Off to the Races! #T

Decades ago I was in Portland for the summer. l had never been to a dog race. So I went. Dog race, where exploited animals get to chase a fake rabbit.

Bought a program.  I know two things about racing dogs.  They are called "Greyhounds" and they each have four legs.

Read the roster, is it called a roster? for the first race.  Not a clue. Parade.  Blue dog with white markings.  I like blue.  $2 to show.  Tote board.  This dog, Madame X, goes off at 8 to 5.  Show ticket will scarce get my money back.  They're off!  First turn the black dog bumps Madame X and she rolls  paws over teakettle plumb off the course.  Beginner's luck?

Second race.  I've assessed this one more carefully.  a true grey greyhound, name "Wendy's Grey."  Had a girlfriend named Wendy once.  $2 to win.  Went off at 35 to one.  Dang!  She won, paid 72.36.  Beginner's luck!

I'm now $6836 to the good.  A great time to quit.  So I do.  Just watch the doggies run.  Third race.  Coming out of the first turn it looks as though a huge animal, horse? no, just the biggest darn greyhound on the planet and a little white beast, almost small enough to be a whippet, are all alone so far in front that they may be the only two in the race.  And they go for the bunny!  They go so fast the Whippet-like thing actually catches the rabbit!  The Horse-like thing grabs it from her teeth, they rip it to shreds just in time for the rest of the field to screech to a stop to behold the carnage.

Darn!  said the Horse.  That thing ain't even real.
Phooey on this whole bit, chimed in the Whippet.
Yeah! All chorused  They turned and trotted across the field to the paddock, or whatever they call a dog enclosure.

The rest of the card was cancelled because the report of the rebellious creatures motivated all the dogs to go on strike.

Full disclosure:  The first four paragraphs are fact, the rest is fiction.

Dinner Out #T

A Learning Experience.

Monday afternoon as I hurried across the quad, not quite late yet to my 3:10 in the Applied Physics lab, I flipped open the phone and tapped Ellie's number.  She answered.

"Del.  We still on for tomorrow evening?"
"Sure."
"What is your dining pleasure?"
"Italian tomorrow, I think."
"Great!  Pick you up at seven."
"'Bye!"

And I was on the steps of her sorority house at 6:58 Tuesday evening.  Her stylishly mangled jeans fit all too well, but I have to admit she looked really good in the outfit which was completed with an oxford-style white shirt and a red bandanna tied loosely around the neck.

It was a short ride to Matteo's where I had made reservations.  It would be a new experience for me as I am more of a Texas Roadhouse kind of guy.  Our table was ready.  The fact that the hostess used a flashlight to lead us to our table told me this would not be any experience with which I am familiar.

The waiter brought a wine list.  Imagine his disappointment when Ellie announced that she did not imbibe and "I would like water with lemon, please." 

"I would like the same," I averred.  He left the menus and went to fetch our drinks.  I found that there was a little twenty-five watt light beside the candle on the table and by switching it on there was just enough light to make out the offerings.

Elspeth ordered the linguine frutti di mare and a side dish of sauteed portobellos.  My internal calculator rang up "36" and I ordered the penne norcia, no side at a mere eighteen dollars.

"So, you are going to tell me how you knew my name is Elspeth."

I'm from Kalispell, and you are a Montana girl.  I attended the high school state finals in women's track last spring.  Some girl named "Ellie McCall" finished first in the 3200 meters.  What was your time?  I've sort of forgotten."

"10:23.47.  Sixteen hundredths off the state record but good enough that day."

"Yeah.   Most girls who run the 32 in under 10:50 get college scholarships. Not that I am a stalker, but I looked you up on the 'net, and lo and behold, 'Ellie' is 'Elspeth' and Bob's your uncle."  She looked a bit puzzled.  "Never mind.  When I saw you in the coffee house the other day I recognized you at once."  You are from-- Bozeman? is it?"

"No, I'm from Billings."

"That's a fur piece from Kalispell, as we say up north.  So what is it with Ellie and Vanderbilt?"

"So as I think you might have guessed, I am on a scholarship.  I'll be on team this spring.  I'm working every day and plan to focus on the 5000.  I'll still run 3200 when it's on, but I'll drop the 1600."  Then she launched into her eleven-day training cycle, aerobic sessions, anaerobic. . .

And her mill did not stop for the next ninety minutes.  Not one question about me. She managed to eat the full order and still regale me with her exploits on the track.  I finished about half my dish; it was delicious, but I'm not into food on that scale.

Ellie noticed that my fork was inverted on the plate, asked, "Aren't you going to eat that?  Do you mind; I need to keep carbed up.  Running takes lots of fuel!"

I shoved the plate across the table. 

"I'm on the track six out of every eleven days."

"Really?"  Bobby seemed to be under the impression that you go home every weekend."

"Silly Robert!  I couldn't possibly go to Montana every weekend.  And he talks nonstop, never listens."

How often we fail to see the log in our own eye, I thought, somewhat unkindly, I'm afraid.  But to my credit I didn't say it.

I told her goodnight on the steps of her house.  Passed Robert on the quad Wednesday morning.  "Oh, hey," he said.  "How was your date?"

"Fine," I replied. "The field is clear, Robert.  Go for it."

I kinda think they are made for each other.  Whether or not they discover that remains to be seen.

 

Campus Romance #T

Campus Coffee Club, corner table just to the left of the fireplace.  Three occupants, Ginger Girl, Black Haired Beauty, and a big guy with a man bun and a varsity letter jacket.  I approach.  She's sipping a chai latte, Ginger is saying her goodbyes, "Gotta run!"

Manbun is holding forth, "Yadda, yadda, yadda, blah, blah!"  and so on.  She continues to sip her concoction.

I'm in love.

Of course, I knew who she was, but I had never seen her before in person.  It's not just that her eyes are as black as her hair and her complexion, to use a cliche, is peaches-and-cream.  It's, it's an indescribable thing.  Good thing, too, because I lack both the vocabulary and the language facility.  I'm at the end of the table now, set the laptop down.  "Hi!  Mind if I have a seat?"  Her only response is a smile cast in my direction.  Bunny says, "Actually, we do mind.  This corner is occupied, and we are busy here."

