Author: melgrieves

Note to readers: This is a piece of fiction I wrote years ago, intended to be part of a novel about victims of childhood sexual abuse dealing with those issues in their adult lives. I served on a board of directors for a nonprofit organization established to help people struggling with these issues. I think I’ve lost what it takes to do justice to such a novel. It’s too gut-wrenching. But I still like this piece. My own grandmother Maude shows up as a character, as does my hometown.

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© 2011 Melody Grieves.

MEMORIAL DAY

When I was little, I called it “Remembery Day.” It’s one of the few times I can recall my parents noting anything I did or said was cute. Mostly they didn’t pay me much attention at all, which is probably the reason I prized the attention I got from my brother Charlie. I would do anything for his approval, and would forgive him just about anything. If not forgive, then forget. I had a lot to forget, as it turned out. I remember the day I decided to start forgetting big chunks of my childhood. Memorial Day, 1965. I was 13.

Meekerville’s Memorial Day parade got under way at 10 a.m. That meant I got up early to decorate my bike. Since we turned six, Sally Duncan and I always rode our bikes in the parade. In the early years we joined the procession for the last half mile as it passed our houses on Main Street, winding up the only hill in town, and ending in the cemetery with the veterans-led ceremony and 21-gun salute. We were used to that half-mile ride. We made it often during the summer, accompanied by Sally’s older sister, for afternoon picnics. We liked the oldest part of the cemetery, where the pine trees had grown tall and the weathered tombstones served as table and chairs. Sally’s sister would sneak off with one boy or another while we sipped Kool-Aid and munched our sandwiches and made-up stories about the people buried beneath us.

But on this, my thirteenth Memorial Day, I would start where the parade started, south of town near the little league fields, along with all the veterans in uniforms, high school marching band members with white spats covering black sneakers, farmers on tractors, village VIPs in convertibles, 4-Hers on horseback, and half the town’s kid population on bikes, decked out with flags and streamers, bringing up the rear. And I would be going without Sally, who had recently decided she liked boys more than bikes. If that’s what turning 14 meant, I wasn’t at all anxious to do it.

I awoke before the alarm went off, pulled on cutoffs, a sweatshirt and new PF Flyers, then scrambled downstairs, carrying the box of crepe paper, Kleenex flowers and miniature flags. Maude was already stirring up breakfast.

“Sit down and eat first, monkeyshine,” she told me. “Made your favorite. Ham and raw-fried potatoes.”

I considered skipping the food. “Do we have syrup for the potatoes?”

Maude made a face at me. “You’re a funny kid. Who ever heard of such a thing? Yeah, we got syrup. Get it out of the cupboard if you got to have it.”

“Okay, I’ll eat first.” I found the familiar shape of Mrs. Butterworth without having to duck my head into the dark cupboard and settled in at my place at the kitchen table.

Mom, still in her robe, came into the kitchen, her beehive hairdo still adorned with the toilet paper wrap that kept it in place during the night. She used to always be the first one up in the morning. She used to never let people see her with the toilet paper on her head, and no matter how early I got up, the bathroom already smelled like Dove soap and Aquanet hairspray. But this past year she was sleeping in later. Staying up later too, watching tv and snacking on candy she kept hidden in those deep robe pockets and going to bed long after everyone else in the house was asleep. She peered into Maude’s skillet. “I was going to make Tom some pancakes.”

“Too late. He’s already gone down to the coffee shop.”

I wondered if Dad would come back home in time to help me decorate my bike. It was kind of a tradition with us. Where Mom lacked any sense of color coordination or artistry, Dad had a good eye for detail and design. And he was good at staying in the background and advising, rather than Mom’s impatient habit of busting in and doing it for you. Not that I really needed help anymore. I just liked those times with Dad.

Mom got out the Bisquick anyway. Making pancakes was her holiday morning tradition, even if the dog was the only one eating them. She cracked an egg into a bowl. “Oh, he’ll be back for pancakes. He loves my pancakes.” She stopped and stared out the window for a moment. “No,” she said. “Don’t say it. I know. It was Charlie who loved my pancakes.”

Neither Maude nor I had planned on saying any such thing.

Mom got the milk out of the fridge, added some to the bowl. She never measured when she cooked. “This is the first Memorial Day without him.”

I thought back to just a week after Memorial Day last year. That was the weekend Charlie died. We’d seen a lot of firsts without Charlie in the past year, a lot of pancakes going to the dog. First Fourth of July without Charlie, first Labor Day without Charlie, first Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Easter and assorted birthdays without Charlie. I suddenly found myself feeling guilty for being glad this was the last first anything without Charlie.

Maude sat at the table with me and slurped in a swig of coffee. She winked at me. “Ahhhh…black as the devil and hotter ’n hell.”

Mom, pulled back to the present by her own mother’s irreverence, whipped the batter with a fork and smiled grudgingly. “Oh Mama, honestly!”

I was glad for Maude’s humor. She was the only one in the family who still acted like herself. Dad was not around much since he’d started working nights, and now even quieter during the times he was around. Mom was moodier than she’d ever been, which was saying something, and you had to be careful to quickly disappear when she went off on one of her tantrums or crying jags. I guess I was different too, but I couldn’t say how. It seemed befuddlement was my usual mental state, not knowing exactly how to act. Afraid of some feelings, ashamed of others.

But you could depend on Maude. And since she was in a humorous mood, I figured I could cajole her into giving up one of her bridge decks and a few spring-loaded clothespins for noisemakers on my tire spokes. She went for it, after giving me a bit of a hard time. I set to work giving my bike its best Memorial Day showing to date.

Maude and her cronies lined the front porch and hollered and waved when I rode by the house. Dad sat on the other end of the porch, his nose in the newspaper, and didn’t notice. I saw Mom come out the front door as we rounded the corner toward the cemetery. At least she was dressed and the hair t.p. gone.

Once at the site, I hiked my bike up the grassy hill so I could watch the ceremony from a secluded spot. The program wouldn’t start until all the folks who walked along behind got there. I knew the routine. Old Colonel Dubanich would give his speech about patriotism and sacrifice. The mayor would read the names of Meekerville residents who had died in the World Wars, Korea, and now Viet Nam. It would end with the 21-gun rifle salute. That was the part I both loved and hated. I loved the idea of it, showing honor and respect to fallen heroes, so fiercely that you hoped their spirits would be able to hear it. Yet the crack! crack! crack! of the shots disturbed me on a level that I didn’t understand. More than just the loudness of it. Standing 50 yards away didn’t diminish the shock of the gunfire much, but it let me be alone with my thoughts and fears, without interruption or influence.

This year was no different. Except for two things: my mother had made the walk up to the cemetery; and the newest name on the list of the fallen was Charlie McGee, first Meekerville casualty of the war in Viet Nam.

I couldn’t take my eyes off Mom. She, too, stood apart from the crowd, but not as far as I did. I was sure she hadn’t seen me. The way she stood there, her cotton print dress fluttering in the breeze, reminded me of the photo in the picture box, the one where she was holding Charlie as a baby. They both had this way of standing on one leg, the other knee cocked and toe pointed to the side. There were more pictures of Mom with Charlie in the picture box than there were of any of the rest of us in any combination. And not even one picture of Mom and me. Of course, we all knew Charlie was her favorite. When they told her he’d been shot and killed, she wailed “Oh no, not Charlie! Dear God, not Charlie!” I knew she really meant “Take Elizabeth or Janet or Bill or Kathy, but not Charlie.”

We all loved Charlie. He was trouble, but he was also charming and full of light. Some of my earliest memories are of Charlie…taking us swimming at the lake, meeting me on my way home from school with a fun surprise, not minding if I tagged along with him and his buddies to the drug store for a Coke. My sister Janet considered it a pain to have to babysit me, and often foisted me off onto Charlie, who didn’t have a problem with it at all. He was more of a hero to me then than he was now as a fallen war vet.

