Shelly's Cafe

My First U-Tube

2010-01-13T11:25:00.002-05:00

For a century or more I wanted to produce a slide show for my photos instead of showing them individually. Since I did a photo shoot for my friends 50th anniversary and needed to put them on a disc, I decided this techno challenged holdover needed to move into the new millennium.

I will admit it took a whole day and half the night to finish this project, but hopefully I learned enough to do it again--using just a half day's time.

For the followers of both Shelly's Cafe and Shadows of America blogs I must apologize but MS issues slowed me down. I promise to try and keep up on both blogs now that I am feeling better

Well, here it is. Love it or hate it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yE7k4jcaQNI

SHE WHO LIVES IN THE SHADOWS

2009-06-18T13:31:00.010-04:00

Occasionally I look at the calender and break out in a cold sweat. I realize that object hanging on my door is just heavy paper stock with pretty pictures, but recently flipping its pages has caused the passing of time to shoot off into hyper drive.

January, February, March so forth and so on—it all moves through this time frame we call days, weeks and months. So now the door of the cafe is covered with dust, old paper cups and plastic trash bags. The winds of time have blown scattered thoughts into a heap of unrecognizable trash blocking the entrance.

I have spent the last few days attempting to tidy up the place, pour out the old coffee from the coffee maker, and put some rhubarb pie on the shelf. Perhaps a few new customers may stop by if we put some smooth jazz on the new sound system.

So, what's been going down? Well some of you know I have been lured into the world of high finances, rolling the dice and gambling online, hoping to scare up a few dollars here and there. The game—E-bay. Odds were good for a while as I dug through box after box of old, rare and vintage books, then a pile of collector “stuff” that always filled up one corner after another since after I undertook the joys of apartment living.

Truth is I had a goal in mind and met stage one rather quickly and with great joy. I purchased a $700 plus scanner to restore old photographs, slides and negatives. I started first by looking at downsized hundred dollar film scanners, which more or less were toys. As I kept reading articles by those who know more than myself, I was forced to slam on the brakes before the next level, which would have been over a thousand dollars. The scanner is an Epson 750 Pro, for those who are interested. With it came three separate programs such as Photo Shop and Silverfast for restoring and editing film and/or digital pictures.

As you can see above, and sorry I only kept one "before" picture (PLEASE CLICK ON BEFORE PICTURE OF THE GIRL), but believe me the other photographs were in pretty rough shape, the results are pretty amazing. There is a learning curve and climbing though the curves has become a hair pulling event, but soon there will be victory and knowledge will fill my damaged brain.

I haven't even started on the hundreds of slides and negatives strewn about my room, but time will handle that problem also. Right now, between learning and real life, I am still working the e-bay game trying to reach goal number two--a new computer to run all the programs I have downloaded. My Sony is still a great computer, but it was built before duo processors and other nice things that live in the black box which I know not what makes it tick. I will avoid trying to speak Geek.

There is always a great story. I write many of them, but this is a story of victory because as most of you know I live on a very limited income. There is no good months or bad months, just months of little chunks of government dollars. The idea of going into a business that required well over a thousand dollars was to me, impossible, but E-bay, plus all my junque has allowed this to happen. I hope by mid-July to have the new hand built computer sitting under my desk. If not, then I will continue to trudge on until that goal is met. To me, what has already happened is not only a blessing, but a miracle.

In the months to come I hope to start a new blog site and download rescued orphaned photos that time has erased. Old photos can be very telling. The car guy above is one of many unknown people who once existed, who, well likely nobody knows, but now he is with us again. Of course, as a business, I want to restore family photos, slides and negatives to climb out of the government sponsored poverty program.

Not to worry, a few stories and photos will grace the walls of Shelly's Cafe. So here I am again. So as I wave howdy, I must return to the decades time has forgotten.

Chevy, Chrysler and the American Hero

2009-03-30T21:48:00.000-04:00

I have three somewhat odd conundrums that have been rolling through my economy-sized brain all day. Two of them have been talked about on conservative talk radio since I first rubbed the sleep from my eyes this morning and the other, well it may be a much over looked historical fact. The conundrum? Can I tie all three into one blog to prevent over-taxing my brain's wiring.

First, we know Obama, who yesterday was feeling his Cheerios, a General Mills product, fired CEO Rick Wagoner a General Motors product. The implementation of a CEO's demise is a job usually performed by stock owners, but not this time. Even with Wagoner's hard-fisted approach of shutting down 14 auto plants and laying off thousands of workers,who likely will be flipping burgers or handing out shopping carts at Wal Mart, Mr. Obama still believes he didn't get the bang for ~~our~~ his bucks. After discussing the problem in length with his wife Michelle and two children, he picked up the phone and called the GM Hot Line and after punching one for English, two for Español, three for warranty, four for your nearest dealer, he finally found the cleaning lady, who in turn left a termination Sticky-note on Wagoner's desk.

So today in his best form, Obama walked up to the Teleprompter and said, “America, kiss my grits. You will probably not like my decision, but since I live in the White House now, we are doing things my way. If you think GM is messed up, which I concur that it is, wait till you see what I am going to do with Chrysler.”

At that time stocks once again plummeted as fears swept across Wall Street. At the end of the day GM stocks were selling at an unheard of $2.71 a share. After his kiss my grits speech he called Hillary and told her if she wanted inside info on some new cattle market futures, go buy GM stock since he was sure he could resurrect the doomed company by making green cars.

Obama later told the press he would work with Congress on a program to encourage consumers to replace old, less fuel-efficient cars with newer, cleaner vehicles. This is Obama's answer to two stolen chickens in every pot, a sort of hot pot if you will. America will be forced to trade in old beaters that are finally paid for and purchase Ethanol sipping Chevy Vegas.

On a similar note, Chrysler will be forced to join hands with Fiat. Now folks do you know about Fiats? I do. One of my first decent jobs as a young adult was to work for a dealership that sold Fiats. They had to be the crapiest vehicle ever shoved down the throats of Americans back in the 1970's, short of the Renault, Simca and the Austin American.

About the same time I worked for the dealer Fiat shed themselves of the 1100D Sedan, to a more sporty 124 model and the incredible self destructing Fiat 750. So what, you ask, did Fiat do with all the tooling for the 1100 sedan. Hold on to your hats—they sold them to Yugoslavia to be turned into the (you guessed it), the YUGO. Americas first weeny, liberal attracting, pile of highway destruction, ever to grace the American highways.

Do you see where this column is heading. Obama is hoping GM will return the consumer to the days of the dreaded Chevrolet Vega and Fiat Yugos with a Chrysler hemi. Not. You will be lucky to get a weasly little four cylinder that is so laden down with smog controls that the tight Lycra pants weinies on bicycles will leave you in the dust.

The rest I will leave to your deep fearful imagination. Stephen King would be pleased. So now we have the two train wrecks of the American way of life this morning, which is becoming quite common from the Obama administration, but what was the third item on my list today. Charlie Brown!

Charlie Brown was America's lovable nudnick. As many times as he tried take one for the team, his proverbial football was pulled away at the last minute. He often ended up seeking professional help from Doc Lucy, spending his last nickel on advice he should know would cut him to the quick. Well on this day in history the hopeless little man clobbered in his winning home run, not only hitting the ball, but bringing his team to victory as well.

So can I tie in the lovable Charlie Brown hitting his first comic strip league home run to Barack Obama's first attempt at taking a swing at General Motors and Chrysler? Zeech, how great do you think I am. Charlie, here's to your victory. Barack, well here is to your national fudge. May Lucy always pull the proverbial ball out from your wild kicks.

Earth Hour 2009

2009-03-27T17:24:00.000-04:00

Friday, March 27, 2009

Not one to be on top of ecological celebrations, I only discovered the world-wide fantasy called Earth Hour that is to be blasted across my wonderful planet so satellites floating in the heavens above can say we too can be a “dark continent.” Sorry Africa, I needed that term.

The World Wildlife Fund, sponsors of the "Grab Your Light Switch and Shake It Baby," wants you to turn off your nonessential lights between 8:30 and 9:30 Saturday night. Now I have no idea what time zones they are talking about. I presume it is wherever you are.

Carter Roberts, chief executive of the World Wildlife Fund said, "Earth Hour makes a powerful statement that the world is going to solve this problem by walking around in the dark. We environmentalists have been doing it for years.”

Meanwhile a best selling book that has been in print for years states, "You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven. *

When asked about that quote, a high ranking unnamed source from the WWF said he thought the verse was vaguely familiar, perhaps from Walden's Pond, but wasn't quite sure what it meant, so he quickly moved back to the subject of darkness.

“Even McDonald's will soften their yellow arches for that hour, along with Jolly Jack's Burger Style Fish & Chips, Martha's Pizza and Beer Garden and Green Pastures Health Food Emporium,” the spokesperson went on to say.

It has been reported that children can line up and help an odd looking clown turn down the lights of the Golden Arches on notch at a time or until swarms of lost moths begin to smother the youngsters. Helping Birds Migrate, a nonprofit organization out of Mojave California, said the darkness may cause millions of migrating hummingbirds and assorted butterflies to loose their bearings and end up crashing into mountains. “This is an important time of year for the little fellas and I think those guys are hurting our ecology, not helping,” said Boris Gashouse, founder of the organization.

U.N. Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon encouraged those who chose darkness rather than light, to reach a fair and effective climate ~~change~~ tax agreement and promoted the Earth Hour participation in a video posted this month on the event's YouTube channel.

Still there may bit of sanity left in America but it may be hard to find tomorrow night. Across this continent people like suburban Philadelphia ice cream shop owner Bob Gerenser, 56, believes global warming is based on faulty science and calls Earth Hour "nonsense,” so the resident of New Hope, Pa., and owner of Gerenser's Exotic Ice Cream planned to illuminate his store with extra theatrical lighting. "I'm going to get everyone I know in my neighborhood to turn on every light they possibly can to waste as much electricity as possible to underline the absurdity of this action ... by being absurd," he said.

Others like Gerenser use the insane to produce sanity, but we here at the cafe will help find humanities answer for hope. I, Micheala will be asking the population to celebrate the warmth and beauty of light. At 8:30 p.m., put your favorite rock group's CD from a bygone era on your boom box and go outside with your Bick lighter ablaze and wave it to and fro with the music in case one of those CIA spy satellites is passing your home from high above. Nothing beats the smell of good clean butane, so let them blaze America!

If you want to take this protest one step further, march down to your local novelty store where they sell those luminescent necklaces, teeth and jacket pins you see at every 4th of July event. Ask the clerk for a large green wienie and if they don't carry large green wienies, craft one out of Styrofoam, the kind that never degrades, and wrap hundreds of those cheap necklaces round about your handmade creation and toss it to the wind while shouting," I'm garsh darn made and won't take global warming nuts anymore.”

Good luck fellow Americans

*Matthew 5: 13-16

FOOD STAMPS, PIGGLY WIGGLY STORES AND MORE

2009-03-26T16:18:00.001-04:00

Are you hungry? Times getting rough? Had to give back your AIG bonus and your kids are stilling calling to borrow a few Thou? Buddy can ya spare a hundred? Is that what's bothering you Bunky--Well, lift your head up high and take a walk in the sun with dignity and stick-to-it-ness and ya show the world, ya show the world where to get off and you'll never give up, never give up, never give up...that ship!

I digress.

We all know the economy is bad because George Bush legislated new Fanny Mae rules years before he took office, ~~giving~~ forcing all the poor and downtrodden to take out $95,000 loans for ghetto housing than wasn't worth $25,000. All this while Barney Frank was screaming, "stop this madness, you will kill the economy."

It certainly did happen that way because I looked into my Buck Rogers of the 22nd Century looking glass and read the Democratic Socialist States Collective Public Schools textbooks. And here I am in 2009, totally ignorant of the bill of goods my biracial slave master has been trying to sell me while flogging me with stimulus whips.

Back to hard times. According to my Mother Earth Magazine article, “Surviving Hard Times for Grown Up Hippies” you don't have to cash in your Government War Bonds if you live in Ohio, or maybe even a few other select states. Seems like Governor Strickland has teamed up with the Obama administration and started dishing out food stamps to the wealthy.

Yup, if you have a $300,000 house, drive a Mercedes and have $80,000 in the bank, you may be a ~~redneck~~, ooops wrong line—you may be on food stamps. It seems there are a few in this fine rusty, old state who have learned the hidden secret of fine dinning. Just like a golden Fanny Mae loan, you no longer have to divulge your assets or the amount of cold hard cash stashed away in the First National Bank of Park Avenue.

This report flashed all over Ohio's television screens on the News Alive at Five last week and the torrid tale even made it to the CNN News Desk, that a woman who lived in the above abode with cash a flowing has been driving down to the Piggly Wiggly with food card in hand. Now my investigations have not been able to reveal the name or address of the Warren County woman, who has done nothing illegal (can you hear me Sir Dodd), nor of any other culprits. Sorry.

As of this moment there are no Acorn picketers demanding the slightly comfortable welfare recipients give the money back to Ohio via the Federal Government, nor likely will there be. But I must be frank, or Shelly--I receive a food card ( stamps are so passé ), but I live well under the poverty line and still waiting for the trickle up economy to save me. I was forced to forfeit the assets from the sale of my house when I became disabled. It certainly was not a $300,000 house like the babe from Warren. So the government keeps me in poverty and tosses a bit of help in the way of a food card.

I'm not crying, but Obama did make me weep with warm tears of joy last week when I received the letter stating the stimulus package has now raised my allotment of food I can purchase every month. Believe me folks it sure wasn't by very much, but now I am about $20 ~~less poo~~r richer now.

Which leads me to wonder, just how much money does that lady, whose name and address I do not know, make in food stamps per month. How many groceries can she stuff in that Mercedes before she is outed. Acorn, where are you when we need you.

This blog can also be seen on my blog page @ We Surround Them USA

DIARY OF A LAZY WOMAN

2009-03-22T19:39:00.002-04:00

A few days ago I joined a group called We Surround Them USA. Glen Beck started the social network and it is catching on across the nation at a pretty good clip. I sent an e-mail to most everyone on my mailing list and as always I make sure it is pretty darn important as not to waste your time.

Within the site there is a photo page (yipee!) And a daily blog. Yesterday I penned a repentant article for not writing in months–adding that I promised to try harder. Well lo and behold things happened and I wrote again today. I thought maybe I will jump between Shelly's Cafe to The Other Side of The Cafe from time to time, such as today.

This is yesterday's blurb followed by today's. What do you think. Should I energize both blogs, or just one?

Saturday March 21, 2009
As many of my friends know I have kept a blog going for numerous years. Sadly within the last year my MS has slowed down my writing. Tis' a shame indeed--but can I return to a writers life? We shall see.

My original blog ( http://shellyscafe.blogspot.com/ ) is somewhat non-political because that represents the storyteller part of my life. I want to bring a smile to all segments of society with my previously published works. But, before I got paid to tell stories I made a living by writing political satire. The Clinton years gave me fodder beyond belief, plus my California days never let me down for local politics.

Well, we are now in the Clinton days redux, plus a new action figure, Barrack ~~Obbama~~, ~~Obaaama,Obbamma~~ , er Obama whose name has not been added to any spell checks I have used. During my run as a satirist I managed to get audited--a favorite tactic used against the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy. Now since I have discovered the world of poverty, the man can't get me on tax fraud. Not to fear, DC has an ample supply to pull from.

So, as Paul Harvey would say, this is page one. Stay tuned for page two .

Sunday March 22, 2009
Every morning after I rub the sleep from my eyes and carefully begin a stumbling journey towards the coffee pot, then in turn stumble back towards my computer--If I may step aside from my thought train for a moment, for my new readers who may not be aware of my existence I have Multiple Sclerosis, so I use the word stumble very literally. Back aboard the thought train.

After my arrival at the computer with coffee in hand I delete all the ads for new wonder supplements and Ugg boots then read the good "stuff." Several years ago I stumbled upon, er discovered the Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day where occasionally I find little tid-bits of the English language, which as a writer I often destroyed for lack of anything better to do. When I was a semi-weekly newspaper columnist my readers told my they like the play on words that once seemed to come natural to me. But lately the play on words turned to war with words.

So toady, Sunday, the 22nd of March I awoke rather late and missed my Moody Church service on the radio. My body must have needed the sleep since I passed out on the recliner last night while watching a bio on Carol Burnette who always forced me to laugh until I snorted milk from my nose or caused me to run to the bathroom as not to have an accident. She made people laugh because she held her sidekicks as equals but most importantly she took life's adversities and looked them face on. Without creating a whole page on her life let me just say she inspired me back then and her bio inspired me today.

So, after sleeping to long, then killing my whole morning finishing off where sleep overtook me last night, (here we go again) I stumbled to the computer, erased the maddening nonsense of sending this sad story to ten other people, or having angels decorate my life if twenty other women.....................blah, blah, blah, hit the Webster site expecting some previously unknown word which would never be used in my conversation in a million lifetimes.

But, and this is the but we have so desperately been waiting for after numerous paragraphs of introduction. Sorry, I love suspense. The word was recrudescence (ree-kroo-DESS-uns), which means: a new outbreak after a period of abatement or inactivity: renewal. Yesterday I admitted that my desire to write had tanked. Perhaps just because I felt my words fell upon fallow grounds, perhaps it was laziness. Maybe visiting this exciting Internet site may also be the place to stand up, er stumble up, and say I can. Others have and with God's mercy, I shall too.

So recrudescence, do your magic.

P.S--for some reason I am unable to find a direct Internet address for We Surround Them USA.
Perhaps if you Google them you may get to the site

A SHORT BUT POIGNANT HOLIDAY APOLOGY--AND A RATHER BIT LATE AT THAT

2008-12-21T09:38:00.009-05:00

If you, as a regular reader notice the last two posts missing--fear not, it was not a work of the CIA.

Now that elections are over, an inner circle of sneaky corporate board members decided to resume a politically friendly blog. My desire is to offend only those on the highest end of the touchy feely scale therefore friends on both sides of the political spectrum can enjoy visiting the cafe, and of course, partaking of my delicious pie and mouth watering coffee.

Mouth watering coffee, hmm that sounds absolutely odd.

I promise not to be so slack with my labors here at the cafe in this upcoming year. More stories, more art, more pie. Heck, we can all live with that.

Meanwhile, here are a couple of good old humorous Scandinavian Christmas songs by Yogi Yorgesson, offensive only to those whose family legacy may have been beaten to a pulp by the Vikings. Sadly my father's family tree did this horrific act of violence to my mother's Celtic tree. So this may be the answer to my inner turmoil, which of course only brings out the artist in me. Is not that the way it is suppose to work, you know the tortured artist mental thingy.

I Yust go Nuts at Christmas
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c8SqY9crHA8

The Christmas Party
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RAvKocmJk4Q

Stan Freeberg's Christmas Dragnet (You may have to search U-Tube for that one because the address hasn't been working for me.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ELMjwQJzI0

Live large and have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year

Micheala--owner and dishwasher of Shelly's Cafe (and the only sneaky corporate board member)

DIGITAL PICTURES ON THE CAFE WALL

2008-10-23T22:30:00.002-04:00

Hold on folks, I know we got some good photos in the bag

My new Canon XSi Digital camera has been getting quite a workout. I reluctantly retired my Nikon 8008 SLR after the rewind motor started to die and good quality film became hard to find. I really didn't want to buy a Canon but now I am glad I did. So today I will change the pictures hanging on the cafe's wall.

So what do you think?

Don't forget to click on the photo for an enlargement.

Mums a'plenty. Shot at our local Mum Fest. Tons of mums and lots of color

Okay, I got to get Mr Rags in here somewhere

Cheap Ride. It's the economy ya know.

That's right--just a plain old tree rat.

A nest of late fall color

Coming home to roost. The blackbirds were squawking so loud as the perched on the high lines and the substation next to it. Why do they like power lines so much?
Ha, we may never know.

Small note-- all blackbirds, starlings, grackles, red wings, etc gather to migrate together, but once they arrive at their destination they have nothing to do with each other.

A guy at our local cruise in showed me his new car. This was the first time he had it out in the public. The engine is an old "Jimmy," that has been hopped-up. It is really well detailed and built much like a 50's jalopy. Love the paint job.

The swan speaks for himself.

Even a sea gull can look majestic in the right light.

My friends like the semi tanker picture. Me? Eh, sort of neat.

I love shooting trains but we don't have much to chose from around here. The CSX line runs through our downtown area so I sat behind the strip mall until I heard the whistle.

This comes from Mohican State Park, a bit south of here. We were down by the river when I saw this bobber sitting near the shore--lost and alone. I tinted the water a bit on the computer, but I thought it made an interesting picture. My eye catches different things most folks pass on by.

I had to stalk this little creature for quite a long time. He kept following me because of the strobe flash. Hard to focus when they keep moving. The little fella usually came by everynight to see what was happening. Likely he froze to death by now. How sad.

LOVE, FIREWORKS AND THUNDEROUS SKIES

2008-07-06T15:48:00.001-04:00

In the distant sky over Northern Iowa, bolts of sharp lighting could be seen thrusting downward like silver swords tossed from Thor's callused hands into the lush distant green cornfields. Most of the locals paid little attention to the dark blue horizon since no thunder could be heard, a sign the distant storm posed no threat at the moment.

The annual 4th of July Corn-Fest events were in full swing here-abouts and the clanging, noisy Tilt-A-Whirl did as much to fill the senses as did the smell of cotton candy, french fries and fresh pies at the Auxiliary Brothers of the Corn concession tent. This was the day everybody left the fields and barns for the one event that everyone would keep in their heart until the next year's event.

In rural Iowa, romances were often cultivated around affairs such as this, so parents kept a close eye peeled for underage hanky-panky. If my memory serves me right, the summer of ‘63 sparked a romance not soon to be forgotten by the local fire chief and others who were attendance that evening.

Perhaps there is nothing more strange of the oxygen breathing species throughout the God's whole universe than a seventeen year-old Iowa farm boy in love. John Troybridge fit that description

As often is the case when you are so horribly confined to your own awkwardness it sometimes takes a non-verbal action to get your point across. In other words, you must physically demonstrate you love somebody, since the very means of human speech are of no use.

John could hardly stand up straight without falling over himself. His huge belt buckle seemed to be a centering pivot between his Levis and new cowboy shirt bought just for the festival. He had radiant blue eyes that stood out on his farm boy tan and blond hair that was so light often one could see the sun-burned head right through his scalp. But it was Mary Flanigan, a red haired, freckled faced, Junior Varsity cheerleader that was no taller than a July stalk of corn that caused him to become delirious every time she came near him. Intended words scrambled about his brain at the very thought of asking her out for a date.

Late in the afternoon as the Corn-Festivities started to wind down for the day, folks would pack the car with kids, potato salad, Broasted Chicken and lemonade and head over to Cleghorn Lake to watch the fireworks display. Blankets were neatly and precisely laid out as to get the full effect of both, food and fire.

Marvin Green, the newly elected fire chief of Cleghorn's Volunteer Fire Department, spent the afternoon carefully inventorying and loading the cases of fireworks for the evening's pyrotechnics show. Probably the most dangerous task he ever performed. Marvin felt honored knowing the town trusted him with the troublesome job. Truth be known, nobody else wanted the job.

About two thirds of the way through the job of setting up the explosives, Marvin sat down. He looked out across the still black western sky. It did not look as if the storm had moved but the humidity started to climb as the hazy afternoon skies gave chorus to the noisy cicadas lodging in the trees about the lake. He swept the sweat from his forehead and pulled out the list and checked off the remaining inventory..

"Rats," Marvin mumbled to himself as he sat down on the tailgate of his dusty red pickup, "I must have forgotten to check off a case of Roman Candles."

John tried to call Mary three times that morning to invite her to the fireworks. He even rehearsed saying the simple word–hello. Every time he got to the last number on the rotary dial, panic overtook him and he hung up. Later that afternoon he intentionally walked by the cheerleader's fund-raising booth where she volunteered.

After walking past the booth at least a dozen times, Mary smiled at his shyness and that was enough of an invitation for him to go over and make small talk, which actually turned into a stumbling act as he tripped over his own feet as he crossed one of many power cords that zig zaged about the carnival.

She tried hard not to laugh at him as he dusted himself off, instead she handed him a handful of bamboo rings to toss over the quart bottles of Dad's Root Beer set around miniature goldfish bowls.

As farm boys went, John had everything, good looks, brilliant smile and he was the star quarterback on the high school football team. He had everything, everything but courage and coordination around that little red haired, freckled faced Mary. She drove him insane, but he could do little to pull himself together while she stood there with those little bamboo rings in her hands.

"Hot lightning we're having, looks like we may get some weather bad tonight," John said as he nervously fumbled with the rings and tossed them, ringing one bottle of root beer. Mary laughed as she handed him his prize bottle. John grabbed three more rings, tossed them and told her, "That's meant not what I said."

Mary reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze and told him to calm down. John gave a sigh then took a deep breath. "Mary will you go with me to the fireworks at the lake tonight."

"I thought you would never ask," Mary replied calmly. "Pick me up at 7:30 and I'll pack some sandwiches and soda."

John fainted.

Marvin double checked the inventory and still came up one small case short of the Roman Candle skyrocket with the loud reports. Evening rapidly approached and he had to finish seting up the rocket tubes and position the fire truck. He knew if he said anything about the missing fireworks the other firemen may loose trust in his ability to guard and keep valuable equipment, so he locked the door of the storage shed and headed over to the lake.

The sky to the west darkened to a blackish green color as the sheet lightning produced its own twilight performances in the distant prairie heaven. A little rumble of thunder could now be heard along with the rhythm of the buzzing cicadas and the chirping of the crickets as they performed for the nervous crowd.

John started feeling guilty about taking Uncle Marvin's set of keys to the storage shed and removing the small case of Roman Candles. He had no idea his uncle counted the fireworks. His plans to take the skyrockets over to the Flanigan farm to impress Mary with fireworks now seemed rather stupid. Her maturity was much higher than his, and he knew it was wrong to steal something to make her notice him.

The rumbling in the west increased as the evening wore on so the fire department decided to start the fireworks a half hour earlier since the locals were getting a bit edgy.

As always the firework show dazzled children and grownups alike. The grand finale ended with a sudden downpour that started with a sprinkle bit finished in a torrent of rain only equaled by the thunder and light of the explosive pyrotechnics. In seemed as if the last hurrah cut open the rain clouds only to drench the applauding onlookers.

I am not sure what is about a grand finale that even a rainstorm can't douse the patriotic rush that runs through the very core of a person's soul. Mary grabbed John's hand and gave it a squeeze as if she needed a big guy to protect her from the ear splitting percussion of thunder. John figured this was the big chance to steal his first kiss from the girl that drove him mad. He knew better than to ask. He thought just shut up and kiss her.

The air had a feeling of electricity. John turned around and looked int her blue eyes. Mary smiled and let her lips touch his. Just as their lips met his a bolt of lightning crashed down behind them and struck his ‘53 Ford pickup. The missing skyrockets, with loud reports detonated, blowing the back of his truck to smithereens.

After that, John knew he was in love.

HOT DOG SPRING HAS SPRUNG

2008-04-30T22:19:00.001-04:00

Finally, we here in the upper/lower part of America have tasted of the glorious delights of spring. We dipped down into the 30's earlier in the week but avoided the snow that so viciously attacked my old home town in Minnesota.

So the long wait for warmth has finally came to fruition here in the Dirty Old Factory Town. It is glorious to know even the most obnoxious and firmly seated liberal outposts, where little or no progress has been made to strengthen the human race in the last 50 years, a speck of hope emerges from the soil of despair.

Such as it is in my rusted out little suburb of an even more wretched big city which in turn hides under another blighted larger city known for little more than a river that caught fire all those many years ago. (And Dennis Kucinich, who I believe was mayor at the time.)

Amongst the urban decay is a little lake nearby for those who desire to seek refuge from the daily grind. Here one can come, if only for a moment, and gaze upon the promise of a new spring. Last week with Nikon in hand I visited this wonderful little spot.

Yes, spring truly has arrived. Be sure to click on the photos for a larger view.

Is the picture upside down? Turn your computer over and find out.

NATIONAL MS WALK--CAN YOU HELP?

2008-03-29T14:42:00.008-04:00

Welcome friends. It has been a while since I last worked on the story page. Although I am about ready to post a new story, I want to take time to try a new idea. Most, if not all of my readers know I have Multiple Sclerosis, a disease that certainly changed my life.

