Showing gratitude

Heidi's FHE lesson last night was on showing gratitude.  We talked about how we show gratitude and then had each member of the family make a list of some of the things of which we are grateful and at the end describe one way that we will show gratitude going forward.  Here was my "off the cuff" list.

My wife
My children
My Heavenly Father
My home
My parents
My country
Peace
Love
My brothers/sisters
My Cowboys
My truck
Christmas and Thanksgiving
Food Network
Ham and Cheese sandwiches
Cheese balls and crackers
Popcorn and movies
Warm blankets and rainy afternoons
All You Can Eat restaurants
Friday nights
Cruises
Pajamas
Holidays
Fishing
Watching snow fall in the street lights
Hot dogs with mustard
Rice pudding
Hot Water
Beef sticks
Snuggling
Ice Cream
Giving gifts
Smiles

I will be more prayerful and read my scriptures more regularly.

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Passed!

I passed my final CNA exam.   I am officially on the State of Utah CNA Registery.

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A life divided

My day is divided into three parts.  (A) calling on, applying and looking up jobs.  (B) applying for school, looking up possible scholarships, preparing essays and other needed materials for the scholarships.  (C) studying for the State CNA Skills test.

I officially applied for enrollment at UVU today.  Next is to visit the school education and pre-nursing councilors.  School starts on January 5th.

Heidi helped by quizzing me for my skills test today.  I then ruined her circulation by trying to practice taking  blood pressures on her arms.  Didn't get either one and made her arms ache.  What a wonderful nurse!  I will have to turn in my little white dress and the little tri-fold hat.

No luck on the job front yet.  I will be a sqeaky wheel tomorrow at Costco to see if I can get on there.

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My dryer is working!!!

No more wet clothes hanging from my lights over the dining room table!  Collect the boys underware from the door knobs.  We have heat!!!!

Blessings come in various sizes, shapes and temperatures!!!!

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Fired!

Family First decided (let's clarify here, NCUA decided, since they are the devil or, I mean, the controlling party) to "abolish" my position at the credit union.  They released me 2 days before the end of September so that my insurance would end then instead of the credit union paying for another month of insurance.  May they all burn in the tiny recesses of ...... sorry, where was I?  Work, and house seem to be crumbling around my ears.  No strong prospects for new employment yet.  Neither of the two dryers in my home works so I have wet clothes hanging from every surface, hook and ledge.  I am smacked in the face with the stark realization of how poorly I am providing for my family.  This is a bad day.

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Loaves and fishes

Enjoyed a shortened day at work, thanks to my immediate boss allowing me to take a few personal hours in the afternoon.  I met Heidi at the grocery store where we worked between the "rock" of having no money for anything including groceries and the "hard place" of needing to feed the childrem something.  Heidi has been a magician in the kitchen, creating wonderful meals out of the garden and the last few items of a quickly depleating food storage.  The fridge has even been free of condiments the last week or two.  It would have looked like we were cleaning the fridge except for the fact that there was nothing to put back in it.  Now I see how Christ worked the loaves and fishes.  Heidi is working the zucchini and cucumbers.

We walked over to the school and picked up the girls.  This is the third straight day that I have been able to get the kids from school or have lunch with them.

We have a get-together BBQ with 3 neighbors this evening.  We are making a few things to share.  I just took out my second set of loaves of zucchini bread from the oven.  I have also finished simmering a pot of brazilian beans on the stove.  I still need to make some rice.  We have the chicken breasts marinating in the fridge and a package of hot dogs waiting for their turn on the grill when we get over there.

Heidi's sister had a few free passes to the pool this afternoon so Heidi to the C and two older girls and invited one of BG's and C's friends to go too.  M and BR stayed with me.  The kitcken smells like Cinnamin and Garlic.

Friday night!  I'm glad for the weekend.

Maybe I will make some rice pudding tomorrow.  I have a great baked custard style rice pudding recipe  and if I add raisins I will be able to eat it all myself!!

M is getting into the shredded paper again.

Chau

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New addition

New addition to my dream instrument collection. 
It is a relatively cheap bass respectively, a Squire, the little brother to Fender Guitars Co.  It is a beautiful bass with a maple neck and pearl block inlays, modeled after the vintage 1977 Fender jazz bass.  I was 5 years old when it was originally released!  The following is the company write up on it.

Vintage Modified Jazz Bass® ‘77

The Vintage Modified Jazz Bass ’77 evokes the age of funk and the dawn of punk. It’s a retro-inspired gloss black beauty with Duncan Designed™ Jazz Bass pickups, black plastic Stratocaster® knobs, one-piece maple neck with white binding and white pearl block inlays, 20-fret maple fingerboard, and a three-ply black/white/black pickguard.

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Good Reads!

Following Mer's example, I will represent the other half of the library with my "Good Reads"

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My personal goals

This is a list of long term personal goals that I want to accomplish.  They will be posted by my bed.  They are personal goals that deal with personal interests and desires and do not reflect any of my other family or spiritual goals.

1) Finish my CNA certification.
2) Lose weight until I weigh 215 lbs and maintain the weight.
3) Start a business.
4) Pay off the house.
5) Have Life Insurance on myself.
6) Have $250,000.00 in savings.
7) Create and write in a journal everyday.
8) Write at least 10 full stories and have them published.
9) Own a Fender Jazz Bass, an acoustic bass and a Fender Stratocaster guitar.
10) Learn to play the bass proficiently enough to play in community theater.
11) Learn to play the guitar proficiently for fun.
12) Compose and write a hymn.
13) Properly manage my diabetes.
14) See a Dallas Cowboys game in Cowboys stadium with my sons. (both of them)
15) Take my wife on a second honeymoon without worrying about the cost.

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To Richard

There are moments in life that resonate with you, fleeting experiences that have a profound affect on critical points of your life. Some may only take on profundity with the aid of time and perspective as the act crystallizes its impact as a bridge over life’s severe chasms. The act, motivated by simple love and moved upon without complex or manipulative forethought, carries with it the power to soothe, to act as a balm to a fearful and mournful heart. I have experienced such moments. I was the recipient of such an act seven years ago and have never fully realized the impact nor have I expressed the gratitude that I have felt for that expression of love. It came unrequested and unexpected. It was truly a response from a loving Heavenly Father to an unspoken prayer, to a need unrealized by the recipient.

Background:

When my daughter was born, life started to rotate a little slower. The hospital seemed to be chaos to a parent unprepared. The baby was taken from us moments after she was born. She was placed in an ICU unit with little explanation. Her care started with the nurse assigned to the ICU and continued to a supervisor and then to a team of individuals attempting to get my little new born daughter to breathe and retain oxygen. There was, as of yet, no mention of the pending diagnosis that would scare, frighten and throw me abruptly into a hitherto fore unimaginable changing of life’s paradigm. She was stabilized with the use of 4 liters of oxygen pumped into a tiny tent.

I left the hospital and my wife that night, who had yet to see her new daughter or to receive any explanation to her condition, and went to bed at mom’s house. I was awakened by a sobbing wife, requesting that I come meet with the doctors in the ICU. I rushed to my baby’s bedside. A very cold and clinical specialist asked if I was the father and then abruptly began explaining how my daughter was different, what challenges she would face and what to expect for her life. A tender family physician attempted to temper the analytical daggers cutting on my heart but by then the room was spinning and all I could do was mumble to them that we needed to go explain this to my wife, who still had not yet seen nor held her baby.

Life altered on that day. Like the grind of changing gears on a bike, the picture and vision of life cracked. I didn’t know how to put that picture back together because I didn’t know how the new picture was supposed to look. For a few days, all I had was the empty picture frame from where life had once been held.

Not knowing or having a concept of the future but only knowing that my vision of life for my newest daughter had changed abruptly and that she might not experience life, in the way that I expected or understood it, caused me to mourn for her and for myself.

I was still in mourning the next evening. My other children were back home now with me. Heidi was with my daughter in the hospital. I had put the other three children in bed when the doorbell rang unexpectedly. Richard was at the door by himself, holding a Tupperware bowl. I invited him in and he went to the kitchen and dished me up a meal that he had made, under the guise of “wanting me to try it.” When it was ready, he asked me about my baby and how I was feeling. He then sat down next to me, let me eat, and proceeded to allow me to talk, cry and unload for the best part of an hour. He comforted me and gave me the shoulder that I didn’t know that I needed. He listened without judgment and let me mourn. He helped me get it out, to breathe and refocus. When I was done, he left quietly, in Richard’s unassuming way, as if he had done nothing. But for a few moments he carried me when I was afraid of moving forward. He was sensitive to a need and I am forever grateful.

