The Last Visit – D-Day Plus

-       D-DAY PLUS -

The only sound the engines

Droning through the night

With thousands more just like them

Carrying them to the fight

The 6th of June called D-Day

In nineteen forty-four

A day we will remember

Or better, that’s for sure

In France an old man wanders

Through crosses straight and white

He looks for names of comrades

From that pre-invasion night

The Pathfinders were first in

And dropped behind the lines

To mark the way for thousands

Who would follow in do time

I saw the old man falter

As he stopped on shaky feet

He faced a shiny white cross

His eyes fell to his feet

I walked up just behind him

But did not say a word

The old man stood there talking

And this is what I heard

“Well Jughead, how’s it going?

It’s been a while, I know.

You know I’m almost eighty.

Ain’t young like you no more.”

“The ones that’s left are fading

And most can’t travel here.

And truth be known, old buddy

This might be my last year.”

“I had to come and see ya

Just one more time you see

I had to say in person just

How much you meant to me.”

The old man’s hands were trembling

Tears welled up in his eyes

The tears ran down his wrinkled cheeks

As he tried to vocalize

“Our time in basic training

And jump school was a kick.

Aboard the old Queen Mary

When most of us were sick.”

“Over there in bloody England

When both of us were young

Before our war had started

When our hearts were full of song.”

He looked right at the grave stone

Corporal Thomas Charles, it read

June 6th he came to Normandy

June 9th, Jughead was dead

“Three days we were in combat

Three days of living hell

When death was all around us

We all remember well.”

“When told we would advance upon

The bridge at mornings light

I knew that some would parish

In morns upcoming fight.”

“But if you would have told me

You’d be among those few

I wouldn’t have believed it

Why not me but you.”

“Morning came and went that day

And take the bridge we did

I found you dead behind the wall

Where till the dawn we hid.”

“I didn’t see it happen, pal

I’m sorry but it’s true

I didn’t even miss you till

The shootin’ part was through.”

“No one had seen you runnin’

No one had seen you fall

No one knew that war for you

Had ended behind that wall.”

“You’ll live on with me my friend

As will all who fell

Until I’m called to joint you

By Heavens tolling bell.”

And then I saw it happen

His hands trembled no more

His back was straight and rigid

As he stood firm and sure

With tear filled eyes and head held high

He saluted his old friend

And knew that it would have to do

Until they met again

He turned and looked right at me

And said with half a smile

“Remember what you’ve seen here, son.

Reflect on it a while.”

I watched the old man falter

As he turned and walked away

I knew that I’d not soon forget

All I’d heard that day

I stood there in the fading light

And thought of what he’d said

And looked out on the crosses

Of all our fallen dead

Young men who got no older

Who walked straight into Hell

Who sacrificed their futures

And with their comrades fell

Their memories are fading now

Like those that had survived

For it’s in them the fallen live

As if they’d never died.

Edward L. Binkley

6/6/09

Creation vs Evolution

GENESIS   &   CREATION

vs.

SCIENCE   &   EVOLUTION

By Ed Binkley

In the beginning everything was much simpler than it is today. We have computers to help us with everyday tasks that our parents were capable of doing without their aid. We have cars, trucks and SUV’s to help us with our everyday errands when our fore-fathers and their families relied on brute strength or a beast of burden as their only assistance. We have cell phones, jet aircraft, microwaves and so much, much more. But then, we are so much smarter then they were way back then. Or are we?

God gave us the ability to think, to learn, to reach conclusions and put things into perspective. These were things He gave us thousands of years ago and I am sure He meant for us to develop those into skills that would explain how the Earth and all that it holds was truly put into place.

The explanation in Genesis, while very compelling as a story, is just that, a story. And, if it were to go before an editor for copy, he or she would demand a re-write by saying, “If you can’t get the sequence of evens straight, we won’t print it!”

It is generally believed that Moses wrote Genesis although no one has claimed authorship or is likely to at this late date. According to the MacArthur Study Bible, Genesis ends almost (3) centuries before the birth of Moses. Many books in the Old Testament and the New Testament ascribe this composition to Moses who would be the fitting author given his educational background.  But then, no one really knows for sure. You would think that whom ever the author was of this most important of documents would have thought to sign his name.

Now, let’s look at one particular piece Genesis 1:1 thru 1:5 –

“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was without form, and void; and darkness was on the face of  the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters.

Then God said, “Let there be light”, and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good; and God divided the light from the darkness. God called the light Day and the darkness He called Night. So the evening and the morning were the first day.

Note: All well and good but, God didn’t create the sun and the moon until the fourth day. I fear Moses, or who ever wrote Genesis, wasn’t up on their sciences. No sun no light of day. No moon no light at night, consequently, no light until day four.

Maybe now would be as good a time as any to mention what Moses writings were called. They were called Mosaics or mosaic writings. What exactly is a mosaic?

According to Webster’s Dictionary a mosaic is:

Made of mosaic; inlaid work of colored glass or marble; pieces of random sizes and shapes fit together to form a recognizable picture or setting.

Writing ascribe to that of Moses.

Choose your poison, who ever the author was tried to put together a story that was simple enough for the masses of the time period to understand and using the available facts at hand. He, naturally, was not fully aware of the actual order of things so, he got some of it wrong. I’m sure it was quite frustrating to God as well.

You have to remember, if any of the holy men of the time were to try and explain, scientifically, what came before man as we know him, they would have been laughed right out of town. (Sort of like what the religious right is doing to modern day scientists of today.) The people of that era barely understood farming let alone science. He had to make it simple for them.

God knew that eventually we would evolve into science wise individuals and nations and that we would learn how to employ all that He has provided for us and yes, how to waste and misuse some as well. God gave us the ability to learn for ourselves and to put together the puzzle which is life on earth. I can only imagine what He thinks of his flock that have evolved no further than those of the centuries before His Sons birth. Would He not say, “Wake up and smell the technology!” “I gave you the ability to see and yet you remain blind.” Or something like that, I’m sure. How can we see and believe only that which does not conflict, on some level, with our beliefs.

I guess it’s all right to have brain surgery because that’s been scientifically proven to work. It’s all right to replace your God given heart with a mechanical replacement because it’s been scientifically proven to work. We’re smart enough to place men on the moon and a space station in orbit but not smart enough to figure out how old the earth really is? Science is for everyone, all of the time, not just when it suits you or when it fits comfortably within your beliefs. People it’s time to take your collective heads out of the sand.

Were all fascinated by archeology and the findings dating back tens of thousands of years but if we believe that to be true then how can the Bible be true for it says that the history of the earth goes back no further than 10,000 years. We have single trees older than that among the great redwoods in California. You need look no farther than the Grand Canyon, millions of years in the making. The fossils of great beasts that are now long gone. They were here millions of years before us but not mentioned in the Bible at all. And, if they were not here, where did all of the oil deposits come from?

Carbon dated ruins, writings, bones and picture graphs in caves and on canyon walls and so much more. You can close your eyes to them and plug your ears but they’re still going to be there. They are not going to just go away because they don’t fit in your neat little package and why should they? God created them too, didn’t He? Even if He didn’t mention it in the Bible, He created everything in the heavens and on the earth.

How can all of this be ignored by the true believers? Thousands upon thousands of examples by noted scientists, explorers and scholars around the world over the centuries that have placed their names and reputations on their works and findings and continue to do so. This and so much more can’t be ignored for the sake of a composition composed in good faith and with the Lord Gods blessing, I’m sure, by someone we can’t even identify by name. A sequence of events that we now know is scientifically impossible to uphold. We owe it to ourselves and to God who has placed so much faith in us, to prove to Him that we are smarter than when this whole thing began. If we don’t, then all we are proving is that His great experiment was a failure or, maybe I should re-phrase that, we have failed Him.

