It was sometime during the day; in the morning, afternoon, or after supper. There were days he missed, but not many.”

They walked until reaching a pond lined with maples.

“It’s a good pond,” Ralph said. “Not many people know it’s here. I always wondered what Grandpa did out here.”

They arrived at the water’s edge.

“Have a seat,” Ralph said pointing to a large rock. “Between grandpa and me you’d have figured by now we’d have worn this rock away.”

“What did Grandpa do here,” Jack said.

“He made decisions,” Ralph said.

They sat on the rock.

Ralph reached down and picked up a pebble. “This is a decision.” He held the pebble in his thumb and index finger. He rolled it between his fingers. He tossed it in the pond. “What do you see?”

“Ripples,” Jack said.

“Every decision has ripples,” Ralph said.

“What if you don’t make a decision?” Jack said.

Ralph stared over the pond as if Jack said nothing. Finally, a fish splashed. “There’s your ripple. If you don’t make it somebody else will.”

“Stand up,” Ralph said.

Jack stood.

Ralph smiled. “Now empty your pockets of those pebbles. Sometimes we have to empty ourselves of decisions and then pick them up one at a time.”

Jack nodded and smiled. “You and Grandpa are a lot alike.”

“Let’s go back to my place,” Ralph said.

“You go ahead,” Jack said. “I’ll be along in a while. I got a ripple to make.”

Sex And Dirty Words Before Publishing, Please

 Skip just walked into his office at home, the space where he wrote.

The phone rang.

“Hello,” Skip said and sat behind his desk.

“Is this Skip Rollins?”

“Yes, it is,” Skip said.

“Good, I’m Dale Blakely, the agent you sent the manuscript to.”

“I’m glad to hear from you, Dale,” Skip said excitedly.

“I read your manuscript,” Dale said. “And I’m really excited about representing you.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Skip said. “My friend, Butch Walings, who you represent recommended you.”

“You have a good story and well written,” Dale said. “I don’t say this often, but I couldn’t put it down.”

“That’s encouraging to hear,” Skip smiled broadly.

“There are a few adjustments I will recommend that will assure publication,” Dale said. “What I’m going to do is send your manuscript back with a contract. Sign the contract immediately and get it back to me. That way I can start talking to some friends I have in the publishing business about your novel. What I do is get them eager and before long they are asking me for the manuscript, then begging. So during the next month, I want you to make some recommended changes. Then I can plop it into the lap of a publisher.”

“Incredible!” Skip said. “What suggestions do you have in mind?”

“Make the character, Charles Flowers, gay,” Dale said. “Nothing graphic, but just an added layer of conflict and realism.”

“But he’s not gay,” Skip said. “How real is that?”

“You’re the writer, make it real,” Dale said. “Weave it in. And don’t your people ever curse? Toss in an F-bomb here and there.”

“Normally I opt for just saying that the character cursed,” Skip said. “I allow the readers’ own background and breeding to fill in what was said when it comes to cursing.”

“That doesn’t make sense, you know?” Dale said. “Your characters have to have sex and curse and … well do things people do to make life complete.”

“There are all sorts of ways to use the bathroom,” Skip said. “My characters just go to the bathroom without an announcement or graphic description. Sometimes my characters don’t even go to the bathroom the entire story, but they got to relieve themselves sometimes. We know they do. If not, there would be a collective gush at the end of the novel.”

“As it is, Skip,” Dale said. “Your novel will never sell.”

“But you read it,” Skip said. “And you said you couldn’t put it down.”

“But I can’t get it past a publisher in its present form,” Dale said. “They won’t even consider it.”

“If you like it as much as you said you did that shouldn’t be much of a problem,” Skip said. “I’m sorry. Dale, the story and writing is true, to change it would be like drawing a mustache on the Mona Lisa.”

Honest Bob

 “Who is this?”

“It’s Bob from Express TV.”

“Bob, I have Saucer TV.”

“I can save you money.”

“Bob, How much money?”

