Fielder’s Choice

I started to write a blog to record stories from our family before the translucency of my thought processes become opaque and are lost to my children. The story I will relate today is one my dad told to us about a time he was riding in the car with his family. They were driving along a road through a rural area. As the car was passing a hay field on a farm, the farmer and his wife were making hay. The farmer was in the field, tossing the hay into a hay wagon. The wife was on top of the hay mound that was being formed on the wagon bed.

Now, this was a time when women didn’t work in the fields. It was a time when only immigrant women went into the fields with their husbands. If the farmer had sons, they worked with him. If he was rich enough and could afford to hire workers, he did that rather than to have his wife or daughters work in the fields. It wasn’t taboo, but it wasn’t something that the farmer did lightly, either.

The farmer’s wife was tamping down the hay with her bare feet that her husband was tossing onto the wagon. Each pitchfork of hay had to be compressed to increase the amount of hay on the wagon before it had to be driven out of the field and into the barn to unload the hay into mows. The fewer times that the farmer had to interrupt the loading, cut the amount of time that the farmer spent in the field.

The older hay wagons had two uprights at each end of the wagon bed to control and stabilize the load of hay. The double poles rose almost eight feet above the bed of the wagon. When the load reached about ten feet high, it was time to take the hay in and unload it in the mows of the barn.

That was some background and now to finish the story, the farmer was tossing the hay and the wife was on top of the load of hay, when she heard the car engine, she attempted to jump down from the load of hay and the skirt of her dress caught on the tips of the upright. She hung on the uprights dangling in midair. The skirt of her dress slid up under her armpits, trapping her there. The bottom two thirds of the woman was open to the air and the woman wasn’t wearing any underclothing.

It would have taken the old farmer too long to untangle and free his wife from the trap into which she fell. In a split second decision, the farmer removed his hat and covered his wife’s private parts until my grandfather’s car drove past. My dad was sure that as soon as they drove out of sight, the old man rescued his embarrassed wife.

The wife would have been embarrassed on several levels. The first was that she had been caught in the field working, the second was that she hadn’t heard our approach earlier, the third was that she was clumsy and had caught her skirt, and the last was obvious. It was quickly exposed to anyone reading this story. I do have to commend the farmer and give him credit for his fast decision to protect his wife’s privacy.

Bearly Speaking

Thoughts of bears came to the forefront of my warped brain when my daughter Anna and her boyfriend James Prinkey came inside saying that there had been a black bear in the backyard of my home. It ran from an area where a bee hive was located across the grass, crossing the road only to disappear in the high growing grass of a hay field.

The sighting made me think of the times as a child, I would dream of looking out of my window and seeing a bear in the yard of my parents house. Sometimes it would walk in the yard, only to disappear into the woods behind our home. At other times it would rear up and look through my second story bedroom window. When the dream of a bear would turn into a nightmare, I would wake up with my heart pounding in my chest. I knew that having a bear look into my window was impossible; it did little to calm my childish fears.

I had never seen a bear in the wild until driving home one night after work. I crossed the top of a hill and walking along the road was a shaggy, dusty looking furred creature. I thought at first that it was a large dog, but as I passed it, I noticed that it was too tall. The earthen bank beside it was nearly three feet high. I couldn’t see its face, so I turned around to get a better look, but it had disappeared into one of the fields that lined both sides of the road.

The bear sighting also reminded me of a story my sister Kathy would tell me. She would watch her granddaughter at times. Kathy had a potty chair for Alyssa to use when she visited, but Alyssa refused to use it even though she was doing well with potty training at her home.

Finally, after repeated questioning, Alyssa confessed that she was afraid of the decal of a fluffy teddy bear that had been applied to the backrest of the potty chair. Once Kathy made a cover for the back rest, Alyssa had no problem with using the potty and I am glad to say, she no longer needs to wear diapers.

While we are on the subject of potties, I recall a story that Kathy shared with me. My brother, Ken, visited when she was babysitting Alyssa. Ken, who is proud of his gas producing skills, passed gas with a thunderous rip. Alyssa ran from the room. Concerned that Alyssa had been scared by the flatulence, she followed the child. Kathy broke out into laughter when she saw that Alyssa was coming back with her potty chair in tow. From the sound that she’d heard, she decided that Ken was in need of her potty.

Grandparents-in-law

I’ve written about my grandparents and will try to share some of the things that I can recall about my wife Cindy’s grandparents. Her granddad Morrison, I never met. He had died before I met Cindy, but her grandmother, Pearl Elizabeth Morrison lived as a neighbor to Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater. She lived the last years of her life in the old school beside the church in the Bear Run Preserve. She was a stubborn woman who wanted things done her way.