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Beginnings - The Elwood Dead End

The rain fell in waves across the dirty streets, washing the surface filth and decay into the overflowing sewers. Abandoned and condemned, the apartment buildings at the end of Elwood Avenue, named after the late Mayor Durwin C. Elwood, rose into the soggy night sky like tombstones. Elwood Avenue ended abruptly ten feet beyond the last empty building. A forty foot high cement wall, covered in the colors and images of street youth expression, hid the Fourteenth Street off ramp to the freeway, effectively cutting off any through traffic and creating the Elwood dead end.

Lightning cracked, exposing the choked and cluttered alleyways like a beam from a flash light. The doors of the condemned building, once sealed shut, now swung back and forth on rusty hinges, whining and moaning, as the wind and storm played catch.

Edward McClure, or “Eddie” to his regulars, owned a tiny grocery store on the corner of Elwood and Mathis, a block from the freeway and the Elwood dead end. Eddie stood five feet six inches tall and weighed Three hundred and forty one pounds on a good day. He rarely moved from behind the coffee stained checkout counter, which ran along the front window facing Mathis Boulevard. He gave orders and directed traffic from where he sat by swinging and pointing two pudgy fingers, holding a frayed cigar which looked like it had been stopped on.

With three to four days growth across his swollen and greasy jowls and neck, Eddie sat and watched life pass through the hazy, foggy windows of his store. He wore a yellowed tank top, stretched tightly across a bulging, hairy stomach which permanently creased where it rested across the inner edge of the counter. The tank top sat untucked but without reaching the top of Eddie’s stained and weathered blue jeans, which rode low across his hips and covered little in the back where they sat perched atop of a creaky metal bar stool behind the counter.

Eddie leaned back from the counter, against a rack of adult magazines, and ran his left hand through the few remaining strands of greasy hair that spread across the top of his head. He reached for the remote control, nestled in a basket of credit card receipts, flipped on the TV to the late eleven o’clock news and turned up the volume. The store had been empty since early evening and he was bored.

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Beginnings - Banker’s Hours

The concussion of the blast shook the tiny town of Hillbrow. The grayish blue of the early morning winter sky blossomed blood red. Flames shot skyward carrying chunks of brick, charred splintered wood and plumes of smoldering paper. The wispy fingerling morning clouds brightened and then disappeared behind the large black swirling ball of smoke and gas.
The ball rose and spread throughout the sky as if it were spread with a knife. Debris from the explosion began raining from the blackened sky, hitting the ground, denting hoods and smashing windshields of parked cars, littering the narrow asphalt streets and grass, covering the area with smoldering missiles.

Fire crackled and danced throughout the remains of the jagged black smoking fangs of foundation. Dust and tiny bits of unrecognizable material covered the grass around the rectangular mass of flame and smoldering cement. The First Bank of Hillbrow was gone. What remained looked like a huge nest for a mythical bird, as if a Phoenix would rise from the smoke and ashes to claim its perch. Sleepy people began slipping into the streets to see what had shaken them from their Sunday morning slumber.

Jack awoke with a start, as if he were falling in a dream and had awakened at the final moment before impact. He lay there in the same double bed that he had slept in as a child, head up, looking at the dimpled texture of the off-white ceiling. Stretching out with his toes, he yawned and rubbed an eye with his fingers.

Something had awakened him, physically shaken him from sleep. Normally, Jack could sleep through practically anything. He wondered what had dragged him from his sweet abyss. He closed his eyes again; hmmmm, still sleepy. He curled to one side and pulled the heavy comforter up across his shoulder.

“I would awake during the best dream I’ve had all month,” he mumbled. Working his head back into the pillow, he let his breathing slow and felt himself drift away again. Back to the dimly lit bar, she was still sitting on his lap. Her long curls were pulled away from her face and clipped behind her head. She was giggling at his witty remarks. How he had convinced her to come over to his table, he had no idea, didn’t care really. Dreams didn’t have to make sense, they were dreams after all, and this certainly wasn’t realistic for Jack.

He let his eyes drift down her body, from the tight cream colored, sleeveless cotton top, pausing briefly, down her stomach to equally tight pink shorts which displayed ample amounts of perfect thigh. His mind quivered, everything quivered. He could feel his toes clench and unclench in his shoes. What should he say to move this thing along, he wondered. Fortunately, dream time seemed easier to control, strange in a way.

“Cari,” he stammered past dry lips and throat, hoping that he had remembered her name correctly. He paused, waiting and watching her face as it reflected orange and gold from the lights above the bar. The music was loud; she might not have heard him. Boy, he needed a drink about now. He licked his lips and spoke again. “Cari?”

“Yes,” she responded softly, the words almost lost in the sea of music and chatter from the rest of the bar. She leaned into him, putting her cotton candy colored lips to his ear. He could feel her body press against his chest. She has got to be able to feel my heart thumping, Jack thought. He turned and looked up into her eyes, those twinkling, mesmerizing, man crushing eyes.

“How about us getting out of here? We could go somewhere quiet and talk or something?” He knew that it sounded stupid, he was already embarrassed, how desperate could one sound!

She smiled coyly and slid more squarely into his lap. Nibbling at his ear, she whispered, “Let’s go!”

His body was numb with excitement. This was going to be a night to be documented in the history of Hillbrow. Jack reluctantly lifted Cari off his lap, helping those long legs to their feet. He rose from the wooden chair like a drunken sailor, intoxicated with anticipation.

BBBBBRRRRRRIIINNNGGGGG!!! BBBBBRRRRRRIIINNNGGGGG!!!

The phone on the desk of Jack’s studio apartment shattered the moment! Jack nearly fell out of bed, his face damp with perspiration. “Aurggggh,” Jack clamored for the phone, squinting around the room for it in his disorientation. Locating the enemy, Jack swore at it viciously!

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Beginnings - Twilight Surf

It was dusk when Harold left the bar. The sun, a deep orange, still warmed his face as it disappeared into the ocean, reminding him of the 103 degree afternoon of which he had escaped within the darkness of the air conditioned bar “The Black Oasis.”


Two dozen games of pool and eight bottles of beer later, he reemerged into life numb and tired. He stood in the swirling dust in front of the Black Oasis, watching the waves crash across the muted yellow sand of the empty beach across the street.

Harold then turned and staggered down the side alley between the bar and the back of an old, pay by the hour, motel called “The Sea Breeze.” As he walked, Harold fumbled in his pants pockets for his keys. He stopped at the rear corner of the buildings. The alley opened into an unmarked dirt parking area which had exits through both the alley from which Harold had staggered as well as along a dirt trail through the empty, weed choked lot behind the bar. The trail emptied out onto the next block adjacent to a squatty little hardware store with bars on the windows.

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Beginnings - Love You to Death

His mouth tasted like it was full of cotton, thick and dry. His throat felt constricted and sore as if he had swallowed a large rubber ball. Strange noises bounced around his brain, noises that he couldn’t place, causing him disorientation. Grayson slowly opened his eyes and immediately squinted from the bright glare of morning sun light. He, painfully, turned his head away from the light, his neck stiff. After a few moments, his eyes adjusted to the glare and the movement and color struggled back into hazy focus.


Grayson lay, partially covered by an overturned table, in piles of squished boxes, globs of greenish muck and other assorted garbage, in what appeared to be one end of an open air Asian fish and vegetable market. From the noises and movement near what appeared to be the entrance to the market, business was beginning. Shop owners began pulling back canvas tarp coverings and setting out the days offerings for display. The acute smell of old fish suddenly overwhelmed him. He gagged and his body shook, sending waves of pain throughout, revealing numerous other potential bruises or broken bones.

He stifled the gag reflex and attempted to assess his physical state. With what felt like a potential broken ankle as well as ribs and numerous bruising across the torso and legs, Grayson felt like he had been hit by a Mack truck. Instinctively, he felt that he needed to hide. Although he couldn’t remember what had happened to him or how he had come to be there, discarded and broken, in the trash of an Asian market, his brain was now working on overdrive, sending unfamiliar survival signals. His memory was a fog. His breathing was ragged and he had little strength but he responded to the urgent warnings of self preservation.

Customers had begun exploring the market place and were slowly approaching the area where Grayson lay pinned under the table. It would only be a matter of moments before he would be noticed. With some effort, he pushed himself backwards, freeing his legs of the table. He strained and pulled to turn himself around over the piles of trash until he faced the nearest booth. He then began army crawling on his elbows toward it.

The front display tables were draped in stained white cotton sheets which hung to within inches of the dirt floor. The display tables of this particular booth were stacked with 50lb bags of rice. Worming his body under the rice table, he shifted to his left side and wedged himself in and around additional boxes stored there. His body screamed from the movement.

With two swollen fingers, he reached forward and lifted the hem of the table drapery. A paved access road ran along the back of the market. Vender trucks were scattered in the dirt between the market and the road.

