Priceless.
By Garry Schumacher
Visions of pirates, peg legs and handless arms capped with hooks came to mind as my leaden feet shuffled unbidden along the only sandy spit that segmented this otherwise rocky coast. This was a strange place that cried out dire warnings with eloquence.
Moss hung from jagged rock edges above the point of highest tide. Bird droppings, white like cream rich milk seeped from stony ledges testimony to the timeless use of this raw unforgiving spot by countless waterfowl.
My presence on this stark, uninhabited, semi-moonscape that jutted upward for a hundred yards above the churning sea defied understanding. This was no Treasure Island to be gaily explored on a sunny summer day by adventurous teenagers or curious lovers, but a barren wasteland of rocky crags and windswept flats, exposed to constant spray from pounding surf.
What could I do? Behind me, my dinghy, piloted by two strangers, bounced and rolled toward the sleek thirty-six foot sloop I called home. Or had for the past 5 months. Nearly every cent acquired over a lifetime of hard work was invested there, riding lightly on the waves, prim and proper, the boat in pristine condition. My Lady Evelyn rolled and dipped with the swells, outlined by the churning backdrop of violet trimmed with white froth as the wind caught and shredded the tips of each rolling mound of water.
The wind buffeted me as well when I turned to face toward my craft, watching the four silent men winch the dinghy aboard. I would never see her again, never feel the varnished decks on my bare soles, never guide her into serene waters to drop anchor and stay for an indeterminate length of time. But I was lucky I suppose. I was still alive.
Or was I? Perhaps, in a manner of speaking, I was already dead, just marking time until the actual event for who would ever find me here and how would I survive.
They had come from the sea, in predawn light and I had heard nothing, not the faintest sound until as a group they had awakened me with laughter, surrounding my bed, each man armed with a firearm, appearing ready to kill. There was no fight in me, simply resignation and acceptance for there was nothing to be done.
Exhausted from the previous day, beach combing and racing along sandy shores I slept like a cadaver. Apparently, so had Joe for too late he bounded from beneath the covers, barking and snarling with unbridled fury.
The men laughed even harder, certainly not cowed by seven pounds of writhing, leaping teeth and fur. His attack proved futile, as strong but gentle hands lifted him free from the floor and held his muzzle rendering him helpless.
Bound and gagged they locked me in my cabin with Joe until mid afternoon when they loaded us into the dinghy and two men accompanied us to shore, if you could call this godforsaken chunk of rock a shore.
Expecting death, with surprise I found my little muzzled friend and myself set free. One man pointed with the barrel of his weapon, directing me away from the waters edge. I obeyed, anticipating the sting of angry bullets tearing through my flesh. It didn’t occur.
Soon I happened to be watching their preparations to depart, despair filling my heart. They were taking everything I owned and abandoning me in this savage spot. How could anyone hope to survive such desolate conditions? My tiny friend had been doomed to die with me for there could be no escape on our own and little hope of rescue.
In a moment of belated defiance I raised my fist above my head and shook it at the pirates stealing my ship. They paused and laughed though the wind whipped the sound away so I could not hear. Suddenly one raised his rifle and the crack of bullets striking nearby rocks forced me to dive for cover. The shots were only a warning but a ricochet can be as deadly as an intended hit. I took no chances.
I stood again as my boat departed, watching the sails unfurl and blossom in the wind. As the breeze caught her sails, the Lady Evelyn began running with the swells, her bow high, and disappearing forever from my life. While I admired the way she poised on the waves, it broke my heart to see her diminish in the distance.
Who were these despicable people that stole my prized possession, leaving me helpless and filled with crushing despair? Where were they taking my lady? I tried to piece it together but not the slightest clue lead me to an answer. Only then did I realize that not a single word had been spoken by any of them in my presence. I did not even know what language they used to communicate.
Turning to the grim unwelcoming place where I had been left I put my back to the sea shutting out the sight of my disappearing love and faced my new realities. The wind flattened the few streamers of grass that clung with a tenuous hold to precarious places, while splatters of moisture flicked from the surf tickled my back. Should I climb to the summit of the nearby cliffs or could I find a more useful way to spend my time?
In no rush to explore, certain that all I would find was more grief I took inventory. Hands rifled through pockets, searching. They had removed my wallet so that was gone. By some oversight my captors had not searched my back pockets one of which contained a folding knife with a three-inch blade, the other, a nylon comb of little use to me. I had a decent shirt, no shoes nor stockings and my near new blue jeans. Beyond that I had nothing. No food, no water and no shelter. I also had Joe.
But I didn’t. When I looked for him, he was gone. Calling produced no results. Had Joe been close by he would have come but any distance between us and he could not hear my cries for the howling of the wind. Desperate to find him I rushed back to where I last saw him, where I was standing when the shots had been flung in my direction. No sign of him there.
