Author: melgrieves

I used to wonder if I could fly

Would I look down on all from the sky

And let the wind keep me free

Above the earth that I could see.

I used to wonder what it would be like

To sit astride a motor bike

To have the wind blow through my hair

And breathe in all the countryside air.

I used to wonder if I would be tall

To stand up high above them all

To see over the head of those young and old

And watch the events around me unfold.

I used to wonder if I would learn

And be taught everything of concern

And use it all in a later time

To answer all questions sublime.

I used to wonder if I would find love

Magically announced by the call of a dove

A person who God made just for me

And I for her, I would surely see.

I used to wonder when I grew old

If I would live fearless and bold

Or would I cower and certainly hide

From life’s challenges not pushed aside.

I used to wonder if I would have friends

Who stay with me through the bitter ends

And I, in return be true to them all

To be by their side at their beck and call.

I used to wonder about all of my dreams

The ones with laughter and those with screams

Of all the mysteries of my mind

And be fearful of what I might find.

I don’t wonder so much now, or worry about life

The day to day living and the world full of strife

For I know now that I was given a plan

The pathway for me to be just who I am.

So, I will live out my days

Searching for the many ways

To end it happily and at peace

Knowing that wondering will never cease.

Bob stepped carefully up the battered and broken porch steps. The house, once dressed in a fine cream color was now a sad vision of dried, gray wood with an occasional spot of paint trying desperately to hang on. The two front windows had long since become nothing but shards of broken glass standing as sentinels in the faded green panes, and he could see a definite lean of the structure as he looked straight up the wall. He carefully slid the old screen door, to the side. Its hinges had rusted out years ago and the door no longer able to make that slamming sound on closing he remembered as a young boy.  His grandfather had often replaced the connecting spring that made sure of a tight closure and in turn would keep the constant barrage of bottle flies out of the house.

He pushed, with some effort, the old battered wooden door and it gave way. The panels were still intact but the glass in the upper half of the door was cracked and just waiting for the right pressure to fall to the floor.

He stepped into the old kitchen and stopped to look around. His eyes immediately scanned the area down and to his right. He expected to see the old wash basin, the Lava soap, and a thread bare towel hanging on a little stand sitting just below an old framed mirror. There was nothing there.  The blue flowered linoleum was curled, cracked, and buckled, the wall paper, probably put up by his grandmother, was split and falling. The old wood burning stove was long gone, a treasure that some cousin absolutely needed to have; his plan was to return it to its early glory so that it may be used in a mountain cabin. It still sat in the back of a garage after twenty years.

The musty smell was everywhere and a fairly thick layer of dust, blown in from the nearby fields was evident.

The door in the corner of the kitchen was the opening that led about five steps into a dug-out potato cellar.  He remembered descending those treacherous steps to retrieve canned preserves or some such thing for his grandma. The spiders and the darkness made the chore a challenge.  A few cupboards still hung on the far kitchen wall, and the ceiling had dropped in many places, a victim of weather that had destroyed a long-ignored roof.

Diagonally across the kitchen was the door to the front room. At least that was what it was called. The area, at one time housed a sofa, large chairs, a heavy library table, doilies everywhere, kerosene lamps, and many meaningful pictures adorning the wall. Bob remembered an elongated photograph, in particular, of his grandfather and other soldiers posing for the camera sometime during World War I.

He stared out the window for a moment and let his mind wander.

Bob imagined the excitement his grandparents must have felt when they, in 1916, had moved from a tiny homesteading shack into this gloriously roomy home. The days of dirt floors was behind them. They, along with neighbors, endeavored to build the house from the ground up. It was most certainly not a small task during those years. The outhouse, some thirty yards behind the back of the house was barely upright and certainly gravity would soon drop the structure into the dugout hole below it. Down in the coulee below the house, remnants of the old water well poked through the tall dried grass.

The floor creaked and groaned loudly as he walked across the room to the door that opened to a second floor. The stairs were steep, and so narrow that moving furniture must have been a real challenge. Years of bird invasion was immediately evident.  Two separate areas had been crudely structured and a small closet with four hooks sat in both corners of each room The tongue and groove floor looked to be holding its own against the ravages of age. Bob assumed several layers of gray paint must have helped that situation. Missing were the wrought iron bed frames which held the old bed springs and mattresses. He smiled as he remembered their sag that nearly reached the floor.

He stared out the opening at one end of the house looking down at the array of abandoned, rusted farm implements. A large red barn, once the home of chickens, pigs, and a horse or two, had collapsed years ago. He stood there and remembered. He knew his grandparents had left this house for a move into the nearest town, necessary as they had two sons that would soon need schooling. It was also a move because the farm was not supporting his grandfather and the family.  Luckily, he had found employment at a farm implement store, just blocks from their new home. A home they would live their entire life in, and die in.

Bob thought back at the summers of staying in the old house while his father harvested the fields for his grandfather. The house was made livable for a few days each summer so that Bob and his siblings could “rough it” and he seemed, in his mind, to accept the feeling of ownership. He could almost smell the burning kerosene that emitted a dull flickering light at night. He could make out the staticky sounds from a big boxy radio drawing power from a large battery. They sat and listened to the farm report, news, and, of course, the weather forecast. Later, maybe the Jack Benny radio show and music kept them entertained as they played card games. The entertaining Armchair Theatre program usually finished about the time his mother announced lights out. That was a long time ago.

