Busy two weeks

It started with work restricting our ability to look up any blogs at work.

I have taken Monday through Thursday off this week. It is my "try to get things done around the house" week.
I replaced a door knob
painted the front door
built a work bench and shelf in the garage
cleaned the garage and replaced the water in the storage barrels
painted the hall bathroom

We purchased tile for the hall bathroom. I return to work tomorrow and Saturday at the expo at UVU. I believe that I greet people at the door. I am sure glad that I finished that college degree!

I still have a long list of projects to complete around the house.

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My Birthday!

I have had a very nice birthday so far. Family members have called. I have been given very thoughtful gifts. One of which has taken (my choice) my initial nest egg away from my new bass fund...... For Now.

On the 9th of September, the fund begins again. But today the money went towards the purchase of a Fender Acoustic Guitar. I am very excited about the prospects !!! I can't wait to get it out and begin. Here is a picture of the Fender guitar starter kit. It should be a great guitar with which to learn!

I will begin teaching myself the basics of the guitar while also reviewing the basics of the electric bass. I started my self-imposed bass lessons last night and plan to contine 15 -20 minutes a day. Dad gave me a book from which to practice.

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My New Obsession

With my sons as my inspiration, I have wanted to relearn the Bass. With this new goal, I have determined to buy myself my first electric bass. I want to stay true to my father and buy a "Fender Jazz Bass" but which one?

Clarke recommended that I check out this bass and I love it. It is part of Fender's signature line of Jazz Basses. It is modeled after Fender's classic 1970's Jazz Bass. I am plastering pictures of this Bass all over a jar and will then use the jar as a collection cup for my odd change and present money so that I can save up the required funds ($600 - $800). I am expecting that this project will take some time, maybe 2010 or 2011? Cross my fingers.

Geddy Lee Jazz Bass®
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Mean, mean stride! Our Geddy Lee Jazz Bass guitar is an exact replica of the tonally singular instrument that Rush’s revered bassist/vocalist has riffed away on in front of thousands of devoted fans worldwide and on many a mega-selling album.The bass has an alder body; the one-piece C-shaped maple neck (thin) has a maple fingerboard with black binding and black rectangular position markers. The two vintage Jazz Bass single-coil pickups crackle with life and bristle with the energy; other features include chrome hardware, vintage-style tuning machines and a Badass® Bass II™ bridge.

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My picks for week one of the NFL!

• New York (NYG) vs Washington
• Cincinnati vs Baltimore
• Jacksonville vs Tennessee
• New York (NYJ) vs Miami
• New England vs Kansas City
• New Orleans vs Tampa Bay
• Philadelphia vs St. Louis
• Pittsburgh vs Houston
• Detroit vs Atlanta
Buffalo vs • Seattle
• Arizona vs San Francisco
• Dallas vs Cleveland
• San Diego vs Carolina
• Indianapolis vs Chicago
Green Bay vs • Minnesota
• Denver vs Oakland

The dots indicate the picked team.

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Beginnings - "TURNER SWAMP"

