Some of y'all may find this interestin'

 

I had made me a little plan to get rich, a plan to get rich quick, and to get rich easy. All ‘cause of my job as a janitor down at the Institute and the little ring of keys that I got with the job. I ain’t a crook. No, that ain’t what I want to say. I ain’t a thief. I weren’t gonna steal nuthin’. I was just gonna borrow a time machine. Maybe I’d better tell y’all a little more, so y’all can understand.

I used to work down at The Kentucky Institute of Technology, and one of the professors was kinda eager. He’s a local boy, born right here in town, and he figured if he could prove Albert Einstein was wrong, he could become somebody, and maybe earn a little walkin’ round money while he was at it. He meant to call ole’ Mr. Einstein a liar with math, but when he found out how easy he could do it for real, he built this here machine.

The way he tells it, the measuring of time is really the measuring of the decay of the universe. What this Professor, Hiram Apollo Crumbegger Jr. (could I make that up?), did was to figure out a way to reverse or speed up this decay, at a speed he could figure out, in a little bitty area. Don’t ask me to get any more particular, I can’t, I’m just the janitor. But I do know how to set the decay reverser and hit the start button.

I was startin’ to be clean the old boiler room that the professor was usin’ as a lab one night, somethin’ I hated to do after dark, ‘cause of the coffin the professor was using to build his time machine outta, when I notices the coffin ain’t there. Just as soon as I notice it ain’t there, it was there, and the professor was climbin’ out of it. He was white as a ghost, somethin’ I am just being around that durn thing, much less bein’ in it, and he starts to tellin’ me about his trip.

“Terrible, Mr. Hoshang, terrible I tell you” He stuttered.

“Well”, says “That much I got so far. What’s terrible?”

“The future,” says he, “As bad as it can get.”

He was shakin’ like a drunk in a Revival tent, as colorless as a sheet a’ window glass, and trying to drink a glass water, most a’ which was down the front of his shirt. I had to agree with him you see. My rent was due in the very near future, and I was some dollars short a’ what the landlord wanted. But nice a man as he was, I didn’t figure me bein’ a’ dollar or two short on my rent money was what had him lookin’ like he’d seen his mother-in-law lackin’ her make-up.

“Just what is so durn terrible there Per’fessor? We get overrun by them godless Commies like we been a’ fearin’?” I ask.

He looked over at the box, like he was afraid somethin’ would crawl outta it, and talked in a tone of voice that sounded like the preacher just afore the end of a funeral.

“I have seen something I did not ask to see, want to see, or should have seen. It is a sight I cannot inflict on another, least of all my friends.”

He never said another word about it, to anybody, as far as I know. But I did sneak a look at the log book he kept on his trips, and he wrote down what he saw in the future. The way the Professor described it scared the daylights outta me. Seems what the professor did was went about a year into the future, and when he stepped outta the time machine he saw all of the possible futures at once. Since the future isn’t set down yet, everything that coulda happened at a set time did happen. So like take cleaning the Professor’s Lab. It coulda been me doing it, or I coulda took a sick day and Sam did the cleaning; or both me and Sam wasn’t there, and they had a new guy.

Or the Professor wasn’t there anymore, and it was somebody else’s Lab. And all of this was happening at once. The Professor figured that the further into the future he went, the more permutations (ain’t that a fancy word. I had to look it up. It means possible outcomes, or possibilities.) would increase, as each possible future had several possible futures. So a feller couldn’t even go into the future to see how a ballgame ended, because the ballgame could end any one of a dozen ways, even if you waited until the last inning.

The professor had made about a dozen time trips, the one forward, which scared the living daylights out of him, and the rest backward, one all the way back to 1776, by the time I had made my plan. The bad thing about the machine is that it only controls time, and not space, so when he went to 1776 he wound up in the middle of the Kentucky wilderness, and not in Philadelphia, like he wanted. The other problem was its size. The time machine is actually made out of a solid bronze coffin. I don’t understand the science, but it has something to do with the way other metals rust, and speed that they handle electricity. The point is there ain’t much room.

The room don’t matter much when a feller is just out seeing the sights, but this is bad news when making a time travel for profit. I really only had about enough room for a case of beer. And even then I had to split it into six-packs. I had to find things that were small and cheap in the past, and small and expensive in the here and now. The other catch was I had to be able to find them close. I could trust the time machine alone for a couple of hours, but I sure couldn’t take a trip up to Cincinnati to look around for gee-gaws.

I went looking around the antique shops and flea markets just to see what kinda stuff was possible to make a quick, well sorta quick, buck on. One of the first things I laid eyes on was old Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars. I can remember paying about 25 cents apiece for them. I saw folks fork over $50.00 for one in pretty good shape. I knew what to fetch back from around 1970.

That night I went through my normal clean up, down to the lab in the basement of Old Home Hall. The Dean had let the Professor use what used to be an old coal bunker for his experiments, I guess ‘cause he figured there weren’t much to damage down there. The room worked out real well for the professor. He didn’t have no windows to watch out for, and the thick walls kept the noise down so the folks outside couldn’t hear anything. It worked well for me too. Only the professor and me had keys to the room, and he was always in bed by 9:00, and not in the lab until 8:00. So I could launch the machine when I was done cleaning, and get back the minute after, and still have time to haul my fortune home.

My first trip was kinda spur of the moment. I had to work up the courage to see if I could handle just climbing into that Death Box. Like I heard a feller say one time, that plumb scared the bejeebers outta me, and I ain’t a feared a’ nothing. The way the professor had the works set up was like this; I had to set the time I wanted to go back to on a computer on the outside of the box, climb in, and pull the lid down. When the lid hit bottom, the circuit was made, and the box lit out for pasts unknown.

I had figured out that I wanted to go to around the first of February, in 1968. February was when the tobacco money hit town, and lots of folks was dollars rich and sense poor. That’s when Mr. Waldenschmidt down at the drug store made sure he had as many of them little cars as he could, figuring that folks would be spending money like it was found, instead of worked for. I checked to see if I had a couple of bucks in my pocket, punched in the date and time I wanted, climbed into the coffin, took what felt like my last deep breath, and pulled the lid to.

I felt a shiver run through me like I touched a bare wire, the lid popped up, and was in room full of coal. I come up outta that thing like my pants was on fire, and looked around. The time machine was laying in the coal, kinda uneven, and buried up to the handles. I told myself right then and there, next time was not gonna be when they might have coal in here, where it might be ceiling high. The next thing was to go down town and start getting rich.

When I started down the hall, I got to thinking about some body seeing the time machine, and moving it before I got back, I still had my keys with me, and sure enough, the one I had still fit the lock. I locked the door behind me, and walked out like I owned the place.

It seemed like it took longer to get to town than normal, but then I hadn’t walked it in a while. The drug store was open, and I had no trouble finding the rack by the front door where Mr. Waldenschmidt kept his toy cars. After all, I had bought them there myself in ‘68. I grabbed my favorites, the ones I knew I had played with until they were nothing but junk. I figured that at four cars for a dollar, I could get about 20 cars with my $5.00, so that’s how many I grabbed.

I had plumb forgot that my eldest sister ‘Lizabeth worked the cash register for Mr. Waldenschmidt. I remembered when I ran into her at the checkout. She kept looking at me like she thought I was nuts, a growed up man buying toys.

“These are fer my nephews” I told her, “They worked awful hard on my tabacca.”

She nodded, then ask, “You look kinda familiar to me, do I know y’all? “

I almost told her yes, but figured that would cause nothin’ but trouble, so I said “I wouldn’t think so, I live ‘round Pickensville, I was just stoppin’ for lunch, and thought I’d do a little shoppin.’”

“That’ll be $5.25, includin’ tax.”

I handed over my five-spot, fished a quarter from my pocket, and waited for my bag.

“What kinda joke are you trying to pull?” She asks, as she handed back my money, “Come in with the real stuff next time.”

“What’s wrong with my cash, ain’t it green enough fer ya?”

“Them’s the worst fake money I ever saw. Look at ole Abe’s picture. Its way too big, and ain’t even in the center of the bill. ‘Sides, its 1968, not 1998. Take this phony-baloney junk and give me the real stuff, if ya got it or git afore I call the law!”

I got afore she called the law. I had plumb forgot that they had changed the way money looks a couple of years back. It appears there was more to this time travelin’ than I could think about. The next time I needed some old money.

