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Fishing Buddies Are Unique Treasures

Fishing Buddies Are Unique Treasures

All my life I have been blessed with an extreme rarity. I have had some fishing buddies who will put an opportunity to fish ahead of most anything that might constitute a distraction to the less dedicated. On the day I am thinking of now, two of my current fishing companions showed themselves worthy. Big Sam came to the rescue of my frog fly, while Alan sat in awe of my clumsiness, wondering if I was okay, ready to rescue. We were fishing on Labor Day down Georgia’s Ocmulgee River on shelf number seven.

I know it is shelf number seven because I numbered them to give reference to more specific parts of the Ocmulgee in relating my fishing tales. I have heard it said that more fish are caught by the tale than any other way. The name Ocmulgee comes from the Hitchiti Indians who populated the region in the 1700s and means where the water boils up or laughing water due to the bubbling, gurgling, sometimes roaring shoal water that makes up the beginnings of the river as it crosses the fall line. Alan was nearby when I wrapped my frog fly around a limb that singularly stood out about seven feet overhead. This was the only frog fly I had so I decided to attempt retrieval. Being in my mid sixties, I am also minus one big toe to a youthful lawnmower accident, left foot, and still recovering from a compound fracture of my right lower leg/ankle. Happened last year when I jumped 12 feet from a ladder before it threw me off while preparing for opening day of deer season. I have bonafide reasons for being tipsy on my feet. Even though I am a teetotaler, I sometimes wobble. No one will ever call me graceful. I stood up in my canoe which is an ugly feat I seldom attempt. Then I used my fly line, which was still tied to the frog fly, in my right hand to pull the very lowest part of the limb to my left hand. I got a grip on the limb and turned loose of the line with my right hand. The tip of the limb, the part I was holding, promptly broke off and the canoe began to jitterbug. I didn’t know it at the time, but Alan was taking it all in, having put his fly rod down thinking possibly my antics could be more entertaining than fishing. He said later he was concerned for my safety so he was preparing for rescue if needed. At the point that the limb broke and the canoe did the hoochee coochee, I instantly decided to collapse into the seat of the canoe and down I went. I made the decision just as fast as I decided to jump from the ladder when I broke my leg last year. This time I had success, my boat stabilized and I survived the crash unscathed.

Now it gets interesting. I am somewhat of an optimist and overestimater of my physical abilities. With a new air of confidence, having survived the first attempt, I stood again. I could just, just aboouut reach that limb even with the tip broken off, and so I stretched just an inch more. That’s when the canoe had had enough. As though it had a mind of its own, it decided not to be my calm platform anymore, rather it wanted to play rodeo bull so it made a hucklebuck type move, first dipping to the right, then to the left. Before it could flip or dip I went out to the right side and was airborne for about two seconds, maybe, before gravity took over. I could hear the sound of the splash beginning, not unlike Shamoo bursting the surface of the water after having grabbed a fish from the trainer. Big Sam said when he looked over to where the sound came from all he could see of me was my hat floating. Of course, the canoe was still dancing in the wake of all the displaced water. No harm done except to get wet.

Some people don't approve of hand pumps to empty water from a canoe, preferring to manhandle them and dump the water out. However, at the scene of this unceremonious ejection, the water was 4 feet deep, the brush was dense, and there was no nearby log or rock. The only option I had was to use my pump. For those who only approve of dumping the water from a swamped canoe, I apologize for being such a wimp. There was only maybe a gallon of water in the boat anyway. Now, thanks are due to Big Sam, though we both likely weigh over 210 lbs, him being 6 ft 6 inches compared to my five eleven, he voluntarily came to the rescue of the frog fly and retrieved it for me. Alan, for his part, was the first to ask if I was okay. Fishing buddies are unique treasures.

© Blackwater
Bill Prince
September 6, 2010

Tosh, Travis and the Widemans

They were four close friends who time and distance separated, but throughout life they were never farther apart than the blinking of an eye.

We are often tempted to wonder if God is real. I’m guilty at times of falling prey to such blindness. Thinking back, we are often amazed by recollections we have and how God helped us in our lives.

Just little country farm boys, we would often tempt fate in knowing and unknowing ways. We had our share of chores and farming duties to attend to, but we were also allowed time to play and explore. Tosh and the rest of the crew were always into something.

Ed and Tom were the Wideman boys; their parents rented a small farm from old Mr. Millwood. Tosh and Travis lived about a mile from the Wideman brothers, so it was inevitable that we’d all become friends. After being told about “dry creek” fishing by old man Millwood, the four boys were sold on the idea.

Dry creek fishing comes about as the result of the creeks drying up except in their deepest spots. The fish are forced to inhabit the deep places because the hot dry summer hasn’t left them much choice. This need to find water also applies to snakes, turtles, frogs, and whatever else needs water.

The four boys fished up and down Cheatom Creek pools, hoping to catch some real lunkers so they could have a fish fry. After a day of having to contend with all the other deep pool dwellers, they gave up. Snakes in particular were very bothersome. No one wanted to get snake-bit.

The oldest Wideman daughter had been bitten earlier in the year, and we all were aware of the problems she had suffered as a result. Her name was Kathleen, but we all called her Kat instead. So after much discussion Tosh, Travis, Tom, and Ed decided the snakes could have it all. The boys had dodged the snake bites, which is sort of fun but not very smart. Leave those bad reptiles alone!

