Short stories: Page 2
The Mailbox
The Mailbox
Max Avram felt tremendous satisfaction in the laying of bricks. Perhaps the feeling stemmed from the fact that his grandfather had once been a bricklayer and thus built most of the house where Max now resided. Max’s father did his level best to shield his only son from that sort of life, which explained why, before this project, Max Jr. had never laid one brick upon another in his entire sixty five years.
Of course, Max doubted his father or grandfather ever built a brick mailbox. He equally doubted that either would have advised the construction of such a thing. As Max sat back and admired his progress, he was glad for the work. It felt satisfying to use his muscles in the hot afternoon sun, and before him stood the half finished tower of red brick, cinder block, and steel. He decided that he would have to think of more projects that used brick.
“Hey neighbour!” called Carl. Carl lived in the white colonial house next door to Max. “You’re awfully busy for a Sunday!” He was one to talk. Carl spent most of his Sundays manicuring his lawn. Still, Carl seemed a lot friendlier than his other neighbour.
“Feels good to work with my hands,” Max replied, his eyes still examining the brick column for imperfections.
“I hear you, neighbour, I hear you.” Carl had a habit of repetition. “What is that thing going to be, anyway? Some sort of pedestal?”
“A mailbox. It’s going to be a mailbox.”
Carl whistled softly under his breath. “You don’t say, ya, you don’t say. A little over engineered, don’t you think. Isn’t that a steel I-beam running through the middle of all those bricks?”
Max just grunted. Not the sort to brag, he felt no compulsion to update Carl on the specifications of his newest mailbox, and therefore didn’t tell him that it was an eight-foot I-beam set in four feet of reinforced concrete.
“So, what are you going to use for the actual box?”
Max nodded at the long steel, made to order box lying next to the driveway. Again, he kept his secret that the box was constructed of quarter inch steel plate, and that all one hundred pounds of it would be attached by means of four six-inch bolts to the steel plate already welded to the top of the centre beam.
Carl understood without explanation. “Going to be kinda ugly, isn’t it? A big metal box like that?”
“Going to brick all around it.”
“Except the front, I hope, I hope. Remember to leave room for the mail!” Carl laughed at his joke, while Max began to wish Carl would leave him alone.
Carl, of course knew exactly what was going on, and seeing the resolve in his neighbour's features, decided to let him get to it. “Well, that should solve your little problem, shouldn’t it? Yes I say it should, I definitely think it should.” He waved and returned to his raking.
Little problem? Max found it hard to think of his problem as little. No, Max thought, his problem is well over three hundred pounds and lives next door. In fact everything about Norman Bludgman the neighbour qualified as huge. Norman’s yard encompassed twice the area of Max’s, and from front to back contained more rusted-out auto-parts than most junk dealers. The yard held the cliche Chevy resting on cinder blocks and the obligatory stack of tires on the front porch. The garage around back could easily fit two full size campers, yet principally held only Norman’s pickup truck, which in itself was barely a shade under the qualifications for Monster class pick-ups.
The truck contributed to as much of “the little problem” as Norman himself. It housed a Cummings diesel that roared to life, usually either very late or very early, rattling the windows on Max’s front room. It had woken him this very morning, when “Stormin’ Norman” as the bumper sticker on the back window proudly stated, took off for one of his all day fishing and drinking trips. Or should that be drinking and fishing?
Usually, Max would be so upset by this rattling intrusion into his slumber that he would fume over a cup of warm milk, and make imaginary phone calls to the police about his neighbour's insufficient muffling of his diesel monstrosity. Noise pollution, after all can be a punishable offence. Even if the authorities couldn’t cite his rancorous neighbour for the noise of the engine, they could at least warn him not to blast his musical truck horn at five a.m. when he left and at three pm when he returned home. In fact, if they were to test Norman’s blood-alcohol level when he returned, Max felt sure that old Norm would lose his license…if he even had one in the first place.
Max would fume, drink his milk slowly, and then, promptly, do nothing. Max felt that legal options were non existent.
He did call the police, after the first time Norman cut wide tracks through his front yard and snapped off the old post that had held Max’s mailbox. They came and issued their warning. They made Norman write out a check for the damage and promise never to do it again.
Although he didn’t know it at the time, it would be the turning point of Max’s life.
Norman’s response came in the form of empty beer bottles being thrown again Max’s house. The first night it happened Max tried to ignore the cacophony of breaking glass, and told his wife to go back to sleep. The second time he opened the window and looked for the culprit, knowing all the while the liquid missiles came from next door. The third night of the attack he actually went outside with a flashlight. Every night for two weeks he got out of bed and, though the assault would end each time he went to investigate, he could always imagine hearing the sound of slurred giggles behind black windows of the house next door.
Then, for a night or two, he and his wife were allowed to sleep…before the phone calls began. Always the same laboured breathing, followed by the ominous sound of a gun being cocked. The noise on the other end sounded distinctly like the workings of a pump action shot gun, but Max could never be sure, he simply was no firearms aficionado.
Bev, his wife, begged him to call the police again, and he did, but of course they claimed the inability to do anything. Whenever it happened, Norman’s house remained dark, and no evidence could be tied to the man.
The second visit by the authorities caused the attacks to increase in severity. There were filthy letters stuck in the currently unbothered mailbox. Some nights, filthy words appeared on their front sidewalk. The words were both offensive in content and in substance, having been written in what appeared to be dog excrement. Norman did own a pair of spotted hunting dogs.
Nothing seemed to be safe. His windows were broken, his car tires slashed and his trash set ablaze. Max began to recline in a lawn chair in the front yard to give his wife a chance to sleep, but she would spend the night fraught with worry that he would be attacked.
Then, one day, their cat Mirabelle disappeared. She had been the feline surrogate for the childless couple, and Bev especially pampered the kitty as if she were a human baby. The cat mainly stayed in the house, but liked to visit the garden in the evening. One night, Mirabelle went out and never returned.
“This is it! The final straw! I want you to do something about that man, or I swear to you that I will leave tonight!”
There was nothing to be done. Max tried to convince his wife that calling the police would only make things worse, and short of moving, his hands were tied. He explained this as she packed. He watched silently as she slammed the front door on her way out.
He had seen it coming, for years, ever since the doctors proclaimed her womb to be barren and doomed the couple to a house without pandemonium and laughter.
They considered adoption. Max hadn't really been for it, and Bev eventually followed his less than enthusiastic lead. He enjoyed his otherwise quiet life and thought she did as well. All the while, though, he knew that a cat could never replace a child.
That had been a year ago. Bev had landed on her feet and discovered a retirement condominium. With Max’s alimony check, she was able to live in a cosy two-bedroom unit, entertaining the gentlemen widowers amongst the other residents. The last time she had spoken to Max in person they met in court to finalise the divorce.
“You are the most spineless, mediocre man I have ever known,” she hissed in a very un-Bev like way. “What I once praised as gentleness I now see as cowardice. I only wish I had made this discovery long ago when I could still have children. I now see that our misfortune has nothing to do with my womb, but your lack of manliness. You couldn’t sire a child, because you Max Avram, are not a man.”
As she left, she turned at the courthouse door and added, “I never want to see you again.” as if he were too dense to have figured that much out from her previous indictment.
The following morning, Max was woken by the rumble of the engine and the blast of the first eight notes of “Dixie.” The following night, he lost his mailbox for a second time.
He didn’t respond. Norman owned him and Norman knew this. Max simply dug out the wooden stump and drove to the lumberyard to get another post. There, he saw the pile of steel I-beams shining in the parking lot of the lumber store. He purchased the usual wooden post and a new black plastic mailbox, but seeing the heavy I-beams triggered the advent of a new plan, a way to possibly resolve his issues.
The attacks on his home ceased, but not the damage to his lawn and mailbox, every other weekend or so when Norman went fishing. On the next visit to the same commercial warehouse, Max idly wandered up and down the aisles, checking out prices of things such as concrete, cinder block, brick, and steel. He bought three more wooden posts and three more plastic mailboxes, knowing that they would be used.
He then began to spend his days, driving to home improvement centers, hardware stores, and to any place where he might find the finishing touch to the dream that had begun to sprout in his mind.
He discovered the final touch in an army-surplus store. The long metal box opened on the top, but he made a deal with the proprietor to have the lid welded shut and to have one of the short sides removed and installed with a top hinge. The ammunition locker, designed for M-16 shells, was made to last.
Then, Max waited. In another week, that mailbox fell under the imposing teeth of Norman’s truck. There actually existed teeth in the grill. Norman had mounted a tubular aluminium frame to the front of his truck, which held an industrial-strength winch along with an aluminium silhouette of an open shark’s mouth. The shiny aluminium mouth came complete with dagger teeth ready to eat anything that got in the way of the big diesel. A week later, the “shark” ate mailbox number two. Then, two weeks later, mailbox number three got snapped up by the Jaws of Stormin’ Norman’s monster toy.
Max made arrangements to get his mail from the neighbourhood post office and waited. Two weeks came and went and grass began to sprout in the deep grooves carved by six tires…two in front and four in back. Then two more weeks went past, and Max began to wonder if Norman had grown bored of fishing, or maybe he had joined A.A. and would soon be dropping by to hand out leaflets on the power of conversion.
Such an epiphany was not to be, and thus Max actually smiled when the big diesel woke him at five on a Sunday morning. He sprang from bed with purpose before the truck horn had even finished the fourth note of “Dixie.” He dressed and headed out to get his shovel as Norman pulled away down the street, his aluminium dingy strapped in the truck’s bed.