I moved across the room, sat at an unoccupied table.  I opened the computer, but I kept an eye on the happy couple at the corner table.  "Happy" seems to be a bit of a stretch.  His mouth continues to move, more or less nonstop.  She glances across at me.  And again.  The third time she looks my way Bunny stops talking, looks at me, looks at her.  I couldn't hear what he said next, but clearly, he was not making her happy.  She said something to him, took a sip from her mug.  The guy stood, all six foot eight of him, swaggered over to me.   Towering over me, "Hey.  I see you eyeing my girl.  Let it go, Mac, if you get my drift."

"I have nothing against you, Robbie-- may I call you Robbie?"  Everyone knows this BMOC, name Robert Garrison.  "Do I fancy the lady? That is my concern, and hers if I make it so.  Tell you what.  Let's go over to the barrista, get ourselves a fresh coffee and go talk it over with the girl."

Well, Rob was quite taken aback-- to such a degree that he agreed with my suggestion, and we went for the drinks.  He settled back in his seat next to the girl, I remained standing.  "Del," I introduced myself as I extended my hand toward her.  She took my hand in hers, shook, and smiled.  "Everyone calls me Ellie," she said.

"Ellie.  Elspeth, right?"

"How did you know?  Most people think it is Eleanor."

"Perhaps we could go into all that over dinner, say Tuesday evening, seven o'clock?"

She nodded.  "What's your number?" I had the flip phone from my pocket.  She told me; I entered it, hit "Send."  Her phone rang, I flipped my device shut.  "That's just me.  Call you Tuesday!  Bye, now."  I leaned in close, whispered, "What color are Rob's eyes?"  She looked perplexed, said nothing; she started to turn toward the giant.  "Never mind.  A word: don't be too intimate with anyone whose eye color you don't know."  She was looking squarely and deeply into my eyes. "Gotta go," I explained, "Big test in the morning, Lobachevskian geometry.  Midnight oil, I'm afraid."

I turned and walked away.  Rob caught up with me as I reached the door.  "Nervy.  Why didn't you ask her out Friday night?"

"Why?  I thought you might have things set up for Friday, or hoped to, so I left that open for you."

"Yeah; I wish.  She always goes home for the weekend."

"Oh, my."  I couldn't help myself.  "She doesn't see your performance on the gridiron?  See you around, Robbie."

The Ice Queen #T

I graduated UT mid-term.  I am a substitute teacher with daily hopes that a full-time position will 
open for me.  I work almost exclusively at Jay Bird Middle School.  That is not the school's real name, and I did not choose it in honor of any avian creature, if you know what I mean.

Jay Bird is one of three middle schools that feed our local institution of secondary learning, Napoleon North High School.  Napoleon, Texas (don't look for it on the map, for I made that up, too) is in the middle of the state if anyplace is and whatever that means.  Suffice it to say that any place in Texas is at least five hundred miles from some other place in Texas.

Jay Bird has a full-time teaching staff of 51.  The teacher attendance rate averages 96%.  A bit of simple arithmetic will show you why, since I have become the principal's favorite sub, I work virtually full time at half the salary of a beginning teacher.  But I digress.  This is to be a story, not a diatribe.  Student attendance is worse, averaging 91%.  The Board of Education has tried various measures up to and including suspensions and expulsions for absenteeism, thereby giving the little birds exactly what they wanted.  The current policy simply encourages each teacher to do his best with each child with the goal being to send him on to high school at the end of his eighth grade year.

There exists the story of a high school star basketball player who has attended fewer than 30 days of school in the past six years, but that is no doubt apocryphal  and not to be believed.  Besides that is not the story I am telling here.

I am an eighth grade math teacher this week, a class I rather enjoy inasmuch as the teacher is top-notch and her plans are always up to snuff, and I don't have to wing it as I do with some.  Wednesday second lunch I am "on duty" in the courtyard, keeping an eye on the kids as they eat their sandwiches or ramen noodles, or whatever the day's offering might be.  Third lunch is my lunch time, but I usually stay in the courtyard sitting at a table off to the side, munching my salad and reading my latest penny dreadful.

Miranda, who is in my seventh period class, sits alone at the table to the left.  Her long dark hair hangs somewhat across her face and she has a rather vacant look about her.  Sophie sits at the next table beyond, also by herself.  Sophie's blonde hair is coiffed in the very latest style and so lacquered that it wouldn't move in a cat 3 hurricane.  Her artfully torn and shredded jeans no doubt cost the equivalent of three of my days' pay.  Her platform shoes are ridiculous beyond description.   I hear a long slurp as Sophie  sucks the last of her drink from the bottom of the paper cup.  This is followed by two quick make-sure slurps, then she rises from the bench and saunters toward Miranda.  She pauses briefly behind the girl, turns her cup and deliberately pours the ice over Miranda's head.  Then she strolls on

Miranda sits at table, ice chips sparkling in her hair, cascading down her shoulders, and smiles.  That's all.  She just smiles-- doesn't even brush the stuff off her hair or clothes.

Thursday, third lunch, same setting, same actors.  Same skit played out.  After Sophie was back in the building, I walked over to Miranda and sat across from her.  "Miranda, tell me.  Why is it that you simply sit there quietly when Sophie pours ice over you?" 

"Oh, that's easy.  Sophie's chauffeur drops her off and picks her up every day.  She doesn't have any friends, sits alone at lunch.  It's sad.  But her little joke gives her a couple minutes of pleasure, I'm happy for her."

"But why don't you join her and talk to her?"

"Oh, she wouldn't want to talk to someone like me.  And besides, it would spoil her fun."

As the kids were passing between classes after sixth period, Sophie walked by my door.  "One second, Sophie."  She stopped.  "Sophie, why do you baptize Miranda with your ice chips every day?"

Sophie snorted.  "Silly cow," she said.  "The lump just sits there smiling, never says a word.  Maybe if she'd get up and smack me or something I'd quit, but in the meantime, it amuses me!"

