Friday, October 28, 2011

Say Goodbye to Daddy

Say Goodbye to Daddy

Skadi meic Beorh

I waited all day for my daddy to come home from work, and when he did he was late and drunk as Cooter Brown. That made me just want to cry. Me and my brothers and sisters was all playing around the house and getting under mama’s feet in the kitchen until she shooed us all out from under her and we all ran outside in the rain. Then I heard my daddy say “Chillun, y’all come on back inside and see Daddy now,” and one by one we all ran back inside, wet as drowned rats. There my daddy lay on his bed, so drunk on that old rotgut whiskey he could hardly keep his eyes open. We all climbed up on and around him and was saying “Hey Daddy” and “Sweet little Daddy” and “We glad you home” when he reached down on the side of the bed and pulled up a double-barrel shotgun and cocked it and put the barrels under his chin. “Say goodbye to Daddy now,” he said, and we all said “No Daddy! We love you, Daddy! We love you!” and I started bawling my eyes out and hugging my daddy so tight and pulling my little sister close so she could be near him too because she was crying too and her snot bubbles was popping. “Nobody loves Daddy,” my daddy said like he was about to start crying himself. “Nobody loves me. I’m going to be with Jesus now…” and the way he said that was low and sad like he was singing a old blues song. “But we love you, Daddy!” we was screaming and “No, Daddy! Don't go!” but he pushed that old shotgun harder under his chin and then he started crying so much I couldn’t wipe all his tears off. “Nobody loves Daddy. Say goodbye to Daddy now. Say goodbye…” I was beside myself I was so sad. “But I love you, Daddy. I love you!” And then I heard the heavy footsteps of my mama on the floorboards. “Ira Barrow! What you doin’ to them chillun now? You get up off that bed and get in the kitchen with a pot o’ coffee! Supper’ll be ready here directly, and you gonna be sober for it and tell them chillun you sorry, you hear me Ira?”

_________________________________
Skadi meic Beorh is also the author of the poetic study Golgotha as well as the novella The Highwayman's Tale. His people are from Alabama, a place he both loves and hates with equal passion. He lives on the Atlantic Coast of Florida with his Alaskan wife Ember. More about this writer can be discovered at http://skadimeicbeorh.wordpress.com/
 

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Pop’s Passion

Pop’s Passion
By Jane-Ann Heitmueller


Two brothers, a weathered wooden skiff, tin buckets stuffed with bait, cane poles and a well worn path down the steep, rocky banks to the river…. what more could a 10 year old boy need on a lazy summer afternoon in 1914? According to my dad, known in his later years as Pop, one needed no other ingredient to make his day perfect!

Pop grew up in Hudson, New Hampshire and was exposed, at a very early age, to the Merrimack River, lazily meandering through the state. He and his two brothers had to take only a brief walk across the dirt road in front of their home on Maple Avenue and nimbly shimmy down the treacherous bank to find themselves on the shoreline. Stretched before the three eager boys were hours and hours of youthful adventure and fishing pleasure. The seed had been planted in Pop. A seed he joyously cultivated for the next 70 years.

Time and circumstance brought Pop to live his adult years in the deep south, but no matter the location, he never lost his childlike desire and interest in fishing. The state of Alabama prides itself in having numerous lakes and rivers, which serve as literal goldmines for those, like Pop, who relish the sport of fishing.

Lake Guntersville provides an abundance of small inlets that teem with a variety of fish. A plethora of catfish, bream, bass and crappie await the eager fisherman. One of the small creeks on this lake is Short Creek, located about thirty minutes east of Pop’s home. He owned a furniture business and couldn’t wait to spend his day off each Thursday fishing at the creek.

Around 1950 he had purchased a small aluminum boat and trailer from a local resident, then toiled long hours organizing and labeling his fishing gear to fit perfectly inside the boat. Mom and I called it his “Treasure Chest” on water. Each Wednesday night Mom would pack a picnic lunch and at the break of dawn the next morning Pop would hook up the boat and the three of us would happily rumble down the highway in his old blue truck, anticipating a full day of fun and fishing.

Any true fisherman will tell you that there is as much time spent in preparation for the sport as there is in the actual activity. One must collect and maintain the proper equipment and be prepared for any situation that might arise. The vocabulary of a fisherman is unique. He can chatter for hour upon hour about sinkers, flies, floats, spinners, rods, reels, lures, etc. Not only did Pop talk about these objects, but he often designed and created them for his specific needs.

He’d spend every free minute he could spare, peacefully working in his workshop, doing what Mom called “piddling in the basement”. He was a fellow who whistled when he was happy and we heard a lot of whistling coming from that basement workshop. Pop’s keen imagination was on alert at all times for objects he might use to enhance his fishing technique. There were times when I wondered if he was reincarnated from the depths…he seemed to think like a fish. One could almost see his mind working to develop a piece of equipment that would attract an inquisitive fish… the perfect color, movement, shape, etc. Whatever his mind could conceive his talents could achieve and in time, his collection grew in size and gained admiration from fellow fishermen.

Always a packrat, Pop stored and catalogued old buttons, hollow deer tail hair, lead weights from car wheels, colored glass beads; anything he felt his catch might take notice of as he skillfully skimmed it along the surface of the water or patiently suspended it near the murky bottom to entice the curious fish.

“Are you alright back there?” Mom asked me from the front seat. “Do you have enough room with all those suitcases and bags?”

“Yes, I’m O.K. How much longer till we’re there?”

Finally, after weeks of eager anticipation and thorough preparation, Mom, Pop and I were off on our annual trek for a week of fishing, swimming, fishing, eating, fishing, reading, fishing and more fishing! His boat and trailer were always ready and Pop had created a master list of personal items for his suitcase, so in no time at all we were gleefully on our way south; Mom’s ever present thermos of piping hot coffee and snacks for the road tucked carefully in the front seat between the two of them. My private domain for the journey was the tiny space remaining in the back seat, where I was crammed between coolers, blankets, suitcases and boxes of supplies. Just prior to backing out of the driveway Pop always said a prayer for our safe travel and then….off we’d go!

Decades before the words fast food, condominium or timeshare were known and very few motels or hotels dotted the landscape, our family had discovered a little piece of fishing heaven. All one had to do was drive due south for five hours, until the pavement met the ocean. There it was…the breathtaking Gulf of Mexico.

A few miles north of this body of water was a placid, secluded river known as Bon Secour, which promised to fulfill the ardent fisherman’s desire for as many Speckled Trout as he could possibly catch. This was Pop’s destination and desire!

Campbell’s Bon Secour Cottages, a half dozen, small, four room brick structures, were snugly nestled along the banks of the river, as were the adjoining slue and wooden boat dock. The overhanging limbs of the aged, massive oak trees, strung like sagging cobwebs with Spanish Moss, created a cavernous setting, sheltering everything below from the sweltering heat of the summer sunshine overhead. This tranquil setting would be our home away from home for the next seven days.

Before daylight each morning Pop would quietly slip out the front door, ease into his waiting boat and slowly chug away from the dock, heading down the river to Meme’s Bait Shoppe to buy fresh bait for the day. Mom and I remained snuggled peacefully under our warm covers, knowing he was on his way for hours and hours of fishing pleasure. It was nothing for him to be gone eight or ten hours at a time and with a cooler of food, drinks and a bait box of fresh shrimp, Pop couldn’t have been happier.

Around five o’clock, when we’d hear his little boat come putt, putt, putting back into the slue, Mom and I would scurry to greet Pop at the dock to see how many fish he caught that day. One would imagine that sitting in a boat for all that time would make a fellow tired…not Pop. He’d immediately tie up the boat, began cleaning his catch, often numbering fifty or sixty, and packing them in ice chests to transport home at the end of the week. He’d keep out just enough for us to eat, which was where Mom eagerly and proficiently took over to prepare our feast of the evening.

Mom and I enjoyed fishing too and would join Pop several times during our stay at Bon Secour. We particularly enjoyed the times he took us all the way down the river and into Mobile Bay, where it opened into the Gulf of Mexico. Mom and I knew that we shouldn’t disturb Pop during his precious moments of fishing, so we’d have to bait our own hooks, repair broken lines and take care of any fish we might be lucky enough to catch that day. Neither slime, guts, glassy fish eyes or blood would deter us in the least, nor could the possible painful reaction from the wrath of an angry stingray, struggling jellyfish, or vicious pinch from an angry crab. In other words, we dare not be helpless females if we wanted to accompany Pop!

One particular incident comes to mind when I think about fishing in the bay. Around noon one day the three of us peacefully bobbed along on the waves, keeping an eye on our floats for that much anticipated tug from below. Bright sunshine sent sparkling shimmers across the slowly lapping waves and soaked warmly into our exposed arms and legs. The clear, blue sky overhead seemed to stretch to infinity and all was well with the world! We felt like a tiny, weightless feather floating rhythmically on the surface of a huge expanse of water, miles from land in any direction. Suddenly, Pop began to quickly reel in his line, commanding us to do the same with ours. As we watched, puzzled by his alarming actions, he frantically yanked at the rope to start the outboard motor.

“Hurry,” he shouted at Mom. “Pull up the anchor. We’ve got to get out of here right now!”

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“Look out there!” he shouted, pointing toward the rapidly darkening southern sky. “Here comes a waterspout and we’re right in its path. We’ve got to get back to shore fast! Check you life jackets, be sure they’re secure and get ready to move!”

Sure enough, dipping and rising, twisting and swirling its way straight toward our little craft was a tornado, just a few feet over the surface of the water. The skies instantly turned as black as night. That raging twister grew larger and closer. The waves, now churning whitecaps, viciously slapped against and sloshed over the sides of the small boat, as its three terrified occupants held on for dear life. Pop jerked the throttle up full tilt on that whining engine and we sped for shore like a bullet. The menacing monster continued to pursue us with a vengeance. Stinging rains slashed across our faces and sunburned bodies in our frantic attempt to escape from certain death. Our hearts pounded with fear as we shot forward in a frenzied panic.