Many of you may also know because I decided to tame the beast within a new plan for my body was needed. In January I started to work out and swim at our new YMCA in order to lose weight and gain mobility. It has been amazing to see and feel the change in my body.

The National MS Society helps us in numerous ways by donating equipment and aiding in research to find a cure for this wretched disease. In my case, because of my age and the progression of the MS there is little doctors can do, but for those who are younger, much has been achieved by slowing down the disease. For me, it is exercise. For younger individuals a wide and varied amount of help is available.

I can not walk the two (or four ) miles yet, but I am volunteering to help those who can in Massilon, Ohio on April 26th. I am going to use the Internet to raise money. This is a first. Can you help with a donation? Can you pass this website onto a friend? Whatever you feel in your heart is a good donation is welcome. This is not for myself as an individual, but for all who are fighting for a better tomorrow.

Make the check out to the National MS Society. If you want a receipt other than your check, let me know.

I am asking you to join the movement by making a contribution to support our efforts!!!

Thank you and sincerely. God bless you for helping.

Sorry the epledge does not work on my site. I will try and fix it but until that time the checks will have to be sent to the above address.

P.S. The photo is our 2007 team

PICTURES FROM A CAFE'S WALL

2008-01-11T13:46:00.000-05:00

As I slowly work my way through the editing process of my next story, I thought I would return to the Cafe and brighten things up a bit with photos from my All Aboard Amtrac trip taken nearly 10 years ago.

When you start your trip from Chicago's Union Station on the Empire Builder or head out west on Rt 66, most folks like to stop at Lou Mitchell's for a hearty breakfast (and ladies, we get free Milk Duds). The photos stop at Union Station--though I stopped in LA, from whence I started.

What we see is a hodge-podge of the great plains, Glacier National Park and the Pacific Ocean. I should have placed them in order, but, eh, who cares. I hope you enjoy the pictures and as always, they look much better full size. You can see the reflection of the Vista Dome windows in some. I worked hard to remove most of that particular problem, though one is a dramatic reflection of person and train. I left that one alone

P.S. I discovered if you click on the photo it will become full size. At least on my computer. I did not know that. Hope it works on your computer also.

More photos to be released soon.

BROKEN BRIDGES AND REPAIRED HEARTS--A CHRISTMAS STORY

2007-12-27T15:49:00.001-05:00

As usual I am late and without excuse other than re-editing the story off the magazine tear sheet was horrible. How did I ever read such type when they first printed this story (December 1995). Still, we are in the middle of the Holiday Season, so let us begin...

“Good will towards men and peace on earth.” The assuring words look great on Christmas cards all decorated in crystalline white with angels descending towards earth. But in reality Christmas is not always wondrous, nor calm.

Marvin and Sheryll Ivanson's daughter was nominated to be lead angel in the school play until a sudden case of Chicken Pox put an end to her great moment. This would be the last year for the much sought after Christmas role, an angel with a talented singing voice. Next year she would move onto junior high leaving behind her the chance to be the singing angel. Bud Johnson, the feed mill owner, broke his leg in a sledding accident and the Mallard family had to return to Illinois for the funeral of Jane's mother.

“Peace on Earth,” drifted from an old RCA console radio at Jake's appliance store on the main street of Cobblestone Lake, though the majority of townsfolk did not take up on the idea of heavenly peace. Just ask Doc Swenson. His two-year-old farrowing pen burned to the ground, destroying 75 feeder pigs along with the structure. An investigation showed some of the wiring had been chewed away by some nesting squirrels last fall.

“Good will towards men,” seemed like a bitter pill to swallow for the congregation of Lakeside Lutheran Church. A late fall storm flooded the Little Indian River and nearly washed out the only bridge leading to the church property. To trouble the waters even more, the county refused to appropriate the money to repair or build a new bridge, because only the church members and a few local fisherman seeking out a private fishing holes use the bridge. The plat map showed both the road and bridge belonged to the county, so now farmers and politicians are at each others throat.

Things looked bad for this little Norman Rockwell community. Most holiday seasons saw noses pressed tightly against the windows of Clarence's Rexall Drug Store watching the American Flyer 4-6-4 Mountain Pioneer Special chugging up the hill as it entered the paper mache tunnel and come out the other end to greet a winter wonderland of trees, skaters and forest creatures. The model train ran its course from morning till evening all Christmas season.

This year Clarence was having back surgery at the Mayo Clinic and not a single employee had a clue on how to set up the elaborate model train layout. Children walked by in disbelief as their hopes were dashed. Not a tunnel, mail car or mountain goat was to be seen.

Clara Nordstrom had the holiday blues. While peeling potatoes for supper she could only think about her daughter and son-in-law who moved to Omaha and about the little two-year-old granddaughter she has yet to see, let alone spoil. She dreamed about the day when Sonja would open Christmas presents and run about the house .

Thankfully, some good news arrived around that winter. The Norell Implement Company decided to put on an extra shift and corn prices were holding at a rather good price. With this little boom in the economy, the town should have anticipated a prosperous Christmas, but not so. Somehow the good news never offset the despair that hung over this little farming community. The Cobblestone Lake Christmas of 1958 looked awfully bleak.

Pastor Nelson made plans last July to travel to Norway for Christmas. Jim and his wife needed a getaway and what better way to vacation than to enjoy his ancestral home during the holidays. With all the problems in Cobblestone Lake, his heart became heavy with grief and now Norway looked further away every passing moment.

Saturday, after numerous cups of coffee and much prayer, Pastor Nelson sadly broke the news to his wife Elsie and later to the congregation of Lakeside Lutheran Church, who now found temporary shelter in the Jr. High gymnasium. Norway was no longer a reality. God called him to endure the suffering with his community.

Wednesday morning a committee of 25 men and women converged upon Evelyn's Cafe which sat next to the Standard Oil station. The Lakes Area Civil Defense Team had to be reactivated for the first time since the Korean War ended. The group called for a county wide plea to roll up the sleeves and fight the invisible Grinch that gnawed away at their community.

Thursday morning an air of excitement quietly crept into this little Iowa community. During the night Ken Eisner came over from Alta and assembled the American Flyer Pioneer Special, complete with plastic mountain goats and the automatic mail catcher, then just as quietly slipped out of town before anybody knew what took place. Eisner built the setup years ago and when word reached him, he laid down his farm chores and immediately headed over to the drug store and put up the display.

Elmer Sorenson couldn't believe what he saw, nor could he believe the tears that welled up in his eyes. The train display had been just as much a part of the holidays as the movie White Christmas, which played over at the theater for the last four years. The stocky frame of a man never wept at anything.

Elmer, you see, was the County Commissioner and his signature kept the bridge from being built across the Little Indian River. Angered about some foolish words uttered by a church deacon nearly 32 years ago when he married an Episcopalian girl from Ft. Dodge, he never returned to the Lakeside Lutheran Church. He know held the power to make the church squirm.

As the American Flyer rounded the curve up the steep mountain grade and over a Lincoln Log bridge, Elmer had an eerie vision of a train wreck because of a damaged bridge—he imagined for a quick moment the sounds of children crying. As he suddenly turned around he thought he saw the deacon, who departed this earth many years ago, out of the corner of his eye.

Elmer once again wiped away more tears from his eyes as he convinced himself the cold, sharp winds made his eyes well up. He pulled his coat collar up over his ears and walked down to the cafe.

After he sat down at the counter Judy brought over the usual, a cup of coffee and a bismark.

“Looks like Doc Swenson is going to get a new farrowing pen, kind of sad though,” Judy said.

“Why's that,” asked Elmer, as he picked up the assortment of chopped nuts that fell from his bismark.

“They are going to dismantle the old church for lumber since Doc has a need and the the bridge just ain't safe enough for folks to cross anymore. They want to start tearing the place down right away while the river is frozen so they can haul everything across the ice if need be.”
Judy placed the glass coffee pot back on the burner, hesitated for a moment and turned back toward Elmer. With a note of sarcasm she mumbled, “Get the picture?”

Suddenly that sweet roll felt like a brick in his stomach. Elmer threw down the ninety-five cents for his shortened coffee break and quickly drove off in his Mercury to the dangerously crumbling bridge.

Back in town, the winds were howling in across the Dakotas, bringing January like weather to the area. Greg Nelson, the pastor's son, drove his front-end loader into town and by evening all the Christmas lights were up on Main Street and the manger scene, complete with live sheep, appeared in front of the Farmers Coop Grain Elevator.

The Auxiliary Civil Defense League had a big pot of potato soup and nine freshly baked pies prepared for the half frozen street decorators. Cobblestone Lake for the first time that year looked and smelled like Christmas, which was only a week and a half away. One could easily see the townsfolk suddenly became a bit more festive.

Yes, the town had regained its foothold and Christmas joy seem to spread all through Cobblestone Lake. But not for Elmer. He spent the evening staring at the deserted church. He could see his parents grave against the rusty red snow fence. In the prairie like surrounding of the river bend, Elmer thought for a moment he could see his dad's '38 Desoto pulling up to the church just in time for Sunday School. For a flash in time he was a child again. He once again pulled the collar of his coat about his ears and dashed back to the warmth of his Mercury.

The next day an unseasonable warm spell descended upon the area, allowing the townsfolk to get out and do some last minute Christmas shopping. The warmth also brought a chicken pox epidemic, causing the elementary school Christmas play to be postponed a week so all the children could be in the reenactment of the birth of the Christ Child. This meant Susan would be the star angel after all.

Clara Nordstrom was cleaning up the community building after Saturday's annual meatball and lutefisk dinner when she suddenly dropped her broom and screamed as if her last breath had been robbed from her mortal soul. In the doorway stood a little bundled up toddler along side Clara's daughter and son-in-law from Omaha.

Early Monday morning Doc Swenson was down by the river watching the ice begin to melt as the current started to regain control of the river. As he shook his head, feeling as though he lost out on a deal of a lifetime for free lumber, inside his heart there erupted a sigh of relief—how could he use church lumber for a farrowing pen. He returned to his truck in time to see Elmer pull up to the end of the gravel road where three men exited his gray Mercury.

Elmer politely greeted Doc then walked over to the condemned bridge. After a few minutes of pointing, digging away at the black soil with the heels of their boots and a signature on a contract, he overheard one of the men say they would start construction perhaps as soon as the first of the year. The only signature that was needed to build the new bridge had now been penned.

Doc raced backed to town and entered Evelyn's Cafe, where the news always starts before it is disseminated out into the community. Doc was to late to shout the news, since Elmer had beat to the cafe and was sharing breakfast with Pastor Nelson . The blessed contract sat at the end of the table.

The day after New Years, sounds of diesel engines filled the air as a Cat pulled down the last of the old iron bridge. With the weather holding out, the contractor felt the new bridge, a beautiful combination iron and wooden beams, would be finished by Easter. Doc's new farrowing pen beat that deadline by two months. The mystery of how the money came to be for the new farrowing pen was whispered about town for some time, but a canceled trip to Norway turned into a sizable check sent to Gunderson Lumber and Supply.

Over the years the children became adults and shared the joys of the once lost but found Christmas with their children and grandchildren. If doubts arise in the minds of youngsters an evening trip to the bridge at Christmas will delight their hearts with the spectacular color of the decorated bridge in honor of Elmer Sorenson's signature that saved the church those many years ago. If you stand quietly, the breeze through the pine tree seems to whisper sounds of Christmas.

As for the whereabouts of the American Flyer 4-6-4 Mountain Pioneer Special, you ask. It still runs every Christmas at The Cobbled Coffee House which once held the Rexall Drug Store. The Standard Station and Evelyn's Cafe no longer stands on Main Street since a corporate drug store company bought the property. But in truth, not much else has changed, except for the pages on the calender.

THE HISTORIC SHOWDOWN AT GRANDPA'S FARM

2007-11-24T13:11:00.000-05:00

HISTORY

It is hard to imagine a Thanksgiving dinner without a good old traditional juicy, plump turkey sitting on the table. When your family drives for miles over hill and dale to Grandma's farm in order to celebrate that one festive day each year, you sure don't expect a rather ordinary chicken to grace the table

Such was the Thanksgiving of ‘72. A holiday still spoken of around the Johanson holiday gatherings, lest the younger generation be doomed to repeat the same mistakes perpetrated that infamous day not so long ago.

This mess all started when my Grandfather Nels decided not to go the route of buying a frozen turkey from Jerry's Red Owl grocery store that year. He had a score to settle with his brother. This particular feud started the previous year when great Uncle Donald bagged the 12 point buck that Grandpa had in his rifle site. The exact moment he was ready to pull the trigger he realized the log he sat upon to steady his aim was also home to a colony of red ants, who were quite angry for being disturbed once they settled in for the fall.

Being caught under fire from behind caused Gramps to heave the rifle onto a rock pile, which in turn set off the firing mechanism, which then caused the bullet to find its mark in Ralph Peterson's prized Holstein. The good news is the Holstein survived but walks with an unfortunate limp. The bad news is the buck darted into my great-uncles pasture and straight for the barn.

Now poor old Donald couldn't see more than a stones throw, or so they say, but bagging this deer was a cinch. The next week's Prairie Times had a large photo of Donald holding back the head of that wonderful freezer full of venison. From that moment on a feud began that always left everyone in the family very uncomfortable. Just one word of the red ants could set off a barrage of Swedish vulgarities that could cause Eric the Red to blush like a Sunday School teacher.

It may be true the argument went all the way to the grave but long before that occurred, battles would erupt, like the time at our family barbecue when my Great Uncle Donald nearly gave Gramps a coronary when he bragged about how he had to stalk that deer for miles. The plate went to the ground and away they went. I truly believe that in reality they loved each other, but their staunch Northern European manhood would never admit it.

NOW THE STORY

Grandpa Nels stopped by to visited Jim Nelson who had an aluminum fishing boat he been talking about selling, though he wasn't all that sure he would actually let it go. Nels really didn't want to buy the boat, but instead sought an excuse to run off for the afternoon, drink coffee and hide from Grandma. You see Grandma was on his back about cleaning out the mud room, so it once again resembled the enclosed back porch she had built on to the farmhouse. Well Nels didn't feel up to it, but then he never did.

Jim Nelson farmed the piece opposite the old Gunderson place about three miles out of town on the blacktop leading up to Eagle Lake Lutheran Church. He and his wife, Irene, raised wild turkeys and every year they would sell them off around the first of November.
Jim's wife laid out lunch for the men then departed to finish her chores. When she returned Irene pulled out her "angry finger," and suggested to Jim, with a dead on wagging finger that he should forget about selling that stupid boat and wait ‘till spring when it will bring a decent price. She reminded him that turkeys needed to be sold in two weeks or they'd be stuck feeding them all winter.

Inspiration stuck Grandpa like a bolt of lightning. He would buy one of those 35 pound feathered beasts and serve it for Thanksgiving. His mind laid out the whole story for his brother to see who was the big hunter. The way Nels would tell the fearsome story would be the encounter he had with the crazed bird while out partridge hunting. Suddenly he walked by the turkey when a life and death battle ensued. After the dust settled he laid the bird out flat with his trusty 'thirty-ought-six'.

Nels reached down into his bibs and pulled out a crumpled ten dollar bill, grabbed the Tom, tossed it into a cage then drove off in his rusted out International pickup after filling up his pipe with a fresh bowl of Prince Albert. His mind raced with wild stories of hunting and victory.

Grandma was furious. When he walked back from the barn she stood there, arms crossed in the still cluttered mud room and declared in no uncertain terms she had no desire what so ever to butcher a thirty-some pound turkey for Thanksgiving. She muttered a few words in Swedish and turned around and slammed the door. Gramps just took the pipe out of his mouth, tapped it on his shoes and turned away from the house until things cooled down. He knew she would soon allow him back in the house.

Nels went to the workshop, threw some scrap lumber in the barrel stove in order to take the chill off the autumn air, turned on the on the old Emerson radio to the Yankovich Polka Hour, then dug out a rusty old ax and proceeded to sharpen it.

With less than two weeks remaining before Thanksgiving, Grandpa thought a corn and wheat diet should go along way in fattening up the tom but it didn't take long before the turkey ruled the barnyard and consumed everything in sight. It looked as if he put on at least ten more pounds.

Amazingly Grandma took a liking to the old tom, especially when he walked about puffing himself up with prideful air making himself seem so big and important. She said he reminded her of Elsie Norberg down at the Rexall store who always took the gossip and turned it into a mission to mend everyone's problems, therefore looking like she actually meant to be something great, other than a transmitter of cheap talk. Ol' tom finally found redemption when Grandma named him Sinbad the Tom. He was now a pet and people don't eat pets.

Thanksgiving week arrived and the battle still raged on concerning Sinbad's destiny. My grandmother insisted he lived here on the farm and like the dog or cat, there would never see an oven. Grandpa disagreed. He planned to outfox his brother Donald and at 72, Gramps knew he did not have a lot of years to pull off the ultimate victory.

Wednesday morning Grandma warned Nels several times he had better get to town and buy a fresh turkey or there would be no thanksgiving dinner. The wagging finger in his face reminded Gramps she meant business. Her position on a store bought turkey was final.

Grandpa headed into town on the cold November day and no sooner did he hit the blacktop and the windshield fogged up. He grumbled about why he didn't fix the defroster fan when he had the chance. When he got to town he stopped by the International dealer to get a new fan and switch, then he drove over to Sig's Bait and Tackle where the coffee was always hot even though the fishing wasn't. He got to talking about how the late fall fishing was panning out and looked at the new selection of rods that just arrived.

Bill Lundgren stopped by and was talking about the bear that tore up the municipal campground down at Eagle Lake and how someone should bag him before he returned to do more damage. Well, the three warriors discussed the bear and a few other issues when Nels thought he should head over to the drug store and get some more pipe tobacco and the latest Boxing World Digest. He then went over to fill up the gas tank at the Deep Rock where he met Dale Sutherland who was about to put in an order for a new hybrid seed corn at the Dekalb dealer. Nels told him the extra cost might prove to be a mistake since the Farmers Almanac said it looked like a dry summer coming up next year and Northrop King makes a better seed corn for dry seasons.

He finally headed home since his stomach started to growl. He was contemplating cleaning off the porch before the family arrived tomorrow, but decided his bones couldn't take the cold damp air, besides they could use the front door if Grandma thought the back way looked all that bad. He turned on the truck radio on to hear the five o' clock news. As he pulled onto the gravel road leading home he had a nagging feeling something was wrong, but just what, he couldn't put a finger on it.

When Nels walked into the steamy kitchen and took off his glasses he saw Grandma standing there with a roasting pan and that look on her face. His heart sank. Yes, readers, he forgot the turkey and the Red Owl store closed 15 minutes ago.

Grandpa's first thought was Sinbad. His second thought was his wife's temper. In order to save his hide he started to ramble on about a last minute run on fresh turkeys and all that was left was a sick old goose and how he knew she wouldn't want to cook that ol' bird. Grandma didn't but a word of it and Nels knew it.

Nels grabbed the gun down from the closet and headed for the barn. He had the look of a frontier hombre on his face. Sinbad the Tom was about to become dinner and Gramps had to pull off the coup de grâce. Grandma just about turned the gun on ol' pa but she knew the family would be here in the morning, hungry for turkey.

Grandpa Nels threw on the barn light and there stool Sinbad the Tom. Somehow that turkey knew the only thing between him and the roasting pan was the Winchester. Sinbad made a lunge for Grandpa, knocking the rifle to the ground and in a mysterious moment of déjà vu, the rifle fell to the ground, misfired and struck the power box. The barn went dark and Sinbad the Tom was never seen again.

The next day our family sat around the dinner table preparing to devour fresh rolls, candied yams, mashed potatoes and chicken. My younger cousin Marie Anna crinkled her nose and asked why we weren't having turkey.

This now became Grandpa's shining moment. He became fully animated while telling the chilling story of how this 50 pound wild turkey attacked him from behind and threw him to the ground. He tried heroically to regain his footing but the turkey developed into a rabid fowl and flew over to his gun and somehow fired it, missing his head by inches. The bullet, he said, hit the power box and if nobody believed him he would take them to the barn and show them where the turkey shot the box.

The grandchildren listened with awe–their eyes as large as the pies sitting on the buffet. Great-Uncle Donald just looked over to grandpa and said, "Keep trying Nels, you ain't goin ta outdo me and ya know it by yolly!" Just as Grandpa felt Donald should be kicked in the shins, Grandma looked over to Nels and smiled. "Pa, will you please pray the blessing."

"I Jesus namn vi sitta ned på borden och fråga God's välsignelsen på det mat - och behaga förlåta Donald för varelse sådan en dåre"

Roughly translated: "In Jesus name we sit down to the table and ask God's blessing on the food. And please forgive Donald for being such a fool.
Amen"

Happy Thanksgiving from the staff (?) of Shelly's Cafe

HANDLE WITH CARE--A PATCHWORK THANKSGIVING STORY

2007-11-21T17:37:00.000-05:00

Copyrighted November 1996

Last year found me in the hospital so I never got a chance to share my annual (one of two) Thanksgiving stories. I hope it is not to late, but if so, read it when you get home.

The oversized Currier & Ives calendar from the Hereford State Bank read November 21, 1961. Though folks were busy running about to and fro doing their last minute marketing, life in this little corner of Iowa moved a bit slower than the rest of the world, or so it seemed for a certain young boy.

Eric thought every minute seemed like hours. As the Lake School District fourth grade class sang "Over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house we go," intoxicating thoughts of grandmother's turkey drifted through his imaginative mind. With visions of tomorrow's Thanksgiving feast overtaking him, Eric crooned on for another verse–alone.

When the snickering of his fellow classmates returned him to reality, he scrunched down into his wooden desk where he prayed for a chance to crawl under the door. To his relief the school bell finally rang. Eric grabbed his construction paper turkey, somewhat sloppily held together with library paste and bolted for the door. Before he could reach the hallway, Mrs. Olsen called him back. With a comforting hug she thanked him for the wonderful solo. Eric smiled, thinking he pulled one over on the teacher. Like any good teacher, she knew his thoughts.

Like the long-awaited-school bell, so it was with the lengthy bus ride back to the farm which also seemed to take an eternity. Eric anxiously anticipated the holiday aroma of pumpkin pies and warm bread straight from the oven. After the bus dropped him off he could see the windows steamed up from the busy cooks in the kitchen.

For Eric there were no rivers or woods to cross in order to get to Grandmother's house because his grandparents lived with him, or should it be said, he and his mother lived with his grandparents. Either way, the farm became a home for the four of them and life was good.

As he flew through the back door everything looked and smelled just as he imagined on this long day of great anticipation. Mom and grandma were up to their elbows in flour as the mantle clocked ticked away towards the last 16 hours before the plump turkey made it into the roaster to send his senses into overdrive.

Yet, something seemed out of place. Suitcases and boxes were strewn about all around the livingroom and Eric knew they weren't going anywhere for Thanksgiving. All one had to do is look in the kitchen to figure that out. Plus, who would feed the livestock, gather the eggs and all the other chores he always helped with.

"Who belongs to all these suitcases?" Eric asked his mother as he scrapped his finger along the bowl of frosting, withdrawing it quickly after he received fair warning that no unwashed hands were allowed in the kitchen.

Mother replied in an indifferent tone as she grabbed his hand away from another bowl."Your cousin from Washington has come to spend some time on the farm."

"Cousin from Washington? What cousin?"

"Ya, your cousin and you must do all you can to welcome her here. She has never been on a farm before, you see," Grandma said from the pantry.

"She! Oh no, sounds like trouble," Eric said in a disgusting voice as he picked at the cinnamon coated pie apples. His hand was slapped once again.

His mother explained that his cousin Janine would be staying on the farm, hopefully forever. She sat him down and explained abut Janine being in a foster home for several years and mother said with a thoughtful sigh, it was time for her to be here with real family.

About the time Eric started to ask what a foster home meant, a strange sound came down the darkened hallway. Soon a freckle faced, ten-year-old with fire red hair–and braces on both legs appeared. A set of arm crutches stabilized her. She smiled bashfully at Eric

"Eric this is Janine," said Grandma. A long uncomfortable moment of silence followed. To him, it seemed as long as waiting for Christmas. "She had polio at the age of four and is doing so much better now that, ya, we felt it would be good for her to come and live on the farm with us. We need more smiling faces like yours," she continued.

The silence remained and Grandma knew it to be a good time to make the needed adjustments. After the introduction and explanations, Eric raced out the door, devastated that his home became a dumping ground for a 10-year-old girl with crutches. He knew everyone's attention would now be focused on this strange girl who couldn't help a bit with chores. Why, she was just a dopey ol'city slicker!

Wiping tears from his eyes, he grabbed a shovel and headed for the pig barn.

"The heck with the turkey," he muttered. "As a matter of fact, the heck with Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years too."

Grandpa finished cleaning the farrowing pens and came over to ask his grandson what he thought of his cousin. Eric scowled at the whole idea of her being there. He wanted no part of sharing his house with her and that's that. Silently the two guys walked to the cattle shed.

Without so much as a word between the them, grandson and Gramps finished feeding the cattle. Grandpa looked down at Eric, put a steady hand on his shoulder and said, "Ya, I know just how you feel."

Eric felt he already held the upper hand in this deal and soon, out she would go, as he sheepishly looked to Grandpa for a line of defense, but Grandpa now felt a strong sense of grief in his heart.

"Ya," Grandpa said once more, "I felt the same way when your grandma said you and your mom were coming here to live. Oh boy, did I hit the roof."

Grandpa threw in the last shovel of grain in the trough as the huge Angus snorted the dry feed into a powdery dust storm.

That comment sent a shock wave straight through Eric since he never knew Grandpa as a grandfather type person, he always seemed more like a father. You see, Eric's real father died in the Korean War about the time his son took his first step.

Grandpa stopped for a moment and knelt down to look Eric straight in the eye. "I told my son when he left the farm to join the military that I wasn't going to raise his family if something ever happened. I guess I was pretty sore at him."

He paused for a minute and wiped his eye. "The night your mother called from Ohio and told your grandma she wanted to come live here I did not want nothing to do with both of ya–until I heard ya crying in the background. You see my little friend, I never heard your voice until then. Until that time you were just a name, Eric Randall Junior."

Another long, silent moment took place as the two walked back to the farmhouse for some warm supper. The song lyrics, "Over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house we go," echoed through Eric's mind. Especially his embarrassing solo. He and mom made their long journey to Grandmother's house several years ago. Now his cousin made her journey.

Thanksgiving morning arrived and the chores were started early since twenty relatives were soon to gather about the table. The barn work should have been finished over an hour ago, but showing a city slicker how to gather eggs was no easy job, especially a city slicker with leg braces.

True, she would never be much good with a feed cart, but her ability to do arithmetic just may come in handy he thought, remembering the "C" on his last report card.

Yes, 1961 had a little more giving of thanks than expected. One more chair found a permanent place at the Nordstrom dinner table. Grandpa gave the blessing in Swedish as usual and thanked our Lord for the added family member. This year though, he gave Eric a wink after the Amen.

Happy Thanksgiving ya'll

MORE PICTURES ON THE CAFE'S WALL

2007-11-20T16:51:00.000-05:00

Enlarging the photos destroyed some of the contrast. The blog site said they offer a slide show but it looks as if I had to change the way my page looks to accomplish that--I'm not sure. Someday I may try that.

But for today, just imagine the pictures about 300 percent better than what you see below. I may put them on e-mail once more. Now to finish my annual Thanksgiving story finished.

Thanks for stopping by for coffee.

CALIFORNIA DREAMING ON SUCH A RAMBLING DAY

2007-10-31T19:44:00.000-04:00

Before you unfolds the journey of two men who brave the elements of the unknown. I broke the tale down to three chapters to make it an easy read. Grab your coffee and remember, my vision is still not dead on, so disregard any glitches one may find.

CHAPTER ONE
A MAN DREAMS OF HIS DESTINY

There comes a time in the lives of many well seasoned Minnesota fisherman when they begin to feel the thrill of the old fishing hole has started to fade and hope of finding a new spot seems to be an uphill battle. Talk of imagined lakes teaming with hungry walleyes, fishing trips without having to battle mesquites or wood ticks are often spoke about down at the cafe, but in reality that is about it, just talk.

With winter's howling winds still haunting everyone's memory, Nels felt a vacation to a warm, balmy fishing paradise was called for. As he swirled the coffee about in the cup he thought perhaps a trip to see his second cousin in Long Beach might not be such a bad idea.