"Did you ever try to talk to her, maybe sit at table with her?"

"Seriously?  Are you kidding me?  No one, I mean no one, in this dump talks to me."

"I'm talking to you."

Sophie spun on her platforms and disappeared down the hall.

Friday, third lunch period.  Patio seating, same principals.

Sophie slurped her drink from the bottom of the cup and stood.  She walked slowly behind Miranda, but she did not dump the ice on her head.  She continued toward me and I saw Miranda stand and step behind the bench.  She started toward me, too.  Just as Sophie disappeared from my peripheral vision, I felt the ice chips pouring through my hair and down my back!  Miranda caught up with Sophie, they linked arms and hooted with laughter as they hastened to the entryway.

An Afternoon in Liternum

I assayed to write a story based on a fictional account of Scipio Africanus following his retirement to Libernum ca. 185 B.C.  My character, Gallus, was to be a young hanger-on who was with Scipio at Zama.  Whether his role is to be a protector of Scipio against his enemies, or perhaps one of ambition seeking to use the general as a stepping stone to political power I have been unable to determine, and hence a story does not flow.  All, that is, except for this final chapter in the life of Gallus Regulus.

Gallus Regulus  was accompanied by six of his closest allies, stalwarts all, but without Gallus they would collectively be much like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off.  And their hero was poised to make his move.  The opposition were uncertain as to his identity, yet they knew he was in the vicinity.  They knew this because Cassia had wormed her way into the inner circle, nay she had enthralled Gallus himself.  Everyone saw them as a couple.

Cassia skipped into the marketplace with three of her friends, all chattering and laughing.  She spotted Gallus leaning against the lip of the fountain.  As the water splashed in the pool the spray sparkled in the sunlight.  Cassia skipped ahead, running the last few steps to Gallus, she threw her arms around his neck and placed her mouth firmly against his.  She swung by his shoulders and attempted to turn the young man to his right.  Alarm bells sounded in his head as he at that same moment heard the unsheathing of a sword to his left.

Gallus Regulus was both quick and strong.  He broke from Cassia's clasp and simultaneously turned her by the hair and clasped her  back tightly against his body.  In that same instant he pulled his knife from his belt and saw approaching him fifteen or more men, several with lances and two of them with swords drawn.  The blade was honed to a razor edge and in a trice it moved smoothly across Cassia's throat, the life blood gushing from her body as her lover released her and the lifeless form dropped to the ground.

Gallus placed the point of the dagger between his fourth and fifth ribs and with all his might he plunged it squarely into his heart.  His body crumpled and fell across Cassia's body.  The stunned contingent of his opponents were wroth, for their nemesis had just deprived them of their anticipated pleasure of the exquisite tortures they had planned for him.

 Whatever you may think of this snippet, a certain amount of care went into its preparation, even to the selection of the names of the protagonist and his inamorata.

River of Life -Chapter 3

The snow on the heights continued to amass, piling deeper and deeper as the winter wore on.  The snow on the plain continued as well and the villagers actually enjoyed shoveling, digging out the livestock and such like because the life-giving water was paramount in their thinking.  They rejoiced and held prayer meetings of thanksgiving.

The children were beside themselves with joy, for any under eleven or twelve years of age could not remember experiencing such wonders!  Suffice it to say that the inhabitants along the banks of the Knockknock were ecstatic.

And Spring came.

The snows melted; the soil drank in the moisture of life; the farmers began preparations for the planting; happiness reigned.  Grasses greened, bushes budded.  Then schneeschmelze in the mountains began to fill the streams.  Soon enough Elv Knockknock was again a great river; the canal filled and even below the dorp Elv Knickknack produced a mighty flow.

Addy escaped the habitat of the huge catfish, swam upstream searching, searching for a companion who might be fanning a nest in the shallows behind a swirl or in the backwater, for she needed to deposit her roe.  Life must go on.

Finis

Chapter 1         Chapter 2
Note: When one reads this tale aloud to the children remember the "k" is not silent.  Each should be pronounced.  "K- nute,"  "K-nock k-nock," and so on.

River of Life -Chapter 2

Lars and Britta stood on the bank of Elv Knockknock holding hands, sadly looking at the desolation of thirsty land.  Lars called for Mette and Marte and soon heard the "Coming!" in the bright cheery voice of a child.

"What are we to do?" asked Lars.

"The Lord has provided thus far.  Surely He will send rain soon."  Britta shivered as the sharp breeze from the north cut through her jacket.  And she glanced up and looked toward the mountains.  But the mountains were not there!  Completely socked in by cloud cover, even the foothills disappeared from view.  Her heart leaped as she exclaimed, "It will snow in the hills this time.  I know it will.  Thank you Heavenly Father!"

"I hope you are right," Lars said doubtfully.  His faith had been tried sorely during the past too many seasons.  The girls joined them and the four walked back to their home as the sun's last rays faded from the sky.

Morning light, Britta sprang from bed and excitedly dressed, pulled on her winter jacket and rushed outside to look to the north.  And what a sight!  The snow-caps on the peaks shone brightly in the morning sun.

The people of the village could talk of nothing else, excitement building, hopes being strengthened by the hour.  As evening fell the mountains and hills again were shrouded in black clouds.  The next morning brought a sight even more wondrous.  Not only the mountain peaks, but the mountains in their entirety and the hogbacks and foot hills were snow covered.  Even the ground beneath their feet was covered with three or four tommes of the lovely white life-giving snow!

Classroom Contretemps #T

or, How Ned Got a "D" in Advanced Placement Maths,
was denied admission to a top-tier college and spent the rest of his life happily pursuing his dreams.


The mid-term exam, Miss Wilson asserted, would count fully one-third on the final grade.  Be prepared!  Of course, Ned was prepared. He was, as he was fond of saying, born ready.

The big morning came and the students discovered that the teacher had written the test on the whiteboard in blue marker.  There were five problems and a forty-minute time allotment.  Ned went to work, scanned each problem and decided to begin with number three.  He also cheerfully worked numbers one, four, and five, leaving number two for last because he thought he saw a trick in it.

