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. 

Finding Andy Defresne

White-capped waves gently broke on the white sands of western Mexico. The sun to my back lit the blue Pacific like polished, shimmering tanzanite.

There he was sitting on a log washed up from the sea.

“You’re Andy Dufresne, aren’t you?”

He stared at the sea as if nothing was there. “Are you a U. S. Marshall?” Andy said.

“No.”

“Then who are you?” Andy said and turned to examine me closely.

“I heard your story and wanted to meet you.”

“I’m Andy,” he said. “Who did you hear my story from?”

“Family. My father was in Shawshank when I was born.”

“Shawshank. Do I know him?” Andy said.

“No, he said you were hard to get close to.”

“What is it you want?” Andy said, turning back to the sea and letting the wind part his hair.

“I just want to know how you’re doing?”

“You care?” Andy said.

“Sure, why do you think I came all this way?”

“Then let’s walk for a while and talk,” Andy said.

Andy stood, and we walked along the shore.

“Dad said you weren’t much of a talker. He said you were a man of deep things, things that no one could touch.”

“That’s right,” Andy said.

“I don’t want to touch them. I just want to know what they are.”

“Your father is dead,” Andy said.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“What you really want to know is your father’s deep things, right?” Andy said.

“Yes, that’s what I really want to know.”

“Then we shall walk, and I will tell you,” Andy said. “There is hope, and there is love. Love keeps hope alive.”

A minute or so passed as they walked along the beach.

“Is that it?”

“Now tell me about your father,” Andy said. “Maybe I do remember him, but I’m certain we are brothers.”

I stopped, and Andy walked on for another two or three steps.

“You’re going to string me along aren’t you?”

Andy grinned an old man’s grin with deep, carved wrinkles. “If your father were my brother, that would make you my nephew. You have been the only one to visit me. That makes you my favorite nephew. Come on, walk next to me, let me tell my story in my own way.”

Smitten By Smith

 John Smith’s home is just down the beach from his favorite haunt and watering hole, Smithery‘s. He’s like a king who holds court during the day at the bar and by night his home.

His gatherings at his home are legendary and to be invited is an honor. He invites no more than a dozen. It’s a mix of his regulars, strangers, princes, and paupers. Anyone in the presence of John is on equal footing. Anyone with ill manners or putting on airs is quickly asked to change their behavior or leave.

He tells stories leaving listeners spellbound. No one ever says prove it—because he will. He listens to stories without doubting. “Even if the story is not true,” he once said, “as long as it’s told honestly—it is true.”

Several years ago while John related his adventures in the Himalayas and his scaling Mt. Everest, a hardy rich lad challenged the veracity of his claim.

John immediately chartered a flight to Tibet and took the unbeliever with him. John climbed to the summit; the young rich companion stopped 5,000 feet from the peak. On the way down John performed an emergency amputation of the lad’s left arm; it had been overtaken by frostbite and gangrene.

In an act of charity, he hired the lad as the manager of the Smithery.

No one doubts John Smith. If they do the manager gladly steps in with his experience and brandishes his left stub.

Somewhere during the evenings, there is always a game of poker. It lasts long enough for John to win all the money brought with a guest. The casinos of Monte Carlo don’t allow John to participate.

The famous French gambler Pierre Bennett left John’s home` declaring he had won. He came with 60,000 Francs and left with 4,000 Francs. For Pierre that was a victory.

Once you have played cards with John Smith it is said you have been Smitten.

John Smith's Ocean

 A small bar sat near the beach on John Smith Island. The bar is named in honor of John Smith. It’s called Smithery’s and dubbed “Where you go to get hammered.” This is where John Smith likes to be.

He gazed at the ocean and no one knew for sure how many oceans John had seen or what adventure was just over the horizon.

No one knew where his imagination took him, but if it took him anywhere his reality had already been there. There was nothing he could not relate to or speak about for he was a man who experienced only what many men dare imagine.

A tourist sat next to John at the bar.

“What do you see, the ocean or the waves?” the tourist asked.

“Why do you ask?” John said sipping a margarita.

“I want to see what you see,” the tourists said.

“You are at least five margaritas behind me,” John said. “When you catch up with me you will see wonderful things. Not true, but wonderful.”

John turned to the bartender. “A pitcher of margaritas for my friend.”

After two hours John left the man at the bar in a stupor.

“A man who can’t hold his liquor has no place in my ocean,” John said as he paid the bartender and walked to the shore.

