Zombified

And spell zombified anyway you'd like but it describes the last few days of my life, zombified, dead meat. May I ask as to your condition...

Our weather has turned. Its cool and breezy. High forties this morning, and yes the repairman fixed our a/c unit. Took him four hours and cost us one nice pretty penny. I flipped it in the dirt.

Business is very slow...I mean snake belly dust swallowing dead butt slow. Blame it on Uncle's tax grab.

Old man in here yesterday, "I swear, Stephen, if I'm given a terminal prognoses I'll pack my bags and drive to the District and find the headquarters of the Infernal Revenue and blow those sonsabitches to hell."

Me, "God bless you."

Excuse me while I try to refresh my coffers. I also will make every effort to respond to the comments you've so kindly left in response to my last few pitiful posts. If given peace and silence, and of course time, I will give my all to a longer written piece. Seems of late I live a very hectic life and this poor excuse of a blog is its reflection.

Until then.

Stephen

Peace

A cold rain falls and the sound is soothing and peaceful. The winds now gently push it against our northern windows with a soft splat. Gunsmoke plays in the background with the sound turned low and she is curled in her big chair and we're both content.

I came home to a huge pot of very good long simmered chili; one bowl and I'm full as a tick. Our old cat has just climbed into my lap and taken position between my legs. She purrs.

Soon a kettle of tea will boil and all will be right with the world - a few hours of peace before the quilt is tucked.

I love winter.

Stephen

Bits & Pieces

Few days ago after a long hard day I settled back into my chair to give a good long thought towards a nap when she came into the room and said, "Ah, Honey, I agreed for us to babysit this weekend." Notice she didn't ask, say please, may I dear - just, I agreed.

Flipped her a look. She flipped it right back. Then, "It's Ariana."  The little six year old girl I mentioned earlier this week. Case closed.

I awoke this morning to the sweet scent of pancakes. Then I felt a presence next to my face. I peeked. There was a cute little face peeking back. She'd sneaked into our bedroom and was standing next to my bed with a yard long smile on a face full of pearl white teeth.

She followed me into the bathroom, then waited. She followed as I left the bedroom. Tagged me when I walked out the door for my paper. Trailed me back. At one point she latched onto my pants leg and refused to release me as I took coffee and paper into the family room. When I sat she climbed, without hesitation, into my lap and snuggled.

I have a new friend.

To tell the truth, it felt kinda good. During the last two evenings, I again, experienced the joy of a grandfather. And, to continue with honesty, it also brought back a deep bone bruising sadness.

We'll see where this leads.

*****

She's walked the street in front of the shop for weeks. Her hair has been all but shaved which leaves her the appearance of an escaped mental patient. She wears baggy and old BDU pants, the older woodland camouflage pattern, and a dingy white t-shirt. She drags a small carry-on flight bag when out and about her rounds. She's jerky, hesitate in her movements. I'm reluctant to guess her age but if pushed I'd place her at forty or so.

She talks to herself. She's dirty and smells awful. I should know, last Friday she finally rang my bell. In a moment of stupidity, I released the lock. I have a weakness for the young and defenseless. This weakness of mine extends towards all women in need. I can't help myself....I know, I'm an easy touch. So sue me.

First words out of her mouth, "Hey, call me a ride."

She didn't ask or say please, or may I use your telephone, just - do it.

Without invitation she pranced into my office, and when inside, took a seat in my spare chair. I nearly came unglued at the overpowering smell of body odor, a very distinctive unpleasant experience. So, as any good Samaritan I reached into my cabinet and retrieved one of my wife's Urban Survival Kits and placed it in her hands and explained a restroom waited across the street. Then, "You mean in that park."

"Yes."

"Call me a ride."

"No."

I stood to speed her exit. She reached for my desk phone and held it aloft and in the blink of an eye began to dial. She eased back into the chair and spread her legs and waited. Then she puts on a fake smile, and I assume when her call is connected, said, very sugar sweetly, "Hello. Who's this. Yes, put him on the phone. Hello, who are you."

I've pulled my bandana out and have it over my nose. She continued, "Well, then just ****you too."

She extends the phone to me. "Here, tell them I want a ride." Before I can respond she slams the phone down. Tears follow. "I was thrown out of my home. He hates me. I haven't a place to sleep. Oh, my Lord what will I do. Hey, you have anything to eat? I need a drink of water. What's your name? You're cute. Can I use your bathroom, I gotta pee. I want a knife like yours. You gotta spare knife I'm afraid out there and I'll cut their gonads off. I once cut my husband when he wanted to rape me. I showed him, I cut him deep."

This had to end.

As gently as possible I took her arm and walked her into the main shop towards the door. I placed a granola bar and small bottle of water in her bag along with the Urban Survival Kit and reminded her of the shower at the park.

Her, "Hey, can I make a quick twenty?"

"No."

"You're a butthole."

I smiled, said, "So I've been told."

*****

Other than the soft music of the radio the house is very quiet now. I should set this laptop aside and get to work on the yard, but I wait in hopes of rain and the perfect excuse to relax and read.

She'll be home from church soon so perhaps I should make her a nice lunch.

Maybe, that.

The friggin yard can wait...after all, it's my one day off.

Take care.

Stephen

    

The Storm

Our early tropical storm has passed. She spawned a few tornadoes and in turn they ripped a few out at the Naval Base and towns further north, but we're fine.

My storm, too, has passed. I've tucked it deep and far away, for now, and have chained the door.

Today I plan to read as work allows. It's the quiet moments I like best of all.