Charlie could do no wrong in my mother’s eyes. Even though he had done plenty wrong in his short life and finally paid for some of it. He got into fights in school. Mom would say he was probably defending someone else. He did stupid, dangerous things, and Mom would marvel, “That boy just isn’t afraid of anything, is he?” He got a girl pregnant and married her and they lived with us until they moved into a dumpy little apartment on the edge of town, and all Mom would come down on was the girl who tricked Charlie into marrying her; Mary Jo, who was all of 14 when she met 20-year-old Charlie. When Charlie went to prison for robbing a gas station, Mom was certain it was Mary Jo who’d talked him into it. And then Mary Jo had the nerve to divorce him while he was in prison—the slut, the bitch—and that’s why Charlie went off and joined the Army and got himself killed in Viet Nam. Having nothing other than my mother’s perspective on all this stuff, since no one else in the family would dispute her, I guess I pretty much believed her.

Except… except…I couldn’t quite name it. Except there was a flip side to all of that hero worship. I mourned the death of my brother, but there was another Lizzie inside me who felt relieved, saved even. When Mom had asked me to read aloud Charlie’s obituary in the local paper, I smiled when my name was listed as one of his “survivors.” I immediately felt ashamed of myself and hoped she hadn’t seen it, but didn’t dare look up or stop reading, scared of her reaction if she had.

What had I been afraid of? That she would slap me like that other time? Oh God, I was beginning to feel sick. I didn’t want to remember all this. Colonel Dubanich was nearing the end of his speech. Soon the names would start. I was here to honor heroes like my brother, and all I could think about was the morning years ago when Mom came into my room to see why I wasn’t up and getting ready for school. I told her my tummy hurt. She pulled back the covers to check me out.

“Elizabeth! Where are your pajamas? And underwear? Why aren’t you wearing any pants?”

“Charlie took them off last night.”

She stood over me, silent for a moment. Then she slapped me hard across the face. “Don’t ever say anything like that again. Charlie would never do such a thing. You’re a dirty little liar. Now get up and get dressed and go to school!”

Charlie had warned me not to tell anyone about his nighttime visits or the tricks he and his friends had me do for treats, but I guess with not feeling well and being half asleep, I’d forgotten. As hurt and shocked as I was, Mom’s reaction scared me more than anything. I remember feeling confused, but knew in my heart that the best thing to do was to stay quiet and out of the way, and if I could, forget about the whole thing. It wasn’t much later that Charlie married Mary Jo and told me he had someone else to do tricks with. I’d resented Mary Jo, so like Mom, I tended to blame her for all the new problems in Charlie’s life. And I’d muddled on, busy with learning the things that a kid is supposed to be learning and put those confusions out of mind.

Until this thirteenth Memorial Day. Suddenly unwanted memories crashed back into my head and I could not stop them.

The guns started to crack. I bolted, pedaled my bike around tombstones and over graves until I got to the path that led to the old section and the safety of the tall pines. I sat on a marker with its name lost to time, and cried until I puked my guts out.

By the time I felt like riding home, the crowd had gone. I rode around the cemetery’s perimeter road just to make sure I avoided anyone who might still be there. But that led me past Charlie’s grave, and there was Mom, lying on top of it, curled up like a baby and bawling full out. I was close enough to hear her, but held back, out of sight. She would be more unpredictable than ever in that state, and I wasn’t feeling too sure of myself, either. I yearned for a closer connection with her, but I was also afraid of her. I ached for her loss, and I hated her for not seeing my pain. I missed Charlie, but hated him for making my life so complicated. Hated him for the sickening memories. I knew I would probably never understand it all. It was just too hard.

I’d missed seeing Maude coming up the road. She knelt beside Mom, shook her shoulder gently. You rarely saw Maude do anything gently. She got Mom to her feet, wrapped a sweater over her shoulders and kept an arm there as she walked Mom slowly out of the cemetery. I got close enough to hear Maude tell her, “Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Just do what you got to do, hon.” I turned my bike around and took a long route home. I promised myself I would forget all things sickening, all things painful. I never rode through the cemetery again.

That night I had my recurring nightmare for the first time. In it I am on Charlie’s grave, digging down through the dirt with my hands. I’m wild. I’m screaming. I’m crying. When I get to his coffin, I claw through that too. My fingers are bloody stubs filled with splinters. I break through the white silk lining and rip it apart. And I find bones. Not even an intact skeleton. Just dry, hard bones. I start gnawing on them like a dog. I gnaw until my teeth fall out, my mouth and face are dripping blood. Then I look up out of the grave and…that’s when I woke up.

That’s when I always wake up. And that’s when Maude came in that first night to calm me. I must have been screaming for real. Whenever I have the nightmare, and I wake up and realize it’s a dream, I close my eyes and imagine her there. She sits by my bed for a while, patting my hand, until my breathing gets normal again.

I say, “How are we going to make it out of here?”

And she says, “One step at a time, Lizzie. One step at the time.”

And I ask, “What are we going to do?”

And she tells me, “We’re gonna make raw-fried potatoes. We peel one potato and slice it, and put it in the pan. Then we peel another potato and slice it and put it in the pan. And we keep doing that until we have enough for everybody. And when they’re cooked just right, we sit down and eat them and forget about everything else.”

“And we put syrup on them?”

“Sure, monkeyshine, if you got to have it, you put syrup on them.”

“And that’ll work?”

She smoothes the hair off my forehead and turns out the light. “It’ll work for now, hon. It’ll work for now.”

So this is what it’s like to be dead. I woulda bet my last dollar that it wasn’t nothin’ like this. Not that I had a dollar left. After that last hand, lucky I had enough in my pocket to buy me some Jack Daniels, or I’d have died sober, and Lord knows that woulda been a shame. Wish I had a bottle right now, waitin’ for them two nitwit daughters of mine to make their way across the state of Washington so’s they can bury me. I wonder how long I have to do this. There are lots of other places I’d rather hover over, if that’s what I gotta be doin’. Jesus.

Angie, “nitwit” daughter number one, age 55, short and chubby with gray hairs dyed to match their original mink hue and smooth skin kept that way with three daily applications of Oil of Olay, squeezed the steering wheel hard as her Camry finally crested Snoqualmie Pass.

Her sister Sarah, ten years younger, nearly a foot taller, half as wide and twice as pretty, even with no makeup and gray hair undoctored, crossed lanky arms over her chest and slumped against the passenger door.

“Stop sulking,” Angie told Sarah. “I’m sorry if this interrupts your holiday plans. If you’d stayed home for Christmas like a normal person, maybe it wouldn’t be so tough on you.”

Here we go, thought Sarah. Guilt trip number 437.  “Can we please not have that conversation again?”

“It’s just that it hurts, the fact that you’d rather spend Christmas with strangers than with your family. And now you’re the only family I have left. Next year you simply must spend it with me and Joe and the boys. We’ll have everyone for Christmas Eve dinner, then we can go to the midnight service at the church and then we can gather again in the morning to open presents. It would be so perfect to have everyone there, and we can do something special to honor both Mom and Daddy. I know it would make them so happy.” Angie wiped tears away and wiggled her gloved fingers at Sarah, indicating her need for a fresh Kleenex.

“Christ, Angie, they’re dead! They won’t be there smiling down on us. Mom’s in the ground, and Dad…what are we going to do with Dad, anyway? I’m not contributing one dime to memorialize or bury him. We still need to talk about that.”

Yeah, I wanna know what you’re doing with the old man, too. I don’t suppose your ma sprang for a spot at the old cemetery for her first husband. But wouldn’t that be a hoot, spending eternity together after all.

“So, come on Angie. Tell me the whole story. Why does it take both of us to drive to Spokane to deal with this? We can’t exactly bring Dad’s body home in the trunk of your car. He should just be buried in a pine box over there, or let that woman he was shacking up with put on a funeral.”

“Well, there’s legal paperwork and because they weren’t married, Maxine doesn’t have a say in anything. And you’re here because I’m tired of dealing with everything all by myself and needed the company.” As Sarah rolled her eyes and turned to watch the scenery fly by, Angie reached over and touched her shoulder. “By the way, thanks for coming, Sis. It means a lot to me.”

Heh heh. The old lady taught Angie real good about that passive aggressive shit. Come on Sarah. Show some of that spunk you always had.