We’ll never know what caused the waterspout to suddenly change directions that afternoon, perhaps it was simply our good luck. Whatever the reason, it still frightens me to realize that the three of us escaped certain destruction by mere moments and inches that day. Several years passed before we dared venture out into the bay again with the same lighthearted sense of security we had once… so innocently taken for granted.

During the next 30 years a multitude of memories were created on these wonderful fishing trips. There was the fall Pop won first prize for catching the most fish during the annual Speckled Trout Rodeo. He proudly displayed that beautifully crafted trophy on his bedroom dresser for many years, along with the magazine article containing the story and picture of him smiling broadly, while holding his cherished possession.

Then there was the great bond of friendship Pop and Mom formed with Thelma and Bob Campbell, the owners of the little cluster of cottages that became our home away from home during those years.

The couple, originally from up north, had moved south several years earlier and purchased the cottages from the previous owner. Bob, an excellent handyman, converted one of the dwellings into a comfortable year round home for the pair. Looking after their customers gave Thelma and Bob little time to get away for a vacation of their own. In time, as the two couples got to know each other better, Mom and Pop were trusted to run the business for a week or two, while the proprietors traveled to visit their relatives. On several occasions, during slack tourist seasons, we invited the Campbells to visit us at our home in North Alabama. The couples had much in common and thoroughly enjoy spending time together.

Perhaps one of the last, yet best fishing trips Pop made was the trip he shared with one of his original fishing pals from childhood along the banks of the Merrimack River… nearly 66 years earlier. His one remaining brother, Chet, had settled in California shortly after college, but had kept in close contact with Pop, regardless of the passage of time or distance of miles. After months of detailed planning, the siblings, both approaching 80 years of age, made arrangements for Chet to travel south to join his brother for a glorious week of fishing at Bon Secour. Viewing the photos taken that week leaves no doubt that every expectation for their union was completely fulfilled. Looking down at those happily beaming faces and observing the body language of the two brothers, one can almost hear the jovial laughter, feel the warm love and see the special joy that had so naturally come full circle from those long past, yet memorable, cherished days of boyhood.

********************************************************************

Gone Fishin’
By Jane-Ann Heitmueller

That solitary joy of fishing simply can’t be beat,

anticipation, preparation…

why that’s half the treat.



The perfect spot and temperature, the lure, the rod,

the bait;

when joined in perfect harmony… make fishing really great!



Though placid to the viewer’s eye, adrenalin pumps fast.

The optimistic fisherman anticipates each cast.



Just certain that the bass or bream, crappie or trout is near,

you try to calm your beating heart, for fear the fish will hear.



Then oh, so slightly there’s that nibble, tug and then the strike.

What joy…only true fishermen can tell you what it’s like!



Your patience warns you, “Give it time” before you set the hook.

There’s skillful work yet to be done before that fish you cook.



A jerk of line, a whiz of reel, a firm and steady pull.

Your prize leaps wildly from the depts.

Your heart pounds joyous, full!



Just one more hurdle must be crossed before your job’s complete.

The space between the line and net seems like a million feet!



So cautiously and carefully you calm your frantic wits,

attempt to guide that fragile net for the absolute fit.



‘Tis only then a signing breath escapes your trembling frame.

For anyone who’s ever fished…

No sport can be the same.








Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Letters From The Barn: The Itsy Bitsy Spider

Letters From The Barn: The Itsy Bitsy Spider

I learned something today. Hopefully, you will not need to make my same mistake. It turns out that when you get industrious and take off after spiderwebs up around the ceiling that, well, sometimes they still contain spiders. Big ones. Really, really big ones. Ones so big that when they fall in your hair you kinda wish you had an immediate retroactive haircut.

So, here's my advice. Should you feel the need to de-cobweb your ceiling, consider just heading off to the hairdressers first. You might look nice in a buzz cut. Or, I guess you could go for a mowhawk so then the spider could have himself a nice, little lawn right down the center of your head. Hopefully,that way he'd ignore the little bare patches everywhere else and be less likely to go walking down into your ears looking for a hammock. I think. Probably.

And keep your mouth closed. That's kinda important. You can scream with a closed mouth, right? Then flail and thrash with your broom or stick or whatever it is you take spider hunting. You might consider a gun, which would no doubt work nicely, but might leave a few troublesome holes. It's up to you, though.

As when the spider jumped off your head and survived a broom attack he'd have somewhere safe to go hide until you conned someone else to take up arms against him. Not that you would do such a thing. You face your spiders head on. With a beekeeper's suit. Just like any sane person does.

____________________

Author: Meriwether O' Connor

Saturday, October 22, 2011

I Need a Change

I Need a Change

By Patricia Thomas


Joan had not been prepared for this at all. Gary, her husband of 30 years, had just returned from his daily run, then walked through the front door into the kitchen and announced to his wife, “I’m moving out.” Joan quietly put down the tomatoes she was holding and sat down at the wooden kitchen table they had bought together. She stared out the big picture window at the hummingbirds buzzing around the gladiolas several minutes, listening to Gary drone on.

“I need a change before it’s too late. I’m not getting any younger. We’ve been together since college…blah, blah blah. Married too young…blah, blah, blah. Grown apart…blah, blah, blah.” Gary retired early due to wise investments and she had not worked since the kids were born. Had their life become a clichĂ©? Then she turned her gaze to Gary and just stared at him.

In the silence, all of her senses were heightened. She heard the gardener, Sam, mowing the grass in the back yard. She smelled her pound cake that she had placed in the oven an hour before. She figured that from now on the sweet smell of pound cake, Gary’s favorite, would be an unwelcome aroma to her. She knew how powerful smells could be, how finely intertwined they are with the events in our lives. “Pound cake equals day Gary left me.” Yes, that is how her mind would work.

“What?” she replied dumbly, or so it sounded to her. “You’re moving out? Wh, Wh, Why?” It was as though her real self had risen from within her and was looking down on her from above, watching her trying to talk and get grounded. Everything was in slow motion, off kilter--her movements, her thoughts. “When did you come to this conclusion?” Then without waiting for a reply, she watched herself get up and walk into the den. She had to move, had to think. Gary followed.

Joan sat on the couch and stared straight ahead. Nausea coursed through her in waves. “Please don’t throw up,” she told herself. When she got really upset, she always threw up. Her eyes slowly panned the den, taking in the family pictures covering the walls. These pictures told the story of their life together—their wedding day in Savannah, the family reunions in Atlanta, the graduation pictures of Tom and Cassie, their children, Cassie with her father on her wedding day and picture after picture of Derek, their two year old grandson. Yesterday she had been quietly content in this room. Now she felt like a deflated balloon. Her eyes landed on Gary.

“I know this comes as a surprise,” Gary announced sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to have a long drawn out conversation, so I figured I might as well get to the point. I know this seems sudden, but I’ve been thinking about it for a long time, months really. I’ve tried to talk myself out of leaving, but I haven’t been able to do it. You’re a good wife, Joan, really you are. I do love you, but I need to be on my own. I’ve bought a condominium. I’ll be moving out at the end of the month.”

“You love me, but you’re moving to a condominium? At the end of the month?“ Why was she repeating what he had just said! “Stop it,” she told herself.

“Don’t worry. You’ll still have this house, your garden. Everything will be the same, except for me being here. I only want my personal things.” Gary was not even looking at her now, just staring and talking.

“Did I do something wrong? Can’t we talk about this? Have a discussion. Why not just separate for a while? ” She knew she sounded desperate, but she couldn’t help it.

“No, you did nothing wrong. It’s me. I know this is probably a mistake, but I need to do this. There must be more to life than what we have together.”

“Is there someone else? Have you met someone? “ She had to ask that, but disliked how pitiful it sounded.

“No. There is no one. I promise you that.”

“Then why can’t we work this out? We could go to marriage therapy, individual therapy, a couples retreat, whatever you like.” Now she was begging. “Just stop talking,” she told herself.

“I know this is hard. I think it’s best if I stay at a hotel until my condo is ready.” Then he turned around, walked back toward their bedroom and started packing a suitcase. Joan continued to sit in silence, not quite knowing what to do next. Then she heard a “Bang” as the front door shut. He was gone.

Was the house ever this quiet before? Funny how empty a house can feel when you are alone and not expecting anyone to show up. She thought about calling Cynthia, her best friend, but she didn’t want to talk to her yet. She needed to think. Should she call the kids? She would have to do that, but there was time for that later. Now there was time for everything.

She thought she heard a scraping noise and hoped (foolishly she knew) that it was Gary. Maybe he had changed his mind? No. She hated thinking like that. It was pathetic. Silence. She went into her bedroom, closed the door (out of habit), lay down on the bed and started sobbing. The salty tears rolled down her face and into her mouth, her nose ran like a faucet, and her body shook. She cried and cried until she ran out of tears and energy.

She dozed off and when she woke up it was dark in the bedroom and her cat, Luna, was sitting on her head. Instead of this being annoying as it usually was, she was comforted. Then Joan got up, fed Luna, and walked into the living room. She sat there all night, thinking. When the sun started to rise, Joan got up, drank coffee, and went to bed. Sleep gradually came. This routine continued for a week—cry all night, get up, drink coffee, and then back to bed to sleep once the sun shone in her bedroom. She found it hard to sleep during the night, when things seem so much more ominous. Slowly she was coming to turns with the situation. Eventually, she talked to Cynthia and the kids.

Cynthia was sympathetic at first. “I’m so sorry. How awful for you. Then as the weeks passed, she became furious. “What an asshole? You’re better off. You’re beautiful and hot. Who needs him? Let’s go to The Continental and get a martini. I’m buying. I will not let you sit around and mope anymore.” Cynthia, three times divorced, was not the best confidant during this time of crisis, Cynthia realized, but she enjoyed the company. Maybe she had a point.