Bob slowly and carefully stepped back down the creaking stairs, across the front room, and out through the old kitchen door to the outside light and fresh air.

Bob moved a good distance away and nodded to the volunteer fire department chief. An accelerant was splashed around the base of the old house, and the blaze was set. The training of the new recruits began.

He walked away and never looked back.

When fear comes a-knocking

There’s sure to be talking

About what could’ve, should’ve, would’ve

Been better, safer, cheaper.

When Fear arrives beside us,

All our doubts mount and ride us

Into an unknown world that grows

Darker, wider, deeper.

When Fear goes unshackled,

Pain and anger raise their hackles

On our backs as hearts close tight,

And we become Fear’s keeper.

When fear thrives inside us,

Hope is still cloaked beside us,

Waiting in goodness and kindness,

Encouraging truth-seekers.

The truth is your witness,

Your sword and your fitness

Against fear and its doubt.

Let the truth knock it out.

Find the good that surrounds us,

Nurtures us and binds us.

Good people, good deeds, good thoughts remind us

To always look beyond and beside and behind us.

My life was boring, tiresome and dull. I mean it was until two weeks ago. Now I don’t know what it is.

My ride on that old public transit bus was hot and dusty. Every window on the thing was open in an effort to stifle the blast furnace temperature inside that creaky, noisy, shaking bus. At least the smoke from all the cigars and cigarettes wasn’t billowing around my nose. Only good thing.

I was concentrating on the newest action comic I had just bought at Schlosser’s Drug Store. The Terror of the Tiny Robots read the big bold lettering on the front page. I was sure that Superman could handle another challenge, just like always.  Reading was a nice diversion on the three-mile ride I had taken almost every day except Sundays this summer. Our family always went to church on Sunday and it seemed that we spent most of the day there. We never missed.

Thanks to my mother, old Mrs. Jackson had a slave to do all of her yard work, and even some stuff in her house.

“Ah, Mom, do I have to?” I remember saying.

“Thomas James Marshall, poor Mrs. Jackson asked everyone at the church for help and they all decided they had better things to do, but not this family. No sir! She needs help and we will be charitable. No more moping or arguing, besides, she said she would pay for your work. Do you understand young man?” came the order.

 All my friends were playing baseball or riding their bikes, and I was busy stacking wood, or trimming bushes, or even burning trash. I had to admit I liked the part when the gasoline diesel mixture whooshed up at the beginning of the burn. Only once did I have to get out the watering hose and stop the flames from heading for the storage shed. I forgot to tell Mrs. Jackson about that.

I was getting seventy-five cents a day plus a dollar extra at the end of the week if I did good work. I never could figure out who decided good work was, but I always seemed to receive a bonus.

The usual chatter and laughter on the bus interrupted the silence of my concentration although I paid little attention. I was getting to the good part.

“You live around here, young man?” Was a voice I clearly heard from across the aisle but ignored.

“Excuse me, young man. Are you a resident of this community?” came a clear demanding question again.

“Uh-huh”, I said and stuck my nose further into my comic.

“Do you know where the Rosenbaum house might be?” came yet another annoying request.

I look up and stared at the man asking all the questions. He was about the age of my father, had dark hair slicked back on each side of his head. My immediate thought was he used too much Brylcreem. And he had one of those pencil thin mustaches, I thought they were called. One just like the actor, David Niven sported. He wore a black shirt, white tie, and a black suit. His shoe shone a spit shine. Kind of a weird guy to be riding this bus, I thought. Nobody else seemed to notice.

“Uh-huh.” Was all I said and turned to look out the window, hoping this man would quit bothering me.

“Well young sir, I am prepared to offer you five dollars if you would direct me to the immediate front door of that domicile.” He man spoke.

Two things came to mind immediately. One, he talked pretty highbrow, and two, five dollars was a lot of money for me. I could blow off work and only show up when I wanted.

“Five dollars just to walk you up to the Rosenbaum place? You know the house had been boarded up for years and years, don’t you?” I asked.

“It matters not, are you willing to complete my suggested transaction?” he said and held out a bill with Abraham Lincoln ‘s picture on it.

I grabbed the money and stuffed it in my pocket, rolled my comic up and slid it in my back pocket, knowing that whatever outcome of the story was, waiting to read the rest of it could wait. Five bucks, wow?

I pulled the stop cord and as we exited the bus, I stopped to tell the driver that the reason I was getting off early was to show another passenger where the Rosenbaum house was. He looked at me with little interest and impatiently waited as we stepped off the bus.

The heat in Gaynor, Texas was unbearable. There never seemed to get a cool breeze anytime of the year. I guessed desert country would always be that way. And the smell of Texas oil was always in the air. I was going to get out of here as soon as I was old enough, that was for sure. Move to California, or maybe New York, someplace where the weather wasn’t always so miserable.

We walked silently along the side of the dusty dirt road for about five minutes but before we turned a final corner the man asked me my name.

“I’m Tommy.” I answered.

“Pleased to meet you Tommy, my name is Smith, John Smith.” He said and extended his hand to be shook.

I gave him a big shake then looked ahead of us.