“And besides,” Angie continued, “Maxine has already moved on. Left town. Vegas, I think.”

“How appropriate. A deserter just like Dad.” Sarah glanced at Angie and could see she was winding up for that old argument. “Oh never mind, let’s not go there. So what’s the plan for Spokane?”

“He did love you, you know.”

“Yeah, right. Look, we have other things to figure out. Do we have to clean out his apartment, or did Maxine take everything?”

“I don’t think there was much to take. He’d had a run of bad luck lately and they were living in a motel room.”

Sarah shook her head.

“It’s a disease, Sarah. Addiction is a disease.”

“Are they sure it was a heart attack and not his liver finally giving up? Or maybe he cheated one too many times and a poker buddy did him in.”

“He tried to quit, really he did. He wasn’t a bad man, Sarah. You just didn’t get to know the real him.”

“That wasn’t my fault, you know.”

Oh Christ. They sound like their mother and me. All that useless arugin’. And they wonder why I left. I don’t have no disease. I just needed to drown out all the nagging and bitching. They’re half way to Spokane and I still don’t know where they’re gonna lay me to rest and I hope to hell after they do I can get on with my afterlife. I got places to go, things to do. Least I think I do. Hurry up girlies.

Sarah put her seat back and closed her eyes. “I have a headache. Can we just be quiet awhile?” Glad that Angie took the request to heart, to the point of not even answering, she practiced deep breathing and tried to relax. She remembered countless car trips along I-90 when the family moved first one way, then the other. And the final drive when she and her mother moved to Seattle after her father left them for the last time. Angie had already grown up and left home by then, marrying Joe when she was just 19 and pregnant. She never knew how bad it got with their dad. And even if she had, thought Sarah, Angie would still cling to her romantic notions and ignore reality. Just like her deal about Christmas. Ever since Sarah could remember, Angie had been trying to have the perfect family holiday experience. She ignored the fact that her husband and sons drank too much when they all got together and then said mean things. And when Sarah tried to stand up for Angie, they all turned on her, including her sister. So she’d stopped spending holidays with them and now had to put up with the guilt trips instead. Still better than the unsettling family dinners.

She’d actually lied to Angie this year, staying home and enjoying quiet festivities with friends while telling her sister she would be skiing in the mountains where her cell phone wouldn’t work. And that’s why Angie hadn’t called until three days after their dad had died. And why Sarah was suffering yet another attack of the guilts.

While Sarah nursed her headache, Angie chewed her lip and watched snow banks and pine trees whiz by. Once out of the mountains, the view widened over the high desert, now covered in white. Later, in Palouse country, cropped hills would take on an unearthly aspect, something Angie loved but Sarah called creepy.

Sarah knew how Angie saw things, she knew the arguments by heart. Angie thought Sarah always chose the negative when given a choice. Why couldn’t she see the good in their father? Surely she must have some good memories and now that he was gone, why not choose to keep those? Daddy had always called Angie his little angel and when he had money he never forgot to bring her a surprise back from his trips. She’d thought he was the funniest, handsomest man on earth and as an adult she tried not to make the mistakes her mother had made, not to irritate and nag her own husband. If you did things right, your husband could think he was running the show while you pulled strings from back stage. Her mother had never learned that. She knew their father had given Sarah a rough time, but maybe her attitude warranted it. Well, some of it at least.

Angie drove on while Sarah dozed, and finally pulled off the highway at Ritzville, stopping at an Arco station. “I need to use the little girl’s room, and call that funeral home. I can’t find the directions I wrote down.”

“What funeral home?” Sarah was wide awake again now.

“Tell you about it later. I gotta tinkle and put on a new face.”

Sarah sighed, got out of the car and stretched, then retied her Nikes and jogged a bit.

I don’t guess these two are ever gonna change. Hard to believe they’re my kids. Angie such a do-goody tattle-tale control freak, little miss Christian housewife. God she was a funny lookin’ kid, and always too fat. But I kept tellin’ her how pretty she was cuz I figured she needed to hear that and I think it helped. Whoever said I wasn’t a good father? Then Sarah, she come along and she’s a stunner. Takes after me. Her I had to take down a notch so she didn’t get a big head. Guess that worked too. Maybe worked too well. Stupid woman actually don’t see how gorgeous she is. Dresses like a man half the time. Go figure. Hell, I tried. I just wish they’d get this matter of their dead dad resolved so I can move on.

Back on the road, Angie switched on the radio, and sang along to a song on a Christian rock station.

Sarah listened for about half a minute, then turned the radio back off. “Oh no you don’t. You’ve got some talking to do. I’ve been nice and quiet ever since you picked me up and yes I know you couldn’t get hold of me earlier and I’m sorry about that, but you really do need to tell me what you know and what plans you’ve made. Now, spill.”

“Well, you might not like one or two of the decisions I made. I mean, I didn’t have a choice. Someone had to make them.”

“I get that. Just tell me.”

“Well, it was Joe’s idea really, once we found out how expensive it would be to bring Daddy back to Seattle and bury him alongside Mom.”

“Not that Mom would want that in the first place. Jesus, Angie. I can’t believe you even considered it. Well, if you’re not doing that, that’s one less thing I have to get mad about.”

Angie squinted sideways at her sister, the way she used to when they were kids, just before she would stick her tongue out at her. Sarah watched; no tongue flick. She was beginning to find humor in all of this.

“So we contacted a funeral home in Spokane, and my heavens, it wasn’t much cheaper to have a service there and bury him in eastern Washington. I mean, funerals and burials have gotten so expensive and Joe is doing okay with the business, but you know how the economy has been lately and then I got laid off and we just knew you wouldn’t want to foot the bill.”

“You got that right. So what? We abandoning him to the state for the pine box deal?”

“No, I decided to have him cremated. It much less expensive, you don’t have to buy a coffin or a burial plot and we can have a service back home later at the church instead of some cold, unfamiliar funeral home.”

Cremated? Goddammit Angie. You must be fuckin’ crazy. I don’t want to be cremated, burnt up to nothin’ but ashes and dumped some place. I wonder if that’s gonna ruin this afterlife thing I’ve got going. How can I hover around and watch things if I’m just a fuckin’ pile of ashes?

Sarah sat silent. She’d never have guessed Angie would opt for cremation. It didn’t seem to fit with her religious views, although truth be told, Sarah never had asked what her sister actually believed. She just assumed.

“But wait, Angie, don’t they have to have the deceased’s will or written statement that says they want to be cremated? I think there’s some law to that effect.”

Atta girl Sarah. I knew you had a brain in you there somewheres.

Now Angie sported her little-kid indignant look on her freshly oiled face. Her head twitched and she prickled up her shoulders before answering. “No, but it does make it much easier if such a document exists. At least, that’s what the funeral director in Spokane told me on the phone. I assured him that we had paperwork to that effect.”

“We do? Dad left a will? I’ll be damned.”

I never wrote no goddamned will. What the hell you talkin’ about?

“Well, not exactly. Joe downloaded the forms off the internet and I sort of…”

Angie was chewing so hard on her lip Sarah thought she might bite clean through it if they hit a bump in the road. “Did you forge Dad’s signature?”

Angie wiped away tears and returned to her stubborn pose. “Yes, I did! God forgive me, I forged his signature. It just made the most sense.”

You little shit.

Sarah drew her knees up and lay her forehead on them. Her body shook.

“Sarah?  You okay? Really, Sarah, I just thought it was best and you were off skiing and I wanted to do the right thing but we really can’t afford anything else. Oh please don’t cry. Don’t be mad.”

When Sarah lifted her head, her eyes were indeed filled with tears, but she was laughing. Laughing so hard she couldn’t catch her breath, and then when she did, she utterly howled.

Sarah was still giggling when Angie drove into the parking lot of the Lucci Funeral Home, and when Angie pronounced the name of the place as the “Lucky” Funeral Home, instead of the Italian pronunciation “Loo-chee,” Sarah howled all over again.

Angie unhooked her seat belt and opened her door. “Honestly, Sarah. Get a grip.”