At first, the dirt flew as Max dug, but as the day wore on, his muscles tightened and his pace began to slow. It felt good to be this tired, to feel the sweat trickle off his sunburned neck down his back, making his oxford shirt stick with long lost familiarity. He found it to be immensely satisfying pouring the concrete, mixing the mortar, and he relished setting each cinder block carefully in place. Later placing each layer of brick was a job requiring delicate care. Max used a level and a chalk line to get the corners perfect and he carefully moulded the groves between the bricks with the tip of his forefinger.
Lifting the empty ammunition locker onto the brick and steel pedestal took his breath away, and he had to rest before tightening the four locking nuts to the thick bolts. He then laid a few more layers of brick on three sides, leaving only the hinged end open to receive his mail. He topped the box with an ornamental slab of patio tile cut to specifications. Finally, he attached the little plastic flag to a hole Max himself drilled into the brick siding. Max forgot nothing. When the sun sank beneath the horizon he stood back to admire the mailbox in the fading light.
He went into the house and returned with a small brass plaque, engraved just days earlier with his name and address. He used the last of the mortar to attach it to the front and then wiped the surface clean with a damp cloth.
Too tired to cook, Max ordered delivery pizza. He was awakened by the doorbell twenty minutes later.
“That’s some mailbox you got there,” the skinny delivery boy commented after he had gotten his tip.
“Thank you,” Max said. “It’s for my wife.”
For the first time in months, Max enjoyed his food, and finished the entire large combination pizza in one sitting. Gorged, he sat back in his easy chair, picked up the newspaper and promptly fell asleep with the editorials pressed against his face.
A consummate remote control jockey, Max’s mind switched channels in his sleep. His dreams filled with bricks and concrete and little plastic flags swinging up and down and waving in the breeze. Then he dreamed of roaring motors and the high pitched blare of the opening notes of the song “Dixie,” blasting from the belly of something large and terrible.
He woke with a start as the last notes echoed in his living room. He instantly became aware of the different quality of noise made by tires leaving pavement and ripping through new grown grass. He gripped the arms of this chair and closed his eyes, summoning all his of powers of imagination to see with his mind’s eye as an explosion of metal and glass shattered the early morning calm.
The racket seemed to go on forever. Metal crunched and split, the engine revved, whined, sputtered, and died, glass shrieked as it shredded and disintegrated, ending with a tinkling patter on his walk and driveway.
Max got up, turned off the lights and went to bed. When the police arrived minutes later, they had to ring the doorbell more than once to wake him from a sound slumber.
Norman Bludgman survived, as did the mailbox. Three sides were badly crumbled, the plastic flag had been snapped off the side, and the little brass nameplate had fallen. Otherwise, the steel, block, and brick held true, slicing like a butter knife through jaws and grill and engine block. Norman flew through the windshield on impact and slammed his head against the side of the ammunition box, no doubt breaking off the little plastic flag. During surgery a hole had to be drilled through his thick skull to relieve the inter-cranial pressure created by the bruise that swelled as a result of the blow, but after a few nights in intensive care, he was slated to make an almost full recovery.
The next day, Max bought extra cinder blocks and bricks, and repaired the pedestal that held his unmovable mailbox. He didn’t, however, reset the nameplate. Rather he dropped it gingerly in his pocket, went inside, and called a realtor. He had a sneaking suspicion that those retirement condo’s might just house a few widows in need of companionship.
Fell’s Mansion
By G. Schumacher
“So? What are you afraid of?” The taunt rang in my ears, the laughter even louder in my mind.
“Nothing. What makes you think I’m afraid?”
“Oh. That’s easy. I think your shaking legs were the first give away.” More laughter. Behind him, Silas Rupp, suddenly become ex-friend, laughed as well. We grew up together, Silas and I, played together, schooled together and generally had done just about anything two boys might do. Together.
No more though, not after today. I wasn’t having anything more to do with Silas. His loyalties appeared to have switched. It seemed there had been a lot of that lately, hence my feelings of ex-friend. I swore to myself, I would cut him out of my life, from this moment on.
“My legs are just fine. Don’t put your problems off onto me. If you want to see what’s in there, then you go in and check it out.”
“It was your idea.”
“Like hell. There’s nothing I want in there. You’re the one who brought us here.” Which wasn’t strictly true, we had all agreed, Wally, Silas, Numbnuts and me.
It’s just that Wally has such a big mouth, always shooting it off about something or other. Numbnuts said nothing. (His name was actually Bob but we’d called him Numbnuts for so long that I had pretty much forgotten his real name.) That was typically the manner in which he handled everything. Get more than three words out of him at a given time and you felt as though you had just heard a speech.
Silas usually had something to say but Silas had his quirks too. Silas, always the one to side with the guy that had the chocolate bar. That’s how my dad described him and the manner in which I had begun to think of him as well. Simply put, Silas played the odds. Whoever had the most to offer at the moment, would be the person that Silas attached himself to. If you had the chocolate bar then Silas, … well, I think you get it.
That brings us to Wally, the newcomer to our group. Wally, just recently moved to town, living with his aunt, of all things, down by the place we called “Big Ditch”. All of a sudden he considered himself an expert on the “Big Ditch” and how it had come to be. That’s how it began. Next, his self-professed expertise overflowed to other places and things about town. His cocky self-confidence ragged on my nerves, irritated, until finally we had come to harsh words stopping just short of blows.
Sometime during the heated verbal exchange, a challenge had been issued. His idea, my idea, the blame couldn’t be laid at one persons feet, we had both contributed. Silas and Numbnuts witnessed in silence.
That’s how it came to be that all four of us, crouched at the edge of the open yard. Overgrown, I’m talking total disarray; the vacant space encompassed a fair sized area, at least the equivalent of four large city lots. The only building on the property rose from the center. Three stories high, dark, weathered siding, stained by the elements over the years, we were looking at what we called “The Fell Mansion”.
No place else in the district stood so high, loomed so large or rated such a title. Empty for years except during the summer months, this local monument had an unsavory reputation. Built for a huge family, near the turn of the century, it was told around that all but one had died in a tragic situation. On occasion, during the summer months, the owner returned for a visit.
Haunted by an unknown number of ghosts, reputed to be the origin of hideous noises, blood curdling sounds and even occasionally, the source of unexplained flashing lights, no person still alive in the area could claim to have been inside. The owner, one of the original family members, a person of rather questionable disposition, never ventured into town. Not known to have any acquaintances, as far as we knew, none of our group had ever seen him.
The challenge, rather a foolish one, so it seemed at that moment, was to see which of the two of us could spend the longest time within the building before loosing our nerve.
Of course, we had to first gain access.
That meant breaking in.
“I never broke in to no place before.” I saw this as my chance to avoid what had begun to look like a bad situation.
“It’s easy.”
“How would you know?”
“I done it. Lots of times.”
“Oh Ya? When?”
“Back where I used to live. Why do you guys think I’m here living with my aunt?” This was something that we had all wondered. For the first time ever we were gaining some insight as to how Wally came to be in Athabasca, our little town of eleven hundred population.
“What? You’re telling us that you used to break into places?” It sounded like just so much more of Wally’s crap to me. I wasn’t prepared to buy it without further explanation.
“Ya! And that’s all you need to know.”
“Whatcha mean, that’s all we need to know”?
“I’m not supposed to talk about it. My mom says she doesn’t want people around here to know.”
“Oh. Right. Sounds like bullshit to me.” That got a knowing nod from Numbnuts and a smirk from Silas.
“Screw you. I’ll show you.” Wally bolted from where we huddled, raced across the open then pinned himself against the forbidding building, right next to the six steps that led up to the rear door. He turned and beckoned, leaving me no choice but to follow. Numbnuts and Silas remained in the shrubs, scarcely visible from the house. Out of breath from the run and no doubt the heightened tension of knowing what we were doing, I slipped in beside him.
“What now?”
“First we try the doors.”
That seemed to be a sensible idea. Once we found them locked, we could simply leave and say we had tried. That’s what I was thinking, hoping.
“Come on.” I heard the words and no sooner did he speak them but he thundered away. His feet running up the steps sounded loud and frightening, like rapid-fire shots from a machine gun, not that I had ever heard one for real. I followed though not with such bravado.
“Don’t take two of us to try the door.” I said. “ I coulda gone to the front door and tried that while you were testing this one.” Wally had a grip on the knob. I stared in fascination; my eyes fixed where he had his hand, expecting to see it immovable, amazed when I watched it rotate in his fist.
Click!
The sound of the latch, loud in the still afternoon seemed deafening to my disbelieving ears. The door creaked open slightly, hinges protesting against unfamiliar movement.
“So?” Wally looked to me, a smirk on his face. “What’re ya waiting for?”
“No way. I’m not going in there.”
“See. I told everyone that you were chicken.”
Thinking quickly, I muttered. “It has nothing to do with chicken.”
“So then go in.”
“No way.” My hands were clammy with perspiration, my throat suddenly dry. “I … I want to check around front first. What if Fell is here?”
“Fell? What do ya mean, Fell?”
“Fell. The guy that owns the place. Geez yer dumb. Why else do you think we call it Fell’s mansion?” I could hardly pass by the opportunity to show Mr. know-it-all up. Wally didn’t answer . . . but I had him there. Instead, he volunteered to run around the house and check for cars in the driveway.