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Beginnings - Paying the Tab

The bar had its regulars, most good places do. Tucked under a twelve story, all brick office complex that had seen far better years, in the middle of the downtown walking district of Harrisburg, “Crackers” served an eclectic mixture of white collar suits and college frats, with an undercurrent of darker scowl-faced regular working crowds. The bar consisted of red brick interior walls, cracked leather bar stools and booths with coffee brown wooden tables. A smoke induced haze lingered below the water stained panel ceiling, swirling around a lazily spinning wicker fan and two sets of bare bulb light fixtures emitting a sickly yellow glow against the bar’s welcome dimness and accompanying anonymity.


Julian Dooran had owned the bar since the late fifties. He had purchased it in partnership with old Johnny Ashcroft, a childhood friend. Johnny had been good with numbers and Julian liked people so it seemed natural for Johnny to do the books and for Julian to tend bar. This arrangement seemed to fit and the bar did well.

People rarely met Johnny, who preferred the privacy of his back office, his desk, his calculator and his cigars. He liked the office’s personal exit into the alley behind the building where he and his occasional guests could come and go in secrecy. Julian became a real bar keep in every sense of the word. He kept the pretzel bowls filled, the music moderate and the rough crowds out. He became friend and councilor to thousands of faces. He knew how to listen, when to talk and when to forget.

The bar had originally been called JJ’s Pub, for Julian and Johnny, so that neither one would receive top billing. They had felt good about the name and it stuck. They worked hard and put in long hours to make JJ’s a success.

Women drifted in and out of the boys lives like they did the bar, short stints with no commitment or permanence. There were no real regrets, their bar was their mistress and a very demanding one.

Johnny’s health began failing in the mid seventies. The bouts of chronic coughing became longer and harder and the nausea was commonplace. Johnny took to nibbling on Saltine crackers, from a stash in his bottom desk drawer, to ease his stomach. It didn’t help that he had put on weight over the years which caused constant back pain. Through it all, he managed to stumble in faithfully every morning before the bar opened, ritualistically chatting at the bar with Julian about sports and politics, of which they never agreed, before scooting back to his office to work on the ordering and the bills.

Cancer had taken over Johnny’s body long before Julian could convince him to see a doctor. The diagnosis was grim and the time left was short. Johnny was gone weeks after that first visit. Julian suffered silently over the loss of his friend and business partner, leaving Johnny’s office closed and practically untouched for weeks. The bar paid for a quiet funeral for a few close friends and Johnny’s only surviving relative, an older married sister who worked as a librarian in Chicago. The coffin was laid to rest in a local cemetery, along the back corner under a tree, just as Johnny would have wanted. And with that, Johnny was gone.

In June of Seventy Eight, nine months after Johnny’s death, Julian renamed the bar. It took him a week to come up with something suitable. He wanted something that would make him remember Johnny. After a weeks worth of thought, he realized that his mind kept returning to Johnny’s constant pestering for thosr saltine crackers. It had always made Julian laugh. Johnny would go through boxes at a time, making sandwiches of everything. Julian had joked that if the two partners had ever taken bonuses, Johnny would have wanted his to be in crackers, so “Crackers” it became.

Years following the name change were solitary of Mr. Julian Dooran. The bar became even more all encompassing. He had the back office remodeled to include a bed and private bathroom. He would sleep most weeknights at the bar, returning to his small apartment to do laundry and collect any mail.

The game had begun during those years of the early eighties. Wednesdays and Fridays were poker nights. After hours in the rear game room, across the thread barren green felt of a dilapidated pool table, four to six of Julian’s bar friends would play until morning, often losing hundreds of dollars to each other.

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Beginnings - Missing Hearts

He slowly and deliberately turned the last page of the book with one of the three remaining fingers on his right hand. Feasting upon the final few lines of text, he closed the book with a sigh, sandwiching it between his two palms. A good story was very satisfying. Sliding from the maroon leather recliner positioned next to a tall, narrow twin-paned window pressed between bookcases, Ruben began swinging the book back and forth, pinching it between thumb and forefinger.


With broad strides from his tall, bony frame, Ruben crossed the thick multicolored rugs covering the polished hardwood floors of his personal study. Returning the book to its place, Ruben looped a finger over the binding of a first addition “Moby Dick”, above his head on an upper shelf, and pulled outward slightly until it clicked. A low yet audible humming came from behind the bookshelves on the far wall. Slowly the shelves split in half lengthwise, one side sliding open smoothly, like an enormous walk-in freezer door. The darkness beyond revealed the top in a series of wooden steps leading downward into an abyss.

Ruben slid Moby Dick back into place and stepped over to and through the bookshelves. A black panel of colored buttons and two small computer screens were recessed into the wall next to the stairs. One screen displayed a wide angle view of the study. Ruben glanced at the screen. He could see himself standing in the doorway of the open bookshelf. Ruben pressed a blue button located along the top of the panel. The humming sound returned, more pronounced within the stairwell, and the shelf slid back into place. As the door closed, a series of overhead lights flickered to life, lighting the stairs.

Ruben took the stairs two and three at a time, letting his three fingers slide down the polished wood of the narrow handrail bolted to the wall. The steps seemed to lead deep into the belly of Telston Manor. Ruben finally hit the bottom step and stopped abruptly. Touching a red button on a similar computer panel, the lights in the stairway faded to black. Ruben then pushed open the thick insulated metal door with a forearm and stepped into his playroom.

Rows of florescent lights illuminated the long egg-shaped room. With stark white walls and a light cream colored tile floor, the room held a cold, sterile quality. An expansive bare stainless steel table sat in the middle of the otherwise empty room, a solitary, malignant sentry guarding the hell that dwelt within.

“Is everyone awake?” Ruben called out, in an exaggerated sweet sing-song tone. Low moans began answering his call with a solitary sob piercing the moans.

“Let me go, please!” came a pleading yet terrified whisper.

Ruben’s laugh rolled and echoed around the room. “Just wait my darlings,” he cooed, “soon you will be free to fly away!” He was very pleased with himself and allowed a grin to spread across his gaunt features. How clever he could be with wordplay, too bad that it was wasted on these creatures. He strolled across the playroom to the first of a series of small open rectangular windows imbedded in the walls.

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Beginnings - And then there were none…

The candle light flickered and danced with the shadows across the walls of books and around the ghostly sheet covered arm chairs of the late Dr. Bekker’s study. The air in the room lay thick and musty.
Young Charlie Bass, backup forward for the Warner Heights high school galloping gophers, walked slowly across the bare hardwood floor toward the center of the room, holding the candle out away from his skinny 6’3” frame. His eyes darted back and forth apprehensively, his mouth curled in a grin of fearful excitement.

The old mansion was cold, a stark contrast to the bathwater warm August night outside. Charlie shivered beneath his short sleeved cotton tee shirt. With his free hand, he adjusted the blue KC Royals ball cap that sat perched atop his smooth bald head. Leaning down, he balanced the lit candle upright on the dusty hard wood floor. He then hustled back across the room to an open corner window from where he had found initial entrance, the candle light throwing his elongated shadow against the book shelves.

He reached the window and, with a few hard thumps of his open palm, began clearing away the few remaining boards that had sealed the window. Sticking his head out of the square hole in the side of the Bekker mansion, he looked out at the estate covered in mature oaks and maples. Looking down, he could see the four others huddle around the base of the ladder, chattering and giggling in the darkness.

“Hurry up, get in here! This is so wild.” Charlie hissed.

“So what’s it like in there Q-ball?” Andy shouted. “Have you seen Bekker’s ghost yet?”

“Shhhhhush! You are going to wake both the dead and the living if you don’t keep quiet Andy! Get everyone up here.”

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Glimpses - Love

Just four little letters, very common little letters.
In the name of love, diverse actions have been dedicated.
Hearts have been broken, wars have been fought and lives have been lost.

What power is possessed in this tiny little word that takes, creates and controls lives?
The ultimate search, the barometer for life’s success, blind confusion seeking a concept.
How can power to possess and control be so single, so sweet.
Mountains are moved under this unique directive.

Lands are transversed, seas are battled.
Life is given and life is sacrificed.
Most sought after, most longed for, life’s directed ambition
Often as fleeting as a whisper in the wind.

Given and taken as currency, traded and bartered as necessity dictates.
Conditional for some yet unconditional to others
Four little letters, L O V E.
A funny little word.

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Glimpses - Childhood Lost

The breeze was cold against her skin. April is warmer than this, she thought. She sat in a light cotton blue and white spring dress that covered her knees only when she walked. The cement park bench was cool on the backs of her bare thighs. She had sat, seeming alone, for hours now, an empty park of green grass and mottled blue green spruce trees, a charcoal black asphalt jogging path passing under her feet and continuing into the trees. In front of her, across the jogging path, surrounded by grass, spread a wide sea of sand, untouched by human footprints, a lonely oasis with islands of swings and a tall silver slide.
Erica watched as the wind pushed the swings back and forth. She looked up into the gray, overcast sky of clouds, shuddered, and folded her arms more tightly around her stomach. She could feel the last grasp of winter in the air, tugging at her dress and blowing her long loosely curled chestnut locks across her face and into her eyes and mouth.

