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 tried 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 several 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 ya 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. She smiled to herself pushing the cart 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, we’ll 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 occasionally to window shop. “Wanda! At the dry cleaners,” she thought. “She’s such a delight over the phone. I should have brought some dry cleaning. Never 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, Peterson’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 had us pick it up, 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 could have sent a card or made a 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. Strangely 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.”

The Big Gamble in Paradise; Episode 11

This is the tenth episode of the novel, The Big Gamble in Paradise. It has just been released. This is the second book in the Trace Troy Paradise Series. It can be purchased in the Kindle digital version or paperback. 

Episode 11

  Trace’s alarm rang at 4:00 AM. He dressed, walked out of his cabin, and climbed into the pilothouse. He switched on the instrument lights. Light rain sprinkled against the windshield. He prepared a pot of coffee from the small coffee maker in the pilothouse. He sat in the pilot’s chair and waited for the coffee to brew. A few minutes passed, and the coffeemaker sputtered, Trace poured a cup. He returned to the chair and sat in the darkness with only the instrument lights illuminating the pilothouse.

Since winning the boat this was the only time he felt a degree of calm. No thoughts rushed one against the other. He stopped to wonder what this all meant. He resigned himself to sailing without Sage. The trip to the South Seas was planned but the winning; it was more than luck. It seemed contrived and played out unwittingly by me. Was I meant to come here? Years ago this was where my father sailed. He said he came here for the adventure, to think, and to make enough money to put a down payment on a ranch. Grandpa had enough ranch for half of a dozen ranchers. It was all going to be his anyway. Dad told me I had to go to sea to find myself. He wanted to see and do something only others dared dream about. He never told me much about it, but only said I should do it.”

Thoughts continued. He finished the coffee and walked down the steps of the companionway. Makani dashed around in the galley. 

Trace knocked on Sean’s and  Chuck’s door. “Shoving off in thirty minutes. Shake a leg.” 

Trace passed by the galley. “Make sure there’s coffee.”

“It’s ready,” Makani said.

Trace climbed the stairs to the pilothouse. He flipped on a bow and stern light. He grabbed his cup and walked into the saloon. Sean and  Chuck staggered sleepily in after him.

“How’d you guys sleep?” Trace said as they drew coffee from the urn that sat on a counter between the galley and the saloon. 

They both said fine.

They sat at a table.

“Before we get some sea between us and land, how comfortable are you two with hauling copra,” Trace said. “If there’s any trepidation I want to know now before later. If you’re not good with it, I’ll let Allie before we shove off.”

“We’ve hauled it before,”  Chuck said. “We know how to handle it.”

“I know Allie,” Sean said. “She would not have given you the freight if she didn’t think you could handle it. She trusts you.”

Trace smirked. “She doesn’t know me. She trusts you.”

Sean smirked. “Spence was a drunken gamblin’ fool but he never missed a freight—but missed a lot of payments.”

 Chuck chuckled. “He couldn’t afford to. He owed everybody in every port.”

“If the truth be told,” Sean said, “it wouldn’t surprise me if he isn’t dancing right now in Djakarta or Papua. He got rid of the responsibility of his ship and his debt, all in one night. For certain, he’s not in Australia, he owes too many people back there.”

“Why did you guys stay with him so long?”

“He promised us if we’d stick with him he’d make us partners someday,” Sean said.

“He always had his eye on other boats to buy,”  Chuck said. “He’d buy another and another and make us all equal partners.”

“We believed him at first,” Sean said.

“And he truly believed himself too,”  Chuck added.

“He was a man full of promises with no promise,” Sean said. “Both me and  Chuck are suckers.”

“We liked the guy,”  Chuck said. “He was easy to work for. We didn’t always get paid on time but we got paid.”

“He came by before you found the boat,” Sean said. “He told us you gave him a thousand. He tried to give it to us.”

“We told him to take the money and get as far away from the South Seas as he could get,”  Chuck said. “We knew he was in big trouble; the biggest he’d ever been in.”