“$25 a month, that’s $300 a year.”

“What would that be for two years, Bob?”

“We overcharge the second year and get our $300 back.”

“So, Bob, why should I change from Saucer TV to Express TV.”

“I’ve been honest.”

“What if I take Express TV for a year and cancel, Bob, what will it cost?

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“That’s right, nothing. But we will make your life miserable.”

“How can that be, Bob?”

“We’ll ruin your credit and hound you the rest of your living days.”

“So once again, Bob, why should I change from Saucer TV to Express TV?”

“Because I’m honest.”

“Tell me, Bob, how is the reception and service?”

“At first it’s really good.”

“Then what happens?”

“Problems.”

“Bob, tell me what kind of problems?”

“Big problems. It will be days before you get reception again.”

“So if that’s going to happen why should I switch from Saucer TV to Express TV?”

“Because I’ve been honest.”

“What about the service, Bob?”

“You want to know about the service?”

“That’s what I said.”

“There is none. The last time you’ll see anything that resembles service is at the installation and poof! They get deported or have to serve out the rest of their sentence for parole violation.”

“Okay, Bob, so if that’s going to happen why should I switch from Saucer TV to Express TV?”

“Because I’ve been honest.”

“Have you lied to me about anything during this phone call?”

“My name is not Bob, it‘s Bill”

“I can’t trust you Bill: here, I thought all along, I was talking to Bob.

"Goodbye.”

Lobe

Jennifer needed an account representative. She was halfway through all the candidates. She walked to the lobby and smiled at a young man. “Carlton Jones?’

“Yes,” he said.

“This way please,” she said and he followed her to an office.

“Have a seat,” Jennifer said and she sat behind her desk.

“I see that you included adding your nickname, Lobe, to your application, Mr. Jones,” Jennifer said. “Why is that?”

“Yeah,” Lobe said. “I got named Lobe when I got them stretched and I want people to feel comfortable enough around me that they’ll call me by my nickname rather than Carlton.”

“Does Carlton bother you?” Jennifer said.

“Oh no,” Lobe said. “It just seems formal and I want people to relax around me.”

“Have you always been that way?” Jennifer said, “wanting people to feel relaxed around you.”

“Oh yeah,” Lobe said. “For as long as I can remember. Honesty has always been important to me.”

“Than this will likely come as no surprise to you,” Jennifer said. “Your application and resume are satisfactory, but your appearance is disturbing. That stretched earlobe is distracting and disturbing. It will turn clients in the other direction.”

“I don’t know what that has to do with it?” Lobe said.

“To the contrary of what you indicated about wanting people to be relaxed around you,” Jennifer said, “the stretched earlobe makes people squeamish, painful, and uncomfortable.”

“People like that are not accepting and tolerant of differences,” Lobe said.

“No they aren’t,” Jennifer said. “They are normal.”

“Tell me what normal is?” Lobe said.

“How can I explain normal to you?” Jennifer said. “Clearly you have some sort of issues that have driven you to distort your appearance, you could never understand what normal is.”

“Look,” Lobe said. “I’m tired of people judging me for how I look. You can’t judge a book by its cover.”

“That expression comes from a time when all books had the same cover,” Jennifer said. “There were no graphics or pictures on the cover. When I see blood, chainsaws, tattoos, and stretched earlobes I know what’s inside; you’ve told me.”

“But I’m kind and gentle,” Lobe said.

“Don’t believe it for a moment,” Jennifer said. “You like grotesque so much you decided to do it to yourself.”

“Your so closed-minded,” Lobe said. “Ted Bundy looked normal.”

“Ted Bundy deceived,” Jennifer said. “I will give you one thing, Lobe, you are honest.”

“I would never harm a fly,” Lobe said.

“But you would stretch your own earlobes beyond recognition and a large enough to pass a quarter through them.”

“You are discriminating, you know?” Lobe said.

“The whole idea of an application, resume, and interview is to discriminate,” Jennifer said. “Go protest in the streets, Mr. Carlton.”