Money was turnin’ out to be a bigger problem than I thought it could be. See, in the 18 and 80’s the common money was a $20 gold piece. To get twenty dollars to spend in 18 and 80, I’d have to spend about $450 today. Change was gonna cause me a problem up to 19 and 64, when they quit makin’ coins outta silver. A 19 and 64-quarter is worth about $.50. Even some of them old dollar bills are worth more than what’s printed on ‘em. So I had to find things that were more valuable now than they were some years back, and find the cheap money to buy them with.

On the next trip I went through all my old change, tryin’ to find coins from before 19 and 64, and went back to then to buy a Beatles lunch box. It only cost me $1.98. Which was a good thing, ‘cause the only coins I could find were nickels and pennies. Silver dimes and quarters would have cost me double what they was worth, so to speak, so I had to go with the pennies and nickels. When I came back to this time, I sold that “like new” lunch box for a little over $1000. A slick bit of money, but not what I was hoping for.

I decided that my next trip would be to the 19 and 50’s. Before I headed back to the fifties to see what I could buy, I had to find out what things could be worth today. I saw on TV somewhere that the first magazine they printed of Sports Illustrated was worth about 350 bucks, and sold on the newsstand for a quarter. I exchanged my thousand bucks for Silver certificates, all of them printed before 1954. I walked into the coin shop with four one hundred dollar bills, and walked out with 3 twenty-dollar certificates. I went back to 1954 and I cleaned out every magazine rack I could find. I had to make two trips in the time machine just to get them all back, but a hundred copies cost me twenty-five bucks, in certificates, and netted me $30,000.

I had other money I had to spend too, while I was at it, it wasn’t all clear profit. One reason I had to start close to this year and work back was clothes. I had to look like I belonged when I went back in time. The county around the Institute is hard on the lookout for anybody who don’t belong. Back in the ‘50’s it was even worse, ‘cause of the moonshinin’ and the law. If I’d a showed up in clothes that didn’t look right, I’d a had a short trip into the woods. So I bought clothes in 1964 that were about ten years old, so they looked right in 1954.

I made about 15 trips that way, buying small items back there and selling them here. I made a few bad deals, trying to collect coins and stamps, but even they made me money, just not enough. People will ask why I didn’t go into the future and bring back a list of winners in baseball or football, or even some big time lottery numbers. There were two problems; first, how far forward should I go, and second, if the professor was scared of what he saw, I sure wasn’t taking any chances. Besides, the past I was more sure of. I could look at old pictures and know how to dress. I could read old books and know the slang, and any new happenings. Plus, I knew where I would land, and what would be here.

I didn’t know anything about being in the future. The spot I was in could have been at the bottom of a garbage dump for all I knew. And since the control panel was on the outside of the time machine, being buried would make it real hard to open the lid and get to the control. I also had no idea what the clothes looked like, what the money would be like, or how the folks would talk. I was just more comfortable in the past.

But it was getting to be too easy. And too hard. To call my janitor’s pay poverty level would be like calling a miner’s shack the Governor’s Mansion. So trying not to spend any of my new money was kinda difficult. But if I suddenly spent like I was rich, I couldn’t keep on being a janitor, and then I would lose my keys to the time machine. I needed one big score, so I could retire rich, and no longer need the time machine.

Then, just by chance, I read a small bit in the paper about a guy who filled an old warehouse with cars in 19 and 50, and his son just pulled them all out, and made a king’s ransom. Now I had my plan. All I needed was the warehouse, the cars, and few days in ‘47.

Trying to find a warehouse was like trying to find a parking spot on court day. I had to find a place that could store these cars for 50 years without two much damage. It also had to be there in 1947, still be here today, and have an owner willing to be paid for storage 50 years in advance. Finding a place that fit this bill was harder than sin on a Sunday. Could I go back there and build a place, and have it still standin’ when I went to collect? This is also a tough spot, metaphysically. Ain’t that a big word? The professor taught it to me. It sort of means I have to be careful in the past not to change the future. This is something I have kind of worried ‘bout since I came back with all those Sports Illustrated and found that folks ‘round here didn’t read it. Seems that since the first issue didn’t make it into folks’ hands, nobody was interested in the rest of ‘em. But I made money, so I guess it was no harm done.

But I don’t need to worry about that; I need to worry about this. Could I go back to the past, build the building I needed, and not screw up time too badly? And if I did, would anybody but me notice that time was different? I just couldn’t figure out how to test it out. If I just built the building, came back, and found out things were changed, and didn’t have the cars, then I would have changed time and not made a red cent. But if I did buy the cars, things changed, and my building disappeared, I would be back to square one.

I also had to make sure I would still own them things when I got to the here and now. I decided to find a lawyer who had been practicing for the last 55 years in the same office. That was easy, at least in our part of the world. Then I had to find a piece of ground to build my barn on. It had to be fur ‘nough out to make sure folks didn’t find it, and cheap enough to buy, and there couldn’t be a building there now. No sense messin’ with time anymore than I needed to. That was pretty easy, too.

For this trip I decided to take the long way back, for the sake of my money. It was pretty easily change my bills into pre-1967 money, without losing too much on the trade. I went to 1967, where I changed it again, into 1955 bills, and I didn’t lose very much of the count. Another stop in 1955, and change again for the last jump into 1947. Of my original $140,000, I arrived with $128,000.

My first stop was the lawyer. I had been time traveling for almost a year, once a month or so, but it was still kind of a shock to see the man I knew as old and kinda frail as a hale and hearty young ball player. My business was short and to the point. I had him buy the plot of land I wanted, and I had him draw up my will.

The will was pretty simple. I would leave everything to my little sister’s first born son. I used my own name, and gave my mothers name as my little sister. I myself wouldn’t be born for another 15 years and in 1948 Mom was only 8 herself. The other clause was that the will could not be probated until 2001, even if reports of my death came before then. I also left a sum of money for the repair and upkeep on my building, until the time of probate.

I had to spend a couple of weeks in 19 an’ 47, while the buyin’ of the ground went thru, and the buildin’ of the barn. I spent the time gonna over every newspaper and car lot I could. In ‘47 cars were cheap. In particular the cars I was lookin’ for. Cadillac’s with V-16 engines and custom bodywork, in running condition, were selling for about $150. In 2001, the same car in the same condition was worth about $25,000.My building would have room for about 35 cars. Am I gonna to clean up or what? I bought Packards, Cords, Auburns and Chryslers. I bought a Model A Town Car for $25. I bought a big Stutz Limousine, just to say I did. I even managed to lay my hands on a Dusenberg Sport coupe for $250. The same car in the same shape today is worth almost a million bucks. I was gonna to be rich.

After all the cars were in the barn, I took a week to make sure they all were properly stored. I put oil in all the engines to make sure they wouldn’t rust. I Put mothballs in all the interiors to make sure they weren’t destroyed. I drained all the gas out of the tanks and ran each car until it ran dry the lines and carburetor. I waxed the paint, oiled the leather and polished the chrome. The tires weren’t gonna to last anyway, but I put each car up on blocks and let almost all the air out of the tires to try and get them to last.

I checked the dehumidifiers, the ventilation fans, and the strength of the lock on the door. The barn had no windows, a steel roof, and brick walls. The men who built the barn didn’t know what I put in it. The guys I bought the cars from had no idea where I put them. Everything was as secure as I could make it. All that was left was to climb in to the time machine and go home and be rich.

You may wonder about where I hid the time machine while I was in the past. The simple answer is I didn’t have to. The Kentucky Institute of Technology was around in 1947. It was called the Kentucky School of Agriculture, and was on the same acreage as it is today. The Lab where Professor Crumbegger kept the time machine was in the oldest building on campus, down in the basement. Depending on what year I was in, it was either a storage room, a boiler room, an amateur distillery, probably illegal, or, at one point, a coalbunker. Since the locks hadn’t been changed in about 90 years, I never had a problem.

In 1947 it was a boiler room. The coffin was over in the corner, behind the water tank. Since this was summer, I didn’t worry about the staff finding the time machine. The door was locked, and the time machine was way too heavy for less than 6 people to move. I had been real busy, and hadn’t been by to check on the machine in a week or two, since the sale of the property went thru, but I wasn’t worried. At least until I turned the corner around the water tank and found it was gone.

First thing I did was check the other boiler room. Maybe I had made a mistake about which one I had left it in. It wasn’t in there either. Then I walked around the boilers, walked over the coal bins, and even opened the doors of the fireboxes. Nothin’. No time machine, no sign of a time machine, not even the signs for where one had been, Not even a clean spot in the dust on the floor. Almost like it had never existed.