When Ned lifted his head to copy problem number two, he discovered that Miss Wilson had erased all her work from the board.  "Ma'am," he said, "I haven't done one of those problems yet, and now it is gone."

"One would think," the teacher said, "that you would have written it down before this; you had plenty of time to do so,"

"Yeah, well.  I left the second one to last, and I still have plenty of time."

"Your failure to be organized is not my crisis."

"Oh, well. Doesn't matter whether I get an "A" or a "C."  It's all the same anyway."

The instructor strode down the aisle, stopped at Ned's desk, and with her marker scrawled a huge "F" on his test paper.  "That's not fair," Ned whined.

"Perhaps it will teach you to get your act together, show a little respect."

"Okay, then, if you can live with yourself, I can live with it," remarked the lad.

"Remove yourself from this room immediately!  Go to Mr. Devon's office; I will meet you there as soon as the bell rings!

River of Life --Chapter 1 #T

 

In a faraway land there is situated at the confluence of two rivers a village, long a habitation of humankind.  On the south extremity of the town the Elv Knickknack debouches into Elv Knockknock.  Generations past a canal was constructed north of the village.  It flows to the east and the southeast to join nature's concourse again as it empties into the Knickknack.  This waterway has provided abundantly for the community and the people developed a thriving agricultural economy.

As the farmers increased production new facilities for processing and shipping goods were developed within the community.  Hundreds of people established happy homes and plied their trades amidst amiable others.  But now the farmland lies sere and parched.  Six years without rain or snow in the mountains to the north has created a drought the likes of which had never been known in all the region roundabout.

Cloud formations would develop over the peaks and the foothills and the people would rejoice, and the winds would blow the clouds on their way before they could release their moisture.  The people would return to their prayers and frayed hopes that relief would soon come.

The last streamlet in the bed of the Knockknock ceased flowing and there remained only pools of water here in a deep depression or there in a large hole.  Mette and Marte, tow-headed little girls nine years of age played often along the bottom of the river, noting the bits of life remaining in the pools.  Their favorite little pool contained, so far as they were able to see, but two small fish, each perhaps five or six tomme in length.  The girls were fascinated with the little ichthioids, watching them as they captured insects, snapping them up in the water or leaping for them in the air.  They even named the creatures "Knut" and "Addy."

The hot, dry air was every bit as thirsty as the land, and so it sucked up every drop of moisture it could find lying around.  The pool which was the habitat of Addy and Knut dwindled, grew smaller day by day.  Too soon the fish had little more than a bucketful of water in which to live and the girls were alarmed.  But they knew that there was a large pool where the Knickknack fell from the plateau into the Knockknock.  Clever children fetched a pail and Mette's butterfly net.  It was a mere few minutes work to scoop up half-pailful of water and capture the fish.  They made the trek, perhaps some six or eight steinkast downriver and released Knut and Addy into the pool.

The disturbance of the water attracted the attention of the inhabitants of these environs, one of which was a large bullfrog.  It leaped with a splash into the water.  A big fish, a whiskered fish with a wide mouth, cruised quietly over to check it out.  Food!  Knut, still dazed from the trauma of the journey, was too slow to avoid the gaping maw of the hungry catfish.  Addy was left without a companion.  She quickly hid in the cleft of the rock at the bottom of the pool.  Marte and Mette cried.

Marcus #T

Marcus walked through the main door of the family restaurant on the southwest corner where two busy streets meet.  First time visit, so Marcus surveyed the place carefully before choosing a table as the sign posted at this hour read, "Please Seat Yourself."  To his left and toward the west end of the building was a large dining area, six booths along the south wall and many tables throughout the room, most arranged to seat four, a few small ones for two, and three round tables with six chairs.

Straight ahead past the buffet he saw another dining area, brightly lit, full windows on the east and north walls.  Just before entering this area, though, there is a diner-type horseshoe shaped counter with eight stools-- the perfect place for the single diners to sit unmolested or to swap lies with other men of like station in life.  There was but one occupant at this bar.  Tall guy, old.  Marcus would decline to guess an age, but the white hair, the cords down the back of the neck, the mottled hands, one holding a fork, the other a biscuit, all suggested the many years it had taken to develop to this stage.

As Marcus walked slowly past the counter he noted further that the blue jeans were Wranglers® well-worn to a dusty blue shade, not quite threadbare at the knees, but sharply creased and with no holes.  The shirt was western-cut, snap front and long sleeves, each with three snaps tightly fastened around the wrists.  Vertical narrow stripes, alternating brown, beige and black.  The boots, too, were western, brown, highly polished, roach-kicker toes.

On the stool next to this diner, this relic from an earlier day, was a black Stetson, brim up, the famous Stetson picture clearly visible inside the crown of the hat.  Marcus noted the "X X X X X X" inside the leather hatband.  Superb quality, yet not the most expensive hat Stetson ever made.

Marcus, alone again after decades of togetherness with his beloved, took a seat at the other end of the horseshoe.  The old timer never so much as glanced toward the newcomer.  Marcus, though, continued to study the subject, the familiar mien, the craggy brow, the long, slightly hooked nose, the moderately upturned handlebar moustache all spoke to Marcus.  They said, "You know me, don't you, fella?"  Marcus turned his eyes to the waitress as she asked what he'd have to drink.  As he replied, "Water with lemon, please," a strange and uneasy feeling crept up his spine, the hairs on the back of his neck tingled, and as he turned to look once again at the man opposite him it felt as though a monstrous fist grasped his heart and squeezed it.  Marcus realized that he was looking at himself seated on the opposite turn of the horseshoe.

In a moment Marcus recovered, forced his left hand to reach for his billfold.  He took two singles from the wallet, placed them on the counter, rose from his seat. and walked quickly from the restaurant.  The old man never lifted his eyes, continued to concentrate on shoveling his food into his mouth.

