THE SHOELACE MISTERY

What is it with me, or most men? I would say our hangup is we always need to know how things work.

After all, how can we fix it if we don't figure out how it works in the first place.

I've been trying to deal with a problem for at least a half a decade. Don't snicker. It has nothing to do with a part of my anatomy.

The problem I've been dealing with is more of an aggravation. An aggravation that causes me to waste time and energy, and not always in a suitable environment.

I've been irritated by my left shoe's laces coming untied soon after I put the shoe on. Now you say, "What's the big deal?" I tell you the big deal. Once you step on your loose lace, and your kisser hits the ground, you'll know fast that untied shoelaces do not aid to the composure and dapperness of a cool dude. (Which I am by the way; stretch socks and all.)

Like I said, I've been trying to figure out why only the left shoe's lace unties itself. I do the exact same knot in both shoes. I've tied knots the same way since I was old enough to eat my own soup.

I figured since I was right handed I tied my right shoe tighter. No, that wasn't it.

I figured I shoved my foot further into the shoe, leaving space behind at the heel. No, adjusting that didn't work either.

I looked at myself in a full body mirror and figured my left leg was shorter. I bought a Dr. Scholls insert, tried it out for a week––didn't work.

I decided my stride is not the same with both legs. For several days I did the George Jefferson bop. You know, the cool move where your hip dips a bit at every step. Cool you know! No worky either.

I took notice if I walked pigeon toed. Maybe my left foot sticks further out, or in, than the right one? Not that bad, I noticed. Surely not enough to cause the dilemma.

I tried wearing suspenders and even parted my hair on the other side of my head. No change!

Years I squatted to tie my left shoe. I bent over, blocking other people's way, tying my shoe. I quit going to the Y because I was getting plenty of exercise bending down and bobbing up. I constantly had to make sure my shirt didn't come up and reveal my collectable inscriptions on my souvenir drawers.

Well they thought the earth was flat at one time. They didn't give up. And, wow they actually discovered it was round.

Do you think I, a man with my drive, my stick-to-a-tive-ness, and my nit-picking brain would give up?

I found out, by shear dumb revelation, that had I ever been a Boy Scout, I would have solved my predicament long ago.

I tied my right shoelace doing the first half knot over and under. Did the same on my left shoe for years. However, when I finally figured to tie the problem shoe, doing the half knot under and over, all my problems were solved.

Now I can grin and hoof along with the best of them.

THE JOY IS GONE

This short story is from my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant."I have expanded the story and it will be published as part of an e-book in the future.

THE JOY IS GONE

In late summer of ‘52 on a sunny, crisp day, I strolled to the edge of the rail yard to play . . . all by myself. I settled down at an abutment at the end of a rail track, an elevated area about two meters square. This new spot of play, isolated from scurrying pedestrians, was rimmed with used rail ties which made a perfect ledge to play on. I must have summoned all the imaginations of childhood as I settled in to a wonderful and deeply enjoyable time of play. All was perfect that day. I remember it well.

Looking around that small area I found everything my imagination sought. Every nail, chunk of metal, rock, bolt, and fragment of wood held meaning. All fulfilled my needs of the moment. I assembled, arranged and manufactured, I dreamed, imagined and conquered. It truly was a playtime that fully included my soul and all the wonders of a child’s world.––A perfect day.

For days after, I cherished the feeling and the good that had swelled my young heart that afternoon. Soon chores, homework, and running errands led me back to reality, the regimentation, and the striving to get on with life. However, the remembrance of that perfect day stayed etched in my mind and soul to this day.

A month or so later, I was drawn again to that previous wonderful experience, that personal paradise at the end of the tracks. My heart sang as I approached the spot with great expectations. The weather was sunny and crisp. I found the place, but the world was not still and quiet. . . .The toy wonders still laid where I had left them, meaningless and totally useless as they really were. Now it was a sooty place, a place of rotten timbers and dust. . . .Who had stolen the glee, the power, and magic? . . .It was time. Time itself was the thief. All the good had gone, . . .along with the child in me.