“He told us the guy he lost the boat to seemed like a good guy,” Sean said.

“But a greenhorn rookie,” Trace added.

“In so many words,” Sean said.

“It was a strange game,” Trace said. “I had the worst hand I had all night. I wasn’t afraid to lose it all on that hand. I would have only lost what I won. Nothing would have really been lost. To me, it was just a fun evening. Before the night started, I said to myself, this will be the first and last time I gamble. You know, get it out of your system, experience it once. I really think my goal was to win it and lose it all in one night. And you take Spence; that was probably his worst hand of the night and he put everything he had on the table. I guess he saw a greenhorn rookie he could bluff.”

“Maybe you did him a favor,”  Chuck said. “If he’d have won it that night he’d lose it the next.”

“Maybe it was his lucky night,” Sean said. “He lost and lost to a guy who saw to it he wasn’t broke.”

“Players got to know the table,”  Chuck said. “Maybe he knew the table pretty good.”

“What do you guys think of Makani’s coffee?” Trace said.

They raised their cups. “Good. Very good.”

“Let’s keep him happy,” Trace said. “I’ve been on ships where there’s always a guy they pick on.”

“Oh, that’s no problem. The three of us got together and decided it would be you,”  Chuck joked.

Trace smiled and stood. He grabbed his cup. “I’m about to start the engine. So you two toss the lines, and prepare to shove off.”

Yep, I Worked 30 Years in a Factory

This is the only picture I have of me at Dana.
It's an unofficial coffee break. I'm on the
right wearing an apron. On the left is Mike
Barrows, with whom I had many good
conversations and laughs. (circa early 90s)

Recently I had a phone conversation with a friend, Joe Murphy. He was the human resources manager where I worked (Dana Corporation, Lima, Ohio). 

He mentioned something to me he prefaced by saying, “This is in no way a criticism.” Oh, boy when you hear those words, it’s typically worse than criticism. However—it wasn’t. He thought it was strange that I never mentioned in any of my bios the 30 years I was employed by Dana Corporation as a machine operator. He explained that would make me a more interesting and intriguing writer to read. 

In my reply, I said I wanted my bios short; I write and I’m from northwest Ohio. I now live in Boise, Idaho. As I think about it, that sounds quite empty.

When speaking to people face to face I’m quite proud of my choice of employment for thirty years. I came in contact with some of the most incredible people—factory workers. Many artistically and intellectually gifted. Many compassionate, caring, and insightful. 

When I retired, the company had a pizza party for another retiree and me. They told me I could invite five people from the plant to the party. I could only narrow it down to fifteen. I started my list with at least double that. If I’m not mistaken, the company acquiesced at ten. And to restate I had three times that many in mind.

The looming question, at least in my mind, if you like them all so well, why not acknowledge where you worked and write about them?

Almost two decades ago I started to write about where I worked and the people worked with. I stopped. Last year I started writing about a place where I worked in the early 70s. I stopped. And even though I planned both endeavors to be works of fiction, I found it drained me emotionally. I wanted to write objectively but being too close to the situation put me in a state of constant doubt of objectivity and truthfulness. 

My second book, The Desperate Summer of ’62 was as close to autobiographical or true to life as I’ve come. I rewrote it several times. I removed actual events. I suppose in some way to bury them forever. Events and characters were rearranged and absorbed into other events and characters. 

Back to my bios. If I went to Harvard or Princeton, that would not be included in my bios. I’ve always wanted my writing to stand on its own. I didn’t want people to read my work because they were intrigued by a somewhat less-than-literary background. 

After further consideration, I will embrace my 30 years as a machine operator at Dana Corporation. I have never been ashamed of it, but I have never acknowledged its value and relevance to my life as a writer or person.

In some way what I write is, in part, a testament to the good people with whom I had the pleasure of working with, learning about, and growing from. I will adjust my bios. 

