Under The Bridge

“You got the shit?” The angry appearing Black man sneered at the dwarf with big mutton chops and one patch over his left eye. They rendezvoused at Monroe Street Bridge. The Hunter’s Moon was full and white and bright; there was no need for streetlights as the satellite showed everything this October night a little after midnight. 

“Why certainly,” Howard said with a phony Chicago accent, but this man wouldn’t know the difference. He held up a book pack that he borrowed from his daughter to do this deal. “Just out of curiosity, who is this for?” 

“Ain’t none of your business!” He snarled back at Howard the undercover FBI agent dressed in jeans and an overcoat with a fedora similar to what Mark normally wore only black. 

“Like I said,” Howard said in a soothing tone to calm both their nerves. “I’m only curious. It isn’t Nick, or Bob is it?” 

“Who the hell you talking about cracker? No, it ain’t none of them dudes. “It’s Bates, okay?” He looked at Howard with suspicion. “You a cop?” 

“No, I’m Ramrod, your neighborhood dealer, making sure neither Nick nor Bob are going to get this. It’s enormously powerful stuff. They couldn’t handle it.” 

“You are a crazy mother fucker man! Here’s the money, take it before I change my mind!” 

“Is it all there?” Howard asked. 

“Five big just like we agreed to over the phone!” 

“FBI you’re under arrest!” Boomed the unmistakable voice of Special Agent Mark Marteau while spotlights drowned out the moonbeam that cast down on them a brief second ago. Hector led four other agents and Spokane narcotics task force officers on them quickly, cuffing both before a shot could be fired. 

“There must be some sort of mistake,” Howard informed the arresting officers who manhandled him into a waiting Ford Crown Victoria unmarked police cruiser. 

“Oh, it’s no mistake, you piece of shit scumbag,” Mark told him as he watched Howard being pushed inside and the back door closed. Hector and Chester got into the front seat and drove from the scene. 

“I say, we got that small fish, but we need the barracuda,” Howard told them. 

“Or the shark for that matter,” Chester agreed. “You’ll still have to play your part in the cell until interrogation.” 

“I’ll try my wonderful charm on him some more.” 

“Who’s Nick and Bob?” 

“Friends I knew when I was growing up in Boston, Hector. Unfortunately, they are no longer with us.” 

“Sounds like a story to me,” Chester goaded Howard. 

“I suppose we have time to tell this tragic tale.” 

“You ain’t going to go all Shakespearian on us are you?” Hector asked with dismay. 

“Perhaps, but it is something I’ll never forget for as long as I live.” 

“Begin,” Chester coached Howard. 

“Very well but be a good man and undo these cuffs until I’m done.” Hector pulled off a side street and into a back parking lot behind a business building. He parked the car while Chester got out, opened the back door and uncuffed Howard who rubbed his hands gratefully. 

“Get on with it already.” 

“Bob and Nick were close friends of mine in college. We were freshmen then and seemed to have the tiger by the tale. I went to Boston College then. Obviously, we imbibed too much and did things I hope my daughter doesn’t do that would keep me up at night. 

“At any rate, all three of us lived in the same dorm. I had plans for majoring in psychology and being a counselor, Bob was a science nerd and intended to move up the ladder to MIT and get his masters and PHD there.” He paused a moment trying to gather his thoughts or relive this memory.  

“Nick, dear Nick was an up-and-coming poet and writer. He was already published through magazines in Boston and New York. We laughed until he showed us the cancelled check from Playboy of a story they published and it had nothing to do with sex but about some lad coming of age. 

“But I digress. The story itself is a tale that I have kept hidden in the deepest and darkest recesses of my mind. It was, oh hell when was it? It must’ve been after our second semester started and we were watching Miracle on Ice at the Olympics in New York. Lake Placid I believe it was.  

“We were all just besides ourselves in an abundance of joy and too many beers, possibly marijuana too. On a whim, we walked—most likely we staggered to the Longfellow bridge at the Charles River. 