Now that put a kicker in the plan I hadn’t counted on. As far as I knew, the only way it could have disappeared is if somebody moved it, somebody found it and used it, or the professor had a way of calling it home if he found it gone. I knew nobody could use it, I’ll bet the Dean of the school couldn’t a’ figured out how to make the durn thing work. And the professor couldn’t a missed it, it’s a time machine for Pete’s sake, as long as I got back a minute after I left, how long I spent here wouldn’t a’ mattered.

I had locked the door to the boiler room when I left, and it was locked today. There were no windows, so that ruled everybody but the maintenance staff. In 19 an’ 47 the maintenance staff was ole’ Joe Beech. Well, he was ole’ Joe when I knew him later. In ’47 he was a young, lean and healthy. But not healthy enough to move the time machine by himself. I hadn’t heard of any odd discoveries at the school, but I wasn’t gonna to hear everything. I had to talk to Joe. I left the door unlocked and went find ole’ Joe.

Joe lived in a little house on the edge of the campus. The boilers in those days were coal fired, and Joe had go down to each building every morning in the winter and make sure the stokers worked, so he lived close. He also stayed home a lot, and was easy to find. I brought along some beer as a conversation starter, and hoped for the best.

Joe was an easy guy to talk to. It was a lot more trouble to get him to answer back. I didn’t want to come right out and ask if he had taken the time machine, so I had to go the long way around the barn, so to speak. I ask how he’d been (fine), and if the weather was warm enough (yes), and if he was keeping busy (yes). I ask if he to do any maintenance on the boilers this time of year. He told me no, he hadn’t been near them in a couple of weeks. I ask if the state had sent any inspectors down to check on them, and was told no, they weren’t due until early fall. I was done with the hard way and came right out with it.

“Joe”, I said, “I put somethin’ in boiler room number 1, and now I can’t find it.”

“Just how did you git inta Boiler room 1?”

Man, don’t ya hate it when people answer a question with a question? I already had more of one than the other, and he just dumped another onto the big pile.

“Well, I was goin’ by there t’other day an’ found the door unlocked, so I dumped the package I was carryin’ inside for a day or two, just ta store it like, an’ ta-day I went back ta git it, an’ it weren’t there.”

“An’ when y’all was ‘just passin’ by’ in the basement of Old Home Hall y’all was passin’ ta where? It ain’t like that basement is on the way to anyplace.”

“I was runnin’ an’ errand for the Dean,” I told him, “An’ needed to set down my package so’s I could carry the Dean’s stuff, an’ it took a day or two to git back ta git my own.”

As he grabbed another cold beer he said “Even with that door unlocked there couldn’t a been to many folks in that basement. An’ I can’t fig’re who left that door unlocked. Only me an’ the Dean has got a key ta the rooms in that cellar, so maybe he left it undone. Then again, if he’s got a lot a’ fellers like y’all runnin’ round with his keys, maybe one a’ them left ‘er open.”

Ole’ Joe was startin’ to ask too many questions to suit me, so I ducked as many as I could and walked back to town. I did find out a few things, and none of them were good. Nobody but Joe, an' me, an’ the Dean had keys to the boiler room. He hadn’t been near the boiler room in almost a month. He never saw the time machine, all of which meant I had no idea what could have happened to it.

I had met Dean Crumbegger a couple a’ times, ‘cause it was his place I bought to put my barn on. He was a nice enough fella, good home folks, but since he had a little education, he weren’t goin’ to be pokin’ ‘round the boilers. So I didn’t fig’re he’d hauled off my ticket home. But who else coulda?

I got to thinkin’ that maybe the Professor had found out that I was out joyriding in his toy and figured out a way to get it back. Or it could have been that because this was such a long trip, and the machine had sat for so long, that it had just rusted away. But I had looked good in that room, and if that woulda happened, I’d a’ at least found a pile a’ somethin’.

I only had one thing left that I could do. I’d have to go an’ talk to the Dean an’ see if he had somethin’ to do with my box dissappearin’. I figured I could talk to him, he was a local boy, grew up on the farm I had just bought, it was the old family home place, an’ he was alright, even if he was educated. I mean after all, the Dean was just a good ole boy at heart.

So I went to talk to the Dean. I caught him in his office the next day, right after he got off the phone, an’ he couldn’t a been happier to see me as he was long lost kin. Seems he was trying to make up his mind about an offer he had to teach in Florida, and bein’ able to unload the home place was just the thing he needed to cut his ties here and head south. He had just got off the phone with the head of a school just south of Orlando, and he was their new chancellor. He was leavin’ in two weeks, and had me to thank. For some reason I had a little trouble sharin’ in his joy. But I still congratulated Chancellor Hiram Apollo Crumbegger.

For some reason when I said that name, my heart quit beatin’. Why was it that I should know somethin’ I could just barely think of? I remembered then. The Dean was the professor’s father. There wasn’t a house up on the hill now, because it had burnt down about a year ago. The dean was decidin’ if he wanted to rebuild when my offer to buy the place came in. In real life, or I guess I should say the way I remember it now, the professor had lived up on that hill till about 5 years ago, when the place his pappy built burned when lightning hit it.

That’s why there wasn’t a house there when I left. I’m why there ain’t one there now. And I know why I don’t have a time machine. The Dean didn’t stay in the neighborhood after I bought the old home place. So his boy, if he still had a boy, wasn’t teaching at the Institute, and he had developed his time machine somewhere else. I was really up that famous creek, and no paddle in sight. I was stuck.

The professor wasn’t comin’ to teach at the Institute, an’ would never leave his time machine for me to travel in. I would grow old before I was born. I had to find another place to live, so I didn’t mess with myself as I grew up here. That would be hard enough, I ain’t ever lived anywhere but here. I still had a few bucks left, so money wasn’t a real problem, but I would eventually need a job.

I could still push a broom, but bein’ a janitor in 1947 was a lot harder than it was in 2000. I could become a mechanic, but I would need tools, and a work past, and I didn’t have either one. The more I looked at things, the worse they became. If everythin’ had worked out, I’d a’ been gone a minute, and returned a millionaire. As it worked out, I left forever, and lost my bankroll, all ‘cause I made a mistake about where to park a couple of cars.

I do have one chance left. I’m headin’ to Florida. There just might be a time machine sittin’ down there in a small college just a little southwest of Orlando. After all, who’d build anything else in that part of Florida?

A Little Taller Than That

Growing up the tallest thing I ever saw was the silo at the feed mill. 60 Feet maybe; 65 at best. 6 stories; give or take a foot or two.

And that probably would have been the tallest thing I ever saw, if it weren't for Pearl Harbor. Not the Harbor itself, but the attack, back in '41. those of us who couldn't get to the Enlistment Office fast enough to choose got drafted not much later. As long as Dad could handle the farm, the boys went off to War.

But not right away. Nobody handed us a gun and dropped us thousands of miles from home. First we had to train. For me, that was Navy. And for training that meant Great Lakes Naval Training Station. And that meant Chicago.

Before the War I had heard of Chicago. Everything we ordered from Sears an Roebuck came from Chicago. I knew how long to took to ship just about anything from Chicago. A day or two for new school clothes; 16 years for the toy you spent your birthday money on. Or it seemed that way any how.

It took twenty-six hours to ship me from Knotville Station to Chicago. I started off on a small, old engine and a 3 car train up to Louisville, then traded up for the Pan American into Cincinnati. From there we took a Military train into Chicago. When we stopped I stepped onto the rear platform at took this picture. You might notice we were in the freight yards. My days as a civilian ended in Cincinnati.

From here it was onto trucks and then a couple of hours of bouncing around in the back of a truck. It was long past dark when we stopped and managed to stretch our legs; the sights of Chicago were nowhere around. I had had one good glimpse, and had made the most of it.

8 weeks later we left Great Lakes in the dark; all I saw of the Windy City was that one picture.

But in the next four years I saw plenty. You want tall? Pull up next to an aircraft carrier in a Higgins boat. That's tall. Look over the rail of a Battleship, knowing you will be jumping any minute to escape the flames; that looks even taller.

I saw lots of things that made the old feed mill silo look small.

But that doesn't mean it was any less friendly looking when I got home.

Consequences be Damned

Can you imagine a time when grown men would sit around a bar room sipping on unadulterated soda pop?

Friend, I don't have to imagine such a time, I lived it. It was called Prohibition by the Government. 

We called it Hell on Earth.

