Just Another Shopping Trip

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It’s amazing how quickly things can change in unwanted and unexpected ways. Here I was, merrily walking through the mall, minding my own business, enjoying an afternoon away from the pressures of work. I stopped off and on, as casual shoppers do, to admire the goods displayed in a store’s window. If an item caught my eye, in I marched, like a soldier on a reconnaissance mission.

Any large mall is a shopaholic’s paradise. Given a huge variety of stores, a dedicated shopper like myself could find any number of things to satisfy the palate. From slinky lingerie to elegant evening wear, exotic foods to handcrafted creations imported from far away lands, expensive gadgets to popular toys, something for everyone beckoned.

I’m the gazing and grazing type, and so it takes me quite a long time to travel from one end of a mall to the other, scanning one side, then back the opposite way, doing the same thing.

One Saturday, I set off early in the morning to allow ample opportunity to paw through the selections before the competition arrived. Fresh and alert, my personal radar efficiently eliminated unwanted items with barely a glance. Determined to score sale clothing suitable for work, I bypassed craft, food, and doodad stores and zeroed in on any business selling outfits in my size. And considering that I am not a thin woman, that narrowed down the options considerably.

In and out I went, sifting through displays of colorful blouses, monochromatic slacks, multicolored sweaters, and a variety of denim wear. Occasionally something called to me as loudly as my parents did when I was but a child. These items I cradled to my breast, tightly grasped so as not to inadvertently fall when I was distracted by some other equally enticing morsel.

When my arms could hold no more, I dashed into a dressing room. Giving each item due respect, I buttoned, snapped, zipped, and then inspected. Those pieces of clothing that adequately disguised my lumps and bumps went into the purchase pile. The others found themselves abandoned on the reject rack.

After a few hours of this, sensory overload set in. My hunter’s walk slipped into a meandering shuffle, and my desire to spend money morphed into a yearning for nothing more than a seat.

That’s when it happened. When my life took an unaccustomed turn. Laden with bags, I fell into the first empty bench that appeared. Numbness overtook mind and limbs. Eyes glazed over. Heart slowed. Totally relaxed, my normally hyper-protective guard took a vacation.

“May I sit here?”

“What?” When focus returned to my eyes, I discovered a kindly looking gentleman standing before me. Silver hair neatly combed, clothing clean and pressed, he smiled in a comforting way as he pointed to the remaining third of the bench.

“Sure,” I said as I moved my purchases to the floor between my legs.

“Having fun?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“Looks like it’s been a good day,” he said as he nodded toward my bags.

“I guess,” I shrugged.

“My daughter’s trying on clothes and I got tired of being her personal assistant. I told her to meet me out here.” His smile lit up his face.

“That’s nice.”

“Where do you live?”

At this point, alertness returned, reminding me to be careful. Despite the man’s polite mannerisms, something about him suddenly made me uncomfortable. Pretending that I did not hear the last question, I fiddled with my watch. “Look at the time! I’d better go. My husband is expecting me,” I lied. And blushed.

As I bent to loop my hands through the handles, the man said, “Let me help you with these.”

“No, thanks. I’ll be fine.” As I half-stood, butt in the air, head down, hands intertwined in the bags, something tugged on my purse. “Stop that!” I tried to turn, but the man grabbed hold of my hands, as if attempting to relieve me of my burden.

With a second, stronger tug, my purse flew from my grasp, over the back of the bench. I turned, screamed, leaned over, but could not grab my purse. Before I could make a move, a teenage girl, dressed in jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt, sprinted away. “Stop that girl!” I hollered.

“Is there a problem?” The man asked as if nothing untoward had happened. At that moment he let go of my hands, stood and looked about as innocently as a young child who has just raided the cookie jar.

Sputtering with rage, I had a difficult time getting out the words. “That girl stole my purse. Call for help!”
Unfortunately, by now the girl was long gone, having turned the corner into the food court. “She’s heading toward Burger King,” I said as I hefted my purchases as easily as if they contained marshmallows and hastened after the girl.

“Wait,” the man said. “I’ll phone security.” He pulled out a cell phone and proceeded to dial, all the while holding on to my left elbow with a pincher’s grasp.

“Let me go,” I hissed as I attempted to wriggle free. “Let me go or I’ll scream.”

“Calm down. I’ve got security on the line.” He then went into a long explanation as to what occurred, including appropriate sounding pauses, yeas and nays. “I’ll tell her to stay here until you arrive. Thank you, officer.” With that he snapped shut his phone. “An officer will be here shortly. I gave them a good description of the girl. It sounds as if they caught her already and will be coming by to get you.”

“Thanks,” I warily said.

“Well, I’ve got to go. I see my daughter coming. Good luck getting your purse back,” he said with an endearing smile. As he walked away, I felt relief wash over me. The man had been a big help, or so I thought.

I stood in place, anxiously awaiting the arrival of a security guard. As minutes ticked away, with no one dressed in an officer’s uniform appearing, a sense of dread washed over me. Dismayed, every ounce of strength drained away, and so I collapsed onto the bench.

That’s when realization hit me square on the forehead. Not only was my purse gone, but as my eyes scanned my bags, I noticed that a number of them looked suspiciously empty.

I had heard about those who preyed on the elderly, but I am not that old. I had gotten scam phone calls at home and been able to fend off each and every one. But this was different. With his genteel mannerisms, the man had penetrated my defensive shield. His accomplice then moved in, ripped off my purse, and dashed away. With me in a tizzy and distracted by my purloined purse, the man had removed a few of my newly purchased possessions while pretending to call for help.

Tears poured down my face and sobs shook my shoulders. Disappointment in myself quickly replaced anger at being robbed, and so when disgust and frustration moved into my heart, I grabbed what goodies remained and headed toward the security station. Nearly blinded by my tears, I stumbled through the mall, brushing against strollers, displays, and planters.

“Can I help you? Do you need assistance?”