Until then.

Stephen

Quiet Time

Sunday by design is a day for rest, quiet time. It's dark and gloomy and I hear distant thunder and light rain like lead shot pelt the roof. Makes me want to build a fire and sip coffee and wish for cold weather as an excuse to wrap myself in an old wool blanket. To settle in with a novel and pretend to read when really I'd rather nap.

Soon, autumn leaves will begin the journey down, bits and pieces of amber and brown and red closely followed by northern winds, the official signal for the best time of the year. My favorite. I believe it's written upon Hemingway's grave marker, 'Best of all he loved the Fall.' I understand.

This morning, after church and fried chicken, we drove home under black threating skies. Sweet Wife asked what I'd like to do today. My first thought was to finish in the garage. I'd worked and sorted odd clutter for several hours well into the night and wanted to reorganize my ammunition and reloading supplies. I voiced this to her. She frowned. Not a good sign.

A mile or so down the road she took note of the weather and suggested perhaps my idea held merit. Now, she sits to my left deep into her bible study.  Over the last few months she's sought solace in her religion and it seems to have worked miracles; she's at peace and for this I am grateful and attend church with her even if I am found on the pew with my Kindle lost within its digital pages.

Yes, I listen to the sermon. It is possible and I have proved one can chew gum and walk with coordination. Once upon a time a friend found it quite shocking that I attended church. He asked if the candles flickered when I entered the sanctuary. I said, for the record, they indeed dimmed on occasion. He asked what had changed me. I said, "A little girl came into my life."

As I type I hear the rain as it hits my old metal wash tub I have hung on the back fence. It reminds me of my days of youth on the farm. Whenever I'd see the weather turn towards wet I'd head straight to the barn. Our barn had a metal roof and if you were able to find a clean spot of hay it made for the best bed in town. The hard southern thunderstorms made for a wonderful late afternoon sleep. 

I suppose I've made a liar of myself. I haven't ventured near the garage and my chores. It's too peaceful to work. Instead I think I'll head to the kitchen and build a pot of coffee return and pretend to read a book. But you and I both know it'll be cover for a nap. After all, the rain won't last forever.

Or will it.

Stephen


 
 

Bits & Pieces

Isn't it weird how fast time flies when you're locked away at home. I've found myself walking back and forth between small chores I've ignored for months. I clean cluttered cabinets and drawers, sort through back issues of magazines and then find myself on the back deck where I sweep away the catkins and leaves that fall like rain at this time of year.

Afterwards, a chair speaks to me and I sit and watch, and breath, and smell, and listen. Squirrels tease me as they use my privacy fence as a boardwalk. They know full well it's their breeding season and I shall not shoot. Over the river an Osprey circles and drops for a fish and uses one of our two tall pines to land and eat his catch. It's warm out. The sun feels good.

Back inside I finally take the time to change the dead batteries of my handgun vault. They've been dead for two months and I was reduced to the use of my key. The batteries are a royal pain to change. It requires me to first unload the contents. Then take the vault and flip it upside down and pull back the foam lining and remove the battery tray. Simple. It took me almost an hour. Most of the hour was taken with finding my instruction booklet. I found it atop my bedroom gun safe...if it had been a snake....
Then, reprogram the keypad. Almost chunked it through the French doors. I told myself to have patience. It works, now.

I took a slow walk up our street this afternoon. I have this funny or quirky habit of noting all the citrus and other fruit trees in my neighborhood. Never know when this bit of intelligence will come in handy. I take note of other items too, but that's neither here nor there...anyhow, most of my neighbors fruit falls and rots. It kinda ticks me off. I know of a certain fellow that would put it to good use. Many times I come close to walking up and tapping gently on their doors to seek permission to take away their fallen fruits. One day perhaps. Think of all the poor Canadians that suffer for the lack of vitamin 'C.'

My son and daughter-in-law came over last evening with our grandchildren.

Little Bit eased her way into the family room, and without a word, slowly walked over and gently climbed into my lap and placed her head on my shoulder. I didn't say a word, just reached down and placed a kiss on her hair. She shuffled, tucked her arms under mine and cried.

It was a silent soothing display of tears. I held her and continued to place kisses. Not shamed to admit she had me in tears too. Then the others walked in and it seemed awkward for me. I tried to hide my face, man stuff you know. It didn't work. Nana just had to ask what was wrong. Little Bit just shook her head and dug in deeper. They left us alone, finally.

I said, "Honey, it's okay."

She shuffled again, then raised her face to mine and I wiped her runny nose and tried to dry her tears. Then, "Papa, why do you want to go to Heaven?" I waited a few seconds, gathering my thoughts.

"Sweetheart, Papa isn't going to Heaven. I plan to stay here as long as I can, I promise. I want to walk you down the isle some day. I know you don't know what I mean, but it's important to me."

"You promised me last time you wouldn't go to Heaven but you broke your promise and went back to the hospital and Daddy and Mom said you might go to Heaven and they took me to your room and you were sick again. You promised, Papa."

About then I wanted to say a few words to my son. "Honey, Papa can't control when and where and how I get sick. It just happens. I promised I would not go to Heaven, and I didn't, did I?'

"No. But you tried."

"Honey, Papa didn't try. Really, I didn't. I just became sick. I'm back now and I'm holding you and next Monday Papa promises to drive you to school, no matter what anyone says, I'll be there."

"Really?"

"Yes. And, I'll see you again tomorrow night. Do we have a deal?"

She smiled.

 I always keep my promises.

Stephen