tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28272255385911674112024-03-10T10:49:32.457-07:00A Different TackNotes on living in the north woods, sailing an inland sea, and a few things worth considering.Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00997855453709674922noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2827225538591167411.post-49520458818901082612014-10-22T15:30:00.003-07:002015-04-02T14:47:54.342-07:00Mumbley Peg<style>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Tommy
spat on the whetstone and worked the edge of his knife in a smooth circular
motion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He sat on the top
step of his front porch in silence as he listened to Angelo and old Byron.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Byron sat on the bottom steps,
his head hung low between the knees of his lanky legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Angelo was standing on the lawn, repeatedly throwing a knife
in the dirt and then retrieving it, while cursing and gesticulating wildly, "This is for the judge, this is for the parole board," he repeated the mantra over and over. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Why
they do that…why they let that animal out?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Old Byron asked of no one, shaking his head from side to side.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“This
is what he needs,” Angelo waved his long blade in the air, “right Tommy?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Tommy
did not respond or lift his head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He continued to sharpen his knife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A police car slowed to a stop in front of the house.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hey
Riley, up for some mumbley peg?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Angelo greeted the officer with a cheerful familiarity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Nah,
those days are gone, Ange,” Riley replied,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I ain’t allowed to hang with you dagos no more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Especially with those new tattoos,
‘Watchmen,’ what the hell is that, some kind of gang or something?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Riley extended a greeting to Tommy and
Byron.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Old Byron nodded his head,
Tommy lifted his to reveal his steel eyes, his face was expressionless, “They
just found William Hall,” Riley continued,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“He was in Emmet Alley, with a shiv in his neck, have you guys
heard anything?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Violent
neighborhood ain’t it Riley?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Angelo smirked and fondled his knife for Riley to see.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Riley
turned to Byron, “Sorry to have to talk about this Byron.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Byron
sat silently, covering his face with his large black hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Billy Hall had attacked, raped, and
beaten Byron’s granddaughter five years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was let out of prison on parole 2 days prior to this
meeting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Annie was six years old
at the time; she survived the attack but to this day had not recovered from the
physical and mental trauma, nor had her family.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Riley
turned to Tommy, “Do you know anything about this Tommy?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Tommy
calmly placed his knife and whetstone down and stared at the fleshy face of the
policeman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A vivid image flashed through
Tommy’s mind of Billy Hall being grabbed from behind by his hair, a shiv thrust
deep into the side of his neck, his face being beaten against the brick wall,
the shiv held tightly to complete its internal justice, the lifeless body let
to fall to the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Let
me ask you something Riley, why did you become a cop?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You
know me Tommy, I always wanted to help people,” Riley said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Who
you helping now?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tommy asked.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Riley paled, since they were children, Tommy had always intimidated Riley and his voice broke, "I just had to ask, Tommy." He returned to his car and drove off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Angelo sat down next to old Byron and placed his arm around
the old man’s shoulders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s
over now Byron,” Angelo said, “your family is our family.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Back
at the precinct station Riley sat at his desk deep in thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He reached in his bottom drawer and pulled
out an old American-Italian dictionary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Scrolling down, next to the word watchman, he found the translation: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">vigilante.</i></span></div>
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Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00997855453709674922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2827225538591167411.post-19952549688502062632014-10-22T12:10:00.001-07:002014-10-22T12:10:38.909-07:00The Forgotten CelebrityI was standing in line at the grocery store the other day. There was a
large lady in front of me with curlers and a cart full of processed
food. I felt sorry for her ankles. So I had time to glance at all the
magazines they place at impulse level. It's all about celebrities these
days. Celebrities are people that are famous. I'm not certain what
the criteria are for fame, I mean the numbers. How many people have to
know you're alive to be considered famous? Are all famous people also
celebrities? Probably not, I think celebrity is limited to
entertainment, mostly. Anyway I really don't care. What I care about
is Bigfoot. Before it became legal to write about entertainers gaining
weight or getting pregnant, the National Inquirer and others would
publish information about Bigfoot. They not only listed sightings and
encounters, but included personal information as well, such as the time
Bigfoot gave birth to an alien child. I really miss those articles.