If He wanted us to take everything at face value, where would we be today? No hospitals or doctors to populate them. No technology, for better or worse, that helps us through our daily routine. No space flights or the advances in science it has brought us. No cell phones or blackberries or laptops. No nothing that we now take for granted. If we hadn’t use the brains He gave us and the free will to act on those thoughts, we would still be in loin cloths throwing spears and rocks at each other, eating with our hands and sleeping in caves.

No, He gave us the Readers Digest version of what He called Creation so that our early ancestors could grasp why we’re here at all. Now He expects us to fill in the blanks. We have the brains and the technology developed by those brains to start and put those pieces together. He doesn’t want us to remain ignorant to the facts of life, why would He?

I feel sorry for those who limit their intellect to such an extent that they refuse to see that which is right before them. It’s like they’re happy to be mired in wet cement. If God wanted automatons He would have created robots not humans. He left the creation of robots to us. He didn’t give us brains to ignore that part of science that offends our gentler nature or religion. He gave us brains to understand that part of science that applies to our religion and why. He gave us the brains to understand the universe and all of that which He had a hand in creating. All we have to do now is reach out and accept that knowledge. Work together as He would want us to, religion and science together, and move forward hand in hand.

Creation and Evolution is one and the same. Creation was for our early ancestors with limited understanding and knowledge in general, evolution is for the more evolved mentally and scientifically. Why is that so hard to understand?

I don’t mean to insult anyone or their religious beliefs, it’s just that I have been torn over this for many years myself. I believe in the Bible, in God, in Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit but, I also believe in science and the whole thing seems so clear to me. I just can’t understand why others find it so difficult to understand.

I cannot accept “You just have to take it on faith.” as an answer. You work so hard at understanding the rest of the scriptures; why not work at understanding the easiest one to put into its proper context.

Even though theologians want us to believe that each day of creation was a twenty-four hour day, how could it be if the sun and moon weren’t created until day four? No sun for earth to revolve around and around in front of, no hours to measure. Who’s to say that days one through three weren’t millions of years long each. That during that period, the earth, moon, sun and stars were created just like science has stated. That bacteria and minerals interacted to create life and it evolved over the millennia into what we now see today and when man evolved into that which God intended him to be, viola, and here we are. It’s a lot easier than trying to explain the whole process to people just barely getting used to their camels.

The Parasite

-  THE  PARASITE  -

By Edward L. Binkley

I walked into the neighborhood strip joint for a four dollar beer and, I could say some scintillating conversation but who’s kidding who. There at one of the tables off to the side but still in a good position to see both active stages, was a shortish African American man in the brightest white sweat ensemble I think I have ever seen and a white baseball cap turned sort of to one side. You know the look I’m sure. To cap off the whole thing he wore silver athletic shoes that must have cost him a pretty penny as well.

I initially figured him for a drug dealer (which, in fact, may have been a sideline of his) but this guy, who was not all that good looking, seemed to have a thing with the dancers. Not all but some were giving him money and this little so and so had quite a wad. I’m thinking Pimp.

Now, I’m not insinuating that any of these young ladies are trollops, ladies of the evening, you know prostitutes that would be unfair. Maybe he’s an agent or manager or something like that but Pimp still sticks in my mind.

I asked a couple of the girls who he was and got a very clipped response from both. They would say he’s a friend to all of the girls and a really nice guy while they had that deer-in-the-headlights look going on. Then they both turned and walked away like they were afraid to talk about him. It was genuinely weird.

Being the type of guy who doesn’t like a confrontation and believes in leaving well enough alone, I decided to walk over to his table, invite myself to sit down and ask a few innocent questions. I’ve had a few beers by this time you see. It went something like this……..

“Hey, how’s it going? See anything you like?”

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Name’s Ed and yours?” He just stared. “Not important I guess.”

“I couldn’t help but notice that wad of cash you’ve been waving around. Business must be booming, huh?” “What kind of business might you be in, by-the-way?” “It couldn’t have anything to do with these girls could it? I noticed a few of them handing you cash. I thought that a little odd, wouldn’t you say?”

“Hey listen man, he said, why don’t you just move on? Who are you anyway, a cop?”

“No, I’m no cop, just a frustrated writer who came in to have an expensive beer or two that’s all. That is until I saw you.”

“What do you mean by that, until you saw me?”

-   2  -

“Well, to tell you the truth, I was trying to figure out what a flashy dresser like yourself with wads of money who’s not all that good looking might have that so many of these girls might want.”

He didn’t look all that happy with my description of him but, I continued anyway.

“Yeah, at first I figured you were a drug dealer and thought that maybe, among other things, you just might be but I finally settled on a Pimp. You look the type to take advantage of women and girls.”

He started to get up and then said, “Do you know who you’re talking to?” I told him I had no idea.

He told me, “I have friends that could ruin your day.” I told him that my day was pretty much ruined all ready just talking to him.

“Hey listen, I said, let’s get right to it. What made you want to become a parasite anyway?”

“Parasite, what the hell’s a parasite?”

“You know, someone who preys on women and girls for profit.”

“I don’t pray to women or girls.”

‘That’s not what I said. I said preys on. P-R- oh what’s the use. You probably can’t spell anyway. It would just be a waste of my time and your limited brain power to try and explain it to you.”

“You know man, I don’t like you. I think you’d better leave now.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ve enjoyed about as much of this as I can stand too.”

I noticed one of the girls I asked about this creep over talking to the manager of the place and she was pointing in our direction. It was time to call it a night but, I had one more parting shot before departing.

“Say listen,” I asked the man in white, “I just have to know. Are you a drug dealer or a pimp or both?”

I never got my answer because the manager arrived just then and placed a guiding hand on my shoulder. I did get another cold, silent stare though so all wasn’t lost. At that point, the manager thought it was time for me to call it a night as well. There will be other nights though and other opportunities to push the limits. What’s life without a little stirring-of-the-pot now and again?

Angel in Training

-  ANGEL   IN   TRAINING   -

By Edward L. Binkley

It was a chance encounter, no planning involved at all. Even though there was and is no romance involved, I will most likely remember this meeting for a long time to come.

There was a show in the mid to late 1990’s called “Touched By An Angel” which I never placed too much stock in. It ran for several seasons and starred a beautiful actress named Roma Downey and, just for good measure, they threw in Della Reese to co-star. Good cast but a hard to believe plot. Hard to believe that is until last week, Monday, September 28, 2009.

It started as a day much like any other, I had coffee with French Vanilla creamer (non-dairy) in the morning with two slices of bacon and three eggs scrambled with minced garlic, chopped white onion, cilantro and shredded cheddar cheese, one slice of toast lightly buttered (margarine, cholesterol free) and a 12oz. glass of ice cold fat free milk to top it off. I love breakfast. Oh yes, and my daily regimen of pills. I can’t afford to forget those or so the doctors say.

I had an appointment with my psychologist that afternoon at 1:00 P.M. which I always look forward to. Dr. H. is an easy person to talk to and she always lets me ramble on about anything that’s on my mind, such as it is. I even caught her yawning once.

This day I happened to tell her about an incident that happened two weeks prior, I had what I thought was a minor episode, what I consider to be a minor heart attack but prefer to call it an episode. It’s less scary that way. She asked if I had gone to the emergency room during or directly after the episode and I told her I had not. She insisted that after our session was over that I go directly to the emergency room for an EKG and blood work up to make sure everything was alright. She was worried. I said I didn’t think that was necessary, she disagreed so I went. She said she would check and I had no reason to doubt her.