The Macarthy house sat about two miles off of old highway 11, down an old dirt road which was quickly becoming reclaimed by overhanging trees and ground vegetation. The road past the Macarthy place ended abruptly, about a half a mile further along at the foot of a dilapidated pier, jutting precariously out into Turner Swamp without the benefit of most of its rotting wooden plank boards. Kids from the nearby town, Newberry Springs, had always loved to play hooky from high school down at the swamp. One of the kids, years ago, had shimmied up one of the towering trees which leaned out over the swamp by the pier and had hung a thick, course, knotted rope from one of the longest branches. With that, kids would use the rope, from a running start down the pier, to swing out over the swamp before dropping into the warm greenish brown liquid. Long aged rumors of alligators and snaked only served to heighten the perceived thrill and brought the bored adolescents out for hours on hot summer afternoons. The pier at the end of Macarthy road served as a meeting place, a retreat and a haven for stripping down to next to nothing, drinking, swearing and everything else that parents told them was bad for them at their age.
Until one Sunday afternoon in late August of ’68 when the five kids disappeared. It was late in the day before any of them were missed. The search began in town before the adults, learning from their friends, found that the three girls and two boys had planned to meet at the pier at Turner Swamp, where the planned to eat lunch and mess around. Parents and friends searched around the clock, tearing up old Macarthy road and the surrounding areas. They brought rowboats from town and searched the swamp for any signs of the children. The parents were frantic, pleading with the swamp to give up its secrets. Emotions were high throughout the town. A curfew was placed on anyone under the age of 18.
By Thursday morning, the searchers arrived at the door of old Mr. Macarthy. His house was square with wood plank floors. Built by his grandfather, the house squatted in a corner of a loosely square shaped clearing, cut from the jungle of trees and vines. The sunlight filtered through the canopy of branches overhead to give the area an eerie green and yellowish glow. Macarthy lived alone in the neglected three room shack. He wore a stained long-sleeved red plaid shirt under an old pair of dirty blue overalls. Macarthy had never been friendly to people in the town. Keeping to himself, the rumors flew. From the stories told about him, he became a one-eyed hermit or a warped old fool who kept his dead mother in the living room to even a mass murderer fettering away from the law. It all depended on which story was being told and who was telling it. Macarthy had watched the activity along the road through the trees and from the front window of his shack. He was annoyed by the confusion and the noise. He stared bitterly at the dozens of cars and trucks moving noisily to and from the swamp along his road. But he smiled sadistically when he discovered that they were searching for five kids who had turned up missing from the swamp.
“Serves them right! All them no-good kids traipsing around my woods, my homestead. Swamp finally got um, finally swallowed em up!” He spit out the words with satisfaction.
The searchers were frantic by the time they pounded on Macarthy’s door. Most of the mob was sure that he had had something to do with the kid’s disappearance. And the rest were being quickly convinced.
“We should just hang him up right here and now, the filthy murderer!” One of the parents yelled. The mob rumbled a confirming retort. Macarthy opened the door slowly, eyeing the enraged throng crowding the porch.
“What do ya want?” He croaked.
“You killed my children, you murderer!” One of the parents screamed while pushing himself through the horde.
“Now, Joe, we don’t know that for sure. We just came to talk to him, question him. You know, see if he knows or saw anything.”
“Bull, He killed them. I know it! Hiding out in the woods like a dirty skunk. I just know that he had something to do with it.”
The man called Joe pushed the crowd aside and threw his shoulder into the door. The door flew inward and Macarthy stumbled back, losing his balance and falling to a heap on the floor.
“Ya can't come in here, this here is private property. All ya'll get out now. Macarthy screamed from his fallen position.
“Shut up Macarthy. We're just gonna look around. You don't have a problem with that now, do ya? Said another as he leered down at the crumpled man.
“Now watch'im, We'll look around. Don't let him go nowhere.”
Two large angry men gruffly lifted Macarthy from the floor and sat him down in a dusty rat's nest of a sofa displaying a yellowed floral print. The rest of the mob pushed through the remaining rooms of the house, ripping up floorboards and toppling furniture. Macarthy watched, tight lipped, from the sofa. His face was flush, seething with anger. A yell came from behind the house. The men chosen to stand guard over Macarthy jumped to attention as the crowd of angry searchers came piling back into the front room. Two men led the group, carrying an axe and a girl's blouse, both stained with blood.
“My baby's shirt, you lyin murdered! Joe jumped across the room and was at Macarthy's throat before the rest of the horde could react. He was pulled away and separated from Macarthy but not before Macarthy was sputtering from lack of oxygen. As Macarthy's coughing fit subsided, his eyes seemed to dart back and forth at the throng as if looking for an escape. He was scared now, very scared.
“I just found them clothes down in the woods near the pier. I dint kill no one. I swear it. I done killed myself a varmit that was killin my chickens with that axe and used that there shirt I found to clean up. That's all, I swear, I swear it!
Joe was not convinced. “You killed my babies,” he screamed, fighting to get loose from the arms that held him back. The crowd seemed to agree and began to murmur loudly. The group had soon whipped themselves into a frenzy. The few remaining voices of reason were soon lost and gave in.
“Lets string im up!” Yelled the crowd. “Get rid of this filth.” The mob pressed in around Macarthy as if they all wanted a piece of him. As a group, they jerked him from the sofa and dragged his kicking body out into a front yard of sparse grass and mud. The crowd was shouting, jeering and calling for his head. Macarthy screamed out his innocence over the roar. He bucked, pulled and tried to tear away from the hands that held him in a painful grip, jerking him along the dirt road that led to the pier. He struggled as they tied his hand behind his back. The mob then dragged him to the edge of the water along the pier and turned him to face the swamp. Hanging in the air, formed from the kids swinging rope, was a hangman's noose. It swung slowly in the breeze, waiting for a victim to shared its tightened charms. As he shrunk away from the noose, they wrapped an oily rag across his mouth and began pronouncing his sentence for the murder of five innocent souls. The crowd cheered. Macarthy was picked up, now bound and gagged, and carried out to the end of the pier to meet his fate.
“Any lasts words for the murderer of my babies?” screamed Joe, kicking Macarthy with the toe of his boot into the man's lower back. Macarthy began to mumble and Joe slapped him open palmed across the side of the head.
“My kids didn't get to have no say so neither do you!”
They bodily picked up Macarthy, slipped his head through the loop in the rope and pulled it tight. Macarthy began gagging and sputtering. With one pronounced shove, they pushed Macarthy out and away from the pier and stepped back. Macarthy's weight came down hard against the knot in the noose and his body convulsed. His feet were within inches of the brackish water as his body swung lazily against the taunt rope. His legs began to churn and twitch like a insect stuck with a pin.
The crowd milled around the shore, watching the spectacle and justifying their actions to each other as righteous justice on behalf of the poor missing children. They discussed and had come to a consensus that they should leave Macarthy hanging there for four to five hours when shrill sirens could be heard turning from highway 11 onto Macarthy Road. They turned to each other with guilt and fear.
“We better get out there and meet them policemen before they see this. They will just jump to conclusions without getting our side. They will think that we was wrong!!”
As a group, they shuffled anxiously up the road, leaving Turner swamp and Macarthy's body behind them, anxious to meet the police and to explain. A few minutes later, the crowd returned, walking behind three police cars, their lights flashing. The cars stopped as they approached the pier and one the parents pushed past the vehicles and ran out to the water's edge.
“He's Gone!” The parent cried. “He'd Gone, He'd Gone, He'd Gone!!” His voice dropping from a scream to a whimper. “He'd Gone.” He moaned painfully. The swamp was still and the water smooth like glass. Over the water, an empty noose swung lazily in the breeze.

