My One Attempted Felony

I didn’t want to kill anyone, but I didn’t want to be killed either. 

Earlier that afternoon, I got off the school bus, walked down our driveway, and climbed up the back steps of our house, opening the door, and noticed that all the lights were off inside.

“Hello!  Mom?  Dad?  Where is everybody?  Gary?”  My voice echoed.

I dropped my book bag on the floor.  The floor creaked.  The air was chilled in the house. Apparently no one had been tending the fire. 

“Hello?”  A silent, darkening house was my answer as I flipped on the kitchen lights, and looked for a note.  There wasn’t one.

Quietly, I walked through the house, looking for signs that might have been left for me, but everything was normal.  Fleeting thoughts of the Rapture passed through my mind, but there were no empty clothing laying rumpled on the ground.

Outside, it was getting dark early.  Winter-time early.  I had just gotten home from school, but already it was dusky out.  I walked outside and called. 

“Dad!”  My shout only echoed off the hills across our pasture.

I looked toward the barn, but there were no lights on.  Only the bwauking of the hens and lowing of the cows.

I went back inside.

“Well”, I thought, “they must be getting home soon.  They would have left a note if they were going to be gone long.”

I fidgeted.  The windows got dark, and I waited.  We had no phone, so I couldn’t call anyone to try and find my family.  So I waited.  An hour passed.  Then another.  I tried to read, but fear and concern kept interrupting my thoughts.  What if something has happened to my parents and brother?  How could I find out.  I am just sitting here, doing nothing, and they might all be in the hospital.  Or dead.

I jumped up, and wandered around the house, turning all the lights on, then sat down to think. 

The quietness was broken by an indistinct sound outside.  The gravel at the end of our driveway crunched.  I jumped up, and ran toward the living room.  I knelt down beside the window that looked out toward the road, and slowly peaked through the curtain.

A car was sitting at the end of our driveway!

“Oh MAN, what do I do?”  I snuck away from the window, and ran toward my Dad’s closet.  I opened the door, and reached through his coats to the back corner until I felt the leather of his padded rifle sheath.  I reached in, and slid out the 22 gauge rifle.  I stood on tiptoe, reaching up, my fingers feeling along the top shelf until I found the box of ammunition.

My hands shook as I fingered the shells into the chamber, and locked the gun.  I hesitated, then slid the safety to the OFF position.

Bending at the wasted, I scurried toward the living room window, and slowly peeked out through the curtain again.  There, still, were the headlights of the car shining through the dark at the end of the driveway.

My breath was coming in gasps.  What do I do next?  I peaked again.  Still there.  Man!  I could feel my heart beating, and the blood rushing in my ears.

Then I heard the gravel crunch again.  Looking out I saw the car slowly turning into our driveway!

“Oh God.  Please help me!”

The car drove around our driveway and out of site of the living room window.

I crawled through the family room, and into the kitchen, lying on the floor under the window, when I heard the car stop right outside the window, just a few feet away.  The muffled sound of the car engine idled. 

I could not look out, because there were no curtains.  The kitchen light was on and it was dark outside so the murderer in the car would see me clearly if I peeked out the window.  They would probably get a shot off before I could aim my gun.  They were probably waiting for me to pop my head into sight to they could blow it off.

My heart was beating so hard.  I can not believe this is happening!  I had read so many adventure stories, but that was not the same as having killers sitting only feet away, and nobody at home.

I took a deep breath, tried to calm my shaking arms, and made my decision.  Fearfully standing up,  in full view of the criminals in the car outside,  I quickly lifted my dad’s 22 rifle to my shoulder, and sighted down the barrel ready to pull the trigger, but hoping I wouldn’t have to.  I didn’t want to kill anyone, but I didn’t want to be killed either. 

Outside the window, the tires of the car spun, throwing gravel as the car accelerated away from our house, and around our big circular driveway.  “Thank you God!” my breath coming in short, sobbing gasps as I ran through the house to watch the killers drive away. 

Peeking again through the living room window, I saw the car drive up the road toward the top of the driveway, and stop again, the gravel crunching, and my heart stopping.  “Oh Lord, they really are going to kill me!  Where are Mom and Dad?  Where is Gary?”