For once, Angie’s right. Jesus, kid. I can see losing it a little, and I know you weren’t so fond of me when I was alive, but I’m dead now and you could show some amount of respect.

“I’m going in to take care of business. You can stay here or come along. I don’t care. I’m used to doing everything by myself anyway.” Angie slammed the door and disappeared behind the giant white pillars at the front door.

She was back within minutes, having presented the forged documents to the director and given him the green light for cremation. “Did you want to see Daddy, Sarah? They have him ready for viewing. Not laid out in a special room, but refrigerated in a rented casket.”

Sarah held back more snickers. “Refrigerated? Oh, I bet he’s enjoying that.”

Angie nodded. “Daddy always did hate being cold.”

“Well, then, he ought to love the bonfire.”

Angie sank into the driver’s seat, leaving the door open. “They’ll cremate him as soon as we leave. We can’t get the ashes until tomorrow, though. It takes a while for the cremation, and then it’s a while after that before we can take him. I made reservations for tonight at a Best Western.”

Angie waited while Sarah let all of that sink in. “You want to see him or not?”

Sarah saw the mix of sadness and angst in her sister’s face and softened. “Sure, what the hell. I’ll go with you.”

Well, I’m skippin’ this show, kiddos. You go on in there and but I ain’t gonna go look at my own dead self. I guess I might as well get used to this crematin’ idea. Maybe I can sit on Angie’s mantel in one of them urns and just use that as home base between adventures. Hmph. Yeah, okay, maybe that’ll work.

* * * * *

Sarah insisted on driving when the viewing was over. “You’re too upset,” she told Angie. “And you drove all the way over here. Just tell me which way to the motel.” She checked them into the room, told Angie to relax while she went out to pick up dinner. She returned with a Domino’s pizza, two pints of Ben and Jerry’s, a deck of cards and a fifth of Jack Daniels. Angie was still in the shower, so Sarah tucked the ice cream into the mini-fridge and set up the table for dinner and cards. Then she fooled with the radio alarm clock until she found one of those stations that plays big band hits from the ’40s, the music their parents used to listen to. When Angie reappeared, massaging Oil of Olay into her décolletage, Sarah handed her a glass with ice and poured her a double shot of whiskey. “Here ya go, Sis. I figured we would have our own private memorial service right here.”

Angie took a look around, plopped down on the bed and burst into tears, crying full out, not the muted sobs Sarah had witnessed at the viewing of the body.

Sarah handed her sister a Kleenex and sat beside her and rubbed her back. “Aw, come on, Ang.  I’m sorry. I thought this would be appropriate. I’m not trying to be snarky. These are things Dad loved. Really, I meant it in a good way.”

Angie swallowed the last of her sniffles. “I know you did. And that means so much to me. I miss him so much already, and seeing that table set up with pizza and cards and whiskey and listening to that music just reminds me of when we were kids, before Daddy and Mom started fighting, and they would sit at the kitchen table with Uncle Don and Aunt Louise and they were all so happy. Of course, Mom and Aunt Louise drank highballs, not straight whiskey. I don’t think I’ve ever drunk it straight myself.”

“Well, it’s about time.” Sarah clinked her glass to Angie’s. “Drink up.”

“Here’s to you, Daddy,” said Angie, and sipped her drink like she was afraid it would bite her.

Sarah took in a big gulp. “Yeah, that too.”

There now, daughters, that’s right nice. I hate to admit it, but it brings a tear to your old man’s eye. If you can just leave things like that, maybe I find some peace in all this.

“Hey, Angie, remember how to play gin?” Sarah dealt them each a hand and sorted her cards.

Angie munched a slice of pizza. “I think so, but let’s wait til after we eat. Or the cards will get all greasy.”

Sarah took another long drink of Jack Daniels and suddenly her sister’s quirks and demands were easier to put up with. “Of course. We don’t want greasy cards, do we?”

They did get around to playing gin, though they argued over the rules, neither remembering them exactly. They drained the bottle of whiskey and ate Cherry Garcia ice cream and reminisced the early days, to Angie’s delight, until Sarah thought she could finally let go of some of her anger and hope for better days with the one family member she had left. When they finally went to bed, Angie fell to snoring right away, but Sarah lay awake a while, thinking about her father’s ashes cooling at Lucci’s.

Look at them, sleeping like babies. I always loved babies.

In the morning, Angie refused breakfast, saying she thought she might have a touch of flu. Touch of a hangover is more like it, thought Sarah, and offered to drive. They swung by the funeral home, where Angie, despite feeling queasy, insisted on going inside to collect the urn and to take care of any remaining details.

Sarah popped the trunk on the Camry. “Let’s put it in here. Don’t want any spills.”

Angie clucked her tongue. “You’re not going to start up again, are you?”

Sarah shrugged. “Just being pragmatic, not snotty.”

“Okay, okay. I’m just not feeling like myself.”

“Jack Daniels will do that do you.”

Angie propped a pillow between her head and the passenger door window, then sat upright again suddenly. “I almost forgot. Mr. Lucci said I-90 might be closed at the pass. They’re doing avalanche control today.”

“Damn.” Sarah turned on the radio to find highway info. “We might have to take Highway 2. Longer, but prettier.”

Angie groaned.

“Don’t worry, I know the way. You’re free to sack out.”

They made it to Leavenworth before Angie roused herself. Sarah pulled into the little town with the German motif and stopped in front of a bakery and sandwich shop. “Want some lunch?”

Angie stretched and checked her makeup in the visor mirror. “Yes, I believe I do. I feel much better.”

They ate a quick lunch and selected some pastries to go, then got back on the road. The food perked Angie up and she began to plan a memorial service.

“It’ll be perfect. Daddy always did love a family gathering.”

Sarah whipped her head around to glare at Angie. “When? When did he even attend a family gathering, let alone love it?”

“Maybe you were too little to remember. But I do. We’ll need to call all their old friends and relatives. Dad still has some cousins, though I think they’re in Utah. But they’ll want to come, I’m sure. Even some of Mom’s family will want to come, I’ll bet. I’ll get Pastor Freeman to officiate the service, and the Ladies’ Auxiliary puts on a grand buffet for occasions like this. Of course the boys and their families will come back up from California and I think I’ll use Morrison’s for the flowers. They do the nicest arrangements…”

The more Angie rattled on, the angrier Sarah got. But she held her tongue until Angie got to the part about burying the ashes next to her mother’s grave. “I know there’s space for family members in Mom’s plot. It can’t cost that much to add one little urn.”

Hey, little angel, that’s a helluva an idea. I like that! I always did love your mother better than any other woman I ever had. She probably wouldn’t believe that, but I did. If she’s hanging around like I am, maybe I’ll get a chance to convince her. I wonder… Whoa!

Sarah hit the brakes and skidded onto the snowy shoulder, dangerously close to the deep drop off to the Wenatchee River. “Absolutely not, Angie! No fucking way! You are not burying Dad next to Mom. Don’t you know that would be the last thing she would ever want? You remember all that crap about how great Dad was when you were young, but you forget how he hurt Mom with all the lies and the women and losing all their money time after time and the drunken meanness and gambling away her wedding ring, for God’s sake. You’re not burying his ashes next to Mom, Angie. No fucking way. And that’s that!”

Then it was Sarah’s turn to break down and cry, but unlike the night before, her sister did not melt and comfort her. She held her breath as she eyed the river below, just inches outside her door.

“He was never there for me, Angie. He told me I was ugly and stupid and would never amount to anything. Sure he’d come home happy once in awhile and I’d think things were going to change and that maybe he really did love us, that maybe I was lovable after all. But he’d turn sour again in no time. For years, nearly every night I listened to Mom cry herself to sleep. He was a bastard. And I’m glad he’s gone.”

Poor kid. I was a bastard, wasn’t I? Shit. This is like Scrooge having to watch his old Christmases or somethin’. Damn. Aw, quit cryin’, Sarah. Quit now. It’s okay. I did love you. I loved all of you. Please, I want you to know that, if nothin’ else.