 I stared down a long winding driveway leading to a big old house. All the windows were boarded up, the yard was overgrown, and the paint was almost peeled away from the siding. Tumbleweeds filled the big front porch area and weeds grew up where ever that could.

“There it is mister.” I said and once more reached into my pocket to make sure the currency was still there. I started to walk away.

“I’ve got one more business opportunity for you, Tommy, that is, if you’re interested.” The tall man in black said as he peered down at me.

I listened.

“I have another five bill that could be yours if you could crawl through a basement opening and go up through the house to unlock that front door.” He said and again pulled out some money.

I looked over to a small window at the foundation and wondered how I would get in. I hesitated. Somehow getting into that old house without someone’s permission seemed wrong. I was just about to reject his request when things went crazy.

Suddenly the man grabbed a loose brick on the foundation and smashed the window. He proceeded to completely clear the pane of glass and looked at me.

“Well?” he asked expectantly.

“Okay, I said, but only if I get paid before I crawl through that hole.”

The deal was done and I found myself peering into a dark dungeon of a basement.

I carefully slipped through the window but ended up getting a long arm cut from small piece of glass that was stuck in the pane. I looked at my forearm and saw a trickle of blood, but the damage wasn’t bad so I just ignored it. The drop down to the basement floor was a little scary since it was so dark, I couldn’t gauge the distance. I hit the hardness of the concrete and stood for a moment. First, I needed to let my eyes adjust to the lack of light, and second, to make sure there wasn’t anything or anybody that was going to attack me.

“Just find the stairs and head on up.” A voice from above startled me for a second. I looked up to see the man sticking his head into the opening above me.

Easy for him to say, I thought. I bumped into boxes, felt around and grabbed poles wrapped in cobwebs, and walked right into a jet-black colored furnace, smashing my forehead along the way.  Finally, I saw the stairs, and quietly and carefully climbed to the next level. I pushed a creaking door open that connected to a fairly small kitchen. I quickly walked to the front of the house and the front door. I didn’t need to spend any more time than necessary in this place. It was giving me the creeps.

I turned the massive door’s dead bolt, and yanked the handle with all of my might. The door inched open, and the man in black began to help from the outside. It finally opened wide, and I took off across the yard, glancing back to see that the man had disappeared into the house.

Still, it was ten bucks. I was rich! I began the walk home. I felt for my comic in my back pocket.

“Oh no, I lost it somewhere.” I muttered to myself.

I carefully retraced my steps to the basement window. It was nowhere to be found. I decided to check further. I looked down across the streaming light and saw it laying just about where I landed on the dark floor. I might come back to retrieve it but decided I had had enough adventure for the day. I headed home.

My mother was watching out the kitchen window as I came up the sidewalk.

“Where have you been? You are almost a whole hour late. Did you have to do extra work? Did the bus break down? Tommy are you okay?” she finished the questions when she noticed the gash across my forearm.

“What happened to you? Let’s get that cleaned up.” She said with a voice of concern.

“Aw, it’s nothing Mama. I decided to jump the Larson’s fence to get home earlier and caught my arm and a piece of wire.” I lied.

No way was I going to tell her what really happened.

I, however, took a chance and pulled out one of the five dollar bills I had earned.

“A man on the bus paid me this money to show him where the Rosenbaum house was and I wasn’t going to pass that up, so that’s why I’m late.” I said quickly without emotion.

My mother screeched, “What man, who was he?”

“I dunno, just some guy that was looking for a place and he paid me money to show him the way. No big deal.”

“No big deal! Young man you are twelve years old. What if he had kidnapped you, or, even worse.” she said after a pause.

She made the sign of the cross and looked up at the picture of Jesus hanging in the dining room.

“I’m okay and a lot richer for helping a stranger out. You said we are a charitable family, right. Well, I was being charitable.” I explained with a hope she would settle down.

It worked. In fact, she never even mentioned my adventure to my father, for which I was eternally grateful.

The following morning as I was eating my Corn Flakes, I spoke to my mother.

“Mama, I got enough money that I want to buy something, do think that’s alright?” I asked.

“Honey, it’s your money, you can do with it as you please, but you should give a little of the new found wealth to the church on Sunday.” She said.

I didn’t say anything about any tithing, but I knew exactly what I was going to buy.

Later that morning, after doing yard work I told Mrs. Jackson I was going to take the afternoon off. I walked into town and found what I wanted. The Pawn and Own store had a bicycle parked out in front with a price tag of twenty dollars. I had looked at it last week and wished I had a few more dollars to buy it. Now I did. We had a bike at home but it was for little kids, this one was just right for me. It had a comfy seat, good tires, I thought, but was missing a front fender. Dad had a bucket of black paint in the garage so I could make that baby look pretty groovy. In minutes I was racing down the street weaving back and forth. It was great. Suddenly I heard a bleep of a siren right behind me. I pedaled over to the side of the road and got off my new purchase.

“Mighty fancy riding there, Tommy.” Came a familiar voice.

Sergeant Willie Amos, our neighbor a couple of houses down the street, walked up and examined the bike.

“Thanks, I just bought it with my hard-earned dollars. What do you think of it.” I asked as I beamed a big smile.

“Now you’ll be able to run more errands for your mother without complaining about having to walk so far.” The big dark-skinned man said with a big smile on his face.

His son, Jerome, was in the same class as me, so we knew each other’s family fairly well.