Spring that year had brought tornadoes and a lot of high winds. One of the results of such weather was a lot of blown-down trees. The four boys decided they would really be useful and turn some of those fallen trees into firewood.

It was a beautiful day that the boys picked to cut some firewood. They headed into the woods with a double-bladed ax, a cross-cut saw, and an RC bottle filled with kerosene. The kerosene is used to clean pine resin off the saw blade — not a real problem because we were going to cut hardwood.

After having to wrestle the saw from bad cuts that allowed the log to collapse on the blade and pinch it, we decided this wasn’t gonna work. Travis had already figured another way to do it. His Plan B was to top the tree first and saw from top to bottom. Years later Travis would recall the plan and what followed. After the initial topping the older boys had been sawing, they had cut off two chunks of about thirty inches each. Ed and Travis decided to try to lift the trunk high enough to lay one of the earlier cut pieces under it.

Tosh and Tom as well as a little Rat Terrier named Black Boy had been of chasing some confused squirrels that most likely had been living in one of the downed oaks. The little dog chased a squirrel down into the hole made when the wind ripped the tree from the ground. Tom and Tosh were partially into the same hole trying to get the dog.

It was at that moment that the remaining piece of tree trunk and root ball decided to once again stand upright. Travis screamed at the top of his lungs for everyone to get away from the tree. In the blinking of an eye Travis mounted that oak a la Slim Pickens in the movie Dr. Strangelove. For the briefest of moments the tree hesitated – just long enough for Tom, Tosh, and Black Boy to get clear. Once that moment had passed that old tree shot upright like some ancient siege engine. I suppose it was a form of kinetic energy.

That catapult ride should have killed Travis, but not so — he broke his left thumb but was able to get up and go check on the others. Travis realized that he had been part of something very powerful. God stood up to death and won — none of my children today, not even the dog.

And so it has always been.

So many of my friends I’ll not see again, but you will all live within my heart and soul.

_______________________________________

This story was also posted at Old Duggy and opinion forum.com

Bio:
Larry Ennis lives in Pulaski, TN and has enjoyed writing, amateur radio and a bunch of old people stuff since retiring from GM in 1991. His website is http://mydogdug.com (Lost in Time).

Dairy Products

Dairy Products
Brian Tucker

Kenneth and Macy had been going steady for six months when she asked him to pick up some whipped cream. He smiled when she said it; his lips turned all the way up. Macy handed him the keys and he was off to the Bigsby Food Market in Seton, Kentucky.
The truck tires gobbled up highway, as he raced past the Piggly Wiggly en route to his destination. The Bigsby Food Market sat at the end of town where the only lights visible were the ones shining from the market parking lot. Customers loved the market, because it was local; Kenneth loved it, because it offered dairy products.
He pulled the sleek black Silverado pickup into his favorite space and shifted into park. Out of excitement, he revved the throttle twice with quick jabs to the rubber gas pedal.

Kenneth felt more alive tonight than he had all summer.

He felt more excited than he had at the Seton Fair that had packed up and moved out a week ago. More eager than all of the Saturday night livestock auctions combined. Kenneth laughed and waited for the automatic doors to allow him entrance to the store.

The smell of the Bigsby resembled citronella coupled with cedar chips. It was always a nostalgic moment for Kenneth each time the double doors opened. He thought back to the summer trips his family had taken to the Kentucky State Dock up on Hwy 421, and he remembered Off bug spray used to repel mosquitoes. The lemony fresh aroma of the market produced thoughts of S’mores, burnt marshmallows, and ghost stories his sisters had once told him.

“Fancy charcoal they’re selling these days huh?” A blotchy faced man in overall’s muttered. He was fondling a bag of Kingsford.

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Kenneth said.

“What about the mesquite flavor?”

“Haven’t had that one. Just the hickory. But the hickory is good,” Kenneth added.

“Hickory. Yeah, I’d say so. Would make a mean burger, I bet.”

“Charcoal always does.”

“You ain’t kidding. Love putting them on the grill. Letting them turn gray and adding moist wood chips. That’s how a man’s supposed to grill. Not with some fancy propane contraption. Almost burnt my arm hair off once with one of those,” the man said. Kenneth thought the man was warming up to tell a story.

“Yeah they’re dangerous. But I better get to the milk section. Nice talking to you,” Kenneth countered.

“Oh, I know how important those runs are. Milk, bread, and eggs. Don’t come home with one of the three you’ll be in trouble. Just remember to tell the lady at the register that you want to comp it, and they’ll get you the good price like you’d pay at the Piggly. I love comping things,” the blotchy faced man said, waving Kenneth along.

Dairy Section. Milk, cheese, cottage cheese, and yogurt. Where was the whipped cream? Kenneth thought of the times he’d seen the aluminum can before. It was sometimes placed in the refrigerator; sometimes it was on an end cap by itself. He didn’t understand the refrigeration methods and how they could vary. How was it possible that whipped cream could sometimes stay at room temperature and at others alongside the eggnog? Remembering again why he needed the can, his worry left him; he had a lady waiting for him.