“You don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.” He left me with the feeling that he didn’t expect me to return if I make the exploratory excursion around the building. He may have been right.
The silence folded in after he left. Standing in front of the slightly ajar door, I forced myself to reach out with a trembling hand and eased it open until I could see inside. A boot rack, clothes hanger and long hall greeted me. The floor of wood, likely fir, stretched into the gloom. Naturally, there were no lights to brighten the interior.
Still smarting from Wally’s arrogant manner of insulting me by insinuating I might not return if given the opportunity, I saw the chance to put one over on him. If I stepped inside and closed the door, he would think I had run away in his absence. I liked that. Imagine how it would look to Numbnuts and Silas when he returned before I did. How would he convince them that it was not he who had quailed at the prospect of entering this place, this house of horrors as we had come to believe it to be?
I loved the idea from the moment I conceived it. Imagining my triumph, I stepped inside and shut the door, moving quickly, before I could change my mind. The squeal of protest from dry hinges, punctuated with a loud click left me standing in total darkness. I could smell, the musty odor of the place. It hung in the air, almost strong enough to taste. Dust from my movement filtered up from the floor, likely disturbed for the first time in a year. Before I could prevent it, I sneezed. Just once.
An expectant silence ensued. I waited, breath held tightly, listening for lord knows what, not expecting to hear any sounds other than the beating of my heart. It pounded hard in my chest, with good reason. I stood in total darkness inside of a musty, smelly old place that I had always considered the hangout of spirits or ghosts or whatever unearthly beings might exist. I recognized my mistake yet I could not undo what I had done nor would I for another few minutes. Let Wally look for me outside. I doubted he would try the door again, especially on his own. He would be certain I had run. I tried to imagine the look on his face when I came out to confront him.
My victory would be so sweet. Afraid though I was, I had only to wait few minutes to be able to savor a lifetime of superiority.
As my imagination raced uncontrolled, I almost forgot where I was. That didn’t last. From somewhere inside of the building, perhaps beyond the long hall I heard a sound. Soft footsteps resonated from deep within. My heart skipped, then began hammering even harder than before. All thoughts of Wally forgotten, I froze, ears straining to better hear. Only silence greeted my vigilance, so I started to relax ever so slightly, thinking I had been mistaken.
There came a click, from some distance away, like the latch on a door opening, followed by the definite squeak of dry hinges. Oh, Lord, I thought, I’m not alone in here. Something moved in the house and it wasn’t me.
The hardwood floor down the hall creaked, as though from a heavy weight silently applied. I heard the sound, loud in the compressed darkness. Suddenly I couldn’t breath. It wasn’t the dust in the air but terror that choked me, forcing me gasping to the floor, deafened by the thud of my pounding heart. Somehow, I managed to get the rear door open again. On hands and knees, I spilled out onto the landing then tumbled the six steps to the ground. From behind me, I heard the most unearthly laugh, though it faded rapidly as I blindly fled.
I remember the faces of Numbnuts and Silas as I rushed past in full flight. Eyes wide they followed, running hard, keeping pace, as though they too had experienced the encounter. Wally forgotten, my only thought was to distance myself from the mansion and never to return.
Straight to home I ran and for the entire remainder of the day I remained inside. The following morning Silas stopped by.
“So. Hotshot. How’s things today?”
“Good. What’re you up to?”
“Thought I check in on you. Last time I saw you, you were running to hard for me to catch.”
“Ya.” I managed a sheepish smile.
“So what were we running from?” I missed the smirk on his face that accompanied the question.
“Beats me. I just thought it would be a good trick on Wally to run.”
“Bullshit! You weren’t thinking of Wally when you ran by. I saw the look on your face. I been around you too long. You can’t snow me with that crap.”
“I was in the house man. You weren’t there.”
“So?”
“So there was something in there with me.”
“Like what?”
“I never saw it.” I should have been paying more attention to Silas’s expression but my mind had strayed back to my experience as I relived those few moments from the day before.
“How do you know there was something in there then?”
“I heard it man. I heard the hall door open. I heard the footsteps and I could hear it moving down the hall. The floor creaked with every step. It was coming after me.”
Silas began laughing now, hard. Tears streamed down his face.
“So what’s so damn funny?”
“You.”
I didn’t understand and said so. Silas couldn’t control his mirth, not even to answer. It took a minute for him to regain control.
“I learned something today that maybe you ought to know.”
“Such as?”
He burst out laughing again, when he finished he asked. “What’s Wally’s last name?”
“I have no idea.” Silas still laughing, couldn’t look at me. His behavior pissed me off and I told him so.
“You won’t forget it when I tell you.”
“So tell me. Jerk.”
Another fit of laughter arrested his voice for a moment. When he had gathered himself, he spoke again.
“His last name is Fell, man. Fell . . . . You’ve been had.”
Grannies in the Gorge. (Posted Dec. 31 2023)
Twenty or so years back, a break-in occurred at a private residence, here in Victoria. Many items were taken in that break-in but among the items stolen just happened to be a nice, ornate box that contained the ashes of Grandma. The affected family wanted them back if at all possible. Here is a fictional acoount of where it went.
Granny’s in the Gorge
“What’d ya got there?” That was George, my neighbor. He’d been out front washing his car when he spotted me sitting alongside of my garage, out of the sun, cleaning a metal box I’d found. I had plans to use it for carrying a few lures when I go fishing.
“It’s a box I found. Gonna make it my new tackle box.”
“Kinda fancy for that ain’t it?”
“Oh it’s fancy alright. But what the heck. The price was right, I’ll just have the nifty-est box on the pier.” You could appreciate the quality of the ornate brass that decorated the exterior. The shine had begun to come out nicely with a bit of polishing.
“Let me see it.” That was George. He never got into anything half way. If he had an interest, it was his way to investigate to the fullest. He reached out for my box.
“You are seeing it. What you mean is you want to “feel” it.” I couldn’t resist a minor dig as I handed the box to him. No matter. My gentle chide sailed over his head like a fast traveling Chevy over a too slow gopher crossing a highway. Wanting to see it was just like George. I’d learned to accept that about him. That didn’t annoy me nearly so much as the way he always knew something about everything, not like he claimed to be an expert, just he always had some tidbit of information that you didn’t already know.
“This looks like a Urn.” As much as he seemed so knowledgeable about all manner of subjects, George never quite managed to grasp the nuances of grammar. He turned the box over in his hand, thoroughly checking the bottom and all four sides. “Yep. I’d say it was definitely a Urn. Where’d you get it?”
Right about then a little voice in my head spoke up. I could hear it telling me to tread lightly here. Wait until I found out what George had to say before sharing that information. If I’ve learned anything from living with my wife it is that the best way to avoid an answer is to reply with a question.
“I don’t believe it’s an Urn. What makes you think it’s an urn? … How can it be an Urn? They aren’t square boxes. Urn’s are more like a vase, or something.” I may have attempted to speak with conviction but I didn’t have much of a foundation when it came to knowledge about Urn’s.
George just laughed right out. “Anyone can see you don’t know anything about Urn’s. Of course they can be box shaped. Why not? Can you think of a better shape to set on the mantel over the fireplace or on a shelf back in a closet? That’s where they usually end up.”
George had me there. As usual he was dead right about my lack of knowledge. You could write on the back of a postage stamp all that I knew about those types of things. It could be that I actually did have the genuine article.
I ignored George for a moment, kinda went off on a tangent in my head, recalling just how I had managed to pick up the box. I’d been fishing. Not doing too badly at that when I hooked a big one, if you could ever visualize a herring as big. Then again, I didn’t ever get to see what I’d hooked so it might have been any sort of underwater creature at all.
See, I liked to cast my bobber out from the bridge along Admirals road. There was no really good reason to do that but it somehow set me apart from all the other fishers who simply dangled their offerings over the side. I’d already gotten a decent start on catching baitfish when something yanked that bobber out of sight. The solid tug on the rod alerted me to the fact that I had latched onto a winner and the line began to play out. It’s hard to believe that a herring can put up such a scrap but now and again an exception does come along. Suddenly the streaming line came to an abrupt stop. I could still feel the pressure and the rod tip remained arched in a gentle bow. I felt certain the fish was still on but … not so. In a moment I learned the truth. The crafty little devil had taken line and lure to the bottom and run a half hitch around a hunk of debris after which he’d been able to tear loose.
When I realized that nothing would give I had a choice. Pull hard and free it, or break the line and abandon the lure. Often a few short sharp tugs will free a lure and allow retrieval depending on just how badly it’s caught. That’s what I tried. In a sense the maneuver worked for I felt something give and then the gradual movement toward me. By this time I’d disembarked the bridge and worked my way up the shoreline a short distance. Before I knew it I had a dirty, silt covered mass dragged to the edge of the water. It was the box, though I confess it didn’t look like much until I’d spent a couple of minutes washing away the crud.
I had no idea what it might be so I did the only natural thing. I slipped the catch and opened it. Inside I found water soaked silver gray powder that didn’t appear to have any value, certainly not after spending an untold amount of time submerged in the polluted waters.
With a short stick I worked the gummy mess out of the box then grabbed my pail full of baitfish and headed home.
About then, George’d had enough of my mental wandering and interrupted my thoughts.
“So? Ya still haven’t said where you got it. You know they’ve been looking for a lost Urn.”
“Oh?”