The Dishwasher

 Fisherman’s Cove is a remote town tucked away in one of many inlets that pepper the Maine coast. It’s easy to travel there by boat, but by car is another story. The Cove was at the tip of a small peninsula. It was shielded from the mainland by a huge rock formation that thrust out of the coastline and stretches to both sides of the peninsula. It was too expensive to carve an easy access road or tunnel. Instead, a small road twisted through the rock formation until it wound its way into the small village that barely hangs on to dry land, Fisherman’s Cove.

Edwin Furman visited the town 10 earlier and never broke away. Why he stayed was a mystery to everyone. At first, everyone tried a sort of shunning; they would not speak to him unless he spoke first and used the minimum of words. After the two-year probationary period he became a mainstay, but always referred to as the “new guy.” And he waited for someone the move in to take the title from him. But to many, the locals seemed too hostile to remain more than 6 months. Edwin seemed bright, friendly, enthusiastic, and articulate, but Fisherman’s Cove offered nothing for anyone other than what already existed.

The town was bound and shackled by the rock to the north and the sea to the south. What land was available was taken and no one who lived there was about to allow it to slip into the hands of anyone from the outside.

Edwin worked as a dishwasher at the Fisherman’s Hut. A good place with a steady clientele of regulars and the occasional outsider.

It was owned by Silas Carpenter, stock from one of the founding families of the Cove. The restaurant had been run by his family for 75 years. Edwin was the only person not a Carpenter who ever worked there. Edwin’s chance of advancing from dishwasher was zero and he knew it.

The Hut, as it was called by the locals, closed Saturday at 3:00 PM. It was 3:30 and Edwin had just finished his final duties of the day. He removed a plaid coat from the coat rack in the dining room and slung it on.

“See ya Monday morning bright and early, Silas,” Edwin said.

“Edwin,” Silas said with a friendly lilt in his voice, “you have a minute?”

“I don’t know, Silas,” Edwin said feigning seriousness, “I got big plans, bingo at the fire department. They may have Miss Doty calling the numbers. You know she was a runner-up to the Cod Festival two years ago.”

“I want to talk to you for a moment,” Silas said. “Have a seat in the booth by the window.”

Edwin took his coat off and tossed it in the booth and slid in himself. Silas came over to the table with two coffees.

“The bottom of the pot,” Silas smiled, “don’t like to throw anything away.”

“What’s up Silas,” Edwin said blowing the steam from his coffee.

“I’ve wanted to have this talk with you for a month or more,” Silas said. “It’s about your future.”

“It’s nice of you to be concerned,” Edwin said.

“You should move on,” Silas said. “You aren’t going to be nothing more than a dishwasher in my place. My son Wilton will take over The Hut when I retire. You will always have a job with him. You’re the best darn employee I’ve ever had and ever hoped to have. Ya know the business as good if not better than me. You should go someplace else and open up a diner of your own. It’s time you think about yourself and your future.”

“Silas, I’m never going to have a better job than I have now,” Edwin said. “I sleep good at night. I have no worries.”

“It’s minimum wage,” Silas said, “you can’t do nothin’ on that.”

“I do okay,” Edwin said. “I rent the apartment above the library for next to nothing and I got access the all the books. I got the whole world below me.”

“Don’t you have goals or ambition?’ Silas said pushing his coffee aside.

“Honestly, Silas, does anyone in this town have goals or ambition,” Edwin said. “The minute someone does it’s snuffed out with the next breeze that comes off the bay. There are two reasons people leave this town; there’s no jobs and ambition is frowned upon. If anyone in this town wanted my job you‘d find a way to fire me just to keep a local here.”

“If that’s true,” Silas said, “what on earth would keep you here under such circumstances?”

“Grab your cup and bring it to the back sink,” Edwin said.

They stepped into the kitchen.

“Stop,” Edwin said and gestured toward the double stainless steel sinks, “behold, my work station.”

“And your point is?” Silas said.

“Step up to it, Silas, and tell me what you see?” Edwin said.

Silas walked to the sink and looked into it.

“No,” Edwin said. “Look ahead.”

“It’s the cove,” Silas said.

“What else?” Edwin said.

“Boats, docks, a boatyard, the ferry dock,” Silas said, “what is it I’m looking for?”

“See the boat with the yellow cabin?” Edwin said.

“Yes,” Silas said, “I see it.”