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Quip's Corner - Yellow Pansies

Yellow pansies lay crushed by a heel, ground into the black asphalt. Stems kicked aside, bent and broken. On a nearby stone bench, a boy sits, head bowed and shaking, supported by quivering hands. A ragged gray cotton pullover jacket hangs limply over one knee. The lonely cold stone bench gives little comfort to the young boy’s rasping sobs. The sea of green grassy fields surrounding this solitary event are quiet, holding its reverence. A clear blue sky with tiny tufts of white cotton hover motionlessly overhead. The warm yellow sun radiates its light on the grass and flowers below, painting them in their most vivid colors. But a cool, crisp morning breeze causes the boy to shiver involuntarily. His jacket slides, from his knee, into a large puddle. The material immediately begins to absorb the muddy liquid as the jacket sinks and turns a dark gray. The boys doesn't seem to notice. The colors are gone from his world.

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Beginnings - "And the Darkness Laughed."

The thick leather dog collar tugged at Joe’s throat as he pulled and lunged against the four feet of heavy steel cable attaching the black collar around his neck to the water stained concrete wall of the basement in which he was imprisoned. A glimmer of dusty yellow sunlight filtered through a small dirty window, the size of a loaf of bread. The window was pressed into an upper corner within inches of the unfinished ceiling. The bare wooden beams, covered in dust and cobwebs, ran the entire length of the room. The Whisperer was upstairs. Joe could hear him shuffle back and forth across the floor above, the Whisperer’s weight causing the floorboards to creak and groan. The dust cascaded down from the open ribs of the house and coated Joe’s head and arms. Joe stifled the urge to vomit as he choked on the greasy rag which had been used as a gag.
"How are we this morning?" His quiet voice sent chills up Joe’s spine. Joe spun around, which caused his head to be jerked back toward the wall. He gagged and then chocked uncontrollably. Low laughter came from the doorway. Joe straightened up and faced the voice.
"Did we sleep well?" The Whisperer hissed.
Joe struggled to see him in the shadows.
"Look out the window! Don’t you think that it’s a beautiful day to die?"
Joe swore bitterly through the greasy rags and again, defiantly, tugged at the restraints. He pulled at the bindings of cord which pinned his hands helplessly together behind his back. The Whisperer chuckled again as he watched Joe twist and jerk. He was unbothered by Joe’s flailing. The effort was futile. Joe would be dead before dark. He turned and walked from the room, pulling the door shut behind him with a click, a very quiet click.