“Ya, I spose, never thought of that.” I surmised.

“Anyway, keep that bike on the very right side of the street when you are riding, otherwise I might just have to give you a ticket for reckless driving, okay?” Sergeant Amos said and returned to his black and white police car.

I wondered if I should have mentioned something about that weird man I ran into the day before but decided not to since I was paid to sneak into the Rosenbaum house.

I jumped on my ride and pedaled home to show off my new bicycle.

Wednesday was just a little cooler weather and people were outside of their houses enjoying the fact that they wouldn’t burn up if they did a little yard work. I, however, was inside Mrs. Jackson’s house moving boxes and a whole bunch of other things around up in the miserably hot attic. She slowly followed me up the back stairs and quickly sat on an old rocker, then directed me as to where she wanted everything. She found an old photo album and started looking through it while I worked.

“Mrs. Jackson, did you know the people who lived in the Rosenbaum house?” I asked offhandedly.

“Why dearie, what brought up that question?” she asked.

I explained that there was a man who wanted to take a look at the house and I gave him directions.

“Yes, poor Asa and Rachel Rosenbaum had quite a life but it didn’t end well for them. He owned a few wells up by Oilman so they were fairly wealthy. They built a big beautiful house down toward your side of town. They were pretty high society folks but very nice to those who didn’t have much. They had a son, Jacob, I think was his name. Now he was one spoiled kid, and drove his parents crazy. The boy was always getting into some kind of trouble or the other.” She finished talking then looked back at the album.

“Well, what happened to them?” I asked, hoping she would continue.

She looked up and thought for a moment then spoke softly, “That son of theirs ended up being murdered somewhere around Houston. The police caught the guy who did it and put him away in prison. Of course, there was all kinds of gossip and rumors about Jacob being involved with the Italian mafia, or being a fascist, or about being part of gang that robbed a bank, all kinds of things.”

“They just kind of, well, kind of disappeared from society after Jacob died. I rarely saw them after that time. Asa passed not too long after of a heart attack, and I don’t remember what took poor Rachel. There wasn’t any more family that anyone knew about so the bank just boarded up the house and it has sat empty all these years. Such a sad ending.” Mrs. Jackson concluded then dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

I got off the bus after work, jumped on my bike and rode a short distance back downtown. I wanted to get my comic back if Mr. Smith hadn’t boarded up the window he broke. I arrived at the Rosenbaum house with high hopes, but, darn, no such luck. The window was covered with wood. I took a chance and walked around to the front door. I banged an old metal knocker hanging on the door. It was loud. I just hoped someone was in the house.

“Who is it?” came a voice from behind the door after a few minutes, causing me to jump.

“It’s Tommy, I dropped my new comic book the other day and it is on the basement floor. I came to get it if I could.” I yelled through the thick front opening.

Soon I was standing in the middle of a large front room, looking around at things in disarray. It looked like a hurricane had gotten loose inside the house.

“Sorry for the mess, Tommy, but I’m kind of looking for the same thing as you came to retrieve.” The man, still dressed in black, said apologetically.

“A friend of mine, years ago, promised to keep a collection of books and comics that I had obtained over the years. They are very valuable and some of them are first editions. So, you can see I am anxious to recover them.” He explained.

“My friend died, but not before he told me my possessions were in this house. Unfortunately, he never told me the exact location.” He continued.

“Are you talking about Jacob Rosenbaum?” I asked.

The man turned toward me with a surprised look and said nothing. Finally, he spoke.

“Why yes, he was a very dear friend I had known for a long time.” Mr. Smith explained.

“Mrs. Jackson said he was murdered.” I blurted.

“Why yes, that is what I heard, too. Poor Jacob, such a fine fellow, too.” He said in a follow up statement.

“I’ll tell you what, make your way down to the basement and get your comic and maybe we can talk some more business when you get back.” He suggested.

I carefully walked down the creaking steps and found my comic right where I had seen it lay. I rolled it back up and stuck it in my back pocket. The place was a much bigger mess than when I had slipped through the window a few days before. I hurried up to the first floor.

“Good, you found your comic. I’ll tell you what, I’ll pay you five more dollars to help me look around for my books. If you find my collection, I’ll give you five dollars more. Are you interested?” Mr. Smith asked.

I had time before supper and the chance to make that kind of money was exciting.

“Sure, I said, where do you want me to start.”

The man suggested I do a thorough search in the basement, and gave me a large flashlight for the effort.

I could hear loud noises from upstairs as Mr. Smith was searching everywhere.

I spent about thirty minutes digging in boxes, looking on shelves, and under tables, and even up on the support rafters. There was nothing. I began to consider quitting when my light beam fell on the big old black furnace I had bumped into when I first was there.

I walked over a opened a heavy duty latched door and peered in. There was soot everywhere. I figured the Rosenbaums had burned coal in it at one time. I searched the insides and spotted a brown suitcase set just inside the door. I figured that must be what we were looking for. I pulled on the handle and jerked it out. It was plain looking without any labels or nametags on it. I set it down on the floor and unclicked the two latches that held the top lid to the bottom, and opened the case up.

I stared at a suitcase full of money, all denominations including one-hundred-dollar bills, a lot of them. I was temporarily stunned.

“Ah, I see you found my treasure.” Came a quiet voice from the stairway.