Sarah’s crying jag didn’t last long and seeing Angie’s face, white with fright, suddenly clued her into their precarious position. She eased the car back onto the highway and the sisters rode in silence all the way to I-5, where Sarah surprised Angie by turning north.

Angie hesitated, but finally asked, “You know you were supposed to turn south, don’t you?”

“Don’t worry about it. I know where I’m going.”

Angie opened her mouth, then closed it, and sat up straighter and crossed her arms over her chest. She kept watch, but kept quiet, for 35 miles, when Sarah turned off I-5 at Mt. Vernon, onto Memorial Highway.

“Oh, this is rich, Sarah. What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going to free us all up, that’s what.”

“Free up whom?”

“Jesus, ‘whom.’ Since when did you start saying ‘whom?’ I’m freeing up you, me, Mom, all of us, even Dad. Especially Dad. No more bullshit. No more dreaming of a perfect family. It’s time to let that go.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now tell me where you’re going.”

“You’ll see.”

“This is my car, have you forgotten that? You’re hijacking my car.”

Sarah laughed. “Now that’s funny.” She pulled into a scenic view parking lot. The historical marker sign was titled “Deception Pass.” She climbed out of the driver’s seat, walked to the back of the car and opened, then closed, the trunk. She walked round to Angie’s side and opened the door. “Come on, we’re going on a little hike.” Under her arm was their father’s urn.

Hey, wait a minute there girlie. Where you going with that?

“Oh Sarah, no. Not here.”

“Why not? Can you think of a place with a better name for this guy?” She lifted the urn’s lid and peered inside. “S’alright? S’alright!”

“You can’t, Sarah. You can’t decide that all on your own. It’s not fair.”

Sarah shrugged and turned toward the trail. Angie grabbed the sack of pastries and toddled after her. “Don’t go so fast. Sarah!”

But Sarah made it to the overhang close to the water long before Angie did. The trail was well maintained and easy to travel, but Angie was slower at physical things. Plus her fancy boots couldn’t keep up with Sarah’s Nikes. Sarah leaned over the railing and watched the churning water, blends of turquoise and navy blue outlined with white trails of foam, all shimmering in the sun. While waiting for Angie, she sat on a bench and read the sign telling the history of the area.  A mix of good and bad, including tales of pirates, settlers, prisoners, Native Americans, dance halls, Dead Man’s Bay and something called the War of Pigs. To Sarah, it seemed the perfect place to let Dad loose. He would feel comfortable here. He’d probably feel comfortable being buried next to Mom, too, but that was not going to happen.

She licked her finger and held it up to test for wind. Nice and still. She removed the cap from the urn, and unsealed the closure on the plastic lining. She’d read about people tossing the whole bag into the water only to have some poor boater or fisherman come across it, ashes still in the plastic. Nope, Dad was going to be totally unleashed. Back to the earth, back to the water. A memory of him taking her fishing when she was barely big enough to hold her bamboo pole flashed in her mind, how she’d been so excited to get up when it was still dark and leave in the car with him. But then how scared she was being left in the car while he sat in a bar, and how worried Mom had been when they didn’t come home until after midnight.

She heard Angie’s approach, first by the scuffing and huffing, then by her plea to “wait, wait, wait!”

“I can’t wait, Angie. Come look, come look at the beauty and know that Dad will be happy here.

She’s gonna go through with it. Spunk, hell. That girl has balls! Wow, I’m floating, I feel like a bird. Goodbye daughters. Go fly, have good lives. I hope the water ain’t cold….

Angie bumped up against the fence just as Sarah turned the urn upside down. The ashes created a whirling vertical cloud, settling in one of those trails of foam.

Sarah expected Angie to be yelling or crying, or something other than just standing quietly beside her. She offered her the urn. “You want to keep this?”

Angie nodded and took it, then handed Sarah a cookie.

Sarah nibbled, then asked, “What are you doing for New Year’s Eve? I thought maybe you and Joe could come over and I’ll cook us a nice dinner.”

“Mmm-hmmm. That would be nice.”

“Ang? You’re not mad at me?”

Angie fished her second cookie out of the white paper bag. “Actually, if you want to know the truth, I’m kind of relieved.”

The sisters watched, mesmerized, as the white trail of foam carrying their father’s ashes scribed its way toward open sea.

“Well,” said Angie. “Daddy always did like to travel.”

I think everyone, and I mean everyone, can quickly conjure up the memory of travels in their lifetime.  But can you remember THE trip, the one experience of going from your home to another place in hopes of new adventure. The time when everything was wonderful and new and exciting and awesome.  Where the food would be much different than the usual fare at home. Maybe the language was foreign and communication was difficult but overcome with smiles and sign language and pictures. Or perhaps seeing firsthand the wonders of the world, Old Faithful gush at its appointed time in Yellowstone Park, or standing outside in the freezing cold just to see the Northern Lights put on their amazing dance of colors.

Oh course you can. And that moment in time is revisited with a discovery of snapshots in the bottom of a box rescued from the attic, or seeing a television program and suddenly telling the room of uninterested people, I’ve been there! Or having your children, who flew from the nest long ago, come back and reminisce around the packed dinner table about their youth. And one of them begins a sentence with Remember the time that. And it all comes flooding back. And most times the conversation usually ends with That was the best trip ever.

I just hung up the phone from a cousin who has lived in California since the early fifties. She reminded me of an event long, long, ago. A visit.

The memory of my first trip, first big trip, traveling from Montana to California was brought to mind.

I grew up the only son of a dry land farmer in northcentral Montana. My father was a veteran of World War II, a second generation farmer, and a lover of beer. Hamm’s, Great Falls Select, Pabst, Grain Belt, or Schaefer. He wasn’t particular. Just whatever was cheapest at the time.

Farmers, or maybe just my Dad, never wanted to leave the home place for any reason. I didn’t know if maybe he would miss a rain storm, or a weed sprouting, or possibly, God forbid, hail. Or maybe with five small children, the oldest being ten years old, the hassle would not be worth it.

In 1952 he bought his first new car, a Desoto Custom Sedan with fluid drive. I remember the morning he drove into our driveway with the car. We ignored the fact that he had left the night before to pick the thing up. One look at his face and us older kids immediately knew he had had a rough night.

Anyway, that Desoto was built like a tank, had a huge chrome front end that we fantasized to be a grinning monster with enormous silver teeth.  The car was roomier than our bedrooms. It was big.

Weeks later, my cousin little Bobby and I, named by the family as big Bobby, discovered a cool cigarette lighter and was amazed to see  that it heated up even without the car running. We, needless to say, burned about a dozen small circles in the plastic plate covering an area that would have held an optional purchase of a clock.

My Dad was philosophical about the incident when he announced the fact that sooner or later every vehicle gets a ding or two, or a rip somewhere.

And that nobody really ever looked at the damaged area anyway, except maybe Mother. He said that, of course, after he was done walloping my behind.

He never replaced that plate. It was a reminder of my youthful curiosity until he finally sold the car twenty years later.

Anyway, my Mother finally convinced Dad to take a week and travel to California, to a town named Fremont. Our young minds figured it must be a magical place since it was so far from home.

We loaded up, the huge trunk held suitcases, a stroller for the twins, a gallon Coleman water jug, sleeping bags, and a good size cooler full of ice and beer. We backed out of the driveway and were off.

My oldest sister, Alice, had, the night before, set out the different road maps that were to be used. She spent an hour measuring and looking for numbers then measuring again as the next sister, Helen, and I looked on. We were going to drive over one thousand miles! We jumped around and screeched for a while, not knowing in our exuberance that all of these miles would be in a sedan with seven people. Our first big trip, anywhere.

Within two hours we all were farther from our home that we had ever been. We drove right through Helena, the state capital, and home to many relatives, then south to Idaho. There were several stops along the way but only to use a facility, or get beer out of the trunk. We ate fried chicken and chomped on assorted vegetables during the entire day. We drank water.

Somewhere in the middle of Idaho, we finally stopped for the night. The excitement had turned to boredom to all out tiredness. We kids slept in our assigned areas that night. My older sisters side by side on the back seat, the twins fit nicely on the floor with the transmission hump dividing them, and I in the back window. The folks took up the front seat. We were all covered with blankets or sleeping bags. Perfect.