THE MANEUVER

A shorter version of this story is in my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant." I have expanded the story and it will be published as part of an e-book in the near future.

THE MANEUVER

One maneuver I participated in surely takes the cake.

In the early nineteen-fifties various delivery trucks, plus all parcel-post trucks, were battery powered. Many of the old battery powered vehicles had wooden-spoked wheels with solid rubber tires. A big chain, powered by huge batteries, led to the rear drive wheels. The operator sat up front like in any other motor vehicle.

Many Gasthauses, close to the brewery, had their beer delivered in wooden barrels on a wagon drawn by a pair of Clydesdale horses. The battery powered trucks served the more distant establishments.

On level ground these electric trucks easily outran the horse drawn ones. However, going up an incline, the battery powered vehicles really labored. They slowed down to a point where our walking home from school would be considered fast.

My buddy and I had long observed that the battery powered postal trucks had a pullout step in the rear of the truck. The postman used it to step up and back down to retrieve the parcels. We figured if we could run out into traffic, while the cars behind were held to a crawl, we could pull out that step and get a ride home.

Oh boy! As a kid, things always make so much sense. After all, how in the world could an inquisitive kid think things through if he never partook in any such wonderful experiences?

Then, guess what? The day came when everything fell into place. As we moseyed up an incline heading home from school, we noticed a postal truck holding up traffic as it slowed to master the slight hill. “The postman cometh!” We ran out into traffic, pulled out the step, sat down on it, and grinned. Just the perfect size for two boys with school satchels on their backs. We sat there looking kind of proud and worthy of praise as we faced the cars that followed behind the truck. If the postman knew he had stowaways, we could not tell, nor did we even pondered the risk.

After the hill leveled out the postal truck gained considerable speed, but still slowed down traffic. The road was wide enough for cars to pass, if one wanted to fight the trolley tracks in the middle of the road.

We were doing so good that in no time my pal realized he had to get off. We had zipped past his road. With no time to contemplate, he just jumped off the moving truck. I did not know a twelve-year old could be so acrobatic. When his feet touched the pavement, he immediately went tumbling like a frantic rag doll, as the cars that followed blew their horn.

Well, I still sat there. The vehicle kept gaining speed. Soon I too had to get off. To stay on for the duration, only the Lord knew how many miles to the next stop.

The word inertia was never explained to me. Even if it had, what could I have done about it then . . . looking at the cars following.

I was in the process of moving backward. I’ve seen people jump off still moving trolley cars, but they faced in the right direction when they jumped off.

Well, “There I go.” I also made the jump. A good thing the cars that followed kept considerably more distance since the first chap’s sprawl. I hit the pavement so hard that every bone in me rattled. Flopping around and rolling with the traffic, I came to rest at the edge of the bicycle path. I am sure the cars that followed blew their horns and hollered at me. I did not hear a thing. I crawled up onto the sidewalk, my head in a whirl. After a sobering resting spell I got up, pulled my shirt around so the buttons were again in the front, straightened out my breeches, gathered up my satchel, and slowly dragged myself home.

THE BIG SMOOCH

This short story is from my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant."I have expanded the story and it will be published as part of an e-book in the future.

This story happened in 1946

THE BIG SMOOCH

At six years old, the Red Cross sent me, and a few others from our town, to a rest camp in the Bohemian Woods. After we jumped off the train, we joined kids already at the depot. From there guardians chaperoned us through a town. To where we walked I can’t remember.

On that walk through town I do remember a startling, dark skinned woman with long black hair, dressed in black, sitting on the front steps of a row house. As we walked by, she offered me a piece of chocolate. I was shocked at the gesture. I knew I had stared at her. I refused the candy. Had I taken it, I would not have eaten it. My ever skeptical mother instilled that in me. Later I learned she was a gypsy and quite common in the area.