At the Veterans Hospital, as I imagine at any emergency room across this great land, if your complaint is chest pains or what you might think is heart related pains, you go to the head of the line regardless of how many people there are in the waiting room. There are exceptions to every rule so gunshots, stabbings and the not so common errant 2×4 falling off a lumber truck, bouncing freely on the freeway, catapulting into the air, piercing a cars windshield and the driver behind it through the chest may rank right up there with your everyday chest pains but, these days, who knows. Even that errant 2×4 may be too common-place to get special notice any more.

2

I went to the walk up window, showed my veterans I.D. and told them my dilemma. I had no pains right now but my psychologist wanted me to get checked out. Immediately, I was tagged and sent to the admitting nurse for a once over. She was very nice, very cute and very efficient. She hustled me right through and onto a gurney in the emergency room. I kept telling her how silly I felt because I was having no pain at all and that the episode had been over for two weeks or more. She assured me that this was all necessary, just routine. I did as I was told. Something, I guess, left over from my two years in the army or my twenty years of marriage. Take your pick.

I lay there being prepped by two emergency room nurses and the admitting nurse feeling sillier by the second. At first I paid no attention to my doctor as she walked up but that soon changed. This warm and gentle hand touched my left forearm and this beautiful young woman was standing over me with the gentlest of eyes and the warmest most genuine smile I can, in this life, remember. It seemed like I stared at her for an hour before speaking but I’m sure it was less that 30 minutes, I mean seconds.

Her hair was shoulder length and seemed golden brown in the florescent lighting of the emergency room. Her voice was soft and reassuring and her every move was precise yet graceful. She asked me a series of questions which I hopefully answered coherently. I know or at least hope that I apologized for staring at her like I did and I know or at least hope I apologized for occupying a space that could have been used for a real patient. I told her I felt fine, that my psychologist wanted me to stop in here or I wouldn’t have come at all. She assured me, as only she could, that I was just as important as anyone and to just relax.

As she walked back to the nurses station she turned and said that as soon as they had my blood results and the cardiologist checked out my EKG she would be back to go over the results with me. She wore all black scrubs with white gym shoes. She had a wonderful figure which was not completely hidden even under the non-descript medical garments. Hers fit her like they were tailor made which they may have been since her name was embroidered on the front of her tunic.

Hours passed as I waited not so much for the test results but for my doctors’ return. She was attending to other patients in another part of the emergency room and I only got a glimpse of her when she would come back to the nurse’s station for a chart or a printout of some kind or the other. It was during these glimpses that, as I watched her walk to and fro, I thought I could almost detect an aura. It may just have been blurred vision but I prefer to think otherwise. She walked with such a fluid movement it was as if she were supported by gossamer wings which no one could see but He who bestowed them upon her.

3

I know this sounds like I should have been forwarded directly to the Looney bin in stead of the emergency room but this is how this young woman appeared to me. I’m sixty-two and have three daughters her age and younger so don’t get the wrong idea. My interest in this young woman is, I guess, more of a spiritual thing. It’s hard to nail down completely but that’s how it felt, she was almost ethereal in nature. I guess that would have made more sense if I had been dying but I was no more on my death bed then than I was when I walked in there under my own steam three hours earlier. Every time I saw her or she even smiled in my general direction I felt a warmth that I cannot explain and do not want to over analyze for fear it will go away, forever.

When finally my test results came in she walked over to where I was with her beautiful smile in perfect working order. As she explained what I already knew that I had no symptoms of a heart problem, she said she wanted me to come in for a stress test. I told her it would show her nothing more than she knows right now. She assured me that it, like everything else, was necessary and just the next step in the process. I relented and agreed to do the stress test. I would have climbed Everest if she thought it was necessary.

All the time she was talking to me, or I at least would like to think so, she had her hand on my left forearm. Not shrink wrapped in one of those purple and impersonal latex gloves but her bare skin touching mine. Every once in a while she would rub her hand back and forth on my arm as a soothing gesture, a personal touch that makes the touch all that more personal.

Just a thought but other doctors should take lessons from this young woman, her bedside manner is perfection. It doesn’t take that much longer to be pleasant and share a smile. This is something that is sorely lacking in many physicians these days.  Medicine today is too impersonal, too regimented. Many doctors and nurses don’t even look up from the patients chart except to find their way out of the room. I wonder if they wear those latex gloves in the super markets or restaurants, while they’re playing with their kids or during the more intimate times of their lives.

This young woman seemed to me to be a very competent doctor in all respects yet down to earth. I feel she has not a pretentious bone in her body, that to her the world is equal to all and that all that inhabit it may share it equally. She merely has a talent and the aptitude that goes with it that others do not and is glad she has the opportunity to share it and herself with the world. This is, at least, how she appeared to me.

4

She made me promise that if I had another episode (A word she used first, by-the-way, I hadn’t told her that was how I referred to a heart thing.) that I would come in immediately during or right after so they could run tests right away. I asked her when she would be on duty so I could schedule my next episode to coincide with her hours. She simply smiled that wonderful smile and said, “I’m a resident, I’m always here.” With that she rubbed my arm, smiled again and walked off to do more wondrous things for other patients in need of her singular skills.

When I left the emergency room I looked back in hopes of catching a glimpse of her once more. It didn’t happen. I really didn’t think that it would. I just had this feeling of separation and loss. Like something had passed through me, through my life that I couldn’t explain and now, except for the warm afterglow of memory, it was gone not to be forgotten but neither to be revisited.

—————————-

I went for my stress test and the preliminary results were as I had expected, I was fine. Before I left the office where I had taken the test, I mentioned this wonderful resident I had encountered in the emergency room a week or so before. Neither of the ladies I talked to had ever heard of her. It’s a big hospital so I didn’t think much of it.

I walked through the huge lobby of the Portland V.A. hospital with all of its’ separate goings on. The place was packed and there were things happening everywhere. The flu shot clinic was set up by the left side of the main entry doors for any veteran needing his annual shot. There were free cup cakes, rolls and cookies with Kool-aide or whatever next to the grand piano and its’ keyboard wizard of the day playing 1940’s tunes or requests of any kind. The designer coffee stand on the order of Starbucks across from the piano serving special brewed coffee, lattes, cappuccino and bottled water at an expensive yet lower rate than that of Starbucks. The information stand was in the middle and all of the comfortably cushioned chairs for those waiting for appointments, transportation home or pharmaceuticals occupied the rest of the space. This was all for the comfort and enjoyment of the veterans, their family and friends and, of course, the doctors, nurses and techs that attend them.

As I approached the main entry doors, I walked out to the smaller entry lobby where if you turn left you go to the elevators that take you down to the parking garages or, if you turn right it takes you to the emergency room entrance. I hesitated. I wanted to turn right and go into the emergency room to see if Dr. Christie Horak was on duty but I was actually afraid of what I might find out.

5

I could just hear the responses to my inquiries about her, “Dr. who?” “Christie Horak, never heard of her.” “You say she works in this E.R.?”

I didn’t know, right at that moment, how I would have reacted to those answers. Would I have been glad to the point of enchantment to think that I might have been right and not crazy or would the sadness have been overwhelming for the same reason? I wasn’t sure and I wasn’t ready to take the chance either way. Not yet, anyway.

————————–

I decided to write this story about that afternoon and the following appointment for the stress test and then, hopefully, deliver this to her in person as a thank-you for all she had done and to reaffirm that she really did exist. The affirmation was for me personally, the thank-you, however, was not. The thank-you was for the countless others that she has treated and will continue treat in the future. Although there will be many who will enter her theater of expertise I still consider us the fortunate few.

My personal thoughts of Dr. Christie Horak are of those wonderful hands and the warm personal touch that goes with them, may the heart and the soul that guides them forever remain as pure of spirit and as full of love as they are today. May her beautiful eyes that know just how to look into another’s and those most perfect of lips that form the most perfect of smiles, just right for each particular moment, may they too remain unchanged by time and circumstance.