“I’m only 50,” Joan thought. “I have a few good years left.”

Her daughter, Cassie, had read an article (she was always reading an article about something) about men and midlife crisis. “Daddy is just going through a phase. He’ll come back. Next he’ll probably buy a red convertible. Men are so predictable . I’m coming over with Derek and keep you company. “

Life went on. Joan signed up for a writing class at the local community college and got out her easel again and started painting. “Why had she given this up?” she thought. She joined a writer’s group and even got a story published. She was thrilled. She bought new clothes, under the tutelage of Cynthia. Cynthia said she needed “hot clothes.” No more “old lady clothes.” She started inviting friends over, buying tickets for the Performing Arts Center, and going on trips to Las Vegas with her girlfriends. She thought about Gary less and less. She was busy… and happy.

Several months passed. Joan was at the hardware store one day buying rat traps to keep the rodents from eating her figs and tomatoes. A silver haired man overheard her question to the sales clerk about which was better and quickly stepped forward.

“I like the big wooden ones, but you have to be careful. If you buy the sticky traps, then you have a live rat on your hands. Then what do you do? Trust me, it’s not a pretty picture. I’m Douglas Ferguson. I’m a retired aerospace engineer. I live here in town, and I have two grown daughters. Would you do me the honor of having a cup of coffee with me? We could go right next door.” Joan felt herself blush, just like a high school girl. Then she accepted.

“What would her daughter say about this?”she wondered.

“That sounds nice. Sure.”

What harm would it do? It was just coffee and the Wooden Spoon Café was right next door.

Next came dinner with Douglas. He was such a gentleman. He showed up at her door in a coat and tie. She liked that. They talked about their children, their grandchildren, cooking, and home ownership. Joan was being courted, and she had to admit, she was very flattered.

Months passed and Joan felt herself falling for Douglas. He was kind, loving, attentive, and best of all, he treated her with respect, like she was a precious object. She told him about Gary’s sudden departure and he told her about the death of his wife, Merna. She loved talking to him, being with him, and finally, making love with him. Joan had never thought that she would find herself with another man, but he was so kind and gentle, she forgot her self-consciousness.

Then Gary rang her doorbell one day out of the blue and asked to come inside. He wanted to talk.

He started talking as soon as he walked into the room. “Joan, I’m so sorry. I’ve been a foolish man. I want to come home. I want my life back, our life back. I made a big mistake. I miss you.” He kept talking after that, but Joan had stopped listening. How she had longed for those words to be spoken six month earlier. But now… She stared out the big picture window at the hummingbirds buzzing around the gladiolas several minutes, listening to Gary drone on. Then she stood up and walked away, leaving Gary staring at her.

_____________________________________

Bio:

Patricia Thomas was born and raised in southern Alabama and attended Auburn University. She has been teaching writing for years, including Loyola Marymount University, the University of Southern California, and Texas A&M. While she has taught all levels of composition, including Legal Writing and Business Writing, her passion is creative writing. She currently teaches writing and literature at Fullerton College in California.

Patricia Thomas

Thursday, October 20, 2011

THE CAROLINA WONDER BEAN

THE CAROLINA WONDER BEAN


What would the prize be this year the Bean wondered? Each year the fiddlers at the festivals seemed to be better and faster as they searched for the notes no one else could find. Bean knew that one day there would be a young kid who could play like no one else. It would then be time to move on and enjoy his memories, something he didn’t want to think about.


The red clay along the creek bank below him that had cracked in deep black lines, reminded him of the sinewy hands of Old Calhoun, sliding along the neck of his white maple fiddle, seeking out the sweet and fluid notes of a mountain reel. He smiled at the remembrance and thought of how much he missed the old man who had taught him so much about music.

He reluctantly rose and made his way back to the tent where Nate Stoner waited for him. Over the years Nate had been like the older brother he never had. They’d met at a festival and music became their bond. Nate once told him, “It’s not only the way you play the notes, but the silence you leave between them that makes the difference. You got the best silence of them all.”

Nate was sprawled in a chair in front of their tent. He pulled off his favorite brown hat, scratched his balding head, squinted into the sun, and then put the hat back on.

“Well,” said Nate. “Here we are again.”“Seems like we always are,” said Bean. “Don’t you ever get tired of all this?”

“Don’t think about it much. Besides, what else is there?”

“Maybe settlin’ down for a bit,” said Bean. “We’re getting too old to live on coffee, whiskey and music.”

“Old! Why we both still have all our teeth—hell, we ain’t done yet! We can still cut the mustard just fine! You need a beer, Bean, and quick! You’ll feel better after that. I don’t know what’s got into you lately.”

The Bean took his fiddle case out of the tent. He clicked it open and ran his hand over the smooth, light brown wood. The small, ragged Confederate flag attached to the end of the fiddle drooped waiting for Bean to bring it to life.

“It’s how you feel the music, Nate. That’s all that matters. Those guys from the city talk too fast and play too fast. Never be any good.”

“Maybe so, but they’re winnin’ a lot of contests.”

“Down by the creek was thinkin’ about Old Calhoun. I wish he was still alive. He’d show them city guys a thing or two.”

“Remember when we made that tape of us playin’ and singin’?” said Nate.

“Wasn’t bad.”

“Even had that record company interested in us,” said Nate. “I wonder what would have happened if they had made a record of us?”
Bean shoved some beer cans into the pockets of his baggy trousers and walked off through the meadow toward a knot of musicians who played by a camper from Georgia. A striped piece of canvas had been stretched over two poles on one side of it; underneath, three women sat on brightly colored folding chairs staring out from the shadow. One of them smoked, and the other two sipped from plastic cups. Bean stood in the sun and watched a young guitarist slam into a fast bass run. The fiddle player next to him hunched his body into the tune. His hands moved unsteadily across the strings as he tried to keep pace with the guitar player. The tune slowed and Bean moved off toward the stage.
The clearing where the bands played was surrounded by a grove of Sycamore trees. Bean looked over the crowd. A few danced to the band that was on stage, and others strained to see between the children who pranced up and down.

He found a chair at the back and propped it up against a tree where the ground was dappled with yellow medallions of sun. A tall girl stood very straight and alert by the light pole in front of him. Her light brown hair had been pulled back over her ears. The big red flower patterns on her faded print dress curled around her body.

She wasn’t flashy like some he knew. Having a woman with you was always nice. And certainly a lot more fun than being with Nate all the time. Sometimes there were feelings you had that only a woman could fix. Nate would understand that, he’d been married once before.

“Hey, Tall Girl?”

She turned her head and smiled at him. The Bean unlocked his feet from the chair and stood in front of her rocking slightly on his heels. He liked her eyes and the way the light danced in them
“Hey, Tall Girl, how about goin’ someplace and havin’ a beer?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Why not?”

“My name is Nancy.”

“How about it?”

She studied him, shrugged, and then smiled again.

“Okay.”

She followed him to the bank of the creek and sat on a rock.
“Where you from?” he said.

“Alabama,” she said, then took off her shoes and put her feet into the water. She sat back and let the light breeze rustle her dress and hair.

“Never been there.”

“It’s just like any other place I guess,” she said.

“I’m called the Carolina Wonder Bean. Came into this world small—‘bout a possum whisker under five foot four, never did grow. I can play a fair fiddle and sing some. Was on television once when I played for the governor. He liked the way I played ‘Bill Cheatum.’ Was born in the hook of Missouri, right above the Arkansas line. Moved to Carolina when my daddy got restless. The Carolina Wonder Bean, that’s who I am.”

Her smile was one he liked. You could always tell a lot about a girl by her smile. This one made him feel good all over.

“It’s nice down here,” she said.

The water gurgled over the rocks like a child. Small minnows darted over her feet.

“I’m down with Nate. We been playin’ together for a while. Sometimes people would pay us for a dance. But usually we’d just do it for the fun of it or go to people’s houses for corn shuckin’. They’d just sit around the house and listen to us make music. That’s about all I can do is to make music. Don’t want to do much else. Gets in your blood. Me and Nate work in a place that makes cardboard boxes, it keeps us out of trouble. He’s the best buddy I ever had.”

“I tried singin’ in a church once,” said Nancy. “But I couldn’t reach the high notes. I wanted to be a great singer.”

“You still can be.”

“Think so?”

“Sure. Look at me. I’m just a short squatty little feller, but that never made a difference. I always knew what I wanted to do. You want to sing—do it!”

She smiled.

Bean opened his case and took out his fiddle, then tuned it, and drew the bow across the strings. Mountain reels were Old Calhoun’s favorites. Tunes that were like life itself he used to say. The best kind of tunes, tunes no one played anymore. He finished and lowered his bow.

“That’s beautiful,” she said. “I’ve never heard anything so beautiful.”

“Just like you.”

“Bet you say that to all the girls”

“Not always.”

She smiled again and stirred the water with her hand. The minnows flickered.

Thin clouds streaked the sky—the only marks in the thick heat that domed the low green hills and meadow.

“My daddy never taught me the fiddle,” said Bean. “He wouldn’t allow it in the house. No kind of music. He hated music. Thought it was sinful. But there was this feller down the road from us about five miles, Old Calhoun, and he started teaching me the fiddle. Never told my daddy. It’s nothin’ more than a piece of wood and some horse hair, but it sounds slow and lonesome, the way I feel sometimes.”

“I went to Bristol once with my granny,” said Nancy. “There was this old man, probably like your Old Calhoun, who used to play at night on the porch and drink whiskey. I got to like the fiddle after that. It was like I was part of the music. The same I feel when you play. Have to be goin’. Day’s gettin’ on.”

“Yeah, Tall Girl, see you. Thinkin’ I might stop playin’ festivals for awhile.”

“Why?”

“Things aren’t the way they used to be,” said Bean.

“You ask me, just keep playin’. Isn’t that what you want to do? “
Bean nodded his head.