I blinked away the newest rush of tears to see a smiling face before me. With her neatly coiffed silver hair and kindly eyes, the woman offered a helping hand. As she gently relieved me of a few of my bags, she said, “Sit here. Let me get you a cold drink.” Following her directions, I collapsed into a wrought iron chair, grateful that someone was stepping up to help.

You would have thought that something inside of me might have registered alarm. After all, my whole world literally changed minutes before. Blithely enjoying my shopping extravaganza, I had let down my guard, only to be taken advantage of by a charming older man and his accomplice. Could it happen a second time? Surely not. And so I settled into the chair and allowed my rescuer to soothe me into compliance.

Child’s Play

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Easy, breezy, light and freezy
squeezy, sleazy, sometimes squeaky
Fluttery, buttery, I’m not nuttery
Cattery, splattery, but no flattery
Speedily, bleedily, just not greedily
Eerily, blearily, eyes are tearily
Quakery, shakery, give me cakery
Flakery, bakery, do not takery
Snuggle me, bungle me, don’t tungle me
Spangle me, dangle me, please jangle me
Laughy, gaffy, just plain daffy
Play with words every dayfy

All things Must End

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Dreamers navigate their way
through shadows deep and dark
searching for the light of morning,
marching across endless dry deserts

or searching towering mountain peaks
crowned by heavenly angels
whose glittery gossamer wings
flutter fleetingly in a gentle breeze

brushing the sleeper’s cheek
as lightly as mother once did,
helping to climb the ladder
of delicious dreams toward

a blushing sky, streaked
orange, pink, and baby blue
as the sun, ever so slowly,
rises to greet the morning

shirking off terrifying nightmares
of hideous monsters and demons
or relishing romantic love stories
sung by twinkling firelight

in a lover’s embrace,
broken most unwillingly only
to greet the dawn of day,
without thinking, without choosing,

unable to stop the inevitable
awakening as all must for
dreamers dreams must end.

Sorry for not Posting!

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I apologize for not giving you something new to read this week.

I’ve been a little busy.

This past weekend I attended a four-day writing conference in San Francisco. It was chock-full of writing tips from experts from all over the world. I especially enjoyed those sessions in which presenters read the first page of an author’s book and gave advice about how to improve the content, those in which plot, scene and story were discussed, and those that introduced self-publishing as a growing market.

I also had the opportunity to meet an Author Coach who will read my manuscript and plot out high and low points, plus several agents who are interested in receiving the first few pages of my book.

I promise to be back on schedule next week.

The Storm

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Thunder rocked the house while lightning danced across the sky. Stan Ellis, a slightly built fifteen year old, stood on the front porch, watching the show. Simultaneous bursts struck at a couple of trees on the nearby hills, sending puffs of smoke into the moist air. He wondered where his grandpa was. He hated to think of the old man out driving in this terrible weather.

Stan’s eyes followed the gravel drive from the front of the barn, through the wooden gate that enclosed their property, and out toward the state highway that went into Bozeman. No rusty red truck rumbling home.

A jagged bolt of lightning plunged into the field just beyond the horses’ corral. The impact sent small rocks flying and a dust cloud filled the air. The horses stabled in the barn screamed in fear. Stan knew he’d better check on the horses and make sure that all were safe in their stalls.

Pulling on his anorak, he ran down the steps and across the yard, hoping to beat the next bolt. Just as he pulled open the barn door, another hit, stronger than before. Stan held on to the door as the earth trembled, absurdly terrified that he might fall. Eyes huge, he saw a nearby fir tree burst into flame like a forgotten shish kebab on a grill.

Stan stepped into the cool semi-darkness of the barn and pulled the door closed. It slid easily on its well-greased track. After dropping the latch into place, he turned to examine the animals.

Dopey and Suzy-Mae stood in the back of their stall, brown eyes as large as platters. The stallion’s head draped over the mare’s shoulder, his nuzzle stroking her mane. Dopey snuffled in a whisper-like voice, trying to calm his frightened partner.

Big Joe’s hooves clattered against the sides of his stall, a staccato beat that seemed to match the pounding of Stan’s heart. The big horse’s snorts sounded like rifle shots, and Big Joe’s sides were covered in a foam-like lather. Stan knew he’d better wipe Big Joe down before he left the stables.

Betsy and her foal, Spotter, squealed when the ground shook from another blast. They stood at the back of their stall, with ears pulled back, seeming to be listening to the pounding rain.

At the back end of the barn, Lucifer, the most gentle of the bunch, snorted, neighed, screamed, and bucked when another round of thunder shook the barn. This would be Stan’s first target. Lucifer was his grandpa’s favorite, a horse that was bought for Stan’s mother to ride when she was young.

“Hey, boy. Lucifer boy. It’s OK, big boy,” he softly crooned as he approached the stall. Whistling the stallion’s favorite tune, “Edelweiss,” he stepped closer and closer, hands outstretched in a pleading fashion. When even with the stall door, Stan peered in over the edge. Lucifer plunged forward, crashing into the wood, nearly cracking it down the middle. “Calm down, Lucifer. Calm down, boy.”

Stan picked up a handful of sweet hay, the stallion’s favorite, and held it gingerly toward the horse’s mouth. Still whistling, the young man slithered forward at turtle speed. Lucifer’s eyes rolled, showing white even in the gloom of the stall. Foam dripped from the horse’s mouth, and his sides heaved and rattled. Stan moved closer, still offering the treat. “Come on, boy. Easy, boy.”

When thunder sounded again, Lucifer burst through his door, shattering the wood as easily as breaking toothpicks. Stan jumped out of the way of the flailing hooves just in time to avoid being struck a deadly blow to the head.

He cowered against the back of the barn as the terrified horse raced up and down the center. Stan trembled in fear, leaning tightly against the door to Knight’s stall. The giant horse suddenly stopped running and looked around the barn with terrified eyes. Taking advantage of the temporary calm, Stan took a step into the center aisle. “Here I am, boy. Come here, Lucifer. Come to me, boy.” His hands shook, but he kept his voice soft and calm.