I had a jug of wine in my gloved hand, wandering the mostly empty street. It had snowed recently and snow berms as high as Chester were going along the street and blocking my view of my chums who decided to traverse that berm and play king of the hill, pushing each other off and having a grand old time. I naturally stayed below and watched them.” 

“Were they small like you, Howard?” Hector asked still in the driver’s seat. The Ford sedan idling. 

“No, quite the opposite really. I believe Nick was around five-ten and Bob was a tall gangly fellow over six foot. They frolicked and then we saw these rascals down the street coming towards us.  

“I don’t recall who saw who first, maybe it was at the same time. They were quite young, this gang of thugs. They wore their colors proudly displaying Red Sox ball caps worn sideways on their heads. 

“They obviously spotted me first and ran to obviously accost me, but Nick and Bob came down and stood next to me. They stopped on their tracks and began hurling insults at us apparently they were ready for a fight, which was why I never found out. 

“The biggest of this group came up to me and threw me into the snowbank. His friends laughed of course. I was fit to be tied but obviously couldn’t do anything more than use all my strength to right myself up. I then turned around just in time to see my friend Bob land an uppercut to the tyrant’s face and nose, seeing the effect as blood spurted everywhere on the street. Nick took care of the other youth who tried but failed to put up a decent fight. 

“Suddenly a pistol came out and a shot was fired. Bob fell next to me and Nick stood there frozen in place. The gun in his hand. The other gang ran off. 

‘Oh, dear God,’ “Nick shouted out in disbelief. ‘Are you okay?’” 

‘Why are you holding that gun?’ “I shouted at him. Bob was conscious but moaning in pain.” 

‘It’s for self-protection,’ “he told me. He still held the gun, a revolver I believe it was. 

‘Go to the neighbors and tell them to call the police,’ “I told Nick, hoping he’d put the gun down and do what I told him. He ran down the street instead, obviously in a panic about what he’d done. He ran to the bridge.” 

‘Wait, come back here,’ “I cried out to him. By then I finally got myself out of the snow berm and upright looking down at Bob. I immediately assessed his wound. Blood soaked out on his coat and from his stomach. I knew it wasn’t good but figured he would survive. 

“So, I went to the neighbor’s house across the street and banged on the door. An elderly woman in her housecoat and slippers answered the door hesitantly. I asked her to call the police to say that my friend had been shot and needed immediate attention. It was then I heard the other shot coming in the direction of the Longfellow Bridge and the Charles River. 

“I don’t know what she said because I ran back out onto the street and in the direction of the shot, fearing the worse. I got there and didn’t see Nick. I didn’t see anyone. I then ran under the bridge and I then saw Nick, lying prostate on the ground with his eyes string vacantly into the substructure of piers and supports. The revolver lay next to him. A bullet hole was at the side of his head. I knew he was dead. 

“By the time I got back out of that bank and began walking back to Bob I saw the first of many police cars and ambulances arrive, there were emergency lights flashing everywhere. They wouldn’t let me see Bob and I found out the next day he had passed.” 

“Damn, dude, that’s tough,” Hector expressed with sadness in his voice. 

“I’m sorry for your loss too,” Chester said wrapping his big arm around Howard’s shoulder in a comforting manner. He then placed the cuffs back on Howard’s wrists and got out from the back seat, closed the back door and went and sat next Hector in the front seat. 

“There is a silver lining in all of this.” 

“Yeah, what’s that?” Chester asked. 

“A week later I changed my minor from theater to Criminal Justice, realizing I did indeed have a gift for what I’m doing now.” 

“You’ll always be an actor, Howard, as we all are I guess,” Hector told them as he placed the car into drive and whipped out from the parking lot and toward the Justice Center. 

Another Loss

Not that I enjoy expressing sad news to you my loyal readers, but this truly is where the cure is as bad as the disease. A hotel housekeeping supervisor who I have known for a few years passed away last week. I was off on the day it happened and so I learned about it fourth hand and not altogether certain how much I’m conveying is actually the truth. 