Macy was the first girl Kenneth had ever really looked twice at in Seton High School. It wasn’t that the other girls were ugly, just that she was so unique. She had dark brown hair, her complexion a smooth chocolate, and her eyes a stark, rich contrast—green. Kenneth’ skin prickled from the chill of the cooler, as he reached for a can of the whipped cream.

Macy’s appearance made him think of Hollywood actress Jennifer Connelly. She even walked like her a little bit. Kenneth remembered how his hands had sweated when he first asked her out, and how her forest green eyes seemed to stare into his soul. The dark skin and eyes made him feel vulnerable. Shaking his head, he now noticed that the wet can he held was blue and claimed to be Reddi-wip’s extra creamy option. He hadn’t known there was an extra creamy option.

The refrigerator held four varieties of Reddi-wip: Original, Fat Free, Extra Creamy, and Chocolate. All were in a seven ounce can excluding Chocolate, which was only available in 6.5 ounces. Kenneth took all four cans out of the refrigerator and inspected their nutritional information. He debated which one Macy would want the most; he gleaned that all of them said Made with Real Cream and three of them only had fifteen calories per serving. The Fat Free option only had five calories per serving. The Original and the Extra Creamy Reddi-wip claimed to be new and improved. Would Macy be worried about fat? He was the one planning to eat most of it anyway, and he didn’t care about calories. He just wanted to be able to place his mouth on her. Besides, the Reddi-wip was her playful suggestion not his.

The cans were beginning to chill his hands when Kenneth heard footsteps behind him, turned with a can in each hand, and saw the blotchy man from earlier. The man looked from the Original to the Extra Creamy to the two cans wedged in Kenneth’s elbow’s crook. Without waiting for any elaboration, the man said “You know how Reddi-wip got its start?”

“Nope,” Kenneth said, keeping it short.

“Well, a guy named Bunny Lapin came up with it when milk men were going door to door. It was a big hit with families, especially around the holidays.”

“That’s nice. Listen, I really need to be heading home. Do you have any idea which one of these would be best plain?” Kenneth asked.

“Hmm. I can’t say, because I’ve never had Reddi-wip plain. Always like Jell-O with mine. Plus, I love gelatin jigglers. You had those?”

“Sure. I’ve had those, but about the whipped cream. Do you have any recommendation, Mr., er, sorry I didn’t catch your name?”

“Frank Pyles. Lived in Seton a large part of my life. Can’ t say that I’ve seen you around much, but then again I’m getting older and haven’t seen much of the younger crowd. Arthritis in both ankles is pretty fierce, and the docs been saying that I need more exercise, but I told him that I…”

“That’s a tough thing, Mr. Pyles. I’m sorry about the ankles, but I need to be getting back to the other side of town. Do you have one you’d recommend?”

“Hmm. Well, I don’t rightly know. If I had to pick just one of the four, I’d probably go with the Chocolate just because it stands alone in flavor. I mean, you don’t even really need to put it on anything. You can just spray it right out into your mouth and it’s like having a chocolate treat without the mess. Did you know that it came out just a few years back and Reddi-wip…”

“Thank you so much,” Kenneth yelled as he pushed the other three cans back into the cooler. Thinking of chocolate spray on Macy’s chocolate body, he raced on adrenaline-filled legs to the front of Bigsby.

At the checkout, Kenneth made eye contact with the cashier, an adolescent boy about his own age. Both nodded at the canister as if in agreement. The cashier knew what the single can of Reddi-wip was for; his lips pursed in a “Go get her,” type of manner.

Kenneth was about to collect his change, grab the plastic grocery bag, and head out into the night, but the cashier opened his mouth. Over the citronella and cedar chip scented air he said “Isn’t it crazy how they put it in an aerosol can? How it’s propelled by nitrogen and can keep its fluffiness?”

“Excuse me?” Kenneth asked, more shocked than intrigued by the boy’s comment.
“I’m just saying, it’s wild how whoever made Reddi-wip was able to get it to stay fresh for so long. Doesn’t seem like cream could keep that well, does it?”
“Is this some sort of joke?” Kenneth asked with confusion in his voice.
“Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just telling you that compressed cream is some crazy shit. That’s all I’m saying. I didn’t ask you what you were doing with it,” the boy added, his voice rising.

“Alright. I just keep hearing people talk about Reddi-wip, and I just want to go home and use this stuff. Understand? I want to use it. Not be told how it works,” and with that Kenneth grabbed his change and the bag and hurried towards the exit.

The doors opened to a vacant asphalt parking lot decorated with a few buggies that hadn’t been collected from earlier. As he walked towards his pickup, Kenneth fumbled for the keys in his blue jeans. The walk to the Silverado made him note the emptiness of the evening, the lightness of his plastic grocery bag. Before the truck door’s lock opened, Kenneth stopped short and brought out the aluminum can. Popping the cap off, he pushed the valve sideways with his left index finger. Slowly, steadily, the cream came out with a soft whirring sound. Kenneth brought his mouth to the valve and lapped up the excess. The sweet blissful taste of cocoa and the cool temperature were pleasing to his mouth. He thought of his dad letting him lick the bottom of the chocolate gravy bowl before breakfast; he remembered how rich chocolate could be just by itself. Kenneth pictured his parents still being together. He laughed at the canister, remembering the way his dad had playfully squirted his mom; he longed for those days back.