After shaking his head up and down a few times, Lucifer allowed Stan to approach. Sides quivering, spittle flying from his gritted teeth, Lucifer was far from relaxed. “Let me touch you, boy,” Stan crooned. He resumed whistling and watched as the horse’s eyes focused on the hay and the hand. “That’s it, boy. That’s it.”

When Lucifer took the first tentative nibble, Stan grabbed his halter. After pulling the giant head toward his chest, Stan offered the last of the hay, and then began stroking the black muzzle. The stallion slowly calmed, thanks to the passing of the storm and the persistent cooing and petting of the young man.

Once the horse’s eyes narrowed to a more normal size, Stan urged him forward. They walked from one end of the barn to the next, stopping only to turn and change directions. In time, Lucifer’s breathing took on its changed cadence. “That’s the way, boy. That’s the way.” Stan wondered where to put Lucifer now that his stall door was shattered. Not in with Big Joe. They’d fight and get each other riled up. Not with Betsy, either. Lucifer hates Spotter. He decided to put him in Knight’s stall as it was empty. Grandpa had taken his Appaloosa into Dr. Steinway’s clinic for some kind of operation, and so the stall would be available for a few days.

Stan walked Lucifer to the stall and opened the door. Agitated about entering another horse’s place, the stallion reared in protest. Stan jumped out of the way of the hooves. “Hey, boy. No problem. Knight’s gone for a few days. He won’t mind.” Lucifer instantly calmed, as if he understood every word.

“Go on, now,” Stan said. “Step in. Step in, boy.” The stallion did as told, as meekly as the lamb he normally was. “Yeah, that’s it. You okay now?” Stan picked up a soft cloth and rubbed the horse’s sides and neck. When Lucifer was quiet, Stan checked the food and water, and then quietly stepped outside. He closed the door and dropped the latch into place.

Now that the stallion was calmer than before, Stan rechecked the other horses. He spoke to them and whistled each one’s special song. Within minutes, all were relaxed, and even Big Joe was wiped down.

Stan left the barn and headed back to the house. His grandfather still was not home to prepare dinner, so he went into the kitchen to find something to eat. The refrigerator light did not come on when he opened the door. The clock on the microwave was dark, and when Stan flicked the switch for the ceiling lights, nothing happened.

He dug into the meat drawer and pulled out some sliced turkey, and then he got out the mayonnaise, some leaves of lettuce, and a slice of mozzarella cheese. He assembled a mammoth sandwich, tossed a handful of chips on his plate, and poured himself a tall glass of water. Stan carried his meal out to the front porch, sat in his usual chair, placed the glass on a nearby table, and balanced the plate on his lap. As he ate, he watched lightning bolts, far off in the distance, as they zigzagged across the darkening sky. The air had that fresh smell that always followed rain.

As night came on, Stan gave up his watch and went inside. The electricity was still out, so with nothing to do, he decided to go to bed early. He was worried about his Grandpa, wondering if he was safe, holed up somewhere in town, or stuck in mud out on the road. There was nothing he could do about it, so Stan pulled off his shoes, socks, jeans and shirt, and then climbed into bed. He stared at the dark ceiling, trying to recall if his grandfather had said anything about visiting Uncle Jack, or dropping in on his old friend, Zechariah.

In time Stan’s breathing slowed to a rhythmic cadence and his worried face relaxed.
Fire! The barn’s on fire! Got to save the horses. Lucifer will be in a panic. Got to get there before he kicks through the wall. Clothes. Jeans. Found them. Where’s my shoes? There they are. Do I need a shirt? Forget it. Run to the horses. Save the horses.

He flew down the stairs into the front room, across the braided rug and out the door. Panicked neighing filled the night with eerie sounds. Stan froze at the top of the stairs. He stared into the dark, searching for the outline of the barn.

I can’t see it! Where’s the barn? Horses. Got to get to the horses. My God! What’s making that noise? Is it a panther? Can’t be. No panthers near here. Mountain lion. A lion’s in the barn. Rifle. Where’s Grandpa’s rifle?

Stan stepped back inside the house and ran to the gun case. He snapped open the door so forcefully that the glass shook. Rifle. That one. Take that one. It’s loaded. Yeah. That’s the one Grandpa always keeps loaded.

Holding the rifle across his chest, Stan rushed out of the house, down the steps, and across the yard. The barn door was closed, the latch in place. No lion’s in there. What is it, then? What’s scaring the horses?

Another blood-curdling scream tore the night apart, sending shivers down Stan’s spine. Got to get in there. Got to see what it is. Open the door, and then jump aside. That’s what I’ll do.

Stan reached out with his free hand, grabbed the latch, and lifted it up. The door burst open, sending Stan flying backwards and onto the ground. Out of the barn exploded a fire-encased figure. An unearthly looking creature, with wide, gaping maw, screaming an ear-piercing sound as it rushed toward Stan. Eyes, dark as night, stared into Stan’s soul, while writhing fingers reached toward his face.

He raised the rifle and aimed where the heart should be. His finger started to squeeze the trigger, but then froze in place. No mater how hard he tried to move that finger, it refused. The creature moved closer and closer, until its searing breath brushed across his face.

“Stan, wake up, boy. You’re having a nightmare,” a familiar voice penetrated the haze that fogged Stan’s brain. A rough hand stroked his right cheek while another squeezed his left shoulder.

Stan fought back, trying to escape the demon that held him in a vise-like grip.

“Settle, boy. It’s me, Grandpa.”

Stan opened his eyes into the dark of his own bedroom. He made out the silhouette of his grandpa, leaning over him. “Grandpa? Is it really you?”

“Yes, it’s me. You’re safe now. You’re safe. Nothing’s going to hurt you,” he said as he removed his hands from his grandson’s shoulders, and then sat on the edge of the bed. “You were dreaming. It must have been one heck of a nightmare. I’ve never seen you so scared.”