Meanwhile his long time fishing pal, Maynard, felt a trip to Michigan's Upper Peninsula to be a more economical vacation, not fraught with numerous potential disasters and the fishing, he heard, was great that time of year. But truth be known, Maynard really wanted to see the World's Tallest Milk Bottle that was portrayed in a post card his cousin sent him back in the ‘62 when his family went to visit Big John's Copper Mine and the Mystery Spot.

Maynard could never figure out his fascination for the giant structure. Perhaps it had already crumbled into the landscape of two-lane tourism, but as he grew older and none the wiser, he felt compelled to seek it out and if the fishing was as good as he heard, well then that would be a bonus.

So began the argument. Nels wanted to head west and Maynard maintained after at a dozen or so trips to the Black Hills, he felt it a travesty for great fishermen to waste precious few summer days heading west again, especially for a God forsaken place like California.

Minnesotans rarely trust anyone from California, yet there had been at one time a sizeable Swedish population in Long Beach and Nels felt safe going there to fish. And so the dream finally seemed to take shape–if he could convince Maynard to go as a traveling companion..

Nels had one up in the vacation argument since he owned a some-what reliable car while Maynard possessed an ragged old Dodge pickup that had more rust than sheet metal, plus the odometer rolled over more times than a hound dog who stumbled onto a dead carcass. The passenger side window received a hail of buckshot when he slipped on fresh snow during a deer hunting trip back in ‘72 and the tailgate took flight when he volunteered to transport Carl Odegard's Jack Ass, who decided trucks had little to do with his lifestyle and kicked out the back end with considerable force. Still Maynard felt if the truck started on a thirty below day, then it was worth keeping.

But the car Nels owned, a 1962 Rambler Cross Country wagon, had already seen 25 years of service the year this argument took place. Not much could be said of the car since everything had been kept as neat as a pin since they day he bought it. Nels felt a fool and his money were soon parted and car salesmen were nothing more than a shoehorn aimed for his wallet.

The fishing there abouts had been rather poor lately and Nels needed a cooling off period with Irma Peterson who called on him a bit to often lately to go fishing in the boat she won the previous winter during the Annual Dump the Desoto contest. So Maynard once again gave up hope of seeing the Upper Peninsula since the decision had been made fora fishing trip to the ocean. The guys at the cafe's back table all sighed in relief when the two finally made peace and like always they paid there bill and headed about their day.

CHAPTER TWO
THE SAGA CONTINUES

The story could very well end here and you the reader would be forced to imagine the rest of the journey. Fortunately, I recall most of the details of this heroic attempt of Nels and Maynard to reach the mighty Pacific Ocean from their small insignificant Minnesota town..

There were a few problems with logistics that should have set off warning lights since neither of the two had been further west than the Black Hills. The 500 mile trip to Mt. Rushmore usually turned into a two day journey depending on how many coffee stops they made and how long they hung out at Wall Drug. Nels figured in his head if it took two days to get to the Black Hills, then another day added to that should put them in Long Beach.

But paper and pencil would show at a blistering pace for the two, motoring 300 miles-per-day, the ocean pilgrimage would be a six day drive at best and they only planned to be gone for seven or eight days. So as the two slowly drove out of town that weekend, before them stood a colossal challenge for survival unbeknownst to our small town fishermen.

The scenery soon faded to boredom and after four days Nels became so sick of the Great Plains he could have been hog tied and tossed to the buzzards that seemed to follow the old Rambler for most of their journey. By mid-day the car overheated four times and to add more misery, a fresh can of Copenhagen could not be found anywhere. And the road continued on and on.

By that evening Maynard had belly-ached about Nel's car enough to create a tension level that nearly came to blow several times. By this time they discovered the great American desert. It was hot, darned hot and rolling down the windows did nothing to relieve the heat. Air conditioned cafes for coffee breaks were nearly 100 miles apart and that alone nearly killed Nel's who would drive down to the cafe several times a day just to kill time and brag about what he had caught that day.

Out across the two lanes there was very little that offered them hope. On the fifth day Maynard suggested they take the Interstate but Nels considered that to expensive and traffic flowed around 70 miles per hour, making them a sitting duck and besides his fuel mileage would be affected. As the sun began its decent into the west our weary travelers pulled into Kingman, Arizona and after a cup of coffee and a sandwich the men retired, too tired to argue.

The next morning the exhausted travelers had to make a decision to head on or turn around but after Maynard looked at the place mat on the table he saw with amazement a town nearby called Bullhead City.

"Thirty stinking miles and it is on a two lane. With a name like Bullhead, why the fishing has got to be great," Maynard said, with a new found excitement. What he really had in mind was to catch a few Bullheads and return home.

Nels saw the tourist sinkhole as something to slow down his journey. Only he knew the Rambler was dying and had no plans to tell Maynard of the possible upcoming death of his beloved Rambler. If the two were ever going to make it to Long Beach they needed to keep rolling and Bullhead may be their end.

After the two travelers left the Desert's Edge Cafe they took in the Andy Devine Museum then returned to the Rambler. With a turn of the key the engine miraculously started but left a plume of blue smoke that covered the parking lot. Nels maintained the thoughts of a stubborn old man that if he ignored the smoke, the mechanical problems would go away. Maynard had his mind on the next leg, the 30 mile trip to Bullhead City, therefore did not notice the oil cloud they left behind

The outside temperature was creeping up towards 100 degrees already. If there is anything a cold-blooded Swede can't handle it is heat. A thirty below day in the fish house with a bottle of peach schnapps is no problem. Both of the men were down to their yellowed t-shirts and Maynard even considered taking off his long johns. Running with a bad engine knock, the rapidly aging Rambler rumbled across the Colorado River when they caught sight of a sign, half erased from the wind and sand reading Bullhead City. A few trailers were scattered about in the barren wilderness with a lone combination cafe/gas station edged up next to the agricultural inspection station. That was Bullhead City

Curious to say the least, Nels and Maynard walked into the cafe where the Royal Crown thermometer on the outside wall now read 112 and inquired about the bullheads. The bearded man flipping burgers laughed. It wasn't the first easterner that followed the two lane past Laughlin looking for a fishing hole.

"Under that dam is a rock that looked mighty like a Bull's Head. Well, we used to call this place Hardyville but some city fellers up Sacramento way decided to name it after that rock in the water nobody can see no more. Ain't no bullheads around here. To hot for decent fishin," he said wiping the sweat from his forehead with the dirty white apron. "Folks say, and I'm agin it that someday there will be a big city here."

Nels swigged down the coffee and poked Maynard in the side. "C'mon we got an Ocean nearby with a cool breeze. Lets go find it." The bearded man was still yammering about seniors, Laughlin, Nevada and higher taxes as Maynard left a dollar bill for the coffee and more than a generous tip.

Nels excitement did not last long, the Border Inspector told them it was nearly a full days drive from Bullhead City and he had better take lots of water for his radiator because the weatherman said it would probably hit 117 degrees across the desert.

"Oh my God, not another day of heat, Maynard cried out. "Why, why, why did you do this to me you stupid Swede. Why, why ,why." He got in the Rambler and slammed the door hard enough to crack the vent window. The car moved with a bit of hesitation from the transmission and the smoke got bluer and bluer.

CHAPTER THREE
THE END AND THEREFORE AMEN

With map in hand Maynard looked at the next leg of the journey which led them down US 95 and over to the Mother Road, Route 66, then to Barstow. The inspector told them the journey across the desert would be about 165 miles or so of blistering hot mountainous terrain and don't expect to find many gas stops, best to keep rolling and don't pick up hitchhikers in the desert since most of them are crazy from the heat. Each word the uniformed bearer of doom uttered stabbed Maynard deep into his solar plexus, but Nels just pushed down his flip-top sunglasses and like a good trooper headed west.

The mountains were evil, like hell itself had opened their doors just to torment mortal man. Maynard bet Nels his last fresh can of Copenhagen they would never make it to Barstow and like a prophet of doom, he won the bet. About 15 miles from Barstow in an out-of-the way one-time gold town of Daggett the two-tone blue Rambler blew forth with a horrific screech from the motor followed by a combination plume of steam and oil smoke. The horrid smell ripped through their sinus cavities like a blow torch. And there they sat in the 118 degree heat with a dead horse.

I am not able to recall which they feared most, dying in the desert heat or being attacked by a crazed desert rat while sitting in the car along the two lane. They both showed signs of heat prostration and if weren't for a California Highway Patrolman coming by when he did, likely they to would have died from the heat.

The car was pulled into a nearby garage and the report was not good. The old Rambler needed a new engine, the transmission wasn't doing so well and the mechanic told them the front tires weren't looking very good either.

Not accustomed to hearing such vile Swedish and Norwegian profanity, inserted with a small amount of English speckled throughout, the mechanic told them to get out of his shop and return when they cooled off. No doubt the heat had destroyed most, if not all their reasoning The two angry Minnesotans were forced to get a room at the Desert Owl Motel and Cafe which had the added luxury of a rather busy Santa Fe railroad about 75 feet behind their room.

With a fresh can of Copenhagen and a air conditioned room, the two men consumed several pots of coffee to settle their nerves and slowly came to their normal baseline of sensibility and Nels for the first time admitted defeat as gracious as he knew how

His first line of defense came when he saw a used car lot across the street but all the high mileage dinosaurs had rotted upholstery from the intense heat and likely they never would get them back home safely in any cars he saw. For the first time in years Nel's took the advice of Maynard and the two opted for a Greyhound trip back home.

Nel's meekly walked back to the shop where the mechanic came out with a gun tucked under his shirt, afraid the two would go off into another vituperation in an unknown tongue. Not this time, Nels came in peace and attempted to bargain a fair price for his car and assorted pieces of tackle, thermos bottles and old fishing magazines he picked up at the post office and never got around to reading.

Nels walked around the car as if he was trying to sell a prize Holstein, showing the mechanic the fine points of his beloved Rambler but all he got was a measly sixty-five dollars and a trip to the front door. The owner told the cashier to be ready to call the police if they became hysterical again. But no, all the two wanted to do is return back to the lakes once more where they could go about life much as they always had.

So much for the fishing trip to the ocean. After a thousand mile ride through sage brush, rolling hills, and scorching heat they decided the ocean fish probably wasn't biting good this time of year anyhow. One good thing about the long ride home, it would give them time to get their fishing story down tight. As far as the two were concerned nobody had to know they never made it to the ocean.

The first thing Nels asked the bus driver was how many stops for coffee they would make in the next few days and he thought he had a pretty good sense of humor when the driver told them they would arrive in Fargo in 36 hours. From that point they were on their own

Although Nels would never admit it, he was kind of lonesome for Irma Peterson and a slice of her homemade rhubarb pie. He thought perhaps the walleye fishing may have picked up a bit, so he sat back in his comfortable seat and planned for a uneventful ride home. But no sooner had the bus pulled out of the station when Maynard started in about the amount of time they wasted trying to get to the ocean and what they should have done was go see Big John's Underground Copper Mine and of course, the world's tallest milk bottle.

Nel's closed his eyes and soon Maynard's voice drifted off into that void all Swedes were able to conjure up from birth, much like the place their minds go when their wives start in about going shopping or mowing the yard. He thought about rhubarb pie and how things like that are much more important than oceans. He wondered if Irma would want to take the boat out the day he returns. Yes, life is good when the fish bite and the pie is good and the coffee is hot.

They tell me somewhere outside Barstow, California you can still see the remains of the old Cross Country Rambler left sitting in the brush as a testament to the courage of the Viking spirit, to find and oceans and to conquer the seemingly impossible. It is not up to me to say if Nels conquered his dreams. I am here only to tell the story as I was told and to hand it down for generations to come.

NEW PICTURES ON THE CAFE WALL

2007-10-12T21:04:00.000-04:00

There is a little bit of everything included in this week's gallery. The Henry J (not this one) is the first car I remember from my childhood and somewhere (lost in time) my folks had a picture of me and my brother sitting on the hood of our Henry at my grandpa's farm in Iowa holding huge corncobs with cheap Indian souvenir feathers on our head.

The 3-D marigolds are here at our building. I rescued them from the K-Mart dumpster and they have grown like they came from an expensive nursery. With a little photo shop work the flowers stand out real nice if you stare at them. Watch out for the 3-D effect

The boats are from Monterey Bay. The ocean pics are from the Thunder Bay area and most of the other photos are California except the night shots from downtown Chicago. More Chicago photos will be posted later

The roses were mine. The desert hill was a place called the Devil's Punchbowl north of my California home. The girls in the tree were friends of mine from back home.

I have a few Ohio pictures but it is hard to find the majestic beauty from the wild west.

There are hundreds more to put on the computer and if you think they look good or bad, wait until you see them enlarged. I will be glad to send anyone a larger copy if asked.

And yes, there is a new story on the way. Speed bumps along the way have slowed me down.

ONE VIKING SPEAKS OUT

2007-10-08T11:49:00.000-04:00

After hearing there are many children who believe in both Christopher Columbus and Santa Claus, my friend Hagar (with his captured girlfriend) had something he wished to add to such nonsense

"Jag ingen aning varför dem fara Italiensk tänka de upptäckt USA. Tjur skit. Vi sålde lutefisk till indisk och gjord dem känna god!

"I have no idea why those Italians think they discovered America. Bull crap! We sold Lutefisk to the Indians and made them feel good."

After conquering most of the known world, my people like a little R&R. But from behind the bushes a captured Scotsman is heard yelling "Ma 'se do thoil e, Cha toil leam idir sgadan saillte!"

Please, I don't like salted herring! (Gaelic)

For the Norviegans--Uff Da

Pictures taken at the annual Scandinavian Festival at Thousand Oaks, California circa 1997

PHOTOS ON THE CAFE WALL

2007-09-30T22:44:00.000-04:00

I have been putting a ton of photos--some new some old onto the computer. I wonder if perhaps I should have sent these e-mail, but I hope the quality is as good on the Cafe wall.

The moth, bee, flamingo, tiger and weed seed are new. The flamingo was a paint shop trick. The pond with the deep blue reflection grabbed my attention in California. The Mallard swam around in our local lake. The rest are just shots.

Notice the dew in the flower, the proboscis on the bee and the top picture, in the tangle of weeds there is a little puddle of blue--one of my favorites

Enjoy

SO HOW MANY ROCKET SCIENTISTS DOES IT TAKE

2007-09-28T19:27:00.000-04:00

Pictured in conjunction to the story is the canyon we raced to arrive on the second day. The first victim after hitting the lowlands of Nebraska and the flaming yellow Penske van

WRITER'S NOTE:

The following true story contains humorous memories of a cross country trip with a family who became violently car sick. As an afterthought I decided to warn readers that the story can cause one to recall unpleasant days.

DIE ANMERKUNG DES VERFASSERS:

Die folgende zutreffende Geschichte enthält humorvolle Gedächtnisse einer Querlandreise mit einer Familie, die heftig Autokranker wurde. Als nachträgliche Erklärung entschied mich ich, Leser zu warnen, die die Geschichte veranlassen kann einer, um unangenehme Tage zu erinnern an. Fühlen Sie sich frei, es nicht zu lesen.

Diese Anmerkung ist nicht Satire.

Recently I undertook the dreaded task of going through boxes of stuff. Now I know in today's book of proper morphology, "stuff," is just one step above ain't, twern't and other assorted profanities of the English language. But I would only be pulling your leg, if I said the following essay contained a pure combination of The King's English dotted with Latin, French and the romantic languages throughout man's existence on earth.

In the past week a box of California memories, consisting of letters, old photos and dust balls arrived on my toss and destroy list. Deep in the corner of one box was a card from a one-time dear friend whose family held a very close place in my heart, but for the usual reasons our friendship drifted apart. On the bottom on the holiday greeting, the mother of the clan scratched the following words in white ink, "We had a great time, must get together someday and laugh at our trip once again." A frightful shudder, as if a cold hand had been placed on my back side, rattled through my body, as once more after 12 years, the week from Hell returned to haunt me.

Perhaps to this day my friends are still laughing, but suppose I tell you what happened. We are all familiar with the phrase, "Does it takes a rocket scientist to.......................?" (Fill in the blanks.) Well my friend Joe just happened to be a bonafide laid off rocket scientist, who decided waiting around for another rocket scientist job in California was consuming their savings, so his wife and four children chose to move back to a little town in western Wisconsin where perhaps a cheese maker could use his expertise.

Now we can use the phrase–it took more than a rocket scientist to move the family from the high desert of California to the cheesy hills of western Wisconsin. In this case it took a journalist, but more important, an ex-long distance truck driver who knew the way back home, which happened to be me, a journalist, not a rocket scientist, nor a logistic expert, just a gypsy with a hankerin' to travel.

So I received this call from Joe one autumn day stating they were in a quandary. His family had a house full of furniture, a station wagon, a Corvette and one big yellow Penske moving van that needed to go east.

I replied, "Sure thing Joe, I will get your Corvette to Wisconsin and will wait for you and your sweet family there."

Joe had something else in mind. He wanted me to drive the big truck. Not the Corvette. Kathy, the wife of the family and a bonafide overly-sensitive artist, informed me they never once traveled in their life and couldn't quite recall how they arrived in California to begin with. After pondering that statement a tad bit, I decided the whole shebang sounded like unpleasant work, but our itinerary would take us through Minnesota and my homesick heart would give a king's ransom to kiss the fruitful soils of home once again.

So our journey commenced from the deserts of California that hot autumn day. I took a head count to make sure none of the little ones were hiding in the truck. I wanted nothing but the open highway and the FM radio to keep me company. I maintained a cautious watch on the two vehicles in my rear view mirror, Kathie in the wagon with the baby and two youngest kids and Joe in his ‘Vette with the oldest child. Me, I had the yellow Penske truck pointed toward our first stop, Las Vegas.

No sooner did we get onto I-15 when I saw Joe's blinking headlights outside of Baker, California, a mere 100 miles from home. He decided to fuel up and water down the kids. Not a bad idea, but his wife started to whine about calling it a day. It wasn't barely past lunch and we still had 1,825 more miles ahead of us. I convinced the crew to make it to Vegas where we could eat and bunk down. Of course after we ate I told them better lodging was available in Mesquite, about an hour down the road (not really). This psychological warfare kept us moving. In Mesquite we bedded down, completing a good days journey for a family caravan.

Day two, Joe fed the family at a fancy breakfast buffet. I showed them the outline for our days journey. A rather long one, but the view would be magnificent. I hoped to make it to Grand Junction, Colorado. Other than Green River, Utah, there was little to distract the pilgrims with lodging signs along the highway, or so I thought.

After we hit I-70, the little town of Salinas was our next stop for fuel. We got a quick snack and as soon as Kathie started looking at the lodging map in the gas station I reminded them about the most spectacular sight of the day,the Canyon as you descended into Green River. If you arrive after dark, well you blew it. Plus, there are zip, nada, nothing for lodging all across Utah. The Mormons don't want folks to spend much time across sheep herding country.

As the sun started to set I pulled into the scenic canyon vista for all the necessary ooohs and ahhs. After another meal of snacks I herded them back into the vehicles and set Grand Junction as our next stop. I admit hauling them such long distances started to get a bit cruel, but what could I do, there was no lodging. Finally, tired and weary I brought them to Motel 6 across the Colorado border, much to her chagrin.

The next morning I received an earful about the cheap lodging but Kathie soon found civilization started to appear once again. After the young ones were fed we took off, but for my punishment the oldest boy had to ride in the truck, which worked out fine because boys and trucks are a marriage made in heaven.

About 1 p.m. we started up the pass after motoring through Glenwood Springs. I prayed for a slow peaceful day but when the Corvette begin to lag behind I knew we were in trouble. Nothing lags behind a moving van going up a mountain. One can easily step out of the drivers door,stretch the legs, grab a breath of fresh air,and jump back in without losing a beat. Joe became a bit green behind the gills and somewhere about 7,000 feet the whole family gave out.

I reminded them mountain resort communities would take away the rest of the money and we should move on to a healthier spot. Money meant nothing at this point, so the first sign of lodging the stupid lights started flashing again. They put me up in a fine hotel so I would not to bother them anymore since there was still lots of daylight driving left. Denver would have to wait.

Somewhere during the evening sickness moved throughout the family and they needed lowland oxygen, but they begged not to be disturbed. Obviously nobody wanted supper, so I trudged to Wendys. The air was so thin at 12,000 feet I thought to get back to the hotel 911 may have to be dialed.

We gathered for breakfast the next morning and somehow I knew it would be the day from Hell. I gazed upon their white-as-ghost faces and we still had some altitude to overcome before I got them down to the flat lands.

By some miracle we made it to Denver to fuel up, but Joe still had the greenies, so redistribution of the children was necessary since the Corvette had now became a rather smelly mess. As we rolled into Nebraska one family member after the other fell to the auto-disease and Karen was sure it had to be a rare disease they caught from the Mormon sheep herders back in Salinas.

By the time we hit North Platte, Nebraska the station wagon had now become more toxic than any human could stand, so we stopped and washed out the car. The oldest boy got into the truck once again and before long he started up-chucking and decorating the big yellow truck with various forms of pre-digested foods (I warned you in the second paragraph). He returned to mamma's car and I took the next youngest. By the time we hit Grand Island, he caught the same sheepherder disease, so once again we stopped and scrubbed down the truck interior.

I often wonder how we ever made it to Omaha that day. I rode with both windows down and little did it matter what we sprayed in the truck, it just plain smelled nasty. The family spent a three day R & R at a dismal Holiday Inn, forcing Joe to call home for more money. I spent the days by the pool. By this time, I too felt rather indisposed.

After the layover the family still looked anaemic but time was no longer on my side so we headed out for the last leg. We cut up to I-90 and across the wondrous plains of Minnesota into Wisconsin. A week after departure we arrived at his mother's house. I stayed for two days of good food, charming company and pretty scenery, but the home turf called and Winona was my first leg to California. With a tearful departure, the puddle jumper headed for the Twin Cities. After switching planes in Minneapolis, the luscious green foilage swiftly disappeared and in few hours I landed back in LA in time for supper.

On the flight back home, this former Midwestern gal realized how much easier the people around Wisconsin laughed at the journey. Sickness meant bonding. Joe and Kathy swore off traveling. I had many more miles to cover in my life, though at that time this journalist had no idea how many more hundreds of endless miles lay before me.

Still, I wonder to this day, just how many rocket scientists would it take to move a family from California to Wisconsin?

BUDDY CAN YOU LOAN ME A GRAND

2007-09-26T20:10:00.000-04:00

This is another story from the dusty (cough) caverns of yesterday. I composed it in a time of suffering because, at that time, my journalistic endeavors were not panning out. Later that would all change. I put it on the blog so we could all be reminded of those pitiful days of unemployment. And forgive the first paragraph--it did not want to fall in line with the rest of the column

For reason's unknown I can share many a tale about the horrific pains associated with pounding the pavement looking for a job. I've been downsized, upsized and criticized. Still after all the hassle with the nitwits who hire the likes of myself, there are precious few jobs to satisfy my thirst for capitalistic gain.

There are two areas of the classifieds in my local newspaper that create disturbing thoughts of chaos and madness deep within my soul, the Help Wanted and the Mate Wanted section. I consider both to be for the down-and-out.

The sweetheart ads, as I see it, are for those who can't live without an annoying, nagging, room temperature body hanging around complaining about everything you do, say and think. Meanwhile the Help Wanted ads are also for those who can't live without an annoying, nagging, room temperature body hanging around complaining about everything you do, say and think.

Understand my dilemma, I really do want to be gainfully employed, but stopping white collar businessmen on the streets with the old "Buddy can you spare a job," routine is a unbecoming to my staunch Scandinavian heritage work ethic.

So instead, I awake every morning, convince myself it is advantageous to leave the safe haven from underneath my nice cozy down-filled quilt. Then begins the journey to jump-start my life. The coffee pot must be activated which requires me to first walk outside, grab my soggy newspaper, conveniently tossed under the lawn sprinklers, consume a mandatory 12 cups of coffee in order to bring my energy level to a somewhat higher point than the rigor mortis that claimed my body overnight. Then and then only do I dare turn to the Help Wanted Section.

For the sake of good mental stability and to show mercy towards my delicate psyche, I choose a maximum of three businesses per day from the ads and grant them complete permission to work me over by telling me I don't qualify because they need a stiff who can speak seven languages, operate heavy equipment, answer the phone and have the uncanny ability to understand 32 computer programs, be under 40, willing to work for $6,25 an hour and provide their own desk.

Okay, now this is my simple philosophy on job seeking, " Attempting to prove ones worthiness to consume precious oxygen in front of a nit wit potential employer, who really cares less if you can fulfill the above requirements, but has a job that pays substantial money if you can whistle Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's Don Giovanni Overture backwards, is a one way ticket to neuroses." Stay away from such.

It is a documented fact that if you fill out more than three job applications per day, your mental health will deteriorate to a level where drooling and hallucinations may occur. I recall reading that 64 percent of people who attended four or more interviews a day had a high tendency of postal transformation. Foraging for the elusive splendid job is bad mental hygiene.

One secret I discovered--nobody is straightforward about the job you are expected to perform after applying for your wonderful new livelihood. If you are unfortunate enough to be searching for a job then cut out the following paragraphs and keep it posted on the fridge for a reference.

Below is a guide for employment opportunities:

Advertising executive means hanging fliers on doors of possible voters for the party of your choice. Drivers wanted means taking your car and running off your 100, 000 mile warranty, using up all your gas and likely bouncing up your insurance premiums, in order to feed couch potatoes all across your community. Customer relations means greeting folks at Wal Mart while handing out shopping carts to grouchy seniors and placing smiley face stickers on deranged children.

Sales jobs. Potential to make $15,000 a month is the same category as a protozoa life substance from Uranus launching into orbit only to crash through your living room window. Entertainment means nude dancing, psychic hot line jibber-jabbering or worse yet, sex line chats for some rapid breathing, unshaven low-life.

As I wind down the list of horrific jobs, we arrive at the telemarketer. Why in God's name (which is mighty) would I want a job doing what I wish my phone had a strangle button for. Many a time, a double flip and half twist was performed trying to get to the phone as quick as possible because that illusive job offer was beckoning me to the phone. Odds were three million to one that the dream job would appear, so with bated breath the receiver lifted slowly from the cradle only to hear some remedial reading student slowly parrot 25 lines off an index card and finally break his or her monotone voice asking, "Now doesn't that sound like a great deal."

"Zzzz, snore, huh, wha', sure I'll take a dozen. Good bye. Click."

This I pray Dear Lord

Please help writers avoid day jobs. Allow us to sit at Starbucks all morning and observe the yuppies come down out of the hills for their ritualistic feeding. Give us each day our daily hob-nob with the colorful locals at the corner cafe. Let us thus hear the tales of life which so enriches our imagination. Grant us free time every night to snuggle up in big overstuffed chairs and read novels that makes of envious of the writer.

For more inspiration I pray.

Amen.

PLEASE DON'T POKE ATTHE ARTICHOKE JOKES

2007-09-24T13:08:00.000-04:00

This column is from my newspaper days back in California. I think the satire was published around 1997 or so, but you will see that nothing has really changed in the Reverend Jackson type world. Jena 6 proves that wherever people are offended there is someone trying to create hatred between the classes

Stardate, June 14, 1980. After a long night of driving through thick fog and narrow two lane highways, I pulled into Kingtree, South Carolina. After backing up to the dock, a lanky southern lad unloaded my 53 foot trailer full of dog food. By the time he finished pulling off the pallets and breaking them down it was time for lunch, though my Minnesota timepiece said breakfast.

Being a stranger in town, as so it was everyplace I delivered, I asked the young gentleman where a lady might get a bite to eat.

"Oh," he replied, "Ya'll gotta go out to the highway. You don't wanna eat here in town, It's full of, ya know, black people (politically correct wording placed here.) The best place to get eats is the motel just outside town, cuz they put up a buffet every noon."

I jumped into the cab of my beautiful red International Eagle and headed down Highway 52 searching for this buffet where white people ate. I pulled my empty truck into the dusty lot and shut ‘er down. As I opened the truck door the humidity hit me in the face like a jug of sorghum.

From the outside, the restaurant looked like any other American roadside eating establishment, but the food didn't quite look like Midwestern food. The steam table had large trays of "good ol' boy" food; catfish, hushpuppies, fried chicken necks and backs, white rice and of course, slimy cooked greens. After consuming what we stupid Yankees call knockers and a plate of greasy fried potatoes I left, thinking I should drive back into town to see just exactly what the black folks ate that he warned me about.