Kenneth placed the cap onto the whipped cream and tucked the can back into the grocery bag. Then, he retrieved the proper key and inserted it into the truck’s door and turned. The drive across the small Kentucky town’s foothills was rendered uneventful by the darkness. He couldn’t see the sugar maples, the poplars, or the beeches that grew along the road running through the town’s simple twists and turns. Kenneth wanted to hear his truck’s engine crackle loud and clear, but the cicadas and crickets distorted it. He thought of Frank Pyles and his knowledge of charcoal and whipped cream; he smiled as the stop light turned green, the color urging him home.

___________________________________

Biography:
Brian Tucker is a current graduate student in Eastern Kentucky University's MFA in Creative Writing program and was recently published in SouthernGrit Magazine with his short story titled "Animal Control." He has hopes of compiling a short story collection for this upcoming fall semester. Brian enjoys recreation on Lake Cumberland and writing realistic fiction in southern Kentucky.

If Only for a Moment

If Only for a Moment

by gina below

The glass door pressed heavily against him as he used all of his waning strength to push it open. There was a time when youth and strength were a reality, but both were only a memory now. His southern upbringing and ingrained chivalry would not allow him to precede the exiting young woman, but it took everything he had to hold the door for her. The tremors in his arms embarrassed him and he tried to hide it behind a smile as she passed by him into the parking lot with a soft thank you. As the door closed behind him he took a deep breath and headed into the interior of the restaurant and with measured careful steps he made his way to an out of the way table to wait.

As he put his shaking frail hand on the back of the chair to pull it out, his eyes were drawn to the lone dark haired woman sitting in the back by the windows. As he glanced at her he caught her easy smile and returned it. He was not prepared for the memories her resemblance evoked. Her dark hair, her comfortable smile, her clean and simple beauty, and he was instantly in another time, another place. His left thumb automatically went to the gold band that still encircled his ring finger and he could almost smell her wonderful smell as the memories nearly overwhelmed him. There was a time when she waited for him as this woman waited for someone, with that smile that she saved only for him. In his memory she was here again, time was erased and they were together. He missed her, oh how he missed her.

But today he would let her sweet memory keep him company and he would pretend she was here waiting with him for that grandson of theirs, the one that looked so much like their own son. The unknown woman’s resemblance was strong enough to make the memory real, if only for a moment. He could easily recall an old conversation, hear her laugh at something he had said, watch her eyes light up with that mischievous sparkle, touch her hand under the table, and rest his hand in the small of her back as he held the door for her. He would inhale her scent and hold it close and she would be here and he wouldn’t have to miss her, if only for a moment.

“Grandpa” the familiar voice drew him from his memory and he looked into the eyes that were so much like their sons, so much like hers. “Are you ready to get something to eat” his grandson asked with the slightest bit of concern in his voice. “You bet” he replied as he slowly and feebly rose from his chair. He looked around just the briefest moment before he realized he actually sat here alone. He turned back to glance at the dark haired woman and her dark eyes caught his and she smiled. He smiled in return and nodded a thank you. She would never know the gift she had given him, her smile, his memories, if only for a moment.

Dead Simple

DEAD SIMPLE
by John Brooke

My big brother Silas and I combined our assets, and bought a cow called Bessie. The deal was that I owned the front half of the cow, my brother owned the hind half. I fed my half every day and my brother milked his half every morning.

What milk and cream he didn’t share with his wife and kids, my brother sold to a dairy. He never shared anything with me.

Ours was a perfect example of a fatal flaw in biz-buzz, corporate speak, synergy theory. It stated that one branch of the new structure could feed both. In our merger of assets, only one part fulfilled the needs of the same part, at the expense of the other part.

I bit the biscuit and solved our one sided synergistic business arrangement. I killed my half of the cow. His half died.

__________

John Brooke, lives beside the Sea of Cortez in a small fishing village, in Baja California Sur, Mexico. He‘s been writing poems, books and short stories for about 5 years. Some of his stuff, mostly poetry and flash has been published.

A Thousand Words

Whether it was the statement in an article written by Fred R. Barnard on December 8, 1921 for the advertising trade journal Printer’s Ink, or any number of other people who have also been attributed with the phrase we have all heard it. I’m a die hard believer in a picture is worth a thousand words. In fact a more truthful phrase or saying has never been spoken in my opinion.

I try to write fictional stories about characters and places and times, stories that depict or describe certain happenings or situations. There are occasions though, when I want to convey something or transfer a feeling, that fiction just doesn’t cut it. Occasions where the written word seems almost inadequate.

I have an old, old photograph to share. It is by far the most treasured picture I own. It might possibly be the most treasured anything I own. The only thing I can add to this picture, to do it justice, is not a story but an account of a conversation from more than 40 years ago. I remember the night well and I’m confident that my recollection of what was said, while not exact, is probably fairly close.

A Thousand Words

Author: Jim Wilsky

***

I’m almost positive it was a Friday night. Every once in awhile we had a little ritual and after supper was over, that time had come again. My father and I would attempt to, as he titled it, ‘clean out the drawer’. It was an always unsuccessful venture to go through his top dresser drawer and get rid of that amazing, priceless and puzzling collection of his.