I heard the car door open, and saw the shadow of a man walk around the car from the passenger door, and Gary shouted, “David!  Put that gun down you retard!  I am going to tell Dad you pointed the gun at me!”

My brother has since forgiven me for being willing to shoot first and ask questions later, but I will never forget the relief I felt as I heard my brother threatening to kill me.

Citation: Me

Bottled Water

Does anyone else remember the first time that they heard of bottled water? As a kid, water was like air. It was free. Actually, it is more fundamental than that. You don’t think of air being free, or costing money. It just…is. It is like a presupposition. You don’t question it. And water was like that to me. Of course, as a 7 year old asking for a cup of water at a restaurant, I didn’t think about the overhead costs of the cup, lid, straw, electricity to power the lights so I could see the cup, cost of plumbing to carry the water, cost of the sink…I just wanted a little water.I was incredulous when I first started seeing bottled water in restaurants and gas stations. “Dad, are they really charging money for water?” 

“Yes, but it is only if you get it in a bottle. If you ask for it in a cup, they don’t charge you for that." 

“Really? That is so weird.” 

That was too much for my young mind to grasp, so I asked for my water, “In a cup, please.” 

A few weeks ago, Gracie and I took a trip to Texas to move a friend to Huntsville. While we were their, we stopped by Dallas to visit some old friends of mine. We went to a place called Central Market, which is similar to a “Whole Foods” store (a chain of health food mega-stores.) Walking into the store, I stared in awe at shelf after shelf of bottled water. Bottled in interesting shaped, brightly colored containers, they came from all corners of the world. Some sparkling, some “still” (which I guess means, “not sparkling”) 

HILDON natural spring water from Broughton, Hampshire, England: AN ENGLISH NATURAL MINERAL WATER OF EXCEPTIONAL TASTE, DELIGHTFULLY STILL. 

SOLARES still natural mineral water. Producto de Espana. El agua que solo sabe a agua, tan pura como mana de la Naturaleza. (Which I will attempt to translate: “The water that only knows to water, so pure like the manner of the Nature.” Which might mean something really cool to people in Spain.) 

TyNant from Bethania, Wales. This one was cool because “Bethania” is kind of like the middle name of my niece and the name of my sister-in-law, Bethany. Also, the bottle was shaped like an irregular rock with a plastic cap screwed onto the end. 

MANIVA natural mineral water from the Italian Alps, which went so far as to list the temperature of the water at the source, and the electrical conductivity at 20 degrees Celsius. 

I started wondering. Is there really an ounce of noticeable difference in the taste of all these fascinatingly shaped waters? So I bought 6 of the most interesting ones, and conducted a taste test over the course of the next week or so. I carefully selecting a bottle, twisted off the cap, tipped the water to my mouth, and savored the liquid as I swished it meditatively around my mouth, trying to distinguish the subtly nuanced flavors of that particular water. What I found each time, not really very surprisingly, was that it tasted just like water. Actually what it tasted like was “money.” Because each of these water-flavored beverages cost well over $1.00 a bottle! 

None of these waters tasted any better than the water that could be found next to our Maple sugar house in northern New York State. After splitting wood for an hour, there was nothing, nothing! so refreshing as crawling down the bank, lifting the lid off the covered artesian well, and watching the crystal clear water bubble up through the sand about a foot and a half under the surface. I loved to stick my hand down into the skin-numbing coldness, and down into the bubbling sand. The water, when dipped into a cup, and raised to the lips, could not be chugged down, it had to be sipped because the water was intensely cold. It was delightfully refreshing, tasting just precisely like water should taste. 

And it was free.

Childhood on a Farm in Northern NY

I was raised on a farm. 

We had a large garden, a barn stuffed with cows, goats, chickens and cats.  A refrigerator and freezer filled with milk, cream, butter and meat from the cows, eggs and meat from the chickens.  Horses to ride, and pigs to have for breakfast. 