She glanced down at her wristwatch, a Christmas gift from her husband. He was a wonderful man who was probably worried about her and where she had wandered. It was getting late, 6:20 pm, dinner should have been made and on the table. Things to do, responsibilities of a wife and mother, yet Erica lingered.

She looked at the grass, the trees, her gaze pausing at the empty swings. A single tear formed in the corner of one eye. She hastily brushed it away, feeling the wetness on the back of her hand. Just stubborn memories of childhood, of swings, of sandcastles, of friendships, lost before they began. Why it still haunted her thoughts, she wondered. I am happy, I’m content, I love my family. This was a different type of loss, a hollowness of friendship gone. Her husband wouldn’t understand. But that was okay and she was okay.

Glancing again at the swings, watching them sway in the wind, Erica saw children appear, playing in the sand, running around the slide, chasing each other. She could see herself swinging, pushing herself higher and higher into the air, leaning back in the sun, fingers clenching the links of the chains with her legs outstretched. Reaching for the clouds with her feet, she would watch the world rush towards her, upside down, time and time again with the summer breezes blowing in her face.

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Glimpses - The Little Girl

There was a group of young children running and playing in the tall green grass of a mountain meadow. The sun shone brightly over the tops of the pine trees from a deep ocean blue morning sky. The girls giggled and squealed as the boys ran around teasing and tormenting them, each boy doing his best to impress the girls with his own perceived wit and charm.

One creative little boy loved to make up stories, poems and pictures to charm and entertain the rest of the group. One little girl, with her long curled locks of brown, was particularly quick to respond to the little boy’s quips. She was as intelligent as her smile was breathtaking. The two enjoyed matching wits and became friends.

Each day, the children met and played in the mountain meadow. Although there were arguments on occasion, all the children generally got along and enjoyed playing with each other. The beautiful little girl became more and more endearing to the little boy as they continued to play. Occasionally, some children would stop coming to the meadow and new children would come in their place, but there was always children playing, laughing and enjoying themselves.

One day, the little girl’s parents came to the meadow and told her that they would be moving to a wonderful place where she would get to play and where she would be happy for the rest of her life. She was excited to go but knew that she would miss her friends. The little boy was so happy for her. He had once lived where she was going and knew that she would be happy there.

He watched her go before turning to play with the other children, but he couldn’t help but notice that his heart hurt just a little bit. There was emptiness. He knew that he would miss that little girl’s wit and smile. Her friendship meant a lot to him. She meant a lot to him.

Time passed and fall arrived with its falling leaves and cool breezes. He still thought of her as he played and made up stories for the children of the meadow. He hoped that she was happy in her new home. She would always be special in the hearts of the children of the meadow and especially to a little boy who sat on a tree branch, way up on the top of the tallest tree, dreaming of far off places and special smiles.

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Beginnings - Whiskey Smooth

A moonless night sky rose above the tall spruce and cypress trees along the wooded path on which Daryl and Coot McGinnis dragged the body. They spoke in low voices, grumbling about not being able to see.

“I swear, why couldn’t we bring flash lights? Coot hissed. “ I durn near kilt myself, walkin into that tree back there!”

“I told you five times!” Daryl retorted. “Ol man Hutchins would have shot us already as sure as lookin at us if he knew that we was on his property.”

“He shoots first and never does ask yer name.” Coot agreed.

“He’s got dem eyes like a hawk. He’d see our lights and figure fer sure that he was bein attacked. He’s probly sittin in the dark on his porch right now, with that rifle across his knees. Crazy ol man! Been nuts ever since his boys was kilt holdin up that bank over in Casaw County.”

“So, shut up already or he’ll kill us both!” Daryl spit through clenched teeth.

“Jeeez, I was just askin.”

“Well, shut up, I’m tryin ta think. Anyway, the gully should be comin up and we can throw ol Henry in and get outa here.”

“Daryl, ya really think that they aint gonna find the body here?” Coot whined.

“No one’s goin to be back in here except Hutchins wont probly wander back this far until spring. Aint no one goin to find him atoll. Well excepten maybe the wolves!” Daryl chuckled.

Coot and Daryl at an opening in the trees, where the ground fell away on one side into a deep gully choked with trees and accumulated dry brush. The gully measured approximately fifty yards across and ran for about a quarter of a mile along the path that they were on.

Daryl dropped the right leg of the man that they were dragging and walked around him, reaching for the arms that had been trailing behind the dead man. Together, Daryl and Coot lifted the body and began swinging it back and forth out over the edge to build momentum. At the height of the third swing, they let go with a grunt and listened. The body disappeared into space before landing and tumbling down the slope accompanied by the sounds of thrashing brush and the snapping of tree limbs.

“Now lets git outa here Daryl, I’m freezing!” Coot complained.

“Yea, let git.” Daryl agreed with a satisfied nod.

They quickly shuffled back up the trail, towards their truck and past the cabin-style home of Grit Hutchins. They stumbled along the trail in the darkness, being unfamiliar with the area at night. When they reached the trees surrounding Hutchin’s place they left the trail behind and took a wide slow birth, wandering through the woods, feeling their way from tree to tree.

“That is my foot, hey get off my foot!” Daryl hissed, pushing Coot backwards into a stunted pine. Coot stumbled back and slid to the ground.

“Hey….I just couldn’t see ya…. Hey man.. help me up. I think…oh..man..I sat in something!”

“Get up and quit whining. Let’s get out of these hear woods, quick!” Daryl commanded under his breath, looking back over his shoulder.

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Beginnings - An Empty Window

Life faded to black for Mr. Harold T. Moffit. Looking up at the peeling, water stained ceiling of his rented rats-nest apartment, he felt the choked and oppressing clutter of folders, papers, filing cabinets and unfulfilled dreams scattered all around him as he lay there on his back, not moving from where he landed after tripping and falling over his own feet. He hadn’t bothered to catch himself as he fell and smacked the dirty wood floor of the apartment bedroom with his forehead.

A deafening silence rang in Moffit’s ears, pounding in his brain, thrusting the last ounce of sanity screaming from his lips. Moffit watched the sun rise and fall on the white textureless wall opposite his small smudged and cracked bedroom window, which sat partially open, inviting the night, the darkness and all of its evils to enter and absorb.

Moffit stared blankly at the open window, willing it to close, to shut him in, to protect him from the world. But even the window taunted him, defied him and sat silently open.

Moffit’s mind slowly, painfully began to wander; meandering back and forth through memories of happiness’s long lost and forgotten. Children in tiny white tennis shoes played in the sand, slipping down slides into his waiting arms. He held them close, kissing their cheeks and foreheads, watching them play and learn. A woman of breathtaking beauty smiled just for him. Her touch on his arm always sent chills. Her soft silky voice soothed his tired soul.

All gone, reality splashed ice water in Moffit’s face. His mind snapped back into fuzzy focus, a dreary, blurry stark white room. A cold breeze was blowing through the open window. There was a realization of warm wet tears, dripping from the sides of his head to his ears, where they remained trapped in the outer folds, tiny pools of heartache. Moffit released a sigh, soft and long. His body relaxed, fingers loose and limp. A crumpled yellow telegram slipped from his fingers to the floor where it laid, words to the ceiling.

It read, “….Dear Mr. Moffit, We regret to inform you that there has been an accident. Tragically, your wife and children have been killed. We send our condolences and our regret for having informed you in this manner but as you have no phone ………….”

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Beginnings - Lightning from Heaven

Heaven sat cross-legged on the floor of her closet. Her long brown loosely cured hair hung in a relaxed ponytail across one shoulder. She wore an old, frayed and torn oversize gray sweat shirt with “Kiss Me!!!” written in bold crimson letters over tight slate blue jeans. Her bare feet, with toenails painted dark blue, tapped to Motley Crue throbbing from an enormous stereo which covered most of the surface area of an oak dresser in the corner of the expansive bedroom.

Heaven leaned back against the wall of the closet and dropped another page of the letter that she was reading into a pile of papers being created on the oatmeal colored carpet beside her. She giggled as her eyes absorbed each word of the final page.

“He is so sweet!” She whispered. With a broad smile, she dropped the last page to the floor, closed here eyes and sighed. Heaven’s heart was light. He loved her. He finally said as much in his letter. She knew that her parents had been wrong about him. They didn’t know him at all. They didn’t know how sweet he was. How he treated her like a woman instead of a little girl.

Her parents would never understand him or their love. They just made judgments. They condemned him for his clothes, his language and the lack of a job or sufficient education. They told her that he was no good and that she was worth more. She had turned sixteen, three months earlier and her parents had dared to threaten to take away her drivers license if she saw him again. He was right about her parents. He had always been right. They didn’t love her like he did. They didn’t care about her happiness.