Should I ever be cast in the roll of the emergency room patient again, which I undoubtedly will be at some point, I sincerely hope that she is cast as my physician. No pills, no shots, no I.V.’s, no surgeries required. Just her wonderful smile, her beautiful eyes and her warm and gentle touch will do nicely.

—————————

That show that I mentioned at the beginning, “Touched By An Angel”. I didn’t put much stock in it then, like I said, but I do now. For if my Dr. Christie Horak is not now an angel in this life, she most certainly will be in her next. Of that I am certain.

The Bend in the River

-  THE  BEND  IN  THE  RIVER  -

By Edward L. Binkley

Being a city boy by birth, it was always a treat to go somewhere outside the city limits if only to the farm areas surrounding Chicago proper for fresh vegetables once every couple of weeks. Everything was so crowded in the city. People everywhere, cars hurrying past, trains billowing black coal smoke into the air along with factories pumping out goods and pollutants by the ton.

It was post World War II and the Korean War was still being fought. It was 1953 and I was turning six years old in October. I was going to start the first grade this year and we were going to celebrate by going up to northern Wisconsin to visit Aunt May and Pappy just outside of Tomahawk. They lived in a big white house just off the main road, at least it was the main road back then, and their property backed up to the Wisconsin River on the west bank.

I loved going up there during the summer. We would usually spend a week or so. Dad would go fishing with Pappy and he would sometime take me along. Pappy had a pretty short fuse when it came to kids. Don’t get me wrong, he was never mean or anything he just hated repeating himself and with kids, you did a lot of that.

When you caught him in the right mood though he would be as patient as Job and explain anything you asked about in great detail but, get him at the wrong moment and you’d think you just shot his favorite dog. He was a strange old duck.

I was just happy being there. I’ve written about this before but I never get tired of repeating it. It was a wonderful time to be a kid and a wonderful place to be when you were one.

I have to explain, for those of you new to my stories, that Aunt May and Pappy were not related to me at all. They were good friends of my dad and mom and kind of adopted me as one of their grand kids. Lucky, lucky me.

Aunt May was a great cook by anyone’s standards. Pappy bought her a brand new electric stove and had the electrician wire it in. May never used the thing. It just sat there until my mom or their daughter-in-law, Judy, would come up to visit. When May would allow them into her kitchen to help, they would use the electric contraption. She didn’t want anyone messing with her wood burning stove.

That was why Pappy had bought her the electric stove as a surprise, the wood burning stove used up a lot of wood. Not that he didn’t have enough forest to supply it; he was just tired of chopping, stacking and carrying the damn stuff. As he found out, some things just aren’t meant to be. As far as I know he chopped wood for that stove until the day May passed away and took all those wonderful cooking aromas with her.

-  2  -

Perhaps I should explain. May, like I said, was a fabulous cook and she cooked everything on her wood burning stove. The kitchen was on the north side of the house. The room that I slept in was on the north east corner of the house. It backed up to the kitchen and the old stove backed up to that bedroom wall. There was a door just to the left of the stove that was the entry to my bedroom.  May would wake up early every morning and put on a pot of coffee to boil. Yes, I said boil. May was old school if you hadn’t guessed by now. For me, the smell of that coffee brewing and the wood in the stove burning are two of the most memorable aromas I can think of. Whenever I smell those two aromas together I’m right back in that feather bed waiting for the first sound of the bacon to start frying.

May would open the door just a crack to let all of the smells of the morning come drifting in. She didn’t want me to miss anything. Soon I would hear dad and mom shuffling around out in the kitchen and then Pappy would make his entrance and that would be my signal to slip out from under the down comforter and crisp air dried sheets and greet the new day and all it had in store, starting with a hearty breakfast ala Aunt May.

When you think of breakfast at a restaurant you might be tempted to order one of each item on the menu. At May’s table you got one of each without ordering it. There would be eggs, ham, bacon, sausage, pancakes or waffles, toast and jelly of many flavors, juice, milk, coffee always lots of coffee and sometimes sweet rolls for good measure. Now, you were ready for the day, that is, if you could get up from the table.

I have to throw in one more little fact that, if forgotten, could raise blood from newly found holes in the back of your hand. Pappy had rules even at the table. Take all you want but eat all you take. Waste not, want not. And, there would be no reaching across the table. If you wanted something ask for it and it will be passed to you.

One day at an evening meal, Bob Merwin,  one of Pappy’s real grand kids who was a year or two older than me , and I were waiting our turn for the goodies on the table. We saw Pappy reach across the table and snag a piece of bread with his three pronged, wooden handled fork. A fork that he kept sharpened to needle point sharpness. Well, Bob and I thought that the ban of reaching across the table had been lifted so, like Pappy we reached for the rolls. Before we had time to react, that fork got both of us in the back of our hands, neat as you please thank-you very much.

We withdrew or now punctured hands and inspected the damage. Three very little drops of blood appeared as if by magic through three little holes that mere seconds ago were not there. We looked at each other and then at Pappy whose fork had been retracted back into its sheath and asked him why he did that. He repeated the rule about no reaching across the table. We then reminded him that he had done the very same thing just before we had. He went on to explain one other little exception to that rule. “My house, my table, my rules.” We then asked him to pass the rolls and he threw them at us and

-  3  -

started laughing, so did everyone else. Bob and I just looked at each other and shrugged then we, too, laughed while we held paper napkins over our wounded pride, more-or-less.

That little episode happened a couple years later when we were eight or nine years old. You’d think we would have known better by then wouldn’t you? Well, back to the story at hand. After finishing Mays glorious breakfast, I got dressed and walked out onto the back porch where we had all just eaten. Mom and May were clearing the remnants of breakfast and the dirty dishes from the big round table. The porch is screened in for summer use because of the airplane sized mosquito’s and other insects of unusually large sizes that inhabit the area. I was one of the lucky ones that the mosquito’s generally left alone. I guess I had a natural repellant or something.  They landed, they tickled my arm or whatever and then they would look for a more tasty prey.

As I walked down the steps to the backyard I would always survey the area as if for the first time. To the left was the garage what Pappy called his shop. In front of the garage about twenty feet or so was a tree that dad, Pappy and the other hunters would use to bleed and skin the deer after the hunt. Off to the right of the garage was Pappy’s old, and I do mean old, yellow tractor. It had one of those steel seats that are form fitting, if you know what I mean, and looks kind of like Swiss cheese with all the holes. When I refer to it as yellow I’m being rather generous. It was mostly rust with a little yellow showing here and there. But, it still ran and that was all anyone cared about who needed it to pull a boat out of the water or put one in.

About forty feet to the right of the garage was and old Model-T truck that was up on blocks. It’s driving days were over but it’s usefulness around the homestead were still just as important as ever. Pappy used it for cutting May’s wood for that confounded stove of hers as Pappy would put it. Pappy had built a heavy metal stand and fastened a huge circular saw blade to it with a drive wheel connected to the rear tire of the old truck with a thick, six inch wide leather and rubber strap. When he would fire up the truck and put her in gear, you could hear the whine of that big blade for over a mile. He had a cradle on a track where he would place the logs and then push them through the blade as they dropped to the ground. He wouldn’t let us kids near the blade while it was moving but when he took it out of gear, he’d give the order to retrieve and stack the logs by the house. No work, no food. Another rule.

If you looked all the way to the south side of the house there was a fence about four feet high separating the main house from the little quonset hut just on the other side and the little beer bar just a little further away. Pappy owned the bar but leased it out to one of the neighbors. He had no interest in running even a small bar in the middle of nowhere. I, on the other hand, went there frequently either for a strawberry soda or an Uno bar or both. It was another of those places that had a smell all its own. The mixture of years of cigarette smoke and stale beer was intoxicating. You would think that it would be repulsive but, strangely enough, it wasn’t. Every once in a while I’ll walk into a small bar yet today and get that whiff of familiarity that will take me back to that little bar on the side of the highway.