Not only were they interesting, but they kept the public informed on
current locations and behaviors of Bigfoot. Now I never know when, or
where Bigfoot will appear, or how he will act. I don't have anything
against celebrities, I just think it was thoughtless and insensitive to
abandon Bigfoot like he was nothing but a fantasy. It's just wrong. Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00997855453709674922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2827225538591167411.post-1030109480861915112014-05-10T13:28:00.000-07:002014-05-10T13:28:06.676-07:00June 1948
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<span style="font-family: Times;">The morning sun was still a
lazy pink haze in the eastern sky when she pushed away from the dock and rowed
a short way into deeper water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Several vigorous pulls started the Mercury outboard, and the lady disappeared
into the morning mist; motoring out of the shallow bay, out to the waters of
Lake Ontario for a day of fishing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">The night rain had cooled
the air that was now lifting the mist off the still waters of the bay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lady surveyed the array of wooden
boats that lingered in the shallow water of their slips. After paying the
marina the day rental, she wisely chose the boat with the least leakage, for
they all leaked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wore a light
quilted jacket against the morning chill, and dungaree pants with flannel
inside; the cuffs were rolled up exposing the colorful lining. A kerchief
wrapped her head and was tied tightly under her chin, framing her tanned
countenance. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">She made her way down the
rickety dock, carrying an outboard motor in one hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other hand grasped a basket that held an infant
generously wrapped in blankets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She placed the baby in the bow of the boat, hoisted the motor into the
boat and bolted it to the stern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She returned to her car to gather fishing poles, bait, a thermos of
coffee, and the reserve gas can.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">This was her domain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was at home on the vast inland
sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She loved the water and she
loved to fish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The vagaries
of wind and waves did not frighten her. And she would travel in small boats on
that great lake to places few lone men and no women would venture, while in her
solitude, save the little child in the basket, rocking in the bow of the
boat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">The men at the marina would
shake their heads and wonder at the lone woman and her infant in the basket so
far out to sea, all alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the
end of the day she would return to the marina with a stringer full of fish,
while many of the men would return empty handed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then over their beer they would talk about the lady with the
baby who ventured out to the big lake alone and returned always with fish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">But there would be no
acrimony in their talk, no derisive tones would their inflection reveal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They admired and respected the
lady.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For she possessed a
pleasant nature, without haughtiness or brazen pride, with a quietude and
kindliness that made her courageous watery treks even more admirable to the men
who knew the lake. They knew its propensity for rage and its uncompromising
impetuosity. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">But the lady was adept at
handling a small craft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She could
row a straight and true course, meet large waves at just the right angle, and
bring a boat to dock in a smooth and graceful manner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And she could sense the eminent changes in the weather as
her eyes darted about the skies and her face lifted to feel the wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">But it was not her ability
to catch fish, nor her handling of watercraft, or her knowledge of the weather
that the men admired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was her
freedom; they admired the grace and dignity with which she pursued the things
she loved.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times;">She was a truly liberated
woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A liberation that grew out
of love, the love of fishing and water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She harbored a sense of freedom that grew from inside her and all around
her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like all heroes, she
was able to overcome a force greater than herself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And like all heroes, she was driven by love; love of life, a
life she had chosen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her freedom
was not wrangled forcibly from the clutches of oppressors with masculine
posturing, but was gently gathered up through feminine determination and
perseverance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">I learned all I needed to
learn about life from this lady, my hero.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I learned to appreciate the beauty of nature; to embrace the challenges
that lie within and without; and to always follow my dreams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But mostly she taught me a lot about
women, and a lot about freedom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You see, I was that little baby, in the basket, in the bow of the boat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">.</span></div>
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Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00997855453709674922noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2827225538591167411.post-33213120006984121462014-03-28T07:13:00.000-07:002014-03-28T07:14:53.477-07:00Democare<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Waldo sat in his recliner, watching television, drinking a
bottle of beer, and having a cigarette.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This was his norm, his motif, and he was content.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly Waldo felt a little nausea, he
wondered if it was the food at the Burger Palace, maybe those extra French
fries he had, they were pretty greasy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He reached for his beer but a sharp pain flashed down his left arm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pain persisted as he became
short of breath and his chest began to feel like a heavy weight was pressing
against it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh my God, Waldo
thought, I am having a heart attack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He reached for his cell phone and dialed 911, in gasps he pleaded for
help.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
At the hospital Waldo poured over required forms while
sweating profusely, hunched over with chest pain, his left arm paralyzed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then he sat there waiting, he could
barely breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He thought, this is
it, this is the end of me, I am going to die, right here, right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A resident came and performed a quick
screening of Waldo’s condition and gathered a personal history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The resident left and Waldo
waited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In time, a lady with the
forms returned.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry sir, she said, “we will not be able to treat
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your insurance will not cover
this condition.”</div>
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“No…please…I have coverage,” Waldo gasped, “Please, I need
help.”</div>
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“Yes sir, you have insurance, but under the new Democare law,
your insurance company is not required to pay for self-imposed pathologies.”</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
“What…what, I don’t understand…there must be a mistake.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waldo’s speech was halting, he was
lying on his side clutching his chest, the gurney was wet with perspiration.</div>
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“I am sorry sir, but according to our evaluation, your
personal history, and general observation, your condition is clearly self
inflicted, the hospital will not be reimbursed for any treatment we might
provide,” She sniffed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But no…I didn’t do this…I was just sitting there…please,
please help me.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waldo was
terrified.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well sir, that is most likely the problem, you were ‘just
sitting there.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are morbidly
obese, you consume alcohol on a daily basis, and you smoke a pack of cigarettes
a day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These factors indicate that
you have actually<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>brought this upon