Breakfast consisted of cold cereal out of one of the new single use boxes. I had Rice Krispies. We didn’t have milk so water had to suffice. We were used to making do.

We took off again by five the next morning, gassed up the brand new car with the burn holes in the dash and were off. My Dad said it was going to be a long day because we were going to make it to Fremont come hell or high water, by God.

Traveling with five kids in the car was probably a real challenge for our parents. Generally one or the other of us tried to raise a ruckus in the back seat so we could be punished by being put in the front between our parents. Then, of course, the lucky villainous child would turn around to give a last insult by sticking out their tongue.

We all had imaginary lines on the huge expanse of the back seat. It was our private designated area that no one could touch. If one did trespass the immediate whine or scream or slug would be forthcoming. The twins, both girls, were so small they didn’t count in our space management. Then a window would roll down or up, always just the opposite of the sibling next to us desired. There was always a few back hands meted out from the front seat. The more beer my Dad drank, the easier it was to rile him so we had to be aware.

Somewhere along the way we stopped at grocery store. You kids stay in the car was the expected order.

In a few minutes the folks came out with a bag or two of groceries. I imagined apples, and sodas, and really good stuff that any six year would want. The beer cooler was refilled, and we drove away.

Needless to say, the air conditioner was non-existent, so four windows fully down, through Nevada, in early July, was supposed to keep us cool. Mom handed back grocery goodies to her expectant children. A slice of bologna between two slices of Wonder Bread. That was it. No mustard, no mayo, no nothing. She passed around a cup of water filled from the thermos to get the fine cuisine down.

When my older sister complained, she learned she could have had thuringer, or head cheese, or, gag, olive meat loaf. They were all Dad’s favorites. We were used to it. The good news, we got a handful of green grapes for dessert.

For supper, we had the same thing. The Wonder Bread, left open during the hours of driving through the desert didn’t fare well. So dry bread and bologna and a handful of grapes for supper.

How many more miles? Are we there yet? One of the twins has a dirty diaper. I’m thirsty. I need to use the bathroom..bad.

Shut up and sit back. We’ll get there when we get there. You girls can change that diaper. You just went.

I imagine that might sound familiar to most kids.

Car games got old, we cheated if someone guessed too quickly on I Spy, my older sisters could read books they brought along, I could only bother them to tell me what the words meant.

At long last we got to California. Almost there right, Mom. Yes she would say, in about six hours. We groaned, moaned, and whined until we were all asleep in the back.

Suddenly the car stopped, awakening us. We had arrived. It was late, or early, depending on which side of midnight it was.

We grabbed our sleeping bags, threw them on the living room floor and I was out like a light..

Early the next day our cousins woke us up. They were in swimsuits! They had a pool in the back yard! Our spirits soared!

Forget breakfast, forget everything.

 Mom, where’s my swimming suit!

I will always remember climbing into the beautiful blue colored water. I immersed myself completely. I slowly brought my head out of the water and looked at the Southern California sunshine sparkling on the top of the water. At that moment I forgot everything that had happened in the last couple of days. It was, I decided right then and there, the best trip ever.

In the May/June 2021 issue of Ovation Nation, we printed a “crowdsourced” poem about beauty. Many residents contributed to it, and it was very tough to use only parts of the work that some submitted. We thought you might like to read some of the complete poems that were sent in. We have such talented, beauty-loving folks here. Enjoy!


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Where I See Beauty
By Gina Roen

I see beauty

In the plant thriving on benign neglect on the bathroom ledge,
In the bounty on the shelves of my pantry,
In a dog-eared book ready to fill a lazy afternoon,
In the kindness of strangers.

I see beauty

In the chaos of scent from the spice rack,
In the orderly columns of numbers on my bank statement,
In a tattered frisbee sailing on the breeze,
In watercolor brushes jumbled next to an unfinished painting.

A still lake, a blushing mountain top, a sleeping child:
Symmetry, completion, closure.
A falling tear, a tangled web, a missing puzzle piece:
The imperfect perfect of hope

I see beauty

In moss-covered stumps in the preserve,
In undulating notes on manuscript,
Or the dust gathering on the mantlepiece,
As I take a moment to ponder

Beauty.


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Where I See Beauty
By Kris Sather

Itchy fingers 
Scratch the dirt
Seeking affirmation of 
Spring

Dew drops dangle
Pregnant with promise above the
Anticipating seeds


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Where I See Beauty
By Beth Mooney

A haiku

In mossy forests
birds sing farewell to frost
Daffodils?  It’s Spring!


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Where I See Beauty
By Sue Drummond

I see beauty in the smiles of friends.
I see beauty in the card that says I’ve had my 2nd Covid shot
I see beauty in neighbors who really DO care 
I see beauty in every wrinkle.  I earned every one.


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Where I See Beauty
By Donna Crabbe

So many questions –
Where was he born?
Where has he been?
Where did he work?
What changes has he seen?
Did he raise a family?
What makes him happy?
What makes him sad?
What has he learned from life’s experiences?
Faces of the elderly are so beautiful to me!


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Where I See Beauty
By Sally Grant

In the love of family and friends 
The smile and joy of a child
The care of others in need
The loving eyes of a pet
Sunrises, sunsets, storming clouds 
So many different shades of green
Autumn colors and Spring flowers 
Vast oceans and snow-capped mountains 
A snowflake, a glistening raindrop
Millions of stars on a clear night 
Absolute magic.


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Where I See Beauty
By Miriam Hewitt

Anticipated beauty slides between my gloved fingers 
as I fill the pots and loosen the roots
then gently settle the buds into their new home.
Small Daphne in the too-big pot
will fulfill its promised beauty soon.


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Where I See Beauty
By Nancy Bushore

I see beauty everywhere from skies to earth to sea:
I see it in the friendliness of neighbors close to me,
I see it in the seasons which bring colors of their own,
I see it in the rainbow – the promised hope it’s shown.

I see beauty in the oaks and the variety of evergreens,
And now purple crocus blooming everywhere are seen.
I watch red-orange sunsets as the sun meets the horizon,
And a man delivering packages from a truck labeled Amazon.        

I see yellow daffodils by a hiking trail near me
And a majestic mountain 14,000 feet above the sea.
I see the soft brown color in the eyes of fawn and doe,
And birds flying through the forest, chirping as they go.

I see Japanese maples with their red leaves sprouting soon,
A clear nighttime sky filled with stars and bright moon,
The agility of a Sheltie catching Frisbees in the air,
And neighbors helping neighbors in households everywhere.

Beauty can be colorful or just be something that we share –
It’s in nature, or an art form, or showing others that we care.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder no matter where you go
And it thrives here in Ovation through rain and sun and snow.


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Finally  
By Gayle Wilhelm

Got a call from my son,
 “Mom, I need you to come.”
“Son, is everything okay?”
“Mom, I wish I could say.”
He’s waiting in the drive
watching me arrive.
I step out to my son
And brace for what’s to come.
Says, “This hug’s waited too long
for my vaccinated Mom.”


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Where I See Beauty
By Mel Grieves

When I was young, beauty meant only the skinny girls,
Mostly ones with blonde hair and mascaraed eyes.
It took a special man, sometime in my thirties,
To convince me he saw beauty in character and thick thighs.

I didn’t see it myself, but I was grateful he did.
Sad that kids learn beauty can be claimed by so few.
Girls, especially, short-change themselves
By wasting true beauty to please the mirror’s view.

At some point, if we’re lucky, we come to know
That beauty transcends body and is in all that we see.
Nature’s beauty spills over us, manifesting in love.
Beauty is in the differences; maybe even in me.


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Where I See Beauty
By Mike Grant

Yosemite Valley, viewed from the West,
A spectacle considered among the best.
My mother seated on the viewpoint wall,
A vision of beauty, a sight to enthrall;
Granddaughter held on her knees.
Memories are made in moments like these.