-  4  -

As I reverse my scan back to the left and just before I get to the old truck and saw stand, there’s an overgrown path that leads down to the river bank. The grass is green and about shin high. You can distinguish the path where cars and the yellow tractor have traveled. There are wheel ruts on either side of the raised area in the middle but the grass has filled in the ruts. They’re still there just not used as much as before. It’s mostly foot traffic now. That will be the path I’ll be taking.

I’m almost never in a hurry when I’m up north. Unusual for a six year old who runs everywhere when at home. I find myself strolling like the older folks and looking everywhere. I have walked this way so many times yet I am still amazed at the beauty even at my young age back then. As I go over the final rise and around the trees leading to the river, I can start to hear the water of the river as it flows past and under the dock now just thirty feet  or so away.

Again, the smells of the river are unique as well. The rotting foliage on the upper banks and the water soaked trees at the waters edge. The smell of dead fish and bate that permeates the planks of the old dock from years of use as a cutting and cleaning spot. Scales from the last fish cleaned here shine in the early morning light like little flakes of pearl on the wooden deck. There are Pappy’s three small boats that are floating and bumping together in the on rushing current. The smell of oil and gas for the outboard motors on two of the three boats that stay mostly dry inside and the dark green metal boat that leaks from God only knows where. You want to stay close to the pier with that one.

It’s still relatively early and the mist hasn’t cleared from the river banks yet. It hangs over the water like fog over the ocean only lower and less dense. Little patches break loose from the shore line and float out over the center of the river where it disappears only to return with the evening chill. It’s quiet and except for the water brushing against the shore and foliage hanging over its banks it’s like Mother Nature has let everyone sleep in this morning.

I always sat on the edge of the dock and let my feet dangle off the side. The dock was high enough and the water low enough where I didn’t have to worry about getting my shoes wet. Swinging my feet back and forth and looking down the river and then back up river again, it’s easy to get lost in thought. I got that Tom Sawyer feeling (although I hadn’t read the book yet) of adventure and wonder.  A boy’s imagination can really run away with him if he lets it and I always let mine run wild.

As I would sit there and let my mind drift with the current, an occasional fish would break the water and dive back down. It was as if it were saying hello and come on, try to catch me if you can. That was a challenge my dad would relish but not me. I wasn’t much of a fisherman or a hunter for that matter. My dad took care of those things but I feel he was a little disappointed I didn’t follow in his footsteps in that regard. I was more of a watcher of nature. After seeing Bambi for the umpteenth time there was no way I could ever go out and shoot a deer. Forget it. Not happening in my lifetime.

-  5  -

The river, any river, has always held a fascination with me. Where had it started, where does it end and what marvelous things does it see, if it had eyes, along its journey? Are there kids just like me sitting on other docks or standing on banks or levees asking these very same questions? Are they looking into the muddy waters of the Wisconsin River or some other river wondering and dreaming of what lies just out of sight?

I sincerely hope so, I hope there are thousands of them and I hope they continue to ask and to wonder and to marvel at the flowing giants that played such an important part in our countries growth and continued well-being. Some of the romance associated with the river may be gone but enough is still there that we can bring it back for a visit now and then can’t we? When was the last time you took some time to look at a river? I mean really look at it not just glance in its direction and say,” Oh yeah,  very nice, now let’s go.”

I still like to sit on a rock or a pier and chuck a stone or two. Skim a flat rock off the glassy surface of a smooth running river. Or dream a dream of places I haven’t seen. The dreams of days gone by when the steamboats and river barges plied the inland water ways delivering goods and people to water front towns and cities. It was a time when the river boat gamblers were the princes of the paddle wheelers and women in fine Paris gowns and sparkling jewels paraded around the promenade. The smoke from fancy cigars wafted from the gambling rooms and drifted off into the dark of the rivers night.

It was a time of adventure and great wonder especially for us who were not there during that period. All we can do is imagine what it was like and read of others experiences and rely on their accounts or, we might make up are own. We might decide that our imagination might just give a more special meaning to whatever lies just around the next bend in the river.

AMERICAN PRIDE

-  AMERICAN  PRIDE   -

By E. L. Binkley

Pride in America didn’t start with Columbus landing in 1492 or the landing of the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock . Pride in America didn’t even start with the winning of the Revolutionary War that won our freedom from British rule. Granted, we were proud of the fact that we had defeated the mighty empire and that the thirteen original colonies had prevailed but, we were a fledgling nation at best. We had no constitution, no bill of rights, and no established government to speak of. All of that was to follow but, it would take time.

George Washington, who commanded the Colonials in their victorious battle against the Red Coats, better known as the British troops, was to become our first President of the United States and thereby be referred to as the Father of Our Country.

During the battles fought in the Revolutionary War we, as a nation newly born, need a banner to hold on high. Miss Betsy Ross, a seamstress, sewed our first flag which she did in Red, White and Blue cloth. The blue was used for the background for the circle of thirteen stars in the upper left hand corner occupying one quarter of the flag. The stars represented the thirteen original colonies united as one, hence the continuous circle. There are thirteen red and white stripes also representing the thirteen colonies that run horizontal across the remainder of the flag starting with red at the bottom and alternating red and white to the top ending in red again. For indoor flags, a gold braid or tassels are added around the edges.

As we grew as a nation and as we added more states to the union the circle of stars were replaced with stars in a line stacked bottom to top until they now cover the whole blue background with fifty white stars representing the fifty United States. There are forty-eight states within the Continental United States plus Alaska in the northwest and the Hawaiian Islands in the central Pacific Ocean. The thirteen red and white stripes have not changed and still represent the thirteen original colonies.

The American flag has been called by several names The Grand Old Flag, Old Glory, The Red, White and Blue, Our National Banner, The Flag of the United States of America and, of course, The American Flag. What does it mean when we fly the American flag? It means that everyone under that flag is protected by the United States of America equally and without exception. Be it in this nation or any nation around the world that asks for our help, they are protected. Where ever our flag flies is considered to be American soil as long as the flag remains there. An attack on our flag is an attack on America. Ask any veteran.

Years ago it was determined by the United States Supreme Court that burning or otherwise defiling the flag of our nation was considered to be freedom of speech and therefore was not punishable under law. There are tens of thousands, yea, hundreds of thousands of men and women alike that have died carrying that flag into combat, defending the ground where that flag had been raised, aboard a ship that flew her colors or simply the liberty and freedom for which it stands. Ask them, who gave the ultimate sacrifice, if they consider it freedom of speech or are they spitting on the graves of those who died for it.

Pride in ones country is not something that you can buy or declare into existence. Pride is something that happens or it doesn’t. Pride in country, like liberty and freedom, comes with a price. Sometimes you don’t even realize it’s there until it appears.

During the Civil War the Union or Confederate soldier, if able, would hold his flag off the ground, though mortally wounded, and would try not to die until another could relieve him of his duty. Incidents like that were recorded and that is pride. There was a marine who, during World War II, carried a small American flag from the states, through the landings and initial combat on the island of Iwo Jima. He carried that little flag neatly folded in his shirt and then carried it up on Mt. Surabachi, tied it to a pole and, with help, raised the flag in victory. That flag was later replaced by a larger flag that could be better seen by the troops on the island and sailors on the ships off shore but the importance placed on that little flag by that one marine and his buddies who survived that first day, now that’s pride.