Her parents were intoxicated with self righteousness when they found out about his arrest. They had known that it would happen sooner or later. Trash, he was filth, a subhuman individual. They had smiled at each other smugly and looked down at her with those “see, we knew best” eyes. She had screamed at them then, the first time that she had dared to raise her voice, to that degree, to her parents. They, of course, blamed her actions and attitudes on his influence. He was gone and they knew that Heaven would see how right they were. Because, of course, they were right!

Michael promised in his letter, which he had written from the county jail and sent to her friend Julia, that they would be together. He said that he missed her. She hung on his every word. He finally wrote that he loved her. She read the words over and over again. Electricity pulsed through her. She knew that this was the real thing. This was love!

She pulled herself to her feet and searched for socks in the pile of washed and folded clothes which had been placed on the floor outside her bedroom door. She didn’t have much time. Michael wanted her to be ready to go with him.

“It’s the only way that we can be together.” He would whisper.

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Beginnings - Toil and Trouble

A mountain of bare stone, but for the occasional small withered pine tree, rose from the most remote section of the forest. With jagged lonely peaks jutting outwardly into the low hanging shroud of gray clouds, the mountain stood erect, a thin veil of mist and smoke swirled, concealing the evil within its granite interior. A vague dirt path, clogged with weeds, cut back and forth, climbing the mountain’s rocky face, around large stone protrusions and along narrow, wind swept ledges, pressed against the soaring vertical cliffs.

The opening to the cave was narrow and hidden in the belly of a rock-choked crease within a clearing along the mountain’s south slope. Through the cave’s entrance, a passage, carved of wind and water, cut into the mountain’s flesh for twenty five feet until opening into an expansive cavern. The room was roughly circular in shape with the ceiling rising in places to sixty feet above the sand strewn floor. Natural vent holes dotted the ceiling, allowing shallow beams of sunlight to cut through and brighten the dark expanse within. The black rock of the cavern walls remained shrouded in shadow. It was chipped and rough but dull with dust.

The floor of the cavern was clear but for loose boulders of varying size and shape, like enormous marbles, scattered throughout. A small, vaguely square alter of mud and small stones rose from its center. The smoothed top of the alter was concave, sloping towards the middle and charred black from the flame and heat of many fires built upon its surface.

Pressed against the far wall, lay piles of matted straw along with two blankets, tattered and stained. The bones of small animals were scattered in little piles in the sand, next to the straw. A woman lay asleep on her side in the makeshift straw bed. She snored softly, her hands clutching and cradling an old leather sack. She wore a long black dress, torn and frayed along the hem. The sleeves had been cut near the shoulder, exposing short withered bony arms with hands and fingers that looked like the talons of a hawk. Her face was pale and sunken into her skull. She had high cheek bones and her nose was long and pointed sharply, curving slightly downward at the tip. Her hair was grey, cut to approximately shoulder length, with subtle white streaks. It was tangled and unkept.

Although the woman slept, one eyelid had not fully closed. Her eye beneath was dull and mottled but for its center which burned a deep amber. The eye twitched and roamed the cavern with each snore as if watching for movement.

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4th of July

We had a fun day today!  I was allowed to cook Brazilian beans and rice and grill hot dogs and chicken!  We had fireworks in the street and completed it with a massive fire cracker explosion!

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Thursday

I've had stomach pains the last few days.  My mind likes to jump to dramatic conclusions and determine that it is the onset of cancer.  I hope that I am just being dramatic.  I just don't feel all that well.

Recently, I feel like I am just existing, that I move from day to day as if I am numb.  I wonder if this is normal.  I think that it stems from a lack of satisfaction and sense of instability at work. I am not enjoying or feeling productive. I know that the lack of productivity is a key component to these feelings.  I am much more alive when I am engaged in a project.  I do feel tremendous pressure that I am not sufficiently providing for my family, both financially and emotionally. 

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Friday fun

Water has been seeping into my office along two walls.  They pulled up the carpet along those two walls  and set large blower fans along the walls to dry out the walls and carpet.  Everything is pressed together in the middle of the room.  I transfered my computer to my manager's office, who had the day off, and set up shop there for the day.

I was supposed to get home early today because of fathers and sons.  The boys have everything packed and in the living room.  I didn't get home until after 6:00 PM.  The boys and I loaded the truck and Heidi had all of the food and supplies ready to go including water, condiments and wipes.  We got everything laoded in the truck and we were off.  We listened to a misc. playlist from my ipod on the way up Spanish Fork canyon. 

We arrived at the campsite before the sun had set behind the mountain.  We parked, got out and began survaying the ground for a suitable place to put up the tent.  I seem to always find the big holes.  We walked back and forth until we came to an agreement to the place.  The boys then began constructing the poles and set up the tent. 

We gathered the essentials from the truck and placed either in the tent or in front of the tent depending on if it was for dinner or for sleeping.  We then went over to the campfire where the men and boys were eating.  I had forgotten camp chairs (this is why we should allow Heidi to survey our pile before we leave) and I sat on the cooler. 

Our system was for me to load the weenie sticks, the boys to cook the weenies while I get the buns and condiments out and then the boys dress their buns for the cooked weenies ( I am trying to see how many times I can say "Weenies") while I redress their weenie stick with more raw weenies.  This went on until we were out of weenies.  I had my own cheese weenies which BR was kind enough to cook for me as well. 

There were games set for the men and boys to do after dinner.  I was willing to participate in one token game to show my support for the elders quorum.  The boys wanted to play the egg tossing game, of course they wanted the egg tossing game, raw eggs at their father, do you see the motivation.  We would go from one distance to the next winning ten five pionts then ten and so forth.  To win each distance, there had to be two throws, to and from.  BR and I got all the way to the final distance before the final egg that I through hit his hand at an angle down by his knee, leg omelet across his pants!  C and I were next.  We also made it to the very end until C's final throw back to me caught me up near my face.  Now from the amount of yolk that exploded from that devil egg, it was obviously an ostrich egg.  It blew up all over my arms, shirt and face to the delight of my boys and the fourteen other bystanders.  I called it a night and went to my tent.

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Another night of baseball

Met Heidi and the girls at the ball park.  C was playing his last regular season game.  He was great!  (Two hits and a walk)  Heidi took the girls home near the end of the game.  BG had a "late over" scheduled with two of  her friends.  Heidi did the girl's nails, provided treats and let them watch a movie downstairs.  BR had to work again tonight and was there until after 10:00 PM.  Heidi went down and picked him up while I played (and lost) to C in a game of Star Craft.

We had stroganoff for dinner over rice with green beans.  It was delicious.  I don't know how she juggles a new baby, A, getting BG to activity days from 1:00PM to 4:00PM (having gathered shoes and coats with her to turn in for a church humanitarian drive), BR to work at 4:45PM and C to the game by 5:00PM and making dinner/feeding everyone a hot meal.  A feat of magic, I could never pull it off.  She is amazing!  I would have a freezer of frozen pizzas if I had to be in charge, no way I could juggle it all.

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Baseball night in Spanish Fork

Spent the evening at the ball park.  BR scored three games last night and was there from 4:45pm to 10:15PM.  C had a game at 6:45PM which ended up starting 30 minutes late and went until 9:00PM.  It was interrupted for about ten minutes due to a quick hail storm the size of marbles.  I was able to watch the majority of the game holding or sitting with my 4 girls.  It was great!  BG sat in a folding chair in front of me and cheered on the team with great enthusiasm wearing a cute pink plaid hat that she picked out during a birthday outing with Grandma Hollist.  A insisted on using the bug spray herself without help and succeeded at completely coating one arm.  The rest of her body may have still been vunerable to bug bites but that left arm was completely protected.  Heidi and I past M back and forth between us, managing the fussiness, until I was done with the squawking and got up and walked her to sleep.  The girls scattered and ran for the car when the storm hit.  I stood under a tree with C.  Both BR and C did well.

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Monday night, beautiful night, all is loud, out a sight!

Played catch with my beautiful daughters, BG and A tonight in the backyard after dinner but before the family home evening lesson.  Hard baseball for BG and soft plastic ball for A.  It then mutated into playing catch with my son C who is currently playing for the Cardinals, a little league team in the city leagues.  It is his first year playing organized baseball of any kind and he is doing well.  I love and am proud of him.  He pitched to me for a while although he does not pitch for the team.  He is a good pitcher, the team is missing out.  I was then thrilled to have BR join us in a triangle game of catch.  He has never shown much interest in sports but he has a great arm.  I was very impressed.  I like the fact that he has his own interest though.  Sports does not have to be his favorite.  I love him very much.  He is my new home teaching companion.  I couldn't be more thrilled!  I loved the few minutes that I could spend with my boys.  They are extremely special to me.
 
My girls seem to twist a whole different side to my heart too.  I loved being summoned by my oldest daughter, BG, to play catch with her, through my bedroom window where I was hastily preparing a monday night lesson that would interest and inspire, failed miserably on both counts.  It was on prayer.  I should have done just that.  I don't have the same feel for teaching the children like Heidi.  She is much more in tune with how to approach them and make in meaningful.

