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We hope you enjoy our web site. Your comments are welcome.Cindy and I had been lovers so I went to visit her grave. It was way back when she just up and walked away, leaving me by myself, not saying why, not even leaving a note. It made no sense. We had been happy. Marriage was on the near horizon. We were talking about marriage, about kids, about a life together. I loved her and she loved me. She really loved me, and you can take that to the bank.
Her boss at Bellsouth told me that Cindy had walked into his office at closing time on a Friday and said she was quitting. She returned on Wednesday and picked up her final paycheck. She didn’t come home Wednesday night, or any night after.
APD put her on the missing persons list but that’s as far as it got. The police do not get excited when an attractive 22-year old unmarried woman does a disappearing act. The detective I gave her photo to nodded and looked at me. Behind his eyes I saw a conclusion. Your lady friend is not missing. She’s moved on with someone else.
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October 15, 2083 – Atlanta, Georgia
A sullen frown wrinkles the frustrated writer’s brow as he tears up yet another draft of a research article and flings it towards the waste paper basket sitting in the corner of his posh Buckhead office. The renowned freelance journalist, Alexander Carlton Ellis, known to friend and fans alike as “Ace,” sits at his desk, irritated at his inability to pull himself out of a slump, now in its third month. What he needs is a great story idea to put him on top again.
Ace has been in the game for over forty years, covering human-interest aspects of major international topics. He made a name for himself early in his career with hard-hitting stories relating to the ongoing wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the Arab-Jewish conflict, the melting of the Greenland Ice Cap and the final clearing of what once was the great Amazon rain forest. He thought the catchy title for his rain forest article, “Amazon Green, vs. Chop-Sticks for China?” worthy of an award by itself. Yes, there were a million stories to be written, and Ace was proud of the fact he had always been out there on the edge … read the rest of this story online in Cynic Magazine
Presenting a tongue in cheek love story, taking place in northern Minnesota.
I found myself chuckling for several days over the punch line I’d heard, then constructed a story to work it in. Hope you enjoy reading it as I assure you I did in writing it.
Oley’s three day old beard glistened from the frozen sweat he’d incurred while working his chain saw. Snot hung precariously from his long, narrow nose. But the giant of a man couldn’t be bothered by any of that on this January day.For he was in love.
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Some people have really interesting hobbies. Jim Tanner, a good friend and neighbor, shoots photos of the scenery and animal life in our North Georgia community. Jim says he has “been hearing and seeing this little Carolina Wren off and on for a few weeks.” Even now he is not satisfied. I think Jim’s assessment is modest.
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Late afternoon. Walking home through dry broom grass and fresh, soft snow. Shotgun feels like a bar of lead. Everything as far as I can see looks like a black and white photograph, 95 percent white. Bare, black trees stand like sentinels against a pale blue sky. Feet started hurting three hours ago. Now feel like blocks of wood. Will be painful when they thaw. Hope I don’t lose any toes. I am tired.
Old cabin’s dark outline is a welcome sight when it appears just before the sun reaches the western horizon. Home at last!
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part 1 -To Be a Cowboy
The inhabitants of my home in Lake Charles, Louisiana in fall of 1959 referred to it as “the roach palace”. It was one of four converted, two-story wooden Army barracks that occupied a low stretch of ground adjacent to the McNeese State College rodeo arena. Bobby Mustin, a slightly obese animal husbandry major from Big Mamou, shared a room with me on the second floor. I was a pre-vet major.
Bobby and I both aspired to become real “Cowboys” as many of the other guys who lived in the barracks were known, either because they rodeoed or played football. The title came naturally to those who rodeoed, but the football players were “Cowboys” because that was the name of the McNeese team. Cattle ranching and agriculture were big businesses in south Louisiana.
One warm evening, Bobby and I lounged in our twelve by fourteen foot un-air-conditioned dorm room trying to study. A floor fan hummed and pulled air in through the open, screened window against which flies regularly buzzed and bumped. The familiar sweet smell of hay and cow manure was not unpleasant, and the olfactory ambience was alternated on occasion with heavy, salt air that drifted in from nearby Calcasieu Lake. Bobby, as usual, lay on his bottom bunk in his underwear, and I sat at a small desk against the wall. We listened to The Platters sing “Twilight Time” on Bobby’s little radio.