We could get beer, and booze, if we wanted. But we couldn't do it legally. No stopping by the corner bar for a quick one; no drive thru Pony Keg on the way home. No, you had to know a man who knew a man, who had some. Dead of night runs to a seedy part of town, or trusting a shady character you just met with a wad of bills and hope that he would return with a drop of whiskey, or a few cans of home brew. You would hope that the whiskey was real, and not wood alcohol and food coloring. The beer you hoped was brewed like beer should be, and not aged in the tub somebody would have to wait two Saturday nights to use again.

Desperate times lead to desperate measures. Folks you wouldn't have talked to prior to the ban of beer were now your best companions. Things that would have been used to clean a clogged drain before were now mixed with a fruit juice and consumed. Not enjoyed mind you, but consumed.

Because the alternative was a cold Dr. Pepper down at what used be a corner bar. You felt sorry for yourself, but you pitied Charlie. The local barkeep used to be a man of substance. Held his head high in the local courthouse and the local Church. A donation to any cause was yours for the asking. His accounts were always marked 'Paid In Full' at any of the local merchants.  When Volstead got his act together, we all treated like a joke. Saturday nights we would still gather at the bar, sip a few Sody pops and shoot pool. By the second month the joke had worn thin.

By the third Charlie was feeling the pinch. 6 months in his kids were wearing hand-me-downs. A year in so was Charlie.

Five years in he was still hanging on by his shear will to beat that a-hole Volstead. His friends at the grocery and the hardware store were still able to carry his tabs. They were sure that any day now the rest of the country would come to it senses; see the mess they had made and restore beer.

And the day; the week; the month; the year would pass, and you were still buying what you hoped was liquor out of the rumble seat of a clapped out Model -T.

Charlie kept hanging on. As a former purveyor of spirits, he knew the law was hoping he would sell a drink. A short beer, a small snort; a jigger of something remotely resembling alcohol and he would go to jail. That bum kid who used to beat up his Johnny in 5th grade could sell a case of pop-skull rot-gut out the trunk of used Hupmobile- and make a small fortune doing it- but he couldn't have a snort in the house for medicinal purposes without risking jail time.

Something was wrong with the country when honest folks were starving and the crooks were getting rich. When the mayor walked by your bar to buy some 'hooch' from a Hupmobile.

Something had to be done. We couldn't see Charlie lose everything. We couldn't stand by and watch that Roberts kid from over tracks buy his way into society.

Drastic times call for drastic measures.

And that Roosevelt fellow; he says he'll give us back our beer. Consequences be damned. I'm voting for the Democrat.

Flash Fiction Friday

Have you ever caught a glimpse of something, and knew that glimpse was going to change your world?

That happened to me; as a kid.

Our farm was out in the country. Town wasn't a trip we took lightly; the County Seat was reserved for Court Day; once a year. Our contact with the outside world was the Madison County Gazette, delivered every Monday. We were able read about the doings in the county, the state, the country and the world. We usually stopped with the county; there was enough going there to keep us busy.

Then one afternoon we caught a surveyor and his crew running down the top of the ridge behind the barn. In his wake were a string of sticks marked with red and yellow tags. They ran as far as I could see; clear through the cow pasture and across the fence into Mr. Blakely's corn field. They ran straight as a string as far as I could see.

It was me and my four brothers who saw the men; the three older ones ran up the hill; Benny, being the youngest, knew it was his job to fetch Pa. We knew better than to talk to these strangers; that was Pa's job.

The man in charge explained to Pa what they were doing. Seems the Federal Government had decided it was time we threw our oil lamps away and lit the house with electricity. And since we couldn't bring home this electricity in a 5-gallon can, they were running wires to bring it to us; and those wires needed towers. The red pegs were were the lines would run, and the yellow were where the towers would sit. One would be going up right where we were standing.

Pa mentioned that he wasn't real keen on the idea of a tower in the middle of his pasture. Well, the man  said, Pa didn't have a choice. Some one in the State Capital had decided a tower would be in the middle of his cow pasture, If he didn't like it, he could take it up with the man in the Capital. Pa got a mad gleam in his eye, and walked over to the first peg he could find, and reached down to pull it out by the roots.

The man told he could pull the peg if he liked, but every peg he pulled was 30 days in the county jail. Pa let go of that peg like the devil himself was dragging on the other end.

That was something to me; at the age of ten I first saw my Pa afraid of something.

He hadn't back down from our bull when he was loose; he hadn't run when the tractor got loose from Uncle Silas and was headed his way. He hadn't backed down when that girl's family came to get Uncle Ferd for a wedding at the end of a shotgun 2 years ago last March.

But he was afraid of a peg.

That was the last we saw of that man. They worked across our place all afternoon, and by sunset they were out of sight on the far side of McMahon's hill. A few days later a car pulled up the lane and two men got out. They had some papers for Pa and Ma to sign, allowing some other men to put up the tower on the ridge. Pa wasn't too happy about it, but the men said as part of the deal we would get a line and two poles to bring electricity to the farm yard. And we would get a check every year from the Electric Company because of the tower.

Pa still wasn't happy; but the money made him feel some better about it. A few days after that we saw a silver monster rising up out of Mr. Blakely's corn. A few days later we heard a machine on the ridge. The crew had cut through our fence and put in a gate- Pa thought they had done a fine job of it to; But Uncle Ferd allowed that they hadn't used enough nails on the bracing. Uncle Silas mumbled something a spat a wad of chaw at it. Before the week was out we had a metal monster of our own. 6 weeks later we had a pole in the yard with a light on it, and a week later at dusk we were just sitting down to supper when the farmyard was suddenly lit up like the Midway at the fair.

That's when I knew my world was changing for good. I looked around the table and saw everybody straining for a look out the window; Ma hollering to keep our dirty hands off her curtains. I was the last one up, and as I looked to see where Pa was, I saw him sitting in his place at the head of the table.His hands folded on his lap, and a small tear caught on the end of his nose.

I didn't then know if this change was for good or evil; but I knew nothing would ever be the same.

A Day at the Fair

Do remember when The Fair was a big deal? Not the County Fair, but the State Fair. Back when once a year you had a chance to ride a Carousel or a Ferris Wheel. Back when once that chance was gone, it took a year for it come around again, and you couldn't buy a ride on a Carousel for love nor money in between times.

The day after we got back form The Fair we started saving for next year. We would cash in 6 pop bottles we found down near the bus stop, and 5 would go to candy and one to the can under the bed for The Fair. Earn 50 cents doing chores for Ms. Appleby? At least a nickel for the fair fund. Half of the dollar you got from Grandma on your birthday was Fair money, and when the tobacco was sold we each got $2 for the collection can; $3 if it brought an extra good price.

They say each generation gains some and loses some. We had 4 days we looked forward to every year: Christmas (of course); our Birthday (of course); The Last Day of School, and the Day we went to The Fair. Kids today have lost the excitement that that one day brought. All these amusement parks hither and yon. A ride on the Ferris Wheel was a year long anticipation; now it's an hour's car ride.

Us boys would lay awake nights during the summer in the room we shared, spilling stories of what we would do once that golden day became real, and mentally counting our coins and spending a few nickels on Cotton Candy, a few more on a hot dog on a bun with chili sauce, a few pennies on the games of chance, and then on to the rides. The Tilt-a-Whirl and the Scrambler, then the Carousel and Ferris Wheel. We would argue about the ride lineup until we all fell asleep, or until we got a little to loud over the Ferris Wheel being third or fourth and Dad's strong voice would bark up the stairs to be quiet, and we would settle down and drift off to finish the argument in our dreams.

We had more fun counting the coins and dreaming of the spending than we actually did at The Fair some years. Some years it would rain, or was too cold. One year the generator was down, so no rides and no Cotton Candy. But that was the year my brother Herb won a stuffed dog on the Monkey Pitch, so it turned out alright, for him anyway.

The Fair was more than just the rides and games and eats; it was a goal. It was something we worked towards. It was what got us out of bed in the morning and put us to sleep at night. It was what got us up and down each row of tobacco, corn and potatoes. Talking about it kept our minds off of the drudgery of wash day, the labor of cutting, hauling and stacking firewood all summer and the chore of mucking the barn. The dream that the milk we sold now was a ride on the Tilt-a-Whirl then.

Sometimes the dream is worth more than the reality.

But who knows that anymore?