There are incidents like that from the Korean War, Vietnam, Granada, and both Gulf Wars and, yes, most of those incidents do happen in combat areas where life and death are a fact of life itself. Where your mortality can be measured not in months or years but in mere seconds, our combat troops will defend our flag to the man and so it has been through history. When we see someone defiling our flag or burning it in protest it’s like they’re stepping on our souls. True Americans, that is.

You can’t ask the question, “Why would a man or group of men die for a few pieces of sewn cloth?” You would get a different answer each time but it would all stem from pride. Pride in country, pride in your unit, and pride in what the flag stands for such as liberty, justice and freedom or simply the flag itself. The flag is every American. When you look at the American flag it’s like looking at every American of one faith, one color, with the same features and physical make-up. We are no different from one another when we are all Red, White and Blue. When you step on my flag, you are stepping on me.

When the United States Navy was first formed to protect our shores from the British in 1775, the Continental Congress authorized the forming of three companies of U. S. Marines in Philadelphia to accompany the ships in pursuit of British ships bringing war supplies to their troops in the colonies.

The drummers of those first ever marine companies painted their drums yellow with a rattlesnake wrapped around the drum. This was later made into a flag with a yellow background and a coiled and ready to strike rattlesnake in the middle with the motto “Don’t Tread on Me!” directly below. The flag was presented to the Continental Congress by Col. Christopher Gadsden who was later credited by having the flag named after him.

Those first marines, though they had not yet gone into combat as a unit, displayed the pride that made this country what it is, or should be, today. Though they had not yet been bloodied their flag said it all. “Don’t Tread on Me!” That’s how most Americans feel about the American Flag as well. “Don’t Tread on Me!”

About The Author

-         -  About  The  Author  -

By Ed Binkley

I guess you might say I was stubborn and that would be an accurate statement most of the time. I tend to like to do things my way even though logic and, yes, good sense might dictate otherwise. This has brought me much to reflect on over the years and not all with happiness. I have been wrong more than I was right and paid a heavy price for my stubbornness but such is life and as the saying goes, “He made his bed now let him lie in it.”

We all have regrets and wish that life had more do-over’s than it actually does (which isn’t many, by-the-way) so however we made our bed in preparation for life, so it shall be when we sleep in it. The only real regret is that we tend to bring others with us on that journey that didn’t aid in the actual making of our beds. We kind of picked them up after the journey began. There are husbands, wives, children, extended families and, of course, friends. None of them had anything at all with feathering the original nest yet they are just as much a part of the final product as the maker of that bed himself.

I could go through a wish list which would more or less resemble a shopping list for success and bore you to tears but my list would be short and to the point. I wanted to make a positive difference in this life. I didn’t. I wanted to leave a good financial foundation for my wife and kids. I didn’t. I wanted to do one great thing that my kids could say, “See that! My daddy did that.” And, once again, I didn’t.

I missed the mark so many times I can’t figure out why the Good Lord has kept me around so long. I just seem to be occupying space and collecting dust. I’ve got one shoe nailed to the floor and I’m walking in circles. Shall I go on?

Well, that isn’t quite true anymore. I wish I could say I woke up one day and low and behold, I had an epiphany. That wouldn’t be entirely true either. What did happen is that I finally realized what it was I wanted to do when I grew up. (I’m now sixty-two, by-the-way.) I want to write. I’ve been doing it kind of hap-hazardously over the years since high school with decades of in activity scattered in-between. I started again about fourteen years ago again sort of hit and miss. I’d start something and then set it aside. I’d write some sappy poems and then set them aside. I started a few novels and rushed to finish them and then never went back to revise or edit them. I couldn’t convince myself that I should take it seriously. I mean I failed at everything else, why should this be any different? My psychologist would disagree with that statement saying something like, “It’s impossible to fail at everything Ed, get real. You might want to rethink that statement.” Well, she’s right, of course, there were many things I did succeed at but they weren’t the important ones. That’s the difference.

The difference with writing versus other things I’ve tried is……… I like it! It makes me happy and other people who have taken the time to read my recent stories seem to agree. They like them too. I have a lot I want to say both on paper and off. I want to share what is rambling around in my head and see if it can fit comfortably in yours or someone else’s. Stephen King, in his novel “Bag of Bones” had his main character use a quote, “A writer is someone who lets their mind misbehave.” I guess that would have to be true for some novelists. I haven’t tried that yet but I might. Right now I just want to share my thoughts, such as they are, and relive some of my past, some of my youth and those experiences that we, of that era can share with those born later who might like to know more about a time that they didn’t have the opportunity to live in, a simpler time. It was a time when the birds sang and people stopped to listen. When the aroma of freshly mown grass was like mother natures perfume. And trees were to be admired for their strength and majesty. Now, what few birds there are left to sing are considered pests. “Why don’t they shut up so we can sleep?” Freshly mown grass just signals it’s time to pay the gardener. And the majestic trees are those things that stand in the way of progress. Oh how I long for the “good ole days”.

Now that the Good Lord has given me the direction I am to travel, I hope he gives me the time I need to finish that which I have so recently started. Oh, and one more thing, for the first time ever I feel comfortable calling myself a writer. No, not because I have been published that is still a dream and one that may never come true but simply because people have read some of my stories and felt good about them which, in turn, makes me feel good. What can I say? I’m easy to please but I would like to be pleased on a more regular basis. Did I mention I’m just a wee bit greedy as well? Especially when it comes to being pleased that is.

- The New Guy In Town -

I had only been in Lake Oswego, Oregon a little over three maybe four days. Still trying to get my sea legs, so-to-speak. The reason for me being here at all was do to a friend of mine, who I kept in touch with over the years in a periodic fashion, a favor. She and her husband owned a house in what is called the First Edition part of Lake Oswego and they were having some remodeling done. I guess there was a problem with their original contractor and since I did that kind of work, they asked if I wanted to complete the job.

I was living in Phoenix, Arizona and working in telemarketing to be close to my kids. She knew I hated my job and Phoenix so getting me to leave that miserable place was fairly easy. I had no plans of staying any longer than six months or so. Just enough time to finish the job, look around a bit and return to the dry heat of the desert which I loved so much. Yeah, right! That was thirteen years ago.

After getting re-acquainted with my friend and her family and getting settled in general, I decided to take a walk around town, which was only four or five blocks away, and see where things were. The best way to find your way around is to walk it. Especially when the town is as compact as Lake Oswego.

There are two main streets that comprise the main part of town. Highway 43 or State Street and A Avenue which T-bones right into State Street. B Avenue is a secondary main street that runs parallel to A street has offices, the Fire Station, restaurants, pharmacy and things of that nature. First Street through Fifth Street which run parallel to State Street and across A Avenue also have businesses. Like I said, it’s a very compact little town that thinks it’s a city.

I was actually looking for a place to get a good hamburger and a cold beer. I always say, “If you can find a place that serves a good burger and cold beer, just about anything else you buy there should be good as well.” It doesn’t always hold true but most of the time it does.

I walked from my friends house to State Street and followed it down across A Street until I reached a place called Brazil’s. There was a sign in the window that read Hamburgers $3.95. It was a neighborhood bar, dark as pitch inside but that was normal for most small bars. No one really wanted know what the next person looked like drunk or sober.

I walked in through the open door, through the small dining area and through the swinging cafe’ doors to the bar or lounge part of the bar. I looked around but saw no one. I mean no one. No bartender, no patron no cook, no one. I figured the bartender must be in the bathroom so I sat and waited and waited and waited some more. Nothing. I checked the mens room and, reluctantly, checked the ladies as well. Still nothing.

I tried calling out but no one answered. I walked up the back stairs and checked the alley and saw nothing there either. This place was completely deserted. I guess a more dishonest person could have robbed the place but being me, I locked the back door and closed the front door. I didn’t know what else to do.