The man in black bent down beside me and ran his hand over the money.

“I’ve been waiting a long time to claim what was mine. If that double crossing Jake had been a little more foresight in his explanation of where this valise may be, he might certainly still be alive. But unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. He was stupid and greedy. “The man said.

I looked up at the man.

“You killed Jacob Rosenbaum, didn’t you?” I asked while trying to breath normally.

“Yes, I did, and I paid for that act by spending almost twenty-five years in prison. Twenty-five years because that spoiled wormy Jake decided to take the bank money all for himself, and I had to teach him a lesson on being trustworthy and honest with his fellow robbers.” Mr. Smith answered.

“Now, I’m leaving with godforsaken house and town and plan to live it up with what is rightfully mine.” He said with a faraway look in his eyes.

“I’ll just go home then; I won’t say anything to anyone.” I volunteered.

The man stood thinking for a moment.

“You know that you are an accomplice now. If get arrested, you will too. You’re the one who broke into this house, and you helped me search for the money.” He said pointed first at me then at the suitcase.

“I don’t think you would like to be in jail. It’s not a nice place to spend your life.” He continued.

“Tommy, I’ll do you a favor. You stay down here until it gets dark then head on home. You better act like nothing has happened, that way the police won’t ever bother you. Do you understand?” he ordered.

I nodded my head and backed up as far away from the man as I could. He started up the stairs with the suitcase, and the flashlight, then stopped and turned.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” He said as he tossed money toward me.

“Thanks for the help, I couldn’t have done it without you.” He laughed.

The man went up the stairs, and I could hear the door lock.

What an idiot I was, I thought to myself. I ran up the stairs that was lit by filtered light shining through the window boards.  I pushed on the door. It wasn’t going to budge.  I wondered if I should stay here until dark like the man suggested, then try to escape.

No way, I thought, the most important plan was to get out of here.

I pushed a table across the floor until it was right beneath the window which I had crawled through just days before. I saw, sadly, that I needed more height. I found a rickety wooden chair, set in on the table and climbed. I began to bang on the wood with my fists but to no avail. I looked around for something to use to loosen them.

I remembered that one of the boxes I had dug through had a fireplace hearth set. I finally found the right one and pulled out a heavy metal poker with a wooden handle. I hefted the discovery, and figured it might work.

Ten minutes later I was crawling frantically through the bashed and broken window. I was afraid the man was waiting outside for me so he could murder me too. I ran as fast as I could to my bicycle and jumped on, pedaling like my life depended on it. I headed down the street to my neighborhood and saw, with a bit of relief, the familiar black and while police car parked in its usual spot.

I ran up to the Amos residence and began banging on the door. I was shouting and crying the whole while. Suddenly the door opened.,

“Tommy, what’s all the racket.” Sergeant Amos asked.

I was wild with fear.

“I “m a , a complis to a crime and will probably go to jail because I helped a murderer find some money and he’s leaving town and I’m in a heap of trouble, but you have to catch that man in black right away.” I blurted.

“Whoa, slow down, now. What man, what money, what murder?” the policeman asked quickly.

“The man who murdered Jacob Rosenbaum was searching in the family home and I found a suitcase full of money from a bank robbery, but Jacob wanted to keep it all for himself and that’s why he’s dead. Now the man, Mr. Smith, says I’m responsible just like him and I’ll go to jail.” I finished.

“Did the man have a car?” Sergeant Amos asked.

“I don’t think so, when I first saw him, he was on the city bus.” I answered.

I quickly gave a description of Mr. Smith to my neighbor and described what kind of clothing he was wearing.

I was given instructions to head on home and stay there until someone from the police department contacted me.

That night and the next day was crazy as I was questioned endlessly by a police detective, and even more so by my parents. I was grounded for a week for crawling through a broken window and, by doing so, helping a complete stranger illegally enter a home. And taking money to do it!

Well, the upshot was that John Smith, also known as Carl Ryder, was arrested as he tried to board a Houston bound bus. The money from an unsolved bank robbery committed years ago, was returned, Ryder was in jail, and I was going to be given a reward for my part of the investigation.

Unfortunately, I was promptly told by my mother the entire sum would be given to the church so that good may come from bad.

So here I stand, looking out over Mrs. Jackson’s big lawn, wondering when all of those leaves would quit falling.  I guess things are still boring, tiresome and dull.

Our life is filled with memories of past events. They are generally categorized by our brain as to the feeling or emotion that was evoked at the time. We can still, to some degree, capture that moment. It may not have the impact or strength that was felt at the moment of happening, but it is real and true.

Deaths, marriages, births, and divorces usually top the list, but many subcategories are included. Accidents or trauma of some kind, victory or defeat at a sporting or competition venue are certainly to be added as are travel experiences and friendship interaction.

Those memories are what make up the past life you have lived. I am saddened by those who, because of a dementia, or memory disease have lost that connection.

I want to tell a story of a past event that had more recently been remembered and renewed.

The years of being a preteen were exciting, educational, and confusing. I was twelve years old, a good student attending the sixth grade. Girls, up to that point, were always just three things; competition, irritation, and gossipers. Most of them were taller than myself and seemed to have something of a maturity I didn’t have.