Now all you southern ladies and gents of notable respect who consume slimy green-pond-scum type food and eat bottom feeding fish who live in murky water (Yankee talk), let it be known those foods have now been placed on the things you can no longer joke about in public without being accused of hate speech. Another big step in political correctness, another small step for mankind.

Allow me to explain. It seems like this white-golfer-guy, Fuzzy Zoeller, repeated a bad food joke about collards. Now K-Mart, who sells a lot of nasty junk food products like Rice Krispie sticky stuff loaded with white sugary marshmallow, and artificial chocolate breakfast cereal designed to launch your children into explosive fits of attention deficit disorders, stated Fuzzy could no longer remain a sponsor of sporting goods because he said the "SF" word. (Southern Food). Unlike Dennis Rohdman, Fuzzy is no longer a good role model for American couch potato children, which, by the way, are inedible.

Now I rarely shop at K-Mart after they built a store on my ecologically sensitive childhood home in Ohio. I'm sure thousands of bullfrogs and pollywogs, not to even mention butterflies and fireflies, which are also inedible inasmuch as to ensure good taste you need to cook them in highly saturated oils. The above innocent critters were massacred at the hands of K-Mart developers, not Fuzzy Zoeller.

Protectors of sensitivity gaged when Fuzzy made collard jokes. Collards are, by the way, consumed by white folk who won't let black folk know they eat the leafy organic matter, because black folk have to eat in town while white-butt-honkies eat out on the highway.

Remember now, Tiger Woods never fell to the ground in a fitful rage over collard jokes because he is a golfer with a bit of class. As far as I know, no other black athlete appeared on television to voice their rage over collards.

Now you executives at K-Mart, sit down. That's right, pull up a chair and let Micheala explain something to you. We don't need your steeenkin' cheap Blue Light politically retentive group to stop endorsing Fuzzy in order for you to endorse another group of crybaby rejects like People Against Nasty Food Remarks Yo'. PANFRY has to be stopped and K-Mart, you need to get a life.

All around the globe humanity laughs at the consumption habits of others with no shame. Jewish people are razzed for chicken soup and Matzo balls. How many Jewish chicken soup jokes are out there? Millions at last count.

Italians are not getting off that easy, the little spaghetti benders anyhow. The Russian potato jokes, man are they bad, but the one about blintzes really crack me up.

By the way did you ever hear the one about two guys from Austria who ordered Gans Leber. Irealize. That is not as humorous as the little lady from Tunisia with amnesia who fed her dying husband a big plate of Chachouka. All right, that is an old joke, it's still funny though.

My Japanese roommate in nursing school used to tell me a joke about two dragons, a virgin and a take-out-order of Take No Ko No Unani. Had something to do with fingernails, never did get the punch line.

One of my all time favorites is the blond who ordered Borju Vagy Dizno Paprikasszelet in a Hungarian cafe, thinking she ordered Transylvanian Tokany, what she got was Boszorkanyhab. She wiped out the whole experience with a jar of White Out.

Yes sir, my friends, food jokes can really bring us together as one, give us peace and harmony amongst all people in all nations. Food witticisms are somewhat like singing, "I want to give the world a German Apfelsinebiscuittorte Ungefult in perfect harmony, it's the real thing."

Of course there are a few off color jokes. Just mention Lutefisk to any second generation Norwegian or Swede and see what happens. I don't recommend doing so if your ears are easily offended.

Meanwhile K-Mart, you purveyors of junk food, dump the PANFRY whiners. We don't want Fuzzy back on your Chinese manufactured sporting goods–he is way better than that.

Oh, and I know you heard the joke about the first words red-neck children learn to say. "Attention K-Mart shoppers."

THE LAST TURN IN THE BEND TO NOWHERE

2007-09-18T23:10:00.000-04:00

I realize this is a long chapter but it fits into the Carter stories rather well. Someone just donated a nice sum of money to get started on the book, so busy I must get.

The autumn weather nipped the air about the Edward's homestead. Carter became more restless than the squirrels hustling acorns about the unkept yard. Granny had been laid to rest long enough now that the conversations about her sudden death diminished around the diner table, so now everyone more-or-less sat about and grunted their way through the meal. Mearl, the youngest of the twelve, recently dropped out of the eight grade and found great delight spending his newly acquired free time agitating Carter.

Mearl's name should have been spelled Merle but the boy before him was named Earl. So Ma Edwards just put an M before the name to make it simple. After all, finding a new name was more than she wanted to do the day he arrived. This new name also functioned well for his sister Pearl.

"That's exactly why the others never come by the house anymore," Carter yelled as he slammed the front door, salvaged from a nearby house that lost the entranceway during a tornado. He just concluded another argument about whose turn it was to go into Berford and make the final payment on Granny's headstone. As usual, he lost. Carter felt it only fair his brother should now shoulder some of the responsibilities once performed by one of many older siblings who seemed to just disappear into the woods.

Pa told Carter there weren't no need for Mearl to be doin' work that hard if most of the family ain't there. If'n they were, then likely there would be ten times more people to feed, clean up behind and what ever it were that the kids did in the first place. That thought sort of eluded him at the time as he sat down at the table, put a wad of Beechnut in his mouth and commenced to ramble on about something else.

Nobody really knew what happened to the older children. Like Gramps, they just left without notice. It is as if the highway running by the Edwards place held a magical one way ticket for those choosing to escape. Except for Carter. The road never took him much passed the county seat.

Carter grabbed the $15 hidden under the steps of the shed in an old toolbox. The Edwards never believed in hiding money in the house as the shed never seemed to burn down nor blow up like their house. More and more often the old house would suffer severe damage in what appeared to be stupid mistakes by overlooking several flaws.

So one more time Carter headed up the driveway to catch a ride on the two-lane. As he walked by the old Dodge Lancer, disabled with a blown radiator hose, he perched himself on the trunk covered with wet oak leaves and once more envisioned what life beyond the county seat must be like. He knew the $15 would buy a new radiator hose and a little gas, but that is about all.

"No," he mulled, "gotta pay for Granny's stone.

He slid off the trunk and kicked an old gas cap up the driveway and stood by the road waiting for a ride. Carter pulled his hood over his sandy hair to keep the chill off when Melvin Housser happened by and offered him a ride to town.

"Getting nippy son. Winter will be here before you know it," Melvin said, as he pulled the pickup back onto the road.

"You got that right and all I can do is think about bustin' loose and going somewhere. There is a whole world out there and I ain't never been past Ridge City and as soon as I can figure out a good reason to go, I'm history," Carter said. For the next few miles Carter stared down the highway while he rubbed his hands briskly to fight off the chill.

Melvin tipped his DeKalb Corn hat back a little, scratched the bald spot underneath, looked at Carter and asked why he doesn't take up hunting.

"Hunting," Carter asked. "Just what am I going huntin" for. The only gun we got is for shootin varmints out of the garden patch. Heck, it wouldn't even put a dent in a soda can."

"Why you need to go hunt up your grandpa, what else. Granny Lizzie been dead for sometime now. Donchya think he should oughta know his wife up and died."

"No way, he gets word I killed her with that stupid computer virus he'd likely wallop me until I saw stars. Forget that buddy," Carter replied.

Melvin took a deep breath and started in again.

"Son, you can't be afraid of your shadow all your life. Look at it this way–your poor old gramps is wantin' to come home but his pride is in the way. Ever since he told the sheriff that story about the spacecraft and then gettin' laughed outta Buck's Tavern, why he ain't never showed his face in McComb County since. It's your duty as the oldest one left home ta go and git him and bring him back."

"Well maybe so, but tarnation, I hadn't the slightest idea of where to find him or how to get anywhere–my radiator hose is busted and that'll cost $13.47," Carter said as they pulled into town. "Here drop me off at the cemetery."

Melvin pulled the truck over to the curb and grabbed a twenty out of his coat pocket. "Your grandpa and I had a many good times down at Buck's and I sure miss the ol' goat. Get yourself a radiator hose, find some money and go bring him home. Do it boy."

Carter eased out of the pickup somewhat stunned. Nobody ever gave him a twenty for no reason, nor had anyone ever offered him a job to do. True, it wasn't really a job, but as close to one as he ever had.. He looked at the cemetery office, then again at the $15 for the last payment.

"This money just might find grandpa," he thought. "But the old coot would just beat me for not using it to pay off the headstone. No, gotta take care of granny first."

The deed completed and the receipt, as proud as any medal a soldier could earn, found a place in the pocket right next to his heart. On the way home he passed Gus's Gas and Guts where a free hot dog a small coke went with any new or used car part. He picked up the hose and felt lucky because Gus had the only upper radiator hose in the area that fit a slant six Dodge Lancer. He also found a slightly used, tattered Rand McNally Cities Service state map for seventy five cents. With the treasure, along with a 50 cent cup of coffee, he headed home with a mission.

There are only two roads leading out of Bruford that take you any place important. Most of the dirt roads went into the country, past old gravel pits, trailer houses and an occasional pasture or swamp that surround the small town. According to those whose jobs it is to compile statistics there are more gravel roads in McComb County than in all other areas of the state.

If someone wanted to leave Bruford they either went into the woods and stayed there until whatever it was that made them go there didn't make sense anymore or headed east or south on State Highway 97. If you headed east, most likely you were going to the lumber mill outside of town or perhaps as far as Pongers Creek where the drive-in movie once stood. Now that it is gone folks don't go there as much.

The same road makes a bend in Bruford then continues south past the town square with the statue of The Known Soldier, at least the town elders think they know who it is.. Although the East and South Highway is one-in-the same folks often refer to it as the South Highway, or the South Blacktop, depending on who you ask.. Most of the traffic flows south as it the county had been tipped downward by some unexplainable force making the return trip to Bruford the feeling of an uphill battle. Pa figured that had to be the road most of the children took, since uphill battles was not something the Edwards very often undertook. Likely gramps took the South Road--as for the kids who returned home, apparently they were hiding out in the woods.

The turkey plant down by Jeronsville took away half the population when it opened in ‘72. Of course the plant was south of Bruford. The county seat--south, and most everything folks talked about, you guessed it, south.

After supper Carter spread the state map out on his bed and found himself mesmerized with the abundance of squiggly lines in and around Bruford. All the towns and highways beyond his miserable existence lay on that simple folded sheet of paper. The map captivated him. The state was full of highways in red, some in black and a splattering of cities with bold black ink with little airplanes next to them. This treasure drew him into an imaginary world of the likes he never felt before.

"Imagine having an airport, then where could you go," he thought. He took a red felt pen and placed a star right over Bruford, then took the butt of the marker and placed it next to the star. The tip if the marker came to rest on a town about 125 miles south, near a river town named Clayton Falls, named after General Clayton who thought he discovered the starting point of a famous river, but instead just found a rather poetic little waterfall. Carter drew a circle around the spot on the map and thought to himself what a wonderful destination. And who knew what he would find there.

Over the next week Carter busied himself repairing certain precarious faults in the old powder blue Dodge. His imaginative vision of Clayton Falls kept his youthful energy pointed in the right direction. By scrapping out useless articles in the shed he fashioned a small bunk where the back seat once sat. In the corner he placed an old shelf Grannie had in her room and placed a Coleman lantern firmly atop it. In the trunk he built small bins for potatoes, matches, canned goods, a few rusty tools, clothing and flashlights. He spent endless hours walking about nervously looking for unexpected problems that could occur on such a lengthy trip, though in reality he had little idea what to look for.

Mearl spent most of his newly acquired spare time pestering Carter, trying to figure out what his older brother had in mind but Carter payed little attention. Nobody but Melvin knew about the trip and what little Melvin knew would never put his family on the trail of the trip to Clayton Falls. Finally after numerous days of bolting here and hammering there, the old 62 Lancer had been transformed to a miniature camper–uniquely simple, but amazingly brilliant for Carter.

With time running short Carter now had to think harder than he ever had to think before. He needed cash and he needed it quick, since the days were turning colder. Though it had not happened yet, pa may start asking questions. Instead he just sat on the porch rocker and with a somewhat puzzled look on his face he just took aim at the windshield with his Beechnut.

A lead pencil sharpened with his jackknife became the calculator for figuring out his needs, and best he could figure, a dollar a mile would get him to the falls unless he encountered gramps, then he would have to return home to drop him off. He also had to have a bit of spending money for stopping at cafes, bars and roadside attractions to ask if anyone seen gramps. Now he felt more and more like a detective setting out to find a dangerous criminal.

"Two hundred and fifty stupid dollars is all I need and there ain't a durn thing around here worth more than 50 cents," Carter mumbled as he chewed down his supper.

"Are you still carryin' on about your brother doin' his fair share here ‘bouts,"pa asked. "Cuz if yourn still is, I'll fix him up to clean out the shed, might be gramps died thar. Ya never know now do ya."

"No pa, I need some money to go somewhere."

"Leavin' home are ye," pa inquired while fighting with a tough pork chop. "Well that'll stop all this fussin' with you and your brother and who knows but what some of the kids may come back out of the woods and take your room. Be right fine to see um agin."

Carter pushed his chair back against the wall and laid into Pa. "Ya durn fool I'm going away to find Gramps and ya best leave my room be and that's final. If I could come up with $250 all you would see is my back end going out that ratty screen door."

Mearl sat at the table laughing while tearing away at the pork chop with his dirty hands. "Why don't ya'll go sell some of them turkeys like last year. Ya still smell like a dead turkey anyhow."

Carter picked up a piece of hickory stove wood and hurled at his brat of a brother who only stood a little over five foot but could throw out insults like Gramps, only Gramps could wallop any bystander with his cane.

While mulling over his perplexities, Carter figured out two ways to secure much needed capital, robbing a bank or selling Gramp's much beloved Studebaker truck. Robbing a bank would be the less painful way. That old truck meant more to Gramps than anyone or anything, except for his hounds. Carter knew all to well to mess with the truck.

As he walked back to the Dodge he pulled open the door, sat on the ragged seat and turned on the radio to a station that seemed a million miles away. The song made him want to turn the ignition key right away and follow the radio waves. He soon turned off the radio and thought so hard about the money he developed a headache. He got up from the Lancer and walked past the Studebaker on the way back to the house. Suddenly he acquired a Carter Edwards inspiration.

"Tomorrow," he bellowed out loud out loud, "I'll hock this old junker down at Honest Abe's. He'll give me 60 days to repay ‘em and by that time I will have me a fine job at the Falls and when I find Gramps, well he will have to settle up with old Abe to get his stupid old truck back."

Carter ran into the house yellin like a crazed fool. "Tomorrow buddy, we is goin' travelin".

He crawled into bed with his road map and pictured in his sleep of what life must be like beyond Jeronsville, the home of the Turkey Plant and the one-time-school pa burned to the ground by mistake, which by the way, is the furthest he had ever driven. The sight of a three story house, drive-up banks, car dealerships with brand spankin' new cars and drifted in and out of his over taxed mind. Of course, a few citified girls danced about just for good measure.

"Yes sir, " he mumbled as sleep quieted his soul, "Carter is goin' to be the talk of Bruford,, you just wait and se........."

The next morning Mearl ran into the house laughing like a half-crazed animal. Carter leaped from the bed, his eyes bulging with rage because the morning caught him by surprise. He had hoped to be up and long gone by now.

"Carter boy, your junky Winnebago is gone," Mearl hounded. "It up and gone, by George."

"What are you talkin' about, you nuthead."

"It's gone, gone, gone, I tell ya. Here read what says this letter. I know its got your name on it for sure. The rest I can't read."

Carter slumped down in the half upholstered chair by the kitchen stove and with a cup of coffee in his hand he read the letter of death. Though the scrawling was only half legible he knew who wrote it.

"deer granson Carter," the letter started. "Thank ye fer builden me that camper. I always dreemed of havin' one i cood sleep in and put a few belongins in. I twere a feared that you would not git it runnin be fer winter set in. So now I reckon on to be headin' bout as fer south as one kould think ‘bout. Melvin told me about you buldin this fer me at our card game last week. Nice boy y'ar, better en some of you siblins. I always sed you were the best of the litter thats why I gave the twenty fer Melvin ta give ya.. I'd be thankin' ya in purson but i don't wreckon i could beat off that comp, er comput or heck what ever that virus was ya brout home. Thanks fer payin off grannies stone. See ya next spring if'n my heart holds out that long
gramps

Oh by the way feel free to use the studebaker but i had to sell some parts off'n it fer gas money.

Carter sat in the old chair for the next three hours staring out the back door, gazing at where the Dodge set a short hours ago. There sat Gramps treasured Studebaker with no battery, no gas and the worse part–no seat. All the dreams of what one desired to see, the world south of Bruford, now gone.

Guess it really doesn't matter, because in Carter's world nobody is going nowhere, nohow.

FACE TO FACE PART II--THE LOST PHOTOS

2007-09-17T20:58:00.000-04:00

Let us see if the text stays where it belongs this time. First we have our creator (of Scrappleface). Always a great smile because evil is on his mind

Our humble abode (get your reservations in soon) And soon we must decide when our next secret meeting will be.

Once again, to the left, I mean face to the left. Right

We even had evil Republican seats to sit upon. Karl Rove, is this your board.

Camojack was holding this pillar up. Promise, cross my heart.

Apples have nothing to do with face to face. Just a reminder that September is here. Eleven months left until Face to Face II

This picture will be removed tomorrow Tuesday, for obvious reasons.
Ooops, the Scott Family is gone, hope you did not miss it.

The End--Good Night

REMEMBERING ONCE AGAIN--PART II

2007-09-11T08:08:00.000-04:00

Monday, September 11, 2006

REMEMBERING EILEEN MARSHA GREENSTEIN

Today, six years hence liberals are still arguing about the war. How many of us have forgotten. I haven't. I still cry and as I am putting this up once again I weep. So we never forget I shall repost the woman I was picked to honor

As often is the case we awaken every morning, rub the sleep from our eyes and gulp down that cup of coffee as we head for the front door and move on to our assigned duties. For some, this is driving to classes at the nearby college, running off to the gym for a workout then stopping at Starbucks for a mid-day break with friends and associates.

For others it is off to the daily grind. Office workers, waitresses, bus boys, sales personnel, cab drivers, it makes little difference, the big city takes in the whole brigade that keeps America running–twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. Men and women alike go to the big city and the city purrs like a warm kitten.

September 1, 2001 the city quit purring. New York City was attacked by Islamic fundamentalist who had a two part objective–to kill innocent civilians, and bring our nation's economy to a crawl. The Twin Towers, an art work of glass, steel and beauty, fell to a heap of dust and bent steel before the eyes of shocked onlookers, taking with it approximately 2,996 victims.

Eileen is not forgotten. This much I can tell you, Ms Greenstein was a resident a Morris Plains N.J. I can assure readers of Shelly's Cafe her memory, especially today, is held closely in many people's heart.

We can never understand the thought patterns of a terrorist. Hate is a sin born in the depths of Hell and civilized nations do not cower in the gutter of human depravity. God gives us a heart of love and compassion. Today, we as Americans, once again took time to remember the many, whatever their walk of life may have been, who gave their life five years ago. God bless you and your family Eileen.

FACE TO FACE PART I

2007-09-05T19:20:00.000-04:00

I have more pictures in the camera. The Scrapplers in the photos had no problem being published, others folks who objected were cropped.

This is the town square in Ligonier where others shopped till they dropped. Not me, to weary. The above Ligonier VFW looked more like a movie theater. The very top was a wooded scene by the camp site

A lazy river near Falling Waters, Frank Lloyd Wright's design for the Kaufman family who, by the way owned Kaufman's Department store. Thanks Onlineanalyst for the correction

Corner of Frank Lloyd Wrights home--hard to get a good shot

The Falling Waters home. Best I could do

That is what it said. We should have spent a day here at the white water river.

Ohiopyle and the Youghiogheny river

More of the river. Bad deal for me because I ran out of film and the fresh roll was at the cabin

The path to our cabin. The cabin picture is on the unfinished roll which, when finished will be published

The top is Mr and Mrs Beerme (Mike and Alice)and
Hawkeye peaking from the corner

The second photo is Hawkeye and Camojack (rear). Hawkeye has his towel handy because he is about to tour the Galaxy

This is our face to face tree for those who doubt there is a God who loves Scrappleface

An early morning shot before others arose. Oh, those weak bladders.

THE SKUNK LAKE LABOR DAY CHURCH PICNIC

2007-08-29T23:08:00.000-04:00

Across the Northern Plains, Labor Day signifies the end of summer. Winter looms beyond the colorful hues of autumn and when you live in the Northland, every waking moment is spent concerning oneself with winter's onslaught.

A well worn Minnesota proverb states the Indians always know how bad the winter will be by observing the size of white-man's wood pile. Though the story is overused, but oft repeated in Minnesota bars, there is a grain of truth in it--folks spend an inordinate amount of time worrying if their wood supply is as big as their neighbors. Indians don't.

Truthfully though, Labor Day does send a panic across the wooded fields, farms and lakes regions. Summer vanishes immediately after September 1st. Every God-fearing man knows the crops have to be brought in and the wood pile tended too. Soon the great white male hormones will kick in and the deer, and a few Holsteins, from that point on is in danger of being consumed. It is a fact Labor Day sets off the seasonal clock of which no man can stop.

Olaf Sundine ,who ran the local Deep Rock filling station decided several years ago to break tradition. He declared a week long Labor Day celebration, totally wiping out seven whole productive days of harvesting and chopping wood.

The shocking proclamation angered the local clergy. Sloth is not part of the fabric of Minnesota heritage. The sermons about town reminded the faithful of the horrid consequences of the grasshopper who fiddled away his resourceful days. His woodpile needed tended to and the freezer remained empty as others about busied themselves as the green leaves became golden with nature's first frost. To make matters worse there was not a even single potato put into his empty bin.

The sermons worked and Olaf's banners came down the very next morning. Things were even slow at the Three Bean Cafe as the guilt had most folks going about there business instead of arguing nonsense over a cup of coffee. Years slipped by since the failed week long festival fell to defeat but now this upcoming Sunday was the 17th Annual Skunk Lake Church Picnic, that glorious once a year festival where Catholics, Lutherans, and all the lesser religions were allowed to mix amongst each other without seeking forgiveness.

The Skunk Lake pavilion always promised a 24 foot festive smorgasbord filled with scrumptious casseroles, sandwiches crafted from white bread, fried chicken and desserts beyond one's imagination. To any normal Northlander this event would be an offering from heaven, but a great fog of guilt hung in the midst of Lake City because the local pastors felt among themselves that a repeat of the "Grasshopper Sermon," was in need. Not for any reason in particular, they just wanted to keep their faithfuls on alert. Just the slightest mention in a church sermon about cutting firewood made it sound like a commandment from God. "Go ye into the woods and cut oak, birch and a little poplar and stack it neatly," so saith the Lord. Now, visions of half frozen grasshoppers gripped the imagination of every man in town.

Jim Sweeny was besides himself. He bought a new Husqvarna chainsaw the previous week but was unable to get out in the woods until a defective replacement part arrived from the distributor, who by the way, took a week off for a long Labor Day vacation. Jim overhauled the engine on the Farmall three times trying to fight off his nervous energy. After that dreaded sermon last Sunday there wasn't a chainsaw to be rented in a twenty mile area.

His wife Irma, the chairwoman of the Prairie Women's Quilting Circle, wanted to run him out of the house during Friday's quilting circle, with no luck. Jim stayed on the kitchen phone all afternoon frantically searching every dealer in the state for the lost chainsaw part. Since he was within earshot of the ladies nobody had the freedom to discuss "personal matters of community importance."

After Jim downed three pots of coffee from the stained "I Love Trees," coffee mug, which in turn caused him to make just enough bathroom trips to set Irma on edge, she threw down her quilt pieces, called The Blue Ox Mower and Saw Service and told them to send the damned part airmail from Sweden, Norway or where ever in the name of Samuel H. they made the blasted thing or they would have a murder on their hands.

Sunday finally crept in with everyone miraculously avoiding homicide induced by insanity. All in all the day proved to be rather quiet and, unlike the week leading up to this day, free of guilt. It was, after all a holiday weekend, the Sabbath and a day of feasting and merriment, though the only downside came after the men discovered the firewood for the weenie roast had disappeared. No further comment needed.

As the afternoon sun started to set and the cooler air of sudden-autumn set in, the Mayor, Clyde Overstart, hit the genuine Skunk Lake hollow log with a gavel signaling the days end and the awarding of the much coveted prizes.

To nobody's surprise Clara Ivarson took home the blue ribbon for best edible sculpture. This marked her 7th-first-place award and this year it was a Jell-O likeness of Walter Mondale. Clara felt it expressed her deep hearted condolence for his humiliating defeat four years earlier. She appropriately named it "The Fritz Jello".

After a long list of awards for children, dogs and ugly farm implements, the evening concluded with Skunk Lake's most coveted award–the most offensive pair of men's bib overalls, followed by the "ceremonial burial of the OshKoshes." The men folk took this seriously and seized every effort possible to make their bibs worthy of being buried with the "legends."

My Uncle Ernie for instance left his bibs hanging in Tom Henderson's mink shed all year. The pungent smell of mink musk saturated the overalls so bad he had to bring them in a sealed container pulled in a manure spreader behind his tractor to keep them away from his picknicin' bibs.

To keep everything above reproach a different family took the honors of judging and handing out the awards each year. Still, rumors quickly spread that Irma slipped $50 in the offering plate since Pastor Yungfest's family was in charge of the judging. She, if the rumors were true, had hopes of Jim taking home the award of King Stinker, therefore taking his mind off that dreadful chainsaw.

Well, fear of reproach being such as it was back then may have caused Jim to loose, but he took a close second with his nasty fish bucket bibs. The honors instead went to Uncle Ernie's musky mink bibs.

Uncle Ernie felt bad about being King Stinker two years in a row, or so he said. He falsely admitted to cheating, then fabricated a story about digging up last years bibs that hung in the back house for months on end then used as a farrowing blanket in the pig shed. With a wink to Irma, he handed the bronzed Copenhagen box over to Jim.

Though by default, winning the King Stinker award was a good omen for Jim. Tuesday morning his lost chainsaw part arrived first class by airmail. By October Jim had the largest woodpile in the county due to his prized Husqvarna.

The Indians predicted a cold winter based on Jim's huge stack of firewood–or so Uncle Ernie told me and you know what, it turned out to be the fiercest winter in 20 years. You know, ol' Uncle Ernie wasn't so goofy after all.

AMAZING GRACE HOW LOST I WAS

2007-08-26T15:53:00.000-04:00

This story, first published in July of 1997 in a California newspaper, is a promise made to our Scrapple friend Mary Pearce whose son just received his pastorate at this very same church. Small world, eh, I don't know. I think there is a purpose in all things. [Ecclesiastes 3:1] It is important to remember I wrote it from my 1972 religious prospective, so anything that sounds anti-church is not the view held today.

The first killing frost of the season fell upon the birch covered Minnesota lakes region and it seemed I had no more than settled into my peaceful life as Miss One With Nature when some deity tried to rattle my existence.

With the city limits sign of Cleveland still a toxic memory, I, along with a hoard of land-hungry hippies clutching issues of Mother Earth News, settled into a small rural area of Minnesota, raised chickens, goats and eyebrows. Most of us were looking for anything but religion. As a fallen Lutheran who saw God as a cosmic magnet that tugged humanity into oozy blobs of one-religion-fits all, I despised doctrinal chaos. Moving to the country made sense to me and Frank, my once addicted, now clean, but a little paranoid friend, where we could be content to be nothing

That warm fuzzy God theory met a challenge one day in what I seem to remember as being somewhere in the early '70's, as we read a flier taped to the window of a coffee shop. It said Evangelist Milford T. Harrington (name not real to protect my poor memory), guest speaker from Kentucky, would share a testimony on his frightening encounter with Satan. The way I understood the filer, Beelzebub and this Baptist preacher met face to face with each other. I knew Lutherans never talked with the devil so I said to Frank as we sipped on the coffee that cold afternoon, "I'm a little curious on what kind of dialogue took place between this dark sinister figure–and a back home country preacher."

Normally, in our little town we did not stick out much since there were more than a few back-to-nature freaks mixed in with local farmers, jack pine savages and tourists who often smelled of fish. But poor Frank didn't fit in with the church crowd very well. He had a cosmic twin brother named Frank Zappa. The previous winter we traveled to Martha's Vineyard, home of James Taylor, and the buzz about town said Zappa showed up to cut a record with Taylor.

So here we are, celebrity twin of the lanky, long haired Zappa, and me, wire rimmed, tied-dyed blouse, blue jeans and Red Wing boots, sitting like an out-of-place band of gypsies in a Baptist Church in the small town of Park Rapids. The evangelist walked to the podium and after a few hymns, passes the plate and commenced to preaching. Well, we blew it.