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Beginnings - "The Deadly Bite of the Acting Bug "

A hush settled over the sparse audience of Tuesday night theater goers like a fog enveloping an English moor, thick and palpable. A fist clenching scene was being played out on the stage before them. The stage lights were low, softly illuminating the upper bedroom of an old Scottish castle. The young girl on center stage, preparing for bed, was about to meet the "Strangler," a villain stalking the play. The audience had been treated to glimpses of his hands, his black cloak and his feet throughout the first two acts, guiding them like little children through shrouded tunnels of stomach wrenching tension as, on by one, young girls fell prey to the Strangler’ sinister clutches.
The girl, dressed in a long, flowing nightgown, carrying a pewter candle holder with lighted candle, approached her bed, the light from the candle throwing ghastly shadows across the cold stone of the castle walls. The eerie whine of violins from the orchestra beneath the stage announced the presence of the killer. The audience cringed, collectively pushed themselves more deeply into the plush velvet of the theater seats. The music continued to build in earnestness as she placed the candle on the night stand and slid gracefully into bed. Leaning up on an elbow, she cupped her hand around the candle’s flame and blew it out gently, sending the stage into a black abyss.
The audience strained to see the stage in the darkness, not sure of the next passing moment. The music pulsated, increasing in volume slowly, deliberately, building the tension to a fevered pitch. Seconds continued to pass. The audience waited, edging forward in their seats. The music came suddenly to a screeching halt. A pause of silence. Then a piercing scream ripped through the darkness from the rear of the theater, sending the scattered audience into convulsions. Then from the balcony above came a heavy thump.

