A HAIKU  POEM      

Jean Isobel Myers

~~~~~~~~~~~

Ahoy all writers

Let’s set sail, “swinging the lamps”

Steady as she goes…

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

ADDITIONAL READING:

A Beanery Writers Group Story in Photographs

Tamarindo: What is It?

Fifteen Minutes of Fame: Part 1—The Real Thing

FEELING SAFE

Joe F. Stierheim

     Everybody—everything—in the universe wants to feel safe.

     It is a very simple matter, one that should be surprising to no one. Yet it is a concept that is often overlooked, misunderstood or misused. Often we find it amusing to not feel safe. For instance, we spend a great deal of time, effort and money in stories, movies or games that scare us. We call this entertainment. Volcanoes, tidal waves, civil unrest, wars, crime, hurricanes and chainsaws are all part of the scenarios. When the entertainment becomes real, we don’t like it and so we spend a great deal of time, effort and money to see that such things don’t happen or in hopes of escaping them.

     It is a fact that in our present society, very few of us feel safe. Endeavors to compensate for that take many forms. One of those is acquiring things, everything under the sun—money, insurance, prestige, houses, clothes, cars, guns—the list is endless and varied, limited only by what any one person thinks could help him or her acquire some sense of security. And for the most part that sense of security is never achieved, thus requiring the individual to continue acquisition of the same or other things in a never ending search.

     I would guess that this search for feeling safe is the reason for the structure of society itself. We gathered together for security—first in bands, then in tribes and now in nations and organizations of nations. We attempt to reinforce these units by formalizing them with laws and regulations and providing ourselves with protection in the form of armies and an assortment of weaponry. But those have been inadequate and have never worked for long. We’re still scared. And so we look in other places for security. Some look to religion. Some find it there; others don’t. If a person can’t find it, he or she might try to escape the problem. That is the cause of high rates of suicide in some segments of a population.

     Another means of escape is turning to some form of addiction. Overflowing prisons and the high cost of drug programs in this country are evidence that addiction is a real problem. It is odd that in addiction there is a clue to the solution of the entire problem. One of the main tools and the most successful for treating addiction is 12-step programs. There are around 120 such programs and that number alone provides the clue of its success. Each program is for treatment of a different addiction. It could be for alcohol, a particular drug, gambling, shopping, overeating or something else. There are also programs for friends and families of addicts to a particular substance or activity. By having such a narrow focus, it is possible for program members to feel a connection to others in the program. In that way, they can get a feeling of belonging, and a feeling of security. And that is an essential basis for success.

     Hence the clue: feeling safe is not a matter of possessions or material means of protection or safeguards of any kind. It is simply a matter of attitude. But such an attitude is not fostered by the society in which we find ourselves. Our society is one of fear, one of competition, pitting individual against individual and group against group and the entire nation against other nations. We do this for the sake of economic growth. It is assumed that this economic growth is necessary in order to make the society function well and by this means providing security. That has not proven to be the case. Instead, we have a society divided against itself and a world in the same condition.

     In order to create a society that is truly secure, effort must be put into making everyone in the society feel secure—feeling safe. The only way of achieving that is by building a sense of trust in every individual—trust in the society, which means faith in others, in the society and, more than anything, faith in oneself. We do not do that. In all facets of society—government, business, religion, the military, the justice system—we concentrate on distrust of others. We preach fear, blame and guilt. We feel that by doing so we are sending out warnings and therefore are protecting ourselves and building a strong society. We are doing just the opposite. We are, instead, establishing in each member of the society distrust of other members and, in the final essence, distrust of the society itself. And those who have no trust in anything are afraid. They do not feel safe and sooner or later they will try to create safety for themselves. In all probability, the way they choose to do that will only cause more disruption to the society. And so the cycle continues.

     We must, as a society, break this cycle. That will be difficult because part of that entails changing a mindset that has been carefully and purposely built up over centuries, if not millennia. Competition must be given up for cooperation, suspicion for trust, fear for love. And the changing of the mindset of the society begins with the changing of the mindset of the individuals of the society.

     Until each of us feels confident enough within himself—or herself—to make that change, the condition of feeling safe will not happen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Additional reading:

Suspicion

For Josh: In Memory of LCpl. Joshua T. Twigg

David, Our German Exchange Student: Part 1

NOEL 2011

Joan Myers

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A little magic, new fallen snow

Holly berries, mistletoe

Ginger notes, candle wicks

Playful paw prints in the mix

Children to bed as starlight spills

Every stocking wonder fills

Yet still recall the legend of old

Bearing frankincense and gold

An ancient trio traversed the sand

Sought the infant King in a faraway land

A TIME FOR FURNACE FIRES:

CHRISTMAS AND THE START OF WINTER WEATHER

Fran Welts

Intro by Carolyn Cornell H olland

 The following post provides a warning to every family at the beginning of the cold winter weather and the start of the heating season.

It is also a warning to all who decorate their homes for the holidays.  

     It’s 4:30 a. m.

     After just a brief night’s sleep your two youngest children ages one and two, waken you from a deep sleep. For no particular reason that you can discern.

     You feel somewhat irritated—after all, it’s the Christmas season. The double holidays of Thanksgiving and Christmas have overwhelmed you. Money is short. Time is tight. There’s a long task list.

     Your feelings of resentment over losing your sleep escalate…your stress level rises as the youngsters show no signs of abating their activities.

     They can sleep in once they return to bed. You can’t. You have to work.

     What’s a parent to do?