“It was terrible. The barn was on fire and the horses were calling for help. I opened the door, thinking there was a lion in there, but this thing…this thing came after me. I’ve never seen anything like it. It…it tried to kill me. I had the rifle, but I couldn’t squeeze the trigger.” He stared into the darkened room, seeing the creature once again. “Grandpa, are the horses safe?”

“Yes, they’re fine. Everything’s fine. The power’s still out, but everything else is fine. How about you, boy?”

Fully awake now, Stan reached for his grandfather’s gnarly hand. Finding it, he gave it a firm squeeze of gratitude. “I’m glad you’re here. I couldn’t remember if you were coming home or not. That was a bad storm, Grandpa. It scared Lucifer.”

“Don’t worry about it, boy. I got hung up at Becker Creek. The darn thing overflowed its banks. And then lightning hit a tree right in front of me. It burst into flame like a torch. Next thing you know, the grass caught fire and surrounded the truck. I thought I was a goner. The gas, you know? But your grandmother must have been watching over me, like she always does. The flames moved away, silently creeping back into the woods as if blown by a ghost. Her spirit has saved my life more than once. I sure owe that woman.”

“Next time you see her, give her my thanks,” Stan whispered.

“I will, boy. I will.”

“Did you see anything in the flames? You know, like an animal?”

“I was too scared to pay attention,” Grandpa said. “Even if I had, I couldn’t have done anything but sit there and watch. You calm enough now to go back to sleep?”

“Yeah,” Stan answered as he settled back on his mattress. “Would you mind staying for a bit?”

“You want me to hold off that demon?”

“Yeah. That would be real nice.”

Silence fell, wrapping both men in a blanket of comfort. Soon snores echoed off the walls: Grandpa’s deep rumbles harmonized with Stan’s staccato tenor notes. They slept.

Spring

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Spring is coming

There is a nearly imperceptible
Change in air pressure
A ringing in the ears
The brush of a breeze
That signals the beginning
Of new life

Colors change from brown to green,
Pink, red, white
As buds burst forth on branches
Knife-like leaves pierce the soil
Roses bloom in varied colors
And the sky explodes in morning
And at the dusk of night

Birds flit about
Singing joyously of rebirth
Floating above the earth
Gathering bits of stick and hair
To create a loving home

It is a time of wonder
A time of growth and change
A time to give thanks for all
The glories that bless us and
Give us comfort

Into The Woods

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Every year, in the early spring, the woods called to Sarah and her brother Josh. Trees were covered in silky green leaves and birds sang, calling to each other in the languages that only they understood. Even at this time of the year the days were hot and humid, made breathing difficult. But not inside the woods.

The twins stood, hand in hand, just outside the entry gate. As far as anyone knew, the woods belonged to no one, for inside were no houses or buildings and no warning signs hugged the perimeter. Nevertheless, it was with great trepidation that the kids stepped over the line. Once done, it could not be called back. Either you were in the woods or not.

Sarah’s eyes were huge. She was amazed by all she saw and heard. Underfoot, a lush carpet of moss, decaying leaves, and green sprigs of color poking through in anticipation.

Above, a canopy of leaves in various sizes and shapes. She knew none of their names. They were simply trees to her nine-year-old brain.

Josh climbed first one and then another tree, searching for the one that would allow him to go the highest. He giggled as he reached for one branch that hung well above his head.

“Look at me, Sarah,” he shouted.

“Be careful,” she answered. “Mom will kill you if you fall.”

“I’m not going to fall.” When he could not grab ahold of the branch, he came back down. Before his sister could protest, he attempted another climb. And then another.

Not wanting to witness his fall, Sarah collected the nuts that had fallen from the trees. They were almost completely round, swirled with two shades of brown. They were smooth to the touch and solid as marbles.

With each step, each engrossed in their separate tasks, they roamed further and further into the reaches of the woods. They stayed within calling distance of each other, but not always within sight’s range.

Josh’s voice carried clearly to Sarah’s ears as he sang out that he was a pirate scaling a mast of a schooner ship, or a super being capable of flight, or an eagle scanning the ground for prey.

Sarah hummed a quiet tune. Something she’d learned at Sunday school.

When Josh grew tired of climbing, he grabbed Sarah’s arm and pulled her deeper into the woods. “Let’s see what we can find,” he said.

It was a fine day for adventure. There were gentle rises and falls that kept the twins on alert in case they might stumble, that took them over roots and fallen limbs. There were boulders to climb and rocks to throw. Before long they rounded a turn and stopped when they came to a tiny creek, bubbling along.

“Let’s see where it came from,” Josh said as he took off, leaving his sister trailing behind.

As they followed its twists and turns, the creek slowly widened. It was a foot wide, then two. It moved faster as well, but still bubbled as if with excitement.
One more turn and there it was. The source. The waterfall. A four-foot wide stretch of water poured over a rock rim, then fell into a swirling pool.

“It’s beautiful,” Sarah said. “I’ve never seen anything so pretty.”

Josh leaned into the mist and stuck out his tongue. “It tastes good. You should try it.”

Sarah shook her head and stepped back, but not quickly enough. Josh grabbed her left arm and pulled her close to the edge of the pool.

“Look down,” he said. “What do you see?”

“Rocks. Lots of rocks.”

He pushed her head lower. “No, I mean down into the middle. What do you see?”

“Only water.”

Josh stripped off his shirt, shorts, shoes and socks.

“What are you doing?” Sarah asked.

“I’m going swimming.” Josh carefully stepped into the stream.

“You’ll get hurt!”

Josh took another step in, and now his ankles were covered with water. Then he was up to his shins, and then thighs. He swirled his arms about, temporarily changing the course of the water. “Look, Sarah, the water spins.”

“Get out before you get hurt,” Sarah said.

“I’m not going to get hurt. This is fun. Come on in!”

Sarah shook her head and backed away. She sat down on a large rock, keeping her eyes focused on her brother. He took another step and was suddenly under the surface of the water. Sarah jumped up, screaming his name, but there was no response. She moved as close to the edge as she could and bent over, searching for any sign of her brother.