Seems like the Reverend Milford T. Harrington started with the dark tales of his demonic conversations on Tuesday, continued through the week with frightening accounts of heathens and idolaters toasting in the great abyss. Friday night climaxed to great crescendo of fire and brimstone to drag in reckless souls, inebriates and other wayward types whom the devil himself would surely make mincemeat out of some day.

In a grand Kentucky Baptist style, Milford T. Harrington wasted no time moving into the grand finale of alter calls. He jumped, yelled, sweated and cried. With a white handkerchief in one hand and the Bible in the other, he orchestrated a wonderful show of good old fashioned Bible thumping. He continued this plea for souls until the veins popped from his forehead. Soon his cold steely eyes locked on to Frank's, then he glanced over to me. To drown out the fear my mind started singing, "Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz."

The clock on the wall ticked slowly while he brought down the gates of Hell. An hour later half the county was pleading for mercy. Poor Frank was blind sided and never blinked an eye. Truthfully I must admit he never looked so pale.

If a confession is needed here I almost went forward and probably should have, but my knees were so weak I never would have made it and the act of falling to the floor may not have been seen as a Baptist tradition like some churches I have visited over my many years. There was no doubt that I had danced about the devils playground and needed to set things right with the Almighty, but not right then. I never move when fear is present.

Meanwhile, poor Harrington was turning hoarse, he quoted 16 more passages, wiped the sweat from his brow, gave one more alter call for good measure and finally gave up on the hippie couple from Pequot Lakes. It was nearly midnight and most of the old women had fallen off to sleep in the nursery.

After the last hymn and closing prayer (one more chance to get in the kill) we politely shook hands with the pastor and traveling evangelist. Two lost souls never to be notched into his gospel gun walked out into the cool Minnesota night air.

So what happened on that cold night in 1972? The drive home to our farm was rather quiet. I felt cheated I didn't get to hear his tales of devilish conversations. The Northern lights seem to flicker a solemn good-by to an evening nobody anticipated. Many would ask if God gave up on us. I can't answer for Frank since our ways parted not long after but for myself the answer would no.

There would be many arguments over my soul from that day onand finally on another cold Minnesota night three years later a decision was made by myself as I drove home in my old ‘48 Dodge pickup. The moon was full and no headlights were needed as I stared into the night where the northern sky held the majesty of His artwork. How could I say no to such a God.

LIFE, CAMPING AND OTHER STUPID THINGS

2007-08-23T22:05:00.000-04:00

With thoughts of The Scrapplefest running through my mind I am reminded of this story composed not long after a disastrous weekend back in '98. Ihope this isn't an omen of things to come. Nah, those days are gone--I pray.

I am a hopeless romantic. Not in the area of creating tender relationships or imagining endless evenings of drifting thoughts folding into a fantasy world of senseless love built around heroes that look a bit overly effeminate with their locks of golden tresses. Perhaps some would just call me overly optimistic. While I may see a glass of water and say it is half full, not half empty, if I stare long enough, it becomes a glass of rare champagne bubbling away in a crystal glass.

If you haven't caught my drift perhaps this may clarify my statement. When I plan an event, contemplate a trip, or as far as that goes, just about anything that has a chance to rattle about in my brain soon goes out of control. Thought patterns soon turn mental anthills into something more gargantuan than the Wall of China.

It is easy to recall numerous instances of this destructive mental condition which resides in my psyche. Stories of misshapen grandeur can rattle off my memory bank leaving me with a repertoire of nightmares incubated from simple dreams, most leaving me downcast and humiliated. Now you ask, "can a lesson be learned from all this higgeldy piggeldy." Never. Remember I am hopeless.

This is an example. After I arrived back in Ohio in 1998, I decided two take up two hobbies, Bluegrass music and camping. After falling in with a group of roving musicians I decided to book a weekend at a ritzy resort where the musicians were playing. Well, really it was a campground. (You see how easy I build things up). Now mind you the last time I went tent camping gas was 29 cents a gallon. Later in life, when I wore a band about my finger, we invested in a real camper with all the luxuries of home, mostly, somewhat. But now times were different and without said camper I opted for a tent purchased at K-Mart plus numerous accessories to enhance this upcoming wilderness experience.

Still in possession of at least half my brain I asked my younger neighbor to help me set up this blazing orange prefab-nylon housing unit in my backyard, so when presented with a pile of aluminum tubing, yellow spikes and assorted hardware there would not be a sudden brain collapse at the campsite.

Now perched comfortably in my backyard with an adult beverage in hand, a perfect mental scenario was set in place for my wilderness experience, ala Bluegrass concert. Thoughts of experiencing a Euell Gibbons moment stalking a wild Rosemary plant, then later immersing myself in the rustic surroundings wearing expensive yuppie Eddie Bauer slacks, sitting by the fire with a frosty glass of micro-brewed ginseng tea and nibbling on a high-bush cranberry filled croissant. Above, the distant mournful cry of a loon flying off into the night sky and below, in my tent, lie unfinished manuscripts of neglected writings and unfinished plays under my Smith Corona. Then, sadly, the phone rang and the Lady Walter Middy had to run home.

The next day rains of Biblical proportions fell upon my backyard cabana. After bailing out nearly three gallons of water, I stood disgusted with the whole idea of tent camping. I'm sure Euell could have handled the situation well, so therefore go I. Soon my kitchen held the aroma of homemade granola and chocolate chip cookies, which along with everything imaginable found a place in the back of my creamy white F-150. (Sorry, it was an Eddie Bauer edition Ford).

Upon arrival late that afternoon the campground owner drew me a map to my campsite, a deserted remote spot on the hill. Nobody else was within sight. Could this be, me alone to brave the wilds. A million what-if's soared through my mind, but with brave determination I threw the orange multi-pieced monster to the ground and broke camp. Sort of. I knew I could lick the problem of tent erection because I had a brand new roll of duct tape. Darkness started to creep in, first through the woods then across the meadow.

I was still spread eagle across the tent attempting to shove the aluminum tubes into the hidden loops when a senior citizen out for a stroll happened by. He rescued me by actually following the directions. Exhausted, I ran the power cord from the pole and plugged in all my electrical appliances. Don't laugh, even Euell would have enjoyed freshly ground coffee to go with his whole wheat, alfalfa bagel.

About midnight Beulah, my basset hound, retired to her comfortable cage. My sleeping accommodations left a little to be desired. Every bump on the ground dug deep into my back, even though I was on my cot. About 2 a.m. a horrid smell penetrated my nostrils. The undomesticated surroundings caused my dog to forget the fundamentals of being housebroke. A quick clean-up took place and soon, cold and damp, I found the little emergency space heater and sought out sleep.

The next morning the sun burned through the fog. Everything was soaked by the heavy dew left by the cool night air. I no longer felt like the lady in the Eddy Bauer magazine. Instead I felt humiliated that my first night in the "wild" turned out so creepy. Disgustedly I walked to the campground cafe for breakfast. When I returned I discovered new neighbors had moved in. Of the 50 some empty campsites spread all over the hill, an elderly Old Church Mennonite couple decided to settle in right next to me.

By noon the dew dried off and the campsite started to fall in place once again. My old Coleman propane stove had not seen service since the ‘95 Northridge earthquake, so after a search in the junk box I managed to find all the parts to fire it up. A can of beans was opened and quietly set on the burner--three minutes later the stove exploded, sending flames of perdition all about my body. Fortunately the worse part of the experience was singed hair. My new neighbors just sat and shook their heads and although they spoke low German, it was obvious to me what they were saying.

The spot I wanted to set up camp soon opened to new campers, though I was told that area would remain closed for the weekend. Everyone who came to enjoy the festival all settled into the new campsite leaving me alone with the Mennonites, who hurried to the phone booth in order to call their friends to come watch the crazy lady. The sounds of laughter and merriment of the other campground did little to cover the low German tongue wagging.

Later that afternoon I walked down to the Bluegrass festival. A grand time was had by all but myself. At last count I had one wet sleeping area, one blown up Coleman stove, one dog who forgot she was housebroke, one empty rumbling stomach and of course one nosy set of neighbors complete with German talking friends. After the festival I walked back to my campsite, built a bonfire, then it rained.

The next morning arrived with the promised sunshine. The solar warmth felt like such a blessing since jungle rot started to set in on my soaked feet. A look about my campsite was depressing. The clothes were wet and dirty and looked like they belonged to a vagrant who slept under a bridge. Uncooked food sat about for the flies to feast on and for myself, well the smell of burnt hair still followed me around. My dignity fell to an all time low so I headed into the nearest large town and found a Wal Mart to replace my stove and to pick up a hot pizza.

Eternally optimistic, my spirit continued onward now that hot food had been reintroduced into my weekend diet. Another day of camping had yet to unfold before me. Things will change I promised myself. The rest of the day became painfully insufferable as I found ants had moved into the tent looking for crumbs of potato chips. I had it up to here (can you see my hand) so like any calm camper I gleefully went to the pay phone to call about a camper I saw for sale. The owners came down to the campground but a price offered was not a price accepted so I returned to my much hated tent, cooked supper and returned to the festival and hob-nobbed till late into the night.

Midnight found me back at the campsite. The Mennonite couple and their crowd of onlookers had pulled sometime during the evening. I sat there feeling down and alone. What a weekend. This lady never took out her mandolin, never wrote a story, never cracked a book and certainly never foraged for high-bush cranberries. With no regrets I broke camp a day early. Still God had mercy on me. On my way out the owner booked a fall show and plans were laid for a storytelling festival for the next summer.

The leaky tent and camping gear were once again packed in the back of my Eddie Bauer Edition Ford. My basset dog and I took a leisurely ride home following back roads, the only compass was the sun. It gave me time to think about the next storytelling festival and the book deal that would likely come about if I could just...see there I go again. Sigh, a legend in my own mind.

DEATH, RESURRECTION & OH DEAR GOD PLEASE HELP ME

2007-07-08T11:09:00.000-04:00

For an adult, understanding death can be a difficult subject to comprehend. Death is a mystery. After all we don't travel between life and the great hereafter on a regular basis. To complicate matters--what we read in the Bible may be more frightful than a hair-raising novel, especially when you are of tender age.

By tender age I am not referring to an six-year-old with an over-taxed imagination, but a 12 year old with a heart that desired to know and understand God, especially why in the world He allowed death to become so confusing.

Funerals were always number one on my list of mind messers. To understand you must walk back to an age when what you heard oft' times did not correspond to what was being spoken.

The pain of death became reality one chilly autumn morning when my parents received a call stating Grandpa Johanson died in his sleep. Although both grandparents on my mother's side passed on, it didn't rip into the very inner being of my heart like Grandpa Nels death. He taught me how to catch a fish with a cane pole while his stories of the "old country" kept me riveted to his side for hours

My parents had the car packed long before supper and off to Iowa we drove, not with the great excitement of summer vacation. This was a solemn journey back home. Soon after arriving we were ushered into funeral home, heavy with the scent of flowers, along with a blend of other unusual and unidentifiable odors.

The organist played a long itinerary of solemn and depressing songs as if we needed to have our sad hearts primed for even more pain. I gazed upon the bronze colored casket where Grandpa lay. Behind me the sounds of women softly weeping could be heard along with men clearing their throats as they attempted to ease their uncomfortable feelings.

After a melody of Rock of Ages and Nearer My God To Thee, Pastor Erickson stepped to the pulpit, and there sat myself, so much in need of answers--but the next thirty-five minutes brought bombardments of fear and horrid visions as the word of God turned on me. I could hardly catch my breath.

The pastor started out by reading The 23rd Psalm. "The Lord is my Shepherd I shall not want.." There it was, that horrible verse! "I shall not want the Lord, my shepherd." Over and over the verse reverberated in my mind, "I shall not want." As it struck home a loud gasp came from my mouth, which was returned by a jab in the side from my brother.

"Didn't you hear what that man just said?" I asked. A shhh! from dad resulted in another jab in the side.

Reality unraveled from that point on as I sunk further into fear. The 23rd Psalm went on to say, "He maketh me to lie down in green pastures." Now I ask you, have you ever tried to make a 12 year-old do anything? Besides, we didn't want a shepherd any more so why lay around in some pasture when we had to find our own way to heaven?

No wonder everyone looked so somber and ashen around me. So here we are, passed away from one life to what the Bible claimed was another. "From dust we came and to dust we go," started making sense. Obviously we were destined to get dusted in the great by and by.

In reality the 23rd Psalm did contain a few particles of comfort, but what about this Valley of the Shadow and Death? Oh my, dying just can not be any blessing whatsoever. Besides you didn't dare get hungry because you table was prepared right in front of your enemies.

Pastor Erickson finished the Psalm with a grisly illustration of my head being dipped in oil and the way things sounded when you ran to get a drink of water, the spigot wouldn't shut off and the cup ran over. Who, pray tell, would wallop me for that one.

The pastor closed his Bible, proceeded to tell the story of my grandparent's journey to the new country, his years owning a Standard Oil station and his successful farming ventures. Then he asked us to repeat with him the Apostle's Creed.

Things went fine until we got to the part about judging the quick from the dead. So tell me, just how fast must you run to keep ahead of death. I looked over my shoulder, knowing for certain death was stalking me, only to see cousin sticking his tongue out. Now, this was a good time for the quick to judge him.

I was not sure whether I wanted to release Grandpa to Jesus. He was better off down here working the farm. And what did I have to look forward to? After all, angelic behavior did not become me. So many promises in the Bible, so many great illustrations, why did this pastor blow the whole illusion?

Obviously many changes occurred in my theology as I have grown older. A little semicolon in the first verse readjusted my thinking. "The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want." The green pastures and still waters are now a welcome oasis in a busy confused world. Death is no longer an enemy, but a reward for weary earth bound pilgrims.

I learned the oil is the spirit of my Lord being poured on weary bodies to soften the callous places where this dry and dusty world have worked us over. The table prepared before my enemies? How glorious to fellowship with the Great Master while your enemies look on and find themselves powerless to break that tender moment when you sup with the Lord Jesus.

Most of I all I realized, yes, I did miss Grandpa. He was a giant of as man. His hands were big enough to pick me up and toss me into the hay or grab a plow and hitch it to a tractor. But his hands were only human and soon became old and frail, as will ours someday.

Yet there is one whose hands are truly big enough to pick me up when I fall and gentle enough to protect as a father should. His heart, so big, it burst on the cross 2,000 years ago. Not the cross of death, but the cross of eternal life of which we all can share. That's pretty big.

That is the "Lord who is my shepherd: and because of Him I shall not want."

The Day Finneous Fell From The Sky

2007-05-24T15:05:00.000-04:00

IN THE BEGINNING

During the early years of the previous century some relatives on my dear mothers side, God rest her soul, migrated west from Kentucky into Illinois only to get rather confused and and mistakenly head back east to the lower regions of Ohio. There, mind you, the Kentucky pilgrims experienced some of man’s extraordinary achievements not generally seen back home, such as the new mode of transportation for the everyday human being--the automobile which replaced the horse, the mule and to some degree the railroad. More stupendous yet, aviation was just beginning to, excuse the expression, sprout wings.

In larger cities around Ohio an occasional bi-wing or dirigible could be observed creating headways into the heavens, but one must remember only a few years earlier from the time my family settled in the untamed Ohio wilderness, the Wright Brothers accomplished what man only once dreamed of. Since that inspiring day only modest improvements had been made to the design of the aereoplane. The stratosphere was still an open frontier for both the brave and the foolish.

According to unsubstantiated stories handed down to me, my great Uncle Finneous, a short, fiery red haired, Irishman whose only wardrobe consisted of Osh Kosh coveralls, considered himself an inventor of sorts. For reasons unknown he settled away from the remaining "confused" Kentuckians and settled into a mixed Irish, German community known as Plumwood, slightly west of Columbus, where he felt a man such as himself could find the respect due him for his mechanical wizardry.

One notion in particular drove Finneous and that was to revamp the aereoplane and bring to it the dignity of the common automobile. In the study of physics, early pioneers of flight realized gravity still had the upper hand over man. Finneous understood just one thing-- an aircraft had to have both propulsion for a successful takeoff and enormous horsepower to keep said object from crashing back to earth. Physics occupied no part in his reasoning. He felt gliding through the sky on currents of warm air, hoping with all ones might that the gasoline engine had the stamina to keep running, kept daredevils electrified.

All that aviation tomfoolery was fine enough for the common thinker and wayward inventors. Lodged deep in the imaginative sector of Finneous’s brain, was an idea that kept him awake many a night. Why not, he thought, build an aerosedan complete with the comforts of side curtains and luxurious upholstery. It just so happened my great uncle had just the vehicle to start with–a late model 1923 Packard he acquired after the beautiful coach met an unfortunate encounter with a steam locomotive. Most of the body survived but the front wheels and engine ended up sinking into a large stone quarry.

THE MIND CAN BE A DANGEROUS PLACE TO LIVE

Systematically he stripped the once luxurious coupe of all unnecessary road equipment that had no business flying over the heads of local citizens. My great uncle then began to fabricate wings, struts, propellers and other aeronautical equipment from parts strewn about the farm and local junkyards.

Although he tried to keep his project a secret, fear soon spread about the area by yet another recent addition to the community–radio station KUR, which made a point to broadcast the ongoing progress of what the announcers dubbed "Finneous’s Packarplane." Even the best oral rendition of his ornate flying machine left the locals conjuring up mental images of huge winged monstrosities created only to scare both delicate women and uppity livestock by crashing mercilessly into houses with blazing fires. Several poorly designed dirigibles found similar fate and were little trusted by Ohio residents. It didn’t take long before signs started cropping up along the gravel road leading to Finneous’s farm stating, "God is in the heavens and He has not invited us there,"or "Save our cows from falling cars."

On blustery days Finneous would tow his aereocar to the highest elevation of his farm to see how the craft would react in the wind. During one particular mid-summer thunderstorm, the tail section lifted suddenly and heaved the test vehicle down the hill. When station KUR reported the unfortunate accident on the Gleaming White Laundry Noon News, the calamity only increased the towns paranoia.

This flaw caused Finneous to make a major correction in the tail section but another problem arose in the wing supports. He discovered strong updrafts had a tendency of yanking off the doors which held the flexible struts that connected the wings to the body. The disgruntled scientist feared moving the wings closer to the front would add an unbalancing amount of weight to the front, since an engine, if he ever found one, would likely cause a terrible nosedive once in the air.

As the flaws were somehow discovered and revealed by drug-store-detective and radio announcer Virgil McGiffle on his, "Afternoon Livestock and Community Interest Report," the anger amongst the towns folks increased to the point Finneous deceivingly reported to Virgil his project had been abandoned and he was going to put his energy into building a lightning driven power plant that would store enough electricity to run a farm for nearly a year. A collective sigh could be heard across Plumwood.

Finneous pulled the dismantled plane into the barn and behind locked doors studied the wing layout. It suddenly struck him as he puffed away on his Prince Albert filled pipe to relocate the wings under the car body, a design not yet attempted by other aviators. He quickly disassembled the flawed setup and crafted new wings which attached to the underbelly of the pillaged Packard.

Not to be foolhardy enough to bring the "Packarplane," back to the test hill, Finneous had to rely on the luck of the Irish to see if his design would work. If the lower wing design leaked out to aviation companies, the hopes of a patent would be destroyed. Now the craft sat camouflaged behind the horse stalls while the enormous task of finding an engine powerful enough to lift his six passenger plane into the sky was underway.

MEANWHILE BACK AT THE RANCH

A year now passed away since Plumwood’s Packarplane frenzy. Virgil’s radio program found new problems to address as local citizens suddenly had to deal with the sobering headaches of prohibition. Added to the misery of no beer, the womenfolk were running about in near panic with the news of Rudy Valentino’s death that August. The Columbus Dispatch reported numerous suicides across the nation, forcing the local officials to close down the only picture show establishment in a twenty mile radius in order to protect the faint and foolish damsels of the region.

Back at his barn, Finneous took note about the rumors of retired racing legend Barney Oldfield having several souped up racing engines sitting about his garage in Wauseon, so he jumped in the car and after a long grueling day of traversing muddy roads he arrived at the shop of ol’ Barney himself. Finneous made it plain to Barney that money was tight and investors nonexistent so the ability to pay top dollar for one of his supercharged engines was impossible–but if the Aereo Coach, as my great uncle so named it, flew, he promised to cut the racing legend in on the ground floor. Well anyone crazy enough to race around a brick oval at speeds exceeding 80 miles-per-hour was crazy enough to listen to Finneous. And so, with a handshake an undisclosed amount of money, an engine was procured.

It didn’t take long for my great uncle to fit the supercharged Mercedes engine into the frame of the old Packard and somehow retool the power plant to accommodate a huge wooden propeller. Now you readers are going to have to trust me on this for I know absolutely nothing about aircraft design. All I can do is best describe what came rolling out of the barn that early October. I do though remember my grandmother’s description

The Aereo Coach had a length of 45 feet. The tail section, riveted from the back seat on, was a wood frame wrapped in canvas with corrugated tin roofing for a tail. The rudders were connected to the cockpit with clothesline rope and bailing wire. The cab, as mentioned earlier, was a chopped down Packard complete with leather seats, glass windshield and front and rear doors. The wood and canvas wings, each about 15 feet long, were secured below the running board with angle iron and numerous bolts. The front cowl, consisted of several revamped Model T Ford hoods with slotted openings on both sides for extra cooling. A large manifold pipe protruded through the lower part of the fame and across the running board. To top it off the Aero Coach sported a red, white and blue paint job.

Finneous planned to dub his Aero Coach, "The Calvin Coolidge," after the current president but his birthplace in Plymouth Vermont made him to much of a Yankee for my great uncles liking, so he christened it "The Warren G. Harding," named after the former president who was of Ohio decent, a Yankee by most standards, but he felt this name might help him find favor with local investors.

After tethering down the plane with a logging chain and firing up the engine several times at full throttle, he felt the Aereo Coach had the wherewithal to lift himself and five passengers off the ground and fly to Columbus, located about 30 miles due east of Plumwood. His only problem now was securing four passengers for the maiden flight without raising the suspicions of the local townsfolk.

LIFTOFF PERHAPS

Finneous sat down with a lead pencil and scratched out some figures on the back of a cereal box. An average man, he reasoned, weighed about 145 pounds each so he tossed a few bags on concrete and an old engine block wrapped in burlap in to the back seat. Most importantly he needed a navigator to occupy the seat next to him. Recalling the confused family members who forgot east from west, Finneous decided the directional mistake could not be made on the maiden voyage.

My great uncle took time that chilly autumn day to chase down his old friend Ramon Kringhoffer who was a WWI aviator with little to no navigational experience but he once bragged he could find his way through a darkened mine shaft with his eyes closed. After an afternoon of arm twisting and, like Oldfield, Kringhoffer was given a chance to get in on the ground floor, the flight was scheduled for Saturday morning.

My now, aviator industrialist, great uncle spent Saturday morning, checking and rechecking cables, ropes, bolts and any other part that may fail him in flight. In the last minute he decided to chuck the cement bags and engine block and throw two sows in the backseat instead. As he checked the air pressure in the tires he noticed the clock ticking away on the barn wall. He made it clear to Kringhoffer that takeoff had to take place at 9:30 and already the clock read half-past-ten and soon the residents of Plumwood would be moving about. This spelled disaster. One neighbor about a mile from the farm swore he would ground the flying monster with a 12 gauge to protect the fine city and all the peace loving people living there.

Finneous had given up on Kringhoffer and started to drain the fuel when the newly commissioned navigator stumbled into the barn, unshaven and a bit disoriented from a secluded Oktoberfest he attended the previous evening. My great-uncle’s urgency to take flight overruled common sense and after forcing a freshly brewed pot of Chase and Sanborn down Kringhoffer’s throat, he fired up the Warren G. Harding Aero Coach, and taxied down the gravel road, hoping to get the late morning breeze behind his patriotic painted flying machine.
With dust and gravel flying and the ear-splitting thunder from the super-charged Mercedes engine, the Aero Coupe accelerated down the road and after a several bumps that unfortunately caused great fear amongst the sows, so much that they bolted out the back doors and headed back to the farm, which in turn caused a sudden reduction of the weight of the load, which then generated a sharp and sudden uplifting of the Aero Coach and off the two men soared into the cloudy wild blue yonder.

Kringhoffer, who was still a bit blue in the gills from a night of drinking bathtub beer yelled to Finneous to abort the flight but to no avail, the Aero Coach was up and hopefully heading east. Finneous had his hands full with the rudders, watching the fuel gauge and grabbing on to parts which worked lose on takeoff, let alone watch for landmarks. Kringhoffer felt assured they were going the right direction but could not attest to that because of low clouds and the hangover caused him to drop his compass under the seat.

WHAT GOES UP MUST COME DOWN

According to his flight charts they should know in 15 minutes but Finneous only had enough fuel for 25 minutes . He regained control of the unpredictable flying machine and lowered the plane to about 100 feet, just high enough to fly safely over the tallest trees and newly erected radio towers. After 10 minutes into the flight fear stabbed Finneous in the heart as he passed over the Buckeye Lake Reservoir on the far east side of Columbus, After several minutes of arguing over the location of the reservoir versus the Delaware River, Finneous decided to loop back around and head northwest to determine the location of the Columbus Airstrip. The pitch of the Aero Coach’s turn caused the fuel to run to the side of the tank and the engine began to sputter.

The new aviators had two choices--attempt a three point landing on the National Highway and wipe out the Saturday traffic heading in and out of Columbus or head for Buckeye Lake and pray their lives be spared. Finneous wiped the sweat from his brow and chose the lake. As the Aero Coach continued to sputter he attempted to steer the awkward flying machine to the lake where the Columbus Christian Temperance Union was about to set up a picnic lunch.

The picnic shelter had colorful, patriotic banners spread all about the building along with the pies, chicken dinners and of course, German potato salad assembled along the benches and tables. After a rousing sermon from Mrs Spunkbaiter, the ladies all headed for their baskets of delectable goods when a screaming Warren G. Harding Aero Coach, descended from the heavens.

The Columbus Dispatch so eloquently described it as such in the Sunday paper, "All that was left on the picnic grounds was shredded chicken, pulverized pies and busted assortment of wheels, canvas wings and Packard parts. Fortunately the fine ladies of the Temperance Union, as well as the crazed aviators, escaped serious injuries, but less could be said for the airplane which got another burst of fuel and thrust its decrepit frame into the chilly waters of Buckeye Lake. Onlookers said it bobbed in the water several times then sunk into the murky grave of Buckeye Lake."

Now to this day history has recorded the beginning of the airlines starting in the glorious year of 1926 with a company called Aeromaritime which flew passengers between Miami and Havana to escape prohibition. Soon came the big corporations such a Trans World Airlines, United Airlines and Pan American. Ford entered its own plane into history with the legendary Ford Tri-motor that raced passengers between Ohio and New York at unheard of speeds up to 113 miles-per-hour.

FINIS

Great Uncle Finneous had no idea how fast they flew that nerve-wracking day but he still claimed to his death that he, and he alone, created the first airline between Plumwood and the resort spot known as Buckeye Lake. In fact great old Finneous also maintained he developed the first seaplane. I am not so sure history has been so kind to him and to this day there is no statue of Finneous nor a plaque honoring his flight into the heavens over Central Ohio.

ARIZONA HIGHWAYS AND A COWGIRLS DREAM

2007-04-24T21:32:00.000-04:00

With winters frigid hand being removed from my sluggish brain I finally have regained a sense of urgency to pen my memoirs. Unlike a famous president or a ding bat celebrity, my adventures will never make it much past my grave, but whilst alive someone should endure my escapades.

Somewhere in the late 90's when the gold rush settled down..,ooops wrong century. Somewhere in the late 90's , before I mistakenly edged my way back to Ohio, I concluded city living--Los Angeles–had undertaken its best shot to drive me batty, so I hitched up my Ford and headed east as to escape the masses.

I don’t know if it was the spirit of ancestral chieftains or glossy magazine ads but somehow I found myself in Sedona, ala Aquarius, Arizona. I planed to spend several days staring at the inspirational red rocks and listening to the peaceful babbling brooks that Sedona is so famous for--but sadly my escapades starts here.

During my numerous years out west I found a cornucopia of restaurants that served absolutely great food whether it was a three star establishment or a cast iron kettle baking up a delectable sunrise over a campfire of mesquite wood, but this day all I wanted was simple plate of biscuits and gravy to help me return to life after the long drive to the land of crystals and aged hippies.