Fiction; In a Flash

The wife and I never really had a honeymoon. We got married on Friday night and I was back to work on Monday morning. We did spend Friday night at a local Motel 6; we had to ask them to turn the light off for us- it was shining right into our room. Can you believe they wouldn't do it?

We were always planning to get away, but there was always work, and then the kids, Always one thing or another; this or that stopped us from going.

And then, well, for our 30th wedding anniversary  the kids gave us a trip, And a camera. They didn't really give us a trip, like they had planned an itinerary, but they got together a few bucks and arranged two weeks off of work for me and the missus, rented us a car, packed our bags and pushed us out the door. Told us what we did between now a fortnight hence was our business.

But bring back pictures.

So we started down the road. And it came to us why we had never taken a honeymoon. Neither of us liked to travel.

We drove few hours and decided to stop for the night. we found a little inn a bit off the beaten track; the kind you don't see much of anymore.  Motel in the back, restaurant and gas station out by the road.

We spent two weeks there; passing the time waving to traffic from the porch of the restaurant and shooting the breeze with who ever passed by. We ate every meal in that restaurant; breakfast was the best, and lunch a close second, almost tied neck and neck with dinner.

About lunch on the second day we got to worrying about pictures. We had it made; good room, great meals, pleasant company, but the spot wasn't the most photogenic I ever saw. One or two shots maybe, but not the whole passel the kids would be expecting.

The cook was taking a smoke break on the porch with us one day, and I mentioned our problem. He grinned a bit, and then called out the busboy. Seems the busboy knew how to fix up pictures, and load them on the camera. That afternoon he put a sign by the cash register asking for a few pictures from each customer. He rigged up a small computer under the counter and downloaded  - I think he called it- all kinds of pictures.

Then he took a picture of me, and then one of the missus and then one of both of us. A few days later he showed me what was on the camera. There were pictures from all over the country. According to the camera, we had been, and had our pictures taken at, Mt. Rushmore, Key West and the Grand Canyon- just for starters. Disney World, Disneyland, San Francisco (we rode the cable cars), Yellowstone Park, the Soo Locks and Niagara Falls.

We also saw all of the sites in Washington DC and New York City. We had even managed to make it to Maine for the fall colors. In June.

By the end of the two weeks that camera was so full of pictures we would need a month of Sundays to look at them all. That Sunday afternoon we paid our tab, left a big tip for the staff and loaded up the car. An hour or so later we were in our own driveway, unpacking.

The kids showed up about the time we were done, and we showed them the camera full of pictures. The only one any of them looked at was the one I just showed you all. We took that from the porch of the restaurant first morning we was there.

The missus and I look through the pictures every so often and remember our 'trip'. One of the grandsons have them put onto a movie disc that we can watch on the TV.

Of course, the only one we recognize is the one we took from the porch.

It's Flash Time

I would love to retake this picture today; standing on that same spot. But I can't. This spot is now under a highway on ramp. And the barn isn't there anymore either; I can't remember which store is on that spot, but it is one of the hundred or so in the New Mall. Well, we still call it the New Mall, since there isn't a newer one yet. But it's almost 30 years old.

Hard to believe the farm has been gone that long. Progress they called it then; taking a man's farm and covering his fields with blacktop. It wasn't much; 48 acres; 15 acres under the plow, 20 in pasture and hay, 3 in orchards, 8 of woods and 2 acres around the house for farmyard and kitchen garden. But the government felt it meant more to somebody else than it did to us, paid us their 30 pieces of silver and moved us out and the 'dozers in.

They knocked the house and barn into one big pile of scrap lumber. Pushed in the chicken coop, pig house and tractor shed too; burnt it all into ash. They saved the outhouse, for a while anyway, gave the men a place to take care of necessities. Do you know how insulting it is to a man to burn his house and save his privy? The smokehouse they just knocked over and buried. It was all rock, and the only round one for 20 miles in any direction. Grandad had it built by some captured German soldiers during the Great War. They did a fine job on it to. Every ham I ate from the time I was 5 until the state took the farm came out of that smokehouse. And now it's buried somewhere under the empty Penny's.

The woods they saved until last. At least they harvested some of the trees before they burned the rest. They weren't really wild woods; Great- Grandad was kind of a Johnny Appleseed. He planted the orchards- apple, cherry, pear and plum trees- and started a stand of woods. 130 years ago he decided to become a tree farmer, and planted a grove of oak, maple, walnut and poplar. Trouble was, he spent 60 years growing those trees, and then couldn't bear to  have then cut. Neither could Grandad or Pop. We took some of the smaller ones from time to time, but let the big ones go. We lost a Grandad poplar in a windstorm when I was a kid; Pop had the wood milled and it became the trim on our house. All of the baseboards and casings, with some left over.

The outfit that got the land sold the trees. I sat on the porch and watched their carcasses go by everyday for a week. I watched the smoke from what they left burn for a week more. Now here I am all melancholy. Who in their right mind gets sentimental over a small batch of woods?

I guess that's progress to some; pave the land, build a store, build a highway to get to and from the store, and admire what you've done.

Only us sentimental old fools mourn what was lost.

Flasssshhhh... Fiction

I was going through my Grandma's junk drawer the other day and found this picture. She isn't around anymore; she passed on 25 years ago or better, but for some reason nobody has ever emptied out the junk drawer. I was actually looking for a 1/4-20 wingnut; Grandma's junk drawer is one of those places where you tend to find the oddest things. No matter what you're looking for, you tend to find it.

Anyway, I was looking for a wingnut and found an old envelope with this picture inside. I know some things; others I need to guess at. They should be pretty good guesses; I knew my Grandma pretty well. I'll go so far as to say that this picture was taken on December 30, 1953 at 10:08 in the morning.

I know for a fact that this is a steam engine, and they stopped using them regular back in the 1950's. I also think that is my Uncle Ferd in the red jacket. He was a conductor for the Chesapeake and Ohio from right after the war up to when he retired in the '70s, and he had a jacket like that.

The snow tells me it was winter- ain't I the genius- and the heavy coats on most of the men tell me it was the winter of '53; one of the bad ones around here. The winter of '53 was also when the C&O quit running steam around here and went to the new diesel engines. That's when a fireman's job went from being one of the worst in railroading to one of the best. He went from shoveling 10 ton of coal a trip to getting paid for watching the scenery go by.

The shadows and the sky lead me to believe this was about 10:08. Yeah, I can be that exact; Uncle Ferd was the conductor on the 10:12 that left here every other morning for Charleston and points East. 10:08 was when the crew reset their watches to match Uncle Ferd's. December 30th was when the last steam engine left the yard for the Mid-Coast run; the run on January 1st was pulled by a diesel.

Grandma just got a new camera for Christmas that year too; her old Brownie only took black and white shots, but new Kodak used 35 mm film, and could take color pictures too. Grandpa splurged and got her a roll of color film for Christmas too, and I can see her using one of those precious frames for Uncle Ferd's last steam run.

See; it ain't so hard to make a few guesses when you have some background.

I figure I know why that picture was still in Grandma's drawer too; Uncle Ferd was married to the railroad; he never missed a run in over 40 years. Being married to the railroad had its advantages, but creating children wasn't one of them. Depending on how you feel about kids I guess. It could have been one of the advantages.

Anyway, Uncle Ferd never left home. He lived with Grandma and Grandpa all his life. He retired at 65, on his birthday, and died 26 days later; he never collected a single dime of his pension. Grandma must of stuffed this picture in her junk drawer then; she probably found it in one  of the pockets of Uncle Ferd's red coat.

Friday, in a Flash

You guys today have it soft. In may day when we made steel, we faced steel. Hot, molten steel. Nowadays somebody sits in a booth watching a computer screen and bragging about making steel. He ain't making steel; he's watching steel being made.

You make steel with fire. You make steel with sweat. And blood. Sometimes too much blood. Men have been hurt; hurt bad making steel. Killed too. And a horrible death it is, made more horrible by the knowledge that you can't do anything but watch a good man die. And pray with his widow over the few ashes they found to bury.

But we built a country with that steel. Bridges and ships and cars and buildings. We didn't face down the Devil himself twice a day for nothing. We had a job to do and risks to take to get it done. We didn't punch a clock and a few buttons. We made steel.

And that Steel made the world. Some was hard steel; fighting steel. Our steel made battleships and aircraft carriers. And bombs. And guns; millions and millions of guns. And tanks, trucks, helmets and Jeeps. We won wars on two continents with that steel, and then threw it back in in Korea, and won there too. Vietnam was fought with our steel as well.