Marcus very nearly ran across the parking lot to his car and very soon the entire town disappeared in the rear view mirror.  The memory would haunt Marcus until his eighty-fifth birthday, the day he drove through this village again, pulled into the parking lot of the family restaurant on the southwest corner . . .

 ©David W. Lacy 2017

The Lone Goose #T

  

The cry of a lone goose pierced the sky, the haunting notes singing the tale of a bird separated from his family.  It was late April.  This Blue had somehow lagged behind, was left behind and now it is plaintively seeking its kind.  As the sun drops behind the horizon, the goose hears  the clucking and cackling of poultry far below as their keeper is spreading grain for the evening feed.  The goose circles, descends.  In a large open yard it espies two dozen or so common chickens.  Though the birds are not its kind, they are birds.  Blue lands on the periphery of the yard and the hens go ballistic.  The goose assumes submissive posture, offers no threat.  The chickens calm down and the goose cautiously walks toward them.  Finally, it is close enough to peck at the grain on the ground.  Blue joins the chickens for dinner. 

Blue has assumed the role of guardian of the property and protector of the flock.  Even the rooster has accepted this interloper as a part of his family, and all is well in Birdland. 

September comes, as September will.  On a bright clear morning Blue hears a familiar sound approaching from the north.  A flock of its own people-- snow geese!  Nature stirs the whatever within the creature that impels it to rejoin its own kind.  Blue starts down the lane, runs down the lane, flaps its wings and leaps to launch itself into the air! 

Blue gets about three goose-heights off the ground, sails a few yards and crashes headlong into the dirt.  The poor bird has been much too-well fed, its body now heavy with surfeit.  Its sole exercise for months has been waddling around the chicken lot; its pinions are atrophied and too weak to support flight. 

The flock, hundreds strong, soars overhead while Blue honks a feeble "Good-bye, good-bye."*

 *There is a moral in here somewhere but I shall refrain from pointing it out.  If I could see it, and I did, I know that you can as well.

+©2017  David W. Lacy

Watch Goose and Camaraderie #T

Darlene: "Ardella came over and told me the cops brought you and Clifton to school this morning.  What happened?  Did he beat on you?"

Darren:  "Not any more than I beat on him!"

Darlene:  "Ooh, I'll get him now!"

Darren: "No you won't.  It is all settled; Clifton and I are good."

And so they were.  The two lads even started hanging out together during lunch time and afternoon recesses.  Darlene was not amused, but she is the loyal sister.  She spent more of her time stirring up difficulties amongst the girls.

One afternoon about two weeks after the fight, Clif (the boys were now "Clif" and "Dare") said, "Come on over to my house.  You can see our chickens and stuff.  And we have a watch goose."

"A what?  A watch goose?"

"Yeah.  We have this goose-- Ma says it's a blue goose-- that came in and started living with the chickens.  He guards them and watches over the place.  No one, but I mean no one, steps foot on our property without a big ruckus from Blue.  He's better than a watch dog.  He'll scare the bejabbers out of you, too, and run you off if you don't stand your ground."  Goose won't let the chickens out of the yard, either.  Haven't had one cross the road since he got here."

"Cool!  But how do I get on your place if the goose attacks me?"

"Oh, he won't attack you if you stand still and make yourself as big as you can--  raise your arms up and spread your feet apart.  He will run toward you honking, but he will stop when he sees how fierce you are.  Then you take two steps toward him.  He will back up two steps.  Then stomp your foot and step toward him again.  He'll turn and run."

And that all happened just so..

While Clif and Dare were checking out the hen house, Louie came out.  "Hey," he said.  "You're the kid that looks just like his sister.  She tried to beat me up.  I oughta clobber you just for being related to her."

"Did beat you up," Darren sassed.

"Why you-- I'll beat you up just because you are a little smart aleck."

"No," interjected Clifton, "you won't.  Dare is my buddy now and you'll have to beat us both up."

"I could do that."

"No, you won't.  Remember, blood is thicker than water, or something like that."

"Yeah, yeah.  Well, have fun."  Louie headed back to the house.

Darren knew a world more about poultry and how he got his eggs for breakfast by the time he left for home.


 ©2017  David W. Lacy

Altercation in Pineville #T

Inevitably the day came.  Darlene had a bad case of the sniffles, a sore throat, and every good excuse to stay home from school.  But Darren had to get ready and head out by himself.  Darren turned the corner at the end of the block, walked the half-block to the alley, and there behind the lilac bush was Clifton lying in wait.

"Ha!  Gotcha!  Where's Miss Piggy?  Piggy-tails, I mean."

And here Darren's "erudition" got him into serious trouble.  For some inexplicable reason his recent reading had been centered around nineteenth century American history.  Nine years old and already looking as though he'd be a lawyer or worse, a politician.  Or both.

"Sir," Darren cried, "I perceive that thou art a foul Whig!"

There was but one word of the sentence that Clifton understood and what he heard was "fowl."  He instantly concluded that he was being called a chicken, or worse depending upon what "whig" meant.

He flew with unrestrained fury at his antagonist.  Darren dodged and Clifton overshot his mark.  Both boys turned and the fight began.  I will spare you the details.  Suffice it to say that when Hans Freylingheusen drove up in his police cruiser the boys were rolling in the crushed limestone surface of the alley, both covered with the white powder of the recently-laid material, each flailing at the other, screaming and hollering.  Hans stopped the car, leisurely hoisted himself from the vehicle and ambled over to the combatants.

"Hey!"  Only upon hearing him speak did the boys turn to see a pair of black jack-boots and blue striped trousers beside them.  Only then did the beating and smacking stop.  The officer took a shoulder in each hand and lifted the guys to their feet.  "Get in the car.  In the front seat.  You're not under arrest."

They complied and Hans walked around and got into the car as well.

"Aren't you supposed to be in school?"  No answer.  "I asked you a question."

"Yes, sir."  Feebly.  "Yes, sir."  Also feebly.

"Now I am going to drive you over to the station.  You can't show up at school looking like that."  In the locker room each boy was given a towel and washcloth.  "You want to beat each other?"  Freylingheusen said.  "Knock that dust and dirt off each other.  And don't get carried away; the fight is over.  Then get washed up."