“Maybe I’ll teach you a few songs. Then you can get on with your singin’. Hell, we might even try performin’ at a festival.”
“I’d like that.” She kissed him lightly, and then walked off into the meadow, holding her shoes.

The Bean downed his beer then started playing slowly, thinking how her lips tingled on his cheek. The creek caught the notes as they glided in the air and murmured softly back at him. The sun glittered on the back of the brown water. A light breeze trembled the leaves.

“Hey, Bean?” said Nate. He stood in the shadows with his guitar. “You alone?”

“Just finished playin’ for a girl. Didn’t feel like leavin’ yet. A tall girl, she was Nate, a tall girl in a yellow print dress down from Alabama. Never met one like her before.”

“I’ve heard that before. If I had a dollar for every time you said that, I’d be rich.”

“I mean it this time.”

Nate tuned up his guitar and joined Bean as he began to play again. A small group formed around them on the muddy bank. One of them cocked his head over a banjo, tuned it, and followed Nate and Bean to the end of the song.

“I’m called the Carolina Wonder Bean. Came into this world small -- ‘bout a possum whisker under five foot four, never did grow. I can play a fair fiddle and sing some. Was on television once when I played for the governor. He liked the way I played “Bill Cheatum.’ Was born in the hook of Missouri, right above the Arkansas line. Moved to Carolina when my daddy got restless. The Carolina Wonder Bean, that’s who I am. So you better let the devil take hold ‘cause I don’t wait for no man or woman…”

The Tall Girl stood under a tree watching him. Their eyes met, and a little smile tugged her lips, a smile that made him feel giddy and daring. He winked and knew he could play like this forever no matter what happened. And maybe later he’d ask her when she wanted to start learning some songs.

______________________________________

Richard Lutman lives in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. He has a MFA in Writing from Vermont College. He currently teaches short story classes as part of Coastal Carolina University's Lifelong Learning program. He was a 2008 Push Cart Nominee. His web site can be Googled at: www.WordRealm.net.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Letters From The Barn: Walking During Blackberry Season

Letters From The Barn: Walking During Blackberry Season

It's blackberry season. I was out walking the dogs and found two patches of wild berries. On the first bush, quite a few were still held tightly in the palm of the plant. There were a few that were ripe and plump, though, and I argued with the birds for those. The next patch I came across was full from the rain from the night before and ready to go.

My next stop was a store where I could rumble through the contents, looking for treasure or bargains. I came across Five Stories by Chekhov as well as Aristotle's Poetics both for just a dime. When I went to go pay my whopping 20 cent bill, my berry picking told on me. It looked like an ink pen had exploded in my hand.

The lady at the counter shared that she had just finished with blueberries a while back and still felt she was picking out the blue from underneath her fingernails. I used to have a lot of cactus on my land and would make jam from their reddish purple berries called tunas. Once you get past the prickles and the peeling and the seeds and the draining, you've got quite a nice dish. Very wild and flavorful. And the color is like no other.

And, so is the stain. I went to work more than once with cactus jam telling on the palms of my hands. It's funny how our lives do that. Show up where we least expect it. Do you have calluses? How many and where? What parts of your body are smooth and rested, which parts hearty and perhaps over used?

Do your feet ache or do they sleep quietly? Do you wake up in the morning and stretch to loosen up arthritis or jump right into the day? Do singing and dancing help loosen up your morning joints or do you edge into it grumpily with a strict no smiles before coffee, please edict?

Does your body move easily through the day? Has it ever? Do you name your aches and pains, offer them aspirins or something stronger on their bad days? Do they court you more strongly during rainy weather or during cold spells? Does a good wood fire quiet them down, warming up your bones quite like nothing else?

Do you know your body? It's frailties and strengths? Can you be proud of what it can do and sympathetic with its vulnerabilities? Can you pragmatically asses how to change your motions or timing of activities so that each day you can stretch with the sun and enjoy your body's strengths? I hope you can. It's a glorious day out. Or, it will be soon if the rain clouds are out right now where you are. Then again, maybe taking a walk in a light rain is your favorite thing to do. I hope so. The rain does like a little bit of company, you know. Most folks favor the sun.

_________________________

Author: Meriwether O' Connor


Saturday, October 15, 2011

Huntin’ Buddies

Huntin’ Buddies
By Jane –Ann Heitmueller

“Ya know, I thought sure you’d killed old Prince that day,” remarked J.W. “You was dang lucky he survived.”

“Yep,” Ray replied. “Seems like that was the last thing I could do to get that stubborn dog to mind me. I really hated to do it, but he always worked great after that happened.”

The hot, afternoon sun wiggled down through the overhanging oak limbs and squeezed beams of light through the nail holes in the rusty tin roof on to the worn porch floor beneath. Unperturbed by the August heat and stifling humidity, the two old friends placidly rocked and reminisced. They were both seventy now and had lots of good memories to talk about.

As growth and progress crept southward it swallowed up numerous woodlands, grasslands and once isolated areas where the quail made their homes, and where the sport of hunting them was a southern tradition to many a boy and man during the decades of the fifties through the seventies. Coyotes, with few natural enemies, were introduced for fox hunting and they, as well as hawks, which were federally protected, along with fire ants and pesticides, all took their toll on the quail population at that time. Today it’s rare to spy a covey of quail rapidly scurrying across the backyard and open field, or have the joy of watching and hearing that unique fluttering sound as they quickly escape from under a brush pile when startled. The distinct musical trill of “Bob White, Bob White” has all but disappeared from our landscape. But good hunting buddies Ray and J.W. each held vivid memories of such occurrences and they loved to sit back and recall the pleasure of their many days of quail hunting together.

Both fellows realized that there were two necessary ingredients required for a successful quail hunt… a good gun and a well trained hunting dog. One final ingredient, if you didn’t hunt alone, was a good partner. Ray and J.W. had all these ingredients. Over the years of hunting together they had developed their own sense of trust and companionship and worked extremely well together. The pair had their favorite hunting spots and could pinpoint, with amazing accuracy, the various places where quail could be found.

One need not worry that every quail the pair killed was not put to good use. The birds were each deposited in a little compartment in their hunting jackets and brought home to clean, cook, eat and share with friends and family. Needless to say, along with the bird itself, the colorful stories of their acquisition was also one of the ingredients the satisfied diners knew they must be willing to digest when they sat down to eat.

A favorite quail hunting spot of the duo was an old, deserted farm place near by, owned by a fellow named Beck Peinhardt. Of course, as was usual, they had gotten permission to hunt on Mr. Peinhardt’s land that crisp November day. The two friends were eager and excited as they loaded their trusty shotguns and faithful bird dog into Ray’s rattletrap of a pick up truck and headed out to the Peinhardt farm for an afternoon of hunting.

Ray and J.W. spent most of the afternoon being successful in their quest. Partnered with Ray’s dependable Irish Setter, Prince, they methodically worked their way through the deep sage grass on the Peinhardt property and carefully eased their way on down the slight hillside to the shoreline of Lake Catoma below, striving to fulfill the daily legal quota of birds.

“Hey Ray,” hollered J.W.,” Where’s Prince? I haven’t seen him for a while.”

“Neither have I,” Ray shouted back. “Guess we better see if we can find him. It’s gonna be dark soon and we’ll need to head home.”

As the fall light rapidly escaped beyond the western horizon the two hunters diligently searched through the tall grass and woods, calling and whistling for the lost dog, but had no luck in locating Prince. With only moments of sunlight remaining J. W. said, “I remember an old well on the property. It’s up near the house. Do you reckon he could have fallen in and can’t get out?”

“Maybe he’s there,” answered an anxious Ray, “Come on, let’s hurry up that way and look.”

They could hear the frantic splashing before they reached the open well. Poor Prince was almost totally exhausted from his lengthy efforts to tread water, instinctually fighting for survival. They had arrived just in time to rescue him. The problem now was that with such little light left, and the depth of the well, they quickly had to figure out how to get the struggling animal out.

“Hurry,” said Ray, stripping off his belt. “Take off your belt. We’ll tie them together and maybe you can reach him.” Luckily, that idea worked. Ray held securely to his end of the hastily fashioned device, while his partner firmly grasped the other and cautiously eased himself over the side of the old, crumbling well. Straining and groaning, J.W. stretched down as far as he could, finally grabbing the choking dog by his collar, and pulling him to safety

“I bet you Mr. Peinhardt has forgotten all about this well,” said Ray, joyfully hugging his weary, dripping dog. “It would be terrible if some little child fell in this hole. I’ll go by his warehouse in the morning and remind him he needs to fill it with dirt. But now, let’s get old Prince back to the truck and take him home so he can get dry and warm.”

“Thinking of Prince,” remarked Ray, slowly rocking under the heat of the tin roof. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt as bad as the day I shot him.”

“Thank goodness you didn’t kill him,” said J.W. “He must have learned his lesson. He never ran off with another bird again after that happened.”

“Yeah, I’d done everything I could think of to get that dog to retrieve the birds and bring them straight back to me. I don’t think it hurt him as much as it scared him. After all, he was pretty far away when he got peppered. To tell you the truth, J.W., it scared the heck out of me too. Guess maybe we were both just too young and stubborn for our own good back then. We sure learned our lesson that day!”

For several moments the only sound to be heard was the slow, methodical creaking of the two cane rockers and the chirping of the redbirds in the nearby trees. Not a word was spoken between the two men, each quietly escaping into his own personal thoughts, deeply absorbing the recollections of their many special times of pleasure and camaraderie as huntin’ buddies.

“Sure is hot, ain’t it.”

“Yep, too bad we didn’t have some of this heat the day snow was on the ground and you went swimmin’ in Lake Catoma in February,” said Ray with a slight chuckle.

“ You’re right. I just about froze that day, but had no other choice. Our poor dogs worked too hard in the cold all day. I just couldn’t leave there without those birds.”