 Generally, us guys stuck together, excluding the females from any event in which we participated. During past years they would complain to the teachers about our attitude and we were forced to let them play whatever game we were playing. That year, however, the girls could care less about what we were doing. They were busy grouping together, swooning over the newest heart throb, singing some rock and roll song, or comparing clothing and shoes. Things were changing.

I had known Sharon for a long time. She was in the fifth grade and we often walked the same route home from school. Something happened one day as we walked and I experienced “liking” a girl.  She suddenly seemed prettier, smarter, and cleverer. I made an effort to walk on a daily basis with my secret girlfriend. My infatuation continued throughout the winter and well into the next year. Nobody knew of my feelings for a girl and certainly wasn’t going to brag.

Each class room had a valentine’s day party where we exchanged cards. I was surprised to see a card in my homemade box from Sharon. I remember it well. The front display had the proper hearts and frills on it and a beaver was standing on a log. The quote beneath said, “If you don’t want to be my valentine”; I opened up the card and it continued,” just forget the whole dam business.” In that moment I was overwhelmed with a need to thank her for the note. I actually left my class room and all of its hubbub and walked across the hallway to another class. I knocked on the door, asked the teacher if I could speak to Sharon, and thanked her for the card. With that act, the cat was out of the bag. The entire school knew who my sweetheart was. I was okay with that.

We held hands in the playground, but discreetly, and spent the rest of the spring just being close to each other as our age and knowledge of romance would permit. Sharon moved away that summer. I was as heartbroken as any twelve-year-old could be.

She had many relatives in our town and returned for an annual Christmas celebration. I was excited to see her again. She was even prettier than I had remembered. We spent the day together, rode around in wagon filled with hay and sang carols as we went.

It was time to say good-bye and I slowly walked her to her grandmother’s house. We talked about nothing in particular as large flakes of snow began to fall. We reached the driveway and I turned to Sharon. She gave me a big smile, but I had already placed my hands of each side of her face then kissed her. On the lips! I don’t know what prompted me to do such a thing, since I had never kissed a girl before. I quickly turned and left, but not before telling her I would miss her. I floated home. I was a changed person.

That was my distant memory, one that occasionally bubbled up in my consciousness.

I saw her a handful of times throughout the years, knew she had married, divorced, married again, then widowed. Small town information is always there just for the asking.

Last year I attended my community one-hundred-year anniversary. The town slowly grew in population until the early seventies, stopped its growth, and began to decline. People of all ages showed up for the event and the attendee’s interaction was exciting.

I saw Sharon sitting at a large table next to her elderly mother. I sat down next to her. We exchanged pleasantries and information about our life at that time.

I leaned over and spoke to Eleanor, her mother.

“I’m sure she doesn’t remember it, but your daughter was the first girl I ever kissed.” I said quietly.

Eleanor smiled and looked at her daughter. Sharon turned to me and began to speak.

“You mean when we were on the Rosholt’s driveway and it was snowing, and you did this.” She declared and proceeded to cup my face with her hands and kiss me as I had kissed her so many years ago.

My thoughts immediately raced to the fact that she had remembered that one night.

I looked at her and we smiled at each other. We talked a bit more and I moved on to visit others.

A moment of my past became strong and fixed. I knew it now as a memory shared.

Family . . . . over the course of your life, you may have more than one family.  You start off with the family you’re born into – your parents, brothers, sisters, etc.  This is your first family or birth family – the one you usually grow up with.  Then as your life progresses, you may have other families – a church family, a work family, perhaps a family of your own.  I loved my birth family – I had several brothers and sisters, and there were lots of other families where I  lived.  It seemed safe and peaceful there.  

Then one day I was in the yard with my brothers and sisters.  It was a sunny day but a bit on the cool side.  The leaves were turning gold and orange and red.  Just a beautiful time of year – my favorite season actually.  Anyway, I was with my brothers and sisters in the yard, and then we all noticed a tall man eyeing us. He strode over to where we were, looked at each of us, and then he grabbed me!  He was so much bigger than me and I had no way to fight him off.  I stared at my family who were all staring at me too.  The man dragged me to his car and put me inside.  I did not want to go!  I wanted to be with my brothers and sisters.  I wanted to get away, but I certainly couldn’t jump out of the car while he was driving 50 MPH.  What could I do?  The only life I knew was with my family.  Now here I was – God only knows where – and getting farther and farther away from those I loved.

Finally, he stopped at a house in the suburbs.  He got out of the car, picked me up, and took me inside his house.  Inside were two young children and a pretty lady (I hoped she’d help me).  She smiled at me, nodded approvingly at the man, but I got the feeling that she wasn’t really going to help me get back to my first family. The children were quite eager to see me.  I, however, was not so excited to see them.  We were all gathered in the kitchen which seemed to be the center of family activity in this house.  There was a lot of talking, asking, describing, explaining and – wait a minute – did I hear that correctly?  I thought the young boy asked when they were going to cut me.  What?!  For a second family situation, this did not seem promising at all!    

Then they all left me alone while they ate dinner.  When they were finished eating, the man and the two children crowded around me.  At first they seemed to be examining me and talking among themselves.  They turned me around, turned me back, turned me to one side and then the other.  Finally they agreed on which side of me they liked best.  Then they drew little triangles and shapes on me. This seemed like odd behavior to me.  Then the man brought out a knife – I mean a really big, sturdy, sharp knife!  What did they plan to do?   I soon found out – the man jabbed me, cutting into my body.  He cut off the top of my head and removed it.  Then he cut along the shapes he had drawn on my skin.  This did not seem like fun to me . . . .  but the children seemed quite pleased.  Then, to top it all off, he took out my insides! 