The top drawer on the right held pure treasure as far as I was concerned and was off limits to me except for nights like these. It was where he kept everything and like all archaeologists know, on the bottom, is the oldest. Some of it was meaningful, some of it forgotten and some of it was a mystery even to him, but all of it was interesting as hell to me.

“Let’s go pal.”

I was sitting on my parent’s bed before he even got to the bedroom. I waited for him patiently to place the treasure chest between us.

As I carefully picked around and through the contents, I would ask him about certain things, things that needed further explanation. As far as curiosity went, I put cats to shame.

“That’s a .45 caliber.”

I nodded and looked carefully at the shell I was holding up. There was a slight green tarnish to it. I placed it carefully back in amongst the collection.

“Daddy, what was this for?”

He looked over the top of his glasses at what I held.

“A campaign ribbon. They gave ‘em to everybody when we were on leave in New Zealand.”

“A campaign?”

“A theatre of war”, he smiled knowing that would be just as confusing.

I shook my head at the words campaign and theatre. All I knew, was he had been a Marine on Guadalcanal and some other islands in the South Pacific, in the Second World War I would be quite a bit older when I saw some other medals and heard some stories that he only shared with me.

I held up a new find. A heavy weighted conical piece of iron.

“There that is. I been looking for that.”

I turned it over in my hand several times, feeling its odd shape and weight, its smooth surface.

“It’s called a plum, son. A plum is used to hang down from a string and show you a level, perfect line. We use it when we’re laying bricks or building something. I’ll show you next time you come with me to help.”

He pulled out an old Dutch Masters cigar box from the bottom. I had never seen the contents but it looked as if I would now.

The rules on something like the cigar box were unspoken but firm. He would decide what I could see and what I couldn’t, so I waited patiently. When I think about it now, I don’t think he always knew what we would find.

From what I could see, there were some small old yellowed envelopes, a watch and some dog tags.

He opened one of the envelopes and took out three black and white photos.

“Well, I’ll be damned. Forgot about these.”

I didn’t say anything as he looked at the first long and hard. He finally handed it over to me and smiled.

“Your mother and I. In San Clemente, California after I shipped home.”

They were standing under picturesque palm trees, my dad in his dress blues and my mom looking like Betty Grable in a pretty yellow dress with a big corsage. They were holding hands with easy smiles, in love and full of life.

I looked at that picture and marveled at how young they were. My mom didn’t look much older than my sister at the time and my dad, well, he was a marine’s marine. I put it down to wait for the next picture and then glanced back at it, picking it up again.

When I looked back at my dad, he wasn’t smiling anymore, his mouth a tight line. He looked up at me and handed over the second picture.

“Some of the men in my company. Picture was taken in Samoa, just before we went to the Canal. Schmitty, old Georgia Gus, Tex, Gunny Harmon, a bunch of others. Good men. Fine men. We were just kids really but we grew up quick.”

He held onto it for a moment while I held it and he looked at me straight in the eye with a stone face. “They were good men.”

The photo had a few creases and a long ago water stain. Teenage boys in various stages of uniform under a tropical sun stared back me. Some smiling, some not, but all with their arms draped over each other’s shoulders.

He would tell me in the coming years that some of them would be dead in a matter of a week after the picture was taken, many later on. He always maintained that some guys knew it was coming, knew their luck was up, and you could see it in their eyes. I’m sure old voices of ‘Semper Fi’ were echoing in his head. I found him with my finger after some searching; Dad was middle row sixth from the right. Funny what you never forget.

I didn’t ask him any questions on that picture, although I had a hundred things I wanted to know. I remember laying it down next to me as softly as I could. I was really too young to fully understand what those boys had meant to him but I think I at least knew enough to leave that one alone for now.

He cleared his throat and then moved onto the third picture.

The room was very quiet. My mom and sister were home but they were a million miles away right now. Right now, it was just me and him.

“Well, well, look at this one. Let’s see ‘31, or maybe it was ’32.”

Holding the picture with both hands and arms outstretched to help him focus, he shook his head slowly.

He was smiling again or trying to as he handed it over to me.

“Who’s that kid daddy?”

“It’s me boy.”

“Nuh-uh. He’s got blonde hair and this is from a long, long time ago. Civil War days probably. Who is it, really?”

“It’s me alright and behind me there was a three room house that my dad built way out on old rural route three. Nothing but open country and a road.”

I looked at him with wide eyes but didn’t say anything.

He pointed at the house in the photograph.

“Made of scrap wood. Three rooms, like I said. A big room that was part kitchen, part sittin’ room and two bedrooms. My folks had one and I shared the other with my little sister. The walls were a bit breezy. In the winter months we had a fire going all the time. Snow would come inside through the cracks. We ate what we shot and grew. Nobody had any money.”

The picture drew me in and I couldn’t stop looking at it. There was something about it then and there still is. As pictures go there wasn’t really anything spectacular about it but that night I first saw it, I was spellbound.

“How old were you?”

“'Bout your age right now, maybe a little younger. It was during the great depression son and times were as tough as they get.”

“Did your mom or dad take this picture?”

He laughed at that and shook his head. “We didn’t own a camera, that’s for certain.”