That’s when she saw him, lying at the bottom of the pool. He was not moving. His eyes were closed but his mouth was open. Sarah didn’t know a lot about this sort of thing, but she was pretty sure that Josh was in trouble and the only hope he had was for her to do something.

Without stopping to think it through, Sarah went into the water. As her head went under, she tried to keep her eyes open, but it hurt. She felt about with both hands, hoping to touch some part of Josh.

She ran out of air and had to stand up. At this point, Sarah panicked. Should she run home or try again? Going home would take too long. All that way through the trees and the gate and to the house, find someone and then all the way back. So Sarah knew it was up to her.

Back into the water she went. She stepped in further this time, going deeper into the pool before bending over. She reached with her hands, feeling all about. Once again she found nothing, but just as she was about to give up, her fingers brushed against Josh’s hair. She grabbed ahold and tugged.

At first nothing happened. Sarah let go and stood, gasping for air. As soon as she could, she bent down and this time quickly found her brother. She pulled and pulled and when Josh moved, she felt joy. She moved her hands to his ears and slowly brought him to the surface of the water. When his nose was free, Sarah smiled and tugged even harder.
Within what felt like hours, she got Josh out of the pool and onto the bank of the creek.

“Breathe, Josh,” she said over and over. She opened his eyes, but saw no spark. She sat on his chest and hugged him.

All of a sudden Josh sputtered. Water sprayed from his mouth and he coughed and coughed. His eyes opened. “What happened?” he said.

“You went under the water. Are you okay?”

Josh closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep. Sarah tapped him on the chest and moved his head from side to side. “Wake up,” she said.

But he didn’t. Not knowing how to help her brother, but knowing that he was safely out of the water, Sarah took off for home. She went as quickly as she could, being careful of roots and limbs and rocks that were along the way.

By the time she found her mother, Sarah was nearly exhausted. She explained what had happened, then led her mother to where her brother still lay.

When they got there, Josh was awake, although a bit disoriented. His mother picked him up and carried him all the way home. She put him in the back of the car and drove Josh to the hospital.

Later Sarah learned that Josh had banged his head when he slipped and had suffered a concussion. If Sarah hadn’t been there, her brother would have died.

Sarah and Josh returned to the woods over and over, year after year, but never again went into the pool.

A Sensitive Soul

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I was born with a sensitive soul:
hurt covers me like icy water,
leaving me shaken and weak,
unable to walk, to function
as a human being.

I weep when others sniffle,
sob when some merely dab their eyes.
inside fires rage and water boils
with an intensity measured
by the Richter scale.

Pain strikes like an axe
falling hard on my furrowed brow,
bringing me to my knees
begging for the waves to pass
and peace to come.

While some quietly rage, I boil over,
spreading my doom and gloom
everywhere my eyes travel,
making my presence felt.
Uncomforting others.

Harboring my hurts
like a mother sheltering her young
I cradle them, caress them,
nurture them until splinters grow into
full-blown trees.

Letting go is not easy.
I preach forgiveness, but find
clinging vines cover my heart, blocking
my arteries, cutting off oxygen,
inhibiting rationality.

The good news is that time heals.
Good memories release pain
allowing stories to cry away the hurts.
New days begin with hope
for those like me, born with
a sensitive soul.

Not Just a Story

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My mom seldom talked about her past, but when she did, her stories were riveting.
She was born a child of poverty, the second oldest amongst a passel of children. Her mother, my grandmother, stayed home and grew all different kinds of herbs, vegetables and flowers. She was a quiet woman who wore soft, well-washed cotton dresses up until the day she died. The only house that I knew my grandparents to live in was primitive. There was a wood-burning stove in the kitchen and a pump for water. A tin cup hung by the pump for anyone who was thirsty. Heat was a coal pot-belly stove in the main room. It terrified me. One time an uncle picked me up and threatened to throw me in. I screamed and cried and so finally he put me down.

My grandmother made lace and sewed by hand. She made quilts, and one time when my brother smashed my doll to pieces, she made it a body, slip, underpants and a dress. I still have that doll today.

My grandfather was a tenant farmer who moved his family around to wherever he found work. Mostly they lived in southern Ohio, near a town called Gallipolis. Sometimes they crossed over the Ohio River into Virginia. My grandfather knew how to hitch a mule to a wagon and how to grow crops, mostly corn. He never spoke in my presence. His house overlooked the river and if you leaned forward far enough, you could watch boats going through the locks.

I never understood why my grandparents weren’t more loving, even after my mom explained that they were embarrassed because they could not read or write. My grandfather understood weights and measures, though. Every day he would walk down the road to the store and buy whatever they needed. He watched as things were measured and packaged to make sure he was not cheated. When things started being canned and bottled, he was dismayed. One time he made the store owner open the can of coffee and weigh the contents. Only then would he bring it home.

My mom did get to go to school. She was not the best student, but she enjoyed her time in the one-room school. Often she had to walk through deep snow wearing only a thin coat, cotton dress and leather shoes. When the weather was better, she walked barefoot, her shoes tied and dangling over her shoulder. It was important to take care of shoes, for without them you could not go to school. When she completed eighth grade, her parents did not have the money to send her away for high school, so my mom repeated that grade three times.

By that time she was old enough to move into the city to live with a sister. She got a job at Woolworth’s, a five-and-dime store, and worked there for many years. When World War II started, my mom enlisted in the Army. At one post, in Florida, her main job was to carry buckets of water to palm trees. Eventually she learned to be a phone operator, which meant connecting calls using cords that plugged from one hole into another. She must have been good at it, for that remained her job until her enlistment was over.

One night, as my mom slept on her cot in the barracks, she awoke to a feeling that something was crawling up her leg. In panic, she bent her leg at the hip, a poor choice, since she pinched a black widow spider. Of course, it bit her. She fell violently ill and, according to her, nearly died. Once she recovered, she was sent home in her uniform, which she wore proudly.