Then they put me out on the front porch and placed a candle inside me.  I guess that was to keep me warm overnight.  After all they’d done to  me, it seemed like a pretty small favor if you ask me.  Anyway, I stayed outside after that.  The next night, some children, who resembled small ghosts or witches or some other scary creatures, came to the house, and the pretty lady gave them candy.  The children were all excited and said something about how much they liked Jack O’Lantern which seemed to be the name everyone called me.  Several more costumed children dropped by that night, and the lady gave them all some treats.

A day or two later, my insides were not looking or feeling so great.  The man scraped out the discolored stuff inside me and the kids kept asking about going to the zoo.  So off we went to the zoo.  I had no idea what lay in store for me there, but I didn’t have to wait too long to find out.  At first everyone just walked around and looked at all the animals.  Then, when the zookeeper said it was okay, the man carrying me threw me into the pond where there was a large animal named Hippo with a very large mouth.    My last memory was of the delighted laughter I heard as I was bitten and swallowed and slid down the throat of Hippo.  I never imagined my life would be cut short in such an ignoble fashion.  I sure hope my brothers and sisters fared better than I did!

We sat high in the tree…safe
Supreme and protected.
We pressed close to the man and
Felt the same free feeling.

The roots of that great tree went deep to secure a strong foundation
The man grew up in his community spreading his ideas thoughts and hopes with others.

The leaves of the tree danced a melody of life in
The wind…The same song surrounded the
Man, and his family always.

The tree was the center of the festive backyard holidays
Tossing shade playfully over the children who
Romped below. The man was there, too,
Watching, laughing and enjoying those
who shared in the moment.

The tree discarded its leaves and useless twigs letting us know of yet another
Passing season.
The man let us grow in years of gentle
Responsibility, discarding parenting duties
And passing them to us as we may
Determine my own desires.

The weather battered and twisted
That old tree, starving it of moisture
Or casting a frost at a moment’s notice,
But it survived.
The man, too, watched with keen eyes as nature determined blossoms
Or destruction as he survived each passing juncture of time also.

The tree proudly watched the family grow, new chapters reveal themselves, and the hopes and dreams
Being pursued. The man viewed with interest how our lives unfolded, and was always there for us.

As we grew older and came back to visit, the tree was a familiar landmark to look for, and find…., we looked for a man’s calm and comforting face, too, and found it.

Disease and age are a facet of life. We were there in the last years and knew that time
Was no longer a friend.

The backyard has no shade, the area is blank and plain. The spreading arms of comfort
And love have been cut down.

There, too, is an emptiness in our life. The man is gone but the memories will always remain.  We loved them both……and will miss them

My grandmothers were both very skilled at sewing, knitting, and quilting – the “grandmother arts” as I call them.  I believe that gene skipped a couple of generations in my family – my mother did not enjoy those activities and I didn’t take to them either.  I don’t really consider myself a “crafty” person at all – I don’t draw, knit, sew or quilt.  As I say, I think that gene is somewhat deficient in the more recent branch of my family tree.  My artistic sense is expressed through my writing of poetry, but I seem to lack the visual artistic talents.  That doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate those arts.  Perhaps I just admire them from the perspective of someone who doesn’t practice that particular artistic skill but happily recognizes the time, effort, creativity and resulting beauty.

About 30 years ago when I was living in the Bellevue area, I saw a notice of an upcoming quilt show to be held at one of the Bellevue high schools.  That sounded like an interesting excursion, so on the day of the display, I drove to the high school and followed the signs into the gymnasium.  It was filled with quilts – quilts hanging on rods, quilts stretched across tables, quilts piled onto shelves, photos of quilts in various booths throughout the entire main floor of the gym as well as the mezzanine.  The quilts were crafted by many different artists, each having her own booth, but one quilter in particular was featured.  I do not remember her name, but she was from Oregon and about 1/4 of the gym’s main floor was reserved exclusively for her quilt display. 

I’m familiar with what I think are generally called patchwork quilts – quilts made from scraps of various fabrics and may or may not be sewn in a pattern.  I know there are various patterns that can be done using differing color palettes – Log Cabin pattern, Wedding Ring, Pinwheel, 8-pointed Star, etc.  But the ones I found most fascinating were quilts that looked like pictures – scenes usually.  

After admiring the many colorful quilts on the mezzanine and most of the main floor,  I came to that portion of the gym which was filled entirely by quilts of various sizes made by the featured artist.  I was in awe.  I saw quilts ranging in size from 12”x18” to king size bed quilts.  The smaller ones could be used as wall hangings – one or several could be featured on a wall.  I came to a series of this small size quilt hung on the wall, and each one was a playing card designed creatively.  For example, the Nine of Diamonds card had a 9 up in the corner as playing cards do and featured a baseball diamond with a player in each of the nine positions on the field.  Another card was the Queen of Hearts and was represented by a picture of Princess Diana with red hearts on her dress.  All the cards were made with small squares of patterned fabric.  I continued to look at each and every card and was told by the organizer of the show – a skilled and fairly well known quilter from Washington – that very few quilters even attempt to make the 52 card deck.  And here I was seeing this unique and beautiful representation of a deck of cards made into hanging quilts.  Truly awesome!