yourself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And under the new
Democare law, conditions such as obesity, alcoholism, and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>smoking-related disorders are not
covered.”</div>
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“Please…please, I will pay later, by the month…little by
little...please help me…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waldo’s
voice was getting weak.</div>
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“Well, actually sir our computer did a quick credit check,
I’m afraid we can not justify installment payments at this time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now if you don’t mind we really need
this gurney, there is an accident victim coming in.”</div>
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Waldo barely made it to his feet and holding on to the wall
for support, limped down the hall and out to the parking lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He let go of his left arm just long
enough to light a cigarette.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Waldo sat down on a curb and lifted his
head toward the stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He thought
that soon he would be among them.</div>
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Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00997855453709674922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2827225538591167411.post-52389305168436763152013-11-13T14:36:00.000-08:002014-07-15T17:22:24.209-07:00Old Tom<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in the early 1970s I worked with a guy named Tom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We worked in the carpenter's union and
would ride together into the city each day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tom was a quiet, good natured guy in his 50s, of Italian decent and a Catholic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a World War II veteran who was
wounded and captured at the Battle of the Bulge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A sober and true personality; he was of that "aw-shucks"
generation who would not hesitate to defend his country, or open a door for a
lady.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Tom</span> was an all around
decent guy, not given to sarcasm or enmity, nor cheap flattery or deception;
the kind of guy you could depend on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day while
driving to work I mentioned a movie I had watched the night before; "Agnes of
God."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a true story of a Catholic
nun who gave birth and then murdered and buried the child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently she had sex with a gardener
or workman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After much sparing and
bantering between police and church authorities, the nun was transferred to
another diocese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mentioned to
Tom how upset I was at the nun getting away with murder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tom didn't comment immediately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stared out the window and after a while began to
speak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He told me that he was in
the combat corps during the war, in France.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The combat corps duties involve construction
projects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This particular project
was a road and approach to a bridge to be built across a small river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The excavation for the road took the
crew behind an old convent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
they were working, they suddenly unearthed a small skeleton, the remains of an
infant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As they continued to work
they found more little skeletons, soon there were dozens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The commanding officer ordered the work
suspended and the French authorities were notified.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crews were brought in to dig the bodies up and transfer them
elsewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is all he
said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tom was still staring out
the window, neither of us said another word the rest of the ride in to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00997855453709674922noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2827225538591167411.post-71559711076735787142013-06-19T04:26:00.002-07:002013-06-19T04:26:46.681-07:00Deep Blue Dreams
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deep Blue Dreams</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every summer on
every available evening Ellie sat at the end of the pier at Oswego Harbor and
watched the sailboats come and go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Her eyes followed the tall white sails as they filled with wind, and pitched
to the rhythm of the waves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She thought
that there was nothing quite as graceful or as beautiful as a sailboat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every summer she swore that she would someday
learn to sail. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But twenty summers
would come and go before Ellie would fulfill her dream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had been dating only a few weeks when I told Ellie that I
had purchased a sailboat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her eyes
lit up and her jaw dropped and she flushed with excitement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re kidding, I love sailing!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She gushed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was heretofore unaware of Ellie’s long flirtation with
sailing, but as happenstance would have it, my status was immediately elevated
to rock star.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had purchased the
sloop from an old salt down on Seneca Lake and I had to sail it up to Oswego
before winter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked Ellie to
come with me on the three-day cruise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She, of course, was thrilled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we drove up to the dock Ellie emitted a squeal of
excitement, burst from the truck, and ran toward the wharf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to the back of the truck and started
loading my body with gear; sea-bags of clothes, cooler, rain gear, and
possibles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could hear the
ringing of Ellie’s ecstasy, “I love it,” she cried, “What a beautiful boat!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I approached the dock, laden with gear draped over my
back and shoulders, and hanging from my arms, I could see Ellie running up and
down the decks; fore to aft; port to starboard, twirling around the mast. I
understood why she loved this boat so much; it was a new forty-foot Tayana
luxury yacht, beautifully appointed with sparkling teak and loaded with
virtually every available option.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was truly a magnificent yacht.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Only it wasn’t mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My boat was in the next slip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looking all of her thirty-two years, the old sloop proudly
displayed a medley of chalky paint, duct tape, and several annual rings of caulking
around the ports.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The aging
actress showed various shades of white touch-up paint on her more delicate
parts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ellie was at the helm of the elegant Tayana wildly jerking
the wheel side to side like a 5 year-old left in the family car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was trying to gain her
attention to break the news when the owner emerged from the cabin brandishing a
handgun and threatening to ventilate poor Ellie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She stopped turning the steering wheel and thrust her arms
straight into the air, “Larry, we’re being robbed!” she yelled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wrong
boat,” My voiced squeaked, barely audible. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Starting toward the yacht, I dropped the gear on the dock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two beer cans rolled in the direction
of the water, I stopped, and thought about it, but my passion to save Ellie
prevailed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Wait, don’t shoot; wrong
boat, ” I waved my arms to the yachtsman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ellie then looked at me; looked at my boat; and looked back at the
owner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bewildered look came over
her face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had seen that look before,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>on my mother’s face the day my dog bit
grandma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In her attempt the escape, Ellie’s ankle got tangled in a
halyard line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The owner grabbed
her other ankle, threatening to call the police.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now Ellie was suspended half on the yacht, half on the
dock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grabbed Ellie’s arms,
trying to extricate her from the tangles of the halyard, and the clutches of