Come to find out that the old gal that tended bar there usually started drinking when she clocked in and about the time I got there she would have been asleep on a chair in the kitchen. The regulars would have known to wake her up but me being new, didn’t know to look in the blacked out kitchen. Live and learn, right?

After leaving Brazil’s, I went back toward A Street and crossed to the other side where I saw the Pump House. It was another small local bar that catered to the baseball cap and flannel shirt crowd. Don’t get me wrong, basically I am one of those guys but it wasn’t what I was looking for at all. Besides, they only served beer and wine and no real food to speak of. My search continued.

I walked, again, toward State Street and hung a left. I came upon a place called the Gemini Bar and Grill. I did a quick walk through and noted that they had pool tables in the front along with tables and chairs for customers. In the back were more tables, a dance floor and a large stage that stretched across the whole back wall. The bar was long and L-shaped at the front with well stocked liquor shelves behind.

I sat at one of the tables in the front of the bar near the pool tables and waited for the bartender to come over. I waited while he looked at me and placed an order with the cook. I waited while the cook passed the order over the stainless steel shelf and I waited some more while the bartender looked at me as he started to eat the hamburger.

It was then that I walked to the bar and asked if it would be possible to get some service. The bartender, with a half full mouth said, “That section’s closed.”

I asked him, “Well why didn’t you say so? I’ve been sitting there for twenty minutes waiting for some service. You saw me, right?”

His reply was, “Yeah, but I thought you were just resting.”

I figured this place and, especially this moron bartender, didn’t deserve my business so I left for greener pastures. I hoped.

I was about to give up and head back to my friends house when I spotted a white plaster building that I had walked by earlier not knowing what it was. It was kitty-corner from the pharmacy. Looking at it from this direction I could see it was a restaurant and lounge. Lacey’s of Lake Oswego, to be exact. Steak and seafood it’s specialty. I figured one more chance and that’s it, I go home after this.

I walked through the heavy front door, turned right down a short hall and then left into the bar area. There were few if any people inside so there were plenty of bar stools to choose from. I picked one close to the door just in case.

Walking toward me behind the bar was a good looking blond with a very pleasant smile. She placed her elbows in the stainless steel drip edge on the back of the bar top, smiled an even bigger smile and said, “Hi, what can I get ya?” It was then that I knew I was home. This was going to be my watering hole of choice. My home away from home. My spot.

And so it was for almost ten years. There were blue collars who mixed with business execs who mixed with millionaires who mixed with whoever. For a good number of those years, all pretexts, for the most part, were hung on hooks just inside the front door. There was no class distinction in Lacey’s. The owner, Ed Lacey, wouldn’t allow it. Everyone was equal when they walked in and remained so until they left and even then, many remained friends regardless of there educational or economic status on the outside.

Like everything else, change is inevitable and change came to Lacey’s as well. Ed Lacey sold out to someone who really didn’t care about maintaining the business. It was run into the ground, the new owner evicted and the name of Lacey’s removed once and for all. Even though I was no longer a regular, the thought of Lacey’s being gone leaves an empty spot somewhere in my soul.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times but it was our time, good or bad.

I’ll catch you next time.

Have a really nice day!

- When I Close My Eyes -

“Star light, star bright,

First star I see tonight,

I wish I may, I wish I might,

Have this wish I wish tonight.”

It’s an old rhyme, an old prayer but it says everything we ever needed to say without going into specifics. Whatever was in our hearts and minds at that moment was translated into that wish and carried off into another realm where wishes either went to die or be granted.

Have you ever wondered who it is that either grants your wish or denies it? Is it a fairy who mans the wish desk? Who sorts through the millions of wishes made every day and determines which ones to grant and which ones to throw out. Maybe it’s one of God’s angels, or God himself, who makes the determination, if you consider your wish a prayer.

I guess we’ll never really know for sure. All I know is that all wishes are not granted but all prayers are. Whatever your religious belief may be, whatever your thoughts on religion in general are, whenever you  pray, you get an answer.

Think, if you will, about a song written by Garth Brooks in which there is a line that goes “Thank God for unanswered prayers.” Well, I’ll have to disagree with Mr. Brooks on that one. Whatever prayer he was referring to was answered. He may not have liked the answer but, it was answered never-the-less.

When I close my eyes and think my thoughts and wish my wishes or say a prayer, I’m seeing what I want to see the way I want to see it. That may not always be in my best interest, although I may think it is. When we wish these wishes and say these prayers, we are placing the outcome into someone elses hands. To make a decision in our behalf, for better or worse and trusting the outcome to them, whoever they may be. Whether they be a fairy, God or just our imagination. In making the wish, saying the prayer, we are acknowledging the fact that we need help of some kind and, we are willing to look toward the unknown to get it.

When I close my eyes, or sit in a dark room, or walk a deserted beach, my imagination takes hold and anything is possible. Reality takes a short vacation and I am free to wander in other universes where dreams and wishes and prayers abound. All I have to do is reach out and grab one but, holding on to it is much harder for dreams and wishes and prayers are fleeting. Here today and, in some instances, gone today as well.

When I close my eyes, everything is possible but only when I close my eyes. And, if I might add, wandering through this world with your eyes closed is not a very good idea.

Have a really nice day!

- The Way Things Were -

Growing up is never easy especially to a child who isn’t getting his or her way at any particular time. But, as most parents would say, “This, too, shall pass.” My growing up wasn’t all that bad. Granted, it wasn’t perfect but, all things considered, it could have been a whole lot worse. I could have grown up in a hovel, made to sleep in bug infested mattresses with three or four other siblings. Eat off of dirty plates, if there was food to eat at all and go to school barefoot and in rags. But no, my life was better than that. My mom and my dad saw to that. Being an only child didn’t hurt either.

After the age of one, my parents moved from a walk-up apartment in a downtown suburb to a three bedroom, two story with a full basement on Rutherford Street which is the Oak Park area on the west side of Chicago. They purchased the house mainly because of my arrival in 1947 so I guess they purchased the house sometime in 1948 or 1949. My mom’s mother, Grandma Anne, who was in her seventies, was living with us and needed caring for as well, so she was another reason for the purchase of the house.

I remember it had white lap siding with dark green trim. The garage was a single car detached and faced the alley in the rear. The house itself was huge to me at the time but I have since put that into perspective thanks to Google Maps street view. Everything seems bigger when you’re small.

Every yard had a trash burner incorporated into the back fence. Paper, leaves and anything burnable would end up in the burner. Dad would set it on fire before trash day and anything left would be placed in a can and picked up by the garbage men. I also remember dad burning piles of leaves in the backyard in the fall. Everyone did it while standing guard with the garden hose handy. If everyone did it on the same day you would think the whole neighborhood was on fire with all the smoke billowing up.

We had a coal furnace in the basement that dad had to keep stoked during the winter months. A dirty, thankless job I would have to repeat at Fort Gordon, Georgia during my stint in the Army some sixteen years later. It was only then that I realized what dad had to go through to keep us warm at night.

The man who delivered the coal would have to carry the coal down the side of the house to the coal shoot and into the bin one huge bag at a time. He would repeat this six to eight times for each house and be covered with black coal dust from head to foot. When he walked, a cloud of coal dust would follow behind him.

I would follow him from house to house as he would make his deliveries carrying one heavy sack of coal after another, seemingly tirelessly, to each house as the truck moved slowly down the street. The only clean spots on the man was the big smile on his face and the whites of his eyes as he watched me watch him. And, when the end of the block came, he would jump on the step at the back of the dump truck, wave a dust wave and would be off to another street for some other boy or girl to follow him through his rounds. I always wondered what he looked like before he started work each day. It must have been quite a chore to get clean when he got home at night.