‘Yep. Don’t you watch the news? They had a story about it last night on channel six. Somebody stole a Urn that contained Grandmas ashes during a break in here in town. The victims used the TV station to plead for its return. That was a few days back, but last night the story ran again. It seems that the cops got a anonymous phone call that the thing had been pitched in the Gorge. Question is whether to believe the caller or not ”
I have to tell you, I didn’t like what I had just heard. For damn sure George wasn’t about to learn where the box had come from. Not now. But he wasn’t quite done.
“Apparently they want it back. So they can give her a proper burial.”
I heard the phone ring inside the house. It just goes to show you, there’s two kinds of luck, good and bad. Today was my day to experience both kinds because that phone provided me with the excuse I needed to ditch my neighbor and that was good. Finding the box seemed to be pretty much bad luck. I couldn’t help but think of the gray mess I’d scraped from the inside. And with a rotten old stick no less, just before I rinsed the container with the readily available water. How could I possibly tell anybody what I knew? Oh ya, Granny’s in the Gorge all right. You might call it a burial at sea.
Birthday Zero (Jan 6, 2024)
The day had failed to meet expectations for a typical July 3rd. A gust of wind rattled the candy bar wrapper along the walkway then swirled it skyward in a spiral of dust as Roger Wood reached for the handle of the metal-framed glass door.
Inside she was waiting. Up three flights and down the long hallway and he would be looking in on his life mate. After all that is what she was, right? He had vowed for better or for worse and today just had to be one of the better days.
Four years and two months they had been married and now the marriage was proven fruitful. This was the long awaited day, the day they both had nervously anticipated for the past nine months. Today at last, Roger would meet his new son.
His boot heels clicked on the polished linoleum floor, each step echoing ahead of him as he made his way down the corridor. The hall was empty of people. He was slightly early for visiting hours, but never mind that, the staff could hardly say anything to him could they? After all, this was the day he could finally feel the enormous thrill of being a first time dad.
In his pocket, carefully wrapped with paper towels were three cigars, all that remained of the box he had purchased mid day when the news had filtered down to him from his brother-in-law via his sister. He had been waiting anxiously for the result of the labor and the news had relieved him of his many fears. All had gone well.
It was a boy.
Now it was time to meet him.
Roger rounded the corner through the doorway and into the room eyes sweeping about, searching for the first glimpse of his lovely lady. Both beds were disappointingly empty. Only the one showed signs of occupancy, the covers in disarray, the night table pulled alongside the bed, scattered with magazines and a single box of Kleenex, the oval opening seemingly fixed in a wide, high grin.
Scanning the room in more detail the large expanse of glass beckoned to him. Roger moved toward the window, absorbing the horizon-to-horizon green of hospital lawn that rolled away into the distant forest that tucked under the magnificent Blue Mountains. The mountains in turn faded into the distance until they disappeared under the umbrella of the cloud-splattered sky.
So where was she? And his son? The sunlit treetops swayed with another gust of wind, so vigorous that it rattled the window and arrested his attention. Absorbed by natures beauty Roger failed to notice the rumble of water from behind where he stood until the door opened and Lyla stepped out from the private bath into the room.
They each gazed to their spouse, looking deep into the others eyes, seeing both love and respect reflected there. Roger eased forward quietly until he held Lyla and they embraced in full view of the window, highlighted by the lingering rays of the dying sun.
“Geez. You’re looking great Babe.” Nothing else had any need to be spoken out loud as the strong feelings each felt for the other permeated the room.
“Tell me, what are you doing out of bed?”
Lyla smiled up at her man, seeing the ruddiness of fresh scrubbed skin, noting the clean-shaven appearance highlighted by the distinct scent of Old-Spice cologne. His eyes held a twinkle, not attributable to the brassy tinge of sunlight that played over the freshly groomed hair. Contentedly, tempered by the excitement of her accomplishment Lyla pulled Roger to her for another lingering embrace. Right at the moment she was just where she wanted to be; held by his strong loving arms. Only one thing could make it better.
“Would you like to see him?”
“Hey, does a frog have lips?”
“You Nut. --- Help me up into bed. I’ll page the nurse and she will bring him in right away. He should be ready for a feed pretty soon anyway.” Lyla still moved slowly and Roger tenderly assisted her to regain the height of the bed.
They talked quietly once the page had been sent. The conversation went as their chats usually did, Lyla talking and Roger listening and nodding his head at seemingly appropriate intervals. It was only a few moments, and those few sped by quickly, until the staccato rap of the nurse’s heels heralded her approach from down the hall. Baby was coming.
Effie, waltzed into the room, a blanket wrapped bundle cuddled to her breast. Roger and Lyla both knew Effie. She had been with the hospital since before they had been born, likely had performed the same function for their parents as she was doing now for them.
“Here he is.” She spoke with a musical lilt to her voice, reserved no doubt for new parents. “The much awaited son. Ta. da.”
Effie attempted to hand the baby off to Roger who ducked backward as if having been just been offered a live and rather enraged rattlesnake. He was having no part of that just yet.
Effie’s grin left no doubt about her enjoyment at Roger’s reaction as she winked to Lyla and handed the newborn to her, then doing an about-face Effie quickly vanished from the room.
Lyla unfolded the covering from the baby’s red face as Roger eased forward cautiously; ready to leap backwards again should the baby, like a rattlesnake, show an inclination to strike. A wrinkled scarlet; albeit tiny face appeared from the bundle as the last remaining wrap fell away. The new father stood spellbound, apprehensive yet fascinated by the tiny human. Then Roger moved close to his Lyla and child, suddenly proud to have been a part of this fantastic event and even more proud of his wife and new son.
The Master Jan 20, 2024 G. Schumacher
The Master
He picked up the guitar. The smooth familiar feeling of the slender Rosewood neck brought a surge of memories racing through his mind as his hands slid along it and fingers that were no longer supple stroked the roughness of the strings. Memories of better times long since past may have been all that remained to him.
Slowly he cradled the body with his arm, drawing the guitar to his chest tenderly, like he might have drawn the willing body of a lover to his breast. For a long silent moment he paused and you could almost see the anguish churning through his mind, almost follow his pain as the muscles contracted and rippled across his face. Then, hidden behind that furrowed mask it seemed as though a dark cloud had passed and a bright sun broke through to brighten up his day.
No one spoke within the room. A comfortable silence reigned, broken only by ragged breathing and the loud ticking of the ancient wind-up alarm clock that had resided seemingly forever in the back corner. If the others watched the old man they gave no indication, nor displayed any interest in his moment of recall.
But I saw. I watched his expression change with the first touch of the silky finish on the worn guitar. I saw the glint that brightened the dullness behind his eyes, could sense the sudden electricity that flowed through him to illuminate his face. I watched a miracle it seemed, for this old man had never before shown expression, had never spoken or acknowledged that he heard. Did he now hear some mystic message. Did he feel a subtle thread of melody that beckoned to him from deep within the body of the guitar?
It wasn’t his guitar. Another inmate had left the guitar in a careless moment before that poor man had been whisked off to emergency and then over to recovery. But the poor fellow had not survived after suffering a cardiac arrest and now his body lay cold and virtually forgotten on a slab in a dark unheated room. Not the guitar though. The sole reminder to the ward, that the deceased even existed, it sat where it had been abandoned in the corner, leaning against the soft comfortable leather chair.
The old man had not moved toward it earlier, he showed no interest, and who could blame him, for the fellow that owned it never played the guitar nor did other than tune it from time to time and clutch it tightly to his side while he rocked to the rhythm of some obscure tune that he alone could hear.
I felt a sense of surprise when I saw the old man sit down then pick up the guitar. We were all used to him shuffling about the room, incessantly pacing, if pacing was what you could term it, for he moved slowly, almost as if in slow motion. Several times through the day he passed by the abandoned instrument, each time ignoring it as he did. The others who shared the ward paid him no mind. In fact they ignored him, for long ago they discovered that he did not speak, nor did he respond if spoken to.
His gnarled fingers now caressed the satin finish of the body without sound. I watched, fascinated by the sudden change in his behavior. We knew little of him, though he had been with us for a couple of years, thinking that he had no interests, wondering if he realized his whereabouts, supposing only that he existed without thought. Here, for me, was an opportunity to observe, to learn perhaps, to see a breakthrough into the depths of the interior of this man’s mind. I watched him quietly from a distance, reluctant to disrupt the urge that motivated him.
Tentatively he softly plucked the “E” string then another string, the sound virtually imperceptible even through the silence of the room. I held my breath. Could it be that he was testing the tuning of the guitar? It was midday and most of the resident patients were outside or snoozing in front of a muted television so I was free to observe until the quiet was rudely broken by the jangle of the telephone on the supervisors desk.
The phone call was for me, a personal one, and I had ample time on my hands so I talked at length with Norm, a buddy, and soon the happenings within the room became forgotten, our conversation overriding all else. Norm had plenty to say today, weaving a story of near tragedy from drowning during a capsizing of his boat and I listened intently as a good friend should. I forgot the old man for the moment, the others too; for whenever I glanced about the room I saw no activity, no change. Norm talked on.
It may have been a short call from Norm, or it may have been an hour, time slipped away unnoticed and certainly I paid no attention. Then as we talked, I heard a few tentative notes plucked cautiously from the guitar. Though I glanced over to where the old man sat, I saw little for his back was to me. My attention returned to Norm and once again I listened as he talked.
Slowly at first, not hesitantly but softly, a melody dispersed the silence that monopolized the room and penetrated my consciousness. From somewhere there came a hauntingly beautiful tune skillfully rendered and I looked about me, at first thinking somebody had un-muted the television. Not so, but the music played on, saturated with so much feeling that I held my breath while I looked about for the source. Norm was now forgotten, the conversation finished from my end.