In the fields and woods that surrounded us were vast berry patches...blackberries and wild strawberries, blackcaps, blueberries and a cultivated patch of raspberries. Wild and domestic apple trees were carefully pruned by Dad in hopes of crisp apples for pies and cider. Deer ranged over our land.  A stream ran only feet from our house, with huge rainbow trout, and a constant supply of fresh water. There were numerous, vastly numerous springs all over our land, as well as the Salmon River that flowed, by turns lazily and swiftly, a boyhood playground of fishing, swimming and tubing. 

In our kitchen, partially for decoration, mostly for heat, and partly for cooking, we had an old fashioned wood cook stove in addition to our gas stove. A huge chest freezer filled with frozen meat and vegetables.  A pantry lined with canned vegetables and fruit.  A cellar with bins of apples and potatoes and carrots and onions, and a basement stocked with a winter’s supply of firewood.  

 My dad kept two beehives, providing enough honey for our family for the year. There were maple trees, where we collected sap to bring to the maple sugar house.  There we would boil it and make gallons and gallons of maple syrup, tubs of maple sugar, and have wonderful family times sitting and reading by the lantern light, which glowed cozily through the humid, sweet-smelling mist rising from the maple syrup pans. 

Add to all of that my dad and mom's unerring ability to "make do",  with what God provided, and you have a picture of the perfect childhood.  Not overburdened with money, but stuffed full of good times, and childhood security.

Thanks, Dad and Mom. 


Citation: David's memories.

Dad’s Study

          My dad’s study was a small low-ceilinged room filled with shelves, a desk, a chair, and a filing cabinet.  I don’t know why this seemed like such a mysterious, awe-inspiring room to me.  I do remember that for some reason we weren’t allowed to go in there by ourselves, again an opportunity for young lads to reveal their depravity. 

I remember going in there to ask dad a question, or bring him a mug of coffee from my mother, and furtively glancing around at the interesting looking shelves, or glancing into an opened drawer.  There were things that now seem normal, but to my young eyes looked like treasures.  An old SLR camera with a strange, Japanese name on it.  A pair of binoculars.  Marbles.  A kaleidoscope.  Books with unfamiliar titles.

The desk drawers were similarly enchanting.  Little cubbies for push pins and paperclips.  Many pens: fountain, ball and calligraphy.  Nibs and erasers.  The smell of those erasers, the type that are the consistency of rubbery chewing gum that you could stretch and pull apart, and then mash back together…smelling of graphite and rubber. 

That smell.  It almost magically pulls me back through time.  If I close my eyes and tune out the sounds of my own children, one making sweet sounds on the couch while she endures a full-body cast following hip surgery…the other downstairs shouting at the top of his lungs, pretending something.  If I could just close my eyes, and focus on the smell of the eraser that I have in my hand, I could once again be the little boy whose parents are outside in the garden with my brother.  I came in to “go to the bathroom” and while in the quite, cool house, I casually walked through the junk room and quietly pushed aside the green accordion door until I could slip into Dad’s office.  The quiet sliding of the desk drawer.  The clink of small metal objects as I sifted my fingers through my Dad’s possessions.  The smooth friction of the binocular focus knob as I looked through them out the small window toward the barn.  The bright circus of the kaleidoscope pointed out the window toward the bright sunlight.  The furtive putting back of everything, hopeful that Dad wouldn’t notice, and then breathlessly slipping out through the green accordion door and shutting it, having no idea I was creating an intense memory to be forgotten for 30 years, and then recaptured by the man I was to become, now with a growing volume of grey hairs myself, looking down at the twisted grey eraser on my desk, wishing I could become half the man, half the husband and father that my Dad was and is.

I look up and, hearing again the sounds of my own house, remember the 30 years that have come and gone and with a half-sad smile let the little boy that I was walk out of the quiet, cool house, into the bright sun and across the stream to help my family tend the garden.

The Children’s Hour

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Between the dark and the daylight,

When the light is beginning to lower,

Comes a pause in the day’s occupations

That is known as the Children’s Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me

The patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened,

And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,

Descending the broad hall stair,

Grave Alice and laughing Allegra,

And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence;

Yet I know by their merry eyes,

They are plotting and planning together

To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,

A sudden raid from the hall!