the angry yachtsman. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ellie was
screaming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The owner tightened his
grasp, still clutching the gun. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
was growling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was pleading. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ellie was suspended like Superman from all four extremities,
her body straddling the boat and the dock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The yachtsman growled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ellie screamed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pleaded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just then the owner’s wife stuck her head out of the cabin,
“ Oh, you’ve invited some friends to dinner dear, how nice.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We all stopped, turned and looked at her, a woman of a
certain age with heavy mascara and ruby red lipstick, she reminded me of my
boat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ellie hit the dock with a
thud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The distraction gave me the
opportunity to untangle her leg and drag her to safety. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The grumbling yachtsman and his wife retreated to their
cabin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ellie sat on the dock
sobbing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I dove for a teetering
beer can in time to save it from the dockside depths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All was well for the moment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why didn’t you tell me?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ellie sobbed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I was just getting around to it when…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I could have been killed,” Ellie proclaimed, her voice
handing down my indictment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My tone waxed repentant, “Well, they say sailing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can</i> be dangerous,” I confessed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She shot a stinging glance at me then turned her attention
to the little sloop, contentedly bobbing in its slip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> this</i> is your
boat?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She asked, not without a
hint of disappointment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I have to admit she is a lady with a past, but I plan
to fix her up like new.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hidden in
my sea bag were duct tape, touch-up paint, and caulk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Where are the sails?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ellie inquired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sobbing
had abated and she was slowly edging her way toward the boat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Why is the mast laying down like
that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I sent the sails out to be cleaned.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You mean I waited all my life to sail, and now they’re at
the cleaner’s?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like a suit?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I really hadn’t thought of it in quite that way…” I
stammered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How are we supposed to sail, with no sails?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The legitimate question sprang from her
lips while she shrugged her shoulders.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shrugged mine too; my head lowered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We can’t sail through the Erie Canal,
we have to use the motor.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
voice was getting smaller; my guilt was getting larger; my rock star status was
diminishing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another summer had come and gone, and Ellie, sitting on the
dock, still dreamed of sailing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00997855453709674922noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2827225538591167411.post-56449966956185589732013-03-20T22:17:00.003-07:002013-06-08T06:38:31.149-07:00The Hunter<div class="MsoNormal">
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Jamie lay by the little brook listening to the small swirls
of turbulence as the water rushed over and around the rocks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the dry summer, the previous
night’s rain had the creek singing once more. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jamie had an extraordinary gift of listening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sounds naturally blended to
his ear like a symphony.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sound was
his medium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With sound he could
paint the wind bending the grass, blend in the color of rustling leaves, and
accent the little creatures that scurry along the forest floor.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A variety of birds found their way into his masterpiece; he identified each by their unique song. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He claimed that his hearing was not so much better than others;
it was just that he heard more out of the sounds, the details that normally
went unnoticed by those who possessed the dominant sense of sight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jamie also had an acute sense of touch. He could feel the
wind on his face, knowing the direction it was blowing from and whether it
held the promise of rain. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
he possessed an uncanny gift for identifying things with his hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But most of all he loved the feel of
the sun on his face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lying on his back with his hands behind his head he allowed
the full brightness of the mid-day sun to bathe his youthful countenance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Staring up at the sky, on a bright
sunny day, Jamie could just barely detect a hint of light, his only moments of
respite from a world of darkness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Blind since birth, Jamie met the exigencies of life with resolve.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His sovereignty in everyday life
skills was owed to his parents, who disallowed any pity or indulgence. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His constant companion and best friend,
Pal, gave him the eyes that nature had deprived. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pal was a Yellow Lab, and like most of his breed, was a devout
anthromorph.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Endowed with human-like
sensibility, he shared Jamie’s quiet times lying close beside him and laying
his paw across the boy’s lap. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
like the time Jamie’s mother passed, a shy whimper might escape his throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would even sit and listen, tilting
his head side to side, straining to comprehend the stories Jamie’s grandfather
would tell on Saturday nights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
boy and the dog went everywhere together, roaming the fields of the farm and
the backwoods along the creek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This place was a favorite destination, a long walk down an
abandoned farm road where it crossed the little brook over an old culvert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here Jamie spent many quiet times
musing over the sounds of the surrounding woods, the loss of his mother, or his
imminent future as a blind adult. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He often confided in the loyal canine, which would sit and
listen and gaze upon the boy like a Sunday worshipper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But presently Pal was off terrorizing a
rabbit that had dared to venture into the clearing while the vigilant canine
was on watch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the dog emerged from the brush he detected a distant
sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then Jamie heard it, a
vehicle bouncing down the old farm road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was an old pickup truck, Jamie knew from the sound of rusted springs,
and the rattling of body in the process of separating from it’s frame, an all too
common occurrence in this farm country, which was rife with old pickups.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pal sat, ears erect and squared the way
Labs do, hyper-vigilant to the approaching noise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was rare to see a vehicle on this old road, but it
was early in the hunting season and it might be someone after squirrel or
rabbit; it was much too early for deer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Jamie and the dog listened as the noisy vehicle came closer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally the truck bounced over the culvert and slowed to a
stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jamie heard the creak of old
hinges and the rattled closing of an elderly truck door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pal stiffened and a low growl emerged