I stayed several weeks at the Bohemian camp. Distinct experiences come to mind.

One of the great-rooms we spent time to play in was covered with ceramic tile. The floors, the walls, and the window sills, all were covered in light green tile. Nothing earth shattering took place in that hall except we, at six, learned to annoy the girls.

Up to the time of the Bohemian Camp, my group of friends, all boys, had stayed away from girls. Girls were weird. They did not carry spears and pocketknives.

In an unfamiliar environment and among new and strange kids, we soon learned who was easily irritated, and who dished it out. We, the young snaps, soon found out that girls were different; and agitate them we did. It turned out the girls shrieked and covered their ears when we, the boys, scratched the tile with a spoon or other metal object. What fun!

The camp insisted that all the children take afternoon naps. This daily routine took place in a large hall with tall ceilings and many windows. Each boy and girl had their own little iron framed bed, and all napped in the same hall. The boys’ beds were lined up along the inner wall and faced the windows. The girls’ beds faced toward the boys and were lined up along the window wall. During nap time we were not allowed to talk, only rest. However, the boys were restless. Girls! The world was too alive, too interesting, and offered too much to experience.

The ever curious boys found that each of the four chimneys along our wall had a small soot and ash clean-out-box near the floor. Apparently during the winter months several coal stoves heated that big room.

Investigating what was behind those little iron doors became a mission of high interest. We found those clean-outs to be full of fine soot. The stuff was pitch black, kind of oily, and hard to wipe off the skin. Remember, all this discovery took place while we “napped.”

Now, there were as many girls in that hall as were boys. Since talking was not allowed, the girls all resigned themselves to truly rest. Some, I’m sure, went to sleep.

We, the boys, on the opposite side along the inner wall whispered, conspired and devised a plan. A plan to agitate the opposite sex. It took a day or so to work out the details. Each boy was assigned a girl strategically located opposite his bed. One girl for each boy. The older boys decided that on the appointed day, each boy would kiss and smooch his designated girl. Soot was part of the plan.

On the chosen day, all the chaps and girls settled in to take their nap. The bright sun lit up the room. Some thirty minutes into the rest period most girls dozed in the warm, sun filled room. We, the men, faked likewise.

When the chaperone finally was convinced a restful afternoon was in the making, he walked out of the room. The boys went to work. Carefully, not making the slightest noise, we opened the chimney trap doors which were spaced about one every three beds. We dipped our hands in and brought forth a good dab of soot. The soot was passed to left and right so every boy had some between their fingers. As previously planned, we took the soot and carefully smeared it around our mouth. . . .The girls rested peacefully.

All quiet, . . . waiting for the signal. Our hearts pounded. We hardly contained our giggles. The prank leader coughed! In one accord we bounded out of our beds, darted across the center aisle, and pounced on the girls. Not along side of the girls, but fully leaped on top of them.

Smooch we did! Good, long smooches. Shrieks and squeals resonated throughout the hall. As quickly as the boys came, so they also retreated to their respective beds.

When the chaperone came to check on the commotion, all the girls were sitting up and really didn’t know what had happened. The boys grinned. Who me? I didn’t do a thing!

I will never forget the sight. The young ladies had black smudges around their lips and face proving that none of the young boys had chickened out. The boys acted very sheepishly. None of us were caught in the act. All of us were obviously guilty. No reprimand was ever issued. The conquest was a success. Thank God for boys and girls.

A Chicken's Funeral

Franz's symbol of wisdom

Recently a bit of local news reached my ear. Not a major story, but in my mind one I could mold into an entertaining tale.

To me a chicken is a farm animal. It does not mix with our flower boxes in front of the house. I don't like the residue they leave on the sidewalk, or the porch. I know the white portion of their droppings does wonders to speed up growth in a young man's mustache. However, I don't need that help any longer.

Several of our neighbors raise chickens for eggs, I never was convinced it is worth it.