By three doors left unguarded

They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret,

O’er the arms and back of my chair;

If I try to escape, they surround me;

They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,

Their arms about me entwine,

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen

In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine.

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,

Because you have scaled my wall,

Such an old mustache as I am

Is not a match for you all?

I have you fast in my fortress,

And will not let you depart,

But put you down into the dungeon

In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,

Yes, forever and a day,

Till the wall shall crumble in ruin,

And moulder in dust away.

Citation:

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. “The Children’s Hour” from One Hundred and One Famous Poems, compiled by Roy J. Cook. Contemporary Books, Chicago.1958 Page 94.

Grandpa Joe

When my Grandpa Joe died, I put an Estwing hammer in his casket. 

I remember standing there, looking at Grandpa’s body. I knew that he wasn’t there, and yet I wanted to tell him how much I loved him.  So I self-consciously laid that hammer next to his hand on the silky casket-lining material.  I was eighteen years old, and just graduated from high school.  Eighteen, and really much too cool to do something so childlike as putting a hammer in his casket. 

I look back now at that act of memorial, and am so glad that I mustered the nerve to do it despite the awkwardness.  That physical act materially anchored my acceptance of his death to my love and memories of my hard-working Grandpa. 

I remember his massive forearms and rough red hands engulfing a hammer handle. He swung his hammer with quick repetitive rhythm that I tried to imitate. It never seemed to work as well for me as it did for him.  Too many bent nails.

He never seemed to react to the cuts and scrapes that are the constant companion of a carpenter.  The blood that would often trickle from his hands secretly impressed me.  I tried to imitate his stoic manner to pain, but never seemed to manage it without a yelp. 

Grandpa was in his seventies, and could out-work my eighteen-year-old body to the aching point.  I was always impatient for 10 o’clock, when Grandpa took his morning break.  We had either coffee made in an old, tan-stained Mr. Coffee pot, or sometimes (my mind boggles at the thought) Sanka instant “coffee”.  Grandma set the coffee out on the red-checked tablecloth in white ceramic mugs.  Sometimes we had fresh fried cake doughnuts, or Ginger Snap cookies.  Sometimes long, rectangular, strawberry-cream wafer cookies.  I guess we ate whatever they happened to have on hand.  But no matter what, we always had saltine crackers with butter on them.  I remember Grandpa manhandling those fragile, square crackers, furiously buttering a stack of them.  Then one at a time, he crunched a cracker in half, chewing briefly.  Shoving the other half in his mouth, he washed each down with a gulp of coffee until only small white crumbs were left on the tablecloth.  He upended the coffee mug, draining the last swallow.

Standing up, he shoved his Estwing hammer in his pocket. “Let’s get back to work, lad.” 

Since our son Andrew died (six years ago today), Gracie and I have enjoyed hearing about little ways people have remembered Drewbaby.  One family planted a tree in memory of him.  A friend remembered him through an original piano composition.  Poems and free verse, and emails sharing how Drewbaby has affected lives.  I want to tell you in the middle of grief, these memorials of Drewbaby have been sweet and priceless to his Mommy and Daddy.  Thank you for remembering our little lad.

I expect that wherever Drewbaby is, Grandpa Joe is there, teaching him how to swing a hammer just right.

TruffleBaby...

It has been one year since the adoption was final, and about four years since we started fostering our not-so-little-anymore "TruffleBaby"

"Truffle Baby is what’s for dinner" 

As I drive home from work I begin to think
Of the delicious food I’m about to eat
Whatever she makes me will sure be a treat
I think of my wife standing at the sink
Or perhaps at the oven
Watching a dozen
Dinner rolls turning golden brown
It makes me wonder what’s for dinner
With her yummy cooking I’ll not get thinner
  

As I walk in the door of our little home
My sniffing nose begins to roam
Following the smell of something well done
I look in the kitchen…oops this doesn’t look fun
My wife’s at the oven, her rolls are now black
There are tears on her face, and a shaking back
“I forgot I was cooking, over-slept my nap”
“Don’t worry honey, we’ll find us a snack”
 

I look around for something to snack on
And there on the floor he catches my eye
It’s our Little Boy Brown,
Looking plump and so round
“I have the answer, though we’ll get no thinner!
When Truffle baby is what’s for dinner!”
So we eat and we eat, he is ever so yummy
He laughs and he giggles as we chew on his tummy.
  