from deep in his throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hello there, seen any rabbits?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A friendly voice rang out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jamie had guessed the truck most likely carried one of the
locals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But he did not recognize
the voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well, I can’t see
anything, but I think my dog was chasing one around a while ago,” Jamie
offered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The stranger was carrying a shotgun over his shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He walked closer to Jamie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His head thrust forward and a quizzical
look came to his eyes, “Excuse me, but are you blind, kid?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, all my life, I was born this way.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Jamie noted a sympathetic tone in the stranger’s voice that put him more
at ease.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well how in the world did you get way out here in these
woods?” The stranger asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Its my dog, Pal, he helps me, he knows every inch of these
woods, he’s my eyes.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jamie
proudly proclaimed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well he is a real good lookin’ dog, I gotta say.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thanks mister, you can pet him if you want,” Jamie offered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, no thanks,” the stranger waved the offer off, “I like
dogs but I was bit one time so now I’m careful about dogs.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, Pal would never hurt anyone, but I understand how you
feel, that’s fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My name is
Jamie, are you from around here?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, my name is Nem, I live in the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was just driving around and saw this
old road and it looked like a good place to hunt.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The two fell into a talk about hunting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jamie related something his father had
told him about rabbit hunting; that you needed a good dog to get rabbits these
days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pal was a good dog, but he
was not the right dog, what was needed was a good beagle, a beagle will chase a
rabbit and bring him right back to you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The hunter was only a little older than Jamie, perhaps eighteen, and had
not been hunting long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He admitted
that he had yet to shoot anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was mid-day, the sun was high and bright, and the hunting would not
be very good. So the two young men sat on the bank and talked of things, as
young men will.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dog lay down a
few feet away and slept in the warm September sun.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
“You must go to school don’t you?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hunter asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Of course, I get by ok, and there is an aide that helps me
with the visual stuff, and special ed classes, I like school,” Jamie said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nem picked a long weed and stuck it between his teeth, “I
kinda miss school, there were lots of girls. Not that it did me any good,” he
confessed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why?” Jamie probed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, mostly because of this scar, that’s where that dog got
me, in my face, and it ain’t too pretty…” Nem’s voice trailed off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Man, is it really bad?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t see of course.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Here, feel it,” The hunter took Jamie’s hand and placed it
on his face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jamie had never seen a face, but as a very young child he
would caress his mother’s. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
he was let to explore others; like his father’s, and his grandmother’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew what a human face felt like,
and had formed a clear image of what it should look like.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The deep and jagged scar traveled across the hunter’s nose
and down through his upper and then lower lip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a deep and horrible disfigurement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jamie was shaken, the scar was bad, but
Jamie would not say anything, he would avoid making the hunter feel any worse
than he most likely already felt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But the hunter saw his look, the same look he saw in everyone’s face
that met him, or walked by him on the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was something he had to live with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People would stare, then catch themselves
and look away, but their eyes would ultimately be drawn back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is human nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The children would stare, as
there is an inherent honesty in childhood, if you want to know what people think,
watch the children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh I don’t blame the dog any.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know dogs get scared and they’ll snap at you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s just natural for them I
guess.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can’t blame dogs, I
guess,” the hunter attempted to reconcile himself to his deformity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I guess we all got something we have to deal with, whether
a person can’t see, or a person has scars, we all got something,” Jamie said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I suppose it’s the scars you can’t see that go the
deepest,” Nem declared in a more distant voice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jamie said nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But he had felt those scars also, those scars unseen that no surgery
could ameliorate, the irretractable loss, the forsaken gifts of life that
everyone else takes for granted, that are forever lost to a person who is
different, a person with scars on his face, or a person who can not see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had felt it in school, and he felt
in on the hunter’s face, the perpetual state of grief; and the constant and ever-present
tinge of exclusion.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I better get goin' back home, I don’t feel much like
huntin' anyway,” Nem rose to his feet and spat the blade of grass he had been
chewing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It was good talking to you, I usually have no one but old
Pal to talk to,” Jamie said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll say goodbye to your dog then too.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jamie was still lying in the grass when the thunderous
explosion occurred.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sound was so close, so terrifying
that he reflexively uttered an indiscernible roar and grabbed his head and
curled into a fetal position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There he froze for a few seconds, his sensitive ears taking time to
recover, his face buried in the grass.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Terrified, Jamie called out, “What was that?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pal where are you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pal!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He heard the truck door slam; he heard the engine start; the
truck shifted into gear and drove away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Still protectively curled in the grass, the sounds began to return; the
rushing water, the leaves of the trees; his own breathing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But one sound was conspicuously absent,
a sound that you would expect after such a violent encounter, a sound that
Jamie wanted and needed to hear, the sound of his dog barking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Pal?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jamie
called softly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suddenly, a pang of horror seized him, more visceral than
cerebral.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alternating flashes of
denial and terror ran through his brain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For a moment he was frozen, and a bitter nausea welled deep in his
throat.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Pal!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The call
became frantic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jamie crawled through
the grass like a madman, grasping in every direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He found the still, wet warmth that was only moments ago his
companion, his closest friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Jamie collapsed on the dead animal and pressed his body into it as if to
give it life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To lose his eyes
twice in one life was too great a loss.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br /></div>
Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00997855453709674922noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2827225538591167411.post-34601046264698941662012-06-22T17:44:00.002-07:002012-06-22T17:44:46.831-07:00Crazy Ange<style>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember the night little Annie disappeared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was one of those hot summer nights
when everyone was outside. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Old
ladies in black dresses sat on their front porches speaking in Italian about
who was sick or who died or who had a baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The men sat on the porch steps in white T-shirts, smoking
cigarettes and talking about work or baseball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The children were everywhere, running from yard to yard, playing
in the street, running up and down stairs. On those nights I often walked down
Magnie Street to Fanetti’s to buy spumoni.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the way there I would walk by Angelo’s house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angelo, the kids called him Crazy Ange, was always in his
front yard, which was fenced-in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
used to lean on the fence wearing a white T-shirt and baggy pants pulled up
high nearly to his chest. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was in
his early twenties but his mother still helped him dress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would slick his hair down with
Vaseline but stubborn cowlicks would rise in defiance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Moisture clung thickly to his lower lip
that hung down to the middle of his chin. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mean little children would run by clattering sticks along the
fence and yell, “Crazy Ange!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Angelo would respond by shaking his hands and tonguing these
strange sounds, “ali, ali, ali…” trying to speak with this big wet smile that
made his lip plunge even further.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His father would storm out of the house hollering at the children in
Italian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kids ran away down
the street and disappeared between the houses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Angelo seemed to enjoy the attention; he ran to the
other end of the yard with his wide waddle-like gallop, mimicking the
children’s escape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes
Angelo would try to follow them, but his father would catch him before he went
too far.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
sitting on the curb in front of Fanetti’s, eating my spumoni when I began
hearing the calls for Annie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first
it was Annie’s mother, Mrs. Testa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Soon relatives and neighbors echoed the calls for Annie, some near and some
farther away, up and down the street, in and around the houses and backyards. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Annie was 5 years old, she had
been playing in her yard where, owing to her fragile years, she was sworn to
remain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the general thought
was that with all the children running in and out of the yards, Annie might
have taken up with them; caught up in the hot excitement of the evening.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was getting dark and the calls for Annie increased.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The streetlights came on; the children
retreated to their homes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mrs.
Testa was frantic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr. Testa,
always sober and deliberate, had taken off walking down the street with a
deliberate step like he knew exactly where Annie was, but he didn’t, it was
just his way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mr. Testa walked by Angelo’s house, stopped for a moment and
called out to Angelo’s father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Mr. Vitalone!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr. Testa
didn’t like Mr. Vitalone very much, he was Sicilian, and Testa was
Neapolitan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To Mr. Testa, all
Sicilians were criminals; “cutthroats” is how he referred to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he was convinced that Angelo’s
condition was the result of some sin his father had committed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr. Vitalone emerged from his front
door and stood on the porch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I am looking for my daughter Annie,” Testa said, speaking
Italian.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“ I hear people calling for her, I haven’t seen her,”
Vitalone replied.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Where is Angelo?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Testa asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Vitalone bristled; he knew what people thought of
Angelo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Angelo was different, he
wasn’t like everyone else, and they were afraid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These foolish Neapolitans were afraid and superstitious;
they were peasants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Why?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Testa shrugged and walked on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both men knew why he asked about Angelo. Vitalone’s feelings
were valid, the people were uneasy about Angelo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was an adult now, a large man, with the mind of a five
year-old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was different, and
the neighbors were vigilant and mistrustful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mr. Vitalone turned and walked back into the house, he
called for Angelo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Angelo
didn’t come he checked his bedroom, then he looked in the backyard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Angelo wasn’t there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Angelo sometimes walked out of the yard
but he would never go far. Although he may have followed some children, his
father thought.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr. Vitalone
went out to look for Angelo. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
was hesitant to call Angelo’s name, the coincidence with the little girl missing
might cause a panic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the people
panic and find Angelo, God knows what they might do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was getting dark and Angelo would be scared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could never find his way home in the
dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr. Vitalone was not predisposed
to panic, as he possessed a stoicism that did not lend itself to such excess of
emotion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there was a strange
tightness in his stomach, and his breathing revealed a slight nervous tremble
as he searched the darkened backyards and empty lots. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a while a dim streetlight revealed a shadowy figure
moving toward him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He recognized
the wide, unsteady gait as Angelo’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He heard him crying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
trembling in his throat eased, and Mr. Vitalone rushed to meet his son.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suddenly Vitalone was startled as a small figure emerged
from the shadows behind Angelo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Angelo
was lost, I helped him.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A little
voice said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mr. Vitalone picked Annie up and kissed her forehead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He held her for a moment with closed
eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr. Vitalone and Annie brought
Angelo home then proceeded to the Testa home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Testa family was spent from their ordeal; panic had
given way to despair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But with
Annie home safe they broke into tears, and with embraces and toasts of anisette
they heralded Mr. Vitalone as their hero.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No,” Mr. Vitalone confessed, “I think Annie is the hero.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Annie was admonished for leaving the yard that night, though
not too severely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
never revealed why she was wandering those backyards and empty lots that hot
summer night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But from then on
Vitalone and Testa formed a new, though delicate, respect for each other.</div>
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<br /></div>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00997855453709674922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2827225538591167411.post-52079873462624576742012-05-31T19:11:00.003-07:002012-05-31T19:12:14.847-07:00My Life Story<style>
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<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I was born two days ago, with a headache, at Highland
Hospital. The doctor came in
and asked me whom I was. I told
him I didn’t know, I was just born.