To give chickens names and become pets, a whole new understanding comes to mind. I have a hard time understanding folks my age talking to chickens and calling them by their name. I guess it is the same as talking to yourself; at least the eye contact is there. When children talk to animals it gives me a warm feeling. I can see a child squatting to feed Darlene the Hen popcorn. I can also appreciate a young'un wanting a chicken eat part of a biscuit out their hand, or having a conversation with the cackling fowl.

Many-a-youngsters have gone to the henhouse in all kinds of weather to collect the eggs. Kids learn to feed them regularly connecting work with the reward.

Most chicken families start out with a dozen chicks. By the time they raised them to adults, everyone had gotten tired of the stink in the house. When they are introduced to the henhouse the folks soon find out that there are at least four roosters in the bunch. Maybe they keep one rooster. The other three will face one of two characters; 22 or AX.

Now the family is down to eight cluckers. No doubt the fox is going to get his share. Down to seven cluckers. The 'possum and the weasel are on high alert and both are going to win a stake. Down to five cluckers. The neighborhood teenager, texting and driving, is sure to whack one. Now down to four cluckers and one cock bird.

You can see after all this drama that the children now have become attached to the survivors to a point where they not only gave them names, but learned to identify them by their cackle, walk, and color of feathers.

Well, Darlene the hen one day overreached her assigned area. She stretched for a forbidden fruit, slipped, and hung herself in the crotch of a lattice fence. Dead as four o'clock.

I surmise at least one of the three children did a little blubbering. The oldest boy, ever the frugal one, suggested they put her in the crockpot.
"Absolutely not," the mother said. "We don't know how long Darlene has been hanging there."

"Dad! . . . Dad! We have to have a funeral for our faithful family member," Nat bellowed out.
"Okay. Get Jon the shovel, he is old enough to dig the hole," Dad said.
"Not just a hole," Bella the youngest cried. "She was my favorite. Us kids want you, Daddy, to have a funeral for Darlene just like they have at the graveyard at church.

Jon lovingly dug the hole. One foot square and one foot deep.

"A little deeper Jon," Dad said. "Deep enough so a dog won't dig her up."

The sun began to set. The sky shimmered pink and purple. The somber procession to the graveyard began. The deceased was placed in a red hearse. Jon the oldest, eleven years old, slowly pulled the three foot wagon to grave site. The younger children, walking single file, hands clasped, followed. Once at the open grave they sat on three chairs they brought earlier to the gravesite. Smitten and heartbroken they quietly waited for their Dad to begin the service.

"We are gathered here to put Darlene, a faithful friend and member of our family, to eternal rest. As the head of our household I'd like to express my deep condolences to the rest of the brood." Dad reached to his face and, unbeknownst to the others, wiped his smile to again match the solemn occasion.

Dad continued. "At this time I'd like to ask the rest of the family present to say a few words."

"I know you'll be happy again in chicken heaven. I'll miss you," said Bella.
Nat piped up and said, "Thanks for your service."
Jon, the oldest, always with the final word said, "Thanks for the omelets. . . Amen."  

MEDIEVAL PUNISHMENT

This short story is from my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant." this story has been expanded and will be published as part of an e-book in the future. 

MEDIEVAL PUNISHMENT

Being a sickly youngster in the middle to late forties the American Red Cross sent me and many other children to summer camps. This story took place at the last camp I attended.

The boys slept in one large hall on single beds. After being told to get into bed, we were allowed to talk and swap stories with a neighbor for a few more minutes. However, the second the light was turned off, all words had to cease immediately resulting in total quiet.

My bed was near the front and close to the light switch. One night, the instant the lights went off, I, being in the middle of a sentence of some tale, finished my words one-second after dark. The counsellor called on me, made me get out of bed, grabbed my arm, and led me away.

I remember having to walk up one flight of stairs with wrought iron rails on the side. Once up at the chosen landing, the counsellor told me to wait there while he stepped into a room.