Ray and J.W. would never have dreamed of letting the last days of quail season end that frigid February day without getting in one final day of hunting. As they had done so many times before, they loaded up the dogs and gear and headed out early that frosty morning, full of their normal eagerness and anticipation. Snow was on the ground, but they knew the birds would be feeding, due to the slight amount of sunshine overhead.

Though continuously shivering for hours, it seemed the two fellows just couldn’t bring themselves to end their successful day of hunting. This might be their last chance of the season. Finally, the lateness of the hour and the pitiful sight of the shaking dogs, their coats laden with ice crystals, brought them to the realization that they really must head for home. However, there was just one little problem. Their last shots of the day had been successful, but the two birds had landed about fifty feet out in the icy lake, where they now bobbed and floated, driven farther and farther from shore by each bone chilling gust of wind. There was no way the quivering, tired dogs could be enticed to swim out and retrieve them. A task they would have eagerly relished under warmer conditions.

Finally, realizing that they couldn’t, nor shouldn’t, make the dogs go into the cold water, but eager to save their trophy, J.W. gave in and said, “O.K. Ray, I’ll go in and get ‘em.” Stripping down to his underwear, the shaking, determined hunter dared to face those icy waters and bravely waded forward, inch by inch, to reach the floating birds. It seemed to Ray that his huntin’ buddy had once and for all lost his senses.

“You’re crazy, man. Leave the darn birds. You’re gonna catch pneumonia!” After three valiant attempts, now trembling uncontrollably, his teeth chattering like a nervous tap dancer, J.W. finally gave up. He decided instead to go to the home of a near by friend, borrow his small aluminum boat and row out to get the birds….which he did… just as darkness enveloped the weary, frozen clan.

“What are you laughing about Ray?”

“Just can’t help it, J.W., I was thinking about the time we went hunting and you stopped by Dad’s place to pick up Prince before coming down here to get me.”

“Oh, yeah,” said J.W. “He wouldn’t get in the dog box on the back of the truck, so I just let him ride on top. I figured he’d be alright since we didn’t have far to go.”

“I’ll never forget the look on your face when I asked you where he was,” grinned Ray, slapping his pal on the back. “Turns out, you had rounded a curve and slung my poor pooch right out of the truck into the muddy ditch and you didn’t even know it. Boy,

that red Alabama clay had really messed him up and the two of us had a good laugh when we saw him finally staggering into my yard like he’d gotten into grandpa’s homebrew. Poor, confused dog didn’t know what had hit him, but he quickly recovered. I had to bathe that nasty mongrel three times to get him clean! No wonder he was always the first of the dogs to get in the box after that.”

“Both of us are still in trouble with my wife,” said Ray grinning broadly. “She sure did love those prize hens of hers and could have skinned you the day you forgot they were in the old dog pen.”

“I know,” sheepishly answered J.W. “It was so cold that day when we quit huntin’, all I was thinkin’ about was puttin’ the dogs in the pen and gettin’ home to my nice warm bed. I plum forgot she’d made the old pen into a new home for her flock of speckled chickens. Boy, she really let me have it on the phone the next mornin’ after she went out to feed them and found nothin’ but a bunch of feathers scattered all over the place….and three well fed, sleepin’ bird dogs. Nope, she’ll never let me live down that little caper. Can’t say as I blame her though.”

The ebbing afternoon sun began casting shadows and the sounds of nature announced approaching nightfall. Soon J. W. eased forward, yawned and slowly rose from his rocker. “Reckon I’d better head toward the house. It’s gettin’ late and Linda’ll have supper waitin’.”

“Glad ya dropped by, J.W. Ya’ll have a good evenin’. I’ll talk to ya later.”

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Blooming Through Snow

Osaka, Japan, Sunday February 4th, 2035

Like a beautiful flower unveiling its charms to the world for the first time, Orchid Tanaka opened her eyes and became aware of the myriad of vivid colors present in her surroundings. Her flesh was surrounded by a viscous liquid that held her body firmly in place, inside the transparent pod where she had been given birth.

Her unmoving arms and legs were extended horizontally on the inner surface of the vessel where she was currently resting. Her chest moved slightly back and forth as the young girl breathed the air fed to her through an oxygen tube. The tube, along with other cords, led outside of the pod to machines meant to sustain her vital functions.

Overwhelmed by the brilliant light coursing through the room, the comely teenager closed her eyes once more. A scientist was staring at her graceful form, running a hand on the outer surface of the glass vessel that housed her body. The diligent researcher, clad in a long white laboratory coat, was absorbed in his thoughts, monitoring the development of every piece constituting her whole.

"You're finally awake," the middle-aged man said to the captive red-haired maiden. "It is time for you to join the living..."

* * *

Tokyo, Japan, Wednesday February 14th, 2035

A young man woke up to the sound of his alarm clock, in the early hours of this cold Sunday morning. Cursing the fact that the weekend had been too short, he rubbed his sleepy eyes, then quickly shut the alarm off by tapping a large button on top of the digital clock.

Alas, the damage had already been done. Waiting a few moments, the young man tried to resume his slumber, but his dreams now seemed unreachable, his nighttime fantasies far and distant. Groaning in frustration, the teenager left his bed after having covered his feet with beige slippers. His legs numb with fatigue, he slowly walked towards the kitchen, where he saw his father sitting down behind the table they normally used for eating.

"Hey," the teenager greeted his father in a somnolent manner, noticing the older man was looking at his son more seriously than usual. "What's up?"

The parent had already taken a shower and dressed up for the day; he was now savoring a cup of warm tea. He gestured to his son, inviting the young man to sit down in front of him.

"I have important news for you, Yusuke," the middle-aged man said.

Yusuke quickly grabbed a seat, anxious to hear the important news. His dark brown hair was ruffled by a night of sleep and he did not take the time to prepare properly; he thus hoped the news had nothing to do with...

"We'll be receiving a guest today," the father said, hiding an amused grin behind his cup while he noticed his son's face blushing with embarrassment. "She'll be accompanying you to school!"

"Dad!" the young man exclaimed with a pleading tone of voice. "You couldn't have told me about this earlier?"

"Sorry," the father told his son, laughing heartily. "Her name's Orchid Tanaka, she's the daughter of a friend of mine who lives in Osaka," he continued, regaining his solemn composure. "She was named after the school, Tokyo's Orchid School of Magic," he went on, noting that his son was not paying enough attention to the matter.

"My friend Tanaka wants her to go to that school, and we are to help her in her integration. That's where you come in; I want you to show her around the school premises and protect her while she gets used to this new life."

"I see," Yusuke said, a little annoyed, his facial traits speaking volumes about his frustration. "What a chore, now I have to babysit a little girl!"

"And I want you to take this task very seriously," the father continued in spite of his son's protests. "She is not a normal human like you and I. She was not conceived in the womb of a woman. She was... created."

"Created?" the brown-haired teenager repeated, wondering what his father meant.

"Yes... It's difficult to explain," the old man said, trying to find the words to explain the details of Orchid's artificial birth. "What's important for you to know is that she's not quite mature when it comes to her personality," he rapidly continued his explanation, knowing time was not on his side. "It will be important for us to help her mingle with friends and thrive in a real-world environment."

Yusuke nodded right before he heard the doorbell of their residence. He rushed towards the entrance of the condominium and opened the door. Dumbfounded, the boy watched the lovely girl in front of him as she bowed to introduce herself. Snowflakes gently fell on her ruffled long red hair, leaving it slightly moist. She was dressed entirely in colors close to light red and pink, including her unfastened winter jacket, her blouse, her skirt, her leggings and ankle boots. The young man would not have hesitated to qualify her attire as 'cute'.

"Hello, my name is Orchid," the young girl politely said, her upper body still inclined in a manner of respect. "I was told to come stay here with uncle Ito for a while," she told Yusuke with some doubt in her tone of voice, uncertain she had come to the right address.

"You've finally come!" echoed the voice of Yusuke's father as he walked up to the two teenagers.

A cheerful smile illuminated Orchid's face as she saw the middle-aged man. She rapidly flew to his side and found solace in his arms, resting her weary head on his chest. The parent looked at his son and urged the boy to prepare himself to accompany her to her destination.

* * *

"So tell me a little about yourself," Yusuke asked his young female companion as they walked in the direction of her school, leaving footprints in the powdery snow behind them.

The young man was walking in a carefree manner, holding the handle of his black schoolbag over his shoulder. He did not seem too anxious to hear about her past but still attempted to start a conversation with the young girl.

"Hum, let's see..." the adolescent maiden timidly thought out loud, stroking her light red hair with her hand. "Oh I know!" she cheerfully exclaimed after having found the perfect answer to her companion's question. "I love to cook," she started to say excitedly, happy to have found an occasion to share her passions with another person, "and sunbathing, oh sunbathing..."

Sheer joy permeated her words as she mentioned her love for sunbathing. The young girl was lost in her reverie, daydreaming about blissful summer days. Her eyes were sparkling, her hands joined near her heart in a gesture of elation.

The young man looked at her with disdainful eyes, finding her exhilaration to be a bit exaggerated. He grimaced at the thought of her continuing her emotional display.

"That's not really what I meant," Yusuke simply said. "What was it like in Osaka, what were your parents like?"

"Oh," Orchid said, snapping out of her fantasies. "I don't really have a mom, but that's okay because my dad always took good care of me!" she merrily told the young man. "I always do a lot of things with him, like shopping, fishing, enjoying good cuisine..."

"Is that so?" Yusuke thoughtlessly interrupted her, a little envious. "Wish my old man would do some stuff with me," he said, shifting his gaze from the young girl to the building towards which they were walking.

"Hm? What was your mom like, Yusuke?" she asked him, noticing how little she knew about the young man. "I know a lot about my uncle, but not much about my aunt..."

"She died a long time ago..." Yusuke told her, obviously feeling sadness from the memories evoked by the mention of his mother.

"Oh..." the red-haired teenager said while lowering her eyes to look at the ground, ashamed to have caused the young man such discomfort.