Jittery Goat YouTube; Episode #25

Sticks

 

The Big Gamble in Paradise; Episode 10

This is the tenth episode of the novel, The Big Gamble in Paradise. It has just been released. This is the second book in the Trace Troy Paradise Series. It can be purchased in the Kindle digital version or paperback. 

Episode 10

While Chuck finished painting over The Poerova, three trucks full of building supplies pulled up alongside The Tramp Islander. For the next two days, cargo was lifted from the trucks and stowed in the hold. Sean operated a small onboard crane to lift the cargo from the trucks and lower them into the hold. Chuck stowed the cargo tightly in place, and at times Sean climbed into the hold to give him a hand. During that time, Trace cared for some business and legal matters, and Makani bought supplies from a list compiled by Trace. Sean, and  Chuck. 

They delivered fuel on the morning after trucks were all unloaded into the holds. The small bulldozer along with the attachments arrived late in the day. 

Trace sat at the chart desk in the pilothouse. He examined the chart in front of him tapping his finger on the island of Paulu, one of the three islands Hamilton’s investors projected to develop. He nervously checked his watch. He awaited the arrival of Sage. ‘Will he make it,’ he muttered.

Static came from the shortwave radio. “Hello, Hello, The Tramp Islander, this is Allie. Anyone there? Over.”

Trace smiled surprised. He grabbed the hand microphone from its hook. “Hello, Allie, this is Trace. Over.”

“Are you full? Over”

“There a little space on deck. Over”

“Do you have room for two pallets of twelve-foot pipe, a generator, and pump?” Over.

“Do you have the weight? Over.”

“Less than two tones. Over.”

“I’ll make room, even if I have to sleep with the pump. Over.”

“That’s good. I have some freight for you. Over.”

“Where does it go?” Over.

“One hundred and nine miles north of Paulu. Over.”

“I’m really starting to like our relationship. Over.”

“If you like it now, wait till you hear more. You’ll be in love.” Over.”

“This keeps up and I’ll be proposing marriage. What’s the name of the island? Over.”

“Kati Re. Over.”

Trace ran his finger over the chart. “Yes, I see it. Over.”

“They’ll have twenty-five tons of copra in crates. Over.”

“Copra, what’s that? Over.”

“Comes from coconuts. Over.”

“Any money in moving copra? Over.”

“Some, but it will go a long way in restoring your ship’s reputation. There’s no price on that. Over.”

“Estimate being there in five days. Over.”

“They’ll be happy to see you. Over.”

“Thanks, Allie. Over.”

“Thank you, Captain Troy. Over.”

“See you in a week or so. Over.”

Trace hung up the mic. “Copra, I wonder what it’s for.”

He grabbed the ship’s intercom. “Sean,  Chuck come to the house.”

Trace tapped his pencil while waiting for them. He looked at the books on a shelf above the chart table. He picked out, Guidebook for Shipping Products. He turned to copra. Sean and  Chuck entered the pilothouse.

“What’s up, Trace?” Sean said.

“We have a turn cargo of twenty-five tons of copra,” Trace said. “Have we ever handled that before?”

Sean and  Chuck Glanced at each other and rolled their eyes.

“Not good?” Trace said.

“It’s tricky,”  Chuck said. “We’ve handled it before. It just takes a lot of care. It’s very combustible. A spark or friction can set it off. And it can spontaneous combust.”

“If you guys don’t feel comfortable hauling it, I’ll give Allie a call, and tell her to find somebody else.”

“I’m guessing you might have been her last resort,”  Chuck said. 

“We need the shipment,” Trace said.

“That’s why she called you,”  Chuck said.

“Am I sucker for taking it?” Trace said.

“When you’re starting out, you take what you can get,” Sean said. “A ship that hauls that stuff earns a good reputation.”

“You guys know how to stow it, right?” Trace said.

“Yeah,” Sean said looking at Chuck and he nodded.

“I’ll read up on it,” Trace said tapping the book. “No copra in the Aleutians.”