“Who took it then?”

“Man from town came around one day. Little short fella. The tripod was bigger than he was and he liked to never get it set up. People were doing anything they could think of back then just to sell something, anything. Make some money somehow, or just plain eat.”

He scooted over closer and looked at the old picture over my shoulder.

“It just happened to be my birthday and this old boy came walking up our lane offering to take our picture, ‘bring a little happiness into our lives’ he said. My mother finally convinced my daddy to give the man three fresh eggs for one picture of me. For my birthday.”

“Three eggs? What was that worth?”

“A lot to somebody who hadn’t eaten for awhile. Hell, it meant a lot to anybody. Like I said son, times were tough and I do mean tough.”

There was another long pause as we stared down at the photograph again. We were both smiling now.

“I remember he told me to strike a pose, be dramatic, radiate strength or some such nonsense. I had no earthly idea what he was talking about, I was just playing around. When he finally took the damn picture, he shouted ‘perfect’ which I’m sure he told everybody.”

He laughed then and his eyes got a little watery. He put his big arm around me and gave me a hug, then started to pile everything back into to the drawer.

“Alright then, that’s enough of memory lane for tonight boy.”

***

All I know is this, the photo says a little bit of everything to me. It’s about youth, life, thankfulness, appreciation and striving. It speaks of hard times, good times, where I came from and what kind of stock came before me. And everything else in between. I’m on my way to two thousand words here and haven’t even scratched the surface with what this picture means to me, so I’ll stop here.

Thank goodness they had three eggs that day.

Five Seconds

Five Seconds

By Jane -Ann Heitmueller
May the unique facets of each new day bring
joy to your heart and harmony to your soul.
jane-ann heitmueller

Have you ever considered what a difference a mere five seconds could mean to your life? Five seconds for me to walk from the locked door back to my car. Only five seconds until I heard the slight "click", which caused me to glance back and see her walking away from the now unlocked door.

The view of her backside was my first impression. Her girth was the width of the door itself. Although the early morning August heat was already nearly intolerable, she was dressed in faded blue jeans, olive, long sleeved winter sweater and calf high tan boots trimmed in fur; with an abundant, tousled gray mane cascading across her slumped shoulders. A momentary apparition that suddenly vanished from my view, swallowed up in the shadows.

How lucky I am today I thought, smiling smuggly to myself at the idea of such good fortune. Another few seconds and I would have gotten back into the car and driven away from the thrift store, missing some good buys, hidden treasures. Little did I know what pleasure and surprise those few seconds would mean to my life today. What an unexpected gem awaited me beyond that door.

As the earliest shopper that morning I leisurely rummaged to my heart's content and only saw her when she suddenly appeared from one of the aisles, cheerfully smiling, inquiring if she could be of any assistance. "Can I help you find something, sweetheart?" she asked.

It was at this point , meeting face to face, that I realized she wore thick wire rimmed glasses and suffered from an apparent sight problem. It was difficult to tell her age, which I estimated to be mid fifty. Her puffy, gray skin showed signs of poor nourishment and neglect and her clothes seemed rumpled, but her merry attitude and helpfulness made all these negative attributes instantly evaporate. Her pleasant, sincere smile, kindness and unpretentiousness drew me in immediately. I had to know this lady better!

With a pair of bedroom slippers and little cotton dress in hand I sauntered to the checkout counter. There she was again and I heard her say to the rotund, disheveled fellow across the counter, as she unabashedly leaned forward to draw his face to hers and plant a firm, affectionate kiss on his sweaty forehead. "Bye, I'll see you tonight, sweetheart."

"Oh my!" I said, flashing a coquettish grin at the love birds, "Do all your customers get one of those?" "He's my boyfriend!" she proudly announced and lovingly watched as he exited the front door. Ah, I thought, how wonderful to have such giddy feelings at their age, wondering if they lived together.

"You've really done a great job with this place. Everything is grouped so well. It's easy to find things."


"Thank you, sweetheart, " she answered." I use to work in the largest book store in Tampa and had to keep everything organized. The back room here drives me crazy...it's a mess, but I'll get it straightened out soon.

I had to quit that job because I was allergic to all the printer ink and mold on the old books and spent many days at the doctor. One day the owner asked me to dust all the shelves and I told him I just couldn't do it and not be sick. He didn't believe me, so I did as he ordered and ended up spending a week in the hospital. He never asked me to do that again!"

As we chatted it was easy to see that she was intelligent and well educated. I was impressed by her conversation skills, knowledge and self confidence, which far exceeded my initial expectations. I discovered myself longing to sit down and share a cup of coffee with this total stranger, hear her views on life and love. Listen, as she relayed stories from her past, never doubting that they would be interesting and colorful!

"We stay pretty busy here, but there are only two of us working today," she said. "They need to hire more workers, but can't afford to pay more people."

" May I ask you a question?" I said. Surprising myself at being so bold with a total stranger.


"Certainly, sweetheart," "Are you paid minimum wage and do you have any health benefits?"

" Yes, minimum wage, but no health benefits." "That's a real shame," I said. "Hardly enough to get by."

"How much do I owe you?" "Four dollars, and thank you for shopping with us, sweetheart. Have a lovely day."

"You're welcome, and I hope you have a very happy day, too."