So, anyway this supervisor was well known and well liked by his coworkers and those under him. He appeared laid back and quite at ease with himself, exuding self-confidence.  I suspected that he was probably gay because that’s how he came across to me and everyone else, an effeminate approach to life in attitude and deed. 

Now, according to the person who told me what allegedly happened. He was sitting at his desk and closed his eyes. According to him, the supervisor had lost his kidney function resulting in renal failure. As I said, this is fourth hand information and I’m not the dependable narrator I like to be especially in the next paragraph because I am only hypothesizing here. 

He always, especially in the few months I ran into him as sickly, from what I can’t say with accuracy. I’m assuming this issue, if he indeed was gay, could be HIV, which if he was taking the prescribed medication has serious side effects that includes kidney function issues. 

For the most part, if a person does test positive for HIV, most modern prescribed medications are safe to use that help those infected lead healthy long-term lives. Just like with my dad though, when whatever ails you begin to affect kidneys and liver, your time above ground is limited no matter what medications out there can help alleviate the symptoms. 

My dad didn’t have HIV but type one diabetes and insulin that helped keep his blood sugar stable, also had really bad side effects. These side effects also included renal and liver disfunction resulting in death. 

“An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure,” paraphrasing Ben Franklin, though he was referring to fire prevention in home in Colonial Philadelphia, but I believe it applies here as well. Proper diet and protected sexual practices go a long way to not taking pharmaceuticals in the first place. 

Is it Real of Figment of Imagination

Lately, since I had my two novellas presented at the Los Angeles Times Book Fair, I received emails from individuals who represented publishing houses, and not just some small-time press or self-publishing printing outfit, but Random House and Gray Wolf Press. 

Ten years ago, I would be jumping for joy and thinking I just struck gold. Ten years ago, I was more trusting and less skeptical of these emails because everything looked so authentic. That was then and this is ten years later, and a lot has happened at that time. 

To start with bad players are everywhere doing everything they can to swindle you or me into believing that what I have is pure gold and all I have to do is say yes, and I will get a double serving of American pie. 

Secondly I am using AI to summarize these emails to verify their authenticity. The person from Gray Wolf, for example, used her personal AOL address rather than a hyperlinked email company address. That’s a red flag. After submitting to these two people my keen interest in more information from them, they never replied, which says a lot about how scrupulous they must be. 

Finally, I’m much more skeptical now. I don’t see things with wide eyed wonder and think that what I have is worth more than the book’s price on the bar code or ISPN. I’ve learned my mistakes from my past and don’t just say yes anymore. 

While I appreciate all he latest attention poured into my two books, I definitely don’t need to be swindled out of money or jilted by false platitudes of what an enjoyable book(s) I have written. 

A Man on the Cross

Trust me, I’m not trying to be blasphemous. But many years ago, back in the eighties my BFF sat upon a cross that overlooked Flat top, a hill in the middle of West Richland. You can still see pretty much anywhere in the greater Tri Cities area; the cross not so much. 

There was a time in our younger days that we all were a bit too loose with our morals and let stuff happen that of course we can laugh at now that we are older and more or less wiser. Greg was my BFF in 1981. I don’t remember the particulars, but he came to live with us for a time. 

Us, I mean my parents and sisters as well as myself. He and I lived in the unfinished garage. At least it was insulated. I used him as a sounding board for the “great American novel” I was busy writing. Obviously, it was more of a futile effort at a crude first draft of high school kids learning to live in a post-nuclear war. The fact that Tri-Cities was within spitting distance of the Hanford Nuclear reservation, was key to the plot’s premise. 

Anyway, we both eventually found work doing scavenging work for Frank, a person I characterized in my later books working the landfill and doing any other jobs that needed physical labor. 

In the evenings we drove a recently bought Ford Galaxy 500 up to Flat top and would smoke pot and talk about nothing in particular, stoner issues of the time that seemed important to discuss, but most likely wasn’t important at all. 