“Why don’t we enter the rodeo next month?” Bobby asked out of nowhere.
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Once upon a time independent merchants comprised the hubs of neighborhoods and the centers of small towns. Chains and big-box stores and the internet have all but eliminated those focal points of community commerce. Even the government post office, once “the center” of every community, has become little more than an outdated relic. The world of commerce has changed and we are not likely to return to the old days, but that change has altered our sense of loyalty to the community.
Local businesses have been replaced with franchises, and across America one town is very much like another. Something vital is passing, and like most Americans I am a contributor to the demise.
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It was a warm Friday afternoon in San Diego, California at the Naval Recruit Training Depot (”boot camp”). We seaman recruits, now ”short timers” in our seventh week, were cleaning our barracks for the weekly Friday afternoon captain’s inspection.
In keeping with routine, we were washing the decks (floors) and bulkheads (walls) with soap and water (when the Navy says clean they mean clean). It being a warm June day, we being ”seasoned” recruits, and (most importantly) we being 18 years old, we found ourselves in a water fight. Before long there wasn’t a member of Company 159 that wasn’t drenched in soapy water.
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We’ve all heard it said of somebody, “He’s a self-made man.” I beg to differ. Except for perhaps Romulus and Remus, who were suckled by a wolf, there is no such thing as a self-made man or woman.
Yes, most high achievers are more brilliant and hard-working than the average person, but none of them is self-made. Their achievement is due much more to what was done FOR them than for what they did for themselves.
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A MEMOIR
The following shows a slice of my life as an Air Force Lieutenant in a remote part of Germany. It’ll portray a portion of my contribution toward keeping America safe, while in Germany, from the fall of 1962 to the fall of 1965. Our President Kennedy managed the Cuban crisis and then got shot among other events in that time frame. After a suitable introduction to the reader about life there, I’ll get to The Skater part. It seems I managed to skate through many self caused mishaps, without damage, all the way until the IBM blow-up you may have heard about. Perhaps they all stacked up for one big fall through the ice.
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photo by Jim Tanner
October is a beautiful month in Big Canoe. Topography, weather and colors combine to make this a wonderful place to live. The autumn beauty surrounding the Lodge where The Big Canoe Writers Group has gathered since 1999 is not an atypical scene.
photo by Randy Lewis
The seasons do change, and before too long the colors will fade and winter snows will drive us inside to the warmth. The Lodge and it setting remains an inviting and enchanting place for writers and artists and everyone who is not immune to the majesty and mystery of our surroundings.
It’s easy to see why I loved pocketknives when I was a boy. They were solid, had a nice heft to them, and the bone handle felt good and smooth when I turned the knife over and over in my right front pocket. Other pockets might hold things like an “aggie toy” that helped win marble games, a lucky creek rock to rub whenever I made a wish, my favorite arrowhead, and other invaluable stuff like that. And another thing about a pocketknife, it’s just the right size to take to bed with you every night. Little boys like to sleep with at least one of their valued possessions. But of course, you already know all these things if you were born before World War II and lived in the country, or a small town like I did.
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Although traces of snow lay on the ground outside, most people would have thought the room far too warm. Flames flickered in a space heater and cast strange shadows on the wall beside the recliner where Mrs. O’Malley relaxed, twirling a lock of gray hair about one finger.
“It’s true, Marge,” she said into the telephone. “Me own daughter Angie told me about it. And Lucy herself said it’s the God’s truth.”
“Well! I would never have dreamed such a thing about Jim Sullivan.”
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What has happened to the solid old notion of avoiding debt? Repayment has been a nagging problem since the inception of the Student Loan program. But now the Education Department reports a dramatic rise in late payments of student loans and in the number of those loans referred for possible legal action. No doubt the current recession is contributing to the problem, but there is another less publicized cause. In my opinion, the false belief that everyone should go to college has led to unrealistic academic and career expectations.
These sketches of some of the Big Canoe Writers were done by member Ellie Holty.
Click on an image to see a larger version.
Comment directly to Ellie via email:eholty@bigcaoewriters.org
One morning at five o clock my husband, Leland, woke me with tears in his eyes and a smile on his face. “We have a grandson. His name is Adam” he said.
“But he’s not due until next month. Is he ok? Is Beth ok?”
“They’re both fine. The phone rang about four with their news.”