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The First Tree - Chapter 8

Claus’s Kitchen
Mrs. Claus stood in front of a large gas stove, directing a lecture, with a spatula, to the three tree elves sitting around a long rectangle shaped dining. Up and ready for the day, Mrs. Claus wore an ankle length pink skirt with matching embroidered sweater. She was a short, dainty women. This morning, her hair was neatly pinned with curled tendrils cascading down the sides of her round face, accented by a tiny set of round bifocals perched on the tip of her tiny nose.
Christmas, to Mrs. Claus, meant good smells, music, and lots of traditions. The combination of such was essential of making her Christmas complete. The smells that permeated every corner of her home during the holiday season were a tapestry of hot cinnamon, cloves, apples, and fresh pine.
Mrs. Claus was often teased around the North Pole for her constant humming of Christmas carols during the month of December. But the behavior was addictive and within the first week everyone had followed suit and was humming or singing as they worked.
"Bring the tree in through the west hall.... very carefully. And don't bend those branches," She chided. "I love those long beautiful branches. Remember, I would like to have the tree in the study before lunch." She brought her spatula up, commanding the elves attention. "In its stand and ready to be decorated."
"Yes, Mrs. Claus," the elves responded dutifully.
"And then collect my Christmas decorations from the storage sheds and meet my in the study by no later then 2:00 pm sharp. But don't hurry! I don't want you kids to rush. Be extremely careful! Remember, you will be carrying my entire Christmas in those boxes." Mrs. Claus was emphasizing each point with a downward swing of her spatula, splattering pancake batter, in tiny dots, across the counter.
"Good morning sweetheart," Santa bellowed, from the bottom of the stairs, forgetting the frayed pocket momentarily. He stepped from the last stair onto the irregularly shaped tiles which formed the kitchen floor. Mrs. Claus turned her attention from the elves at the table to Santa who ambled over, bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
"Good morning yourself. I began to think you had forgotten what week this was." Mrs. Claus retorted. Santa just smiled and took the plate of pancakes that Mrs. Claus presented him, walking to his chair at the head of the table.
"I see that you have my elves out getting your tree again this year," Santa quipped, winking at the elves, who smiled through mouths full of food.
"Santa!" Mrs. Claus turned back toward him, hands on her hips in a mock pout, "Today will be very light, all they will need to do is simply retrieve the tree, bring it in, and then get my boxes of decorations from the sheds."
"Dear, don’t forget, I’ve seen you work on your Christmas trees. You will have these kids busy making adjustments and moving objects from here to there until long after I’m gone on Christmas Eve." Santa chided, his eyes twinkled.
"Well, you do want it to be right, don't you? Mrs. Claus asked softly. Sant smiled.
"Oh, of course dear, you do just what you feel you need." Turning to the elves, who were watching their interactions with amused smirks, he instructed. "Will you please help Mrs. Claus with whatever she needs this week? You are, of course, formally released from any further preparatory duties in the workshop"
"That was our plan Santa," the elves chimed, and as if on cue, they all stood up from the table and cleared their plates.
"Mrs. Claus, thank you for the wonderful breakfast. We’ll be on our way so that we can have the tree ready and in on time."
Santa watched them file out and called after them as they left the kitchen, "Thank you."
Santa turned and began eating his breakfast in earnest. Mrs. Claus walked over to where Santa was sitting and patted him on the shoulder. Noise from the hall caused them both to turn. In the doorway, a new group of elves, dressed warmly, with scarves and mittens, ready for the cold winter day, entered the kitchen, excitedly anticipating Mrs. Claus’s famous pancake breakfast. Santa watched with amusement as Mrs. Claus directed them to the table and immediately began peppering each of them with questions of their day. She then began dispensed wise council about proper diet and work habits along with the plates of food. Santa had observed that, through the years, the elves at the North Pole enjoyed the motherly approach that Mrs. Claus, so often, took with them. Santa knew that the elves loved her deeply and would often seek her advice.
As the latest group of elves gathered around the table, they wished Santa a good morning, asking his advice, confirming projects, and expressing excitement about the week. Mrs. Claus continued to serve heaping plates of steaming pancakes, large pads of golden creamy butter, and a pitcher of rich maple syrup, all of which was readily devoured. She then returned to her stove and continued to cook, knowing that there would be many such groups to arrive at her table that morning.
Santa was wiping his mouth after finishing the last bite of breakfast when Edger, an elf who served as Santa’s personal secretary and who took care of and categorized all of Santa’s correspondence, entered the kitchen holding a tattered piece of paper.
Edger was tall and well proportioned for an elf. His clothes were constantly pressed and neat and his vest was always buttoned. He wore small oval wire rim spectacles and kept his beard cut short and meticulously trimmed.
Santa cleared his throat before speaking, "Morning Edger, ...have the number of Dear Santa letters slowing as of yet?" Santa observed the business-like look on Edger’s face, a constant fixture. Edger was always working, a compulsion which drove Santa to try to find ways to get him to relax.
"The letters are still arriving by the sleigh full. If it’s like most years, we will not see it slow for a few days yet"
"Edger, please sit down and eat something, Mrs. Claus has outdone herself again." Santa patted the chair next to his.