My first day was exciting; people kept coming and going all day. Everyone asked me questions. But I didn’t know anything after all; I
was only a day old. The one
question everyone wanted to know was who am I. I told them I didn’t know. One person said I had amnesia. I said no, just corn flakes and orange juice. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So my life went on into the early afternoon. There was a nice man in the next bed
that coughed a lot. We got along
great and after a while I could cough just like him. I’ll never forget that time we went for a walk; it was one
of the highlights of my life. The
nurse said I was a good walker even with the needle in the back of my hand and
all those tubes. I had to push a
stand with an upside down bottle along.
That’s the way people are born, with needles in their hand. We walked all the way down the hall and
looked out the big window at the traffic.
I’ll never forget those days as long as I live. People kept asking me where I was from,
I told them I was born in room 436.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in those days we watched television at night. There was a big room with two big
couches and a bunch of chairs. A
lot of people had their own wheel chairs.
We watched Jeopardy and everyone in the room had a different answer for
each question, those were crazy days. The hospital served refreshments; cider, coffee, tea,
and cookies. I asked if they had
any amnesia because someone had suggested it that morning. When it was time for bed everyone went
to sleep except me. The nurse said
I had to stay awake a while because of a head injury. So I waited for the head injury but it never came. Oh to be young again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next morning I woke up and the needle was gone. I guess it’s all part of growing
up. More people came to visit
me. Everyone wanted to know who I
was. I thought they would know who
I was, and they thought I would know.
I wonder if all births are so confusing. That same man said he thought I might have amnesia again,
but they brought pancakes and grapefruit.
They must have quite a menu there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friend next to me stopped coughing. He just lay there with his mouth wide
open and didn’t move. Bunches of
people rushed in and were running all around him yelling. He must have done something
wrong. They covered his head and
wheeled him out of the room. I
made sure I did as I was told after that.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A lady came to visit me and said she had found a home for me
to live in. That made sense, I was
getting older and I couldn’t stay in the same room where I was born forever. I was almost two days old and it was
time to leave the nest. The lady
asked me what name she should use.
I said why don’t you use the one on your nametag? She suggested I had amnesia also, but
they brought apple juice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, that was yesterday and now I live in this nice house
with seven other men. We sit in
the living room and watch Jeopardy.
It’s easier now with only eight answers for every question. People keep suggesting I have amnesia
but I say no thanks just coffee. I
don’t think I’ll ever forget where I was born and those early childhood days at
Highland Hospital. Oh to be young
again.</div>Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00997855453709674922noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2827225538591167411.post-88972326875123043552012-04-29T19:46:00.000-07:002012-04-29T19:50:05.391-07:00Springtime in the North WoodsSpringtime comes over these hills like a conquering army of pale green. The American Beech are blooming their pointy blossoms that will soon morph into their spear-like leaves. The soft maples are struggling beneath the canopy of dominating white pines. And the cherry trees, with their flakey dark brown bark, have returned for one more summer. They, however, do not appear so healthy and sturdy as a tree should. The cherry tree recovers the land following logging, but then becomes shaded away by the fast growing towering white pine. The sandy soil is not a safe haven for any tree except the most resourceful and adaptive. The gnarled and twisted of the cherry trees will yield some fine winter warmth upon the hour of their demise. But their straight brothers may be destined for other greatness. A paddle maker at Long Lake uses cherry wood to craft his fine canoe and kayak paddles. There may be a place in his workshop for our noble cherry tree. What greater beatification in its second coming than to be reborn in the hands of a wilderness paddler. A tree never dies.Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00997855453709674922noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2827225538591167411.post-29384933345546703092012-02-26T12:20:00.030-08:002012-04-26T07:23:51.115-07:00Orwellian RhapsodyIt's been a few years now since I built that cabin. She was a stout little thing that was built entirely with logs and planks from the land on which it sat, almost a half mile off the road on the hundred acres I had purchased with 40 years of savings. The twelve by twelve size reflected the maximum allowable structure that required no permit. <br />
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Permits. I often wondered as I worked the land, fell the tress, cut and fitted the logs, how would Thoreau react to the modern permit process? The cabin at Walden Pond was built on Emerson's land. Emerson and Thoreau, the two eminent transcendentalists, bastions of self-reliance, proponents of individual freedom and civil disobedience. What a sight to behold, the two sagacious philosophers wrestling with the Draconian rules, regulations, inspections, certifications, and the exacting codes defining the principles and practices of the craft. Would there be anything left to their own devises, their natural talents, their keen intellect? Most likely not; the government has surgically extracted the human element from the entire process.<br />
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So I was let to build the cabin, which I called Little Walden, by virtue of its compliant size, without benefit of a permit. I was able to fell a good amount of tall white pine in the range of 8-10 inches. A portable sawmill was brought in to cut planks for the floor, rafters and purlins for the roof. The air was filled with the scent of 70 years growth as the dust and chips of the fitted logs covered the surrounding earth. There is a certain love, a symbiotic kinship that happens when man puts his saw to a tree base. The tree will protect the man from the rain and snow and cold winter winds. For the tree, a noble fit for posterity, instead of growing old, growing bare, and toppling to the forest floor. Here the tree was born again, entering its new life as an integral part of my history. It will be central in the life of its dweller; home, sanctuary, and safe haven.<br />