Just as I turned to leave another customer came through the door. "Good morning, sweetheart. Can I help you find something?"

A chance encounter, an inspiring human connection... made possible by only five seconds.

Persephone

Colter Cruthirds

“Persephone”

Before I took her, she was tearing the petals off Black-eyed Susans and chanting “love-me, love-me-not.” I don’t think she had anybody in mind; I think she was just playing games. Maybe she was just counting, like in that old Goldwater commercial. But she was too young to remember the commercial, and too old to be playing games with flowers. Regardless, I took her for her own good, and for the good of humanity.

She was my neighbors’ kid, seventeen, athletic, smart. Her father, Jerry, worked at Lockheed Martin and her mother worked in a garden that took up their entire backyard. I had eaten dinner at their house across the street many times. Just three days before I took her, the mother served roasted duck and Jerry bragged that his little girl earned a tennis scholarship to UCLA and would begin in the fall. I asked her what she wanted to study, and Jerry answered for her. “Physics,” he said.

“Her father’s daughter,” I said. I raised my water glass in her direction.

“Damn straight,” Jerry said. “We should toast to that. Father’s daughter. How about some Port?” He stood quickly from the table. In the corner of the dining room, he unstopped a decanter and overturned four copitas and poured the wine. He carried the glasses and the decanter back to the table and served each of us, beginning with me. We drank to tennis and quantum theory, and to the suburbs of Bethesda, where we all had happy little lives

After dinner, while Persephone and her mother cleared the table, Jerry and I moved to the verandah and drank some more. He brought the decanter with him. We surveyed the houses in our neighborhood. He said something nice about my house, though his house was better than mine, fancier, much more expensive. It would all be destroyed in a few days, and covered in perpetual darkness.

“You’re not doing so bad yourself,” I said. “You have columns. Not bad at all.”

I thought about telling Jerry about the shelter I’d built, but he would have laughed. The shelter could only accommodate two, anyway. He filled my glass and I drank and felt warm. I left soon after. It was the last time I saw Jerry.

How I took Persephone: I came upon her from behind while she was picking apart flowers and I cupped a chloroform soaked handkerchief over her mouth like I was packing a snowball. (Homemade chloroform: put 5 ml acetone into 1 l bleach, chill and strain.) She collapsed back into my arms and I carried her home. She began to stir before I could get her downstairs to the shelter and I was afraid I would have to give her another dose of the hanky, but I got her downstairs and placed her gently on her cot where I bound her hands and feet. While I made the final preparations, (disconnecting the water main, checking the generators) she whimpered a bit, and then cried.

“Don’t do that,” I said, and she stopped—too abruptly for comfort. “I didn’t mean it like that,” I said. “Feel free to cry.” But there was just no way to explain things. We were in the twilight of human history. Nuclear war was upon us.

I sealed the hatch and unbound her, helped her sit up in the cot and made her a hot tea even though it seemed wasteful to heat up water for just one cup. Then I told her everything. I told her she was safe and that all was prepared. It was important for her to remain calm. I lifted her legs, removed her shoes, and rubbed her tiny, calloused feet.

After tea, she slept. I wondered if this were the best of all possible worlds, if indeed, I was protecting her from the madness above-ground and she would come to understand this. I wondered if we would ever love each other and if, in the distant future, they would sing our story. A song of sacrifice.

Everything shook, and I knew the bombs had been dropped on D.C. I knelt by Persephone’s cot and made a prayer to Jerry. In the excitement, I forgot to ask his forgiveness.

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Colter Cruthirds is currently pursuing a doctorate from the Center for Writers in Hattiesburg. He has won several writing awards, and his work has recently appeared in Product and The Cathead Biscuit Review. He lives with his lovely wife and daughters and does his best to hide the chocolate.

Regarding Hank Grady

Well, that Hank Grady was a looker, I'll tell you. He caught some hell a bit for it, too. Mostly from old boys felt put out by him on account o' the way he dressed. See, he had that style to him, that flair. That's what you'd say. You know, he made a show to look like some of them sort of fellers you'd see in catologs and such. You never saw Hank he didn't have on at least a good-looking shirt, 'cept, I guess, if you caught him without one at all ratcheting up that dern old car he drove. He turned a lot of young girls's heads, even a few my age, though, well, you know, it don't hurt to take a look here and there. And, stories went round he was free with the girls, though I can't say. I wouldn't doubt it, but I can't say. I did feel bad for that poor girl bore his children, though. I guess you've spoke to her, already. She was a nice girl. Lot of others lined up to take her place, her never knowing what was what behind her back. I wouldn't've lived that way. I guess that's why I never went after him myself. I was too old for that boy anyway. And, that's all he ever was, just an ol' boy never quite growed up. And that poor girl. I feel terrible about her boys going bad that way. Lot of people thought highly of that big one. Dern shame. I hope she's doing well, considering. But, Hank, yeah, he could dress hisself. That was one thing you could say about him.”