Back in those days we still had horse drawn carts and delivery wagons delivering things mainly in the downtown area. Not many mind you but a few. This was do to the fact that horses had a tendency to make a mess now and then. When trucks and vans were designed to replace them, they were slowly but surely phased out in favor of the mechanized models.

You could still see push carts being used in neighborhoods with their owners yelling “RAGS, RAG MAN HERE. ANYONE GOT OLD RAGS? RAG MAN HERE.” and on he would go down the street continuing his chant until out of ear shot.

Or the guy that would sharpen anything you needed sharpened. He, too, would have a push cart with a string of sleigh bells that he would ring constantly as he pushed his cart. “KNIVES SHARPENED. KNIVES AND SCISSORS SHARPENED. ANYTHING YOU GOT, I CAN SHARPEN IT. KNIVES SHARPENED.” and ringing the bells all the while. And, of course, the kids followed him as well.

The nice thing about living back then is that children were able to play outside in relative safety. Parents didn’t have to constantly worry whether something weird was going to happen to their child or not. Neighbors would watch out for one another and their neighbors kids. No one had to ask, it was just something everyone did. Everyone knew laundry had to be done and meals had to be cooked. It was just one of those things.

Another thing, we are a sue happy nation and that’s a fact. Back then it was unheard of to have one parent sue another because Johnny broke his arm climbing the neighbors tree. Or, to sue the school because Susie twisted her ankle jumping off the swing set. They just sucked it up, attributed it to growing up and everyone signed the cast. It was and is part of life. Get over it!

My dad bought a new 1950 Oldsmobile, 2 door sedan, it was dark green and had the trademark blue plastic center emblem in the middle of the steering wheel with the rocket ship shooting through space. I thought that was the neatest thing I had ever seen and would sit in the car and just stare at it. Television wasn’t much to watch back then, you see and I was a simple kid. Easily amused.

When I was four or five, I would wait for my dad to get home from work right out front and, if his day wasn’t too stressful, he’d put me in his lap and let me steer the car around the block once or twice before going inside. I always looked forward to that. Every once in a while mom would let me do it but, it scared her to death so, generally, she’d make me wait for my dad to get home. There were times, though, when I’d really luck out and both of them would let me do it in the same day. Boy oh boy.

One day, during the summer I think, I was three years old and full of ‘piss and vinegar’ as they used to say. I would never walk anywhere. When I finally learned how to run, walking was out of the question from then on. I was always going full tilt and ‘Katie bar the doors’ let the world look out ’cause I sure wasn’t. I didn’t know where I was going until I got there and I was going to get there just as fast as my legs could get me there. This morning was no different. I ate breakfast, put on my shoes and ran down the side steps to the mud room door through the screen and stepped on the cement pad outside. Then I froze stiff.

It was the fastest stop I have ever made and I couldn’t move. I was literally scared stiff. My mouth, however, worked just fine and I yelled at the top of my lungs “MOM HELP ME, MMOOOOOMMMMMEEEE”. I was standing in the middle of a nest of snakes and they were crawling all over and around my feet.

Apparently the garter snakes had come out to sun themselves on the cement pad and I had just disturbed them. They are not at all poisonous but at three years old, what did I know. Mom came running down the stairs not knowing what to expect. When she saw the snakes and me in the middle of them, she let out a scream that scared me worse than the snakes. The next thing I knew I was jerked by the arms out of the snake pit and into the safety of the house. A little crying on my part and a few reassuring hugs from mom and I was fine. I never exited that door quite the same after that. I was a lot slower and much more vigilant. No explanation needed, right??

I haven’t been right with snakes or lizards since then. It took me a while to learn to bait my own hook with night crawlers after that, which didn’t make dad happy at all. He would always take me fishing with him and the guys and it would embarrass him when he would have to bait my hook. I finally got over it with the worms but never did with snakes and lizards. And at sixty plus, I don’t think I ever will either.

Dad, being a machinist by trade, was quite a do-it-yourselfer. Guess that’s where I got it from. He would do all the repairs and painting on the house himself, with a little help from his little man, me. I was mostly better at getting in the way but dad didn’t seem to mind. Well, not all the time anyway.

Dad was doing something on the roof or cleaning the gutters or exactly what I don’t remember. He had this big, wooden extension ladder against the side of the house. When he climbed down and went inside for something, that’s when I decided to go up. My mom came out first and was looking for me when dad came out and started up the ladder. That’s when he realized I had decided to go up first.

Mom was screaming bloody murder while dad was trying to calm her down and figure out how to get me down in one, unbroken piece. Tell you the truth, I was fine and enjoying the view. I think I was four or five then and wasn’t scared a bit. Mom, on the other hand, was scared enough for all three o f us.

After dad finally got mom quieted down, he looked up at me and said, “Now don’t be scared Eddie, just climb down the same way you went up. One step at a time.” Dad climbed up a few steps and waited for me to come to him which I did. I couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about but mom grabbed me and started crying all over again. She carried me in the house and held me on the couch for a long time before letting me go. It was hard to get away from her for a while after that. She would follow me outside and just stare at me while I played. I can understand now but then, it was annoying.

I didn’t know it then but mom and dad weren’t going to be together for much longer. Before my seventh birthday in 1954, mom had put up with enough of my dad’s drinking and carousing and coming in at all hours of the night. He would stop after work at one of his favorite haunts and come home loaded to the gills well after dinner was over and be mad there wasn’t anything out for him. Mom would tell him if he got home on time there would be if not, there wouldn’t. Simple as that.

This one night in particular, dad didn’t like the answers he was getting and started toward my mom. I was scared what my dad might do so, at five years of age, I grabbed a frying pan and with tears streaming down my face, hit dad across the knee just as hard as I could. This stopped him in his tracks and, I think, made him ask himself what he was doing. I don’t know where he went but he didn’t stay at home that night. I had never seen him act like that before nor, did I ever see that kind of thing again, ever. It didn’t stop mom from leaving but I think my dad did some soul searching after that incident.

Accept for summer vacations and a few Christmas’, my mom was the main driving force in my life. I would spend guy time with dad and the friends mom and dad had back east on vacations. Then, when I got back, mom would try and break all the bad habits I had developed while in my dads supervision. I guess that’s a normal situation among divorcee’s.

Mom had quite a job being both mother and father to a growing boy and once in the teenage years, well, need I say more. Like most boys, I was quite a hand full. She worked awfully hard and did very little for herself. Everything she did was for me and to make me happy and, as I think back on it, I didn’t show my appreciation as much as I should have and, mom, I’m sorry for that.

Mothers suffer in silence, for the most part, and just do what needs to be done because that’s the way it has always been. Work, sacrifice and pray everything comes out right. What more can a mother do?

Divorce changes everything, it has to, it always does. It’s for that reason that I swore that when I got married it would be forever. Well, for me, forever lasted almost twenty years. I made some mistakes and picked up a few bad habits along the way. I think my ex would agree that there was more than enough blame to go around but, to what end? My ex is a wonderful person who I care deeply about to this day. She did a wonderful job raising our three girls with little or no help from me and for that I both praise her and apologize to her.

Mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, grandma’s and grandpa’s, friends, neighbors, school mates and the rare individual you meet but once but remember forever. They are all part of the way things were and, for now, the way things are. All memories, some pleasant, some not so pleasant but they’re all rolled up into one album which you call your life. When you flip through the pages in your mind, it will all come flooding back with total clarity. So much so that you will feel you are reliving it all once again. The voices, the laughter, the tears, the smells, the sounds and the feel of the moments once lost to you in time all returning as if by magic.

Trust me when I say, it will happen. Wait for it and when it comes, enjoy each and every minute of it. It won’t happen all at once but a little at a time. Each memory triggered by something in that moment. It will be wonderful. It has been for me.