Greg was taller and most likely stronger than me, but I knew I could handle anything thrown at me. He looked up at the cross, the February moon illuminating it and it looked cool in our inebriated conditions. 

“Jerry, ever tried getting on that cross?” 

“No, I can’t say as I have,” I replied. I admired the cross a bit longer and the pulled another toke from the pipe he offered me. 

“Want to go ahead and do it?” 

“Do what?” I laughed. 

“Climb up that cross and sit on it,” he replied simply. 

“Oh, I don’t know. If either of us slips, it is Gonnerville. You won’t stop until your bust-up body is at the bottom of this hill. It’s like three hundred feet down, Greg.” 

“Oh, you are just a woos,” Greg chastised me, as though insulting my manhood would make a hill of beans difference. I always considered myself well-grounded and never took unnecessary risks when it came to my well-being. Call it a deep seated but healthy fear of pain. “Come on Jerry. We ain’t gonna fall off!” 

“You go first and you help me get up and I’ll do it.” 

“Fine,” he answered as he opened the passenger side door and got out. I grudgingly followed suit and he being taller, over six feet, he had no trouble hoisting himself up and looked out over the Tri-Cities at night in 1981. “Okay, Jerry your turn.” He lowered his right arm for me to grasp and up I went, stumbling and doing my level best not to look at the endless darkness below me. 

After I was up and settled, Greg loaded his pipe, flipped the disposable lighter and went ahead to smoke on the cross. He passed it to me and I followed suit. “I hope we don’t get too buzzed Greg it’s a hell of a sudden drop before we hit terra firma.” 

Co-Depending with Ernie

Long ago when was just starting my life as an apprentice alcoholic, I became friends with my boss, a cook at the Elks Lodge in West Richland.  I remember his first name, Ernie, but not his last; not that it matters.  Suffice to say he was the journeyman alcoholic that I strived to  become. 

Mother gave me a job hint after returning home from school.  I was a full time college student at Columbia Basin College and needed gas money to get me back and forth in  my ’73 Gremlin.  A cook they recently hired at the Elks Lodge needed a dishwasher and prep cook.  I grudgingly went to the Elks lodge that overlooked their private golf course at the time.  The lodge later sold the course and swimming pool to the city.  At any rate, I met Ernie as he was mixing up the house dressing.  My first impression as I saw his wry smile behind a well trimmed salt and pepper beard, styled haircut and big gut was how similar he appeared to Kenny Rodgers. Our interview consisted of him asking me three questions: You ever washed dishes before? Can you prep? And do you like to drink? 

I replied yes to all three and he said, “You’re hired, now go and get me some more mayonnaise for the dressing.” 

It was purely business at first, and only later did I realized how far gone his alcoholism had progressed.  I went to work after classes and did my stint until I finished the last load of dishes and mopped the floor.  He cleaned up long before and sat at the corner of a bar nursing a Jack Daniels and coke.   

“You want something before you go,” he would ask me. 

Then, I was more responsible; if I drove I would ask for a soda, and if I walked I would sit at the bar and order a draft Bud.   

Later on, he bought himself a ’70 Coupe Deville and I became his designated driver, going to any number of bars in the greater Tri Cities area.  He would get himself plowed as I sat and drank my soda pop.  He would also reward my efforts by buying my weed for me.   It was a great relationship until he lost his job at the restaurant on night. 

It all started innocently enough, it was Mexican night, and we were on our way to the Elks Lodge, when he suddenly wanted to “grease his wheels” before getting there and we stopped at the bowling alley in Richland, called Atomic Lanes. 

No sooner had we sat down, than a group of ladies from Portland showed up to have couple.  He began flirting with them and soon he had one wrapped around his finger and I, being the sober driver noticed it was getting extremely close to getting started.  “Ernie, we need to go.” 

“Go ahead and start without me.  Come back later and pick me up,” he told me in his usual whiskey and cigarette rasping voice. 