We had home made pizza and bread sticks tonight.  It was fantastic, and I am not a big fan of homemade pizza either, great crust and good toppings and sauce.  The boys declared that they insisted that mom use the sauce with the little sausages in it.  Good choice.

I am currently reading a hardy boys book to BG, something like "secret of the broken blade."  Her first words, as I begin the new chapter, every night are "What just happened"  meaning what was happening at the end of the previous chapter.
I have started a new book with the boys.  I have been venturing into more grownup books.  I started with a few Clive Cussler books.  I am now starting another one of my favorite authors with them in a book called "The Tomb" by F Paul Wilson.  It is a "Repairman Jack" book and it is great.  I read a few chapters a night to them with only occasional modifications for language or subject matter, but not very often.  I would love to read them one of my "prey" novels but I would sound like a stutterer, trying to censor the book language.  I'll stick to Cussler, Wilson, Louis Lamour..........

Finally retired to bed, after checking the girls and putting the newest one in bed, for the time being.  She will be up throughout the night, demonstrating just how much the youngest is spoiled.  Heidi and I watched TV for a few minutes until she drifted off.

I have been up with the youngest already once.  She cries until I pick her up. The youngest is then out like a light on my chest.  This is not normally me, doing this.  Heidi usually is signed up on the list for the night shift but I happened to be up still.  Tonight, she felt like she had a wet diaper so I changed her and held her, on my chest as I lay in bed for a few minutes. I then put her back down and went out to the kitchen to find something else to eat and to play Star Craft for a few minutes.  C and BR are getting so good that I am afraid that I will be humiliated if I  play them too many more times.  I need the practice. 

Didn't get it though.  I stopped to read Dad's blog, then went on to Deborah, Sus and Mer's blogs too.  Since I get to them all through my blog, I ended up back on my blog and decided to add my thoughts for the evening.  The baby is starting to stir again.  Tough love, tough love tough love!  Right?  I'll probably go get her again if she puts forth a little more effort before I drift off to "Fraiser" on my Ipod.
Night Y'all.

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Beginnings - The Devil

The Devil leaned back, put his feet up on his desk and laughed a hearty deep-throated laugh that echoed through the streets of Hell, which rumbled like thunder across barren sand, which shook the walls and rattled the souls of the minions of slaves under his control.


The devil lifted his eyes to heaven and swore in victory. He raised his voice in triumph, cursing and profaning his maker, touting superiority. His eyes burned with hatred, black soulless eyes stared upward, smoldering with pride and arrogance.

He gazed into the mirrors lining the walls of his office and admired his beauty. He was an exquisitely beautiful man, well dressed, well spoken and physically imposing. He could dominate or charm the hearts and souls of those he turned. He used every ounce of his beauty for the work and he was very good at the work.

He could twist and turn the soul of man like a rag to be discarded or make them jump and dance like a marionette on a stage. He had perfected the craft, he knew the souls of man and he knew their desires. He could navigate the dark recesses of their minds, stroking or punishing, tempting or consoling. He blinded them in any way they needed. He was without conscience. He ached for their misery, joyed in their sorrow, reaped ecstasy in their mourning and regret. He dabbled in hopelessness and pride. He was the Devil.

The worlds were turning. He could feel the anger, the sadness and the loneliness increase. He could see the tide of humanity swelling in concert with his will. He had trained his minions well and they worked tirelessly for him. The souls of his father would be under his control in the end, just as he had threatened and boasted when last he spoke with him. There was no doubt. But his father, this was not a thought that he dwelt upon. It made him uncomfortable.

Thoughts of his father made him angry and confused. These were the only times that he felt uncertain, as if not in control. His father, whom he hated, haunted his dreams. Even in their last meeting, when the devil was cast from his father’s presence, as he was spewing forth venom of hatred and loathing; he remembered his father’s eyes.

Those eyes, which had looked upon him since he was young, and whose eyes that he had wanted to please, and from whom he had yearned for approval. They did not look upon him, at last, in anger or disgust. His father’s eyes had been filled with love and sadness as he had banished his son. Tears had filled those eyes as the son turned to leave. The Devil would never be able to cause those eyes to show forth the same hatred that he, himself, felt inside. His father would always love his son.

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Quip's Corner - She told me

She told me once of dreams far off
Of pictures in mind’s distant gaze

She told me once of love and loss
Reduced to faded memories haze

She told me once of passion’s bloom
Left to wither under time’s trodden weight

She told me once of life consumed
The bitter residue of love and hate

She is silent now, her voice is gone
No one visits my mind’s empty room

She has left me now, the hours are long
It is lonely here in my personal tomb

The light is fading fast, the day is failing
And with it now, my sanity trailing

She told me once of dreams far off
I think now that she was going soft

Poof

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Quip's Corner - What Might Have Been

It doesn’t matter what they would say
Together we should have found a way
We let their words tear us apart
It was over before it could start

Then you, with him and me, with her
Certain now of no return
Laid aside, true love’s first bloom
Letting anger and strife consume

What did I ever think would be
Believing love between you and me
Years departed without your glance
Emptiness lacking first love’s enhance

Your picture found in discarded drawer
A familiar smile of promises sure
Thoughts in wonder of how you’ve been
Did memory of us find you again

Your face, now older, beauty undenied
Talk and laughter of time gone by
Our desire burns with love reborn
Deep regrets of lost moments torn

We plan for future, reshape the past
Assured that this time we’d last
But life, in irony, intervened
Collapse, an illness unforeseen

I watch as slowly, you drift away
Holding hands, a promise to stay
Yearning for our love again
I cry out for what might have been

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Beginnings - Night Wind

The wind, erupting from the putrid smelling pit, whipped across the creature’s forehead. He burped up boiled eggs and then pushed through the final cramps, feeling the baby lizard’s head crown from the folds of skin under his armpit. The Alabaster Queen will be so proud of the pending births. She would tell him as much, touting his name to the minions, before eating him at the sacrificial feast.
Pea green blood oozed from his three nostrils into the hair around the tiny oval mouth, filled with blunt yellowed teeth. He was close to completion and his body was giving the signals, telling him as much. The blood, the cramping, the high pitched whine shrieking through his mind indicated that the first of the brood was about to be delivered. He returned to his room to meditate and prepare.

The chanting could be felt as well as heard. Low drudgery, the crunch of bone colliding with bone, guttural groans, wrenching and twisting the very fabric of hell, filled the thick, stagnant, smoke saturated air. Screams of the chosen few cut through the creature’s concentration.

He needed focus. He retreated more deeply into the trance-like state, slumped heavily into the hollow, carved in the rock of the walls. He was hungry; the fever had sapped the creature’s strength. He needed something to satisfy the burning. He needed meat. He could smell charred meat from the various fires, burning throughout the valley. He opened one eye and glanced about furtively.

The twin suns were setting through the haze, hovering over the crimson red colored water. From where he sat, the creature watched the sickly yellow light fight through the smoke, in its final luminescence of the season. There would be no return of the suns in his lifetime. The world would be dark once more, just as had been prophesied by the ancients. The howls of the ceremonial priestesses grew stronger and more anxious in the growing gloom.

He was prepared. He rose, turned toward the wall and, leaning forward to place his head and hands on the floor; he lifted his feet, paused to balance and then continued upward, until his back and legs rested, upside down, against the rough rock. His body convulsed. It was prepared.

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My first attempt

My first attempt at lyrics for Clarke.  The working title is "The Wandering Man"

Stepped off the bus into this no name town
Dropped my bags in the dust as I looked around
No friendly faces looking back at me
What kinda fresh start is this gonna be?

Guitar on one knee, I start to play
No one in mind, I just sing to the day
Sun is shining and the birds are out
I get to the chorus and begin to shout.

Heaven help the wandering man
No one to care or to love
Heaven protect the wandering man
I need some aid from above.

Liftin’ my spirits up, the music flows
Hummin’ loud to the hoppers and toads
People notice and gather ‘round
They catch the rythmn, they like the sound.

Soon they are swaying in their seats
Sitting down around my feet
I giv’em my best one tooth grin
Encouragin’ all to stop and join in

Heaven help the wandering man
No one to care or to love
Heaven protect the wandering man
I need some aid from above.

The lights go out, the sun is down
No one left, is hanging ‘round
Another day, another song
No one stays for very long

Heaven help the wandering man
No one to care or to love
Heaven protect the wandering man
I need some aid from above.

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Quip's Corner - I Remember This Man

I remember this man, of carpenter trade, this man of whom you speak
With love of God in act and word, is this the man you seek?