The locals, who sat about meditating all day, hoping their extraterrestrial vibes would somehow converge on the gift shop, recommenced Cosmic Connies for a great breakfast. So I, the tired traveler, ambled into the new age cowboy hangout and as I perused the menu, the closest I could find to the biscuitx and gravy breakfast was the Solstice Special for $18.95.

Understand now, I was born and raised a farm gal and to this day I love a breakfast that slaps you in the face and says get off your butt and go slop the hogs, bring down 20 bales of hay and plow the back 40 before lunch. In other words give me lots of caffeine, eggs smothered in Tabasco sauce and a good slab of homemade bread slathered with a ton of preserves. A full throttle breakfast is what we are talking here.

So as I sat up to the counter and planted my rear on the red vinyl stool to order this Solstice Special I looked about for a bottle of hot sauce with nothing in sight. Soon my speculative, philosophical, metaphysical waitress, covered with crystals and assorted tropical beads, brought me a plate, made from natural red clay, of simulated victuals.

The waitress kindly took time to explain to me what delicacies lie before me. First, the two large objects in the middle were biodegradable-tofu-based hot cakes covered with trade free maple syrup from hungry foresters in Vermont. The egg-like substances, she explained were earth-friendly, a concoction of Marigolds, virgin olive oil and several other secret ingredients to give one an egg-like taste. The coffee, she told me, came from organic oak bark with a sprinkle of chicory.

"Just don’t stare it down and your mind will convince you it is the real deal, your conscience will thank you and so will the little critters of the woodlands," she remarked.

After dipping one of her many crystals in my oak bark coffee, she handed me the outrageous bill for the breakfast that followed me around for the rest of the day. Fortunately the Grand Canyon beckoned me and Cosmic Connie, her earth food and Sedona became little more than a slight gastric distraction.

After a day of burning off rolls of Kodachrome at the Canyon, the early spring day soon came to a close and I returned to my noisy burrow in Flagstaff. Somehow, the railroad across the street didn’t seem quite as noisy when I checked in. Never-the-less, I grabbed the collection of real estate catalogues I picked up at assorted stops about the area. Sadly I discovered a small little cabin anywhere near this quaint old rail town started around 450 Grand. No way could a starving writer who plyed herself off as a two bit recording studio gal afford this wonderful Arizona town.

Just as my heavy eyes were about to close up shop for the evening I discovered cowgirl Navarna in a ragged old real estate propaganda pamphlet. Early the next morning the bags were tossed in my old Ford and I headed back west about 50 miles or so searching for the Arizona Himalayan paradise the article promised.

I pulled down off the two lane onto the main street of the dusty Arizona town and when I found the real estate office I quickly pulled into the parking lot. But, when the Realtor saw my California plates she figured me for a city slicker and attempted to lock me out. Didn’t work. Then she yelled through the door in a fake western accent, "Sorry ma’am, we ain’t got no water here ‘bouts so ya got ta carry your water in from town."

"Fine," I said.

"Well this is country here and some folks take a penchant to rollin’ over cars in their front yard."

"Fine," I repeated, "just as long as they don’t roll my car over, after all what people do in their front yard is no business of mine."

She slowly started to trust me, but had to give it one more anti-California test.

"Grab your coat and we’ll go look at some land," the Realtor said.

We jumped into her pickup and went looking at some pretty rough terrain where even the ground squirrels used ropes to climb the rocks. I fell in love with the area and found five acres that suited my purpose.

As we headed back she pulled off the blacktop to show me an old cemetery. Somehow I felt there had to be a purpose behind her going to the rusty gated area where old tombstones popped up above the prairie grass. She rolled down the window and pointed to the oldest section of the graveyard.

"There lie the three most notorious cowboys ever to live in our area–Two Finger Pete, The Diaper Kid and Whiskey Breath Wilson."

At the other edge of the cemetery I noticed seven or eight fresh unmarked graves. I asked a little hesitantly, who occupied those spots.

"Oh those. Them were some city folks who stopped down at the local bar, put a quarter in the juke box, played Achy Breaky Heart ,then had the audacity to start line dancin’. Had to shoot em."

I joyfully yanked my checkbook out and forgot about the five acres and instead bought 40 of the roughest, meanest terrain I ever lived on. I couldn’t believe my luck. Cowboy boots, pickups, pancakes made with flour, real coffee and best of all, no line dancers.

The next morning I headed back west on Rt 66. My mind literary raced with ideas on building my mountain dream home and wondering if my near 50 (ha!) body could withstand the altitude and hard work. I pulled into my driveway late that night and picked up the local rag I wrote for and noticed in big headlines, "Fun Center Soon To Open In Valencia."

Among the numerous ideas for this big city "funatorium" was a Line Dancing Palace. My Lord in heaven, what did I come home to. Now Soccer moms from all about the valley had the opportunity to squeeze into their size 14 Levis, $200 phony cowboy boots and shake their achy breaky booties.

By the way, you don’t mind my asking--they don’t shoot yuppie line dancers, do they?

THIS DAY OF THIS MONTH IS THE YEAR I FEAR

2007-04-19T22:23:00.000-04:00

Much like the dreaded tax day for wage earners, April holds an icy grip on my life. This mournful month is often accused of providing rain for the following flowery month, but seldom told is the story of how a measly flip of the calender page tosses me into another year of my life.

This Twilight Zone type of symbolism is, in laymen’s term, is referred to as a birthday. Some cultures, I am told, start with the day of conception which would make me just three months away from the dreaded *0, so with a sigh of relief I can sit back and start the countdown of 365 days until that *0'th birthday.

Please, dear readers, tell me how this day has befallen me. I feel like only yesterday I was given a piece of paper informing the world this gal was legal to drive on all highways, both gravel and super-four-lanes, then a thousand and ten years later was handed a diploma stating I fulfilled the requirements by the State of Ohio to no longer attend public school.

Now in the twinkling of an eye my life slid at an incalculable rate to the unspeakable age of *9. In that twinkling of an eye I moved from crank phones, outdoor potties, to cell phones and bidets with Muzak.

Truth be known, I grew up in an environmental cataclysm in our industrialized nation where air was dirty and the water smelled like death and one drink would satisfy that request. The Cuyahoga River burned like the doors of hell were thrown open and acid rain fell on our car finishes which would destroy in 30 minutes what Earl Scheib would take all day to paint.

So what is all the yammering about. Do I feel neglected? Not really. The gray hair–neatly hidden and wrinkles, also neatly hidden are badges of courage. I don’t have carpel tunnel from my youthful days of cranking grandmas phone in that little farmhouse in Iowa, nor did anyone ever have to dig me out of the backhouse sludge, which was a horrid fear of any child forced to take the long walk to relive oneself.

I also survived the worse climatological era since WWII. Alvin Gore has nothing, absolutely nothing to hold a card to in today’s pristine environment. If the icecaps survived the 50's and 60's, believe me, they will survive our present age.

Still that is not what this day is about. For once it is about me and nobody else. Today I don’t have to celebrate anyone else’s life or achievements. I survived many wars, both cold and hot. I survived polio, mumps, whooping cough, scarlet fever and all other childhood diseases, almost unheard of nowadays that came through my neighborhood. Some laid me low for a season, others never touched me

There were other disasters that I somehow avoided or came out on the winning side of. This essay is not about listing Micheala's disasters. You may also notice an abundant use of the "I" factor in this article. Why not, it is my birthday and I (there we go again) will use me, or "I" as much as I (there we go again) want. After all I (sigh) survived *9 years and dagnabit, it is a good thing.

Perhaps when I am *9, ten years from now I will rewrite his little ditty. So forgive my use of the little astrik (*) throughout this page, after all a computer never tells a woman’s age.

SUNFLOWER OATMEAL BREAD

2007-02-17T16:16:00.000-05:00

I recently tore this recipe out of a magazine at the doctors office. After moving it all around my desk, I finally decided to try it. For you bakers you can create your own shortcuts, but if you are not a expert at baking, just follow on through. It is gooood!

1 1/4 cups warm water (105 to 115 degrees)
1 Pkg dry yeast ( 21/4 tsp)
pinch of sugar

1 1/4 cup warm buttermilk
1/4 cup honey
2 Tbsp Molasses
2 Tbl butter at room temp.
1 cup whole wheat flour
1 cup old fashion oats
3/4 cup raw sunflower seeds
1 egg beaten
2 tsp salt
5 1/4–5 3/4 cups all purpose flour
1 egg beaten

In a medium bowl combine water, yeast and sugar. Let stand for 10 minutes. In a another bowl stir in buttermilk, honey, molasses and butter.

In a very large bowl stir together whole wheat flour, 1 cup of oats, sunflower seeds, beaten egg and salt.. Add the yeast mixture and buttermilk mixture. Beat with an electric mixture for 3 minutes on medium to high speed.

Stir in as much of the all purpose flour as you can with a wooden spoon. Turn out onto a floured surface and knead in the remaining flour as needed to make a moderately stiff dough that is smooth and elastic (about 5 minutes)

Cover and let rise until doubled. Punch down dough, divide into three portions and let rest for 10 minutes. Shape each portion into a round loaf. Place loafs on a greased baking sheet. Cover and let rise until nearly doubled. Brush with remaining egg; sprinkle with reaming oats

Bake in a 375 degree oven for 30 to 35 minutes or until bread sounds hollow when tapped. When finished place on baking rack to cool. Cool before slicing.

YES ARNIE, THERE REALLY IS A SANTA CLAUS

2007-01-01T17:53:00.000-05:00

Because of an unexpected hospital visit my Christmas stories never made it to the cafe in time. But, here we are, so sit down and have a cup of coffee as I tell you about this time.....

A damp, frigid December wind blew across the parking lot of the I-40 Food and Fuel Truck Stop. Disillusioned, Arnie Erickson snubbed out the cigarette on the chipped glass ashtray that sat on the faded yellow Formica counter top.

Arnie swore off cigarettes a months ago, but today seemed to be a good time to return to bad habits. About the time his life could find no lower point, a cockroach walked across the counter, stopped and looked at Arnie's greasy grilled cheese sandwich then continued nonchalantly on his journey. Even the traveling cockroach found the greasy sandwich depressing.

There he sat, two lousy days before Christmas and not a single piece of freight could be found anywhere, let alone heading near Rock River, Minnesota. Truck driving was now more irritating than the new ulcer he found wearing away at his digestive tract. The though of sharing Christmas dinner with detestable cockroaches in some God forsaken Missouri hole-in-the-wall truck stop brought more gas pains than the day old 7-11 chili dog he battled with last summer.

Arnie nervously spun a worn out quarter on the counter. He pondered his choices, drop the quarter in the small chrome juke box that stared at him from behind his coffee cup or get up and make a phone call. He opted for the juke box. He dropped the quarter in the small slot and pressed A9 on the little red buttons hoping to hear Wolf Creek Pass, instead hit Red Solvine's sorrowful rendition of "I'll Be Home For Christmas."

"That's it," he yelled in a rather quiet shout, but loud enough to evoke a small bit of laughter from a few weary travelers in a nearby booth. He pushed the greasy remains of the sandwich and fries aside and headed for the phone room.

Arnie's only hope for a Christmas with his wife and three year-year-old daughter rested on the magic words from his dispatcher, "Put ‘er in the wind and come on home." But the voice on the other end just told him the words every truck driver has heard a million times before, "Put it to bed and call me in the morning.".

He slammed down the phone on the receiver and headed for the men's room. After a splash of cold water on his face, he looked at the reflection in the mirror, scowled at his sorrowful face and walked back to his ‘89 Kenworth. The wind tore at his body as he turned his collar up and headed to his red and black home.

"A tough guy ain't suppose to cry, so I ‘m not calling home," he grumbled as he climbed up into the truck..

Arnie pushed the key into the ignition while the diesel engine stubbornly turned over and finally kicked with a belch of white smoke catching the wind and blowing low to the ground. After waiting for the temperature gauge to slowly crawl up he turned on the heater, grabbed a hunting magazine and crawled into the sleeper. Sleep soon overtook his depression.

Angie kept busy putting up Christmas decorations. They both talked numerous times about their dream of selling the truck, buying a lake cabin back in the woods and starting a guide service for fishermen. This night she could care less if the truck up and died a thousand deaths.

When the phone rang she dropped everything, praying the person on the other end had to be Arnie, who in reality was sound asleep somewhere in the middle of Missouri. It turned out to be her mother from Eau Claire, Wisconsin. She said the weather forecaster promised the roads would be clear, but the temperature was going to fall to 15 below. "If all went right we will leave about six in the morning," her mother said.

"Great," Angie said with a false sound of joy. "I expect Arnie home about the same time." She hung up the phone and nearly screamed, but remained silent and strong as not to scare Amber, the child who believed in dreams of Christmas soon to come.

For what seemed the one millionth time she pulled the Polar Express down off the shelf and led Amber off to bed. "If only dreams did come true," Angie muttered to herself. "If only."

After praying for daddy, getting a good tuck in along with her three dolls and a ragged old stuffed dog, plus a few pages read from the Express, the young dreamer fell off to sleep. Angie walked out to the fireplace, looked at all the decorations and cried.

The hunting magazine fell to the floor of the sleeper. The rustle of the crisp pages made just enough noise to wake the other distant sleepyhead. Arnie felt very lightheaded and for a moment struggled to think where he was at. A quick glance at the watch reminded him it was 10:45 in nowhere Missouri.

"Oh crap,' he yelled, "Angie is going to kill me." Grabbing his jacket he jumped out the door of his cab and bolted for the truck stop and ran right smack into a portly old gentleman.

Arnie knew he must be suffering from delusional food poisoning after seeing the old man, who now had his haunches firmly on the ground. The old man was big. Not only that, but he had an awesome white beard that neatly curled down to his chest. "Nah," he thought as he helped the old man back to his feet. "It couldn't be him, but he sure would make a good double."

"Sorry old-timer, I kinda dozed off and forgot to call my wife back in Minnesota. Man she's gonna kill me."

"Minnesota," the old man asked inquisitively. "I don't suppose you're going that way anytime soon, are you?"

Arnie figured this guy was trying to hit him up for a ride so he hemmed and hawed around for a bit.

"I'm not really sure, won't know until tomorrow at best," Arnie told him.

The red faced old man dusted himself off and the two walked slowly back to the half deserted truck stop.

The old man patted him on the back. "Well that's to bad young fella. Headin' in for a cup of hot chocolate, won't ya join me. Hopin' to find an empty truck goin' up that way. You see I got me this load...."

"Don't tell me, let me guess. You got this load of toys, right," laughed Arnie as he held the door opened. "Next I suppose you will tell me your old Santy Claus."

"Well I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Arnie. It is Arnie, isn't it? Why don't you just call me S.C. Most do ya know. Now about that load, I gotta know right now, got me some animal problems and I'm in a real mess. I have less than two days..." The old man rambled on in a rather animated way, arms flying here, feet jumping there.

"Gadzooks, maybe I should go back to the truck and wake up," Arnie thought. "Gotta lay off those greasy sandwiches."

The old man sat down at the counter and started in again.

"You know, maybe I should buy me one of those diesel jobs. I bet a guy sure could move a lot of toys with one of them buggers. You wouldn't consider trading your rig for a lake cabin? You see, I got tangled up with a guy who owed me a bundle for some raw material and when he couldn't pay up, well he gave me this lake cabin. You see, you don't mess around with ol' S.C. I been around for a while you know."

Arnie just sat there and listened to the old man ramble on. He knew he had to make that phone but just couldn't pull himself away.

The old man finished his hot chocolate, wiped the milk off his mouth and beard with the corner of his sleeve then packed a little tobacco into his long stem pipe, lit up and leaned back with a very satisfied look on his face. He pointed the end of the pipe and looked Arnie straight in the eye and told him about the place.

"It tain't much of a cabin as far as cabins go. Only has four bedrooms, a sauna, boat house and 24 acres. To small for me, my animals need at least two hundred acres, besides to many hungry fishermen hangin' around, if you get my drift," the old man said nudging him on the shoulder.

The old man pulled out a bill of sale for a "89 Kenworth with a forty-eight foot dry box. He dug a little deeper and found an airline ticket to Duluth, deed for a cabin and nearly $24,000 cash. He let a laugh that nearly blew the napkins off the counter.

"Maybe I got a screw loose, but there is just so much I can take of them reindeer. So we got a deal or what?"

Arnie sat there in a daze. Somehow he knew better than say no. After all, you don't mess with ol' S.C. ya know. Arnie scribbled his name on the dotted line and ran to the bathroom for obvious reasons.

About three minutes later Arnie emerged from the men's room to find his belongings neatly piled by the door.

A little guy came up and said, "Come on now, we better hustle off to the airport. Don't bother calling home, your wife and daughter are on the way to the cabin to get it cleaned up before your in-laws arrive. The stupid elves were supposed to be there but you can't depend on them this time of year. At least they got the tree up before and the firewood...., oh bother, let's go."

"How did you know about my in-laws coming up," Arnie asked, grabbing his suitcase and shaving kit. "I never said a thing about them."

The little guy picked the rest of Arnie's belongings and started singing, "You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I'm telling you why, Santa Claus is coming to town. He knows what you been doing...."

Merry Christmas from Shelly's Cafe and Doorpost Productions

A HOLIDAY GREETING FROM AUNT SARAH AND UNCLE WILLY

2006-12-30T13:45:00.000-05:00

Some of our new readers may not know Aunt Sarah. She has been a faithful reader for many years but has sadly gotten busy and ignored us for a while. Her wit and husbands down home political insight has always amazed us

Dear Friens

I shur be haten to admit that it ben quite a long tim since I writ folks at Scrappleville and after the poleece came nockin on our door here bout a few weeks ago lookin for Ms, well I be thinkin just how we lost tuch with yall.

We spent a little time on the telerphone with the Edwards family talkin bout politics and such, beein pa knows bout much as any man here in Hindsville. They have a son Carter ya heard Shelly tell bout him at her cafe. It suddenly like hit me that Edwards folks had a son named Carter and we had a good kick bout that. Thing is the Edwards we know ain't got near as much hair and Carter doesnt know Israel from a peanut. But that is just like the other Carter to.

I keep readin bout that boy at the cafe place and figured a trip to Arkysaw wood do him a rat bit of good but the train don't run by here and I reckon he ain't got no car ta make it no wear nears. Pa sed we sure could use a place like Shellys here bouts, git some good yarnen goin for sure

So what me and pa been doin all these here days since? I be delited to tell ya now that pa been crowin all bout town. We sold the back 10 acers to a goverment experimenten place that studies a thing called glober warmering. Seemed like Clinton owed some money or somptin to Al Gore and insteed got him a grant to build this building full of imsterments of doo dads and sence they didnt want no onlookers starin about we sold them the only rode back thar.

Seence that day bout a yeer now pa had his hands full pullin gags and messen with them folks by paintin there windows with cyclone clouds, putting chicken droppins near there methain chekers and one day he set an ol dead mule with the bloat roun back where they check on air cwality here in Arkysaw.

One goverment man sed if things don't git better that chicken farmin will hafe ta go and Walmarts will buy up everthin insted and bein the folks here bout depens on chickens to pay thar rent we decided the mule had ta go.

We sold the Studebaker pikup to Jake Wildahan down in Gypsum Furnace last fall since parts were hard ta come by and be'en broken down ment no visitin and for pa, worse yet no goen ta Interational House of Pancakes. Pa found himself an old Dodge pickup over in Myrtle Ridge and though it were just a 65 model the tars all match up pretty well. My daughter that works for Arkysaw Bell, you know the one that got a job as a call girl, came by one day to drop off our granchild and pa put her back on the bus and sent her back to Little Rock. He didn like the childs big city ways cuz the kid was 12 and had no idear bout gettin wedded up anytam soon. Pa sed he didn wanna be supportin any old maids

We got a Christmas card from New York City. Seems since we own all this goverment area property all them politishuns thinks we are sumptin speshal. Hillary and that husbnd of hers sed they were wishin us the best and thinking bout us. Pa didn sleep for a week sittin on top of his Dodge waiten fer Bill but I finnly convinced him that probably at lest a hunderd others got that same card.

We got a new roof fer our house with the goberment money but pa really wanted a double wide but I told him I just couldnt move out of the old place since all are memries are here. We been thinkin hard bout pulling the barn back up from the slu also. Been down thar since the big flood 2 years back.

Well that's bout all ceptin our last visit up ta Fayetteville last wek to the Interational House of Cakes. Pa had his try at the latest speshal though I warned him better. It was called the New Deal Deal. Seems like it were to be steak and eggs but all we saw was pork and the more ya paid fer the less ya got. Pa were fit ta be tied and the waitress as uzual had a good laugh but filled him up with Buckwheat cakes now pa is rat happy.

He stopped over cross the street to se if theys were any of them highly polished educators hanging at the university but theys all home for Christmas. He brout home a protestor a few weeks back who sed things were deplorabe in Iraq but after stayin here a few days he sorta changed his mind and thought maybe things over there might be a bit better than here. Pa laughed and sed it worked evertime.

With all our love from wonderfull Arkysaw
Aunt Sarah and Uncle Willie

Welcome To The 2006 Eating Olympics

2006-12-26T09:39:00.000-05:00

Oh my dear readers, so many holiday stories that never made it to the pages of Shelly's. I may need to do catch-up way into January. sigh. But here we go--up and at 'em

Did I hear the word "misery," emanate from one's vocabulary? Ah yes, welcome to the 2006 Eating Olympics where contestants from all across America once again gather in homes to show the world we are not gastronomical wimps. This year's kick off started November and will end somewhere after the Orthodox Christmas in January.

Many of you who entered the Holiday Open with little or no training for this event are probably lying on the floor this morning holding your cramping stomachs wishing you had not partaken in the final 5 Meter Table Relays. That leg of turkey, hunk of ham, plate of cranberries, piece of pie, dish of applesauce and other multiple culinary delights our grubby little hands could grab onto has now separated the professionals from the amateurs.

The first sitting at the Thanksgiving table would have sufficed for most wanna-be contestants. The second helping, well, heck, it was a food orientated holiday, but those who made the round for the third time, guess you just thought you had would it took, huh. Come on folks, admit it, you surpassed last's years record so far by 135 grams of fat plus an additional 45 grams of sodium. For goodness sake, what where you thinking of. If you are going for the Holiday Gold, you better whip yourself into shape first.

Sure, there are some of you readers in Eating Olympic denial and can call out carb numbers like batting averages, but just look at your shopping list–sugar, chocolate chips, pecans, whipped topping, Crisco™, potato chips, sugar sprinkles, deep frying oil, butter, ham, pie filling, peanuts, cashews, corn syrup, wine, beer, Fluff™, pretzels with extra salt, more butter and oh yes, make that a 25 pound bag of sugar. Oh, and don't forget the caramels and while you are at it grab another pound of butter, just in case.

Walking through the store I notice the "novice," participant buying fresh fruit and veggies to camouflage calorie laden necessities. My advice to you weenies is this–if you are going to be a winner, look like a winner. Strut your stuff and don't be intimidated. Lift that bag of sugar, heave them hams and load up that cart with a sense of pride and purpose. Go for the taco chips, after all, you are an American, by God.

Yes folks, the 2006 Eating Olympics have begun and the Food Network is signed on for the World Finals. Truck load after truck load of work out supplies have been dropped off at favorite supermarkets and big case stores near you. Just like those dangerous fat robbing gyms, your local purveyor of calories has Muzak to better psych your mind. Songs like, "Tis the season to pack the pounds on, fa la la la la la la, will glide you through the toughest of obstacles.

For those who never made the grade in previous events here are a few secrets. First, it is not just the food. We have other means to hit our goal on the Holiday Plunge to the Pounds, like television entertainment. You got it, all our favorites return to the new exciting world of digital High-Def. Now how many times have you seen, "It's a Wonderful Life?" One more time will never hurt our training regimen–as a matter of fact, it will fit right in. So grab another bowl of buttered popcorn and sink down into that oh so, comfy couch. And hey aren't all the bowl games about to be aired! Tired of television, then go to the theater for all the new Christmas releases.

All right, you say, I'm hip to the waistline expansion program. So you run to the movies and hit the video stores with stacks of your all time favorites like Home Alone and Christmas Story, but you start sweating with horrid thoughts of mall shopping. True, it can be a calorie burner with all that walking. Give yourself a break. It is safer than you think. Just find the Otis Cookie counter, wash it down with a Coffee Castle double whipped café Ole and just watch your timing so you can hit the Double Cheeseburger Court before you are tempted to go home and nibble baked chicken and steamed broccoli.

Be judicious at this point. Fatigue can easily set in, so watch for that multiplex theater near the mall. You know there has to be at least one more movie you haven't seen, plus you been meaning to get that gift card for Uncle Seymour anyhow. Remember, the extra large barrel of popcorn has free refills and that salt, man how it makes us thirsty. You see, a good workout is really quite simple.

Alright, so you have been following my advice so far and you're one of a million Americans that keeps Alka Seltzer™ on tap. I bet there are more opportunities you have overlooked to set a new personal best. Have you looked at your Day Runner? Count them, one, two, three, ah five Christmas parties and those are just the office bashes. You can't forget the family get together and if you are married you can multiply that by two. Oh, feel that waist line begin to tighten–ya baby, you can do it!

Just remember this gastronomic event is the decathlon. If you are not ready, stay with the 40 calorie sprint or the low fat hurdles until you reach peak performance. For optimum results insert words like stationary and stagnant into your conversation. A little prep will eliminate the morning stomach cramps so focus, focus, focus. You are never alone. Find a work out partner and go for the Gold!!!

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF CARTER EDWARDS: PART DEUX-- CARTER BECOMES A BUSINESS TYCOON

2006-11-21T15:32:00.000-05:00

Part Deux

The clock struck high noon at the McComb County Courthouse as Carter steered his water-logged Buick into Bruford. After locating what seemed to be an ideal spot to start a poultry business, he parked the Carter's Fresh Turkeys, Inc vehicle, set up a paste board sign announcing fresh turkeys for sale and waited for customers to, excuse the wording, flock to his market

The crisp morning air soon gave away to autumn warmth as the sun poked through the valley fog. The afternoon temperatures climbed into the 60's, causing the crushed ice in the back seat to melt faster than Carter anticipated. The murky water flowed out the door, onto the warm pavement, then slowly formed a stream heading towards town square. A large swarm of flies found sudden delight in the crimson creek.

Carter sold two turkeys right off the bat. This he thought, had to be the big payoff he waited for all his life. Sixteen more sales and he could return to the poultry plant and repeat this transaction until every soul in Bruford had their Thanksgiving turkey–not just a turkey but a genuine Carter Edwards' Inc. Fresh Turkey. Within the hour he sold three more turkeys and the Crosby Diner, the home of his wayward-one-time–hoped-for girlfriend, bought four. Nine more to go, Carter thought, with a comforting sigh, as the warm afternoon sun made his eyes feel a little heavy. Nine more to go.

Carter jerked when he suddenly heard steps walking up from behind. There was a familiar sound to those steps, worse yet, a recognizable voice complaining about some jerk who parked a foul smellin' car on the street causing his Blue Tick hound to have nasaler type fits. That voice caused fear to run through his blood. He jumped from the seat of the Buick to confirm his suspicions. There stood gramps, leaning on his old hickory cane, eye to eye with Carter. Gramps greeted his grandson with an unmerciful whack across the legs. Carter fell to the ground in tormented pain.

"You stupid moron," Gramps yelled in his quaking elderly voice. "Why you ain't no smarter than your no account pa. Look at this mess you're a makin'. And where in tarnation did ya git that barge your drivin, what makes ya think ya got money ‘nuff to own the likes of that–why your probably breakin' your ma's heart actin like this."

"Well gee," Carter responded, "I only tried...."

"Shut up," Gramps yelled, as he took another swing at his grandson and hit the door of the Buick, causing it to fly open, allowing a deluge of water to cascade out. "Now get off the ground and stand up. Act like an Edwards, not like some kinda weasel. Stand up I said."

Carter grabbed the half-opened car door and pulled himself up, though he swore both legs were broke.

Gramps looked about at the mess. "Now the way I sees things, you must ah spent a king's ransom on these turkeys. Where did ya git that kind of money," he asked squinting at Carter through one eye and still threatening to wallop him with the hickory cane.