~~~~~~~~~~~~

NICK

     These might have been Nick’s thoughts when his two youngest children, ages one- and two-years-old, woke him in the wee hours of the morning. His wife and five-year-old son remained sleeping.

     Perhaps to soothe his escalating irritation, Nick stepped outside his family home in a small Missouri town to smoke a cigarette in the wee hours of the December 6, 2011, morning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

FRAN

     The holidays bring out the best in most of us.

     What wonderful social gatherings, food flavors we never before tried, people we meet for the first time, gifts we give, gifts we receive.  It’s a joyful time when you can almost believe in peace on earth.

     But there is a downside, a downside that is often preventable but that sometimes just happens. 

     Fire.     Tree fires, house fires, kitchen fires. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

NICK

     Suddenly there was an explosion. Nick ran into the house to find that the explosion had wakened his wife Kelsie.

     What was that? she asked.

     I don’t know but it shot out of the house! Nick responded.

     Seeing smoke and flames coming from their back room, Nick and Kelsie grabbed the three boys and ran to their car. They made it in the nick of time.

     If Nick was resentful and irritated that his two youngest children had awakened him in the middle of the night, the feeling soon disappeared. He began expressing gratitude about his early morning awakefulness and alertness.

     It allowed him to save his family from a sudden fire.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

FRAN

     Christmastime fires are almost always caused by forgetting to water the tree, by overloading a circuit with too many strings of lights, or by plugging the lights into faulty wiring, which can cause a quick fire.

     Christmastime is also the start of the cold weather that winter brings. House fires often start with a faulty furnace.

     My family had a rude awakening of this fact when, at six o’clock in the morning on December 6^th my nephews Missouri home exploded, blowing out all the windows. He grabbed two of his sons, his wife grabbed the baby and they ran outside just before two more explosions occurred. The explosions, resulting in a fire that reduced the family home to ashes, appeared to be caused by a leak in the furnace. It allowed gas to surround the furnace. When the furnace kicked on it exploded.

     They lost everything, then again they lost nothing since their family is unhurt and “things” are replaceable, people are not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

NICK

“It sounded like someone had threw a grenade in the house, and it blew everything out the window and everything, and I went running back into the house, and the wife was already up off the couch like, what was that? I go, I don’t know but it shot out of the house!” Nick says.

Nick and Kelsie then saw the smoke and flames coming from the back room and got the three boys out and into the car with little time to spare.  “I didn’t even have time to go in and get my mom’s urn or nothing,” Nick says.  His mother died just four months ago.