"Well, this is your school," the boy said after they had stopped walking in front of a sophisticated establishment. "I'll be back to pick you up once classes are over."

"You're not coming with me?" the adolescent girl asked him with a bit of surprise.

"No, I go to the school in front of yours; the school you're going to is a school for 'gifted' individuals..." Yusuke replied, stating facts as they were with no detour.

* * *

"We have a new student today!" echoed the voice of a middle-aged woman throughout her classroom as she introduced to her students the latest addition to their cohort. "Her name is Orchid Tanaka."

Orchid was standing next to the refined professor in front of a class of thirty students, in a small but elegant classroom. The new girl showed her good manners by bowing respectfully to her fellow classmates before the teacher concluded the introductions.

"She is gifted with the use of fire magic," the professor continued. "I hope you will treat her kindly."

Orchid walked awkwardly towards an empty seat in the front row, feeling a bit of shyness from being the focus of everyone's attention. She heard a few whispers from the crowd; some of these murmurs were quite candid.

"This one's an idiot... I can tell!" a faint whisper emerged from the noisy crowd to reach Orchid's embarrassed ears.

"Settle down," the teacher told her students before starting to walk between rows of desks, resuming her lecture where she had ended it the week earlier. "What I want to do today is stimulate a class discussion about the various schools of thought," she continued, a writing pad resting on the soft white fabric of her blouse as she held her notes against her chest with her forearms.

The sound of the teacher's high heels resonated throughout the small classroom as she continued her march, unfettered by the tightness of her long gray skirt. As the teacher finished circulating through a corridor made by two rows of students, she looked intently into the cold blue eyes of a particular pupil.

"Bleu, in order to start this discussion, we will need to be reminded of the four main categories of magic," the teacher asked the blue-haired student, whose austere demeanor could be readily mistaken for unfriendliness.

"Protection magic, Destruction magic, Transfer magic and Seduction magic," the light-skinned student simply said with her usual low-pitched and detached tone of voice.

Sitting at the back of the class and wearing the ordinary black and white uniform of her school, the young girl never tried to attract any attention to herself. She didn't quite understand why the teacher was picking on her all of a sudden.

Nevertheless, the pale girl felt something strange for a moment and turned her attention towards the new student, who was looking at her innocently. As Orchid's eyes met with Bleu's, the embarrassed red-haired girl turned around, disturbed by the icy sensation she felt taking a hold of her heart. Was it something she did? Something about Bleu felt so... cold.

The teacher turned her back on the diligent student she had just interrogated and resumed her walk through another row of the class, this time facing the front of the room.

"And can someone remind the class how minor influences work?" the teacher asked the students, hoping someone would answer without her having to pick a random person.

"A magic user who is endowed with the ability to use one major category of magic will also have an affinity for one of eight possible influences," boomed the articulate voice of a distinguished young girl sitting in the back. "These influences are Power, Reality, Mind, Astral, Rave, Elemental, Life and Soul."

The teacher turned around to glance at the sophisticated Prudence Elle Lonergan, a child destined to preserve the legacy of the illustrious Lonergan family. The Canadian adolescent girl ran a hand through her long dark brown hair. She gracefully complemented the school's customary attire, a black skirt and a white blouse, with a prominent ebony cross resting between her breasts. The Christian ornament lied at the end of a necklace that surrounded the collar of her blouse. She often preferred not to draw any attention to her religious beliefs by concealing that necklace under her clothing.

"You're right, Prudence," the teacher acknowledged the student's answer as being correct before walking up to her desk. "If you consider the relationship between the aforementioned elements, you can clearly see thirty-two possible schools of thought," the teacher said while she pressed a key on her laptop to project the image of a neatly divided square on the classroom's display panel.

"A person using Seduction magic and influenced by the Reality sphere belongs to the illusionist school of thought, whereas another user of Seduction magic whose affinity lies with the Astral sphere will belong to the school of Mysticism," the teacher continued her lecture, looking at her students. "A person endowed with Transfer magic and influenced by Reality will belong to the summoning school of thought, while a caster of Protection magic influenced by Life will belong to the school of Healing."

"Now if you consider methods of channeling magic on top of that," the teacher said while emphasizing her words to capture the attention of the young girls, "you'll see the square becomes a three-dimensional cube."

Orchid just sat there, simply entranced by the words of her teacher. Meanwhile, the other young girls were frantically taking notes, expecting this lecture to be exam material. The teacher continued her explanations unabashedly.

"The Federation of Schools of Magic, using the works of several academicians such as the late Henry Wright, attempted to categorize these thirty-two types of magic into schools of thought, but the classifications and studies are still incomplete, and this is where our debate comes in..." the teacher said, opening the class to a group discussion on the many possibilities offered to them by the use of magic. "For instance, all major categories using the Elemental influence have been studied, since elemental magic is one of the most frequent types of magic found among casters..."

"So what you are saying, Mrs. Assaf, is that there are still many schools of thought that have yet to be discovered..." Prudence asked from the back of the class, unwittingly cutting the teacher's explanations short.

"Well, have you ever seen someone use Transfer magic with an Astral or Rave influence?" a classmate asked Prudence. "Like, how would that even work?"

"There's something I want to know above all else..." Prudence said without pausing to consider her classmate's question. "How does magic interact with the divine?" she asked her teacher, her ebony cross nestled in the palm of her hand. "We all know about the existence of the school of thought known as the Forbidden Divine Arts..."

"Prudence!" an attractive blond girl yelled at the Canadian student from the front row with a low-pitched tone of voice. "That school of thought is forbidden for a reason!"

"Claire..." the Canadian girl whispered, looking at her friend with a dumbfounded expression before the school bell abruptly tolled, announcing the beginning of recess.

* * *

A few moments later, the pale young maiden known as Bleu Heisashi sat on a wooden bench in the schoolyard. She was accompanied by a comely teenage girl, whose long and textured auburn hair was a pleasant vision of beauty in the midst of this austere white winter snow, and a contrast to Bleu's own short blue hair. The light-skinned young girl peeled an apple before cutting it in half, giving a portion of the fruit to her comrade.

"There you go," Bleu told her friend before receiving her companion's thanks.

The two adolescent girls enjoyed the fruit while having a delightful conversation, remembering old times. A warm smile illuminated Bleu's face for the first time in many months. This is because she felt truly happy when in the presence of her childhood friend, a person she had not seen for a while. This happiness did not last, since their frugal meal was soon to be interrupted by the approach of three notorious schoolgirls.

"Eh, Bleu has a friend, I didn't even think that was possible," the blond leader of the group said contemptuously, standing proudly before her two interlocutors with her arms crossed. "Just because your father is the head of NATO..."

"If it isn't the three stooges," Bleu's friend retorted with amusement, interrupting the American maiden. The five girls knew these harsh words were only spoken in jest, however, and exchanged affectionate smiles shortly thereafter.

"Welcome back, milady Ellis of the wind elemental," the heiress to the Lonergan family name told her esteemed classmate, greeting the young girl with a bow.

"Where have you been!" the third student, another Canadian girl known as Amelia Whitfield, asked Ellis with a loud and passionate voice, glad to see her comrade after such a long absence.

"Ah, the heavenly Prudence, the ambitious Claire Wright, and the wily temptress Amelia Whitfield," Ellis said with a chuckle, looking at the three girls in front of her successively. "It's been a while; to tell you the truth, I've been traveling."

"You owe us a detailed account, then!" Amelia told Ellis gleefully, encouraging her classmate to indulge her in stories of her travels.

* * *

Moments after recess, Orchid played tennis inside a gymnasium, in the company of many other girls. The adolescent maiden panted as she ran around on her side of the tennis court, trying to send the rubber ball back to her adversary. Orchid's opponent, an innocent girl whose purity rivaled her own, tried her best to catch the ball with her racket. Every time the girls were about to drop the ball, they shrieked from fear of losing.

"You're good!" Orchid's opponent exclaimed, her long brown hair flowing with the wind as she actively went from one end of the indoor court to another.

"You're not so bad yourself, Hitomi!" the red-haired maiden replied cheerfully, enjoying the fun moment she was sharing with a person she now valued as a friend.

Shortly thereafter, the girls were showering in the restroom, finally relaxing from their physical education class and washing the sweat off their flesh. Orchid, naked, timidly enveloped her voluptuous body in a towel and awkwardly walked towards a shower cabinet she thought was empty. The door was partially open, and the steam surrounding the area slightly blurred her vision.

Peering inside the shower cabinet, she saw an intriguing blond woman whose graceful body was covered with strange black markings. The adolescent girl known as Claire Wright was drying her short golden hair by rubbing it against her towel. Unexpectedly, she noticed Orchid's presence and stared at the red-haired maiden with deep hatred in her eyes.

"You want to die?" the blond girl snapped at the new student with rage that was easily noticeable in her low-pitched tone of voice.

"Orchy, let's... leave Claire alone," another blond girl said with concern as she passed by. Orchid's most recent acquaintance encircled the red-haired maiden's right arm with her hands, steering the young girl away from where she was currently standing.

"Leave it to Gwen to save a peasant's life," Amelia Whitfield told Orchid's protector with a mixture of amusement and scorn. She had witnessed the scene from afar while stroking her back with a towel, her bare body resting on a wooden bench that stretched from one end of the room to the next.

* * *

The girls studying in the Japanese Orchid School of Magic concluded their afternoon with one final class in magic channeling practicum. The course was supervised by a woman known throughout the school as a magistrate, or rather a professor of high rank who also held administrative responsibilities within the academic institution.

For the purpose of this class, the magistrate was accompanied in her duties by an assistant tasked with helping in the supervision of the students as they practiced their magic.This was a perfect opportunity for magic users to get hands-on experience in controlling their 'gift'.

As Magistrate Airin circulated back and forth among her students, her light blue robe was slightly lifted from the ground by surrounding air currents. She quietly monitored her pupils as they cast their spells. The magistrate first looked over to the student known as Ellis Lyonorr while the young girl merrily created a minuscule whirlwind within the palm of her hand through the absorption of air from her surroundings.