“Peter Landau’s boat,” Edwin said. “I’ll tell you something, Silas, there’s no better fisherman in The Cove than Peter Landau.”

“What about Nathan Argot?” Silas said. “He’s always talking about his large catches.”

“It’s bluster,” Edwin said. “I see what they bring in. Landau plays it close to the vest. If you see gray clouds over to the southwest you can bet Peter Landau will be climbing aboard his dory and heading to his boat. By the time he gets to his grounds the weather has passed and the fishing is good.”

“You know that from looking out the window?” Silas said.

“Everything that happens out there on the cove two days ago will be news in town today,” Edwin said, “but look again, tell me what you see?”

“It’s a cove!” Silas said. “What else is it supposed to be?”

Silas strained and slowly his shoulders slumped, his face softened, and his hands relaxed to his side. “It is incredible!”

Silas turned to Edwin. “That’s what you look at every day.”

“Can you think of a better view and your hands are kept busy too,” Edwin said.

“I sometimes come in here on my day off, stand here for a while, and just look,” Edwin said.

Edwin slipped his coat on and slowly backed away until he was at the door to the dining room.

“Edwin,” Silas said. “Monday morning you run the front end and I’ll do dishes.”

The Story Teller

Guess who walked into The Jittery Goat Cafe the other day and ordered a coffee? That’s right, Kenton Lewis.

Kenton sat at the counter and Pix sat the coffee in front of him

“Kenton, haven’t seen you in a while,” Pix said. “What’s up?”

“Been busy,” Kenton said and sipped.

“Anything in particular?” Pix said.

“Just stuff I’ve put off,” Kenton said.

“It can really pile up pretty fast on ya,” Pix said.

“Yeah, that’s for sure,” Kenton said. “I took the long way here today. Must have walked a mile or more.”

“You should get in your car and check the mileage,” Pix said. “That way you’ll know for sure. It’s good to be accurate when you’re about to tell a story.”

“How do you know I’m about to tell a story?” Kenton said.

“You always tell stories,” Pix said.

“No I don’t,” Kenton said.

“Sure ya do,” Pix said. “I ask you about the weather and you just never say, it’s sunny. You go into some long story about a summer ten years ago or what the summer reminds you of.”

“Then don’t ask,” Kenton paused for a sip.

“Okay,” Pix conceded, “what did you see on the way here?”

“On my walk here I counted nine or ten masks. A year ago they were rare. People were looking high and low for them. Now they just toss them away.”

“Was it nine masks or ten?” Pix said.

“To tell you the truth I lost count,” Kenton said. “But it was nine or ten. The point is, it was a lot in my mind.”

“Why didn’t you just say it was a lot?” Pix said.

“You might not think nine or ten is a lot,” Kenton said. “Your definition of a lot might be fifteen or sixteen or six or seven. I’m not even sure where to draw the line when it’s a few; is that two or three or is it four or five?”

“They were just masks?” Pix said. “Nothing special about them?”

“No,” Kenton said. “Most were those blue type. I saw a plain white and another black one. Then I saw one that was black and covered with sequins. Looked to me like it could have been a veil from some girl part of a harem.”

“You got quite an imagination,” Pix said.

“No,” Kenton said, “just wanted to be a little creative and give you perspective. Likely, it was discarded by some lady of the evening.” Kenton smiled in disbelief.

“Why do they call them 'lady of the evening?'” Pix said. “Ain’t that pretty much a twenty-four/seven job?”

“What time does this place close?” Kenton said.

“Six,” Pix said.

“And how long is it before you get out of here?” Kenton said.

“An hour,” Pix said.

“So seven. That’s evening, right?” Kenton said.

“Hey,” Pix said, “what are you implying?”

“Can I just tell you about my walk without interrupting me,” Kenton said. “If I knew you were going to interrupt me because of a minor detail I’d have left it out.”

“No,” Pix said, “leave it in. I got the imagery on the sequined mask now. It does add something to the story.”

“Let’s just stop right there,” Kenton said. “This is not a story. I don’t tell stories. There’s no plot or lesson or point to what I’m telling you. I’m just telling you I saw an unusual amount of discarded masks on my walk here.”

“Just because it’s not a story doesn’t me it couldn’t be one,” Pix said.