And then we started to slow down. Other places started making steel cheaper. They started to make it with more computers and less blood. Which was a good thing I guess. Except for the men who made the steel.

Some stayed with it. Some retired instead of taking other work. Others moved on to different industries, different jobs, different careers. But they were never the same men. After you've made steel doing anything else is just a job; a way to put food on the table and a roof over your head. But it doesn't put a fire in your belly.

I tried other jobs; I know. But first I was one of the ones who thought the Mill would be back. They can't make steel without me I said. They can't build the world with out me I said. They'll be back for me I said.

Well, I found out. They made steel, built a world and never thought a lick about me. I watched the Mill fall apart for a few years, and then disappear altogether. I watched them build a shopping mall- A SHOPPING MALL- where I made steel. The grandkids sit on the spot where I stood and watched Bobby Johnson breathe his last and sip cold Cokes.

I tried other jobs. Jobs I hated; jobs I detested, jobs I despised. Then I tried retirement; that I didn't hate.

But it wasn't making steel.

Flash! Its Friday!

The wife and I went for a drive today. What else were we supposed to do? It's Sunday.

We were driving and talking, like we do most Sundays, driving aimlessly, again, like we do most Sundays. Sometimes just flipping a coin at an intersection; Heads is Right; Tails is Left kind of thing.

Next thing we know, the territory is beginning  to look familiar. And then we saw the Old Wood Church and we knew; we were close to Home. Not home, where we live, but Home, where we grew up. It had been a few years since we had been up this way, so we decided to drive past the old Home Place to see how she was fairing. I had the camera with me, so I took a picture. The old Place ain't fairing well, is it?

You wouldn't know it by looking at it, but Ma and Pa raised up seven of us there. 5 of us boys and the two girls. Juney- she was the youngest- she stayed on to tend to Ma after Pa died and then lived there on her own after Ma died for a couple of years. But she's been gone to Prestonburg probably better then 15 years. My brother Harold owns the place now; he lives in a new place he built when him and Jess married 30 some years ago up around the bend. Harold and I haven't spoke a word since Ma's funeral; Jess started laying claim to some of Ma's things right there over her coffin and Harold backed her up. He's never apologized; the first words I'll hear him say in 15 years had better be 'I'm sorry'.

Sister Emily, she's the oldest, married while we was all kids. Here and her family lived over around Nellytown 'til Emily got the Cancer and died young. We kept up with her husband- Rick? Nick? something like that- and the kids until he remarried; She was a widow with money, and next thing you know our kind wasn't for the likes of them. We hear from them when one of the kids gets married or graduates from something, but that's about it.

We lost two boys in the war; Pete was on the Arizona on December 7th and John went missing in action on D-Day. The wife and I did make to Pearl to pay our respects to Pete; first trip we took after I retired, and we've had plans several times to get to Normandy, but something always seemed to come up, and now we're worried that were just to danged old.

Then there's Ellis. He always was the one on the edge of being crazy, or maybe he was just on the edge of being a genius; sometimes its hard to tell.

Ellis was the one who was always looking for that better way of doing something. Sometimes he found it, sometimes he didn't. Like the time he cut down two hoes and figured out a way to bolt them to his boots. He hated handling a hoe, and figured this way he could just walk through the corn, hoeing a row with each foot. He wound up cutting more corn that he did weeds, and when Pa saw what he did to a pair of hoes, he lit him up like a house a-fire.

Then there was the time we were berry picking and Ellis was tired of getting scratched all up and down his arms, so he stole a fork from Ma's good set of silverware, the set her Aunt Mable gave her as a wedding present, and proceeded to use it to pick berries by slipping the tines around the stem and flicking the berry into the air and catching it with the berry pail. Well, catching it with the pail sometimes. And he was picking berries at half the rate the rest of us was.

And then he dropped Ma's fork. When Pa found out he lit him up again. Only half the berries got picked- the birds got the rest of them- because we all stopped picking berries to find Ma's fork. We found the fork, but lost the light. Every Sunday morning for the next year Pa would remind us we could only have one biscuit with blackberry jam, because the birds got the berries instead of Ma. Be sure to thank Ellis.

I guess Ellis was more genius than crazy; he finally got one of his inventions to work, sold the patent, and himself, to John Deere; he's been working with them for the last 40 years out in Moline. Sends a card every Christmas and box of Holly Farm's cheese.

Sometimes it hard to think about how close we were then, and how far apart now. Emily, Pete and John passed on; Ellis out in Moline. We drive over to Prestonburg to see Juney one Sunday a month and go out to dinner someplace nice, like Big Boy. She never married; works in an office where they sell something or the other. Her and the wife chat on the phone dang near every evening but all I ever get is a quick 'Hey Junior; Elly home?'. And then there's Harold.

I wonder if he's home, since we're out this way.

My Crew

That's my tank and crew. Shortly after this picture we painted a name on the side; Gertie Gravel Guts. We had to wait until we shipped out to name her; they don't let you do things like that stateside, but once you hit a battle zone they don't much care what you do, as long as you fight.

And fight we did. In letters home we weren't allowed to say where we were, but the folks knew it was somewhere with sand. Lots and lots of sand. The sand was everywhere, not just in the letters. It was in the food, it was in our clothes, it was in the gas and it was in the tank. But old Gertie kept rolling.

We were in some battles together, her and us. But we don't talk about that around here. Too many good men dead. It was one thing in training to drop a round on target and watch the damage and cheer. I was quite another to drop a round on target and know that the explosion meant some other poor feller wasn't going home.

But you were; at least today.

But there were good times; we had some fun the 6 of us. You got to know a guy when you spent hour after hour trapped in a thick steel box with him. You found out who snored when they slept, who belched constantly, and who managed to need to pee every 2 hours no matter what was going on.

I remember our driver, a feller from out west somewhere, Oregon if I remember right, name of Johnson Karns. We just called him Westy. He could belch loud enough to make the inside of that tank ring like we just took a hit from a .50 cal round. Didn't matter what we fed him. He could work up a belch.

But it did matter what we fed him when it came to his other end. He was a farter. He claimed it was because he was raised on fresh fruit and all the dried and packaged food we ate messed with his indigestion. Not his digestion, but his in-digestion.

He could have been right. All I know is if he ate ham and canned peaches his farts would make the inside of that tank ring with the noise. I had other tankers tell me they could hear the noise two tanks over. But they were friendly farts; no smell.

The beef and taters on the other hand were the SbD variety; Silent, but Deadly. No warning at all, unless you were close enough to hear Westy shifting around in his seat. Then the end of your nose would start to involuntarily twitch, and would catch a whiff of some indeterminate smell. About the time you started to wonder what that odd odor was, the full assault would hit. An indescribable odor, usually mixed with the smell of burning hair. Yes, that was you nostril hair burning in protest.

If  a German soldier would have opened our tank during one of Westy's gas attacks it would have been a Geneva Convention violation, my hand to God.

Westy wasn't the only one with quirks. Our loader was a giant of a man; 6 foot 6 or better and weighed close to 270 pounds. He could shuffle them shells all day with out a miss. He was from out Denver way; went by the name of Homer Morris, but we called him Rocky. He bought 3 comic books the day we left Ft. Knox, and by the time we left Africa I think he was down to about 8 pages of the one book. That was all he did; sling 75mm shells and read them damn comic books. He had them all memorized, so even when the ink wore off a page he could still recall the joke and laugh every time he got to that part.

Our gunner was a Minnesota boy. I don't think I ever heard him say a full sentence, or even a word with more than two syllables. 'Yep' and 'Nope' seemed to all he needed to join a conversation. He had some Swedish last name none of the rest of us could say. I always thought he had just faked a last name by banging out some random keys on a typewriter. Jimmy was his given name, but we all just called him George. If I knew why I'd tell ya, but if I ever knew I can't tell ya now.

But I remember my crew. We swapped letters back and forth for a few years, and got together once 5 years after the war one summer up in New York City. We had sailed back in to New York after the war, and all of us swore we would get back and visit the Statue of Liberty. And we did. Made it all the way to the crown. All 6 of us and our families.

But some rotten SOB fed Westy some beef and taters for lunch.

My hand to God I swear I watched Lady Liberty drop her torch and grab her nose.

Friday is The Day

Today is the day; the day the Eagle craps; the day we get ours for what we have given. Payday! A few more hours and it's off to see the Paymaster.