The magistrate shifted her gaze to the Canadian girl known as Prudence Elle Lonergan and witnessed the young girl create a magical barrier around her body by chanting the words of a prayer. The student's long brown hair was slightly lifted upwards by the air currents produced by her aura, and the ebony cross found on the end of her necklace glowed with a radiant white light.

The magistrate then turned her attention to Bleu Heisashi, daughter of the renowned Ryunosuke Heisashi, Secretary General of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization. Her father's appointment was an honor bestowed upon Japan after its entry in the organization. The blue-haired student simply manipulated the particles of hydrogen found in her environment, condensing them to create water. Seconds later, she froze that water into ice by drastically lowering its temperature.

She finally looked at her newest pupil. The red-haired maiden innocently rose her hands to place them right in front of her face. With a shriek of excitement, she witnessed vibrant flames suddenly appear out of nowhere to float over the palm of her hands. Her eyes, partly reflecting the light of the bright fire, sparkled with delight. The magistrate looked at this spectacle with worry; needless to say, she was not amused.

"You seem a little distraught," the assistant whispered to Airin after having caught up with her. "What are we looking at?" she wondered. "She simply manipulated the elements around her to create fire."

"Is that what you think?" Airin asked the young and inexperienced female assistant. "I sense no shred of Elemental influence in this girl, and I did not see any particles being manipulated either," the magistrate went on, gently touching her chin with her right hand.

"Ellis uses elemental magic by draining air from her surroundings and focusing it in a smaller area; Bleu uses the same type of magic by manipulating hydrogen, condensing it into water which she then freezes at will," the magistrate explained to her young attendant. "This girl, however... Orchid, was it? She did not create those flames, she simply summoned them from another place."

The magistrate looked at the assistant, fully aware the young woman would not understand her concerns.

"Orchid's magic is not elemental magic, it is reality distortion magic," she quickly continued her comments while staring at the lively red-haired child. "This child just stepped into this school, and already she can manipulate planes of existence?" Airin concluded, looking at the attendant with perplexed eyes.

--

Gary Germeil, M. Sc.
Publisher, www.organics-eternal-love-story.com

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Letters From The Barn: Consider The Egg

Letters From The Barn: Consider The Egg

When I toss out food for the chickens, big dog eyes it hungrily. She no longer eyes them hungrily as she has figured out they taste better unfeathered, the way I present them to her later. She still looks at their kibble though, kind of like a giant relishing the possibility of eating the food of a field mouse.

Once they've cruised on and have no interest in it anymore, she's allowed to go and gobble up the specks of dust that are left. It really brings home that dogs are true scavengers. They actually look forward to picking up the leavings. You would not be able to tell she had already been fed three times that day. Each time, she brings the same devotion to the tiniest crumb. But, every crumb needs to be worshiped, I suppose, just like every just opened flower bloom, so why not? She's just the one to do it.

The same goes with eggs. She loves them. But, has learned that if she can wait til I crack one into her bowl instead of the stealthy pre-cracking in the barnyard of her own doing, she not only gets to eat it, but she keeps her life as well.

The cat loves eggs, too. Now, she would actually be capable of catching a chicken. I've seen her eat birds and even a portion of a squirrel. She gave up a bit into the fur coat aspect of it, but was quite energetic. She can bat a moth the size of a bird out of the air and will. Her late night hors derves. She's also fond of grasshoppers. The chickens are too. If only I could teach the cat to bring them to the chickens as token gifts the way she does me. Then, we'd have a nice thing going here.

Maybe the problem is she doesn't understand that the eggs come from the chicken so does not understand the need to return a favor. If she did though, I'm sure there's be a chicken egg fiesta each day before any ever got into my fridge. So, let's not try that.

What do the chickens like to catch? Anything small and running and jumping. No small children, thank goodness. Though worms and small snakes do attract their interest. They especially love bits of raw meat scraps. And, anything green from grass to clover.

The varied diet makes their yolks rich and full. If you've ever seen one, the store kind pales in comparison. The fresh yolks actually sit up higher on the whites, too, when you're frying an egg. (Though I admit to steaming mine.) A fan of bacon grease in general, I don't like greasy eggs. They look and taste similarly cooked in a tiny bit of water and that way my grease quotient is saved for something really important like fried potatoes. 

The one things fresh eggs are not good for is an easily peeled boiled egg. For that, they do need to set a few days first. A fresh egg has no air pocket built up inside, which is why it sits so prideful on its egg white throne in the skillet, but also why it's hard to peel when boiled. There's no air chamber yet built up between the white and the shell. After a few days, though, when one has built up, they peel more like a store bought one.

One thing thing they never do is crack like a storebought one. They always seemed to have stronger, thicker shells. You should see how many times mine fall between the barn and the house. Oops! A chicken laid an egg on top of the hay bale. Watch it fall down four feet. Watch the goat nearly step on it seventeen times before I can get between its legs and save it. And the crazy thing is, they are often savable. Uncracked. And even unblemished. Though perhaps if chickens know about such things, the poor thing has a heart attack from watching her hard work jumbled around like that.

Chickens do know they've created something new and unique, though. Something that is just theirs.They'll preen and dance and call after they've laid. It's my favorite time of day, watching their dance. If you go pick up the egg right then, it's still warm. Kind of like picking vegetables in the middle of the day with the sun still warm on them. If there's a little bit of a chill to the day, it's a hand warmer as I walk back to the porch.

The only mistake you can make is putting one in your pocket thinking it'll just be for a moment. Or you can, and it'll be fine there for quite a while. Until you sit down. Not that I know about that personally. I have never sat down to write a column on farming, even this one, with an egg in my pocket. That would be ridiculous. Utterly.

_____________________________

Author: Meriwether O'Connor

Friday, October 7, 2011

The Whippoorwill

The Whippoorwill

As darkness swallowed the light of day a Whippoorwill filled the valley with its nightly melodious tune drowning out the back and forth squeak of the swing hanging from a large oak tree in our front yard.

Swinging just before bed time seemed to be a nightly ritual of my younger sisters Ruth and Abigail. They were twins and the youngest children in our family…being only five years of age. The girls would swing and sing trying to copy the tune of the Whippoorwill each and every night until Mamma called for them to come and get ready for bed. They were ten years between the twins and me, and I once asked Mamma why she waited so long to have my younger sisters – she just smiled and said; “God had two extra babies in heaven that need good folks to take care of them, so He sent them to our home.” I never asked again!

All told, there were seven of us children at home. Myself, brothers James and Daniel, and sister’s Rebecca, Martha and the twins. Each of us had been given biblical names, mine being Joseph and I’m more than sure my brothers and I failed in what had been hoped for by our biblical names.

Although it was the month of May, nights were cool from the fog rolling up the valley from the Tennessee River. It was spring time in North Alabama and the fog rolling in seemed to be a nightly ritual in and of its own.

My Daddy was born on this land and vowed he would die on it. That was prophesy come true, Daddy became ill the following March and died of pneumonia. I always believed Daddy grieved himself to death and the pneumonia just helped him along.

Even before Mr. Lincoln had been elected there had been threats of war with a handful of southern states threatening to secede from the Union. Whenever the word secession was spoken I could see a look of fear in my Daddy’s eyes – fear that had never been there before for any cause. His last request before dying was for us boys to never leave the farm and never go off to war. His words fell on deaf ears because the following month, April of ’61 Fort Sumter was fired on, and the war came to us.

After hearing of the start of the war my brothers and I hurriedly packed a covered wagon with clothing, food and all essentials needed to make a trip to Troy in South Alabama. It was our thinking the war would never make it that far south. How wrong we were! Troy was Mammas home before she and Daddy were married, and she still had family living there. James and I agreed to remain on the farm and Daniel being the oldest would drive the wagon with Mamma and the girls to a safe haven. Little did we know it at the time, but it would be the last time James and I would ever see our family again.

The war came to the farm in a hurry and James and I were forced to choose which side we would be fighting on. Our Daddy’s last words wouldn’t help us make the decision – it was either our native South or fight for the Yankees. Of course we fought for the South but were never clear of the reason we were fighting - none of us had ever met a slave and believed there had to be more to the reason for fighting than slavery.

The war was a thing I know God Himself must have been ashamed of. Otherwise there wouldn’t have been so many good people from both sides being slaughtered.

In the midst of battle for Atlanta both James and I received wounds that didn’t kill either of us, but James lost his left leg from the knee down. A Yankee ball struck me in the chest breaking two ribs and exiting out my side. Afterwards, James spent two months in a makeshift plantation hospital and after receiving medical treatment I was released to rejoin my fellow recruits with instructions from the doctor to not let my wound scab over or I would get infection and die. I did neither!

After rejoining the troops, my commander surprisingly ordered me to go home. He said with my wound, I couldn’t help either the war effort or myself. At the time I thought why not just let everyone go home – the fighting still made no sense to me.

Fighting was still going on all around me and desertion by troops from both sides numbered in the hundreds. It took me the better part of a week to get back home, or what was left of home. The sun was going down and as I looked over the land where cotton and corn use to grow I couldn’t believe my eyes, there was a field of crosses. Both barns were now rubble and only half of our home was left. As I blinked my eyes in the fading light I looked up and there standing tall was the old oak tree with the link chain swing still hanging from the same limb.

It was now too dark to see, but off in the distance I heard what sounded like a Whippoorwill crying. I dropped to my knees and cried along with him.

Joseph Spearman

_____________________________
Author Bio: I happen to be a retired high school administrator with teaching experience in both secondary and post-secondary education. Writing is a hobby that brings challenges and pleasure to my much too leisure time. I thoroughly enjoy writing about life experiences about my boyhood as I was growing up in Alabama. I enjoy writing about these experiences as well as historical times in the 1800's. I do most of my writing in the early morning hours, between midnight and four in the morning.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Letters From The Barn: Fat And Healthy

Letters From The Barn: Fat And Healthy

I like to strike a balance. Healthy and fat all at once. I admit to thinking of a fat animal or a fat person as happier than a thin one. Don't ask me how this idea has kept in my brain in this culture, but it has.