He returned shortly with a triangular split piece of firewood. He laid the wood on the floor, sharp edge up, and told me to kneel on it. Very adamantly, finger pointing at my face, he told me not to get off or make any loud noises for half an hour. He made sure my bare knees were squarely planted on it. He warned me not to rear back onto my haunches; if he caught me doing so, or getting off the log in any way, he’d make me stay on that sharp edge for an additional 30 minutes.

Outside of his room, there in the hall, no way to ease the unrelenting pain, I suffered. At first I thought I could tough it out. The only solace being that I truly despised that man. All the wishing that he would fall over dead did nothing to my pain and  agonizing mind. I slobbered and huffed in torment. . . .I heard a lady friend in the room with him. Sounds of pleasure and giggles came to my ears. I knelt there and faced the partially open door. I, a beaten slave.

Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes like hours. Suddenly the door sprang open. He checked on me with a smirk on his face. I must have been a pleasing sight, kneeling there, looking up, quiet tears streaming down my cheeks from the unbearable pain. Satisfied, he said nothing and went back to his room.

Frightened anew, the conviction to obey his orders, stabbed even deeper into my heart. I dare not get caught trying to ease the suffering.

How much time had elapsed since this horror began? . . . Did he keep track of time? . . . Will he remember me out here in the hall? . . . Does anybody love me? . . . Will this ever end? . . . God have mercy on me!

ATTACKED BY NATURE

ATTACKED BY NATURE

Being attacked by nature is a challenge. A challenge that has been present since the beginning of mankind. 

Insects attack plants. Plants die and replenish the soil; a good thing. Animals each follow their own cycle.

I consider myself blessed to having lived long enough to find being attacked by animals not only a challenge, but a joy. I’m not attacked by them personally, but in a way that makes me want to outsmart the critters.

I may be able to outsmart the critters, but I’m certainly not smart enough outsmarting the forces of nature. That part is the Almighty’s doing, and I respect that.

Nature bows down in gratitude for the blessings from above.

Nature submits to the One that directs all.

When the squirrels first chewed the lid of the bird feed barrel and shoved it to the side, I placed a rock on the lid. The mice said to the squirrel, “Hey dummies, look at my hole, I can still get my share!”

I smiled and let them have the little they eat.

Then spring sprung, the ground warmed, peonies sprouted. They sprouted just under the bird feeder. Turkeys came along and scratched for morsels that had dropped from the feeder. In their exuberance they wiped out most of the new peony sprouts. I smiled and placed a few stones around the shoots.

The deer not meaning any harm survived the winter’s sparseness by plucking a few morsels from the evergreens near the cabin. Do I really think the Good Lord wants those plants to die? Nah. I smiled and said to myself, “They’ll only get bushier. I may place a net over them next winter.

Then the neighborhood beaver wiggled itself into our pond. He perused the setup and decided that the two year old willow tree would make a good snack. I smiled and said to myself, “I’ll get another one and plant it in the same spot, but I’ll wrap it in chicken wire and see if he’s game enough to use the wire for a little dental floss.”

Well, we did see bear tracks before. That always makes one feel they're living back in the 1800s. 

First we saw the bird feeder on the ground. “Strange,” we thought. No high wind swepped the mountains since the last time we came to the cabin. I was sure I’d mounted the feeder high enough off the ground as not to get whopped by a bear, but there it was, spent, empty. . . .I smiled.

My smile turned to a gasp when I walk around to the deck. There was sprawled the smoker, (my birthday present) all over the deck. “Maybe we did have a little wind after all.” I said to Carol.

“Wind––my foot,” I shouted when I saw the paw marks on top of the grill cover. Good thing the pine pollen gave the culprit away. Without the pollen, no evidence of a bear would have been positively found. The grill stands four feet of the floor. The paw marks obviously showed the brute was taller than the grill; and also tall enough to smack the bird feeder. I smiled. Case solved.

At least we don’t have to deal with evil, rebellious, self-serving, man living in the woods.

This well known creature no longer has the guts to accept the challenges offered and directed by the Almighty.