Now my despair became complete, my loss total. Not only had my most valued possessions been stolen but in my moment of belated bravado I had managed to lose my only friend. The realization devastated me. My reaction quite normal, I suppose, under the circumstances, I dropped to my knees and began to weep.
Time passed unnoticed as I wallowed in grief and self-pity but man cannot cry forever and the instinct for survival is strong, so eventually I came around to my senses and decided to learn what I could about this desolate place.
The sand ended at this level. Within a few feet, wind-worn rocks provided the only footing as I climbed toward the top, disturbing flocks of gulls and other birds with my passage. It was in my mind to see what might be on the other side as well as to locate shelter for the rapidly approaching night when I reached the highest point.
From this vantage the view encompassed the entire three hundred and sixty degrees. On all sides but one, the sea frothed relentlessly to the distant horizon. On the other side, beyond a quarter mile stretch of writhing water lay a rocky outcropping that faded away to a tinge of greenery suggesting vegetation. Past that, purple hills beckoned, rising into the darkening sky. My fears were confirmed. I had been abandoned on an island.
And what an island! The place looked like a mock-up of hell minus the fires. Across the channel appeared no better, other than it held promise of leading to more forgiving territory. Even so it might as well have been beyond the horizon, for swimming the turbulent trench and climbing the near vertical shoreline appeared virtually impossible.
As down as I had been, my spirits fell even farther. Nothing in my life prepared me for this. Unable to see beauty in this forlorn place I saw only horror. I just learned what being alone truly was. But self-pity, I could not afford. Day would soon be turning to night and night meant cooling temperatures and the very real possibility of hypothermia. I had no intention to quit. Life still held value and a consuming rage was beginning to boil within, strengthening my resolve not only to live but to track down the cowardly swine that made off with my boat and repay them in kind.
The time was now for me to take control and begin the process of survival. Once I learned to succeed, I would concentrate my efforts on escape.
Moving quickly, stepping carefully to avoid the copious puddles and mounds of bird droppings I began exploring in earnest. My prison did not lack the basic needs for along the shoreline, jumbled amongst the rocks lay an abundance of driftwood. Once dried it would provide the makings of fire and shelter.
Seeking respite from the wind, I found a tiny spring of fresh water seeping from the side of a vertical cliff. What appeared to be a pathway led from the seep so I followed. To my immense delight, it was indeed a former trail; one that led to a dark forbidding opening into the rock wall. For the first time since awakening this morning, my luck appeared to be improving.
Inside the cave, for that’s what I believed it to be, I might find shelter but first I had to drum up the courage to enter the darkness for I had no light to show me the way. Steeling myself I stepped cautiously inside, expecting to find the floor covered with a layer of bat manure. I found none, apparently no bats dwelled on the island or occupied the cave, perhaps there were no insects to attract them.
Inside the opening, I waited for the longest time, happy to be clear of the wind and listening for sounds, watching as my eyes became accustomed to the dim light. Gradually I became able to identify my surroundings. The floor of the cave had a soft coating of white sand that helped diffuse incoming daylight, enabling me to see somewhat. The room was as long as my sloop Lady Evelyn and a full twenty feet high. Near the center of the space, a fire pit had been dug into the floor, bordered by stones, some useful as seats. In a niche to one side, a huge heap of driftwood, dried to perfection, lay waiting to be used as fuel.
What a wonder it was. Somebody before me had suffered the same fate. I marveled at that while I fingered the various items scattered about. I discovered a large sheet of canvass stained by time, sticks that may have been used as a spit and the head of a double bladed axe with a crude handle attached. Who could possibly have existed here before me? More appropriate, how had he fared and where had he gone?
Questions, like bullets rifled through my head, but there were no obvious answers. Here in this godsend of a cave were the tools for survival, the absolute basics other than food and water. I could have heat and shelter, two major necessities, water I had discovered and food, the sea could provide or I could eat seabirds, so abundant on this rock.
Finding the cave eased my mind somewhat, finding the traces of former inhabitants and the tools left behind gave me hope but celebration seemed premature. Rustling through the stockpile of wood, I discovered a quantity of kindling already chopped so grabbed a handful and carried it to the fire pit, spreading it around in preparation.
I could go no farther. I had neither matches nor lighter to coax a flame to brighten the evening and heat the space. Shaken by that, I sank to the floor and commenced to laugh. As a non-smoker, I never carried any source of ignition. Darkness crept up on me as I pondered my fate and cursed my misfortune. Finally I lay back wrapped in the musty canvas I had found, hoping to sleep, certain I was doomed.
Sleep refused to come. Shivering from the cool in spite of the canvas wrap, I lay, teeth chattering, trying to force relaxation. Had I been able to see I might have attempted any number of things but so black was the inside of my shelter I could do nothing. Uncomfortable though I was on the firm sand of the floor sleep eventually did claim me.