Your newborn
Still wrinkled and wet
Wrapped in a blanket
For its mother to hold
Nothing compares

For some an idyllic land or seascape
Others an artwork or meticulous craft
We can appreciate their beauty
Their dimension and depth
But consider instead a confident smile
That both invites and rewards

Impressionist paintings
A daughter’s passion
Evidenced on her fridge door
Monet, Monet everywhere
A wife’s passion too
For her, Van Gogh
Grateful that he lost an ear not his eye

Is there beauty in a sound?
Surely a child’s laugh
Any laugh come to that
What about Mozart?
No, not his laugh
All the wonderful music
You want to play me some hip-hop?
Sorry, there’s a train going by

That which transports your mind
To a better or more peaceful place
Full of wonder and possibility
Sailing into the heart of Venice
A fiery sunset on a Pacific horizon
Many sights on a cruise vacation
Also, chocolate night on the pool deck

Everywhere you look you can find it
An optimistic state of mind
A kind word, a friendly smile
Strangers helping one another
Children sharing a game
The empathy and loyalty of your dog
Or your cat …. No, wait.

Visions of mountains and water
On a clear sunny day crossing Elliot Bay
Or the narrow road from Fort William to Mallaig
To reach the ferry to the Isle of Skye
The view from the rim of Vesuvius
Nightfall on Mauna Kea, freezing cold
They stir the soul. Yes, a cliché
But if you are there you have to agree
The world is a wonder
Let’s not destroy it

Somber clouds grumble above, as if to say, “You can’t ignore me!” The arms of firs whisper in the wind, a hollow tune in a minor key. Broken branches punctuate the path, laying bare a storm’s passing. Defiant patches of icy whiteness echo winter’s cry, “You can’t defeat me!” Camouflaged deer hunker down, their eyes willing, “You don’t see me.” Twittering birds challenge the squirrels: “You can’t catch me!” Fleeting shadows mark the passage of time and place as the conversations among the oaks harken a long-awaited change. Daffodils peek through the sodden leaves and proclaim, “You can’t stop me!” Spring!

A couple of months ago I decided to give up my bowling career. The season was long, and league games at night started to cut into my sleeping hours. The question now was what could I do with a custom drilled urethane covered red, white and blue striped bowling ball, a matching bag, and size 10 matching shoes. I looked pretty sharp on the lanes. My game wasn’t.

I took the plunge and drove down to Sparky’s Pawn. He must have seen me coming because he had all kinds of excuses on why my offering was really an unsaleable item for them. I pondered my next move and Eureka! the answer was standing in a corner of the shop all by itself. I put on my best horse-trading look and brought a relatively loaded golf bag to the counter.

“How about an even trade?” I asked Porky the proprietor’s son.

“He gave my trade-in the once over, saw what I had grabbed and said I would have to chip in an extra five bucks to seal the deal.

I walked out of there with visions of a brand new retirement sport career. I came home and proudly displayed my new purchase to my wife. 

“Look honey, and I got them cheap.” I exclaimed.

“She stared at my marketing coup and said, yes they do look cheap.”

I was a bit disappointed she didn’t share my enthusiasm of the tools to start a new chapter in my life.

I took my equipment out into the garage and inspected each item.

The bag was a little torn in a few places but duct tape fixed it right up. There were some zippered pockets, one with the bottom missing, some clips for some gadget, and a strap for the bag. The strap was a different color than the bag but I figured that was the way it was supposed to be.

I took out the sticks. There was seven of them. Each had a number on the end. I looked them over. One had a three stamped in the end. It looked like it was made out of wood. Three of them had a number seven engraved into the end. One had a number nine on it, and two didn’t have anything at all stamped anywhere. They were a different shape and looked like paddles. I was set.

My wife said I should take lessons first. Now I probably could have conquered the game of golf easily but I decided to humor the old gal. 

I contacted a woman named Kelly Donahue. She was highly recommended by the service counter boys at a nearby golf course. I made arrangements and got ready for a new adventure.

We met at a large meeting room in the new fire station down the road. There were twelve of us.

Kelly instructed me to bring a seven iron and a yoga mat. I assumed an iron was one of those with a seven on it. They were all different. All of those in the bag were stamped with a different name. There was Callaway, Wilson, Taylor Made, Bridgestone, Titleist, and so on. I grabbed the seven with Walmart stamped on it. Couldn’t go wrong with that one!

We introduced ourselves and got right down to business. The yoga mat was spread out and we went through various contortions. She said it was important to loosen up before we started. 

Hell, loosening up before I went bowling was a pitcher of beer. What had I gotten into?

We stood up, did more dips and stretches and then it was time for the good stuff. 

“Grab your seven, and interlock your little finger on your right hand with your first finger on your left hand and hold loosely. Don’t grip too hard.” She ordered.

She walked around and adjusted people’s hands. She came to me. And stared.

“You haven‘t had lessons before have you, Bob?’ she questioned.

“No, I said, but I’m excited to be here. Why, am I grabbing the stick wrong?”

I thought I saw her slightly roll her eyes.

“First of all these are called clubs, not sticks.” she said and spread her arms out to the expanse of the other students, and second of all you need to see how the others club grip look.”

I quickly turned the instrument upside down so the heavy part was on the floor. 

We took gentle swings back and forth and I listened intently to all instructions. After all this was costing me money and I wanted to get things right.

One half hour later we were ready to set up for a real swing at an imaginary ball. I set my stance as instructed, stuck out my butt, bent my knees slightly, adjusted my hand grip and started my back swing keeping my left arm straight. 

Kelly grabbed my upper torso prodding me to keep twisting back to the right all the while looking down at where the ball would be laying.

“Okay now Bob, nice and easy swing forward keeping that arm straight.” She commanded.

I didn’t move.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“My back went into spasms, I can’t move, I said as I winced, and it won’t unwind.”

It took some time to get loosened up again but I didn’t try that exercise again.

“Now, I want you all to get an actual round of golf in before our next class.” She said and waved goodbye.

I played eighteen holes of golf two days later.

The garbage men just took away those weapons of mass destruction this morning.

I’m thinking about buying a corn hole set. Now I am of a certain age that corn hole meant something different than throwing beanbags into a hole in a board.

But I don’t have to take any lessons to play that game.

My best friend Bradley and I were Cub Scout participants.  It was a wonderful program and we learned so much about ourselves, our abilities, and developing friendships. Advancement was a big part of being a successful scout. During our last year of the program, at age 11, we decided we had enough knowledge to go on a solo camping adventure.

Bradley lived on a farm about seven miles from our little town in central Montana. It was a flatland farming community. Acres and acres of crops such as wheat, barley, durum and oats covered the country side. His family raised a few cattle to supplement their income. Farmers were at the mercy of Mother Nature in that part of the world so hedging a bet with cattle was not uncommon. 

We picked up knowledge from manuals, other group adventures, and listening to our leaders and older members of Scouting about camping. 

We decided we were ready. The handbook told us to make a list of essential items for successful adventure. We did that. Bradley’s dad had a pup tent. We kind of knew how it set up. Check. We found some old binoculars in the garage and although only one lens worked we decided it would suffice. Check. A compass, we didn’t have a clue how it worked but read where it was an absolute necessity in outdoor trekking. Check. Matches. Check. A scout knife. Yes, I had just gotten one the year before for Christmas. Check. We had our own sleeping bags, pillows, and a change of clothing. We had learned to be ready for any change in weather so we packed a couple of winter parkas, just in case. This is Montana, in August, where the temperature is about 85 degrees. You never knew. 

Now food. This was an open subject so we decided to bring packable and easy prep items. We got some carrots and two big potatoes from his Mom’s garden, and some beef jerky from the pantry. A quart of milk, an apple, and a couple of Clarks Bars. We would not starve. We wrapped the vegetables in tin foil and dumped all of our supplies into a large paper bag. We were off. Wait! The manual said we should have some kind of shovel for digging latrines, and fire pits. It showed a picture of a folding backpack tool. We looked around and decided the snow shovel leaning against the back of the house might work. It was quite large and cumbersome but a shovel was on the list of things to bring so we dragged it along.