“But Ernie, it’s Mexican night and they’ll be expecting you.” 

“Shit, everything you need to get started is in the freezer.  Just pull it out and get everything started.  Come back later and pick me up.  Now Scram!” 

I felt pissed, but that wasn’t the first time he pissed me off as I left the lounge, hearing a smattering of bowling pins explode as someone’s ball made contact.  No the first time was a few weeks before when he screwed up a meal at a wedding reception and the father of the bride or groom got into his face and threatened to beat the crap out of him and sue the Lodge.  In that little foray, he was gone and finally showed up just after the dinners were sent out, and the cook had no idea what exactly was being served and had to fly off the seat of his pants.  Somehow he got it wrong. 

After the confrontation had settled, the cook quit throwing his apron at Ernie.   

I went back to the dish pit doing dishes in silence, stewing in rage and embarrassment. 

Ernie came up to me and said, “Go ahead and clean up, I’ll be back later to help you finish up.” 

“Whatever, Ernie,” I replied as I glared back at him. 

“Don’t tell me you’re mad too.” 

“Yeah I am,” I said and went back to pre-rinsing  a rack of plates.  I saw him leave the kitchen, presumably going to the bar and having another one. 

Back to this night, it appeared we were headed in the same unfortunate circumstance as then and I felt the same rage beginning to approach.  He didn’t get it.  To him this was just another job to work at and get paid for with the added fringe benefit of a bar to drink in. For me, the Elks Lodge was more because people I knew, my parents’ friends went there on a regular basis and I carried aspirations of someday joining too.  He was a liability and an embarrassment for me.  The sooner I cut the cord the better, I thought. 

As soon as I arrived, the place was packed with lodge members wanting to know where Ernie was and his wife; yes he was married and had wonderful woman who had the patience of a saint, but not tonight. 

“Where’s Ernie,” was the first question that came out of her mouth as I ran like a chicken with its head cut off getting stainless steel containers full of refried beans, ground taco, meat and cheese out from the freezer and onto the flat range top.  That too was cold and I had to max the burners to get everything going. 

“I left him at the bowling alley,” I replied, tired of lying for him. 

“Really,” she replied as fire spit out from her eyes. 

Just then Mark, a cook who replaced the one who quit came in looking for Ernie.  “I need some money.  That check he gave me bounced.” 

A thought came to me at that moment.  “Look Mark, it’s taco night, I’m totally out of sorts here.  Ernie is at the bowling alley.  Do me a favor and get this stuff started.  I’m going to get him, even if I have to drag him out kicking and screaming.” 

I think he felt more sorry for me than mad at Ernie and agreed, as he threw on an apron and got started. 

“Go and get him,” his wife told me under no-uncertain-terms. 

Ten minutes later, I arrived at the bowling alley and saw Ernie carrying on a lively conversation with a red head and a brunette.   He was seated between the two. 

“Ernie we got to go now,” I stated to him.   

“Oh, your back.  I got this one for you.  We’re going over to the Hanford House to party there,” Ernie stated his eyes swimming in booze and lust. 

“Your wife sent me to get you back.  The place is full and thankfully, Mark showed to get the dinner going while I   come back to get  you.” 

That is when the two ladies excused themselves saying  “Goodbye Ernie,” as they left us.  Ernie appeared to have sobered up a bit then and got up, throwing on his cowboy hat and coat, and heading toward the door.  Not a word was exchanged as we drove back to the Elks Lodge. 

The remaining guests congratulated Mark on a fine dinner as they purposefully ignored Ernie who spoke pleasantries to them as they left the bar. 

“I thought you told me this place was packed,” Ernie said in disappointment to me. 

“It was,” his wife stated upon seeing us.   “They couldn’t wait all night for their dinners and went elsewhere.  Ernie, how could you?” 

He didn’t seem to have an answer as I snuck into the kitchen, taking off my coat and going into the dish pit as I donned my apron.  I started washing dishes when I suddenly heard dishes shattering. 