My mom moved back in with her sister. There was a USO in town that frequently held dances for the servicemen, even after the war ended. It was at one such dance where she met a handsome man. They danced and talked and then she brought him home to meet her sister. The man was hungry, so he went to the pantry and took out the last can of food, opened it, and ate it all by himself. The sister was angry at the man’s arrogance. My mom was intrigued.

They married within months, but continued to live with the sister until they found a place of their own. Within eight months my brother was born. Interestingly enough, my mother claimed that the pregnancy was full term, that he was not born prematurely, yet she also was not pregnant when they married. I know little about that time except that my mom stayed home with the baby.

A year and a half later I came along. My earliest memories are of a home in what my mother called the projects. It was a small house, with only two bedrooms, but a porch that stretched across the front. My mom did not work outside of the home, but being a housewife then was hard work. We were lucky enough to have a washing machine, but it was the old-fashioned type with a huge bowl and a ringer that terrified me. I hated watching my mom feed clothes into the ringers, fearing that her fingers would get caught and fall off.

By the time I was old enough to go to school, we had moved to a larger house in the outskirts of downtown Dayton. There was a large backyard, big enough for a swing set, a dog house and a garden. It was here that my mom learned how to drive. She had to, if she wanted me to go to Kindergarten. My mom decided that I was a slow learner, a backward child, who wouldn’t succeed in school without help. This was a difficult decision, as kindergarten was not free back then, and so it placed a financial hardship on the family. But my mom thought it was important, and so she drove me to school every day, even when the roads were deep with snow.

When I started first grade, my mom returned to work as a telephone operator at a hospital in downtown. She left for work about the same time that my brother and I headed off for school, and didn’t come home until after my dad. She fixed dinner, did the dishes, made sure we were clean and tidy and took care of the house. That’s what women did then, all the housework with no help from the man. My mom was not the best cook, but there was always food on the table.

When I was seven my sister was born. It was a rough time. We were told that my mom had had a nervous breakdown and that we had to keep quiet so as to not upset her. Thank goodness it was summer, so my brother and I spent hours outside. We were not allowed in the house from morning until evening for fear of disturbing her sleep. I saw very little of my sister during that time as she stayed in the room with my mom.

We moved again when I finished fourth grade, this time to a house in Beavercreek, Ohio. It was a rural area, far from the city. Nevertheless, my mom drove us into town so that we could attend the Catholic elementary school. She also took us to the library, all the time driving an old, flat-black business coup that had no backseat.

One time, just as we pulled into the library parking lot, flames shot out from the hood. My mom seemed to know what to do. While my brother and I went inside and searched for books, my mom sat in the car, letting it cool down. When it was time to leave, she got out, opened the hood, tweaked a few things, then started the engine. It worked! She drove us all the way home, probably smiling with pride.

That house also used a septic tank for waste disposal. The tank sometimes developed problems. After watching my dad dig into the dirt to reveal the lid, remove it, and treat it, my mom knew what to do. So the next time it backed up, she took a shovel and went to work. She bragged about digging up the septic tank for many years. It was something to be proud of, for it showed her determination and independent spirit.

During my freshman year of high school, my mom’s health went downhill. I didn’t understand what was happening, just that sometimes she seemed unable to breathe. Her doctor said that we had to move, that she had asthma that was triggered by the humidity,and so my dad sold everything and drove us to California.

Somewhere in the desert we developed car trouble and we stopped at a little service station. It was blisteringly hot and we had nothing to drink. We also had no money to buy water, so we sat in the car, waiting for help from a mechanic. The store owner came out to the car more than once, offering water, but my mom would not take it. She did not want to feel obliged.

Considering her humble beginnings, my mom did quite well in the working world. Once we settled in, she got a job at a little store and within a few years became the weekend manager. She kept track of register receipts, placed orders, and conducted inventory. When the store closed due to competition from bigger stores, my mom quickly found a job at a pharmacy, but it was a longer drive from home. She had to go by freeway, and that terrified her, especially in the fog and rain.

Her next job was with the federal government as a phone operator. Once again, she rose through the ranks and became a trainer. This was about the time that equal employment forced agencies to hire minorities and the disabled. Her office hired a blind man to be trained as an operator.

This was a real dilemma, for at this time, lines were still connected by moving cords from one lighted hole to the next. How was a blind man going to see the lights? My mom thought about this for a long time and played around with various creations. Eventually she designed a tool that allowed him to do the job. She received not just a certificate honoring her invention, but a little bonus. She was so proud. In fact, that was probably her proudest moment.

My mom’s story was probably not that unusual during that time. She was unskilled, with limited education, but with great determination and foresight. She was hard-working and willing to do any job, even the most degrading.

Her last regular job was exactly that. After phone operators were no longer needed, my mom got a job washing pots and pans at the local school district. It was not full time work, so she also worked at a community college. It was hard on her back, leaning over a deep sink, day in, day out, scrubbing out remnants of food. Her hands turned bright red and the skin peeled off, even though she wore thick gloves. Soap got into her eyes, causing burning and intense pain. Even so, she kept at it until physically she was unable to perform the job. By this time she was well past retirement age.

My mom did have one last part time job after her seventieth birthday. She discovered that she could get paid for delivering phone books. So during that season, she and my dad got up early in the morning, loaded up his truck with books, then spent the day putting them on porches and doorsteps. It was an exhausting, poorly-paid job, but she did it with pride and determination.

Once my mom was no longer able to work, she collapsed physically and emotionally. Dementia set in, robbing her of her memory and her will to fight. She died in her sleep, a fitting ending to a life lived in extremes.

A Strange Revelation

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“Hell found me.”

“What did you say?” Stan’s fork froze in mid-air. Spaghetti slowly oozed onto his plate, unnoticed.

“Hell found me,” repeated Grandpa Ellis. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his hands behind his head, and looked at the ceiling as if seeing a ghost.

“I don’t understand.” Stan pushed his long, brown hair off his forehead.