“I’d say my mom was on our side by having our two kids be up, because I’m a hard sleeper, and if I got woke up by that, the reaction time would have been a lot slower than what it was,” Nick says.*

~~~~~~~~~~~~

FRAN

     They lost everything, then again they lost nothing. Their family is unhurt. “Things” are replaceable, people are not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The family has received emergency assistance from local agencies

They had no insurance on the home.  If you’d like to make a donation, Nick King can be reached at (417)259-4716. 

Their boys wear sizes 5T, 2T and 24 months.*

SOURCE

* http://www.ky3.com/news/ky3-manes-family-loses-home-and-everything-inside-20111209,0,462213.story

WAIT UNTIL THE COFFEE’S POURED

Janice McLaughlin

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

For holiday meals, the same rules apply

All families have them, there is good reason why.

Wash your hands before sitting, keep elbows off the table

Children should be seen not heard,

Don’t call your cousin a nerd.

Don’t complain because the kitchen swelters.

And whatever you do — don’t interrupt your elders.

No slurping, burping, or passing gas

If you need something, ask someone to pass.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

     It was Thanksgiving, I was about fourteen, and of course my two obnoxious (male) cousins were there, as well as three female cousins. It was the usual huge family celebration with both my Mother’s and Dad’s parents and siblings, and their husbands,   wives, and their children.

     A meal that took more than a day to prepare was usually over in about an hour.

     This time it was cut short. I didn’t ask someone to pass and I reached for the olives.

At the same moment that I reached, someone was pouring (boiling) coffee into a cup.

My arm (of course) was between the cup and the coffee—that’s why you always ask someone to pass.

     I guess I screamed, I really don’t remember that, or the rest of the day. I was wearing a wool sweater; someone pulled it off—along with most of the skin on my arm.  I guess my Dad and Mom took me to the hospital, and I had to spend several days there.

     I suppose the party went on without me, I’m sure the whole group didn’t go to the hospital. 

     I do remember weeks, or months, of returning to the hospital to have the dressing taken off, the burnt skin debraided, and a new dressing applied. I was in a lot of pain for a long time, but I was grafted and I don’t have much of a scar.

     Also, I do remember the smell of my burnt skin. People always say it’s an awful smell—maybe I was just hungry, but I thought it smelled pretty good. YUK!

LIVING A CAR CRUISE

Bob Sanzi

     I don’t know when it happened—it was just a long time ago. I think I know why it happened, though. 

     My dad’s first car, a brand new 1952 “dusk gray” four-door Chevrolet, my impressionable eight-year-old age, and my being his first-born child could explain how my infatuation with all things automotive evolved.

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

     My father’s childhood was tough—after his father died his mother became too ill to care for their children. Dad was very young at the time he and two of his sisters moved into their paternal uncle’s house. It was an instant family for the uncle and his wife, barely out of her teens. A few years later they had twin boys. 

     As the oldest, my father accepted responsibilities well beyond his years: changing diapers, doing laundry, and grocery shopping stole his childhood. My aunt told stories about her dependence on his help with the “kids,” about how she counted on him. 

     I think my financially challenged father determined I should have all the things he missed as a child—I have fond memories of those times my father and I played together with the best of toys he found. 

       Dad met Mother while he attended high school at Saint Vincent and worked at Isaly’s in Latrobe, Pennsylvania. They married, he got drafted, and, after basic training, he was stationed in Washington D. C.  Mom stayed in Latrobe until I was born, then wrapped me in swaddling blankets and followed him to Washington.

     After the war they returned to Latrobe. Dad worked for the National Cash Register Company in Pittsburgh. In the wee hours each morning, he walked to the Latrobe train station, caught the 5:18 to Pittsburgh, not returning home until around seven each evening. In spite of those long days and short nights, we managed to develop a close relationship.

     He sought a promotion from his clerical position to a sales job, which promised more money and more family time. This promotion made his first car a necessity. 

     I’m sure Mom and Dad discussed getting that first car so much that the event somehow imprinted itself deep inside my brain, somewhere. I imagine it was a difficult decision, surely involving finances they didn’t have. It was a big investment, to what end? A car would offer new freedom, hope, and a way toward a better life. 

     Dad couldn’t drive. His father-in-law went with him to get the car, and within the week taught him to drive it. 