I saw this man reach out a hand and caused the mute to talk
With mud to eyes, the blind found sight, and blessed, he, the lame to walk

I heard this man speak of a loving father, to whom he would obey
Devotion to the meek and widowed, for the children, he wept and prayed

I touched this man, his hem I grazed; but knew, he, and looked to see
My sins, forgiven, in faith unblemished, his command, rise and follow me

I felt this man, his words of teaching, pierced deep, my soul did burn
Hungered for, and with deep desire, to change, my heart did yearn

I cried for this man, his body scourged, denied, he was left alone
With perfect love, his calling complete, our father brought him home

I know this man, my savior and redeemer, whose life, to me, he gave
An example to all, the keys to heaven, through choice, my soul was saved

I remember this man, of carpenter trade, this man of whom you speak
With love of God in act and word, is this the man you seek?

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Quip's Corner - Hello, My Love!

Hello, my love, good morning
I’ve been watching you for a while
I waited till you opened your eyes,
‘Cause I needed to see your smile

I studied the contour of your lips
And watched you slowly breathe
I still don’t believe that a beauty like this
Could have chosen to be with me

I can see your warmth in evening’s sunset
And hear your whisper in the breeze.
I even love the funny face you make
When you are trying not to sneeze

I watch you kneel beside our children,
Softly teaching each one to pray
Helping them learn of their Heavenly Father
And how to converse both night and day

I hear your whispered words of comfort
See your desire to do your part
To soothe the pain of a hurting child
And to touch the lonely widow’s heart

Hello, my love, good morning
What can I do for you this week
Can I say something to make you happy,
Wash the dishes or clean the sink

Make a breakfast of all your favorites
Get the kids all off to school
Try to make you grin or laugh out loud
By acting like a fool

We may not have the newest things
That I’d like for you, my wife
But things don’t make a sleeping child smile
And are not what gauges life

What can I do to show my love,
Give back, for your life with me
I never knew, when you agreed,
What a blessed life that this would be

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Looking for volunteers

I have completed yet another rough draft of the Christmas story, "The First Tree of Christmas."  It is currently 73 double spaced pages long.  I didn't make any significant content changes.  I just helped the flow a little.

I am needing extra sets of eyes who would be willing to quickly read through it and give feed back as to things like, voicing, flow, content, spelling, other....

I would like to polish it up and begin submitting it to see if there is any interest out there in publishing it.

Just leave a comment on this post, if you are willing to proof it, and I will forward you a copy of the story.

Thanks!!
Aaron

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Funny Email - Truisms

Even when opportunity knocks, you still have to get up off your seat and open the door.

1. I think part of a best friend's job should be to immediately clear your computer history if you die.
2. Nothing's worse than that moment during an argument when you realize you're wrong.
3. I totally take back all those times I didn't want to nap when I was younger.
4. There is great need for a sarcasm font.
5. How are you supposed to fold a fitted sheet?
6. Was learning cursive really necessary?
7. Map Quest really needs to start their directions on #5. I'm pretty sure I know how to get out of my neighborhood.
8. Obituaries would be a lot more interesting if they told you how the person died.
9. I can't remember the last time I wasn't at least kind of tired.
10. Bad decisions make good stories.
11. You never know when it will strike, but there comes a moment at work when you know that you just aren't going to do anything productive for the rest of the day.
12. Can we all just agree to ignore whatever comes after Blue Ray? I don't want to have to restart my collection...again.
13. I'm always slightly terrified when I exit out of Word and it asks me if I want to save any changes to my ten-page research paper that I swear I did not make any changes to.
14. "Do not machine wash or tumble dry" means I will never wash this - ever.
15. I hate when I just miss a call by the last ring (Hello? Hello!), but when I immediately call back, it rings nine times and goes to voicemail. What did you do after I didn't answer?  Drop the phone and run away?
16. I hate leaving my house confident and looking good and then not seeing anyone of importance the entire day. What a waste.
17. I keep some people's phone numbers in my phone just so I know not to answer when they call.
18. I think the freezer deserves a light as well.
19. I disagree with Kay Jewelers. I would bet on any given Friday or Saturday night more kisses begin with Miller Lite than Kay.
20. I wish Google Maps had an "Avoid Ghetto" routing option
21. Sometimes, I'll watch a movie that I watched when I was younger and suddenly realize I had no idea what the heck was going on when I first saw it.
22. I would rather try to carry 10 plastic grocery bags in each hand than take 2 trips to bring my groceries in.
23. The only time I look forward to a red light is when I'm trying to finish a text.
24. I have a hard time deciphering the fine line between boredom and hunger.
25. How many times is it appropriate to say "What?" before you just nod and smile because you still didn't hear or understand a word they said?
26. I love the sense of camaraderie when an entire line of cars team up to prevent a jerk from cutting in at the front. Stay strong, brothers and sisters!
27. Shirts get dirty. Underwear gets dirty. Pants? Pants never get dirty, and you can wear them forever.
28. Is it just me or do high school kids get dumber & dumber every year?
29. There's no worse feeling than that millisecond you're sure you are going to die after leaning your chair back a little too far.
30. As a driver I hate pedestrians, and as a pedestrian I hate drivers, but no matter what the mode of transportation, I always hate cyclists.
31. Sometimes I'll look down at my watch 3 consecutive times and still not know what time it is.
32. Even under ideal conditions people have trouble locating their car keys in a pocket, finding their cell phone, and Pinning the Tail on the Donkey - but I'd bet my all everyone can find and push the snooze button from 3 feet away, in about 1.7 seconds, eyes closed, first time, every time!

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Beginnings - Final Call

The curtains closed with a flurry of dark rich burgundy fabric and golden tassels, to a smattering of applause. The acting company had made a valiant run. Keeping the company together required money and E. Humphrey Baines had refused to supply any more. He had said as much in a heated closed-door meeting with the company director and manager, Herbert Stanton.

The door had flown open and shouting between the two men spilled out, unceremoniously, into the hallway leading from Stanton’s office, down a flight of stairs, through to the actor’s dressing rooms and finally to the stage.

From that moment forward, Mr. Baines, a man who stood 5’ 7” in his stocking feet and flattened the scale at 345 lbs, refused to put pen to paper on another check in support of the acting company. During the weekly meetings with the actors, Stanton never mentioned Baines nor did he ever reference the argument with the company beneficiary that was to change the lives and livelihoods of the actors who counted on the company to live.

He never mentioned to the actors that the theater had been losing money for more than a year and not simply from lack of box revenues. Someone had been skimming from the deposits and draining the company of financial resources until it had been driven to its knees.

Baines had accused Stanton of stealing and Stanton turned it right back on Baines declaring, “You have had as much access to the money as I have! You know the combination to the safe; you even have a key to my office! Who’s to say that you haven’t stolen the money yourself.... Tax evasion maybe?”

Baines’ cheeks flushed a bright crimson. He stammered and sputtered with anger and amazement. “You are accusing me of stealing from myself? You came to me on your knees, begging me to fund this dream of yours. I paid to restore your worn out old theater! I paid for everything! I made your dream a reality….and for what? A few years of mild success and then…last year you begin your quarterly attempts to squeeze more money from me. What am I to believe? Mark my words, Herbert, you will not see one more cent from me or your precious city endowment of which I…I pressed to get you. Not a penny!”

Baines had wrenched open Stanton’s office door while yelling and abruptly, as if to punctuate the resolve in his final statement, slammed it shut, leaving Stanton to boil in his own juices. Baines stormed through the narrow hallway to the front foyer and out the set of double glass doors which was plastered in play bills.

Plays had continued for another six months. The actors watched as Stanton became more sullen and detached with each passing week. The director began retreating to his office during much of the rehearsals. His features became strained and pale. His tall, gaunt, 6’3” frame began to sag as he walked, as if from unseen pressures pressing on his shoulders. What little hair that sat atop of his head became even more sparse and unkept. He spoke with few people.

One by one, most of the promising actors jumped ship, looking for more stable work. The rest would talk and wonder aloud, uncertain of their futures. The end finally came. No fanfare or party, just a brief announcement from Stanton before last curtain call.

“Thank you all for your time and talents. Without you, we wouldn’t have lasted this long as a company. I have tried, as you may or may not be aware, to get new sponsorship for our theater since March when Mr. E. Humphrey Baines saw fit to abandon us. Unfortunately, he has incredible clout in the local arts community. Because of this, I have been unable to secure any new money. What I am trying to say is….this is going to be our last performance. I cannot see any way to keep it going. Please take your things when you leave tonight…… and thank you for everything. Your final check will be mailed to you within the week.”

With that, Stanton walked from the stage, past the bewildered silence, toward his office, alone, while the actors slowly scattered to complete their various pre-show responsibilities.

The theater was silent and dark. George Shafer, a tall, narrow hipped young man, mid twenties with short cropped brown hair, entered the side employee entrance. He wore a threadbare tan button down shirt, untucked and wrinkled, kaki cargo pants and slip-on leather loafers. George had had few prospects as an actor. Working at the theater represented his first real break into the professional acting world. Tonight, he felt melancholy and uncertain about where to go from here.