Rita-Sue Gainey

Coalwater Resident

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“Some folks used to swear up and down they'd seen Hank. Seen him tear-assing down the roads again in that old Chevy. More than one'll cop to it happening just here recent, back when his boys were kicking up such trouble. There ain't nothing to any of that. That's just folks talking. And, round here, people like to talk a lot out of school,if you get me. I mean, dead is dead. They ain't no coming back. See, I had knowed Hank. Knowed him pretty good, I'd say. Helped me out of a bad way one time. This was back there in, I remember in '86. Got down with my leg and couldn't get to work up at the mill. They closed that mill year later anyway. But, I couldn't work. And, Ginny, she couldn't get no work. Mrs. Agnes, down at the store, she let her come in a few days and sweep up and do a few whatnots about the store and paid her in trade for a few groceries, you know. That's how come Hank got wise. I guess he seen her down at the store one time he happened to blow in to town and put two and two together, as they say. And, he'd been running loads for SouthernLand Chicken back and to up to Detroit or someplace—along with all manner of other sport he could muster along the way. Hank was bad to run contraband, but I'll not speak a word against him for it. Ginny, she come by early from Mrs. Agnes', said to get my hobleg to moving. I come out there and she's got a trunk just loaded down with them SouthernLand Chickens. Just about a winter's worth. Told me Ol' Hank just stole 'em all right off his truck before he left going up north. Just tossed 'em all down into the car. Give her twenty dollars, she said, to help keep the stove going to cook 'em. Apologized, she said he did, that he couldn't do no better. Apologized, she said. It near 'bout broke me down right there. It was the shame of this country when he died. And, that oldest boy tried to jump in his boots, but the world ain't the same no more. Hell, this whole country's changed completely. You wouldn't recognize it you saw how it was then. But, Hank was one hell of a feller, his boys, too. Won't speak a word against 'em. Car trunk stunk like bad chicken long after, but I won't speak a word against 'em.”

--Rance McCinnis

Liberty Resident

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“That boy, it was like he could talk to the machine, or it to him one, however you want to call it. The Boy Who Talked to Cars, some called him. It was like he could hear what they said to him and yeah, he could look down at an engine while enough and have it figger’d out in short hurry and man, that fool could drive like you don’t want to know about it. I seen him slide off a gravel trail coming out of nowhere and skate it onto the highway without losing an inch of speed and then he’d squall all the way out of sight. And, I seen him with a gang of highway patrol barking up his ass headed up 11 at a clip and you knowed he was just funnin' ’em. I bet they thought they had him, no doubt called up a roadblock right at the edge of Old Laketown [Coalwater]. Well, you know Hank. He had a deal with the devil when it come to driving. He slid off into them Black Woods—you know highway patrol couldn't go up in yonder. Wasn't they ju’sdiction—and one of 'em tried to foller him. That was a hoot. Them trees would swaller Hank up like he was their own child. Ease him in the rocking chair, as you say. You might reckon you could spot a beaming red and yellow screaming Chevrolet but you'd be wrong. They had to come in and find that patrol man. He never could find his way out. Ha. And they ain’t room enough in two books to write down half the things that man could do in a big rig. Hell, son, he was everything you heard of and twice again more. And to hell with the damn newspapers. His boys is kings in my book, still. Kings. Fuck them damn police.”

--Nathan “Hickory” Lickletter

Liberty Resident

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“Who Hank? Naw, they never could catch Hank. Well, actually, I take that back. They did get him once with their helicopter. Shit. Yeah, I remember that’n. He’d so bad outrun the policeman tryin’ to run him down that he’d just gone on and forgot the whole business and parked in his yard. Next thing he knew the trees was bending over an’ he could hear the ‘whup whup whup’ o’ them copter blades. Wrote him a ticket and everything, right there. Course, this was way later on. I don’t remember what year, but it was when he was in that red pickup. They’d long since wrecked that old car, the Killafella, he called it. Shit, who the hell names a racing car after a damn snake? He never once got pinned when he was in that old buggy. Shit, he could have two or three on his tail and hop off in the State Forest and that’d be that. They got to where they wouldn’t even foller him in there. Not after Wayne Frizell got lost a whole day and even run out of gas after chasing him into them damn woods. It was like the trees and hills would just swoller him up and then spit him back out the other end of the county.

“But Hank wasn't really a bad feller. Naw. I mean, he caused us a bit of trouble, but in truth no more than half a dozen other less decent sorts. He did more good for people than probly anybody ever knowed. He'd give out meat or produce off the back his truck if he happened by folks needed it. He didn't go out of his way, I guess. Shame when he died. How he did. I guess you know about that. Some say he'd got the cancer, but I don't know about that. Said he's got too close down to where they shot that bomb. Lot of cancer up there, but I don't know about that. Government men said it was safe. But, Hank didn't go from no cancer. He took a spill off that Monteagle grade. Funny thing was, he was hauling back then for that Smokehouse Meats outfit. Load full o' froze pork chops and tenderloin. Sausage. Sliced ham. Poor folks live out by that gradeway. And it was already cold up yonder. They was folks digging out fatback and ribs from that wreck for days In dying, I guess he fed probly half a county through the winter.

“But, that was Hank a’ight. Only fella I ever knowed that got pulled over from a helicopter.”

--Walter Baylor

Lathan City Mayor, 1977-1984

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Jason Stuart is a native of South Mississippi and studied writing at Southern Miss before getting his M.F.A. in fiction at the University of Florida. He now lives just south of Memphis and rides a motorcycle.