“What the hell are you doing?” I heard Ernie yell at someone who I could only assume was his wife. 

“You lying son of a bitch,” I heard her scream.  “Go and fine some place else to sleep.  You’re out of my place.” 

Later that night, I drove him to a lodge friend’s trailer.  He stayed there and they divorced.   

After the end of the year, of 1982, he and I separated too.  I didn’t feel like being  caught up in his downward spiral. 

He admitted to me some time before all of this happened that he was committed to a Schick rehabilitation facility by his first wife; this last one was his second.  He said he spent two days there and demanded to be released. 

As I later discovered myself, one cannot be forced to quit drinking.  For me, rock bottom was a stroke that left my left side of my body partially paralyzed and a decision to become sober for the rest of my life.  I don’t know if Ernie found the bottom of the bottle.  I pray that he did and changed his life to one of sobriety.  I feared though that  he ended up  drinking himself to death. 

Natural Pastime

Oh, the seventies growing up, so much to do and a teenager like me enjoying every moment of it. There were the bicycle rides to Lost Lake, a shallow pond within an oasis of trees, mostly Alder and Russian Olive. Not far from there was the old Tri-City Raceway, a quarter mile tri-oval track for wannabe stock car drivers. Outside Benton City was the POW camp, now just a dozen or so cement slabs where German prisoners of war were housed, and where me and my friends went to learn how to drink keggar beer, most likely Lucky Lager, and got sick. 

And finally, the ultimate rite of teenage passage, the unboat race held this time of year on the Yakima River when the spring runoff made the river and the Horn Rapids Dam most enjoyable. Unboats are a category of floatation devices that aren’t watercraft. Everything else was fair game: innertubes aligned and tied together with ropes or twine, rubberized rafts, homemade rafts like Jim and Huck Finn used to go down the Mississippi, a bathtub, and anything else one’s imagination desires. 

My first experience of this “race,” was when we came visiting Dad in 1971 before moving there permanently. He lived in a one-bedroom apartment that was above the Yakima River in West Richland. At that time that town had barely over a thousand residents. In five months, which will increase by five.  

But anyway, the race that we were more curious about than devoted fans of. Like you, I had no idea because I’ve never heard of it. It was a local thing apparently and not really organized in any official capacity. Later on, I hypothesized with my equally inebriated friends that this race was probably given birth to and christened at a similar keggar at the POW camp where we were partying.  

It fitted into a typical late sixties, early seventies great ideas that may have taken hold except the original organizers apparently sobered up by 1980 and that event never happened again. Considering the clear and obvious danger involved, not to mention most of these participants were probably feeling no pain when they launched their unboat craft from the boat launch just down river from the POW camp, down river and over Horn Rapids Dam. After that, the race itself was more of a party that amounted to shirtless young men or teenage boys frolicking on their tubes or rafts, teenaged girls wearing bikinis or bras with Daisy Duke shorts or halter tops. All had various long hair styles of the time. Beer and other alcoholic beverages passed freely amongst friends as well as those funny cigarettes. 

Anyway, we watch this “race” appear by where Dad’s apartment was and we hooted and hollered with the crews on their Unboats. At least one or two of these participants mooned us with their white cheeks proudly displayed. Mom wasn’t fast enough to shield my seven-year-old-sister’s eyes from that. “Mom, he’s showing his butt,” she exclaimed between giggles. I saw a couple teenager girls pull their t-shirts up from another raft showing young and perky breasts that I had never seen before. Of course, Dad just winked at me and grinned. 

The other night in between sleeps and fully awake I recalled that time and wondered if such an event still existed. Sadly, as I mentioned earlier, 1979 was the last year this Regala occurred not to be repeated ever again. I’m sure now that it’s been over fifty years since that first race, those original stoners at the POW camp are now retired, on walkers and gambling away their children’s inheritances at the local tribal casino if they aren’t already pushing daisies at the local cemetery. 