     To this day I recall the color of the interior—grayish—it looked and felt like mouse fur. I can remember how excited I was seeing it the first time. I must have felt the freedom it offered family. Mother, Dad, and I would go for rides with no purpose except to be in the moving car.

     Something happened to me during those rides, something that had a profound effect on me. It developed into a driving force that even these many years later defines who and what I was and am. That little kid staring out the Chevy window somehow established my destiny. Those car rides probably began my “Car Cruise.”

    It grew into an obsession.

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

     Obsessions are oppressive, blocking out other scenes as you travel the highway of life. With no GPS for guidance, obsessions can make it difficult to reach your destination.

     Although my trip on the road marked “cars” had no real destination, it was a road I had to be on. Sometimes I’d detour onto a two-lane side road, and even slow down to enjoy the byway’s scenery. However, detours were short—before long I returned to the “interstate,” speeding obsessively through life.    

     Being a passenger drove me to become the driver. At first I read, studied, searched for everything I could find about cars. Later I “hung out” where cars were being worked on, eventually working on them myself. Later, as an employee at the biggest car producer in the world (General Motors), I played a role in building them. 

     It was an exciting ride, marked by events that are now my history.         

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

     The fall of 1957.

     My time to turn fourteen set me apart from my peers and caused great hardship for my parents. You might say my first “Car Cruise” didn’t end happily.

    I packed a few things before walking to the “Blue Ridge” diner/gas station where milk trucks parked while their drivers ate. Knowing some of them would go north, I hung around outside, asking the guys if anyone was going toward Watkins Glen, New York. Finally, a little short, fat, guy, who smelled like a towel left in a gym locker too long, said he was going somewhere close. He pointed me toward his big trucks’ passenger’s door. I launched myself up into the seat. 

     He didn’t talk much at first. Soon he started singing loudly with the radio, to a type of music I’d never heard before. His singing didn’t make me anxious to ever find that station.  

     During the songs he didn’t know the words to, he asked me where was I was going, and why. I made up some big long story he apparently didn’t believe, because when we stopped for supper the State Police showed up. 

     Three different cars shuttled me back to my unforgiving parents, who didn’t understand that I needed to see Moss, Bonnier, Gurney, and Hill. They couldn’t see how important it was for me to find the Cunningham’s, Jaguars, Masserati’, and of course, Ferrari—the men and the cars that were making the history I’d been learning for years. 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

     Sometime during my high school years I befriended an old man whose sons raced stock cars on the local dirt tracks. Since he couldn’t work anymore (something about his heart), he spent his time either making the race cars go faster or fixing and selling strange, wonderful, old “foreign” cars.

     Ours was a relationship of connivance. He was just across the alley from our house. He seemed to like having me around, and would even let me help, taking me with him to get parts, finding the next project, and attending races.

     One night, after a really long race, while walking back to the car, he asked: Why don’t you drive home? I was thirteen, and glorified beyond description.

     By the time I reached driving age, kids with cars gathered in my parent’s garage. I’d work on their cars while they did what all kids did in those days past. Sometimes girls showed up.

     This was a special group. We all had very special cars, not ones like our parents had, and certainly not like those the rest of the town kids had.

     Saturdays the garage party moved to a participant’s home to watch the late spook movies. At least, that’s what our parents thought we were doing. Actually, when the host’s parents went to bed, and we were sure they weren’t coming back downstairs, we’d be off in our “Furans” cars.

     We called it “Cruising.”  

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

     The game was a kind of follow-the-leader held on the twisty two-lane roads in and around the outskirts of town. The idea was to keep up, avoid going off “big time,” and to scare ourselves—but always, at any cost, to avoid injury. It was the unwritten rule that vehicle damage was to be kept at a minimum. After all, how would we explain a hospital stay or a rolled car, just from watching TV creep movies? After about two hours we headed home, feeling like those drivers that did the same kind of thing on the streets in and around Watkins Glen. By the time we were out of high school a year or two, we did this every week.

     I wasn’t the leader, I didn’t form the group—it just sort of evolved around me. Somehow, my interest in cars that were outside the mainstream, that were far removed from the ones our parents drove, was the cement binding us together.