After a while I’ve widened my girth
My pants fit tighter than they did at the first
But I ask my wife what’s for dessert
‘Cause still I am hungry
So she looks in the pantry
But finds nothing sweet
There are no cookies, no ice cream
Nor cakes…not a slice
And then our baby let’s out a sweet sigh
And suddenly we know what to eat for dessert, it’s
Chocolate Truffle Baby Pie!!!!
We cry with delight
“You’re what’s for dessert!
We nibble his toes
And kiss his sweet cheeks
We gnaw on his tummy
There’s nothing so yummy
His ears and his fingers, they’re all up for grabs
We eat and we eat and we eat while he laughs
We eat ‘til we’re full, and then there’s a lull
I’ve also found that he’s very nutritious
All organic, 100% natural
Just a few more nibbles because he’s delicious
As a part of this dinner, he sure is a winner
If we don’t stop snacking we sure won’t get thinner
But who wants to be thinner anyway
When Truffle Baby is here to play?

Citation:

Clark, David.  From "My Writing" Folder. Accessed 21 February 2011.

My Childhood Dreams - The Reality

Look at that picture.  A little delightful family of mer-people.  I vibrated with excitement as I dropped the envelope in the mailbox with the requisite $1.25 check made out to that questionable "Transcience Corporation Dept."  One check made out by one boy who agreed that "IT SOUNDS GREAT".

Poor miserable sap.

I mean, look at the inset picture of the 1950s era family all gathered around watching these agreeable, anxious-to-please, trainable, happy, attention-loving pack of friendly command-obeying underwater fantasy elves!  I could NOT WAIT for my family to watch in awe as my new troupe of mini-people obeyed my every command happily:

"Swim figure-eights"

"Play dead"

"Roll over" 

"Dance the cha-cha"

My family would be so amazed, they might even make my big brother do all of the kitchen cleaning for a month!  I might get some kind of award for having the most amazing pets OF ALL TIMEl!

Ohboyohboyohboy...

Instead:



!!!

Were they trainable?  HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

No.

They were not trainable.  Did they follow lights around their aquarium?  No.  They did not follow lights around their bowl.  Were they anxious to please me, their Lord and Master?  They did not even know I existed!

LIES!  ALL LIES!

But still, they were kind of neat, and they had a...unique smell.

Even now, even now that the price has jumped from under $2 to over $20.00, I am still tempted to believe the advertisements.  Maybe I just didn't try hard enough back then as a puny little kid.  Maybe now my wonderful little colony would acknowledge my existence.  Wouldn't that be amazing?  My wife and children could all stand and watch as I commanded them to my hearts content:

"Build a small house with 3 rooms out of the tiny pebbles I am going to put in your bowl"

"Teach me your language.  I come in peace" 

"Salute me when I talk to you, mer-person!"

Hmmm...just maybe...

Citation:
<http://www.sea-monkey.com/>. Accessed 21 February 2011.

My childhood dreams

When I was a boy, my dad had a black paste board box filled with his old comic books.  When my brother or I were sick, the box would come out, and we would mitigate our misery by reading about The Flash, Sgt. Rock, The Submariner and all their friends (and enemies).

Interspersed amongst the comic panels were (not exactly surprisingly) advertisements for all sorts of products that would allure a young boy, and part him from his allowance.  Here is one thing that I actually paid for and recieved.  I was once the proud owner of:

While I never bought a real working submarine like the one pictured at left, I did dream long hours about buying it (for under $7.00!!).  In fact, in later years, my brother and I developed a jointly written story based on our fantasies about this wonderful sub.

Here is what we would have gotten if we had broken down (or broken our dad down) and ordered it:











SWEET!!


ttp://partoftheprecipitate.files.wordpress.com/2010/11/sea-monkey.jpg accessed 2 February, 2011.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kjo01yg-stU accessed 2 February, 2011.
http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1385/544994244_9734939163.jpg accessed 4 February, 2011.