The receiver clattered to the floor and I stood, mesmerized by what I heard, not believing anything so beautiful had ever been played where I might have been privileged to share. The music was soft yet seductive and it lured me from my desk. My feet moved unbidden, propelling my body toward the source. It turned out to be the old man.
His gnarled fingers flowed across the fingerboard like Liberace’s fingers would flow across the keys of his piano. The guitar reverberated; the music seemed incredible, taut with indescribable emotion. I watched the illumination of the joy that gripped his face. I no longer saw the shoulder length gray hair, nor the whitened stubble that graced his wrinkled face for he had been transform before my very eyes into a veritable god, his soul possessed by an unseen magic.
The music poured forth like sweet wine from a long necked gourd and tears rolled freely down his face just as they did mine. Unashamed I stood there overwhelmed by the compelling beauty integral to the melody, unable to pull myself away. I could only watch spellbound and enjoy. For the first time in all the years he spent with us, I saw expression on his chalky wrinkled face.
Suddenly in the distance it seemed I could hear young maidens laugh, and the cries of children at play beside a softly babbling brook. Wondrous calls of exotic birds floated through the air, mixed with the comforting sound of gentle breezes rustling through emerald and golden leaves. In my mind I soared like an eagle over mountains capped with fresh white snow from which rivulets of melt formed tiny brooks that fed the streams. Somehow, in this manner I followed the old man, no longer old but young again, on adventures mere words fail to describe.
Then the melody came abruptly to an end. I had been so moved, so captive to the music that I turned, fully intending to cry out to him to continue. I felt compelled to command him to press on with the enchanting melody reluctant to believe that it was over. Like those who followed the pied piper, I would have followed him, unthinking, uncaring, just wanting to be there with him to hear the music that so superbly flowed.
Then I realized, as my surroundings came back into focus and my awareness returned, that the old man had gently lowered the guitar, placing it where he had picked it from and slumped to the floor unconscious. Guiltily I looked around expecting to see accusing looks from the other inmates at my failure to respond but there were none for they still dozed in front of the silent television.
On a stretcher they whisked the old man away to another ward and everything returned to normal under my care. Yet not for me. Not quite, for I could still hear and feel the lure of the melody the old man had played for me and the others, though they seemed not to have heard. I tried to hum it in my head, to whistle it to myself, yet I could not. Somehow I failed to get it right, to make it sound as it had for those few moments when the hands of a master had wrung the melody from the depths of the guitar.
In the night the old man slipped peacefully away to another world, if such exists and I went to see his body in the morning to pay my last respects. The faintest trace of a smile was etched across his otherwise expressionless face and I knew that he had been released from a living hell and was free at last. I thought of a card for him, or some flowers, yet suddenly I knew there was no need. Realisation struck me. I knew where he was. I alone understood, for he had shown me, taken me with him only yesterday as he started on his journey.
I came away from where his body lay, saddened, not so much because he was gone but rather because we had never really known him. We had only accepted what we saw, never realizing the incredible talent he bottled up within that frail body. Saddest of all to me, in all the time he spent with us, under our care, not a single person had even learned his name.
Gone Fishing
By G. Schumacher
“A firm swing of the arm and at the last second, add a strong flip of the wrist. That’ll do it every time.” Norm gave a grimace as he recalled the words related to him by the doctor. It was true he knew, but somehow it rankled when someone so arrogant as Doc. Olsen told it to you. What made him such an expert anyway? When did he ever get a chance to go fishing? Shouldn’t a doctor be busy attending to patients and the like? Perhaps Doc. Olsen was good at being a doctor but his personality needed some work, or so Norm felt.
Norm tested the feel of the rod with a gentle swing, flipping his wrist at the end of the stroke. The heavy lure resisted at first and then added to the flex of the tip when the practice cast ended. It seemed fine for practice however Norm had cast a lure a few times and generally the lure went out a reasonable distance. Hadn’t he caught plenty of fish over the years?
The sun was creeping up over the distant hills, soon to be in full view as Norm waited for Greg to bring around the boat. He gave another practice cast, rotating his shoulders, head high as the rod began its arc through the air. Gazing blankly across the water, not really seeing, Norm envisioned the lure sailing out over the mirrored surface then hanging for a second in the still air before plunging to disrupt the calm, sending a series of telltale ripples across the marina as testimony to the great distance this imaginary cast had achieved.
Allowing his imagination full control, he jerked the rod upright to simulate a strike by a fish, then went through the motions of reeling in his mentally created monster. Norm glanced around hastily to be certain he remained unobserved fully aware of the foolish spectacle he was making of himself on the wooden pier, which was not unlike a stage of sorts. To all appearances he was alone in the marina with the exception of Greg in the boat, just pulling up to the edge of the wharf. Moments later the pair were settled into the comfortable seats as the launch sped toward their destination.
They were headed to the outlet of a small river that flowed into the lake. Their intent was to fish from the shore at the river’s mouth and cast into the deeper waters of the channel cut by the annual flooding of what was normally a docile watercourse. It was said that the pickerel were biting in the early mornings.
From the boat, which Greg had beached along the sandy shore just north of the tributary, Norm hustled out to the mouth of the narrow river, settling for a location on the point of a sandy bar that edged out from the shoreline. The bar looked to him a logical location to begin. Greg worked his way beyond Norm’s spot to the shallows where the river mouth broadened and from there, onto a temporary island devoid of vegetation. From the vantage point chosen, Norm would be able to see whatever action Greg experienced.
With a firm swing of his arm followed by a strong flip of his wrist, Norm launched his offering out into the deeper water. In truth, the cast was rather dismal as the lure splashed into the ripples made by the churning water that swept by him not even reaching the placid depths of the lake. He reeled it back in and tried it once again.
Perhaps Doc Olsen was correct after all. This became apparent after Norm attempted another dozen or so casts. He failed to achieve significant distance with each throw of the rod so obviously he was somewhat of a neophyte. Compared to Greg, who seemed to easily fling the lure beyond where the river current mingled and disappeared into the still surface of the lake, Norm was in need of practice.
Then Greg hooked a nice Pickerel and fought him to the waters edge. Norm could only watch with envy as his buddy landed a very decent specimen. The green tinged golden body glistened brightly in the morning sun as Greg held it aloft for Norm to see. Like a large precious jewel the watery scales mirrored the suns rays for a brief instant, then it disappeared into the depths as Greg gently released the fish to return to its underwater lair.
Norm cast furiously on his next attempt as though sheer strength would achieve what he failed to accomplish by finesse. The lure wobbled through the air, rising higher and higher then plunged to disrupt both the shiny surface and the tranquility of the spot with a resounding splunk. As Norm reeled the line back in, his attention was momentarily diverted by a bubble in the river, just near to the shore.
Seeing the water swirl and hearing the light splash intrigued Norm. It was well known that pockets of natural gas could be found throughout the area. He recalled igniting them when he was a teenager. Assuring himself that what he witnessed was simply a pocket of gas bubbling up through the muddy river bottom, Norm cast out into the lake once again. Or he tried to at any rate.
Greg was busy reeling in yet another fish as Norm pulled in his line. Another bubble broke the water, precisely where he had seen it the first time. Over the next while as he fished, which in Norm’s case meant to throw his lure out into the water without success, he continued to notice the bubbles reoccur again and again, always in the same location.
The bubbles distracted him. He wondered if there might be enough natural gas to ignite when each bubble burst upon the surface. It seemed unlikely but Norm was tempted to give it a try as he reeled his lure right into the very tip of the rod.
Without giving it conscious thought, Norm reached over with the tip of his rod and plunged it into the water just where the bubbles were occurring. The water proved surprisingly deep and the rod tip went farther and farther into the depth until the reel was just at the surface. He had not realized the depth of the channel. As much of a surprise as that was, it was nothing compared to the following surprise when a wicked yank on the rod nearly tore it from his hands. Fighting to retain possession as well as to maintain his footing he staggered into the water, on the verge of losing his balance and getting a royal soaking.
Mainly from luck rather than skill, Norm managed to regain his balance and fell backwards onto land dragging the resisting fishing rod behind him. A loud splash accompanied by frantic flapping and wriggling unwillingly followed him up the shore. Norm looked down in awe at the end of his rod. Where the lure should have been was a huge green and gold pickerel. Norm couldn’t believe it but certainly it had happened, he had hooked a magnificent specimen with only the leader and the lure hanging off the tip of his rod
The thought raced through his mind. “How about that that Doc Olsen?”
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The Arctic Cat
Garry Schumacher
Many of the older Hunter's will remember the time when power toboggans and ATV's (all terrain vehicles) didn't exist, or at least when they were in their infancy, before they become a popular recreation vehicle. When leaving the highways and secondary roads behind for a days hunting, the only way into the back country other than on horseback and pack mule, was to travel on foot. There is quite a lot to be said for hunting on foot. The hunter is not typically limited as much by the terrain or natural obstacles when travelling on foot. Nor is one restricted to following old logging roads or other natural open trails as you are if using one of the ATV’s of today’s world.
By moving slowly and softly the hunter can ease down an old trail and if he remains watchful and alert he will often see quite an abundance of game. Or if the hunter chooses to cover more territory he may do so by stepping out with a more purposeful stride until finally he finds himself in an area that is more to his liking. The ground that you can cover is only limited by the length of the day and perhaps by your physical endurance. Often times though one finds himself wondering what is over that next hill, the one that seems just beyond his range. What lies just past that last bend in the river, you know, the bend that is just a little too far to reach if you don't wish to be walking out in the dark?