If it didn’t move or breathe, she painted it. If she wanted something done, she wanted it done yesterday. I remember that she had a beautiful old dining room suite and thought the hutch was too tall. She used a hand saw and cut out the middle section so that the top rested directly on the bottom.

Pearl attached the lights and ornaments to her 5 foot artificial Christmas tree and placed it in the center of a bag used to keep a live tree from shedding needled when it was removed. When Christmas was over, she would pull the bag over the tree and have my father-in-law Bud, carry it to the attic. The next year all she needed to do was to open the bag and her tree was ready.

She would tell my mother-in-law Retha, that she liked something. Retha would buy it and give it to her later as a gift. Pearl would say, “Why did you buy that for me?” Later, Retha found that Pearl had traded it to someone else. One Christmas, Retha bought a clothes hamper because Pearl said she never had one and would like a hamper. Retha bought it and when Pearl opened it, she said, “Why did you buy that for me?” Retha had had enough and said, “You told me that you wanted one and I don’t want to see you trading it away,” but Pearl was hard headed and put the hamper in the hallway with a vase of fake flowers on it, never using it for more than a plant stand.

She had two bedrooms, but chose to sleep on a cot in a corner of her dining room. Buying regular sheets and blankets, she would cut them in half and hem the raw edge to use as bedding. Her perfume still lingers in a halved flannel sheet even fifteen years later.

She was hospitalized with a stroke. When Cindy and I went to visit her in the hospital, Pearl shared that she had been attacked by a skinny black woman during the night. At first, we thought she was confused, but we found out later that a woman had gone over the edge and tried to choke Pearl. The woman was put in the psychiatric ward.

Pearl was proud that she could move the arm affected to the point that she could reach overhead, but not high enough to reach the trapeze bar that patients use to ease their movements while in bed. I said, “I need to get a paint brush for you. You’ll get your arm high enough.” That made her smile. She knew that Bud said she painted everything, including the oak hutch that she cut in half, the table, and chairs. “It wasn’t the right color” and she spread on several coats of a tinted varnish.

This is a kid's story that I wrote and pulled it from my archives to share with you all. Although the tale is fiction, the boy in the story is a friend of mine who lived on a farm and had a dog named Trixie. I hope that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
 

Pocket Change

                Norman was a curly haired, rosy cheeked boy who lived on a small farm with his mom and dad. His dad raised chickens, pigs, and a few cows. There was never a time on the farm when there were no cats and Norman had a dog. Trixie was his dog and followed him everywhere, helping with the chores.

                The farm had a small orchard and large garden. It was Norman’s job to keep the weeds out of the garden and it was Trixie’s job to keep the animals out. Although Norman spent a lot of time on chores, he did have free time. That is when he and Trixie would explore the open fields and nearby wooded glen. They found secret places to play among the rocks and trees. They splashed in a little stream that tumbled through the woods and raced across the fields.

“Norman, Norman Lee,” he heard his mom’s voice calling. Norman had been in the barn looking for Muffy, one of the barn cats. She had a litter of kittens and he had just found her nest. He slid down out of the hay mow.

“Coming Mom. I’ll be right there,” he yelled as he hurried from the barn.

Parked in the driveway was a shiny black car. His mom and another lady were standing beside it. The other lady looked a lot like his mom. Drawing closer, he could see a boy about his own age standing with them. His hair was so blond; it looked almost white in the bright summer sun.

Trixie ran ahead and stopped by Norman’s mom. She absent-mindedly scratched Trixie’s head while they waited for Norman to catch up.

“This is your aunt Rose and your cousin Frank. You haven’t seen them since you were just a baby. They are visiting for a few hours. You two boys can play together while I visit with your aunt Rose. Show him around the farm and have some fun.

“Great Mom,” Norman said as he grabbed Frank’s hand and shook it. Trixie ran around the two of them barking. She seemed to know that they were going exploring.

“Come on Frank. Let me show you something that I just found.” They started walking toward the barn.

“I just found Muffy’s new kittens We have to be quiet and we can’t touch them yet. They are too young.” Norman was glad to have someone his own age to play with and to share some of the secrets of the farm.

The barn was filled with sweet smelling hay. In seconds, the two boys had climbed into the hay mow. Trixie began to whine at being left behind. “Trixie, be quiet. You can’t come up and you don’t need to see the kittens.” They crawled farther into the mow and peeked into the nest. Frank lifted his hand and started to reach toward the nest.

 “Don’t touch,” Norman cautioned.

“I’m just counting them,” Frank pouted, then began to count, “One, two, three… uhm, I see six kittens.”

They watched the kittens play for a few minutes until Muffy came back and hissed at the two of them. They backed away, slid down from the hay loft, and sped away in search of other things to do with Trixie close on their heels.