“What’s that?”  Chuck turned his ear toward the pier. 

“What?” Trace said.

“Somebody out there screeching,”  Chuck said.

Trace stood and looked out the pilothouse’s front windows. “It’s Hamilton, project manager on Paulu. Wonder what he wants.”

Trace slid the side window to the pilothouse open, “Come on aboard!”

Hamilton tossed two travel bags aboard before climbing over the railing. 

“Looks like we have a passenger,” Trace said. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called down the companionway, “Makani, we got plenty of food?”

“Plenty,” Makani said. “We will have a passenger.”

Hamilton found his way to the pilothouse. By the time he entered Sean and Chuck had gone.

“How ya doin’, Trace?” Hamilton said.

“I’m fine, but surprised to see you.”

“Well, there’s a bit of a problem. My assistant who was supposed to stay with the equipment and materials on Paulu had an attack of appendicitis. So I thought I’d catch a ride.”

“I’ll have Makani get a room ready.” 

“Sorry for the suddenness of this,” Hamilton said.

“That’s okay but I’m curious, why didn’t you just wait a few days and fly to Paulu?”

“There’s no airport or landing strip. In fact, that’s one of the first things we are going to construct.”

“Don’t they have seaplanes?”

“Yeah, but the truth is, I don’t like to fly.”

“Three days at sea may change your mind.”

“I have plenty of Dramamine.” Hamilton reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills and rattled them.

“I hope you brought something to read or do. Sailing on a cargo ship is nothing like a cruise on a passenger ship.”

“I brought some paperbacks and I brought plenty of paperwork,” Hamilton said. 

“Still can drive a man crazy,” Trace said

“What does the crew do to keep sane?”

“They have duties and we’re a little crazy to begin with.”

“Project managers who accept a job in the middle of the ocean, six hundred miles from anywhere, has to be running a close second.”

“We’ll be eating at 5:00 PM and casting off before sunrise. We’re going to catch the tide.” Trace said. “If you’re a heavy sleeper we’ll be thirty miles out to sea before you wake.”

“What time is breakfast?” Hamilton asked.

“7:00 AM.”

“Hey, Sean,” Trace cupped his hands and yelled below. 

Sean appeared at the bottom of the companionway. “Yes, Cap.”

“Take Mr. Hamilton to one of the passenger cabins. He’ll be sailing with us.”

“Aye, aye,” Sean said.

“Just follow Sean,” Trace said.

Hamilton stepped down the companionway, and followed Sean forward to the passenger’s quarters.

“Where in the heck is Sage,” Trace muttered and thought, ‘It looks like I may have to sail without him.’

After supper, Trace went to his cabin. He stashed some money into an envelope and wrote a note.

“We could not wait. I’m on a tight schedule. Here’s enough money for a hotel and meals. I should be back in a week or so. Take care, Trace.”

Trace dated it and sealed the envelope.

He walked down to the harbormaster’s office and stepped to a counter. The harbormaster stood from behind a desk, and walked to the counter.

“Can I help you, sir?” The harbormaster said.

Trace handed him the envelope. “I’m the captain of The Tramp Islander, the two-masted schooner, docked just down the way. We’re leaving with the tide before sunup. I was expecting another crewman but he hasn’t made it. Can you give him this envelope if he shows up?”

“Sure, and I’ll pass it on to my relief,” the harbormaster said. “And what’s your name?”

“Trace Troy.”

The harbormaster scribbled the name on the envelope.

“He’ll probably be wearing an American cowboy hat with blond curly hair beneath it. His name is Sage Vincent. The name is on the envelope.”

The harbormaster grabbed the envelope and slid it into a drawer in the counter. 

“I appreciate it,” Trace said.

“No problem, Mr. Troy. Where will you be sailing?”

“Puala,” Trace said.

“Have a safe voyage,” the harbormaster said.

“Thanks,” Trace said, “for everything.”

Trace returned to The Tramp Islander.