Jack Edwards was my hunting partner. The fact that he was my brother-in-law was not relevant. Jack and I had become good friends in spite of the fact that I had married his sister. I guess he didn’t hold that against me and I valued his woods experience and casual matter of fact mannerisms. Being just a few years older than me, Jack had hunted longer and was certainly familiar with more of the better hunting areas surrounding the small community where we lived. I never really thought of it as such, but I suppose he was in fact my mentor, at least to some degree.
We hunted East of the Town of Athabasca around Jack Fish Lake or West toward Lawrence or Myers lakes. At 25 years, I was certainly in the prime of my life and Jack also. Even today, though now retired, he retains much of his youthful condition and exuberance particularly in regards to hunting. For either of us walking was no problem but times change and something happened that altered our way of hunting.
I bought a Honda 50 cc. Mini-trail bike. Likely it had something to do with my small sons but I don’t really remember just what was the reason behind my buying that mini-trail bike. I came home with it one day after stopping at the Honda dealer. Though I was large bodied, I was nevertheless able to climb astride the thing and away it would go toting me about. With a three speed transmission, by the time it was wound up in 3rd gear this little bike could hit about 35 miles/hr on a good road, even with a gorilla like me on it’s back.
One of the features that motivated me to buy this little trail bike was the fact that the handlebars would fold down reducing the overall size so that it would fit comfortably into the trunk of most any car. Honda had devised a neat fastening system that allowed each handlebar to rotate apart and away from the other rotating all the way down to the front axle. Once this was done, you simply picked the little bike up and laid it in the trunk of your car. What a sweet setup it seemed.
Other than my wife and children, Jack was the first person I showed the mini-bike to and as he inspected it, the idea was born, that this would be the ideal contraption to get us farther back into the bush and allow us to hunt areas which had previously been beyond our easy reach. Jack was always thinking about hunting and though it was his genius that conceived the idea there was no difficulty to get it to germinate and take root in my mind. Could the bike carry 2 of us? That certainly was the question.
We must have made for an amusing sight as we putted up and down the alleyway, two strapping guys astride that little bike. But it worked. It actually seemed capable of carrying us.
I am sure that the engineers at Honda had never conceived the idea that their product would be put to such a task but it was, within the week. I expect, if we had encountered any game on our first tour of the back roads, that the animals would have stood spellbound wondering just what in the devil was coming down the road toward them.
We managed to penetrate deeper into our hunting zone than we had ever penetrated on any of our previous walking hunts. It was great although somewhat crowded on the little bike and it definitely was a challenge to maneuver since the small machine was more than just a little top heavy with our 6 ft. bodies perched upon it. Convinced that this was the way to go, yet realising the difficulties of both of us travelling any distance on the one bike, the genius in Jack surfaced once again. We needed another one. It was that simple.
Of course since I had mine, the responsibility for getting another bike fell to Jack. He was up to the challenge and within a few days, after responding to a knock on my door, I was greeted by Jack and next to him standing in the driveway was this shiny new green Arctic Cat mini bike. Oh yes it was a beauty. The yellow of the Honda looked drab beside that shiny green accented with ample chrome. The Arctic Cat also came with a 4-hp. motor whereas the Honda boasted only of having 2 ½ or 3 hp. Instead of a gearbox the little Arctic Cat mini bike had a variable pulley drive system similar to that used on the snowmobiles of today. The Arctic Cat also featured a fold down system on the handlebars to facilitate conveying it in the trunk of a car. Unlike the Honda, on which the handlebars rotated sideways, the Arctic Cat’s handlebars were spread wide enough that they could rotate forward as a unit and clear the wheel and fender. It was simply a matter of loosening the U bolts that held them secure and then rotating them out of the way.
Slow to admit to being out classed and out powered, I decided it was going to take a few excursions to prove the worth of his machine and provide an accurate comparison between the Arctic Cat and the Honda. That was easy to arrange and since we were only weeks away from hunting season, it seemed a good scouting trip was in order.
Saturday morning was one of those textbook perfect mornings, the kind you seldom seem to get on a Saturday. The dew hadn’t even burned off the grass before we were unloading the little two wheelers out at the quiet end of a country road. Today we would cruise the old trails high on top of the riverbank above the mighty Athabasca River even descending to the depths of the wide river valley if we so chose. The terrain in this area is very sandy and rather open. Though many of the trails that we traversed were old, they were slow to become overgrown as the sandy soil lacking in nutrients provided a poor base for all but the tough grasses and more tenacious shrubs. Also there was generally sufficient traffic to keep them from becoming choked with vegetation.
Cruising along was great. We could tear down those old roads at times reaching speeds of 25 to 30 mph. I don’t know that we actually did any scouting; I think we just drove about enjoying the day and having fun on our little bikes. Any side trail or clear area was an invitation to explore and we so did.
Soon it became apparent that the Arctic Cat bike was a superior machine in most respects. With more horsepower and the smooth power transmission from the variable drive pulleys negating the need to pause during acceleration to shift gears it left the Honda rider eating dust. I had to content myself with the knowledge that Jack had paid more for the Arctic Cat. Oh it wasn’t a great deal faster but it did seem to excel in every comparison to the Honda. I think Jack was mighty pleased.
About the time that we turned around to retrace our route and load up the machines for the trip home, I was looking for an opportunity to get the edge and give Jack a face full of the dust I had been eating throughout the day. I had an inexplicable urge to at least reduce the size of the grin on his face even it I didn’t remove it entirely. I cruised just back of him and off to the side, in the other wheel track as we wove our way through the twists and turns made by the windy old road that we were travelling. My mind was partial occupied with schemes of how I might, if only briefly, best Jack on his Arctic Cat. I always was good at remembering details of the trail I had travelled and as we approached a certain area, I recalled the lay of the land ahead. Most important, I remembered the mud puddle. Yes, there was a mud puddle across the road and mainly in my lane.
The plan had formed even before we neared the puddle. I had a way to get even for the humiliation of having my Honda surpassed by the Arctic Cat. As we approached the mud hole Jack slowed somewhat and I was now just a few feet behind and off to the side. I stood on the foot pegs and looked hard off to the right, into the distance, as though I was looking at or had seen something. Jack slowed too and peered hard to the right, trying to see just what held my interest. I knew he had not seen the puddle yet as it was just beyond a slight rise, in a dip, with another rise on the other side. I slowed even more. Jack did too, straining hard to see whatever it was I found so fascinating.
We crested the small rise and as we did I dropped back to a seated position, kicked the little bike into second gear and hit the throttle hard. The Honda leapt to the task, well at least as much as it could. Jack reacted too as I shot past him, but too late, as his bike neared the puddle I hit it at full speed, right down the center, a maneuver that sprayed water and mud everywhere. I doubt he had time to do anything but close his mouth and shut his eyes before that wall of water washed over him. Ah revenge; it felt so sweet.
I kicked the little Honda into third gear and bent forward to cut the wind as I raced down that sandy road. I could hear the Arctic Cat gaining as I reached top speed, and knew that in a few seconds it would scream past me. I didn’t care; I was laughing hard and enjoying the moment, brief as it happened to be.
Sure enough, the extra power of the Arctic cat pushed Jack past at full bore just as we crested the next rise, which had a fair dip on the other side. I bet Jack was doing 35 mph. as he flew by. Flew is the correct word because at the speed we were traveling, we were both airborne coming over the hump. By now he was about ten feet ahead of me determined to feed me a face full of dust and sand but the “Fat Lady hadn’t sung yet”, this run wasn’t over.
The Honda mini-trail had soft suspension on the front end only. On the rear, the wheel was mounted to a solid frame. Fearing the worst, I eased off on the throttle. Here again, the Arctic Cat was superior having shocks and springs on both front and rear thereby providing a softer landing.
Imagine if you can, a little mini bike hurtling through the air with a 170 pound rider perched on it’s back. When Jack and the bike landed, at least ½ of his 170 pounds was brought down hard on the front handlebars with the remaining weight on the seat and the foot pegs. Here lay the problem. The Arctic cat’s handlebars rotate forward to transport it in a vehicle. All that held them upright when the bike was ridden was the friction provided by two small “U” clamps.
Those “U” clamps need to be very tight to withstand any excessive pressure on the handle bars, especially when one considers the mechanical advantage provide by the extended length of said bars. Let me tell you, in this case, the U clamps were not tight enough. The second Jack landed with his weight applied forward onto the handlebars; they rotated from upright to the collapsed, ready for transport position. I doubt anyone has ever tried to ride a mini-bike in that position before. You see, this put Jack’s nose just above the front wheel and his hands inches above the ground.
Remember, this all happened at thirty or so miles per hour and now Jack is suddenly in a position with his face just inches above the front wheel and able to see only the road immediately in front of it. That sounds pretty bad right? It gets even better. The genius designer of this mini-bike had elected to use a “twist grip” throttle just like full size motorcycles use. Controlling his machine from that position with hands inches off the ground and rump in the air somewhat above the height of his head is difficult enough, but now Jack can’t let go and the forward rotation of the handlebars has the dang throttle right at full.
Now I am a sympathetic individual (mostly) however what I was seeing from behind had to be the funniest site that I had ever seen. I have no idea how he managed to stop that thing without killing himself. That’s because I lost control of my own ride. No kidding. I lost control of everything.