“Okay,” Kenton said, “here’s the story. A guy takes a peaceful walk. He stops for coffee. He tells a man, not unlike himself, an experience on the walk. The man, not unlike yourself, interrupts. He asks questions having nothing to do with the story. He doubts the particulars. Here’s the point; some things just aren’t worth telling. They’re not interesting; even if you add sequins to it.” Kenton stood and sipped. He sat the nearly full cup back on the counter. “End of story.” He left.

Pix strained his neck watching Kenton walk away. “He didn’t pay for the coffee. He only took a couple of sips. I’ll just pour it back in the pot.”

An Unknown Friend

Quinn and Marty shared the same cubicle for two and a half years. Their chairs were back to back.

Quinn sat with his elbows resting on his desk. He clicked his ink pen over and over. Marty had hardly spoken a word in nearly a week. Quinn thought he had said or done something wrong.

Quinn swiveled in his chair. “Marty!”

Marty swiveled to face Quinn.

“What’s up?” Marty said.

“You tell me,” Quinn said. “You haven’t said more than a sentence or two in the last few days.”

“Sorry,” Marty said. “Nothing is wrong. “I thought maybe you might have noticed but I get this way a couple of times a year. I just like to be left alone for a while.”

“Are you sure that’s it?” Quinn said.

“I’m sure,” Marty said, “Why, do you think it’s something else?”

“It seems like no matter where I go I’m already there,” Quinn said.

“What is meant by that,” Marty said. “I bring everything with me; all the problems, all the troubles, all the insecurities, and all the things that make me miserable.”

“I know what you mean,” Marty said. “I used to feel the exact same way. I try to work through it.”

“How did you work through it?” Quinn said. “I can’t go on like this. I move every three or four years. I don’t make friends and if I do, I can’t keep ‘em.”

“Think for a moment about all the different experiences you have had by relocating every three of four years,” Marty said. “Most guys are afraid to pack up and start over, but you have adventure in your soul. You like to explore new things.”

“It’s not that I enjoy it,” Quinn said. “I’m forced to do it. People tire of me easily and I have no friends.”

“You have more friends than you think,” Marty said.

“Give me the name of someone you have not spoken to in 10 years,” Marty said.

Quinn thought for a moment. “Bruce Spruce.” And he chuckled.

“You got to be kidding me, Bruce Spruce,” Marty grinned. “I’m surprised that guy didn’t move and change his name.”

“Yeah, like Peter Ceder,” Quinn smirked.

“Where do you know him from?” Marty relaxed.

“Lubbock, Texas, we worked together,” Quinn said.

“Where did you work?” Marty said.

“Horizon Industries,” Quinn said, “his desk was next to mine. We started out as friends and it kind of turned sour.”

“What, a big blow-up or something?” Marty said.

“Things just got stale between us,” Quinn said. “I got bad vibes. I got on his nerves.”

“That’s what he said?” Marty said.

“No,” Quinn said, “but I could tell.”

“Give me just a moment,” Marty said pulling his cell phone from his pocket, “I’ll get right back with you,” Marty spoke into the phone. “Lubbock, Texas for Horizon Industries.”

“What are you doing!” Quinn said.

“Shhh,” Marty said, “I’m being connected.”

“This is embarrassing,” Quinn said.

“Yes,” Marty said into the phone. “Can I speak to Bruce Spruce?” Marty looked at Quinn. “He still works there. They’re putting us through.” Marty pushed the button for the speaker and handed the phone to Quinn.

“Bruce Spruce, how can I help you?”

Quinn gave Marty a sour look.

Marty handed the phone to Quinn.

“Hey, Bruce, this is Quinn.”

“Quinn,” Bruce said and paused.

Quinn held his hand over the phone. “What did I tell you.”

“The Mighty Quinn!” Bruce said. “Is that you?” Man, it’s good to hear your voice. Where the heck are you now? Somebody said you were in Houston. Tell me what’s going on with you. My life hasn’t changed a bit; same desk, same wife, and same ole, same ole. Are you in town? We got to get together”

Quinn smiled at Marty and whispered, “Thanks.”

“That did me a lot of good too,” Marty said. “Nothing makes you feel better than seeing old friends back together.”

 

Rudy And The Wolf

painting by James Augsburger

Rudy walked on an old timber trail. He carried his rifle, a Winchester 70, 30-06 with loaded a clip. A backpack and sleeping bag were strapped to his shoulders. The trail curled around a large hill covered in thick grass and sparsely arranged weeds. It quickly descended into a forest of pines and firs.