Then I strolled along another row of her smaller quilts and found one quite unique.  I studied it for a minute or two, but couldn’t quite figure it out.  It was a picture of a lot of people sitting in rows in a room but there were white lines criss-crossing the entire quilt. After a few minutes, I looked at the 3×5 card pinned to the wall beside the quilt – it identified the quilt by name and artist, and the title of the quilt was “Looking through the Bridal Veil.”  Then I realized that the viewer of the quilt was the bride looking through her veil at all the people in the church who came to witness the marriage between her and her groom.   

Later when I was decorating my own residence, I began thinking that a quilt above my bed in the master bedroom would be ideal.  Considering we live in an earthquake-prone area, I did not want to experience an earthquake at night and have a wood framed picture, for example, fall off the wall during the shaking.  I figured something soft that wouldn’t break, or hurt anything it fell on, would be most appropriate for that space.  I have always enjoyed going to craft fairs and admiring the creativity of the artists, and I found a local quilter whose quilts I really liked.  I frequented her booth whenever she displayed her wares at a local craft fair.  One day she displayed a quilt of the appropriate size for my bedroom wall.  The quilt appeared to be a nine-pane glass window through which you could view a scene of sailboats on a lake, a large rocky cliff with a lighthouse on it to guide the sailors, and in the foreground some trees and a garden with many blooming flowers.  If you looked closely at the small individual quilt squares, you could find some bunnies, various birds, a kitten and a duck in the fabrics used to create the garden scene.  I bought it then and there, have it on my bedroom wall to this day, and I still love it.

My grandmothers made some beautiful hand-sewn patchwork quilts, but my compelling interest in quilts originated with that first very memorable exhibit in Bellevue.  I continue to be fascinated by quilts and if I’m not careful I would be tempted to purchase more than I could possibly use or display. 

Memory is a game. And the rules are different for everybody.

For some, memory is like an old-style slide carousel: Neat, orderly, each event painstakingly cataloged, waiting its turn to be retrieved and re-lived in Kodachrome.

For others, memory is like a flow-chart, with arrows connecting thoughts via multiple paths. Sketches drawn together to create a journey from beginning to end.

For still others, memory is more like a pinball machine, one thought ricocheting off another creating a colorful kaleidoscope of sights and sounds and feelings.

And, for a woeful few, memory is like an overflowing trash can, surrounded by the detritus of a life lived in full random-mode. The cherish-able is buried under the disposable.

When children learn the Memory card game they’re developing spatial skills that will serve them well later in life: riding a bike, locating ketchup in a crowded refrigerator, avoiding the nosey neighbor’s house on the way home from school, etc.

A Memory game for grown-ups requires those same skills, but adds the stressing factors of time-compression, a cacophony of external demands, regret, emotional baggage and the sheer volume of the minutiae that makes up decades of day-to-day existence. Add to that the annoyingly human trait of trying to make sense of it all and life as a dog has great appeal: The bowl is either full or it’s empty and escape is just a nap away!

As I look out around my neighborhood, I see a few others like me, but mostly I am different looking.  I am not quite the same color. I know in some locations in this country, negative comments are made or actions taken targeting my ethnicity.  I know this is true in some places within this state.  There seems to be a focus on how I look or what is different about me – I’m not really all that different. Some of my friends look a little like me, but most are different from me.  I, myself, have not been targeted by negative or threatening actions, but I know some Asians have been.  It is often in the news.  My ancestors may have come from Japan, or Korea, or China, but they came west in the 1800’s and I have lived in America my whole life.  

I don’t really care what others think is the “right” way to be or look.  I just focus on the positives in my life and I have many –  I am generally healthy, I have a nice place to live, I am cared about and cared for, I get along with those around me, I have enough to eat and drink, and for the most part I can handle whatever comes my way.  How nice if we could all live together harmoniously, accepting and appreciating one another, not just in spite of our differences, but perhaps because of them.  

Some think it’s better to look like the majority of those around you.  Personally, I think diversity – a variety of colors and kinds and shapes – makes the world wonderfully beautiful. Some of Asian descent may be different sizes and shapes than I am – some are tall and picturesque, others are short and muscular.   Perhaps of necessity, we are all considered relatively strong. The writer of this piece loves me, thinks I am quite attractive, and enjoys looking at me every day.  She chose me to be a part of her life because I added variety.   

Did I mention that I like the climate where I live?  I’m not really particular about the weather or my surroundings.  I love the sunny days but enjoy a bit of cool shade when the day is quite hot.  Here’s something you probably didn’t know about me – I feel an odd affinity for helicopters  – I think I was practically born in one.  Anyway, I’m expected to live a long life – perhaps as long as 100 years.  I reach maturity between the ages of 10 to 15 years.   I grow slowly and can reach a maximum of 30 feet in height.  I suppose I am at my best in the springtime – that’s when I really blossom.   Just think – all my ancestors floated down inside a helicopter seed pod and, although none of our variety is really fussy, we all prefer well draining soil.  Yes, I am a Japanese maple and I’m proud of my heritage!