Hans got the boys back into the cruiser and drove them to school.  The three of them went up the walk together.  Not in the best interests of Darren and Clifton was the fact that the third-graders were  on the playground.  The officer took the lads to the principal, Miss Garst.  "I hope you will excuse their tardiness.  These boys ran into a bit of difficulty but everything is all right now.  Right, fellas?"

"Right."

 "Right.  Thank you, sir."


 ©2017  David W. Lacy

Pineville Retribution #T

Clifton was a bully but he was not without a crude and shrewd intelligence.  It did not take long for him to figure out who it was who got him into trouble over the yo-yo incident.  Confronted, Darlene did not deny her involvement.

Clifton:  I will make you sorry!

Darlene: Let's get it on!

Clifton:  All in good time, Baby.

Darlene's blood was about to boil, but she let it pass.

Clifton told his older brother, Louis, about this terrible, awful, mean, wicked girl who kept threatening him.  Louis said, "I can straighten her right out."  Clifton grinned.  "Thanks, Brother."

The Pratt's front doorbell rang shortly after five in the evening.  Mrs. Pratt answered the door to find a large angry woman and a twelve-year old boy standing on the porch.

L. A. Woman: Is this where Darlene lives?

Samantha: Yes. How may I help you?

L.A. W.:  How?  Just look at what that wicked vixen did to my Louie!

And there stood Louie, right eye purple and swollen, left cheek raw with claw (?) marks.

Samantha (turning toward the interior of the house):  DARLENE! Come here at once.

Darlene shows up at the door, stands beside her mother, grasping her skirt and looking up, her baby blues all innocence.  Louie's mother looks at this slip of a girl, turns to her son and says, "Is this the girl that beat you up?"

"Yeh, Ma.  That's her."

Ma turned with a roundhouse swing and walloped her son across the cheek.  "You let that little thing beat you up?  I'll show you what it means to get beat up!  Now get to the house. 'Scuse, me, Ma'am.  We'll be getting along now."


 ©2017  David W. Lacy

Crime in Pineville #T

During their first grade year at Pineville Elementary School, Darlene and Darren had been in the same classroom.  At the end of the year their teacher, a very frazzled teacher, advised most firmly that that sort of placement should not be allowed next year.

So it was that the twins had been in different classrooms since.  Clifton, Darren's nemesis, was in the fourth grade classroom with Darlene.  This sunny October morning Sadie, whose birthday was yesterday, brought her new yo-yo which her Aunt Min had given her.  Sadie had already mastered Walking the Dog and putting her toy to "sleep."  On the playground this morning she had even allowed some of her girlfriends to give it a try.  How pretty it was, shiny blue with silver sparklies that fairly danced in the sunlight as it spun up and down its string!

Back in the classroom, Darlene noticed that Sadie had placed her new treasure on the pencil tray of her desk.  Then it was time for math drill.  The five children in Sadie's row were sent to the chalkboard.  The teacher recited the "problems" and monitored the progress of the kiddos.  As it happened, Clifton was at the board, Sadie was at the board, and the yo-yo sparkled in the sunlight, lying there on the desk.

And you know what Darlene did.

That group finished their drill and returned to their desks.  Before Mrs. Lawton could call another group to the front there was heard a piercing shriek in the room.  Sadie had discovered that her yo-yo was missing.

"Yes, Mrs. Lawton, it was right there."  She points to the pencil tray.  "Someone stole my yo-yo!"
[Insert sobs for effect; oh, yes, those were real.]

The investigation is launched.  Emptying of pockets, dumping of desk contents and so on.  Darlene was "clean," of course, but when teacher got to Clifton, Clifton who in all innocence had no cause for alarm, reached into his desk to pull out the rat's nest he kept there and What's this?  The yo-yo was in the first handful of rubble he pulled out.

Mrs. Lawton palmed the toy.  "Clifton, you and I will spend our lunch time together.  Now class, let us get back to work."

"But, Ma'am! I --"

"But me no buts, Young Man!"


 ©2017  David W. Lacy

Fashion, Theft and Restitution #T

Darlene hated the brown cotton stockings: thigh high, ugly, held up by the suspenders on the little garter belt mama made for her.  In the wintertime, she really did not mind because she hated the cold anyway.  But in the Spring, well, you get the idea.

Darlene, though, as we have seen, is clever, and independent, too. She is now in the fourth grade but she discovered as far back as first grade that teasing from the more fashionably dressed girls was to be her lot in her school life.  But clever Darlene did not need much time to figure out that the stockings could be slipped off soon after she turned the corner at the end of the block on her way to school.  She would step behind a spirea bush, divest herself of the hosiery and store said hose in her brown lunch sack along with the apple and the sandwiches therein.

Darren, the loyal twin, never ratted out his sister, and might be said to be an accomplice, for he would wait on the sidewalk to continue his walk with the little look-alike.  If you are thinking that he did this more for his own protection than for the love of his sister, you would be both right and wrong.  There was that, of course, but Darren truly cared for Darlene, and he felt sorry for her, attired as she was in such unfashionable garb.

This Spring a heat wave struck in late March.  Tuesday morning, Darlene stepped behind the spirea, first time since October.  This went through Darren's mind: This has been going on for three years and what am I getting out of it?  Forgetting the protection his rowdy sister provided, he said, to himself, it is time for me to have some fun.

After lunch, Darren took his paper bag and Darlene's, too, and carried them to the shelf in the cloak closet.  But not before he transferred a brown stocking to each of the back pockets in his overalls.  Behind the bush, Darlene made a terribly disturbing discovery.  She was bare-legged and possessed of no stockings.  "Darren!"  she screamed, "Give me your lunch bag."  Darren complied.  Darlene still had no stockings.