“That is where the wolf is,” Rudy murmured. “I will stay there until curiosity gets the best of him. He will show himself and I will shoot him.”

“He has consumed the last of my sheep.”

The wind from the valley of trees below blew into Rudy’s face. That was good. If to his back his scent would carry ahead. The wolf would catch the scent and know.

The tracks Rudy followed on the trail abruptly ended.

“He would go up the hill,” Rudy whispered.

Rudy bent over to look for tracks leading up the hill. There were none.

“He weaved through the weeds, clever,” Rudy thought. “Not a stock bent or broken. Where do they learn that?”

Rudy kept his head down and eyes focused for any signs of a wolf’s tracks.

“He’s watching me,” Rudy thought. “Keep my head down. As soon as my head is lifted he will disappear behind the hill. I must make him think he has outsmarted me.”

Without moving his head up Rudy rolled his eyes up. “There you are just over the tip of the hill. I see your eyes and ears.”

Rudy turned back toward the trail. He walked on the trail toward the forest. His steps were slow. His eyes pulled to the left watching his flank.

“Wolf, this is as real as it gets. It is life or death. For you the first time. You may have had to fight other animals but you knew them. Your prey has been sheep, rabbits, or squirrels. Sheep graze unaware of the danger. They are not meant to fight you off. I am no match for you with my hands but I have my rifle. I am more than your equal. My cunning will outdo your instincts.”

Rudy saw the wolf in his peripheral crouching and easing down the hill. Rudy eased off the safety of the rifle. The click almost seemed to echo. He curled his pulsating finger around the trigger.

“He’s not more than 30 yards,” Rudy whispered. “He thinks he is the stalker.”

Rudy had the advantage even though only the perception of being stalked was frightening to him. “I know how a stalked animal must feel.” Rudy thought. “My fear is nearly unbearable. I know how this will end but his blind confidence overshadows the reality. He is so confident all he sees is himself tearing succulent meat from my dead carcass. His vision is so powerful that I see it too. This must come to an end.”

Rudy heard his heart pound. He felt the veins in his neck throb.

Rudy reached and gripped the barrel's stock. He eased the butt to his shoulder. He whirled and took aim at the approaching wolf’s head.

The wolf left its crouching position and backed up a few yards. Three pups stood behind him.

The powerful vision of the wolf over his carcass was replaced with an inner voice, “Take my life but let my pups go.”

Rudy relaxed his finger. He breathed. The rifle fell to his side.

“I can’t kill an animal in front of its young,” Rudy said. “You are safe. Mr. Wolf.”

The wolf crouched and tucked its tail. The pups gathered behind him.

“Let’s make a covenant, Mr. Wolf,” Rudy said. “You know from where I tracked you. You know my sheep. For your life today and the life of your pups, leave my sheep alone.”

The wolf remained motionless. The pups fidgeted playfully as if unaware of the seriousness.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Rudy said. “And furthermore, tell your friends.”

The wolf stood and trotted away with the pups behind him. They reached the top of the hill. The wolf turned to look at Rudy looking at him. With two fingers Rudy offered an informal salute The wolf and its pups disappeared behind the hill.

Family Tradition

painting by James Augsburger

Vermont is a forgotten kingdom of vales cradled by gentle green mountain slopes. Creeks, streams, and rivers trickle over stone beds and cascade over rocky falls. Pastures are grazed by peaceful sheep and munching bovine. And it is as if the folks play along for their own amusement realizing no man can change it; nor would they want to.

The kingdom is ruled by hard work and shaped by the skill of trades. Ingenuity is often another word for the easy way. Work is not shunned but invited.

Sixteen years old Dennis Petit sat on the bench of the mudroom tying his boots. Light snow fell on the other side of the windows. It was the finishing touches to the previous 20 hours of snowfall.

“Where ya heading,” Dennis’s father, Ray, said leaning against the doorway with a hot cup of coffee.

“Snowmobiling with some friends,” Dennis said.

“Everybody will be here in a half an hour,” Ray said. “Every year, first heavy snow, the whole family takes a sleigh ride.”

“I told you, last year was my last year,” Dennis said. “Half the family doesn’t make it, why should I?”

“Half the family lives hours from here,” Ray said. “And I know what you said last year. I thought you may have thought it over…”

“And give in,” Dennis interrupted.

“It’s a family tradition,” Ray said.

Dennis finished tying his boot and stood. Ray sat his coffee on the kitchen table and slung on a coat and stepped into his boots.