Riding at speed down an old road on two wheels, while convulsed with laughter is pretty much impossible. At least it was for me and in seconds my bike and I were tumbling head over heels down the road along side of Jack. Picture a vicious cat fight where the opponents roll over and over.
I lay unable to move, not from any injuries or pain but rather I was just not able to regain control of my mirth. Slowly however I returned to my senses enough to rise up on one elbow and peer off down the road after Jack
At first I saw nothing other then a large cloud of dust. I struggled to my feet and slapped the dust from my clothes; I could see Jack lying motionless in the center of the roadway, no mini-bike in sight. Starting toward him with intentions to help I watched him slowly begin to rise from the dust.
“Son --- of ---- a ----- Bitch” I heard, each word said with a pause between it and the next and before I know it, I’m back down again on the ground convulsed with laughter. Tears streamed down my face and again I had no control over my muscles for several minutes until finally the attack of mirth subsided. This time when I look over I see is Jack laughing every bit as hard as I was and I know he is all right.
Well it seems that the engineers at both Honda and Arctic Cat had each made tough little machines for neither suffered any ill effects and we were able to not only ride them home but we used them many times over the next several years until our children and each of us had out grown them. Later the Arctic Cat came into my possession and the same thing happened to me but only the once. I welded the handlebars permanently in the riding position and it became no longer a fold down system.
Mist on Pine and 4th.
Theodore Wilson, not many people called him that though he preferred Theodore to the shorter Ted or alternately Theo, sat against the rigid back of the booth. On his left was a large plate glass window, streaked by the grime that coated the outside of the pane. The day, still early, showed no signs of clearing. A light mist hung in the air and beads of moisture formed along the overhead wires that crisscrossed the street. He stirred the steaming coffee that had just been placed in front of him, indifferent to conversations taking place around him.
There were two people in the booth behind and their chatter had previously been muted but now the voices were starting to be raised. Brushing away the interference posed by the talkers Theodore took a tentative sip from the mug, testing the coffee for flavor. Satisfied, he gulped down a large swallow, glancing around as he did, his gaze raking the counter behind which the waitress appeared to be occupied. At the far end sat a solitary man engrossed in a newspaper, a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. From somewhere in the background, the source not visible echoed the soft strains of country music.
Theodore listened for a moment to the voices in back of him, getting louder with each sentence then stood and headed into the rest room. Nodding at the arguing couple as he passed, he acknowledged them.
The restroom carried the rank odor of stale urine mixed with Pine-sol or a similar disinfectant. Poorly maintained, this room that did not invite loitering. Theodore quickly finished his chore and washed his hands. Surprisingly he found the coffee shop empty as he retraced his steps to the window booth. The arguing couple had gone. So too had the fellow from the counter. Only the waitress remained, engrossed in cleaning behind the array of utensils and dispensers that lined the space against the wall.
Beside his partial cup of coffee lay a crumpled bit of paper, hastily folded and placed in front of where he sat. Theodore plopped his butt down onto the seat, eyes fixed on the paper. Once more he glanced about the room to assure himself that indeed everyone else had left. There were no other patrons.
Hoisting his cup, he slurped a mouthful of the rich brew and picked the paper up with his left hand intending to toss it over to the waste bin near the doorway. Inside between the folds, some writing was visible. With a flick of his thumb and forefinger, Theodore neatly opened the paper. The few words written there were: "It's in your best interest to meet me at 7:00 pm tonight, alone, at Pine and 4th.”
He read it twice, before checked the opposite side of the paper for more. Again Theodore glanced about the room searching for other occupants, this time flicking his gaze out the window, eyes scanning the passing people for a familiar face or profile. Nobody seemed remotely interested in him. Was the note for real? Better yet, was the note actually intended for him?
“Excuse me.” He called to the waitress. “Somebody left me a note, did you happen to see who it was?”
She shook her head, streaked blonde hair swishing softly. “Not me honey. Any notes I leave always have a total on the bottom” She giggled at that and returned to her cleaning. Then in retrospect she turned back. “How’s your coffee? Ready for a refill?”
“No. I’m good. Thanks.” Theodore wasn’t a great coffee fan and if he chose to have a second cup it would be in a few minutes, not just then.
He dismissed the girl from his mind, the note occupied his mind. What was the significance of the thing? Meet who? Better yet, why? Why seven o’clock tonight? Why not just say what had to be said right now instead of leave a note? Pine and 4th? The address sounded familiar. Where was Pine and 4th? Why would somebody want to meet him at Pine and 4th, and for what?
Theodore doubted that he knew a single person in this city. Who could be here that knew him? His mind reviewed what he thought to be the facts, as few as they were.
He already did have a meeting tonight at 8:00. With a Tony Waterford, a Realtor. So far they had never met in person, just conducted business over the telephone. Could the note have something to do with his meeting with Tony? They were scheduled to meet at Tony’s office, on Larch. Was Larch close to Pine? If he kept the note, made the meeting at seven, would he have time to meet Tony at eight? Theodore abhorred being late and intensely disliked people that habitually were.
Leaving the coffee shop Theodore strolled toward the downtown core. He still had ten hours to kill before his meet with Tony. It seemed wise for him to learn the location of Tony’s office. Now perhaps, he should also find out where Pine and 4th was, in case he decided to follow up on the puzzling note.
Could the note be a prank? If so, why him? How much fun could it be to play a prank on somebody you didn’t even know? Perhaps it boiled down to a simple case of mistaken identity? Hadn’t he heard that each of us has a twin somewhere? Perhaps he looked like a person that the sender knew. Could the answer be as simple as that?
Damn the note. Theodore cursed it. The note raised question after question and not so much as a single answer. For the life of him he could not guess at the purpose or imagine who had left the damn thing. There had been only three other people in the coffee shop at the time he went into the washroom and he could not recall a single one of them. If he were to meet any of the three on the street right then, recognition would be impossible.
Theodore decided he had spent enough time thinking about it. It was time to put it all behind him, to spend a few enjoyable hours searching through the city’s more seedy areas to locate pawnshops or second hand stores. Always on the lookout for a bargain, Theodore spent much of his life watching for the next one. Just as hooked as any other type of gambler, he found himself unable to pass up a deal, especially when he thought it to be a super buy.
That search was his purpose for being here wasn’t it? He was dickering on some land, near to the core of the city and selling for back taxes according to Tony Waterford. Strangely, after having received the note, Theodore began wondering about Tony Waterford. What really, did he know about the man?
Everything that he knew about Tony had yet to be confirmed. All information had come directly from Tony’s mouth. Was there reason for him to suspect Tony? Perhaps the man wasn’t who Theodore had been led to believe he was. That seed of doubt caused him to mentally review the things that might be unusual about this pending deal.
This chunk of land was ripe for redevelopment. Selling well under market value Tony said. A tax sale of sorts. Weren’t tax sales normally well advertised? Didn’t the city or state, county, whichever, usually handle the procedure? Why was a Realtor in a position to handle such a sale? Those questions begged an answer.
How did it happen that he, Theodore Wilson had been contacted regarding this sale? For the first time Theodore began to suspect the negotiations that had taken place to date. Was he being duped? Why was his meeting with Tony tonight arranged for after hours? Why not during regular business hours? There would be a lot of money changing hands if this purchase completed, didn’t it rate a daytime appointment?
Focused on his dilemma, Theodore walked in a virtual daze, just striding purposefully without conscious thought of his destination. He found himself standing at an intersection waiting for the light to change. The walking had brought him to wherever he now stood without him having the slightest clue which way he had come. So engrossed in his thoughts it amazed him to see how the time had gone. Growls from his stomach reminded him of his missed lunch though he felt no real pangs of hunger. Over the past hour the sky had darkened severely and just then raindrops started pelting the sidewalk and splashing from the brim of his hat.
A brilliant flash followed by a thunderous crash rattled the windows of the building next to where he stood. Within seconds after the lightening blast, rain was pounding hard around him, laced with golf ball sized chunks of hail. A large hailstone smashed the brim of his hat, raising a painful welt where it glanced from his face.
Theodore dashed for the shelter promised by an open doorway on the adjacent building. Just feet from reaching it his foot landed upon a bouncing hailstone. The stone rolled from under the foot taking stability with it. His balance gone, Theodore crashed to the sopping wet surface of the sidewalk landing hard on his back. There was a brilliant flash of fireworks inside his head instantly followed by total darkness.
Theodore raised his aching body from the concrete surface where he lay. Up on his elbow, his torso mostly prone he paused to survey his surroundings. There was little he could see except for the occasional flash of lightening that illuminated the night sky with an unnatural glow. Obviously the day was long gone. A hard rain still pelted the sidewalk and street yet he was only damp, not soaked as he might have been. Somehow by dumb luck or fluke of nature, Theodore had fallen sufficiently far inside of the building that he had avoided most of the downpour.
He inched up farther reaching a sitting position. There was a painful throbbing in his head; dried blood coated the back of his skull. Evidently he had used his head to break the fall. Theodore’s hat had vanished. While he felt about for it he noticed the soft glow of a cigarette coming from farther inside the doorway. It startled him to discover that he was not alone.
“Hello.”
The voice came from the cigarette.
“Hi” Theodore gave a tentative greeting.
“So how does it feel to be back with the living?”
A pause.
“Was I out?”
“Oh, I think you could say that.” The cigarette said, followed by a chuckle.