~~~~~~~~~~~~   

    Our cars were really important to us.

    My first vehicle, when I was in my later years of high school, was a very old and tired Citroen Pallas, from across the alley. Its finish was oxidized into a rust-red body color. It was known as the “turd—” something to do with its shape and a popular joke of the time, something that was all about physics and a lack of cheek slapping noises.

     Just after graduation my Peugeot 403 came to life, the result of two 403s combined into one. One was a very old barely running 403—think the TV show Colombo—a late model 403 that two people died in. I spent the better part of a summer living in our garage while building that car.  Before Mother’s dementia she told stories about me sleeping in the garage, and how she carried my supper to me while I worked on the car that immediately became nicknamed the Pug-nut, or, as Denny called it, the puke-ho. The seats in both these cars folded down into a very large bed making it the car of choice Monday nights at the drive-in. The Peugeot’s doors were kept locked—entry and exit was done by climbing up on the fender, rolling over the windshield, and falling down through the “sun roof.”

     When Denny become tired riding in Enzo’s TR-3 A, he added a Hillman Minx to our group. This latest arrival wasn’t very fast.

       We never drove each other’s cars—it just wasn’t right to even suggest it. I knew the Triumph was a handful, though, having knock off wire wheels, but it had those low cut doors that you could lean out and butt you cigs on the pavement as you zipped along at 80 m.p.h.

     Donnie’s first car was a Studebaker we dragged out of a Greensburg junkyard. We all had a hand in building it into a most beautiful midnight blue car with chrome moon caps. It was just disgustingly slow, so he replaced it with a Jaguar XK 140 something (maybe an R or S) that was our fastest car . It had such terrible brakes that I used to say I could make it stop better if he let me chain a cement block in the car, so when he needed to stop he could throw the block out the door.

     Jeff had a hand-me-down, huge, old Chrysler two-door that went fast but didn’t like to stay on the road.  We watched our mirrors, and when his headlights pointed in the wrong direction, we turned around and went back to make sure he was all right. That happened at least once every run down the Beatty Road, which had our favorite set of twisties and either started or ended our outings. 

     Bickler was never really accepted as part of the group—his brand new late model Morgan didn’t fit in, and neither did he. Yet, somehow he’d manage to find us at the start of the “fast drive,” and just joined the parade. He never came to the movie house, though.

     There was a Jaguar 3.8 in the mix, too. Its owner, Sylvester, was older and didn’t always come with us. If he did show he would be the leader—no questions, no discussions—that was just the way it was. We all rode places with him, sometimes all together. I don’t remember if it was him or his car we thought was so cool.

    After about three years reality took over—Uncle Sam found us.

    We built a shed, just big enough for the Triumph, behind Enzo’s parent’s house. It just rotted away. He never came back from Nam. 

     I don’t know what happened to Denny or the Minx. The Jaguar got sold to a Ligonier guy for his son’s graduation from something. A couple of days later, along Route 30, he destroyed the car and died in the river. 

     Jeff was an MIA. I never believed that. He’s probably still there selling “stuff” and living like a king. He was just the kind of guy that would do something like that. 

     Cil is still around. He started a flying business. I think he’s a wine broker. I didn’t think you could do that in Pennsylvania. I don’t know what happened to the three eight.

     My robin’s-egg blue Peugeot sat in the garage while I did my service. Dad drove it for a while when he was between cars. Years later, married with two kids, I returned home—my parents wanted me remove it from the garage. I got it running and sold it on a Latrobe radio station to a guy who drove it for about five years. Sometime later I found it in a junkyard along the Beatty Road. It’s engine fire was a fitting demise.

     I never returned to Latrobe after my service, except to visit, or to clean out my left behind stuff. I spent thirty-two years working for General Motors, living twenty-some years in Detroit, almost a year in Canada, four in Wisconsin, and, finally, five years as a Yankee in Texas—all GM jobs. During those years I expensed two daughters and had two marriages.

   Now, here I am again, living in Latrobe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

   Time passes. Cars come and go. But the obsession never released me. When I closed the door of “Automobile Obsession” and turned the key my “Car Cruise” began.  It lasted a lifetime—fifty-seven years, if you’ve been keeping track. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

     I hope the many good people I’ve known on my trip are all the better for knowing me. I picked up some passengers along the way, waved to friends, raced past others cars, and even got passed by some that were faster.