“Before you go can you help me harness Ole Patch to the sleigh,” Ray said.

They trudged through light snow toward the red barn housing Ole Patch. Patch was a family horse. He was called Patch because of the splotches of white on a brown coat. He’d been in the family for 10 years. Patch was used for an occasional ride but if not for the traditional sleigh ride the first heavy snow he had little use beyond that.

On the way to the barn, Dennis asked, “What did you think of this when you were my age?”

“I thought it was stupid,” Ray said.

“There you go,” Dennis said.

“But I did it anyway,” Ray said.

“When did you stop thinking it was stupid?” Dennis said.

“When I was your age,” Ray said.

“So all of sudden you got smart,” Dennis said.

“No,” Ray said, “It took about five minutes.”

“What took place in that five minutes?” Dennis said.

“Grandpa was living with us then,” Ray said.

“Grandpa Lou?” Ray said.

“Yeah,” Ray said, “Grandpa Lou. I planned on meeting up with some friends and playing hockey. There was a good freeze before the snow. We flooded the basketball court at the old school a few days earlier.”

Ray helped Dennis slide the barn door open.

“The cold air wasn’t good on Grandpa,” Ray said as he stepped inside the barn. “He insisted on harnessing up Ole Tom for the sleigh ride. It was important to him and he knew it meant nothing to me.”

“He sat on that old footlocker over there,” Ray said pointing to it. “That’s from World War One. He had to catch his breath.”

“How old was he then,” Dennis said.

“Seventy-five,” Ray said. “He’d had a couple of heart attacks by then.”

“While he sat there, I harnessed Ole Tom,” Ray said. “He wanted to help me so bad but just couldn’t. I figured this must be important to him. And I wanted to know why. Have a seat,” Ray said pointing to the old footlocker.”

They sat on the locker together.

“In 1887 Peter Petit built a house on a patch of land given to him by his father Charles. That’s the house we live in now. Of course, it’s gotten bigger and there’s been a tremendous number of upgrades but that’s the house Peter built.”

“It was finished late summer of ‘87. His wife Annie was pregnant with a son, Denton. Peter wanted to raise all his kids in that house and pass that house down to his firstborn.”

“There was a terrible snowstorm late spring of 1888, a blizzard. During the blizzard, Annie went into labor. Annie was having too much difficulty. It was beyond what Peter could do. He hitched up a sleigh and his horse, Ole Tucker. He drove her to the doctor in that sleigh during a blizzard.”

“Quite a story,” Dennis said.

“So on that night Peter was born,” Ray said. “If not for harnessing up the sleigh and Ole Tucker, Peter would have never been born. He’d have died at birth and maybe Annie too.”

“Great story,” Dennis said with little interest.

“You’re right, it is a great story,” Ray said.

“You see,” Ray said, “if Peter would not have been born, Arthur would not have been born. If Arthur would not have been born. Nathan would not have been born. If Nathan had not been born my Grandpa Lou would not have been born. And if Grandpa Lou would not have been born. Your Grandpa Mike would not have been born. And if Grandpa Mike had not have been born I would not have been born.”

Dennis interrupted. “And if you were not born I would not have been born.”

“Yep,” Ray said. “A man not only passes on his genes and name but traditions too.”

“I get it,” Dennis said. “I can go snowmobiling tomorrow. I’ll hitch up Ole Patch.”

“Nah,” Ray said. “Sit for a couple more minutes. Let it all sink in.”

“Give it a full five minutes, right?” Dennis smiled.

“Can’t have you catching on quicker than I did,” Ray said.

The Good Winter

painting by James Augsburger

Buck and his wife Millie bundled in heavy winter clothing to brave the knee-deep snow and below-zero temperatures. They leaned into the blinding blistering wind to make their way to the cattle barn. The 50-yard trek might as well have been 50 miles. By the time they reached the barn their faces, toes, and fingertips were numb.

Inside the barn, they stomped the snow from their boots and brushed it off their coats. They stepped into a small room between the main part of the barn and the milk room. It was used as an office and they kept it warm enough to remove the chill.

“This is the worst winter we’ve had,” Buck said to Millie. “I know, I said that last year too.” He rubbed his arms,

“And the year before,” Millie said holding her hands to her face and blowing

Buck grabbed a clipboard that hung on a nail and scraped frost from a window. He looked down the lane. “Milk truck will probably be late today. Looks like a drift across the lane. I’ll get the plow out. I don’t want the truck stuck in our lane.”