Norman showed Frank the other animals; the cows, the pigs, and the chickens. He didn’t seem impressed with anything. Soon the heat chased them into the cooling shade of the nearby woods. Just at the edge of the trees, along the bank of the stream, Norman saw a round black stone. Kids called these smooth rocks “Lucky stones” and this one seemed to shine in the sun. Norman bent over and picked it up. The smooth stone felt hot on the palm of his hand.

Frank pressed close and asked, “What did you find?”

Opening his hand, Norman showed Frank the smooth, dark stone.

“It’s nothing but an old rock,” Frank said, hurting Norman’s feelings.

Nothing that Norman said or done seemed to please his cousin, because Frank said that he “was a city boy and there was nothing a country boy could do that impress him.”

Norman stuffed the stone deep into the left pocket of his overalls. The stone clicked on something that was already in the pocket. He slipped his fingers deeper to see what he had in there. When he pulled his hand out and opened it, there was a bright red marble on his palm. It was almost the same size as the stone.

“How did you do that?” Frank gasped in surprise. His eyes opened wide as he stared at the marble.

“Do what?” Norm asked, not sure exactly what he had done.

“How did you change the color of that rock?” Frank said as he pointed to the marble.

Norm chuckled as he remembered something he had in his right hand pocket. “Watch this.” He dropped the marble into his pocket, delving deeper to pull out a large steel ball bearing. Norman opened his hand and when Frank saw the shining, silver ball bearing, he pointed and cried, “That’s magic. How did you do that?”

Once again Norman remembered something he kept in the back pocket of his jeans. “That’s nothing. Watch this.” He slipped his hand into his back pocket and released the ball bearing. When his hand reappeared, the ball bearing was gone and in its place was a bright, shiny quarter.

“Wow, Norman, that’s great. Tell me how you do that,” Frank pleaded.

“I can’t tell you, it’s a secret,” Norm whispered, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He moved the quarter to his other hand and thrust it into the front left pocket. He allowed the quarter to slip from his fingers and grasped the smooth black stone that started it all. When Frank saw the stone, he begged, “Come on Norm. We’re cousins. You can tell me. Show me how, please.”

A sly smile crept across Norman’s face “It all starts when you find the right stone. Some of them are magic.”

But before Norm could say anything more or before Frank could ask any more questions, they heard Aunt Rose calling, “Frank! It’s time to go.”

“I’m coming Mom,”Frank turned and began to walk along the stream. Norman watched as Frank took a few steps, bend over and pick something up, before taking a few more and bending over again.

Trixie and Norman followed behind. By the time they caught up with Frank, he was standing beside his mom at the car. When Norman saw that both of Frank’s pants pockets were full and bulging with stones, he could hardly keep from laughing.

“All right, let’s get in the car. It’s time to go,”Aunt Rose leaned over to hug and kiss Norman. “We’ll be back soon, I promise.”

As Frank started to climb into the car, he stopped and grabbed at his pockets. Aunt Rose just picked him up and sat him on the passenger seat.

Norman waved as they drove off. Trixie chased the car down the driveway.

There in the dust, was a small pile of “Lucky stones.” Norman picked up one that had rolled almost next to his feet. He looked at it and broke out with a big grin. “Frank picked up so many rocks that they must have poked a hole in his pocket,” Norman thought. The smile became a soft chuckle. I think I finally impressed Frank.”

“What are you smiling about Norman and what is that in your hand?” she asked.

“Just some pocket change, Mom. Just some pocket change.”

No Gas Shortage Here

Just a few lines about flatus, it’s a subject that invariably comes up when we start telling tales of our family’s past. My brother tells of the time he was playing volley ball at the Community Center in Indian Head, Pennsylvania. He brags that he passed gas and cleared the large gymnasium area. He said, “Even though someone rips one and won’t confess, I’ll claim it. Why waste it?”

Now, my dad would do things to avoid having an accusing finger pointed at him. I can remember when we were out shopping and Dad would allow one to pop out with an earful of noise. We all knew it was him when he would shuffle along scuffing his shoes to pretend that it was his shoes that made the sound that we’d heard and not otherwise.

The next story is about my son. He was working at a parcel shipping and handling company at the time. The night before he was going to work, I made red beans and rice with venison. Both were flatus inducing ingredients. His shift was later in the morning and he fried a couple of eggs for breakfast. When he came home from work, he said, “Dad, I cleared a trailer today,” and I believed him. The combination of the sulfur egg aroma mingling with the power of the beans and venison would have made almost fatal fumes. I have always wondered what the workers though when that trailer was opened to be unloaded at its destination.