     I’ve also known some great cars and some not so great ones. All are memories I’m glad to have.

     For me, cars are living things. Their memories are a joy to have, especially when life seems dark and foreboding—a breath of fresh air when the room gets stifling. You know what I mean—like those air fresheners you see on TV ads that poof out when you walk by, making the world smell like a field of daisies. 

     I guess an obsession can be a good thing. For me, it was like a very good car that always started, never stalled, and responded to every input—like it was a body part. A car called “Obsession,” the Automobile model, just cruising down the road of life with me behind the wheel.

      The automobile gave me my future then, and my past now.                

     I think the cruise is over now. At least I’m trying to make it be over. The vehicle is still sitting out there, somewhere, but it hasn’t run for a long time. I’m not even sure it will start.

WHAT MAKES A FIGHTER?

Fran Welts

     She was small, only five feet tall, but she was stronger than the eye beheld.

Debra Lee King (Himes)

     She  always the first one to jump in to the fight, always the first one to come home with skinned knees and a black eye. She defended anyone she thought was being picked on. 

     But sometimes the biggest battles do not come from the small schoolyard brawls we have growing up. Sometimes things hit us before know how to fight back.

     Diagnosed with a rare form of tongue and throat cancer three years ago, she immediately said I will beat this, you watch. And watch we did, as she was trached, operated on, went through chemo and radiation, lost her hair, grew it back, lost weight, gained weight. All the while she fought to have a normal life, constantly calling on me to help her with her trache since I’ve had one for twenty-seven years. We would often talk late into the night about the joys and absolute horrors of having a trache, but we’d laugh our way through it. 

     She was my niece, born when I was just twelve. We grew together—she spent more time at our home as she grew then she did her own. She shared my bedroom.

     It was much more than an aunt/niece relationship. She earned a respect for me when she went through her two years with the trache, I learned a new-found respect for her as she dealt with a devastating disease—all the while being bipolar. The highs were super, the lows deeper than anyone could imagine, but she fought hard.

     In December she was declared cancer free!!  I cannot tell you the joy this family experienced. She threw herself into life with her children—five of them— and her seven grandchildren. 

     She returned to the Cancer Treatment Center of America in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in March for follow-up.  Again, cancer free.  What a wonderful joyful moment for her and for us all. 

     When she returned for another follow-up on July 18th, there were four small spots of cancer. The disease had returned, as it often does. She underwent surgery and came home on the 26th. She called me two days later to say how good she felt, the doctor thought he had “got it all” this time.

     She had been accepted into a college program to study criminal law. Life was back on track. The fighter was back in full gear and running at full steam ahead!

     On July 30, at 8:30 in the morning, she failed to wake up. Her fiancé went to check on her.  She had no pulse, no heartbeat, and, unfortunately, no DNR. Why doesn’t the Cancer Center require each patient to get one???  I wondered. That’s for another time) 

     The EMT put her on a respirator, started CPR, and got her to a hospital. She remained there, unconscious and unresponsive, until the legally required twenty-four hours passed and her children could shut down the machine.  She passed quietly into the hands of the Lord ten minutes later, on July 31, 2011. 

     She was a fighter, deserving of many trophies, but for her the time has passed.  We are grateful she has found peace, but terribly sad that we must now live without her. 

   She was my niece, Debra Lee King (Himes), born 10/19/1959, died 07/31/2011.

   God speed, Debbie.

A BARHOP WHO LIVED IN LAGRANGE

G. David Schwartz

A barhop who lived in Lagrange

Decided that his life was quite strange

And sipping a beer

He said “It’s quite clear,

That no one looks forward to change”

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

ADDITIONAL READING:

A Beanery Writers Group Story in Photographs

Which Lou Loses?