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So the labor of the spring and summer yielded a sturdy little cabin in the north woods, tight to the weather and with no loss of the clean fresh smell of nature. Completed with a bunk and a small wood stove, Little Walden came to life and I settled in. Days were filled with cutting firewood, reading, writing, and wandering about the woodland. Nights were spent in front of the campfire, looking up at the starts, and wondering after the nature of things.<br />
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One day in late summer I had a visitor. The local building inspector, or code enforcement officer as they like to be called, drove down the long driveway to inspect the project which heretofore had not required inspection. Of course, a little thing like the law never stopped the law. Amiable and proud, I presented Little Walden in the best possible light, intimating all the arduous intricacies of solitary labor; the cutting; the dragging; the lifting with pulleys and gin poles. <br />
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The officer began measuring the cabin. "This structure is 14 x 14 feet." He said. The tape measure zipped to a close.<br />
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"It's 12 x 12; I built it that size so I wouldn't have to bother with permits and inspections," I said, slow enunciating the last word.<br />
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"You have one foot overhangs all round, that makes the structure 14 x 14, I'm afraid it's out of compliance. You can either cut the overhangs back or tear the building down."<br />
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"I need overhangs, a flush roof line wouldn't do well to the weather, especially with the winters we have up here." The blood rushed to my head and I felt a hot pounding in my face. This is the very thing I sought to avoid. The beauty of solitude, the peace and serenity that I held so dear was being pierced with a cold spear by this bloodless bureaucrat. "The property line is over 1000 feet on each side, over 2000 feet off the road, and miles of state land out back, what possible impact could overhangs have?"<br />
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"It's the law." He said as he returned to his vehicle, "I'll send you something in the mail." His car bounced away down the driveway.<br />
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It's the law. It was the standard justification for any mindless restriction regardless of how it impacted the individual. It's the law. I returned to my chores of cruising the land for standing dead trees and splitting firewood for the coming winter. At night I read by lantern light. But my thoughts were tormented by the little bureaucrat who I knew would not go away. Those type of people, and those type of laws never go away. A week later a letter of non-compliance came in the mail, with an order to tear the cabin down. I ignored the order. My thoughts turned to Thoreau, and his civil disobedience. Thoreau stood for what he believed in, to the point of being arrested and jailed. I could certainly stand up to this absurd technicality. But my serenity had been sullied, and the peaceful quietude of my backwoods home broken.<br />
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Over the next few months I received more notices. Fines were levied and added to my tax bills. Occasionally the code officer drove half way down the driveway to see if the cabin was still standing. Still more notices would arrive in the mail. I didn't want to engage in civil disobedience, this was not 1850 and I was not Henry David Thoreau. I just wanted to be left alone to live in my little cabin. Sleepless nights, distracted reading, uncertainty hung over me like a guillotine. <br />
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Then one day a county sheriff came and issued a bench warrant. Again I felt the hot pounding as the bile of rage welled up inside me. In a rant I showed him the little cabin, I showed him the acres and acres surrounding it. I told hm I just want to be left alone. Finally, I told him I would cut the overhangs back to make the cabin compliant. He sympathized but told me I had to comply with the order and remove the structure. Structure. My little cabin that I bled so many time for called a structure by these robots. He said it was the law and he was just doing his job. The sheriff drove away.<br />
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I refused to appear in town court and two months later another sheriff came to arrest me. He asked me to identify myself as he grabbed my arm and reached for his handcuffs. I pushed him away, he took a step backward and tripped over one of the many logs I had from cutting and splitting wood. I retreated quickly to my cabin and locked the door. I was in a rage, confused, disheartened and I knew somehow that this was the end of my serenity and solitude. All my life I had worked for this one dream, to live in the woods away from people; away from their noise, away from their petty attitudes and cliches. <br />
<br />
The sheriff had returned to his car and his radio. I sat on my bunk with my head in my hands. Civil disobedience had turned ugly, why had I not just cut those overhangs back. But why didn't they recognize when a person just wants to be left alone, in peace, not bothering anyone, not asking for anything. With all the bad people in the world and all the people getting hurt; why were they picking on me? In a short while two more police cars arrived. Five uniforms broke down the cabin door. I remembered building and hanging that door. They arrested me and took me away. When Thoreau was arrested, several friends contributed and paid his fines and gathered him out of jail. No one came for me.<br />
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Its been a few years now and I'm writing this letter from the Brantingham jail. The charges of resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer were levied; compounded by my sullen, taciturn attitude and lack of cooperation resulted in a five year sentence. The land has been sold. I'm tired now; I don't believe I could ever do that again. I don't know where I'll live when I get out, maybe an apartment somewhere in the city. I stopped reading. I stopped writing. The light of freedom no longer burns brightly inside me. But sometimes, at night, when I'm lying in my bunk, I can still smell the fragrance of freshly cut pine.<br />
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<br />Waldohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00997855453709674922noreply@blogger.com5