Book Two of Search for Justice is Live

“Four Seasons Book Two: Search for Justice,” is live and available for you my loyal readers to buy and read.

“Prominent Books Edge” has also agreed to publish book three called “Evil That Men Do.” It will soon be live in the fall. All of this cannot be possible without the support of you my readers.”

Here are the Amazon links:
Paperback: A Search for Justice: Four Seasons Book Two
eBook: A Search for Justice: Four Seasons Book Two

Here are the ISBNs for the books. You can use the ISBNs to search for a book on Amazon as it’s a unique code that quickly finds the exact version without confusion from similar titles or editions.

Paperback: 9798896722878
eBook: 9798896722885

The Mind

Science geek here again. This time I’m considering the mind, brain generally, and our perceptions of what we perceive as reality. I’m of an opinion that though everyone might see the same thing, how each individual perceives what he sees are as different as night and day. 

The Nova episode that I watched the other night is as telling of what each of us view as real or fake. It’s why magicians are still performing their acts of illusion, or delusion if you will, and wowing the audiences even in this day and age of skepticism.  

Our brains are programmed by our environment, parents, friends, and the intangibles such as mutations. Whatever one person might view in a certain situation including cataclysmic events and not sense they perceive the same thing. Instead, any traumatic event will invariable result in many people telling a vastly different story based on their past experiences, when and how they were raised and the intangibles of their own life experience. 

I’m a living example of my own trauma when I suffered a stroke in 2002. Many things on my brain that wasn’t affected is as poignant as what I lost. I lost some physical traits such as use of my left arm hand and fingers. I’m walking with a noticeable limp, but most of my memories are still there, my speech didn’t change—I was born with a cleft lip and pallet that speech therapy more or less fixed—still have my hearing and eyesight because those areas of the brain were not affected by the stroke I had. But, I’m noticing other changes that aren’t physical but mental. 

Like that minor, Phineus Gage, I noticed changes in my personality that weren’t apparent 23 years ago. I tended to be even keeled with a mild temperament. I was often taken advantage because I wanted to be accepted into whatever clique I wanted to befriend. It also explained my affinity for heavy drinking in my younger years, and probably why many people in higher positions of power didn’t see me as leadership material. 

Since my stroke, my personality has shifted more toward being impatient and temperamental toward certain people, and being terribly angry at myself. I have been warned numerous times that this behavior is unacceptable at work. When I saw that on Nova last night, how Mr. Gage’s own behavior issues were laid out, it made sense that the stroke I had also caused personality traits that are part of that portion of my brain happened near the frontal cortex and on my right side. 

Of course, with age, one has to put that into perspective how our personalities also change as well as our genes and how one was raised, be it a single parent relationship or even an abusive history that goes back many generations. 

As I have said before I have grown to appreciate Nova and other science programs more because I like learning new things about myself and the world around me. I hope we all can appreciate how we see the world through another lens and respect those differences, and embrace everyone’s perspectives and coexist. 

The Mailbox: Part 2

“Oh, to relive those days again,” Carl chuckled. “You were a handful that’s for sure.” He walked up the slight grade. His breathing, though steady became increasingly labored. He searched for that chair to sit upon before he became too weak to walk further. 

“What are you doing?” Susan screamed in frustration. 

“You can’t tell me what to do!” Ginny yelled back in a voice filled with rancor and scorn. “You ain’t stealing my Carl either. I swear I’ll kill you in your sleep.” 

“He’s my dad!” 

“Oh no, you are a harlot!” 

Carl found the chair and sat down. He fumbled with a pouch filled with cigarette tobacco and Zig Zag rolling papers. He began placing the paper in his one hand and pouring the tobacco onto the paper. With his free hand he fumbled with rolling it, until he had it started then used his other hand to complete the process. He used a wooden match to light the cigarette and inhaled the smoke deeply into his aged lungs. 

He could smell something burning from somewhere.  