"I appreciate that sir, maybe in a little while, if I get a minute. I still have quite a few things to file and catalog. But I was reading through the correspondence this morning and found one you might find of particular interest. It’s from little Whitney Safford."
"Whitney? What did she have to say?" Santa’s eyes crinkled with interest. "Did she have a Christmas request?"
"She did actually.....Sir, I thought you would probably want to read it for yourself." Edger handed the simple, hand-written note to Santa, who began fishing for the eyeglasses perched on his forehead. Sliding them down to the bridge of his nose, he held the ragged little piece of paper to his face and read it aloud.
Dear Santa,
I know that you are busy right now. You always bring really good presents. But this year mom and dad said that you probably wouldn’t be able to bring much. They said that times get hard at the north pole just like it is here. So I thought, if you hadn’t already made something, could you maybe make me a doll.... could she have dark brown hair with long curls and a pink bow? I’ve never had a real doll before. It doesn’t have to be special or fancy. I could even make her clothes from the scraps that mom brings home. Thanks for always remembering me and my little brothers. Merry Christmas
Love, Whitney
When Santa was finished, he pushed his glasses aside, wiped his eyes with the back of his thumb, and sighed.
"What is it dear?" Mrs. Claus said, stepping forward while wiping her hands on the white apron tied around her waist. "Who is Whitney Safford?"
Santa grinned with some sadness at Mrs. Claus and spoke with an uncharacteristic softness, "As Edger already knows, Whitney is a sweet, dear little girl who lives with her family in a tiny cinder block home, near a thick wooded forest. She is the oldest of three children, and will be eight years old in February. She has two little brothers, Zack who’s five and Jeffrey who just turned three."
As he spoke, Santa gathered up his juice glass and silverware, setting them on his empty plate. "Her father has worked for years at a local factory until becoming very ill. He has been confined to a bed for months. Her mother, to earn money for the family, has begun sewing dresses for a ladies shop in the nearby village. Unfortunately, She is often required to work long hours."
At this point, Santa paused to carry his plate to the sink. He then shuffled back, with a swish of slippers against cold tile, to his seat at the table. As he sat down he noticed that the elves at the table had all stopped eating and were waiting for him to continue. Santa appreciated their apparent curiosity and continued.
"Whitney has been required to shoulder the bulk of the housework, including the wash and the cooking. She has been a wonderful girl this year. She deserves much more. But if she wants a doll, it will be the best doll we can make."
"Santa, I checked my records to see the nature of the presents prepared for the Safford children? According to my log and as per the request of their parents, each was given a set of simple winter clothes and a square of holiday chocolate."
"We can do better then that!" Santa exclaimed, dismayed at the apparent lack of toys set aside for the children. "Edgar, give the toy department an assignment to add a few of their newest toys to the gifts for the Safford boys." And after a moment of hesitation he added, "And throw in a little set of drums. That should wake up that house on Christmas morning."
Edgar took notes feverishly on a tiny pad of paper that he had produced from a pocket. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he wrote down each of Santa’s additions. It went against his nature to make, in his opinion, last minute changes to a gift log that he had crafted meticulously over an entire year. It wasn’t easy keeping track of who was nice and who wasn’t and then combining that with millions of requests that he insisted on sorting personally. Santa seemed to think nothing of adding this or that at the last minute. But there were enormous coordination efforts that had to be orchestrated between the construction departments and the wrapping and labeling department just to complete these last minute changes. Ultimately, If you divert from the list then you were asking for errors was Edgar’s philosophy.
Santa watched Edgar with interest, "Edgar!" Santa called brightly. His nose lifted from the pad of paper and his eyes made contact with Santa.
"Edgar, just relax. It’s Christmas! The extra toys and drums won’t throw off the system. You do a great job. My only request of you is that you relax a little. Nothing bad is going to happen to Christmas. Why don’t you delegate some of your responsibilities this week and take a break.
Edgar smiled reluctantly, "Maybe in January, Santa." Returning the focus to the task at hand, Edgar continued. "What about the doll, Sir? You didn’t mention that you wanted me to add a doll."
Santa grinned broadly, again prominently displayed his rosy cheeks. "That request will be handled by me personally." He declared. He then waved the letter in the air. "You won’t have to worry about keeping track of this one on your list. It will be one of my personal projects!"
With that, Santa folded the letter carefully and slid it into his right breast pocket. In doing so, his finger brushed against the frayed hole along the side. Casually, he looked down and then grimaced, as the sight reminded him of his bedroom and the frustrating discovery of the hole.
"Sweetheart!" Santa stood and turned so his right pocket was towards Mrs. Claus. "Look at my pocket! I’m getting a hole in my favorite pajamas. A large hole!" An elf giggled from behind him at the table and another whispered in a teasing tone "..favorite pajamas!.." Santa turned sharply, looking back at the elves who abruptly sat erect, trying desperately to stifle their laughter.
"That's right," Santa retorted, turning back to Mrs. Claus, "They are my favorite pajamas, and now the pocket is practically falling off!"
"Now honey," Mrs. Claus cooed, "It doesn’t look at all that bad. It’s certainly not about to fall off. You have the green ones that you can wear until I can fix these. Just leave them in the sewing room and I will have them back for you in no time."