“Didn’t you plow it out yesterday?” Millie said.

“The wind picked up last night,” Buck said, “just enough to wrap a drift around the maple and across the lane.”

“You ought to cut it down,” Millie said.

Buck ignored her and hung the clipboard on the nail in the wall.

“Okay,” Millie raised her eyes. 

“It’s a beautiful tree,” Buck said. “I’ll cut it down.”

“Yeah,” Millie said and motioned with her head to the main part of the barn. “Let’s feed our guests.”

They walked out of the room and into the main part of the barn.

“Buck looked up at the haymow. “I’ll toss the bails down.” He gripped the ladder and climbed up.

He tossed several bails to the floor of the barn. Millie grabbed hold of the baling wire and lifted the bails into the feeding trough. Then she tugged the wires free and wrapped them up. Several cows plodded toward the trough. By the time she completed most of the bails, Buck had climbed down from the haymow and helped spread the rest of the hay.

Although the barn protected them from the harsh wind and pelting snow outside they were cold. Their fingers grew numb again and their noses ran.

“This will be our last winter on the farm,” Buck said. “It’s a pipe dream. I guess it has always been a pipe dream. We burn wood to save money on fuel oil. If it wasn’t for the wood I cut and split we’d all freeze to death.”

“I thought you said it would take at least seven years before we’d get our heads above water,” Millie said. “This is only our fourth year.”

“Our first three years were bad,” Buck said, “but this year has beaten me; I’m all in. Look at it out there.” Buck flung his arm toward the door. “It’s cold out there, more ways than one. It’s going to be below zero for the rest of the week.”

“What will we do?” Millie said.

“My brother called me last week,” Buck said.

“Brad, the builder,” Millie said sarcastically.”I’m sure he called to tell you he had the money he owes for the two sides of beef from our herd.”

“No,” Buck said. “He said his business is taking off. He has three houses contracted to build. As soon as the weather breaks, he’s starting. And he wants to be a partner with him.”

“This is the Brad who sold a bunch of his tools and needs tools to start those houses?” Millie said. “What he really needs is your tools.”

“I can work that all out with Brad,” Buck said.

“What about the farm?” Millie said.

“We can sell it,” Buck said. “We will at least break even.”

“We move into town, right?” Millie said.

“Yes,” Buck said.

“New schools for Danny, Marti, and Jilly?” Millie said. “Where will we live at first? Not with Brad. I’m not cleaning his hair out of the drain and picking up empty beer cans.”

“I can talk to him,” Brad said.

“Start with paying us for the two sides of beef,” Millie said. “And next the truck you gave him.”

Buck clicked his cheek. “Yeah, Brad’s a leach but this has to be our last winter. We can’t live like this any longer.”

“Give it a couple more years,” Millie said. “If you don’t, you may regret it someday. At least give it the time you said you would.”

“A man knows when he’s beat,” Buck said. “It’s smarter not to answer the bell than go out with the ring and get your head bashed in. I want to walk away, not be carried away. I’d like to have just a little dignity left.”

The door to the barn swung open. Buck and Millie quickly turned. Wind and snow rushed in like water through a gaping hole in the side of a ship.

It was Jilly, a ten-year-old bundled in layers of winter clothing. She pulled off her stocking cap. Wispy blond hair fell on her face. She gasped for air from the long walk from the house to the barn. She smiled like she crossed the finish line as a winner.

“Dad, Mom,” Jilly said, “This is the best darn winter yet. All of us sleeping in the living room together to keep warm. Nobody has it better than us!”

Buck paused and smiled at Millie. “You and Jilly go back to the house and make some hot chocolate for us—plenty of marshmallows. As soon as I finish in here I’ll be up.”

Jilly pulled her hat back on and reached out to Millie. “Come on, Mom, I’ll race ya back to the house.”

They left and Buck went back into the small office. From the window, he watched Millie and Jilly stumble and fall in the snow. They laughed and giggled. They reached the porch of the house and disappeared inside.

Buck stood at the window. The bitter cold winds whipped around the house, the woodshed, across the barnyard, past the barn, and off into the white weather-beaten barren fields. He looked to the western skies. Foreboding fluffy dark clouds slowly rolled near like celestial gray mountains.

“I got a drift to plow, hot chocolate to drink, and a family to keep warm. I hope next winter is just as good as this one.”