My little dog is tiny. To keep her at four pounds, I feed her more than you might think. She gets meat and anything else I can think of. If I had to encrust her kibble in diamonds, I might do it. Okay, on my budget, rhinestones. She used to have a step-sister who weighed twice her weight on half as much food. So, I don't think a self-help diet book on emotional eating problems would have done either of them any good.

Sometimes, weight is really just in the body. I can have a fat chicken that barely eats at all and a skinny chicken that eats up all the good nuggets first, plus begs scraps later. And, against what you might expect, that skinny chicken lays the biggest egg of them all. Do not ask me where she kept it. Perhaps she has a rather large purse stashed somewhere nearby or a kangaroo pouch.

Me, I weigh in at a comfortable 250 and I've been eating brown rice and soy milk for the majority of my life. I have a friend whose main diet is fast food who shivers anytime it's under seventy degrees she's so thin. And, I'm active, too. I walk dogs, chase goats, haul water, rebuild falling down fences, and figure out how to get a four hundred pound bale of hay out of my pick up by myself.

I have one goat who's hard to keep at the right weight. She's a freak of nature. Though she hasn't been freshened (given birth) in years, she still gives milk. This is both good and bad. Good in that you get milk, sure. But, bad, in that any carbohydrates in her diet at all (grain, potatoes, etc.) brings her into milk. So, whereas another goat can be fed a bit of grain just to keep them at fighting weight and more if they're milking, the tiniest bit brings her into milk. It's like her milk gene is permanently turned on.

This is one of those "impossible" feats (and problems) that anyone who has four toes, six fingers or a child who learned both to play Brahms and dial 911 at age two can tell you is all too true. Keeping her at a good weight (with all the grazing or hay she wants) but without grain is quite hard. But, with grain, she bags up easily, getting too full of milk despite not having had a kid in quite sometime.

This is hard, too, as it's good for a goat to be dried off for a while, both for the goat and the owner. To let the goat save up their nutrients for themselves and not put them all into the milk, most are dried off regularly. It's also necessary for the owner who, for some crazy reason, may not want to milk on -15 degree winter days.

With her,though, the weight issue is an obvious problem and one with no simple answer. Unlike me, who's happy being fat and my dog who's happy being skinny, I've never found the perfect thing for her. There is no method I know of (or ever heard of from the many folks I've asked) to dry her up while still keeping weight on her. It's one or the other with this one, all milk and healthy looking or skin and bones.

I've even had folks tell me she HAS to have had a baby recently in order to be still giving milk. Also, that it's impossible she's been dried off and then still milks later with no kid in between. Well, unless this goat is the blessed virgin goat and they're going to be building a whole new religion around her, I'd have to say not. Though, if she is, I'd be happy to put a collection plate out and you're all welcome to come light a candle and ask her for any blessings you like.

Truly, she does have a special smile each time she sees me which is a blessing all its own. But, I kind of figure you'd expect something of a bit more in the miracle department from her. Call ahead first if you do want to visit her shrine. I'll need to build it first.

As this winter approaches and she looks so shiny and healthy from all her grain, I'm realizing I'll be out there milking her. Even if that means not needing to add any ice to my iced coffee as it'll all be dripping off my nose or already in the milk itself by the time I get it back inside.

This brings us to my favorite drink besides, the obvious, ice tea. Homemade coffee with smiling goat's milk. I know, goat milk sounds blechy. If you offered it to me, I'd say no, too. But once you've tasted it, it shames the poor cows so bad they just put up a closed for business sign.

First off, fresh goats milk is best. I mean, so fresh the goat's still looking at you sideways cause she's not sure she likes being milked straight into a coffee cup if you aren't going to offer her at least dinner and a movie first. If you do need to go with storebought because you don't have a goat tethered up on your apartment roof in the city, then that's okay, too.

But, try for the freshest possible. I know that goat milk is renowned for its tang, but I'm not a fan. I prefer to leave the Tang to the astronauts, thank you very much.

So, make your favorite coffee (I mix mine half caf/half decaf), then set it in a pot on the stove with a few strips of orange peel, a bit of vanilla, some sugar and then goat's milk to taste. To my taste, that's about half milk, half coffee. But, you may want less. Or, more. (This can also be made with soy or rice milk and it comes out nicely, too. Cow's milk, as well, but I imagine you're snappy enough to figure that one out for yourself.)

Let it steam for a while. If it boils by accident, it's not that big of a deal. It won't curdle the way cow's milk does. Something complicated about fat globules I've never quite understood. You can drink it warm like that, which I love, or ice it down, too.

Using ice cubes made from coffee is great as it keeps the ice from watering down your drink. I tend to drink the first cup warm then put the rest in the fridge for a colder version later in the day.

If it's almost right iced, but not quite, try adding a tiny bit of salt. Most prepared drinks you've had commercially have it added, so that might be just the touch you need. Most days I don't add any, but on hot, sweaty days, it tastes better that way. Then, I use sea salt.

If this drink doesn't convert you to goat's milk, contact the website for your money back. You paid a lot of money to read this column, didn't you? And you deserve your money's worth. Every penny.

___________________________

Author: Meriwether O'Connor

Saturday, October 1, 2011

Farm Life

Farm Life                    
By Jane-Ann Heitmueller

  Daddy had farming in his blood. From childhood he farmed with his father and brother, then married, moved up the road to one of his dad's rent houses and started farming on his own.

  The toil of a  southern farmer in the early forties was hard, constant and offered little monetary rewards. A good horse, sturdy plow, decent weather and the grit to succeed was about all a man of the soil could hope for those days. He was lucky if he broke even each year and thrilled if he made any profit.

  Eventually, Dad made and saved enough to buy a used hay baler and tractor that kept him busy in the fields raking and baling hay for the public. It was dusty, hot labor, but supplemented his meager income; adding to the sale of corn, soybeans and sweet  and Irish potatoes.

  In 1947 Dad invested in five purebred Jersey milk cows. Deep South Creamery in Cullman purchased milk from the local farmers for sale to the public.

  Milking cows is a confining chore and must be done diligently twice a day, regardless of the weather or the farmer's other plans. I milked along side him each day and often went with him to deliver milk to the dairy every evening. We normally sold seven or eight gallons a day, which was a nice monthly addition to the family income. Our milk was raw milk called B grade and was used to make cheese. It was not sterile enough to be used for drinking milk, as was the case with some of the larger dairy farmer's production, whose equipment was more sophisticated.

  One thing for sure, when we milked cows we didn't have any rats around the place. At milking time, as if by magic, a dozen or more fat, silky cats would appear from the stalls and drop down off the barn rafters, all eager to lap up the fresh, warm milk Dad poured in a large metal bowl in the hall of the barn. They certainly earned their room and board by keeping any rat far away from their coveted domain.

    Dad took good care of his cows and they served him well, each having her own stable and feed trough. Some folks tell you that cows aren't very smart, but you could just about set your pocket watch by their predictable arrival at the barn at milking time. They lined up in order of which cow's stable came first and headed there without having to be prodded.

  A few memorable incidents come to mind when I think of those cows. I recall one hot summer evening following Dad's long, tiring day baling hay in the blistering southern sunshine. Completely exhausted, having labored from sun up till sun down, he was more than ready to head inside for a relaxing shower, nourishing supper and soft bed, but first he had to do the milking. 
  
    I suppose that old cow may have had a bad day herself, or perhaps she was just being stubborn. While Dad attempted to milk her she repeatedly put her hind leg into the bucket. Nothing Dad did seemed to deter her.  In pure frustration and disgust Dad jumped off the milking stool to whack that persistent bovine in the head, but he missed her head as his fist collided with her rock hard horn. Dad foolishly broke his hand that evening and was reminded of his fit of fury each time he painfully attempted to milk in the weeks to come.

   We had to call young Doc Compton out one evening when a heifer came in at milking time bleeding and leaking milk. She had gotten herself tangled in a barbed wire fence and badly ripped her udder. Doc had only recently graduated from vet school at Auburn and still pretty "green" in the care of animals. While Dad and I milked the other cows, he worked with great care to repair the damaged udder. 

   Dad thanked him for a job well done, paid his fee and shook his hand, but just as Doc Compton turned to go to his truck he remarked, with an impish grin on his face, "Herbert, that must be a real gentle cow you've got there. Here's the full hypodermic needle I forgot to use to deaden her udder before I sewed her up." We all had a good laugh about the young, inexperienced doctor's error at the poor cow's expense. 

    Our neighbor had to be called in for consultation one spring afternoon when one of the cows got down and seemed unable to get back on her feet. Dad tried every trick he knew to help the old girl, but nothing worked.

 "Sure," Charley confidently exclaimed, after looking at the downed heifer. "All you need to do is get a pint of white lightening in her stomach."  

 So, in desperation, the three of us rigged up a funnel with tubing, pried the cow's mouth open and poured the vile brew down her throat. She immediately jumped up from the barn floor, took off at full gallop toward the house and promptly... fell dead in her tracks.

  Charley finally spoke, breaking our zombie like silence..."See," he exclaimed with a wide, toothless grin on his old, weathered face. "I told you she'd get up!" Dad and I were speechless.

  In 1963, when I married and left home, Dad decided to try his hand at being a businessman. He sold all his cows and used the money to build a little country store and gas station in his pasture across the road from the house. He enjoyed the people, but missed farming. After a few years he closed down the store and went home where he spent his days sitting on the front porch watching the traffic come and go on the newly paved road. 

  Dad never made a million dollars at farming or running the store, but when he passed in 1998 he was remembered by those who knew him as a fine, honest and hardworking man. A well deserved tribute!