Before Carter could answer a crowd gathered about, taunting him to clobber the old man. A circus atmosphere surrounded the area as town folks placed bets on who was going to win this fight. Suddenly Eb Victor pushed into the throng and asked what in the world the commotion was about. Eb held the pastorate at the Bruford Church of Attempted Redemption.

Gramps took over the conversation. "I'm jist tryin' to beat some sense into this youngen', why jist look at this here mess he's ah makin. And besides, he ain't tellin' where he got the money to be buyin' all these turkeys.".

Eb looked at Carter with compassion. "Why he's just trying to make something out of his worthless existence here on earth. All God's children deserve at least once chance. Who knows, maybe selling turkeys will give this poor lost dreg at least a half of a chance of making it out of his miserable existence. Go ahead son, tell your poor confused old grandpa how you earned the money to invest in poultry futures."

"Come on son, git a talkin and tell me now where ya got the money and this better be good or I'll wail on ya until ya see stars," Gramps yelled, as he took another swing at Carter with his cane.

"Well," Carter spoke with his eyes looking to the ground. "I, I, well, I pawned off your Studebaker. But I'm gonna pay it back as soon."

"You what," yelled Gramps. "You pawned off my pickup. Why you no account son of a......"

Gramps lifted his cane to administer the coup' de grace when Pastor Eb wrestled it from his wiry old arms.

"Please, please now," Eb said. I'll show you compassion, as the angry clergyman set out to beat Carter within an inch of his life.

"Steal your poor ol' grandpa's Studebaker will ya. I take back all my kind words you wicked heathen, now take that."

One could hear the wind being sucked behind the blow of the hickory cane as Carter jumped up and took flight down the main street of Bruford. Onlookers grabbed rocks, cans or anything else they could find and started pelting him. It became obvious that Carters Fresh Turkeys, Inc was all washed up. Looters claimed the remaining nine turkeys then rolled his Buick Electra over and torched it. Sirens could be heard from all corners of town as emergency vehicles came roaring to the scene.

The angry destruction of his life started looking like a black and white James Cagney movie, complete with thugs, villains, cops and police cruisers. Carter now found himself backed into a dead-end alley. Officer Thompson of the Bruford Police Department threw him to the ground and handcuffed him. Carter now started to convulse and thrash himself around as Officer Thompson kept shaking him harder and harder.

"Wake up Carter, hey wake up buddy. Man what's wrong with you"

Carter flew out of the seat of his car screaming. Sweat poured off his forehead.

"Gosh, I must have fallen asleep. Where's Gramps?"

"Who?"

Gramps, he was just here, I what, I mean he was just here beating on me, wasn't he?"

"Now look here Carter, I don't know anything about your grandpa but you can't be sellin' these turkeys without a health license and I'm sure you don't have one," Officer Thompson said. "Besides look at the mess you're making with all these bloody flies, now scram."

Carter jumped into his water soaked Buick and drove to the edge of town and turned the pasteboard sign around and scribbled, "Turkeys half price, must sell quickly." Curious drivers pulled over and soon he sold the rest of his inventory for what he had into it, except the last three where he took a rather bad beating because all the local dogs came sniffing around and it was time to sell and get it.

As the story winds down we find Carter at Honest Jake's Swap Shop paying back his debts and quickly stuffing the title to gramp's Studebaker truck into his jacket. After a hard day of selling and beating off his imaginary nemesis (or was it imaginary) he came out with ten dollars which he used for gas.

As Carter pulled down into his driveway his car coughed and died. Hard to say if the gas tank was empty or the engine seized up, but for the moment the huge Buick Electra had given up the ghost. Carter slammed the door, went into the house to get the family shotgun and find the turkey that started the whole mess.

As for the car, it sat there for quite a long spell, which is okay because in Carter's world, nobody is going nowhere anyhow.

Happy Thanksgiving.

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF CARTER EDWARDS: CHAPTER ONE CARTER BECOMES A BUSINESS TYCOON

2006-11-19T15:46:00.000-05:00

I hope you, the reading audience remember Carter Edwards, our young man who seems to lose every battle his life encounters. Other Carter stories are in the files on 6/18 and 8/13.

For a young man whose name would never be found amongst the pages of "Who's Who Of Lucky People," Carter Edwards seemed to be on a roll. A month had passed since he acquired the giant hulk of a ‘72 Buick Electra from Webster McCarver. Much to everyone's dismay the enormous barge still ran. Carter, it seemed, never owned a car with a life expectancy over three or four days. With this Buick he discovered his own personal Nirvana.

The term "running" to folks about town had implications of exaggerations, but for Carter, making it up the driveway meant the car held promise–case closed. As of this day an inventory of missing parts from the date of purchase included one half of an exhaust system, a vent window, one headlight and a wheel cover. Whereas the car came equipped with dual exhaust, the Buick was only half as deafening as it could be. Other parts mysteriously seemed to come and go with no logical explanation.

Carter soon discovered owning a 455 cubic inch premium gas guzzling battleship came with a price–one he could scarcely afford. If this car continued to crawl up the driveway then Carter would have to undertake a new outlook on his life and find secure employment. Jobs were scarce in McComb county and the cards were stacked against him. You see, in order to stay regularly employed at the town's only good paying job at the Avalon Mill, one would work until huntin' season came about at which time he would lend his job to a kin, then after the season was over, the kin left and one would take his job back. This rollover continued throughout the year.

Folks like the Edwards never had relatives take employment serious, so chanceS of finding work was about as slim as a dime. Gramps once had a job Jeronsville keeping the schools furnace stoked, but early one morning he stoked a little to hard and burned the school down. The village never rebuilt the school. Fortunately the Mason jar containing his beverage went up with the flames and gramps never again held another legal job.

Pa too had a job in his late teens drivin' hootch for a bootlegger. That's how he made enough money to acquire the Edwards' homestead. After his ‘52 Ford coupe ran into Elmer Klauss's chicken truck around the notorious sharp bend on the North Highway, breaking pa's leg and messing up his shootin' arm, he never ran the Mason Jar Highway again. Ma had about 12 kids best she could recall, so a job never crossed her mind. So as you can see, gainful employment is a word never brought up in conversation around the Edwards' household.

With no scrap metal left to sell, Carter started to contemplate ways to keep gas in his Buick. Selling Gramp's Studebaker pickup came to mind, but rumors over in Bruford said Gramps had been spotted at the Sheriff station trying to convince them his blue-tick hound had been abducted by aliens. Pa thought someday the family oughta go see if they could go find gramps around town, but nobody really took the initiative to do so.

Carter sat on the front steps of their small shack that chilly November morning watching a few brave squirrels who overstepped the safety of the woods. His mind remained out of commision towards solving the mystery of landing a job. Carter could only process four steps in his mind–car, gas, job and girls, all three were needed and soon.

As he sat there plunking rocks off the tin roof of the wood shed, a wild turkey flew up from the thick brush surrounding their homestead. Carter bolted for the door to get the family shotgun when he suddenly stopped in his tracks as smitten by divine lightning.

"Turkeys, he thought. "It's purteneer turkey eatin' time, dagnabit. I know town folks will be wantin turkeys. I'll run over to Jaronsville and buy me a load of them turkeys, sell ‘em, take the money and buy me some more until I get everyone sold with turkeys."

With inspiration bitting at his heels, Carter ran over to gramp's tool shed, grabbed a can of red paint and carefully wrote out "Carters Fresh Turkeys, Inc,. on both doors of his Buick. He had no idea what Inc meant, but the Avalon Mill trucks had it on their door and by gosh, he to would have it.

In order to scratch up a little operating capital, Carter scrounged up everything of value he could find in gramp's tool shed plus a few treasures of his own and made a journey to Honest Jakes Pawn Shop in Bruford. Once there he laid down a hand saw, two chisels, his own transistor radio, an eight track player, a complete collection of Gene Pitney albums plus three Civil War heros carved from Ash wood. To complete his exchange he bravely laid down the title to his grandpas' Studebaker truck.

"Are you sure you want to pawn your grandpa's truck, young Mr Edwards," Jake asked cautiously. "You know what a beatin he will give yo if he ever found ought don't cha." Truth be known, Jake was afraid of gramps as much as his own grandson was.

Carter nervously took the crisp $100 bill plus the two fifties and headed for Jeronsville to invest gramps' Studebaker in his future and present business venture. Even the Buick seemed to run smoother than ever. Yes, Carter had a dream and the dream was coming into sight rather quickly.

A smell akin to rotten sweat socks from the 150,00 or so turkeys residing in or around Jeronsville reminded travelers this was turkey country. To Carter the retched odor smelled like money. He pulled into the ButterBody Turkey number 16 plant, walked up to the office with his wad of cash in hand and told the secretary he wanted as much Turkey as this money will buy.

The secretary looked at Carter who by now had the continence of a ghost. She took the money from his shaking hand, counted it out and asked if he wanted fresh, frozen, smoked, turkey hams, breasts or gourmet flavored.

"Well you know, Thanksgiving turkeys," Carter said.

"Yes sir," she retorted. "Fresh or frozen?"

"Which is cheaper?"

"Fresh"

"Then that's what I want."

About five minutes later a man with a blood splattered apron brought out 18 turkeys in cardboard cases.

"Where you all want these, Bubba?"

Carter looked in amazement. "What only 18 turkeys?"

"Well you should have only gotten 10 turkeys, but since you are such a high rollin' customer we threw in a free case," the worker said sarcastically. "Now where you want them son."

"In the Buick back yonder, put them in the back."

"Y'all got ice for these guys. Ya got to ice ‘em down ya know."

Carter shook his head no. The worker gave out a loud whistle and a short, rather stout worker came out with a cart of chipped ice. The worker then grabbed his shovel and proceeded to throw ice in Carter's back seat.

"Hey what are you doing," Carter yelled.

"It's the law kid. Y'all don't like it, tell the governor."

After filling up the back seat, the little stout worker turned around and wheeled the cart away. Carter jumped in his ‘72 Buick Electra business coupe and headed for Bruford. He was now in the poultry business.

TO BE CONTINUED

PELOSI CALLS ON THE WORLD TO PRACTICE PEACE SAN FRANCISCO STYLE

2006-11-08T19:20:00.000-05:00

With just a few hours after the announcement of the Democrats taking both House and Senate in a surprising victory that stunned both the nation and the world, death and destruction continues.

Nancy Pelosi, speaker-wanna-be, announced in a press conference today, complete with gaiety, from her podium hidden somewhere below the Golden Gate, there will be no more death due to American influence anywhere on the globe or in outer space.

An aide to Ms Pelosi, Benji Dogma and Sprinkles Sunshine McBeemer, who are the same person with split personalities, have been commissioned to create peace where no peace has existed by using positive American influences.

"We live in a world where America has long created home schooled terrorist because we want to change cultures," Pelosi said. "If Moslems want Burkas, then we should start a Burka For Peace program, instead of sending troops and creating an atmosphere for insurgents to blow us up."

Pelosi went on to explain that San Francisco has much to offer the Eastern cultures like chocolate, coffee and male pornography.

"Hey, if they try what we can offer them then we can show them how to make money on theaters, show tunes, museums and bath houses, and forget about oil which has been something the Bushies just love to go to war over," Pelosi added.

San Francisco is the worlds largest exporter of All American Girlie Boy material second only to darn tough women, which the Bay Area desires not to elevate at this time.

"The days of bad karma, angry terrorists and world domination by America is finished as the beautiful people showed us yesterday at the voting booths. Kiss, kiss and you know you're gonna love me." Pelosi said, as she made her grand wide-eyed exit of the stage.

Meanwhile, Hamas leaders vowed to retaliate with force against a deadly Israeli strike which killed at least 18 Palestinian civilians in the Gaza Strip this morning, a suicide bomber killed at least 35 soldiers at an army base in northwest Pakistan on Wednesday in an attack officials said was likely revenge for a missile strike against an al-Qaeda training camp, and Sri Lankan forces bombarded rebels with artillery on Wednesday hit a school where scores of civilians had taken refuge from the fighting, killing at least 45 Tamils and wounding 125 others in the country's east.

It is also likely North Korea has missiles pointed towards the U.S. and Cleveland, governed by Democrats, as of today, is the poorest and one of the most dangerous city in America.

HOMELAND SECURITY DECLARES NO ELECTION RESULTS UNTIL THURSDAY OR LATER

2006-11-05T21:40:00.000-05:00

President George Bush announced today from the snow covered White House Rose Garden that an emergency overnight congressional session was held this weekend to pass a law delaying election results until calm prevails across the nation.

Election officials from nearly all 50 states agreed the televised ads have created a hostile and unsafe environment for voters and booth workers alike.

"It is sad to see what the other party has created over the last few weeks and we are nearly in the rungs of civil war, therefore, by the War Powers Act and Homeland Security Act, I have taken necessary action to ensure a safe and peaceful Tuesday," President Bush said earlier today..

Scattered reports from across the nation have poured into local police stations of pillaging, overturning of cars in backyards of Appalachian states, teenagers shoplifting in malls, pot smoking, angry mothers hoarding milk and baby food plus other physical crimes such as televisions being tossed from windows of houses and passing cars.

The president urged Americans to get up, vote early and take the children to McDonalds and forget the escalating violence being perpetrated across the nation by mobs of angry politicians.

"These people (Democrats) have organized themselves rather well with hostile words and November surprises of mass destruction and we have seen Emergency Rooms across our lands becoming overwhelmed, where many have died from lack of oxygen due to uncontrollable shouting and refusing to take time to inhale," said Evans Jibbersly, spokesman for the Northern Ohio Chapter of Political Relaxation.

"Everything will have a chance to cool down if we just take a few days to think about what we did at the polls and be proud of it," Jibbersly said. You will feel better, your neighbor will feel better and America will feel better. Think of it as a group hug.

As the president was ready to step away from the podium he parted with a quote from Abraham Lincoln,

"Fellow-citizens, we cannot escape history. We of this Congress and this administration, will be remembered in spite of ourselves. No personal significance, or insignificance, can spare one or another of us. The fiery trial through which we pass, will light us down, in honor or dishonor, to the latest generation."

"Smile, be happy and vote. God bless you all," Bush said, as a flurry of reporters yelled at the president as he withdrew to the White House

SENATOR KERRY FIGHTING HOOF AND MOUTH DISEASE

2006-11-02T10:32:00.000-05:00

Officials within Senator John Kerry's (D-Mass) organization announced today following his political guffaw this week, that caused a major chasm to be carved into the Democratic party, that the wounded political leader opted for rehab.

Kerry's sokesperson, Angus Bullflinger, confirmed rumors the senator followed the lead of several other unnamed political and religious figures who fell from grace and saw rehab as a quick fix.

Reports had been flying about Boston that Kerry secretly entered the Rodney Dangerfield Hospital for Disorientated Joke Tellers at the now famous Dangerfield's on First Avenue in Manhattan yesterday morning.

Because of the privacy act, his treatment plan has remained undisclosed but pamphlets found lying about in the nightclub state the idea behind Hospital is, "To offer idiots, slow thinkers and other people with the knack of disrespecting the general public, a 24 hour crash course of quick wit, smart thinking and a general hope idiots can be transformed into decent citizens."

"We know Kerry's stoic personality has often caused people to misunderstand his deep thoughts, but in truth he is a barrel of laughs once you get to know him," Bullflinger told reporters. "What this is all about is cracking the egg shell veneer that encrusts the senator."

Kerry's office expects him to be released sometime today.

UPDATE: NOVEMBER 2, 10:06 a.m. NEW YORK

John Kerry was released early this morning from The Rodney Dangerfield Hospital for Disorientated Joke Tellers, smiling at fans and supporters as he entered his official "New Man Car," which resembles a 1960 Fiat that clowns once used in circus acts.

This amazing change in personality has stunned his fans who had grown accustom to his dry wit and high minded thinking.

Reporters on site say the tall, handsome figure raised the pitch of his voice four octaves and now sounds like a teenager inhaling helium.

After returning to his office at his Cape Cod home, Kerry gave a quick interview which the Senator started out saying, "I never get any respect. My wife asked me to take her someplace new where she's never been before and I took her to the kitchen," at which time his partner in life, Teresa Heinz, pushed a large bookshelf on top of his now limp body.

No word has been released from his office on whether or not Kerry shall re-enter rehab.

HELLO DARLING, I'M HOME

2006-10-25T12:14:00.000-04:00

The rescuing of my priceless manuscripts has taken four days, but I, at long last, have put all of Shelly's Cafe articles in a safe hiding place. After Possumtrot's harrowing article about losing all of his hard work to Google's takeover, I knew the clock may have been ticking away.

I must admit it was a pleasant stroll down memory lane, quickly scanning 76 articles and stories, and hopefully the cheap entertainment will continue. Right now, and not to mimic Michael J Fox, my MS is kicking butt and hopefully, soon, the evil lurker will be re-contained.

January 23 of this year the first article was put on Shelly's and what had the most reader's response? Much to my surprise it was the "I Will Kill Bambi II" article, where I threatened to eat the little critter (and even published a recipe) if my readership did not increase.

Not being a person who tends to resort to violence, I quickly had to devour the poor darling in the privacy of my home since I did not reach the desired 50 readers. Then there were the followers of some Judo style group who disliked my use of their name in a satire.

All in all there has been a fairly good split in stories and satire. Will this all continue? Well only your Google can tell

Hope to see you all back soon.

SPACE SHIPS AND HOT MINNESOTA NIGHTS

2006-10-09T11:12:00.000-04:00

As I strive towards the 100 stories by December I am oft' reminded that my body and mind soes not always synch well. I think this is number 76, written before my days in the hospital, but just today edited. I'm heading for my goal.. See you there.

My calling cards once held a quote from an old favorite western, "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence." At the end of the movie Jimmy Stewart makes no apologies over revealing how Liberty died. Maxwell Scott (Carleton Young) said "This is the west, Sir. When the legend becomes fact, print the legend." Well dear friends, I must confess my family's involvement in UFO hysteria and crop circles is also rather legendary. This is the story and I'm sticking to it.

August of ‘63 proved to be a mixed bag of blessings for my Uncles Lars up in Twin Hills, Minnesota. Nature provided the right amount of rainfall combined with a mild summer that blissful year. This rather unique weather pattern blessed my uncle with a bumper crop of barely and wheat--but the abundance of grain fell upon friend and foe alike, so farm help was hard to come by.

The previous winter, Lars' brother, Donald, sold his share of the family farm under orders from a higher power in order to move his wife and kids to St. Paul. His oldest son, Eric, just turned seventeen when they moved away in early summer, just the age to work like a dang fool and that is exactly what Lars needed–a working fool.

Everyone saw the handwriting on the wall when Don's, wife Jackie started in about the lack of culture for her children on this God-forsaken prairie.

"This great expanse of desolation will turn the kids into another generation of hardheaded sod busters like the rest of you snuff chewing bunch of Swedes," she always argued, with fingers wagging in front of Donald's face.

My uncle advised Donald against falling for the cunning deceit of a French girl. He fell over dead for his wife during his Naval tour of duty in Europe at Cafe Marly, which, as he described in broken Minnesota French, was located on the very scenic rue de Rivoli, Cour Napoléon du Louvre. My family never understood which view took him in, since she was a rather ravenous beauty with a glowing complexion and coal black hair. Still, everyone knew full well he would never keep such a contemptuous gal on the farm.

As the two brothers sat about the kitchen pulling hairs and attempting to find a decent settlement there seemed to be little conversation about holding the family farm together. The old gas stove coffee pot had put in overtime as the rest of the interested parties gave up and went off to bed.

"I honestly don't know what else to do," Donald told Lars, as he signed off the family deed. "I took her to Fargo at least once a month and persuaded the bookmobile to pass her on a regular basis, the movie theater has a double feature every Saturday and still she says she needs civilized folks for the kids upbringin. No, there ain't much to do but pack up and move."

"Ya," Lars said, with a deep sigh, grabbing the pen and reluctantly signing Donald off the farm that had been in his family for nearly 78 years. "But just you just keep an eye on Eric. Girls are kinda fast in the city and he ain't use to them kind."

The culture of city life started to show its effects on Eric quite rapidly. The first sign came during supper when he announced that his mom said it was all right if he grew a goatee and he also had plans on joining an acting troupe when they moved to the cities. Lars knew he had to rescue his nephew and get him back on the farm before he fell into certain ways where no man could retrieve him.

After Lars evaluated the crops toward the end of July, he got on the phone and convinced my aunt to allow Eric to come up and help get the harvest in during August. He pleaded with her that if he didn't get help, the barley crop would be lost. Against her better judgement my aunt caved in. With the clock now ticking, Lars had four weeks to save Eric and make a good Scandianian boy out of him and, most of all, restore the family name

Two hundred acres of barley waited to be gathered. That meant around the clock work for the harvest team. Lars would jump aboard the massive John Deere combine and slowly cover the field from early morning until evening while Eric drove the grain truck between the Hittlandel Coop Grain Elevator and the farm. After supper they switched jobs until three in the morning.

Nearly a week later Eric started to weaken under the pressure of sleep depravation and Lars knew the time had come to move quickly. As planned, Jim Kravenough, who signed on to help bring in the barley crop, dropped by the field with a cooler full of R.C. Cola's and Grain Belt beer.

About midnight my Uncle Lars told Eric to shut down for a break, have a few sandwiches, a can of pop and cool off. The two men, and one boy soon to enter manhood, sat and talked about the weather, next year's crop and boxing. Jim asked Eric how he was holding out

"Man, it feels good to be back on the farm but I'm beat," Eric said, beating the itchy barely dust off his jeans with his hat.

Jim reached into his back pocket where a can of Copenhagen left a permanent rim in his Levi's and handed the tobacco to Eric. "Put a little pinch of this in your cheek and you will be combining all night."

With a pile of wax paper and tin cans piled about, the cooler lid was closed and Eric had orders to finish the final forty acres on the back side of the property. The bait had been set because two cans of beer were left behind. About three in the morning Eric dumped a load of barley into the grain truck and walked to the cooler to grab another cola, but instead saw the two beers.

A multitude of thoughts raced through his tired mind. Eric felt he was old enough since his eighteenth birthday was only a week away, and darn, if he was aloud to stay awake and work all night then why not. He then had second thoughts because he knew his uncle would remember he left two cans behind. The long hours behind the combine and the pinch of Copenhagen ruled over sanity and down went the two beers.

About fifteen minutes later Eric began combining in a new field and since he struggled to keep a straight line he drove directly to the center of the field, began combining in a tight circle, then another and finally in a rather apparent zig-zag motion, he dozed off and drove the combine into the Wild Rice River. He spent the next two hours trying to get the combine back out of the shallow river.

Fortunately, not a lot of damage was done to the combine. Fear and hard work brought Eric back to his senses and he knew he had best drive the green monster of the dark back to the truck, unload and call it a night. Tomorrow he would deal with his punishment.

Lar's farm was on the landing approach to the Grand Forks Air Base and the way I understand the story, a couple of pilots noticed strange circles and zig-zags in a barley field near Twin Valley. That morning a military crew had been sent out to investigate. Of course neither Lars nor Jim would admit to leaving a few cold ones out for a 17 year-old boy to drink, no matter how desperate the situation.

When the military investigator approached the local residents, most admitted to hearing a lot of strange noises about three in the morning. One neighbor said it sounded like a grinding, whirling type of sound with lights going straight up in the air, sort of like a combine had been turned on end and swallowed up into the earth. As the day progressed the phone lines started humming and the gruesome episode of UFO attacks became more bizarre.

By afternoon camera trucks started showing up from Fargo, the Twin Cities and Grand Forks. Reporters from every newspaper in a three hundred-mile range pulled into town along with military trucks of every shape and size.

Experts were traipsing all about the fields measuring the circles, looking for radioactive readings and examining the muddy hole along the side of the river bank. After a few hours the military men left, while the reporters either beat on the doors of the Air Force cars or scoured the fields for their own evidence. By days end most of the reporters left completely baffled by what they had seen. A few reporters stayed back to watch the night sky.

Whether the Air Force took serious on what they saw that day or not, nobody knows. Every so often the story about the Minnesota crop circles reappears on late-night cable programs trying to convince skeptics on the reality of UFO's. The residents who are still alive will dog-gone-well adhere to the fact their town was visited by aliens, some will even swear seeing Martians walking the streets of Twin Hills that night oh so long ago back in 1963.

My Cousin Eric? He returned to the Twin Cities to finish his senior year but never hooked up with the troupe of actors. Actually his life remained rather mundane until he returned back to Twin Hills about ten years ago and retold the story about the crop circles and how it really happened. The local folks ran him out of town.

Remember my dear friends, "When the legend becomes fact, print the legend."

THE BEET AND I

2006-09-21T23:05:00.000-04:00

All of the spinach poisoning as of late has caused me to lie awake at night in fear of killer vegetables that once roamed the earth in yon days of Cushman Scooters and Packard Clippers. As a point of truth, if one was to play Franky Avalon backwards on their Sears & Roebucks hi-fi set they would have heard the insufferable prophetic words–"I will return in the next millennium as the Anti-Vegetable to destroy mankind."

Once again returning to the facts, my produce phobia started many, many years ago in a land called puberty where my parents spent way too much time trying to get me to eat nourishing vegetables. My mother would had better luck trying to teach a duck to sing opera.

Fortunately my parents were carnivorous Lutherans. Our family consumed pot roasts nearly as often as we bathed. Chicken, burgers, steaks, hot dogs and other assorted animal parts enthroned our table along with, of course, a plate of Wonder Bread and oleo. Meat, whether cooked on the G.E. oven or over the coals in the backyard, sustained my little body. If it mooed, cackled or oinked we ate it. And yes we had vegetables, gardens full of them.

Although we had the forbidden spinach patch, spinach never unnerved me as much as one vegetable–the beet. Those hideous ruby red globes were known to strip wallpaper if you cooked large quantities in an open kettle. Never in any biological studies had man considered the little head-in-the dirt vegetable poisonous, unlike the tomato which had been cursed throughout the Victorian age as a lethal dish.

My father took great delight in his homegrown beets. I can assure you his sensory depravation came from a Scandahovian upbringing. Quite often a Swedish table is set with all sorts of obnoxious sea foods of which spinach may or may not be part of, but I am sure beets are a national treasure. Dad's fondness towards the little red creatures caused him to grow what seemed to be acres and acres of Beta vulgaris, and my dear sweet mother canned them by the truckload.

I could always tell when my mother had the urge to kill me. In the early autumn, when the sounds of geese could be heard heading south, and the chill of the surrendered summer air had set in with the shorter days of October, a musky-dank odor crept over the neighborhood. Children in my classroom refused to sit near me because foulness permeated all of my clothing.

Year after year the story never changed for the those who were in charge of fostering and nourishing my tender youth–can beets, gag their daughter and nearly strike the death blow while she existed in a weakened condition, then never be arrested for their cruel and unusual punishment. Oh yes, I threatened to run away but where, I plead would a little waif like myself run too.

I knew if the vegetable police captured me the wardens would force me to ingest immense portions of beets for all three meals. Raw bets, cooked beets, curried beets, beet borsch and worse of all, fried green beets, would be shoved under my vaulted prison door. If I refused surely a large-bosomed matron would tie me down and force said vegetable down my throat.

My retaliation for beets climaxed one foggy December afternoon when my mother placed a huge bowl of the red devils on the table. My siblings harbored no ill feelings toward the ruby killer, yet it was known all across the family table that if I so much as touched the red blood to my tongue I would explode into a gastric eruption of Biblical proportions.

The problem is, and this has been proven in laboratory experiments, beets cannot be cut up into tasteless bits and covered with mashed potatoes and gravy in hopes of killing the taste. Another truism–all the ketchup in Toledo could not mask the moldy taste.

The innocent December day began when we, as a family unit, piled into my father's Rambler station wagon in order to shop for our annual Christmas tree. There was an air of excitement this day, though the sun chose to hide behind the gloomy clouds of Northeastern Ohio. All of our town seemed to be walking about in a festive holiday mood so prevalent in the days before the malls.

After the tree had been selected, we spent the rest of the afternoon at a company-sponsored Christmas program. Yes, it was the holidays and all we needed to do was wait for that long slide toward December 25th. Childhood was so divine.

When we arrived home the aroma of pot roast and baked bread filled our home. After supper we would put up decorations, dress the windows with stencils and Glass Wax™ and best of all hang the ornaments on the tree. There was just one thing between me and the tree–beets. The orders were given, clean your plate or there will be no tree decorating.

I pulled out all the stops. It became a showdown between mother and I. As long as those beets remained there would be no Christmas decorating. Child abuse comes no more contemptible than this. From around the corner my brother taunted me, "We are almost done. You better hurry or there will be no more room for you to decorate."