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Day
Red Eyes in a head of scales leads its tail and forks its tongue, thirsting for sun and chicks.
Hermaphrodite, without vision, corkscrews into the dark but knows to stop before it hits China.
Fiddleheads turn to the left, turn to the right, searching for their bows.
Rat-a-Tat plucks the Beetle from brown bark. Beetle doesn’t know.
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I saw it for the first time on a Sunday morning. Sarah and I were sitting next to each other in the Mount Carmel Baptist Church on Old Jeff Davis Road in Hepzibah. It was Baptismal Sunday, and a long-time friend of ours, Nellie Gordon, was to be baptized and born again. Reverend Naismith was next to the tub wearing a long rubber apron over his Navy blue suit, white shirt and crimson silk tie. Poor Nellie was in the tub, water up to her neck, shaking like an autumn leaf in a windstorm and holding her noise as tight as could be. Reverend Naismith mumbled a few words and pushed old Nellie’s head down into the tub. Sarah said aloud for all to hear, “Praise the Lord.”
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I would prefer to buy my books in person from an independent businessman, but in reality it happens only when I travel to a town that still has such stores. Several of my essays are about some of those places and I lament their passing. Our culture is changing, and we will be poorer for the loss.
In 2008 I wrote the following article for “Smoke Signals” in recognition that times have changed, it is included in my 2010 book, Turned Pages. KR
Where Did The Small Bookstore Go?
Do you remember small bookstores? Fifteen years ago almost every town had at least one bookstore for new books and another selling used books. The stores with new books had limited inventory — the latest best sellers and some of the classics. The remainder of the stock was devoted to cooking, crafts, current fads and children’s books. A real advantage was they would order almost any book you wanted and have it to you within a few weeks. Now those stores are hard to find. They could not compete with twenty to forty percent discounts on best sellers.
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1989
An excerpt from “Two Dogs on a Couch”.
A memoir by Fred Shaw
I’m driving my little maroon Honda Civic out of the Oxford Valley Mall in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. My five year old granddaughter, Kelly, is in the passenger’s 
seat—there are no airbags. My dog, Ruby, who has been with me for less than a month, is in the back seat. I come to a stop sign and look up and down the street and then at my granddaughter. Trance-like she gazes through the windshield; she can only see the sky. It’s the same ethereal look she had on the Flemington to Ringoes steam-train ride earlier this year.
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Atlanta Book Exchange
The exterior of the Atlanta Book Exchange belies the treasure waiting inside. From a cramped parking area barely visible steps lead to an enclosed porch that functions as storage and display of a few-less-than valuable books. But, passing into the main shop reveals something akin to paradise.
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This story has been moved by the author to his site at:
Searching for the Sawtelle Dog
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1950 was a year I’ll never forget. I learned to ride a two-wheeler with our neighbor Mr. Edsel Kinsley holding me up by my ass and running alongside. He was out of breath, but the old pervert wouldn’t let go. If mother had seen it, Edsel would have found his beer laced with cyanide on the next neighborly visit and his hand clamped in the rusty vise she kept behind the breadbox for such purposes.
It was also the year the Black Watch Bagpipers marched into town.
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Except for Sundays, we went barefooted nearly all the time from May to September. We drank Double Cola, RC or Pepsi from the ice-filled metal cooler at Mr. Hoyt’s store. On Saturday nights we bathed in a # 3 washtub filled with water heated on the kitchen stove. We caught white-face bumble bees in our hands (they’re the ones with no stinger) from the wisteria-draped trees in Mrs. Cox’s front yard.
(First published in Georgia Backroads Magazine, Winter 2008)
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The Internal Revenue Service reports that as of the end of 2009 Americans owed more than $100 billion in delinquent federal taxes. The Washington Post points out that 638 employees of the U S Senate and the House of Representatives owed more than nine million of those dollars, and that a member of the House is sponsoring legislation to fire federal workers who are not signed onto a tax payment plan. The Post does not indicate whether the amounts owed include penalties and interest.
Why do we need a new law to collect over due taxes? Is this another attempt by a member of Congress to make his constituents believe he is working for them?