There was a slight odour in the air, a rather musty smell accompanied by stale sweat and unwashed bodies.
“So I’ve been here a while then?”
“You could say that. But what the hell. It’s only time right?”
The cigarette glowed brightly for an instant then dimmed. A rush of smoke rolled his way carried by the draft from the doorway.
“What time is it?”
“You got the watch mister, you tell me.”
“Oh.” Theodore felt his wrist. His Rolex was still in place. Certainly he would have worn a Timex had he known that he would spend unconscious hours in a doorway on an unlit street. The time was not visible in the darkness. The lightening flashes, though frequent were too short in duration to get a reading.
“There’s no power.” Theodore said it mostly for his own benefit.
“Been out for a few hours now I’d say.” Cigarette volunteered.
“You mean I have been lying here for hours?”
“I’d say so. Yes.”
“And you have been here all along?”
“Yep. Was here when you did that lovely pirouette then landed on the back of your head. I doubt you can afford to do that many more times.” Cigarette chuckled again.
There was that unwashed odour once more.
“You have been here for hours? That’s incredible. Why?”
“Why not. I live here man. This is my home.”
Theodore digested that for a minute.
“Where’s here? You mean this building? What is this place?”
“This place? Well it used to be an old apartment building till the city shut it down. Condemned it I guess. I’m the caretaker.” Another chuckle.
“And you live here?”
“Sure. Why not? There’s me and a couple of other guys.”
Theodore moved from the position he had occupied. His hand brushed the concrete, feeling bits of broken glass that littered the floor.
“This place hardly feels habitable. How can you live here?”
“You’re just not the sharpest knife in the drawer are you sonny? Maybe it was that crack on the head.” This time Cigarette laughed.
The truth started to dawn on Theodore. Still he didn’t want to face it just yet.
“So why did the city shut this place down.” He posed the question hoping for a way out of the prior direction the conversation had taken.
“Ah who knows? Too many murders here I think. That and too many drug dealers someone told me. Easier to shut down the building then to enforce the laws I guess.”
“Murders? Here?”
Cigarette chuckled once more, the sound echoed through the hollow empty building, audible only because of a momentary lull in the thunder. After a pause he spoke. “Mister, you got any idea where you are?”
“Other than being in Vancouver, no. I would say not.” His recall was jogged by the word Vancouver.
“Shit I have an appointment for 8:00 o’clock.” Theodore started to rise.
“Just sit tight Bud. You ain’t going anywhere.”
Theodore became defensive immediately. “You aren’t going to stop me.”
“ I could but if you’re stupid enough to head out there you just go right on ahead. Leave me your wallet before you go would ya. I might as well have the money you’re carrying as those other jerks out on the street.”
Theodore didn’t understand. “I don’t follow you. What did you mean?”
“Come over here.” Cigarette moved toward the doorway, closer to the downpour. Theodore followed cautiously.
“Look out there. Straight out. Wait for the next lightening flash.” They had only seconds before the next strike illuminated the sky and eerily silhouetted the backdrop of buildings. Just across from where they were, on the corner was a rough appearing derelict building.
“That’s where you fell and did your sleeping beauty impression.” Cigarette pointed out. “You don’t want to be anywhere around there tonight.” He cackled.
“I don’t understand.”
“Man, something was supposed to go down over there tonight. Not sure what but you don’t want any part of it. That’s why I dragged you over here out of the rain.”
Theodore found himself wishing that Cigarette would lower his arm. The wind was gusting directly from cigarette to him. He pondered what had been said, silent for the moment, attempting to piece it all together.
“So partner, it’s just what I said. If you feel like braving that rain you go ahead. But --- before you do let me tell you something. You have about the same chance as a snowball in hell of making it down to the end of the block. Suppose for a minute that you do make it that far. You ain’t ever going to make it to the end of the next block. And, mister, you have exactly five more blocks to go before you are out of here. Are you following me?”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
“You see, the ‘lowlifes’ that live over there didn’t get their blood tonight. Something went wrong. Nobody’s gonna be safe out there tonight. Why don’t you just sit right here till daylight and tell me your life story. In the morning it should be safe for you to leave. Nobody with any kind of brain goes out there after dark especially when the lights are out, and for sure, not tonight”
A violent gust of wind blasted them, spraying rainwater over the pair, raising an unnatural howl that seemed to come from the very bowels of the earth.
Theodore shivered involuntarily. This seemed incredible. How could it possibly be? Wasn’t this a well-policed city where crimes such as that being suggested were kept under control?
Theodore looked to his companion as he lit yet another cigarette.” Just where in hell am I that this can be the situation?”
“You really don’t know eh buddy?”
Rain splattered the walkway, droplets dancing as they splashed across the saturated street. A wind rattled piece of loose metal clattered behind them in the dark.
“No idea.”
Cigarette chuckled and drew on his smoke.
His answer set Theodore to shivering violently, the first threads of terror filtering down his spine.
“Why man, we’re on the corner of Pine and 4th.”
Dogs Age Too. (Written years back)By G. Schumacher
He weighed less than a pound when we brought him home, was just five weeks old, and stood to the height of a pop can. Weaned they had told us, but scarcely, to be sure. The little guy seemed so tiny, so frail, so unlikely to survive. We logged 200 miles that day and spent two hundred dollars. On him.
I named him, stuck him with the handle of Brutus, thinking all the while that something so tiny needed a big name. At that I erred for I had in my mind the cartoon character associated with Popeye, who I later learned was actually called Bluto, not Brutus. I confess to not being a huge fan of cartoons or television and thus not fully conversant with all of the characters names.
He cared not a whit what his name was, only that he be “cock of the walk”. We began his education the first day. At the same time he began ours.
“He can have one chair to sit on.” She said. “And he sleeps in a basket, though we’ll allow him to sleep in the bed room, on the floor.”
That lasted till nightfall when we retired. At five weeks of age it’s tough to sleep alone, particularly when there has always been a warm body pressed against yours.
I remember well, the whining, the yips of fright, the scratch of little toenails on the basket. I recall her, getting up to pop him back into his special sleeping quarters and he almost beating her back to our bed though unable to scale the dizzying heights to join us. My woman can be stubborn but I need my sleep.
Enter the mediator.
“Why not wrap him up in a blanket and bring him into bed beside you?”
“You think that will shut him up?”
“Well. It might go a long way toward quieting him. After all, think of how you would like to be uprooted from the only place you ever knew in your life and suddenly forced to sleep alone on a floor, with no contact by another living being. “
“But I’m afraid we might roll on him and kill him.”
“I’m afraid if I don’t get some sleep I might kill him.”
Round one went to Brutus. A victory shared by this old man.
Our next move after teaching him where he would be sleeping was to train the little guy. House dogs need to learn to use a paper or box, at least that was our intent. Wake him up, put him on the paper, let him pee. It all sounds simple and in fact as it turned out, in the long run training was easy if not exactly according to accepted practices.
I trained him in single day, though I admit it was a long one. I woke him and placed him on the paper, according to plan. He promptly scurried for the linoleum. Back to the paper.
Again a run for the lino. For over two hours I patiently picked him up and placed him on the paper only to have him bolt for the open floor. I squeezed his tummy, thinking the pressure would induce him to go. Zip, he bolted for the lino the moment I released his body. But I’m a human; he’s a dog. I will out wait and outsmart him; therefore I shall win.
I hadn’t considered the telephone; if I had, I might have brought the portable to where I sat. I’m here to tell you that my patience was not equal to his stubbornness, but we were saved by the phone. It rang, I answered, he bolted and peed. I now would have to go through this entire thing all over again a few hours later. Frustration won over me and I grabbed his little body, pressed his little face into the puddle and rubbed his nose in it (gently of course), all the time admonishing him. Then I put him on the paper. I didn’t learn until later, that one time would be sufficient to teach him to use the paper.
His learning to come when called was next. Again, what worked could only be considered unorthodox at best. I taught him in a few sessions by using a rubber band. I don’t recommend this procedure and I have to say it never ever worked on any other dog I had but it worked for Brutus. You see, when I called; he would gleefully ignore me and run the other way. This was his habit, for it no doubt seemed fun, to have us chase after him. On that occasion I called and he ran but I happened to have a large rubber band near to hand. I grabbed the rubber slipped it over my thumb and shot his backside with it.
Did I mention that Brutus was a miniature pincher? They have very little hair, certainly not enough to cushion the sting of the rubber band as it smacked his hip. Once he realized that I could get to him without chasing him, the little tyke became more than willing to respond to my calls, a behavior that became reinforced by the treat he received for obedience.
The years have slipped past. It saddens me to watch him now. His world is growing silent, only the loudest sounds seem to penetrate. His muzzle white, rather than tan, arthritis affects his walk and his ability to jump, much the same as it does with me and he likes best to lie in the sun or in front of the fireplace when it is on. He still seems to see well enough and enjoys a good walk though he moves less quickly then he once did. I dread the day when he’ll be with us no more, aware how quickly that time approaches, wishing I could do more for him. Brutus is approaching ten pounds of body weight, stands eleven inches high and gets whatever he wants for neither she nor I have the heart to refuse him a single thing.
We feed him, wash him, clean up after him and do anything we can to make him comfortable. In return, he gives nothing tangible other than to meet us at the door leaping and scurrying about with delight when we return though we may have been gone only an hour. Other times he comes to sit on her lap or mine, and rolls onto his back to have his tummy rubbed.
That’s Brutus.
I wouldn’t have him any other way.