What a feeling that is; rich instead of broke; top of the world, not bottom of the heap. Worth something, not worthless; the reward for the time we have given the company in the last 7 days. There are always a few small bills or loose coins I can slide in to the left hand pocket before the envelope goes home. Thank God our boss still pays in cash; how's a man to 'lose' a few coins from a check, I ask you?

5 hours last Saturday, and 50 this week; 55 hours pay doesn't seem to last a week anymore; everything seems to be going up except the wages. Potatoes almost 10 cents a pound; milk 25 cents a gallon and meat! The less said about the cost of meat the better; how can a man feed a growing family? If it weren't for the eggs from the hens and the fish in the river sometimes the bellies would eat the rent.

But today; today the empty bellies and the future visit from the rent man are forgotten. Today is the day we live the dream. A little steak in the pan; a little beer for after. A visit to the ice cream stand for the kids; the dreams of yesterday are the realities of today.

Until tomorrow's realities set in. The money for the gas man; the money for the rent man; the money for the water man, the tax man, the grocer and the butcher and the money for the Church.

Up again at 5:00 AM, to be at the gates at 6 when the whistle blows. Another 6 days of reality.

But today my friend, if only for a little while, we are living the dream.

As soon as we can see the Paymaster.

Flash Fiction Friday

You don't see buildings like this today; buildings that share a purpose.

But when I was younger that was all you did see. Retail on the ground floor, commercial upstairs. Or living quarters.

Like this place. The first floor was a general store. Notions and bobbins and buttons and candy; what do you need? Dress goods, boots, canning supplies and candles. Lamp wicks, dress hats and all wool long johns, with or without the 3 button drop seat.

Next door, down Robertson Street was the Post Office, and off to the left was the Pharmacy. It was a handy system; Doc Swanson had his office upstairs. He would write a prescription and the pharmacist downstairs would fill it. What what his name again? We all called him Doc, but he wasn't a doctor. what was his name? I went to school with his two kids- brats they truly were. The older boy helped out in the store. John? James? Some things just don't seem to hang around in the old memory. Maybe it ain't that important anyway.

Holiday; that was the Pharmacists name; that's why we all called him Doc. And his boy was Doc-ette; that's why I couldn't recall his name; I doubt I ever used it. The other child was a daughter; always had dresses full of bows, and matching bows in her hair. Her name was Sally, if I recollect. She married a soldier during the War and gone to Texas, far as I know. Doc-ette went off to Pharmacy College, like his Dad. Graduated and then got called up for the war. He was on the Indianapolis when she went down. Doc hung on long as he could, but old age got him in the end, like it does us all. His widow sold the business and moved south to be with Sally and her young ones.

That curved tower room? That was the least popular place in town. That was where Doc Swanson kept his dentist chair. Doc was a pretty durn good country doctor, but he didn't make any claim to being any kind of dentist.

But he was all we had. If you had a bad tooth he pulled it. During the summer months with all of those windows open you could hear the noise for a couple of blocks in any direction. It would start off quiet enough Doc giving directions to the nurse for the pain killer.

Now Nurse- he would say- hand me that bottle of cocaine. Those would would usually draw a crowd on the street corner; the layabouts over by the hardware store would be the first to saunter over, and the checker players by the courthouse would see the layabouts move and know something interesting was in the air and the games would be put on hold until the after the festivities. The kids on the sandlot playing stick ball would see the checker players leave the courthouse square and figure if something was more interesting than checkers, it was more interesting than stick ball too, head over to hang out under Doc Swanson's dental alcove.

The cocaine would work sometimes, or the tooth was loose enough, or maybe Doc just got lucky. And the show would be over before it started.

But there were other days; days when the tooth grippers wouldn't clamp right on the tooth, or the cocaine solution wasn't quite right. Or maybe doc's luck ran out. But instead of hearing Doc say 'SPIT', there would be a holler from the patient. Usually it would be an early attention getter; 'Yo Doc!' was always a favorite, although some of the old farmers would cut loose a volley of profanity that would cause a few windows to close and curtains to get drawn and more than one grin from the checker players, layabouts and stick ball players.

Hold still, Chester, or Earl or Fred; I'm almost done we'd hear the Doc holler. And then the next sound was always a thud, followed by a dull clang. The patient would involuntarily straighten a leg and wind up kicking over Doc's coat rack, which was just tall enough to hit the bottom of the brass umbrella stand when it fell.

Then the moaning would start. Sometimes long and low; others loud as a church bell and almost as deep. And punctuating the moans like a steam whistle through a thunderstorm were Doc's directions, some times to the Nurse, sometimes to the patient/victim and sometimes just a statement directed at nobody in particular: Some more of the cocaine Nurse; Chester sit still and get your dangs hands off my throat! Lord-a-mighty why did I ever start this? Now Chester I can't pull this tooth with you pushing me away like that; Nurse hand me that other pair of forceps; Alright Chester; put that dam knife away; I'll quit.

If the layabouts were lucky the show could go on all afternoon, or at least until Doc ran out of cocaine and patience. But eventually it would end, sending the stick ball players back to the sandlot, the checker players back to the courthouse square and the layabouts back to the hardware store.

At least until another poor soul found himself settling into the chair in the Tower Room.

Friday It Is!

Have I ever mentioned my Uncle Pete, the Plumber?

I doubt it. I have to be pretty far into my cups to bring up Pete. Or be introduced to a funny story that includes plumbing of some sort.

Then I bring up Uncle Pete. He was my great-uncle really. Well, he was married to my Great-Aunt Polly, but she wasn't really my great-aunt, either. She was the widow of my Great-Uncle Paul, who was a step-brother to my Grandad on my Mom's side. Except that ain't quite right either, since Grandad  was really my Mom's step-dad. Mom was was my real Mom though.

At least, as far as I know.

But if Pete had been blood kin he would have been my great-uncle. Pete used to drive a Pontiac, which was a good choice for a plumber. At least that's what he always said. Plumbers drive Pontiacs; butchers drive Buicks; carpenters drive Chevys and farmers drive Fords. He would always say that same thing when ever he was asked why he drove a Pontiac. I asked him one time why doctors drove Cadillacs and not Dodges. He called me a snot-nosed kid and took a swing at me.

Luckily he had a few trips to the barn to 'see the bull' and he missed. Otherwise I might not be here to tell you about Uncle Pete the plumber. Pete was a plumber back in the day; back when bathtubs were made of cast iron and not fiberglass. Back when pipe was cast iron, and ditches for pipe were dug with a shovel, not a tractor. Pete could dang near lift his Pontiac.

Pete usually saw the bull a lot when he was out at the farm. He lived in the city, and I guess they didn't have bulls there. Used to be the whole family gathered at the farm on Sundays. Grandma's family and Grandpa's family; cousins, uncles, aunts and who all knows. The women would gather near the kitchen, cooking Sunday lunch, swapping recipes, baked goods and rumors. The men would gather in the driveway commenting on everybody's cars, swapping rumors and lies and visiting the barn, to see the bull.

I wasn't allowed in the barn on Sundays. I was allowed in the other 6 days, but never did find the bull. Grandpa used to get upset with me, and Mom would laugh, when I would asked him about the bull, especially when Grandma was around. Grandma wasn't  a big fan or having the bull around, and told Grandpa so in no uncertain terms every time I would ask about the bull in the barn. She seemed especially upset that Grandpa would have the bull in the barn on a Sunday.

It was years later that I found out the truth about the bull in the barn. And it was Uncle Pete the plumber who let the cat out of the bag. In between talking bad about Uncle Ned's Nash (he was a newspaperman; funny how that worked out) and and running down the height of Grandpa's corn, Pete headed to the barn to see the bull. I snuck along behind him all the way to the barn and first he knew I was there was when he opened the door and I stepped in in front of him. He seemed surprised, and asked me what I was doing.

Why, says I, with all the confidence my 13 year-old voice could muster, I'm here to see the bull. Imagine my surprise when instead of heading toward the stalls, he headed toward the harness room. Once in the harness room he headed straight to the old bin we kept the head collars in; the ones we hadn't used since the tractor came around. I was even more surprised when he reached deep into the far right corner and came up with a earthenware jug, stoppered with an old corn ear.

Pete cradled that jug in the crook of his elbow, popped the corn ear and used his elbow to hoist the jug high talking a long, slow sip of what smelled like Grandma's liniment. Your turn to see the bull he said, handing me the jug.