Two blocks back to the dime store and Darlene ran all the way.  But as she entered the door it struck her that she did not have the nineteen cents she would need to buy stockings.  No time for such niceties: she strolled, either chalantly or nonchalantly to the hosiery counter, waited until the clerk was ringing up a sale, slipped a pair of brown stockings off the  counter and stuffed them up her sleeve.  She stole the merchandise.  The twinge of conscience did hurt, but not enough to deter her from her mission.  She ambled out the store and returned to the bushes which were her changing room.  Darren, of course, was not waiting for her.  But he was home when she arrived fully clad with stockings and all.

Darren, naturally, ferreted out the truth.  He was appalled.  Ornery, yes.  Mischievous, yes. But criminal?  He was willing, nay eager, to practice disobedience on occasion, but outright theft?  "Darlene, you have to make this right."

"Now just how do you think I am going to do that?  If I confess, Daddy will tan my hide and I might even go to jail."

"Look," he said.  Get your pig-bank.  I'll take care of it.  That's what brothers do."

"Yeah," she said. "Get me out of the trouble you got me into in the first place."

"That's what brothers do!"


 ©2017  David W. Lacy

The Pratts in Church #T

Pastor Pratt is on the platform.  He takes his position behind the pulpit and begins the introduction to his sermon.  He usually starts his message with a light-hearted or heart-tugging illustration, often drawn from his own experiences.  Today's story is no exception and casts him in the role of Peck's bad boy a quarter century ago.  Like father, like children?

Mrs. Pratt is seated at the center aisle, second row from the front.  Next to her is Darlene, then Darrin.  And next to him is Mindy who is snuggled up against her Grammy.  The two women have effectively blocked the egress from the pew such that no child is going to escape unless he crawls under the bench.  What a great idea!  Darren thought.  If I could get to the vestibule. . . As "all heads are bowed and all eyes are closed" Darren drops to the floor and begins to work his way, on his belly, toward the back.  At the fifth row back, though, he runs into a problem. Two problems, actually.  The first is that this row is completely filled such that there is no space between legs to accommodate the boy's body.  The second is that someone pronounces the "Amen."  Darren is stuck beneath a pew and no place to go.

Samantha is looking all around, turns to Darlene and hisses, "Where's Darren?"  Darlene shrugs, hands at her sides, palms up.  Daddy, in the pulpit, sees that Mama is in a state, but he cannot let that distract him from the point he is making.  But he notes that his only son is absent from his pew.  Pastor intoned, "Let us look at Genesis, chapter 27 and verse 8."  Then louder he read,  "Now therefore, my son, obey my voice according to that which I command thee. Bring forth now to thy father the blue hymnal in the rack on the back of the nearby pew."  A bit of snickering, especially from those who had turned in their Bibles to the passage cited.  Darren felt the hair around his cowlicks stand on end and a chill ran down his spine.  He knew he had been had, but he rose sheepishly from the floor, grasped a blue hymnal, bumped past three pairs of knees as he moved to the aisle along the wall, muttering, "Excuse me, excuse me, I beg your pardon."  His father met Darren at the edge of the platform, the boy handed him the book and Dad muttered, sotto voce, "Wait 'til your father gets home." 

The preacher continued his sermon, church was dismissed, and one sandy-haired, freckle-faced boy escaped the environs post haste, but he headed directly to the house.

 ©2017  David W. Lacy

The Pratt Household #T

A bit ago you were introduced to the Pratt twins, Darlene and Darren.  Today, a bit about the rest of the family.
 
Mr. Pratt, Edwin, if it really matters, because everyone calls him "Pastor" or sometimes "Reverend," is the pastor of Pineville Community Church.  Pineville, as you are aware, is tucked away in a serene, not to mention somnolent, valley just a bit past beyond.  Parochial?  Not so very much.  If you were not born there you are not a "local," even though you may have lived there for seventy years.  Go figure.  The Pratts are not locals.  They came to town to pastor PCC nine years ago, just six weeks after the birth of the twins.  Five years later Mindy was born.  Mindy will ever be known as a local.  But never her parents or her siblings.  See above.

Mrs. Pratt, Samantha, is very much involved in the good works of the church and with the community at large.  She is a regular participant in the doings of the PTA and is a volunteer at the Pineville Community Hospital.

The baby, four-year old Mindy, is beautiful, charming, a living doll, one might say, and is beloved by all.  She is the good child, the payoff to perseverance, the balance over against the antics of the twins.  And how does Mrs. Pratt cope with all the responsibilities that devolve upon her as pastor's wife, mother to an angel and two hellions, still finding time to be of real service to the townspeople?
Bad luck often brings with it good fortune and in this case the bad luck of Samantha's mother in losing her husband to cancer three years ago has turned into the Pratts' good fortune.  For the past year Mrs. Cline has lived with the Pratts.

There is no cause for mother-in-law jokes, for Edwin and Eldena, that's Mrs. Cline, are the best of friends.  It might even be said that they adore each other, and Samantha loves them both and all is peachy-keen in the household.

Except for Darren and Darlene.  Please understand that these children are loved by all the occupants of the house, that there is no abuse going on.  They are well and properly cared for.  It is just that they are exasperating.  Twins: double the trouble, half the restraint.  If the girl-one don't get you, the boy-one will.  Or they both will.

Case in point.  Last Saturday Pineville Community Church had a Sunday School picnic in Pine Park.  The feast was consumed and the ladies of the Silver Set were tending to the cleanup duties.  People of all ages were entertaining themselves and each other, letting the meal settle a bit, you see, and the softball and volleyball games had not yet started.  Guys sitting around picking their teeth, ladies standing about in little clusters relating-- What?  You think gossip is going to slip into this account?  Not so.

Last Sunday Darren's Sunday School teacher, Miss Prunella (we call her, for Darren thinks of her as an old prune) had been a bit harsh with the lad over an itching powder incident involving Suzie Fletcher.  The young Pratt had yet to develop sufficient spiritual strength to forgive and forget.

So it was that Darren was crawling around on the ground, ostensibly looking for-- for what? Lost spectacles? A four-leaf clover?  Never mind.  As the boy sees his sister, pigtails flying, rushing headlong toward her, Darren positions himself, on his knees, directly behind Miss Prunella's legs.  Darlene turns her head to look back, ostensibly to see if the one chasing her is gaining on her (this is how she told it later) and in that instant of looking back and moving forward she ran into the unlucky SS teacher who staggered backward half-step, ran into Darren and fell on her back, plum knocking the wind out of her.  Beautifully executed teamwork by the twins, all deniability factors rehearsed in advance and carried off flawlessly.