The announcement, made earlier that evening, hadn’t come as a total shock to anyone. There had been rumors flying around the company for weeks about the prospects of an impending closure. But George, with no other real future, wasn’t prepared for the reality of not having the theater and was shaken. This was probably why he had forgotten to return the keys.

Herbert Stanton had approached him, soon after he was hired, and asked him to do odd jobs on the days that the theater was dark, as well as the sweeping and cleaning of the theater after each performance. George needed the extra money and enjoyed being in the theater so he readily agreed. Stanton, soon after, gave him copies of keys to the side employee entrance and the rear janitorial closets. George had worked for just over a year before the theater company had collapsed.

Arriving home that evening, George emptied his pockets on top of the refrigerator and noticed the two gold keys attached to his key ring. He had forgotten to return them to Mr. Stanton that evening, before he had left. It had been the emotion of losing his job. He had begun chatting with some of the other actors about their prospects and where they would go. It hadn’t yet dawned on him there would be no more odd jobs to do.

George pushed open the heavy metal theater door while pulling the key from the lock. The door squeaked softly as it gave way. It was black, solely without illumination, in the hallway but for the thin stream thrown from the vapor lights of a street lamp, elongating George’s shadow before him. George stepped into the hall and pulled the door shut behind him, slipping the keys into his pants pocket.

As the door closed, he found himself in complete darkness. The closest working light switch was thirty feet down the hall and around a corner. He started to inch his way forward, stretching one arm out in front and the other to the side. George let his fingers drag along the rough painted cinderblock texture of the wall to the corner. From experience, he knew that, from this point, the light switch was approximately four to six feet along the wall to his left.

He walked forward again, feeling for the switch with both hands. As he walked, his toe caught something solid, a mound on the floor, stretched across the hall. George tried to catch his balance, grabbing at the walls, as he fell forward over the invisible obstruction. He scrambled to his feet, frightened, holding his breath; he pressed his body against the wall. George could feel the light switch poking into the small of his back. He slipped his hand back and flipped on the track lights, illuminating the hallway.

Looking down at the floor, he stumbled back in horror. Stretched out along the hall in a stiff, unnatural position, lay E. Humphrey Baines. He was dressed in a frumpy black tuxedo, polished black wing tips, white shirt and black bow tie. Alive, he would have resembled a rather plump penguin. But E. Humphrey Baines was definitely dead. In the center of his rather wrinkled white dress shirt were two small matching black holes surrounded by a soaked circle of blood, like a bull’s eye.

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Beginnings - Awake, Sweet Baby

“You awake, Johnny?” Darci Sharp whispered into the darkness. “Johnny, I think I heard noises downstairs. Go check honey. Hey….. Johnny, please wake up!”


She wiggled an arm from under the cocoon of covers and felt around behind her, across the expanse of the king sized bed, for her husband. She felt rumpled sheets and a discarded pillow but no husband. She sat up with a start. Darci was suddenly fully awake.

“Johnny, where are you? She turned, threw the covers off and thrust both hands into the darkness, running them palms down in exaggerated circles across the far side of the bed, as if she were trying to smooth out a stubborn wrinkle in the sheets. Nothing!

“Johnny….. Johnny….”

Her whisper now was strained, cracked and beginning to rise. Fear increasing in the new mother as her imagination began conjuring up horrific images like staggered home movies through her mind. The noises… no husband… the baby! The thought struck her like a bolt of lightning, terror seized at her chest. She could not breath, her voice was gone.

She scrambled out of bed, groping for her robe which lay draped across the chair. Stepping on the hem of the robe as she swung it over her shoulders, she stumbled and fell. Her hands, caught in the folds of the robe, robbed her of any buffer from the fall. Her forehead squarely caught a smooth section of end post with a sharp smack. She crumbled and slid to the floor in a gasp of pain and a dull thud.

Struggling to her feet, she staggered, pushing through the open doorway. The blow to the forehead had dazed her. She fought to comprehend. She shook her head and a wave of nausea swept through her with force. She stopped in the hall and placed a hand against one wall to steady herself. Her head was throbbing and she could feel the sticky wetness of blood running down the side of her face.

Her hand was near the light switch so she instinctively flipped it on. As if electrocuted by bare wires, she retracted from the sudden brightness and the acute pain shooting through her brain to the base of her skull. The severe contrast caused her to make a pained squint. She continued down the hall in a drunken stagger. Suddenly her eyes focused and she gasped as air was forced from her lungs. The panic rose like a fever, shaking her faculties as she felt the loss of control creep in around her eyes.

The door to the baby’s nursery had been flung open. Two bright crimson trailing streaks of blood were smeared, at shoulder height, across the opposite door jam. Dark maroon drops trailed along the plush creamed carpet from the open doorway of the baby’s room, down the hall away from her.

She felt her legs go weak as if her strength had suddenly slipped out through her bare feet into the floor. She reached for the doorway and fell through as if it were a black hole swallowing up the light. She rushed for the crib, seized the rails with pale white knuckles. Peering in, the life blood sank from her face as her worse fears and nightmares were suddenly realized. Her baby was gone!

She turned, the walls spinning, nausea again rising in her throat. She held a trembling hand up to cover her mouth and staggered from the room. Frantic now, shaking uncontrollably, she tried to make sense of what was happening, what she should do. Where was her baby? Her body shuttered as she started to sob, her shoulders shaking uncontrolled. She gained a momentary flicker of resolve and turned again for her bedroom.

She rushed to Johnny’s bedside table. Where is Johnny? It was in her head. The question seemed to appear for a moment. There was something. She could not grasp the significance. She reached to make sense of it, to remember. The question was illusive and sunk beneath the waves of paranoia before she could retrieve it for examination.

The bottom drawer was flung open, pulled out of its tracks, contents scattering across the floor. The gun was there, black and cold, like death itself. Johnny had wanted her to learn to use it. He had asked her, pleaded with her to learn to shoot. It was for their protection, he chided. Well, what had it done to protect her baby….her baby? She snatched it from the floor, grasping it with both hands, as one would hold a steaming casserole dish, taken from the oven, up and away from her body.

Back in the hall, she descended the stairs towards the kitchen. Her nerves were at a fevered pitch, taunt and brittle. She was sobbing again, the tears blurring her vision. Where was the animal that had her baby? Was he still in the house? She would stop him. Where was Johnny? He should be here protecting the family. Where would he have gone? The thoughts were cluttered as if the drawers of her mind had been overturned, leaving the contents in a pile.

A thump! She swung her arms around wildly, pointing the gun out in front of her, like a stick, to block the evil from reaching her. Nothing but dark shadows were furniture once resided. The living room was empty. Her breathing was becoming shorter, more stunted, gasps, hyperventilating. The fear was creeping over her, numbing her limbs. The gun felt heavy in her hands. The evil could still be here. Who was she kidding? She could not do this. Where was Johnny? Where was her baby? Where was she?

She paused at the door to the kitchen, her emotions boiling over on themselves. She could no longer breathe. She leaned against the door, left slightly ajar, sobbing and fell through into the kitchen. As she staggered to catch her momentum, the world slowed. From the corner of her eye, she saw her baby lying on the kitchen table, a small blood soaked stain in the blanket wrapping her body. She was still falling, slowly, outside of herself. Over the baby’s body, leered the hulking evil, blood stains down his chest, a hand up, covering his mouth and nose.

A shriek of terror and rage escaped her lips as her hip slammed against the trash can, sending it sprawling. She was on her knees, looking down, fumbling with the gun that Johnny had kept for just these situations. The world was spinning slowly, the nausea was returning. With satisfaction, she grasped the rough handle and palmed the gun between her two fists. Her eyes rose from the floor in chorus with the muzzle. She started pulling the trigger, violently, even before her eyes were on the evil before her.

The gun bucked in her untrained hands, flame spouting forward, flinging bullets, shattering glass and splintering the faces of cabinets. Her eyes continued to climb above the noise in her outstretched hands. The evil creature had turned, arms raised in surprise. Her mind registered a shrill sound coming from the monster just before his body was turned and folded by the impact of the onslaught of bullets. As the evil was falling away towards the fridge and sink, hands flung to the sky, his shrill tone in her head transformed into intelligible words, words that she understood……”No…..Darci…..No!”

Silence hung heavily in her ears, like smoke swirling around her. It was sliced only by the sharp, shrill cries from the baby. Darci was transfixed upon the scene of chaos before her. She could not fully understand or make sense of things, like a puzzle with only some of the pieces. The walls were spinning and her head throbbed.

On the floor, like a rag thrown against the fridge, Johnny lay crumpled and dead, a blood pool forming an outline around his inert body. The blood across his chest was older, from a bloody nose while checking on a fussing baby. Clutched in one limp hand was a blood soaked paper towel.

Awake sweet baby!

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