I became a desperate child. Could I consume the retched plate of beets staring back at me? "We are almost finished," returned the voice of my brother. "Oh, there it is, the angel, we almost have it to the top."

Mom had no intention of giving in. The clock ticked away. Without secret x-ray vision I had no idea how much truth my brother was dispensing. Calculations were running through my fevered mind–365 days before we decorated again. Ten little bites and the beets would be gone. Three huge bites and the plate would be clean. I opted for the three big bites and a large glass of Kool-Aid as a chaser.

With ferocity never known to my little body I chugged beets and ran to the livingroom. A bare tree sat in the corner. I'd been had. Next thing I knew a tremor developed deep within my stomach and before I knew it, the livingroom rug, the box of decorations and half the tree had been coated with a substance recently devoured in the three big bites.

Mother never argued with me over the consumption of beets again. The red stains on the carpet, although faded, remained embedded in the fibers, always serving as a permanent reminder of one girl's struggle with the sinister beet.

As a grown woman I have learned to eat my vegetables. I am my own boss. I cook my meals, buy my own groceries. At Christmas I decorate my own tree. But, this one thing I can guarantee you-there are no red stains on my carpeting

GRANDPA'S DEADLY TOBACCY

2006-09-19T21:33:00.000-04:00

Some years ago a research group with highly stuffed pockets and somewhat less density in their brain department spewed out some worthless information about tobacco. Forgive me as the time has eroded from my mind the exact numbers and pertinent statistical information needed to make this a scholarly presentation. In a huge pile of some medical lectures this was their conclusion; " A whole bunch of children ate cigarettes during a certain time span. Some of those nicotine-munchers got sick, a few gagged and few more deposited their lunch in inappropriate places."

Now tell me, my good readers, just who kept track of children-eating-cigarettes, or should I say children who eat/ate said cancer sticks, coffin nails, or Kentucky Gold, and why is a wide-eyed raving consumer group sucking up my tax money keeping tallies on, well, oh the heck with it--you know a story is coming, so allow me if you will to tell you about my Grandpa's Copenhagen Jone's

Now for all you well-traveled readers who may have "Googled" Denmark, houses of ill-repute or little mermaid statues, nay, thou hast come to the wrong place. The Copenhagen of my narrative is a slimy fermented sewage-like compost that my dear ol' Grandpa stuffed into his cheek on a regular basis.

An important factor needs to be mentioned here. I come from a multi-cultural family. On one side we have the Nordics, of which my name implies, then we have the Celtics to whom my sister mistakenly claims to be the predominant blood transfusing through our veins. But when I think of her unstable thinking process, perhaps she is right unto herself.

Back to Copenhagen. This story is from the part of my family that comes from Kentucky. That's right, tobacco-chewin', slow talkin', white-sock-wearin', front-porch-rockin,' Kentucky. I long ago veered away from my hayseed family tree, keeping a love for bluegrass and a hankerin' for storytellin'.

My sister's make believe world assumes they, our family, hold roots in Ireland, but go back three generations in Kentucky and the lineage gets a bit fuzzy, so I would be hard pressed to figure out exactly where my dear old gramps came from. I am certain a UFO fits in this story somewhere but finding the spot to insert the well-worn reference has me befuddled. Besides my theory is my mother's clan came from Scotland

In the wee years of my developing life my grandmother's sleeping arrangement had me confused. Gramps slept clear at the other end of my grandma's boarding house in his own little sanctuary where he seemed quite content to sit and listen to the old box radio that sat on the dresser next to his worn suspenders. Under the bed he kept an old peach can used for the ‘baccy spit.

One day when my age caught up with reasoning, grandmother sat me down and gave me a stern look while she rolled a little lace handkerchief nervously between her fingers. Her words cut into my soul as she said, "Never kiss a man who insists on putting horse droppings in his mouth." Now the clouds rolled back and darned if Copenhagen wasn't the culprit. The dark juices rolling from gramp's cheeks killed grandmas libido.

In my eighth year grandpa beckoned me to come to his side. I innocently took the two well-worn quarters he placed in my palm and scurried off to fulfill his orders by heading to the corner store in order to fetch him a couple of cans of Copenhagen. I had not a clue that soon a savage right of hillbilly childhood was about to be inflicted upon me.

I straightaway returned with the two cans of rotten silage. Grandpa opened one of the cans and with his two aging brownish fingers lifted a scrap heap of the canned substance into his mouth then sat back in his cane rocker and comfortably stared into space. The shredded sludge foamed as he masticated the rotten substance. Soon little streams of blackish brown substance began to trickle down his gray stubbled chin. After a good soaking atop his dingy yellow long johns. He reached for the peach can, spit out the hazardous waste, waited a spell then repeated the same process. My grandpa was in red-neck heaven.

For whatever reason I had never before watched the whole process and found myself mysteriously fascinated by the whole scene. After he regained consciousness gramps offered me a pinch of the devil weed. I placed the most minute amount of the tobacco in my mouth that I could get away with. In a matter of seconds death was imminent. My face first turned red, then two shades whiter than the painted Victorian porch where I sat. I started hallucinating. Giant rivers of foul-smelling brown sewage flowed through my fevered mind.

When grandma heard my merciless screams she came running with a tin pail of water to flush my mouth out. Normally, according to early medical journals, it took at least two gallons of fresh water to dilute the toxicity of Copenhagen, but sadly she was too late. Sweet Grandma, who once warned me about biting into the poison brown apple, proceeded to take a lawn rake and beat my grandpa with strength only read about in hero comics.

Alas, it was too late. My DNA code degenerated into a radically different ancestry. I quit school in the third grade, threw away my shoes and started sitting in trees playing a banjo. Because of the times, I am certain no statistics were ever recorded of my ingesting the counterpart of three bottles of Jack Daniels in one nibble of venomous horse manure. Without the great university study, I was just one of a thousand other kids who consumed a substance known to cause a total neurological shut-down.

Thank you grandma for your down-home wisdom. Although I never heeded your warning about consuming vile substances, I can honestly say–I never kissed a man who chewed. Now, if only I could wear shoes again.

COWS FOR MILKIN' AND COWS FOR RHYMIN'

2006-09-14T21:24:00.000-04:00

Several years ago, or quite a few, depending just how one judges time, I took an afternoon trip to a quaint town bordering between Amish country and rolling hills that offers great enthusiasm for hikers and canoeists alike as the tranquil rivers gently roll through the gentle countryside. As I walked the streets of this historic Ohio town, I happened upon a privately owned bookstore. Not expecting as much excitement as, let us say Borders, I rapidly scanned the shelves. My mind sadly took second place to my stomach which sensed the corner bakery where the cinnamon rolls are worth giving up your life for.

After scanning the shelves of somewhat dull books the time allotted for hunger pains to climax into death ran its course so an exit for the bakery had to be now or never. Charging for the door, my eyes caught the cover of a book by an author I had met more than a few times. The old cowboy bard, Baxter Black it seems had published a new book so I laid down a pocketful of shillings and decided his cowboy philosophy along with a hot cup of coffee and that darn warm cinnamon roll were foreordained to share my table at the corner bakery.

As some of my reading audience may recall, I dabbled in the cowboy poet circles for a few years as both a beginning versifier/storyteller and journalist. I sauntered along side of all the big fellers who could shoot off a cowpoke tale, or verse of prose faster than John Wayne could swagger in a hula hoop contest. Baxter Black, as luck would have it, was one of my first interviewees and after a few minutes of listening to him I had no choice but to fall in line with the other men and women who told tales of better places far away from the big city bravado.

It is often said, and likely is the truth, my adult years were mainly spent in the vast upper regions of Minnesota, just a stone throw from that odd river that flows the wrong direction, The Red River Valley of the North, where my travels often took me through a municipality where a large sign read, "The West Starts Here." Far as I can see that pertnear made me a cowgirl.

Now it is only forthright to admit a lapse of common sense overcame me when I failed to live out certain ethnic duties and traveled from Minnesota to Kansas, then off to California. Like a female version of Will Rogers, I hung tight to straight-shootin' midwest wisdom. In other words, I was a rube, a square peg in a very oblong society--so in the circle of Cowboy Poets I found a group of people that had nearly as much sense as myself.

It did not take long for a fire to start smoldering in my solar plexus, not lethal chuck wagon-chilli-fire, but the very flames of life itself. The troop of word weavers spoke smoother than fine whiskey, a substance never having the opportunity to touch my sacred lips. Listening to such lyrics made me want to grab a chance to get on stage and wax eloquent.

The First Annual Newhall (California) Cowboy Poetry Festival presented the opportunity. With a pen and reporter's notebook in hand I interviewed many of the legends of western poetry and music. I absorbed the rhyme and rhythm of their parlance and went home to create my own epic. Two days hence forth, with wobbly legs, I walked up to the stage. The glare of stage lights nearly mesmerized me as I chanted poetry of my days along the backward flowing Red River where, according to the sign on Highway 10, the West began.

Sadly my stab at cowgirl poetry did not quite reflect the romantic wild west image Remington painted on canvases. I finished my 30 minutes of fame with a yarn, not the rhythmic canter of the popular cowboys. I started out proper, but my tale of serenity and closeness to God got lost in the uppity-urban setting I lived which in turn set off cowboy alarms. It was a greenhorn's mistake. Flat out storytellin' broke the firm tradition planted by the gun totten', lasso swingin', rodeo ridin' cowboy poets. My finish was salsa from New York City.

In a moment of crazed thinking caused by grabbing a branding iron and engraving "loser," across my forehead, a savior from out the crowd came to my rescue. A gentleman from Poland informed me my stage presence was the first thing he understood all weekend. "You my friend," he said in a Eastern European inflection, "are a storyteller, not a poet."

I smiled and finally figured out my life's calling. I ran around hither and yon for numerous months with the likes of poets like Baxter but I warned all listeners before hand I come under a separate calling, that is I am a tall-tale-storyteller not a poet laureate.

I sort of yearn for the days of cowboy poet festivals. Baxter's publication caused a cloud of loneliness to fall over me. There is a shortage of cowboy ways in these parts. To even discuss my feelings about the serenity of territories such as Montana causes my Ohio friends to break out in a scalp rash since they sit about and scratch their heads. Yup, cowboy poetry makes our locals a bit confused so I attempted to start a replacement. There has to be some place here bouts for regional rural poetry.

Having roots in the great corn state of Iowa and being of Midwest stock, the thought of a Pig Farmer Poetry Festival came to mind. One could rhapsodize the melodic words of riding a John Deere tractor across the endless rolling black soil hills, or the heartbreak of a failed corn harvest. And if one was so inclined, you can speak poems of moving northward to North Dakota to plant taters.

But friends I moved a little too far east. Just about as fer east as anyone should move, I dare say. Sure we have agriculture here, but it is different and what there is, is quickly being turned into housing–houses way too big for families to live in. The fields don't fall off into the horizon and the cattle are well, diary cows. Never are cowpokes seen ridin' the fence line being the fences here are electrified wires.

I need your input. Could Ohio accept a Dairy Farmers Poet Festival? What would rhyme with barn cleaner? Does our muddy Tuscarawas River have the same illusion as the mighty Rio Grande. Does seeing a ground hog hold one spell bound as happening upon a 700-pound grizzly bear? I just cannot close my eyes and envision this.

If you, my dear readers, know a little about cowboy poetry and have a yearnin' to create something new, scrawl me a few lines of Dairy Farmer Poetry and I will ponder this event for a moment or two. Who knows, maybe you have poets blood flowing through your veins?

Ol' Bess and me
sure know the way.
Wake up every mornin'
and work for little pay

Our jobs are bout the same
she gives the milk
I clean the barn
even tho my bod is lame

If'n any of us had a lick of sense
we'd both start walkin
lock the gate on the fence
and git paid jus fer talkin'

REMEMBERING EILEEN MARSHA GREENSTEIN

2006-09-11T19:03:00.000-04:00

BAIT HOOK & SWITCH PART II

2006-09-07T22:01:00.000-04:00

At long last the final chapter has arived. It is a little longer than the first but hope you enjoy this romantic thriller. MAJ

"If there is anything you are looking for, maybe I can save you from digging through that stuff. Most of it has been in the barn for years."

"Oh, I'm just looking for pieces of art."

Ed shook his head in disbelief, lifted his seed corn hat, scratched his head for a moment and replied, You won't find any art work there, that's just barn stuff–you know, old tractor parts, a few old bailer gears, maybe an old milker or tow, but we never did milk ya know."

"That's just it sweetheart, pieces of life, a little soul here, a little light there, maybe a tear or two with sweat of hard life of course," she said wiping the grease on here tie-dyed coveralls. "You find these unique things, weave them together with paint from the rainbow and you have art. Now you see why they call me Prism."

During the ensuing conversation Cassandra also known as Prism, accumulated half a pickup load of twine, gears, metal shrouds and other assorted barn junk. Piece by piece she carefully examined the treasures and placed the gems gently in the bed of her rusted out International.

"You got any more pieces of art laying around," Cassandra asked laughingly.

At first Ed was somewhat stunned by the question. He thought a moment about the two pictures hanging on the living room wall. His wife bought the pair of at a booth during the Iowa State Fair about 25 years ago. The picture was made with strips of birch bark and little bunches of moss gently placed against a painted scene of blue skies with a meandering brook.

"Oh, I got tons of it, but tell me what are you going to do with, well for instance, that sprocket gear."

"Oh this", she asked, looking down through her sun glasses. "This will make a cool hanger for my story glasses."

Edwin pulled of his cap again, not knowing if he should ask any more questions. He just totaled up her collection of items once having a purpose about the farm but now, as the day came to an end found a new purpose in some flower lady's art collection.

"Well it looks like the total comes to nearly fifty-five dollars," Edwin said.

Cassandra dug through her macrame purse and took out a crumbled fifty dollar bill. "I still owe you five but I will run home and get it."

"Nah, just give me a twenty and call it even," Edwin said, shaking his head. Yesterday the pile of worn out machinery and other farm clutter didn't have a plug nickels worth of value and today it was high price art.

"You are such a sweet old Iowa farmer."

Before Edwin knew it, Cassandra gave him a big hug and a peck on the cheek. She jumped in the rickety International, slammed the truck door and drove down the dusty township road. He stood by the hay rack for about 10 minutes until Scrunchers came along. A whirlwind of confusion raced through his head. Suddenly more than ever he missed his wife. Edwin recalled how a simple hug from his wife would give him such a peace of mind. He noticed his eyes were a bit misty he reached down, grabbed the old tom cat and walked back to the house.

"Do you know what a dream catcher is, ol' boy?"

Edwin didn't have a clue about Cassandra or half of what she talked about. Prisms, auras, story glasses. Whatever those things were, the whole mess had him baffled, besides he had to throw the rest of his chicken in the oven. That evening as he wiped the supper dish's dry he still was thinking about that strange female and wondered how many people like that lived in Iowa. St. Paul perhaps, but here in Iowa?

He leaned back in the recliner browsing through the latest Farm Journal and fantasizing about the humongous 4- wheel drive tractors now available. A tractor like that would be nice, he thought, but was he really serious about next year's corn crop. He had about 50 acres on a slope and a tractor like that sure would be a dream.

As the evening news came to an end, Edwin put away his magazine and filled up the coffee pot with water. Cassandra, or Prism or whatever she wanted to be called and her dream catching auras, or whatever they were called, still rattled around in his mind. Edwin could not put a finger on this emotion. Could it be, well you know, infatuation. Nah, she was just a strange gal and that is all there was to it.

The next morning Edwin arose early, shaved, put on a pair of jeans his wife bought him, which he hated, made breakfast and went over to an old combine and disassembled it for more parts to put on the wagon. He grabbed his coffee cup and sat on the yard chair and waited. Three hours passed by and he decided nothing was going to happen, so he went out to the pasture to straighten out some old fence posts, then drove into town for more coffee and lunch with his cronies.

As he pulled into the driveway, he noticed a large note on the hayrack fluttering in the afternoon breeze. It simply read nice stuff--will return Friday to pay for them, Love Cassandra. The name Prism was spelled in even larger print.

Edwin felt a lump in his stomach when he read the word l.o.v.e. He never said words like that around his wife, why should he, after all they both loved each other and now he knew Cassandra, or Prism, or who ever she was had touched him in a very lonely part of his heart.

"I know what I will do, find that book we had around the house with all those poems in it and write a special letter to her. That's ‘bout the best I can do for myself."

All through the evening Edwin carefully read through the poetry book, looking for something, anything he could put into his own words. He closed the tattered hard covered book when his eyes grew tired. He awoke at 4 in the morning with the book lying on the floor and the cat in his lap. He slowly moved himself from the recliner and walked over to the bed. He once again thought about that woman, until sleep overtook him. He knew poetry could never come from his pen. There had to be a better way.

The sun was barely high enough to burn the dew off the grass when the sound of a car door slammed shut out front. It couldn't be her, the vehicle was much to quiet, he thought. Grabbing a dish towel to wipe his hands, Edwin went outside and there stood Cassandra with a middle-aged man wearing a seed corn hat and behind him walked an "older woman."

"Hi Edwin, Cassandra said, "Thought I would introduce you to some special people. This is my husband Jake and my mother Inez."

"Husband, uh gee, well I didn't think you were, you know,"

"Nah, nobody ever thinks I'm married. Jake always stays about the place. Farm boy ya know. Doesn't know an aura from a dust storm."

Jake shook Edwin's hand and said, "I know this place, always thought it had the best layout in the county. Ever think of selling."

"Well I had thought about putting it on the market," Edwin said, looking back at Cassandra who had already headed for the hayrack. "The idea of wintering in Arizona has been on my mind for some time, but if I sell I won't have a place to come back too, ya understand."

Suddenly Inez looked up from her sunglasses. "You like Arizona?"

"Thinking about it quite a bit here lately."

"What's your wife say about it?"

"She died a little over a year ago. Yup, we talked about it all the time. She left way to early and we never had the chance to go."

"Oh, I'm deeply sorry, Inez said, reaching out for his hand. "Irwin and I bought a lot in Sun City and put a double wide on it, but he too died, so now I go there by myself every winter. You know, the kids got a life of their own and all."

Edwin took it all in but he was still stunned by the news and to imagine her husband was a farmer. He looked at Cassandra's mother. "You do know that you are way too young to be Cassandra's mother. Do you drink coffee"

They returned to the house Neither one payed any attention to the younger couple. Edwin put on a fresh pot and rummaged through the cupboard hoping to find the nice cups his wife used when company stopped by. Hours rolled by as the two shared conversation and for the first time in weeks, Edwin understood every word a woman had to say.

A knock came on the door hours later. Cassandra and Jake walked over to the table where Inez and Edwin were deep in conversation about Arizona. The younger two had just finished walking the corn and bean fields. After she found the creek and Jake inspected the immaculate out buildings they had something to say.

"Mr. Johnson, the two of us have been looking for a piece of land like this for a long time. If you ever think of selling it, will you give me first dibs on it."

"For sure," Cassandra said. "The creek has a lot of energy in it and the workshop would make a beautiful art gallery. Jake, well he's all beans and corn."

"Well you better think fast because Inez and I are thinking pretty darn serious about going to Arizona when the corn gets put away," Edwin said. "She might even decide to get a butterfly tatoo just like yours, Miss Prism." He felt so much alive and thanked God he didn't play out his foolishness by writing poetry to a married woman young enough to be his daughter.

He thought they, Inez and himself, could always summer out on the farm and perhaps keep his heard of Angus if the place was kept in the family so to speak.

"Oh ya, girl, your mother explained to me about those dream catching things and I figure we got enough room to haul them to Arizona and open a dream whatchama call it store."

"Cool," said Cassandra. "The energy is flowing in the right direction."

BAIT HOOK & CATCH---PART ONE

2006-08-28T10:46:00.000-04:00

Sorry guys, this is not a fishing story. Today's tale takes me a little further south where farmers are farmers, pigs are pigs and in a way, we hope the two have nothing in common

Edwin Johnson woke up feeling as if his mind and heart could no longer sustain his body. He has been feeling that way quite a bit lately. Ed knew the problem, but the solution had him bewildered. Life unknown path left him a widower at 67. The woman he so dearly loved after 48 years lost her earthly fight a year ago and every day seemed a bit tougher than the one before. His imperturbable upbringing told him the time had come to shake off the past and move forward.

One mode of survival meant cleaning up the farmstead. Folks from all about the county used to drive by and comment on the immaculately painted buildings, the manicured lawn and Betty's abundance of flowers. No more. Even the implements started to look neglected and no longer cared for.

Most mornings Edwin sat with his old cat, Scrunchers and thought about Betty. The years they shared together tilling the dark Iowa soil, building up the heard of prime beef cattle and traveling to the lakes in their Winnebago had crumbled to a pile of photos left on the kitchen table.

Edwin and Betty shared dreams about selling off the heard, jumping in the motor home and becoming nomads, free wheeling snow birds, drifting off to winter in Arizona. Memories, all Edwin had to live for, kept him bound and reclusive.

"Scrunchers, " Edwin said, "I think we need to go feed the cattle and perhaps think about cleaning out the barn." Scrunchers flicked his tail twice and walked uninterestedly to the door. An old cat who has heard the same story before seen barn mice as a better alternative than sorrow.

"No, today we clean, I mean it. There is no reason to sit here and wallow any longer," Edwin said to the departing cat. "Betty would have no part of this mess." He put his coffee cup in the dish pan and headed for the feed lot with a wagon load of grain.

This day Edwin decided to rejuvenate himself once more. He pushed back his thinning gray hair, put the seed corn cap, took a quick survey about the farm and decided to clear off the hay wagon. As he backed the green Oliver up to the hitch, he repeatedly had to remind himself this is what Betty would have him do today, so he pulled the wagon into the barn, took a deep sigh and started throwing junk out of his way.

"Yup, Betty sure wouldn't like the way things look around here. Guess one should start cleaning this place up," Edwin said, realizing he was talking to himself.

The July sun fell behind a stand of locust trees when Edwin tossed the last piece of unused equipment, parts and cans of odds and ends on the hayrack. Tomorrow he would pull the wagon to the front yard, put up a yard sale sign and be done with it. He walked back to the yellow frame farm house that he and Betty built so many years back.

When Edwin sat down at the table waiting for the frozen dinner to heat up in the microwave, thoughts once again of heading to Arizona come winter entered his mind. "Maybe I'm not so old that I couldn't sell out and move there permanently," he mused.

The next morning Ed awoke with a little more expectation from life. It was as though the junk laden hay wagon held the golden ring of life he so dearly reached for, yet always dangling within an inch from the hand. He couldn't explain the feeling. Life had to change. After his coffee and a bowl of Corn Flakes, Edwin unconsciously reached for a new seed corn hat. Half realizing he made a fresh step in life, he shrugged and pounded the yard sale signs into the dry Iowa soil.

Cliff Jensen stopped by first. He was returning from the feed store and knew as sure as gold if he returned home there would be work to do, soon an hour whittled away as the two men stood with one foot on the hitch of the hayrack talking hog prices, the Minnesota Twins and the broken flywheel on the Moline that needed repaired before the next hay cutting. He bought nothing. A few neighbors came by, picked up one or two cans of parts, kicked around on the soil, and complained about the current governmental leaders. They too left empty handed

Doris Jensen stopped by to see if her husband happened to be lounging around killing time. She bought a tractor seat, a bucket with a Guernsey cow painted on the front advertising some product or another and three five gallon pickle jars with wire handles, then left to find Cliff. By noon Ed only made a paltry fifteen dollars and a huge pile of farm junk still remained.

Right after Paul Harvey signed off with his "good day," tag, Ed heard a horrible racket coming from the front yard that sounded like a train derailment. He looked out the screen door and there sat a red International pickup rumbling from a rusted out muffler. The passenger door had a foot of electrical wire holding it shut. Some sort of racket was emanating from the radio that may have been music. Ed thought this could only mean trouble so he stashed his wallet under the sofa, walked out and expected the worse.

From behind the pile of old tractor parts a figure emerged. A forty-something petite woman with a butterfly tattooed on her slender forearm. She reached out to introduce herself. "Names Cassandra, but friends call me Prism."

Edwin just stood there as if every word he ever learned had been sucked right out of him.

"Do you have a name" she asked jokingly, raising her eyes up from under a pair of rose-colored-sunglasses.

"Oh, um, sure, name is Edwin but most folks here abouts call me Ed," he laughed, nervously wiping his hands on his overalls before reaching out to shake hers. "Um, that is sure some kind of truck ya got there."

"Yup, that's Sun Dog."

"Who?"

"You know, Sun Dog, the Indian who chases the sun and never catches it . . . is that English?"

"What?"

"Edwin?"

"No mam, I'm part Swedish, part Iowan, and mostly old farmer."

Cassandra laughed. "Why you're a jokester, I can see it in your aura." Edwin did not ask her what it was she saw.

THAT FISHY LITTLE THING CALLED LOVE--PART II

2006-08-25T15:30:00.000-04:00

Sunday morning Ollie was trying to beat the clock hoping to catch the ever elusive trophy walleye before the festival ended. The first set of mushers could be seen coming down the hill and onto the glistening lake. The dogs started to finish the last leg of the race across Wolf Lake as the spectators frantically began jumping and cheering their favorite teams on. Ollie's fish house door flew open and he blasted off into a rage--yelling to the spectators something about the "mother of all walleyes," being scared off with all their carrying on.

Elsie McDermot, who never saw eye to eye with Ollie, told him to go soak his head and get back in his stupid ol' fish house before she belts him with her cane and just as she turned around, she lost her footing in the slippery warm snow and in the process knocks over The Lutheran Women's coffee table sending nearly $500 blowing into the blustery wind.

The chase was on. The fine folks of Tamarack Falls took off after the money. The weekly paper described what soon took place as, "an ugly mess of people, dog sleds and dollar bills." To top everything off, the ice suddenly cracked, shooting a dull thud across the lake, ending at the northern edge, allowing the rusted Desoto carcass to fall to an early grave.

In a panic driven moment the dog sled team from Winnipeg crashed into Ollie's fish house, leaving nothing but a pile of lumber and fiber board. The Team Duluth dogs ran towards town and several other sleds crossed paths and wrecked what was left of the grandstands, judges booths and remaining fish houses. From that point on, nobody had a clue who won the dog race.

Ollie knew the prize walleye was history. In despair he tossed his pole into the pile of lumber and thought seriously about torching the whole mess, instead he turned and walked back to the cafe. All in all, it was a wise decision not to hang around for the sled dog awards since the judges had no choice but to draw names for the winner. Straight forth another fight broke out when a team from Chicago took home the honors. Big city dogs had no right being in the winners' circle.

After a period of disgusting muffled grumbling, Ollie, Swen, Eric and Oscar and the other remaining few duffers decided to walk back down to the lake to see who won the fishing boat. Although the awards were not to be announced until five-thirty, they pretty much knew their guess of early April didn't make finals.

Most of the old guys figured the misfit, Christen Asbjørnsen, likely had the chinook all figured out with his slide rule mumble jumbo and was already loading up the boat, making their journey back to the lake even harder but Swen hoped his guess of March 20 had a chance. Unlike horseshoes, close counted in the auto guessing game.

Just as they arrived, the ugliest fish house winner's name was announced. Swen, with his pile of scrap building materials now piled in a heap, took home the prize. He accepted the $25 gift certificate from The House of Minnow's Bait and Tackle, but knew Monday morning there was hell to be paid for his prize.

As the sun set into the pines of this, once tranquil community, it finally came time to announce the grand prize winner of the 14 foot Alumacraft boat and motor. After the judges carefully narrowed down the contestant with the closest guess to the surprised exit of the Desoto, Mayor Carlson and the new Norske Queen, Evelyn Toegras, climbed onto what was left of the stage and announced the winner of the boat and motor--Erma Peterson.

Swen got up and left. "What in tarnation did a 72 year-old woman want with a fishing boat anyhow," he grumbled as he walked back home. The rest of the evening he sat in front of his black and white Philco with Folgers, his aging dog, trying to figure life out.

As Ollie pulled off his boots, hung up his long johns and crept into bed, he could only think of all the destroyed fishing houses, Swen's lucky win from the bait shop, the walleye that got away and, of all things, Irma Peterson winning the aluminum fishing boat.

As he closed his eyes, thinking about all the crazy things that took place, he thought maybe, just maybe, 72 wasn't too old to get married after all. He was hoping for a good night's sleep, after all, he had a phone call to make in the morning.