The last story I will mention is about a nephew. He would hold his offering until he walked through a set of double doors at a store. As the first door would close behind him, he’d unload before the second door would close, trapping the odor between the doors in the dead air space. He would walk to the side close by and wait, like a puma laying in ambush. Most people would shrink from the assault as if they had walked into a wall.

Another time his wife was the victim. They were shopping and they separated for a bit to meet in another area of the store later. About ten minutes later, she wandered toward that area and was hit with the aroma like a brick between the eyes. All she could do was to wave her hands to fan it away and mumble, “Oh. Lord.” She knew that she was on the trail of her husband..

Books: Harder Than It Looks

Last evening I held the proof of the book I wrote, Tommy-Two-Shoes. Being able to tangibly hole it, gave me an unbelievable feeling of accomplishment. I have always loved to write. Probably because I am so opinionated and want to tell people what I think, but nonetheless, I love to write, for whatever the reason.

The inspiration is only a small part of having a book published. Finding an editor to work with you is essential, especially when the author is doing it for the first time. My editor had the skill to push me and guide me through the writing, rewriting, and help with PUNCTUATION.

My creativity, interplay of ideas, and knowledge of vocabulary are my strengths. Punctuation is not my forte. My editor asked, “Are you afraid of commas?” I don’t fear them, but I do get caught up in my own story and characters, that I forget about most punctuation other than periods and question marks.

I believe Einstein said, “Genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration.” I’m not saying that I am a genius. I am saying that writing is at least 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration. Often, my characters will write for themselves telling me what they want or need and no I’m not hearing voices, although, sometimes that might help, but what I am saying these people take on a persona and a life of their own. They become friends or enemies that the writer becomes comfortable with. They become less stiff and formal and more like the friends that are welcomed at the back door and no longer have to ring the front doorbell.

The following listings are where you can either preview now or order after 27 June 2014. All feedback is greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading my blog. I apologize for using this spot for a commercial, but I would share the birth of a child here and this is the baby of my imagination. 

Pre-order listings:

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/tommy-two-shoes-mysteries/id887784116?mt=11

Barnes & Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-tommy-two-shoes-mysteries-thomas-beck/1119711406?ean=2940045998772

Kobo: http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/the-tommy-two-shoes-mysteries

Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Thomas_Beck_The_Tommy_Two_Shoes_Mysteries?id=R3rCAwAAQBAJ&hl=en 

These are all the places where people will be able to pre-order your ebook.  Other listings will be created the week of the 24th once it is officially released.

Book listing without pre-order capability, but people can download samples (and already have):

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/446354

 

A Hair’s Breadth

How much time do we think about hair, quite a bit actually? When we wake, shower, and look in the mirror, we comb or brush it into place. If our hair is thinning or too long, we worry and make plans to have it cut or sometimes think about having the hair replaced if the thinning has expanded to baldness. Some men, tired of it all, shave their heads, but even they aren’t free from hair. Every few days some hair begins to sprout and the razor comes out.

Speaking about a razor, men have to deal with facial hair as well as some women. (Yes women, even you and don’t say NoNo.) Again, the mirror helps men to trim, shape, or completely scrape off those coarse bristles. Full beards are the exception. Women use the mirror and a pair of tweezers to remove those random growths when they emerge.

Women chase those unwanted hairs on legs, armpits, and private areas using a razor, waxes, or depilatories. They subject themselves to the pain, scrapes, and irritation to look smooth and sleek. Now men, other than the body builders who normally would remove body hair to highlight their muscles, are now following suit, stripping their bodies of the “unnecessary” fur.

But the thing that made me think about hair was our old neighbor. He was an older man and harrumphed in his throat quite a bit. Thin almost to the point of emaciation, he would sit on the front porch and watch the yard as we ran, jumped, and played. When we tired, we often sat on his porch and talked. As a kid I was fascinated with the crop of hair that protruded from his ears. A thick thatch of coarse hair, like flowers in a vase, stuck out from his ears. I didn’t understand how he could still hear with so much foliage growing there. I always said to myself, “I won’t allow mine to get that thick,” and have a problem, frequently having to trim of pluck them before my ear canal it filled.

My daughter says I wear a sweater all year round. I do have body hair, but not as much as some having enough hair to be considered body armor.  I wonder if that is how the mohair suit got its name, more hair. (Please don’t write me and tell me that was not the reason for its name. I do know the whys of it.)

There are all kinds of potions and treatments to get rid of hair, clean and volumize hair, to dry hair, or to grow hair, depending on the person’s need. There are also products to curl, straighten, or to color hair. If you have graying hair, even beards, they make you young again by adding color where the color has fled in its old age. If you just want to change the color of your hair, they have dyes for that as well. They make combs and brushes of all shapes and sizes for your convenience or needs.