Read this opinion as published in Smoke Signals, October 2010
Click on the images below to see the story and illustrations as printed in the Fall 2010 edition of Michigan BLUE magazine:
THE STORY
Even though our home was within easy walking distance of Stiff’s Millpond, we didn’t even know it had a proper name. To us it was just the millpond. The millpond was created in 1836 when Ira Alger dammed the Shiawassee River and built a sawmill. The dam was known as Alger’s Dam and the reservoir it created, Stiff’s Millpond, named for the man who owned the land now underwater. A settlement soon grew around Stiff’s Millpond and just 100 years after Ira Alger dammed the Shiawassee, my family moved to Holly, Michigan.
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There is no such thing as a normal life. If you have ever daydreamed by an open window, skimmed a pebble across a still lake, or stood in the silent world of snow, then you have a story to tell.
Writing life story memories can be a lot of fun, especially if you try to remember the moments not the years. Even age, whether a teenager or an adult, does not matter when you are ready for this incredible journey. Today will be tomorrow’s remembrance and once these current events have past they will only be in your memory unless you write them down. Some of your seasoned thoughts and musings have long been stuffed back and stored in the crevices of your mind. They can be activated with five simple steps:
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It was thirty minutes after sunrise on a warm June morning, but Jake was not ready to get up. He had lived on this sprawling Georgia farm his whole life, like his father and mother before him. During his younger years, he’d always been the first one up, just after the earliest rooster call. He was too old for that now. His mind was no longer sharp, his bones ached, he had sporadic bouts with incontinence, and walking was very difficult for him.
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Chapter 1
He was in an ugly mood. Driving the last three hours through a torrential downpour had stretched his patience to the limit. Damion Fitzgerald was a control freak and one thing he could not control was the weather. His Scotch-Irish background, his seventy-five years on this earth and his sporadic back problem had nothing to do with his ugly mood. Lack of control had everything to do with it.
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What a vacation! Nancy and I are concluding three weeks in New Zealand and Australia with five days in Sydney. And damn the expense! Our hotel is the Regent Sydney and is advertised as one of the five best hotels in the world. All that tells you is someone thinks there are four better hotels somewhere else, but “Mr. Deep Pockets” (That’s me.) doesn’t care, he is overjoyed to spend $350 a night for a room that overlooks Sydney’s harbor and the Opera House, as long as Nancy is happy.
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In the early 1950’s, most children in the deep south attended public schools and shared a spirit of adventure that carried over from the recent World War. I was no exception. Much of my youth was spent in quest of exploits like those described in books by Mark Twain, Jack London, Zane Grey, Jules Verne, and similar writers. These were tales boys thrived upon … stories of outdoorsmen, heroism, soldiers, and cowboys. They were about the kind of Americans we emulated.
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Christmas at Nana’s in the South Bronx was no Currier and Ives holiday print. Driving a drafty Ford over the Triborough Bridge was not a jingle bell experience. Mother tried to warm up Dad and me, singing her rendition of Over the River and Through the Woods to Grandmother’s House We Go. It was 1951. I was seven and old enough to know the song was meant for a sleigh ride. Below us, the East River raced through the narrows to dump its load into the mouth of the Hudson.
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We knew we would need a lot of room for the load of fish that would be coming from the pipe so Bob and Dave manned the seine about ten feet back from where the pipe ended. I went to the other end of the pipe, looked in and it was creepy. All I could see was a circle of sunlight at the other end and lots of spider webs. Bob and Dave didn’t care about it being creepy. They told me to get in there and drive those fish into our seine.
Read this story as published in the
January/February 2010 Michigan History magazine.
This post is a part of a a special on-line edition of Smoke Signals Memorial Day Tribute to the men and women who have fallen in service to America. To read the special edition click here.
On May 31 some Americans will observe Memorial Day and consider the real sacrifices the day is designated to honor. Others will enjoy it without thinking about its meaning; to them it is just another holiday. Many others do not know that Memorial Day means more than just time away from their jobs. Even as the list containing the names of Americans killed in Iraq and Afghanistan expands, our understanding of what that list means to our nation shrinks.
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Plants don’t know their own names and it’s a good thing they don’t care as most of them have had their names changed. Even as a boy and later as a forester I dealt with the frustrations of plant nomenclature. Now retired, I am neither forester nor botanist, but living the words Thomas Jefferson wrote to Charles Peale: “Though an old man, I am but a young gardener.” I had thought by now plant classification would have been worked out in great detail, but as a gardener and plant lover, I continue to learn and enjoy the twists and turns of taxonomy. ….read this article