Wait Until the Coffee’s Poured

THE BLUDGEOUNED SKULL

G. David Schwartz

The bludgeoned skull,

The face raped by torture

Which gleamed like dark roads

Against the window legend

Saw you jump and hurl

All objects at hand

Towards a dialectic manifest

Ink spots, Dictaphones and books

The potential, the words, the media,

Yet wing their way through air

Which is breathed by democracy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

ADDITIONAL READING:

DUST MOTE

Sing to Me Softly

Mad Hatters, Johnny Depp, and Alice in Wonderland

MIXED-UP MERGATROID

Norma Leary

     Because it was raining cats, bats, dogs, frogs, and unsung rug-bugs in Scootertoot Circle, Bow knew he couldn’t play outdoors this Saturday afternoon.

     As he was wondering what to do on this rainy day, his dog, Scuttlemutt, ran to the door and began barking.

     “Someone’s coming,” Bow thought. Although Scuttle refused to talk, get a job to earn his food, and spent most days sleeping or going in and out, he was great at announcing visitors.

     Sure enough, Bow heard ‘rat, tap, rap-a-tap-tap.’ “Knock, knock, who’s there?” he called.

     “Boo.”

     “Boo who?” asked Bow.

     “Quit crying and let your rocket-rider regal-alien come in. My waterproof skin is getting water spotted and might shrink,” was his answer.

     “Hi Mergatroid, what’s up?” asked Bow, opening the door.

     Mergatroid put on his pouter outer space face and said, “I used to be far, far up until our Starazoid King saucer-shipped me here to study and write about your Untied States history.”

      Needing to correct Merg’s state of mind, Bow said, “Cool it, Merg. We’re United, not untied.”

     “Thanks for straightening me in.”

     “Out,” returned Bow.

     “You want me to leave?”

     “No! People are straightened out, not in,” Bow explained.

     “Straightened out, up, in, over, down, around, sideways, backwards, forwards, or across. I guess you mean your country is together. Good move,” Mergatroid smiled.

     “Hey, Merg, what’s with the measuring cup you’re holding?” Bow was curious.

     “I’ve a lending pending. Please borrow me a cup of soap for Georg Birthington’s wash day.”

     “Who? What?” Bow was becoming confused.

     “That tall George fellow who bore a furnace hat, cut down his Daddys cherry tree so he could build himself a log cabin, has his picture on your dollar bill, sang a song called “Frankie Noodle,” was President during your Civilution and Independence Day in seventeen seventy tricks on Reply North,” Merg stopped to breathe.

    “Not!” scolded Bow. Even thou you’re seven hundred years old and I’m only nine, you’ve mixed up our war heroes and Presidents Washington and Lincoln.”

     “And how,” chimed Jeanie, Bow’s sister, coming into the room after over-hearing Mergatroid. “Try 1776 and July Fourth. The American Revolution and the Civil War.”

     “What did you say?” asked Mergatroid. “Wait! Let me put my glasses on so I can hear you.”

    “That’s silly,” declared Jeanie.

     “Hold it, Missy. Glasses hooked around my ears pull them out and forward to improve sound earing hearing. And seeing silly mouths motoring lets me lip read,” explained Mergatroid.

     “Okay,” giggled Jeanie, before adding. “Do visit my Grandma and Grandpa. They know a lot about history and can help you understand our American history.”

     “Now, how about a soap loanering? I’ll suds scrub away the germs you earthlings trickle all over this planet so my party place is ship-shape, rocket-ready, comet-clean, neat and tidy before I cake the bake.”

     “Are we invited to your bash in honor of Lashington and Wincoln?” Bow wanted to know.

     “You bet. Here, put on my glasses so you can see what you just said.” Mergatroid laughed, thanked Bow and Jeanie for the soap and said “It’s time I blast off. Boodgye, sope to hee you soon.”

      After Mergatroid left, Bow and Jeanie each settled down with a book. Reading was a nice way to spend a rainy day. Or, as Merg would say, “A wice nay to way to spend a dainy ray.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

ADDITIONAL READING:

I HAVE A PERMIT TO CARRY…

 GLIMPSES THROUGH THE CLOUDS OF TIME

SELF-PUBLISHING AS I WANDER THROUGH IT

CAUGHT BETWEEN TWO WORLDS

I BELIEVE GOD INVENTED DANCING