We debated where we should camp. The farm had 80 acres of hilly pasture land south and east of his home. He had hunted gophers in that area so he knew it would be an easy hike. He did mention that there were occasional coyote sightings up there and they could be heard at night. We decided, after much thought, of setting up camp about fifty yards from the house. We nestled and wrestled our tent up between two rows of caraganas. They were hardy bushes that served as wind breaks for most farms and ranches in this windy dry region. We felt like our set up was well hidden and private. 

The excitement was great, as we were on our own in the wilderness. The first order of business was to build a fire in a safe area. The snow shovel wasn’t exactly easy to use, but we cleared a fire break area about six feet around our chosen site. The plan was to dig a fire pit in the center. That’s what the manual said, so that’s what we did. The actual digging of a hole in that ground was difficult. The shovel was really worthless at this point so we found some old dead branches, sharpened them to a point and stabbed at the earth to loosen it up. Success! We had what we wanted in about an hour. 

There wasn’t an abundance of twigs  and kindling to get our blaze going so we walked up to the barn and grabbed some dried out boards that had, in years gone by, been some kind of a shed. The fire wouldn’t take off as we struggled to get a flame. We had to think on our feet as we were intrepid explorers so Bradley ran back to the house and found a stack of newspapers. We bunched them up in the hole, covered them with small pieces of wood and struck a match. We were down to the last bundle of paper, crouched around the pit and lit our last match. A piece of wood had actually started burning. We were cooking now! 

We added fuel until we had a substantial blaze going. We talked about the fact we should have had some marshmallow or hot dogs. Maybe next time. The bed of coals burned brightly and we moved the embers to the side of the hole, buried our wrapped vegetables and covered them with the hot coals. We decided it would take a while to cook so we went on to other things. 

The farm reservoir was a short distance from our site so we walked over to it. There was something wonderful about a body of water. The water was anything but clear and beautiful. The cattle came in the far side for drinks and sloshed around in it during the hot days. Cattails, water lilies, and other unidentifiable plants adorned the edges of the water. We threw rocks at different targets, waded into the murky liquid, tried to track down a couple of croaking frogs, and talked about getting a jarful of the water and boiling it to drink. We read that in our scout books too. We didn’t do it. Too much work. It was time to eat.

We found we had left the foil wrapped food a little too long. The potato was quite black and the carrot did not look like a carrot. No hot food tonight. We covered the fire pit with dirt and poured enough water on it to drown an elephant. A proper scouting move. The jerky was good and it was cool to drink milk out of the carton without being yelled at. We took turns chomping on the apple. It was a contest to see who could take the last bite. Needless to say only the stem remained in that game. I lost, but didn’t have a bunch of apple seeds in my belly. The chocolate bar for dessert and we were set to roll the sleeping bags out. 

We had to haul straw from the barn to use as a bedding cushion because we had set our tent up on a rock pile and needed something to make things more comfortable. We looked for cattle and coyotes with our monocular and dug a three inch deep moat around the tent in case a monsoon of rain might hit us. The canal would sweep the water away from our domicile. 

It was time for bed. We wrapped up in the sleeping bags and tried to out burp and out fart each other. Each attempt of quality noise, of course, was followed by giggles. It wasn’t dark out yet but dusk was fast approaching. 

Sometime in the next hour or so we had run out of jokes and scary stories. I went to sleep.

Suddenly I was awake. There was an animal at the tent entrance. The coyote had come to drag us away. I heard some noise that I thought was deep growling. I was terrified.

“Tippy, get out of here!” Bradley yelled.

The family dog apparently had come up to see what was going on at the camp. 

The ten o’clock hour came and my camping partner and I were snug and warm and safe in our sleeping bags. A plush pillow cradled my head. The floor of the living room was soft and cushiony. I went to sleep.

 Their first Thanksgiving celebration took place on November 25th, 1976. Two settlers had arrived nearly a month prior on the Queen of the Skies from Heathrow to LAX. Unlike their countrymen who had preceded them by 356 years, they had escaped the ravages of scurvy, but suffered rubber chicken instead. One settler was with child and happy, after ten hours, to leave her cramped accomodations. 

Moving south to Newport Beach, the settlers made their way to the Marriott, Fashion Island, site of an encampment known to the locals as an upscale mall. Here they found clothing hanging on racks in spacious arrangements. This is strange they thought. Surely, clothes should be stacked in piles on a waist-high counter. They wondered how the merchant could make money from such a sparse assortment. They looked at a price tag and understood. 

When recovered from a malady called jet lag, they embarked upon a search for a homestead. A helpful agent inquired if they were seeking a pool or air conditioning. They knew not of these things and declined. The agent conveyed them in a fancy carriage to view various properties and it was decided that they would purchase a rambler in the settlement of Mission Viejo. It needs TLC they were advised but they did not understand. They were told of the crumbling drapes and yellow circles in the shag carpet. They knew of shag and again were confused. 

The settlers went about their appointed tasks; the husband creating a place of manufacture and appointing local citizens to work therein. Meanwhile, the wife arranged for medical assistance with the birth of their child. She and her husband held hands, seated on pillows in a circle with other couples, while a coach directed them to exhale in rapid succession. 

After three weeks had elapsed, they received a generous invitation to a spectacular feast with some local natives, much as their forebears had done. A roasted turkey was brought forth in a manner they found familiar. The patriarch of their family in the old country was an artisan of repute and his precise dissection of the turkey was greatly admired. They were alarmed as their host attacked the turkey with great ferocity while wielding an electric carving knife. His wife brought out a dish of sweetened yams covered with marshmallow. This did create trepidation in the settlers who were unfamiliar with this concoction. 

While consuming this bountiful feast, the settlers learned that they were celebrating a successful harvest. They agreed that this was a worthy cause and remarked upon the fact that turkeys could be obtained without charge if other provisions were also purchased. This had caused them to rejoice that this indeed was the promised land. 

The settlers have remained friends with their native hosts to this day and each family celebrates Thanksgiving with their three children and many grandchildren. 

I was ten years old when the circus came to town. It was quite an event for a community of 300 people.

The tent seemed just as big as the big top circus I had seen on television.  I was enthralled at everything I saw. A clown even talked to me.

I wanted to try my hand at the shooting gallery. The air rifles at the booth were exactly like the BB gun I owned. I had become a pretty good shot with that old Daisy so I felt confident.

I plunked my dime down and was told I needed to hit and knock down small plastic statues three times in a row to win a prize.

The man in the booth pressed a cork into the end of the rifle and stood back. I knocked the first target down with no problem. The second shot was met with the same success. I took my time with the third shot as winning a prize was in the balance. The cork flew out at an angle and missed the target by a foot to the right. Groan.

I was devastated. How could I miss so badly? I walked away dejected. My Dad, a marksman in the Navy during World War II stood beside me and told me to try it one more time. I didn’t have another dime. He took out my entry fee and flipped it to the carnival worker.

Okay, I thought, just aim and fire. Success! I was right on the money with the first two shots. The man pushed a cork into the rifle and I set up to shoot again. My Dad reached over and did something with the cork then encouraged me to sight carefully and knock it down. Bullseye!

I’m sure the prize wasn’t anything more than some trinket, but still the same I had won at a game of skill.

We moved on to buy some cotton candy, and some peanuts to feed the elephant. It was a glorious day.

It was much later that my Dad let me in the carnival scam. If a participant had a chance at winning, the guy manning the booth would push the cork in at an angle, and it would not fire straight.

My Dad saw the scheme and didn’t make a big deal about it, he just gave me an opportunity to succeed and not be a victim of a crooked game. That was my Dad.

The wave of amber grain 

And blue sky meet 

On a sublime autumn day

To feel the sunshine’s heat

The path of dirt and dust 

Leads a way of quiet solitude

Where the crickets play a familiar song

Where no disturbing sound need intrude

And the quiet pall surrounds me

Away from stress and strife

I stay at this place in my mind

A memory of a simple life

An escape from the weight of reality 

In search of days of old

I remember for a time of restful peace

And a glimpse of acts so bold

When living was light and free

Contentment was easily found

Aroused from this dreamy state now 

To search for happiness unbound