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Quip's Corner - The Circle of Life

A young elephant rolled out of bed
took one step and bumped his head.
"who put this tree branch in the path"
yelled the young elephant in his wrath
"Someone could have really died
or been blinded when he smacked his eye"
"I want to know now", he demanded
And then from the tree, three tigers landed
Smiled at him and asked politely
"have we caused you to act unsightly
Throwing blame and demanding action
Can we help you with a retraction"
The elephant stuttered, stalled and slurped.
Then he let out a nervous burp
The tigers waited, flexing claws
stretching muscles, spreading jaws.
The elephant finally found his say
Mumbled something and backed away
Within a second he had turned and run
The tigers watched, they’d had their fun
They slapped high fives and turned to go
Went around a bush and fell in a hole.

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The First Tree - Chapter 7

Santa’s bedroom
Santa opened his eyes. Although it was still dark beyond his bedroom window, he could already hear noises coming from downstairs in the kitchen. His years of living with Mrs. Claus at the North Pole had told him exactly what she was doing. Mrs. Claus, for as long as he could remember, insisted on making breakfast with all the trimmings for the elves during the final week of Christmas. It was one of many Christmas traditions Mrs Claus held sacred. He couldn’t remember how most of them were started, but every year her many traditions were carried out like clock work.
Today would also be her tree day, he thought. It would certainly be quite an exciting week at the North Pole. Santa could hardly wait! He rose slowly from bed, rubbing and scratching his enormous belly through stretched plaid pajamas. Slipping his feet into a pair of worn, wool slippers, he lifted his arms over his head and yawned. Santa stood, wobbily, and while still stretching, glanced over into the bedroom mirror and admired his rotund physique. Oh yes, he was looking good.
Santa’s pajamas were made from a large red and green plaid flannel print, long sleeved, with two deep breast pockets on either side, secured with large round wooden buttons. A matching droopy flannel cap sat on top of Santa’s head. The cap flopped to one side and narrowed to a point where a tiny white ball of fluff was secured. The fluffy material blended nicely with his bushy snow white beard which rumbled and rolled, tapering down across his large barrel chest
Santa was still absentmindedly looking at himself in the mirror, mentally organizing his tasks of the day, when he noticed something alarming. Squinting into the mirror, Santa’s hand slid to his right shirt pocket. Looking down confirmed his suspicion, his pocket was beginning to fray and become separated along one side. "Drat.....Drat! On my favorite pair of pajamas too," Santa fussed, playing with the growing hole. Turning his body in the mirror so that his pocket was more prominently displayed, he examined it again through the reflection, hoping to find a more favorable outcome. After a few long moments playing with the growing hole, Santa sighed, resigned himself, shrugged in disgust, and ambled dejectedly out the door toward the kitchen. This was not a good start to his week, he thought. The pocket would have to be fixed at once.

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Beginnings - "The Rain"

The Rain
Dull yellow rain drops blur and streak the clear outer cover on the portholes of the protective bio-dome capsule. The drops sizzle and bubble as they make contact with the thin strip of silver incorporated into the window casing.
It had been two long months since the brothers had escaped into the dome. Although they were now free from the rain, they could only watch helplessly as the world they knew smoldered around them. The boys lived on the rations stored by their father in the food preservation units lining the main corridor.
Ekterk, the eldest brother by seventeen months, spent most of his time and energy monitoring the power levels in the regenerating energy cells. Their father had assured both of them that the regeneration units should provide sufficient power to sustain life within the bio-dome for at least three years before disintegration.
As Etam, the younger of the brothers, gazed out of the porthole at the world that they had once known, his mind drifted back to the days following the retreat into the capsule. The rains had come back again. Etam’s own arms showed wicked scars from the drops which had struck and clung to him before he could find shelter. Those next few days were the hardest for both boys. They watched their father die, being eaten by the savage wounds sustained while saving the boys with a rush to the capsule. He reassured them, in those last few hours, that he was no longer in pain. but at the end only his eyes were alive. The rest of his body was a mass of smoldering burnt flesh and exposed, visibly yellowed bones. His shallowed breathing, his open and blistered chest finally slowed to a stuttered halt.
Their mother was taken in death years earlier during a raid of the people of the east. She had been away from the city, collecting the wild flowers father loved so much. The ones that reminded him so much of the years of his youth. The alarm was sounded. She had reached the outer city walls when they overtook her. Father had reached the outer gates in time to see her fall and fought viciously to get to her side. She was all but gone as he knelt to pick her up. The wild flowers were still clutched within her long delicate fingers. As father lifted her from the ground, her eyes opened and she smiled at him, a pained but beautiful smile. He had always noticed and loved her smile, even when they were children. She mouthed the words "I love you" and drifted away.
Father submersed himself in his research and experiments in the years following mother’s death. He created and perfected many of his projects while hibernating in his laboratory for weeks on end. The boys helped as best they could with their father’s work. Father delighted in his boys and in teaching them about life and the sciences.
The rains had begun slowly, mildly, at first, leaving rashes on exposed skin, polluting their natural water supplies, taking the smallest of the children. The panic had begun. The rains returned in ever increasing intervals, each time stronger then the previous. Father had completed the outer layers of his capsule. He seemed to know that it was to save his boy’s lives, at least for now.
Etam blinked away the memories as he again focused on the streaked porthole and the wilted and smoldering landscape of dark greens and browns beyond. It was a stark contrast to the sterile white interior which now surrounded them. In his mind, he could still hear the shreaks and moans of the suffering and dying which occurred outside the protective layers of the capsule walls. He shuttered involuntarily and turned away from the porthole.