The preacher's kids. You know what they say about those.

The Pratts of Pineville #T

 "Hi.  I'm Darlene and I am nine years old.  This is my brother."

"Hello.  I'm Darren.  I am nine, too."

"Oh, you are twins. How adorable!"`

There is an opinion that will change in less than a week. Most people who know them will say, "Darlene, indeed.. She's no darling, that's for sure. And Darren will dare anything, so long as it's ornery."

 Darlene and Darren are the first offspring of the Rev. Mr. Edwin Pratt and his lovely wife, Samantha. The twins have a sister, Mindy, age four. Technically, Darlene is the first-born of the Pratt children, being four minutes older than her brother. Pratt is their name, and mischief is their game.

Darlene's strawberry blonde hair is almost always in pigtails. Her complexion, to use a cliche, is peaches and cream, but that she wears a permanent Swiss dotted ribbon of rusty freckles across the bridge of her nose and under the eyes to the very corners of those bright blue orbs. A level could be placed across the tops of the heads of these two when they are standing side by side and the bubble would fall strictly inside the lines. It is likely, though, that in a couple of years Darlene will be the taller, but that probably won't last very long.

Darren has distinct double cowlicks and some wag said, not in the hearing of the Reverend, that those were exactly where the boy's horns would sprout in a couple of years, at the rate he was going. Of Darlene, well, she already has horns but keeps them pulled back in braids. Darren's band of freckles is the mirror image of his sister's. The eyes are the exact same shade as Darlene's baby blues.

Despite their similarities in appearance, however, these children were possessed (someone once said, "No kidding!") of two distinct personalities. Prepare to be surprised. Darlene was by far the more rambunctious, the one more likely to engage in physical altercations, and the one chosen first in most pick-up games on the playground or in a vacant lot. By contrast Darren was more the contemplative type, likely to be in a corner with a book, sometimes even a dictionary or encyclopedia. He is the kid who is picked on by the playground bullies. In particular, Darren has one nemesis who persists in annoying the lad, though this exchange once took place when Darlene was with her brother.

Clifton: "One of these days soon I will catch you when your sister's not around and I'll beat the crap out of you."

 Darlene: "You do that and when I catch up with you I will break every bone in your ugly body."

Clifton has confined his pestering to verbal taunts, a circumstance which will doubtless prevail.

 ©2017  David W. Lacy

Hallelujah Time with Preacher Partlow #T

Did I tell you about the time Preacher Partlow pitch a tent in Las Animas? Waal, Preacher, he work across Kansas from Wichita to Syracuse a holdin' meetin's all along the way. Tuk him most a summer, too, on account he draw such crowds even in that godforsaken territory, waal, any entertainment was better 'n nuthin', so as he offen stay in one place three-four weeks. Waal, he closed out in Syracuse on a Sunday night and a Monday he head on over to Las Animas. His old double A truck loaded to the gills, what with the tent, the accordion his wife played, and of course, his trombone and his trumpet. Now his was a small-time operation, doncha know, just him and his wife. His wife was Noreen Gibbs, you know, and afore she married Preacher she was purty well-knowed around Tulsa, on account a she had a voice people pay money to hear. They say she could paralyze the devil, and put the angels to shame. Anyway, people come to Preacher's meetin's to hear him play them horns and hear him preach. Orate was what he done. But it didn't hurt the draw none to have Noreen on the platform with him. And when she close out the evenin' with “Just as I Am,” those folk didn't hit that sawdust trail-- not much they didn't. Line that rail along the sawdust, why I guess they did.

So one Sattidy night about two weeks into the revival in Las Animas, Grady Smith and Hank Morton from over th'other side the river, over to'rd Fort Lyon, made it up atween 'em to go over to Animas an' bust up Preacher's meetin'. Now, ever'body know Grady could whup anyone in Bent County, and Hank was his toady, would do whatever Grady tol' him to do. So they get onto they cow ponies and ride on over to the tent. Now Preacher had a wonderful meetin' that night, the music had plum warmed the people into a most receptive frame a mind, and Preacher know this harvest was ripe to reap. He was givin’ 'em low-pocka-hirem, gettin' ready to thrust in the sickle, so to speak, when Hank and Grady bust into the side a the tent on they hosses, Grady from Preacher's right and Hank from his left, and rid them hosses right up onto the platform. They did. Grady leap out the saddle and drop the reins. “This here meetin',” he shouted, “is over! And I'ma whup you, Mr. Preacher Man.”

Partlow raise both hands, palms out toward the crowd and cry, “Folks, just hold your seats and put on a Lord's measure of patience. I am going to step out back of this tent with this youngster for just a few seconds, and I'll be right back.” Grady roared with laughter, and Hank, still aboard his pony, said, “Like hell.”

Now Grady was a hoss his own self, six-three and prolly went two thirty. Preacher mought a weight one fifty-five, but he'd have to be plum dressed and plum wet to make 'er. Preacher step offa the platform and out back the tent with Grady right on his heels. Miz Partlow step to the platform and in her angelic voice start singin’ “When We All Get to Heaven.” Preacher turn to face Grady, Grady tuk a roundhouse swing with his left, which Preacher duck quicker'n I can tell it and come up with a right widow-maker smack! into the bottom side Grady's chin, whilst he bury his left in his gut. Grady hit the ground, out like a campfire in a hail storm, just as Noreen was hittin’ the strains of “what a day of rejoicing that will be!”

Preacher step through the tent-flap onto the platform, raise both hands again, said, “Thanks be to God!  Now, all you sinners come to Jesus now!” And they done it.  And Hank Morton on his knees with ‘em. There was a stringer there thet night, and the La Junta Tribune-Democrat reported they was forty-seven people confessed Christ as they savior!

Text © 2013 David W. Lacy