“Mom, you’re going to burn his house down. Stop it right now!” Susan sounded frantic and Carl knew the time had come. She was beyond the help Susan could provide her. 

“That must be where the smoke smell is coming from.  

“Why are you insisting on calling you that? You aren’t my daughter. I don’t know who you are!” 

“Oh, that’s going to hurt to the core. I’m sorry Susan. I should never have brought us into your life. I bet you’ve aged ten years since we came here from Davenport Iowa.” He finished smoking the cigarette when he heard firetrucks approaching. Their distant sirens came closer to the property. He remained seated as he felt the breeze of the engine brush passed him. Several cars and trucks soon followed. Then all was quiet. 

 A commotion of men barking orders to each other while his daughter yelling at the men and Ginny singing a gospel song from when they were children over eighty years ago. “Come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!” 

Carl continued walking up the road to the mailbox. He tapped his cane against the four-by-four post and gingerly caressed the box until he found the opening and searched inside. He placed the single envelope out of the box and tucked it into the light jacket he wore. He then slowly made his way back to the house where fire truck, volunteer firefighters, Susan, and Ginny milled about putting out the fire Ginny started. 

“Yes, Susan it’s time to take her out of your hair and put us in a home where we can pass the days until we breathed our last breaths. 

The Mailbox

Carl used his white cane to guide him to the mud room where his black boots sat on the floor next to a chair from the last time he put them on, this time yesterday. It was a chore of love toward his daughter Susan that he did this each and every day except Sunday. 

He methodically put on his logger boots and laced them up. The macular degeneration took away his sight but not his memory. Unlike his wife of seventy years, he still remembered how to lace his boots and other things too. 

He heard her busy about the kitchen, his daughter was outside by her vegetable garden, an affair that brought envy to him every time he walked out there and smelled the beets, the potatoes, carrots and tomatoes, all ready for harvest this October afternoon. 

“I should wait until she gets back inside. I’m supposed to look after Ginny. But the mailman came and there might be an important letter awaiting for me or a bill from the electric co-op.” 

Just then she walked in with a basket of vegetables, mostly sugar peas and tomatoes, ripe and ready for the soup pot. She had handsome looks, though that too was a memory of Carl’s since the best he could do anymore was caress her daughter’s face, feeling the soft weathered flesh of her face, mouth, and hair. 

“Oh, you came in now,” Carl stated with a slight Norwegian accent to his baritone voice. “I wanted to wait so that Ginny wouldn’t get into trouble.” 

“I appreciate that Poppa. She hasn’t been herself lately and I’m worried for her,” she told Carl with more than a hint of concern emanating from her middle-aged voice. She had just turned fifty-nine yesterday, though Carl didn’t know what day which was anymore. They all blended together. 

“I will be back shortly, Susan.” 

“Take your time,” she advised him. “When you get back, I’ll have dinner started,” she promised him while she set the basket on the floor and removed her dirt covered shoes and placed slippers on her feet. 

Carl moved the cane side to side imagining in his mind where everything was to his darkened world. He heard and felt the cane strike the front door and he grasped the door handle, turning it and opening the door then stepping outside. He immediately felt the waning sun in his face while he walked in that very direction to the single lane road that led to the main road and the mailbox that stood sentry-like alongside that road. It wasn’t a long walk, but it was a goodly distance away and at the speed his old but gangly legs could muster it all took an hour to get there and back. Susan had her late husband place a folding chair around halfway up the road so that Carl could sit down and rest for a bit. He recalled he died last year from a massive heart attack. His name was Sam and he homesteaded this land and died making it all work out for him. 

“Mother no!” Carl heard Susan scream at her mother. 

“What did you do now Ginny?” He shook his head sadly knowing her demented mind lost all ability to reason or comprehend the simplest of tasks. Anymore, just having her sit quietly in the TV room vacantly staring off in the distance remembering a time long ago when her mind was sharper and more focused, she would be this darling angel that he fell in love with when they were teenaged sweethearts courting behind the barn.