Well, thought I, looks simple enough. And it was. Until the harsh country whiskey hit my lips and mouth like Sherman took Atlanta. To this day I can't say how much I actually swallowed, or even how much actually entered my mouth. I do know I inhaled a couple of lung fulls of those hot vapors and thought I had died. Pete grabbed the jug before I dropped it and did his best to stop me from dancing around the room like my ass was on fire, gasping for air and looking for water; banging off of, knocking over or at least causing a ruckus out of everything in the room.

Of course the noise drew attention, and before I could catch a whole breath the harness room was full of menfolk. Pete was caught red-handed, more or less, with the uncorked jug of pop-skull and me breathing as deep as I could through my nose and leaping from corner to corner like a cat in a kennel.

Then the laughter started. It started slow, with a half smothered snicker from Uncle Ned, and a stifled giggle from Uncle  Louis (he was a lawyer; drove a Lincoln) and built slowly when Grandpa let go a quick, sharp guffaw and Dad started to let a smile slowly creep up from under his mustache like speckled fawn's first appearance out of the honeysuckle. 

I was just starting to recover my health about the time the whole crew began to laugh out load, and was about to join in the mirth, when the room got as quiet as the first few minutes of a funeral. Apparently when all of the menfolk disappeared at once, Grandma got suspicious, and decided to check on the health of the bull herself.

And caught Uncle Pete with the uncorked jug, her half grown grandson red in the face from his first taste of liquor and every man in the family laughing like he'd lost what little sense God had granted him. Grandpa started to explain, but got cut down with a stare as dark and cutting as a midnight wind in January (in later tellings of the story he would swear that look gave him frostbite). Her look broke up that meeting of the bovine lover's society.

Uncle Pete and Aunt Polly missed the next few Sundays; the bull missed the next 48. It was the following Fourth of July before Grandma consented to overlook the jug 'hidden' in the barn.

I'd love to say that that day made a teetotaler out of me, but it didn't. Although it was many a year before I hoisted a jug again. It took my first broken heart to see if the bull was still in the barn. He was.

New Friday Feature

I see this blog as a writing exercise; somewhere to display some creativity and to let my writing loose on the world and see what happens.

Tuesday I tried something new, for me anyway, and cut loose with some Flash Fiction. I had some fun with it, and it didn't turn out to bad. So I decided to start Flash Fiction Fridays.

After all, a picture is worth a thousand words, right?

The first installment is here:

Luxury was a word they didn't know how to use. Necessity they used seldom, but Luxury not at all.

What was necessary, anyway? Food on the plate was one. Sweet food, tasty food- Luxury. Anything He could shoot on the patch they still had, and anything She could grow behind the house or barter a few eggs from the chicken house for.

A roof that didn't leak; that was a Luxury too, but one they had, as long as He could still split a shake and climb onto the roof to patch it. Although she worried when he did. An old friend over toward Redbud had fallen off his roof; broke a hip. Them folks had had to survive on the kindness of friends for nigh on a year. But He wouldn't fall. He wasn't a dam fool like that old buzzard in Redbud.

Heat was a Luxury when they didn't have wood. She would run the stove to cook a hot meal and when the embers burned out they would climb under the stack of quilts she and her mother had made years ago and keep warm until breakfast.

A photograph; that was a Luxury. They couldn't even afford a wedding photo those many years ago. 40 was it? 45 now? It had been a while. But when time becomes meaningless, time isn't kept. Her uncle from down Nashville way had brought along his Brownie Camera to the Wedding, and took their picture outside the church. A luxury, and a precious memory, She had the picture tucked up in the family Bible. She forgot exactly where. Genesis? Numbers? Or was it New Testament? She would have to drag The Book down and see.

They hadn't read the Bible much lately. Too much work to do, and no hands to help. The Good Lord had not seen to Bless them with children. Well, adult children anyway. 4 young She had borne, and 4 were buried on the hill.

She was the more thoughtful of the pair. Maybe because She could work her hands without her mind needing to keep up. She was worried about what they would leave behind, and to who. The farm was down to a few acres. She wasn't sure how many, but it seemed every year a few more would need to go to pay the tax man.

All the young'uns died young, with no children of their own. They had a passel of nieces and nephews, but none wanted to be tied to a dirt poor farm so far from town. The barn was about down- She kept trying to get Him to start burning some of it when wood got scarce, but he always said a farm has to have a barn; if you ain't got a barn, you ain't a farmer. He wouldn't burn his barn.

Then one day that nice young man showed up with his camera. Taking pictures the young man said. Part of something the government was doing.

He became suspicious; He hadn't ever trusted the government, and wasn't about to start now. No thanks young man. Now go away.

But She convinced him, like she always had, to listen a little more. Neither He nor She had ever heard of the Smithsonian Institution, but that nice young man explained it. They were taking pictures so people in the future would know how folks lived around here. So, She asked; you take our picture and it will be around forever?

I can't guarantee forever, the young man smiled, but yes, for a very long time.

He still hated the idea. Dam government had taken him off the farm and sent him to some Hellhole called Cuba. Dam government had taken his son and killed him in France; Dam government had taken his farm, 2 and 3 acres at a time. And now the Dam government wanted to take his picture.

But she convinced him. We'll sit on the steps She said. Go put on your Sunday overalls, although it had been many a Sunday since those clothes had seen the inside of a church, they were still his Sunday overalls. She ran a brush through his hair, until He had all the fuss he  could stand, and waved her away. Then She sat down beside him, in front of the home they had shared for innumerable years, and that nice young man took their picture.

Part of the program was that the folks who sat got copies of the pictures; that was the photographers job. The government paid for the prints and the postage. That nice young man never could explain why he did it, but of the thousands and thousands of pictures he had taken and mailed, only one did he spend his own meager funds on to frame first.

Some Days It Comes Easy

The topic is right there, the prose fall easily from my dancing fingertips and a post is done.

Other days I struggle. There are things out there to blog about, but nothing catches my eye, or my ire. Either my interest level is low or I am just not tuned into the world in the right way.

Since I am writing this on Monday night, it could be the rain. Or the fact that it is a Monday. Who knows? Who cares?

But I have to post something. Worse yet, something Interesting. and I got.... Nuthin'.

Then I thought about a writing genre I heard about called Flash Fiction. basically, you pick a random image from somewhere, and write about it.

And hope it turns out good.

No; its not for sale. It may look like scrap iron, but it ain't.

That sir, is Grandpa's tractor. First one in the neighborhood that ran on gas. Everybody else was still plowin' with mules and Grandad bought a tractor. The Johnson's over toward Miller's Junction, they had a steam tractor from way back when. They'd rent it out at threashin' time; one bushel outta ten went home with them, and you supplied the fuel.

My ole' Dad would complain about spendin' a week cuttin' and splittin' cord word and that steam belchin' monster would eat it up in an afternoon.

Then Grandad managed to get a few coins together and bought this tractor.. He'd take one bushel outta 15, and supply his own gasoline. Bought it down at the hardware store; 36 cents a gallon in a glass jug. how he managed to rattle that thing all over the county with foot well full a' glass jugs a' gasoline and never bust one I'll never know.

I'd go with him sometimes, when we went to a close neighbor's place. Rattlin' down the hard packed dirt roads, 5 jugs a' gasoline bangin' against each other and the hard metal of the foot well. The engine makin' the whole thing shudder like the devil himself was draggin' on the rear and the iron treads slappin' on the road, jarrin' my eyeteeth loose.

But we was kings then. Me and Grandpa. Ridin' the wave a' the future while everyone else rode the back of a mule. I can still hear the pop of the exhaust, and smell the fumes, mixed with other smells; smells that were mixed and separate, all at the same time.

Hot metal and hot oil and hot water. The smell of dust hanging raw in the air, and burning where it landed on the exhaust. And occasionally a whiff of Grandpa's bay-rum after shave. 

Grandad did his last threshin' run about '24 or '25 I believe. There weren't but one or two farms left still usin' mules by then. Money was flush and everybody had a machine on the farm; Henry Ford had seen to that. He parked old Avery in a corner of the machine shed, and only fired her up once in a blue moon, to do some little job around the farm. Dad was running the farm then, and Grandpa was like Avery; re-tired.

A few years after Grandpa died Dad needed the room in the machine shed for some new piece of equipment or the other and pulled old Avery out into the snow. I got her runnin' a few times, kept her oiled and all. Just like Grandpa did, I'd find some small job she could do and put her to work. Till the War anyway. Then we couldn't spare the time or the gas and oil.

So there she sits. And it ain't scrap iron; that's Grandpa's tractor.