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Quip's Corner - Life to perfection is a ladder with slippery steps

Life to perfection is a ladder with slippery steps
I've been taught to know the way to go
But just haven't made it yet
I try to go slowly from rung to rung
I take tiny steps but then.......
I step on a spot that I've stepped on before
Slip, loose my grip, and fall to the bottom again

I question why, I saw that spot coming
I knew what I should do
If I'd just avoid it, I would be fine
And I know that I'd make it through

I continue to try to climb that long ladder
I know of the pitfalls and traps
If I can just get past those weal slippery spots
The ones that I find hinder me
I'll find that the top was well worth the climb
And then I truly will see

That those weak slippery steps that gave me such sorrow
That gave me the tears and regret
I've learned how to climb them, I see my mistakes
My weakness has turned into strength.
Ether 12:27

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Quip's Corner - My Southern Love Note (act 1)

The sun was a beatin and I was a drinkin, a fishing pole between my legs.
The day was a long one, alone in the hot sun, with nothin in my brain but haze.
The fish could be bite'in but they weren't a fightin cause I couldn't feel a thing.
All I was doin, sittin and stewin, thinkin of her again and again.
She was a young one, but her growin was all done, a body that'd make a man crawl.
Her smile was infectious, the biggest in Texas, a true country babydoll!

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Beginnings - "Rough Sunset"

Rough Sunset
George opened his eyes. "It must be morning," he thought. There was too much street traffic, morning buses, air brakes, horns trumpeting in a new day in the city. George rolled to his knees, not an easy task in that he was still slightly drunk and kneeling on a broken cardboard box and a full garbage bag. He put an inquiring hand skyward, pushing on the plastic cover of the dumpster, and peered through bloodshot eyes out into the alley.
The morning sun had not yet reached the tops of the city buildings, leaving long grey shadows and a prevailing darkness in the alley. George hooked an arm over the side of the navy blue city dumpster. He could sense the wetness, between his forearm and the metal, of rotten tomates and what smelled like canned soup. Leaning out away from the dumpster, he rolled forward and fell to his back in a cloud of dust and bits of old newspaper. The plastic lid slammed shut behind him with a dull thud. George gathered himself and slowly climbed to his feet before wobbling toward the rectangle of light indicating where the alley met the busy street.
The alleyway was a jumble of garbage bags dropped from the apartments above. An old rusted yellow bicycle, missing its wheels, had been thrown or propped to one side. George reached the end of the alley and stopped. The world, moving anxiously, passed by him on multiple conveyer belts. Cars moved rapidly, honking and squealing at one another. People, dressed for work, walked passed with purpose and direction. George stood and absorbed the city’s energy. He rocked slightly on his heels, back and forth and side to side, watching colors pass in front of his eyes.
He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. His right hand fumbled with his pants pocket. He had been given a five dollar bill the previous evening from a couple on a walk. He had been sitting there, leaning against the corner of the building, at the entrance to the alley. They had dropped the money into his lap without saying a word to him. They talked about him as they continued to walk. Dripping with self-righteousness, they complained about the city. With the poor cluttering the streets. "Why didn’t they clean themselves up and get a job. Laziness, that’s what it was, laziness. They just all live off the system." The couple turned the corner and were gone.... but not forgotten. Deep in the recesses of his brain, beyond the alcohol, the words were recorded.
George fished the bill from his pocket, studying it intently. He held it to his nose and smelled it. It smelled of expensive perfume and fish. The fish was probably from his pants. He looked down at himself. Tattered tennis shoes, that he had found on the steps of a nearby apartment building, jeans, which were once light blue denim but now had stains of dark reds, oranges and browns, mostly browns, and a shirt that seemed to match the pants. A coordinated pair, long sleeved, its cuffs and collar were frayed. Originally, a dark green, the shirt had long since taken on the same multi-stained pattern. The two top and two bottom buttons were missing, leaving a generally open ragged appearance.
George put the five dollar bill between his lips. Then, with both hands, he brushed down, straightening his shirt, and tucked the ends into his pants. Plucking the bill from his mouth, he stuffed it into his left breast pocket and took a deep breath. He then turned to his right and walked stiffly down the sidewalk toward a tiny corner cafe.

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