“For years now I’ve been waitin’ for Hell to catch up with me. I’d gotten pretty lazy, thinkin’ I’d outfoxed him. Last night he paid a call. Now I have to pay him back.”

Stan’s face took on the startled-hare look. He lowered his fork to his plate, picked up his napkin, and attempted to wipe sauce and noodles off his once clean shirt. Unsuccessful, he got up and went into the kitchen, his large boots reverberating with each step. “Let’s get this straight. Hell came to see you last night.”

“Yep, that’s right.”

“You owed him for something and now you’ve got to repay the debt,” Stan said as he dabbed a wet napkin on the stain.

“Yep,” Grandpa Ellis said. Dropping his arms on to the tabletop, his body deflated like a punctured balloon. “An’ I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

“What kind of a debt do you owe?” Stan turned to face his grandfather. Frightened by the posture of defeat, something he’d never seen on his proud guardian, Stan rushed to the chair and knelt nearby. “Grandpa, start over. Tell me the story, please? Maybe I can help.”

“There’s nothin’ you can do. Nothin’ you can do. I lost. Hell said he’d catch up with me sometime. Now he’s here an’ there’s nothin’ I can do.” Silent sobs shook his shoulders. He buried his face in his large, calloused hands. “I’ve got to do this by myself, but you’re the one who’ll pay the price.”

Stan gently placed his right arm around his grandfather’s back, an action his grandfather had used when Stan was a small boy. “We can work it out, whatever it is. There is nothing that can break us up, and that’s all that matters. You’ve told me that a million times. Family is what counts in the world.”

Grandpa Ellis raised his tear-streaked face and looked deeply into his grandson’s eyes. “Let’s go sit on the porch so I can smoke. I’ll tell you the story.”

Both men stood and turned to walk outside. From the back, there was little difference between them, except for the grandfather’s head of white hair. Broad shoulders, trim torsos and muscular legs defined them as workingmen: ranching men. They even dressed in a similar manner: dusty jeans, plaid shirts, cowboy boots with spurs, and bandanas tied about the neck.

Not a word was said as they crossed the living room. Grandpa Ellis stopped to pick up his pipe, tobacco pouch, and a book of matches. Stan retrieved his whittling stick from the sideboard.

Out the front door the silent procession continued. Grandpa turned to the right, as usual, and settled into his accustomed chair. Stan turned to the left and sat on the porch swing.

After lighting his pipe and taking the first draw, Grandpa blew a huge smoke ring into the air. “A long time ago, before you were born, I was a rough man. I gambled, drank, an’ participated in shootin’ matches. I was mean as a rattler, an’ ornery as that old donkey out back. I loved my women, an’ ran with a tough crowd. We all acted like we was warriors, an’ I guess we were.

“One day we rode into a dusty little town. Big Ben, one of my friends, got it in his head to rob the bank. It was the manly thing to do, I guess. Now I want you to know I was against it from the start. I might have pushed the law a bit, but I’d never done nothin’ that would of landed me in jail.”

Grandpa blew a series of rings into the air and watched them rise, higher and higher until they disappeared into the porch roof.

“Did Big Ben rob the bank?”

“I’m a gettin’ there.” He drew again on his pipe, held the smoke for what seemed like an eternity, and then pushed out the tainted air with a whoosh. “Big Ben was big, but not too bright. Once he thought it’d be fun to walk acrost that train bridge over the Missouri, where it crosses Crag’s Canyon. He got halfway acrost when the train comes. He had to jump into the river below. He never got hurt with his crazy schemes, but his reputation was that of an idiot who could shoot like the dickens.

“So he sees this little ol’ bank, an’ says that it would be easy to break in. He says that he knows the sheriff is a fat ol’ man who’d rather sleep than chase crooks. He says that the banker goes home at five an’ nobody comes back ‘til early morn.

“So we go into the saloon acrost the street an’ buy ourselves a beer. We tell jokes, play cards, smoke a few, all the time keepin’ our eyes on that bank. This town is so small that no more than five folks walked past the window, an’ there’s only two other customers in the bar an’ they’re both cold drunk.

“Right on time, that banker comes out, closes the door, pulls a key out of his pocket, an’ locks the door. He walks away without lookin’ back. Within minutes the streets are empty. Nothin’ but dust and flies.

“By now we’ve put down a few beers an’ are feelin’ pretty powerful. It’s funny how drink does that to a guy. Blows him up an’ makes him feel like he can do anything.

“The sun goes down, like it’s doin’ now. Pretty as can be. Sky all orange and red an’ purple. Things get mighty quiet. The bartender wakes up the drunks an’ walks them out a the saloon. He tells us to pay up an’ leave, so we do.

“We walk around a bit, up an’ down the streets, checkin’ out the bank from all sides. Randy, the real bandit in our gang, figures out a way to break in. There’s a little window in the back, about ten feet up. Since I was the lightest, Randy’s idea was for Big Ben to lift me up on his shoulders, an’ then I’d open that window an’ go in. Once in, I’d run to the front an’ unlock the door. The guys would come in an’ lock the door behind them. Then we’d break into the vault an’ get the money.”

As darkness fell, Stan watched an airplane traverse the ranch, heading toward the airport at Billings. The red lights blinked a warning signal, telling other planes to stay away. “So what happened? Did the plan work?”

“No. Shortly after Big Ben lifted me up, there was a thumping noise from inside the building. We froze, thinkin’ someone was in there. There was another thump, an’ then an even louder one. Pretty soon that window opened, seemingly by magic. Big Ben dropped me like I was a hot cob a corn an’ took two steps back. I scrambled out of the dirt on all fours. Randy squealed like a little girl an’ took off down the street.

“As I was runnin’ away, a voice called to me. It nearly sacred me to death, it did.”

“What did it say?”

“It said, ‘Hell is callin’ and you’d better answer,’ in a gravely voice that sent chills runnin’ down my spine. I had no idea what this meant or who was speakin’, but I was interested. Those beers had numbed my senses a bit, an’ so my brain wasn’t thinkin’ clearly. So I stumbled back to the building an’ look up. Out of that window stuck a head wearin’ a black hat. Black whickers covered the face.

“I should of run away right then, but my curiosity was stronger than my sense, so I looks up an’ sees that there is now a rope danglin’ from that window. ‘Come on up,’ the man calls. So I grab a hold of that rope an’ climb. I’d never known I could climb so easy. Within seconds I was through that window an’ in the bank.

“It was pretty dark inside, but I could make out the figure of a man standin’ to my right. He was huge: bigger than Big Ben. ‘Welcome to my bank,’ he said as he grabbed my right hand an’ shook it. That man was so strong, I thought my arm was a gonna fall off.

“He turns, still holdin’ my arm, an’ walks me into the heart of the bank. ‘My name’s Hell. What’s yours?’ Without thinking, I tell him. Then he drags me over to the vault. ‘Hold this for me,’ he says an’ hands me the smallest lamp I’ve ever seen. Later I found out it was a miner’s lamp, but at the time, I was stupefied by its size.

“Well, to make a long story short, Hell broke the code to the vault on the first try, like he had it memorized or something. He pulled a cotton bag out of his pocket an’ filled it up with bundles of dollars. ‘Here. Take this. Thanks for helping me,’ he says. ‘Someday I’ll need your help again. I’ll find you, Ellis, no matter where you are or what you’re doing. You’ll help me then, just as you are now.’ With that he disappeared into the darkness, leaving me there holding the money.

“Considering that this had been my gang’s plan all along, I didn’t think much of it. Yes, I robbed a bank, but I figured all I’d done was hold the lamp. I felt pretty smug as I swaggered to the door an’ stepped onto the wooden sidewalk. Randy an’ Big Ben met me there an’ asked what had happened. I explained it all to them as we walked down the empty street. We mounted our horses an’ rode away. Later we divided up the money.”

“How much was there?” Stan had known that his grandfather had lived a rough life, but discovering that he had been a bank robber was a huge surprise.

“Somewhere near ten thousand dollars. That was a lot of money back then. Feelin’ kind of guilty, I only kept two thousand. It was enough that I could stop my roaming days an’ settle down. I bought this spread, built me a house, an’ bought some horses. Not the best stock, but as good as I could get. I figured with careful breedin’ I’d make out fine.”

Far off in the distance, a horse whinnied, followed by a chorus of others in response. The porch swing creaked as Stan rocked back and forth. After closing up his pocketknife that had never touched his carving, Stan sighed. “What does this guy Hell want?”

“He wants the money back. And not just what he stole, but a whole lot more. He wants twenty thousand. Hell says that with time, my share has grown in value. He says that unless I give him the money, he’ll go to the police an’ turn me in.”

“That was a long time ago, Grandpa. They can’t try you for a crime committed that many years back.”

“You don’t get it, boy. Hell’s a big-time lawyer in Billings now. He’s got all the politicians eating off his plate. He’s thinking about running for office and his platform is cleaning up old crimes. He says it’s me against him, an’ no one’d believe that he’d ever done something like rob a bank.” He stood, arched his back and stretched his arms over his head. He turned toward the front door.

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m a gonna give him the money.”

Stan gasped. That money was his college fund, most of it from his inheritance when his parents died. Some was from selling breeding stock. It was earmarked for his tuition and fees at the University of Montana.

“Hell’s robbin’ you of your education, boy. I can’t think of nothin’ else to do. If’n I don’t give him the money, I might end up in jail. If’n I do give him the money, then you can’t go to college. Hell’s got me backed into a corner so tight it hurts. What do you think I should do?”

Stan stared into the black fields of the ranch. Grandpa Ellis stood silent, waiting to hear what his grandson had to say.

“Don’t give him the money yet. Mary’s father is a lawyer. I’ll ask him what the law says about crimes that old. He’s a good man and has done right by many of the ranchers out here. When’s Hell coming back?”

“He gave me a week. That was on Saturday.”

“We’ve got two days left. I’ll go over to Mary’s tomorrow morning before her dad leaves for work. He’ll help us out.” Stan stood and walked over to his grandfather. He grabbed hold of his guardian’s right arm and squeezed. “Let me try, anyway. If Mary’s dad can’t help, then we’ll give Hell the money. I’ll stay here and go to the community college.”

Grandpa Ellis nodded silently and walked into the house. He put away his pipe and pouch, and then climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Stan went into the kitchen to wash the dinner dishes. Once that task was complete, he, too, went to bed.

In the morning, Stan drove to his girlfriend’s house. Her father listened to the story, not interrupting until Stan was through.

“How long ago was this?”

“At least sixty years ago. Grandpa said he was a young man. He married my grandmother in his twenties, and this was well before then.”

“You’re right, Stan. There is a Statute of Limitations that keeps a man from being tried for old crimes. Even if there wasn’t, if Mr. Ellis is telling the truth, he wasn’t totally responsible for the break-in. He was an accomplice, true, but the circumstances were unusual. A voice out of nowhere, a man called Hell, and a mysterious rope falling.”

“So what does he tell this guy?”

Reaching into his coat pocket, Mary’s father pulled out his business card. “Give your grandfather this. Tell him to hand this card to Hell when he shows up. That should take care of it.”

Stan looked at the card and was surprised at what he saw. A host of silver angels danced across the top of the card, and a beam of golden light encircled the imprinted words.

Mary’s father laughed as he stood. “I work for Jesus Mendoza. He thought it made for an interesting business logo.”

‘Chase away your demons with Jesus’ law service’ floated just below the heavenly angels. In the bottom right hand corner, a red devil with pitchfork in hand, cowered in fear. “Hell might have found Mr. Ellis, but Jesus will be standing between the two of them. Jesus always wins his cases, and Hell knows this. Tell your grandfather that there will be no further trouble.”

Speechless, Stan stood and shook the man’s hand. He pocketed the card and followed Mary’s father out the door. He got into his car, started it up, cranked up the radio, and sang all the way home as he dreamt of college.