When I awoke in the dark, I did so to the strange feeling of warmth on my chest. Little Joe had managed to locate me sometime in the night and his warm body pressed tightly against mine, under the wrap. My joy unbounded I hugged my tiny wriggling four-legged friend; thankful I no longer faced the bleak future alone.
In the morning we set out in the quest for food to satisfy a ravenous hunger. Being low tide, it soon became apparent that food would be the least of my problems for along the rocky shore were oysters and snails and other water creatures. Barnacles clung to every convenient perch and crabs of varying sizes scurried along the beach. Under other circumstances the culinary delights that abounded on this place might have been considered a treasure.
Today the weather patterned the previous day with a steady brisk wind, cloudless sky and warmer than comfortable temperature. Surf pounded the rocky shore drenching both Joe and I with salt spray, not unwelcome or bothersome. As we rounded corner after corner working along the edge of the island I looked up to see a large cargo ship passing along the south horizon. My first thought to run to the highest point and wave and jump, however I simply stood, realizing the futility in wasting energy on a foolish attempt to be spotted among jagged boulders against a mottled background.
Obviously, I would need to plan for a future occurrence, for the sighting meant that I might not be far from a shipping lane and other vessels could travel the same route. The trick would be to prepare a fire to create smoke signals.
Those thoughts returned me to reality. I had no means of making fire yet I was aware that primitive man had learned, supposedly from rubbing two sticks together or striking rocks to make a spark. Both methods I had tried on occasion over the years with no success. It was something I would have to work on.
Joe and I returned to the cave near midday seeking escape from the direct rays of a scorching sun. Inside, the cool damp brought relief. I sat near to the pile of dried wood, contemplating my dilemma. How to make fire without matches. It sounded like the title to a book; one I had no access too.
My thoughts explored various scenarios, rejecting most as quickly as I dreamed them up. Joe dozed on the canvas, content for the moment, his stomach full, unaware of our predicament. After a bit I joined him. The morning excursion had tired me and the perpetual dusk in the cave made it easy to sleep.
Later I awakened, feeling chilled. The light had completely faded. I had slept the afternoon away and now faced nightfall. My stomach growled for want of food but searching in the dark did not appeal to me so I wrapped myself tightly in the canvas unaware that little Joe was not with me. I slept peacefully for little sound reached into my hole and no light intruded to divert my attention.
Something awakened me. A sound, a sensation, I did not know, but the hairs stood erect on the back of my neck. Careful to avoid noise I slipped my hand into my pocket and retrieved my knife, my only weapon. Listening intently netted me nothing. The silence held. No air stirred, no unusual odor tweaked my nostrils.
After minutes of lying quiet inside of my wrap I started to believe I had been dreaming and allowed myself to relax. Suddenly the noise came again. I sat upright. The reason for my awakening now clearly heard. From the depths of the cave came a strange scraping sound. Not loud, just barely perceptible. It faded away then returned. The same thing happened again. A pattern emerged. The noise would die then return, each time louder than before.
A hundred thoughts raced through the vacuum of my mind. The sound was real but unrecognizable. Frightened, I attributed a number of explanations to the noise, none of which eased my concerns. The sound came closer. Added to the soft scraping I heard the occasional clunk made by some hard object striking stone.
Frozen in position I wished I’d had the foresight to arm myself with a stick from the pile. What could I do? How should I protect myself against this thing that I could not see? Should I jump up yelling at full volume? Would that frighten it off, whatever it happened to be? Or should I play dead, hoping against hope that it would pass me by?
The answer to my dilemma came in a minute, via a cool wet nose and a warm wriggly body. Little Joe, once again up to his tricks, playing in the night instead of sleeping, dragging lord knows what about the cave, clattering across the occasional rocks that dotted the floor. Annoying though it might have been, I could not be angry with a companion that shared my desperate plight. I wrapped him tightly in my arms, under the ragged canvass sheet that served as a blanket and once again, I slept.
In the morning I waken slowly until my eyes caught a glimpse of the daylight glow from a gold ring worn on a bony hand. I swear I jumped from the tarp in one leap and cleared Joe and the blackened fire pit in a single stride. It was no dream. Beside where I spent the night, I saw a skeletal arm and the bones of a long since de-fleshed hand. What stood out most in my mind was the finger bone, circled by a man’s gold ring.
I saw only the forearm section, ending at the elbow. I could speculate as to how it had gotten beside me. Joe! At that moment I saw him squirm out of the canvas wrap, lifting his leg, marking his territory near the entrance to our dismal cave.
Where had he found it? Even worse. What about the rest of it? I poked at the thing with a stick, unwilling to touch it. The ring rattled, loose upon the finger bone that served as host for the golden band.
The remains had to be inside the cave with us. Moving cautiously, fearful of stepping on a corpse or whatever I might find, I started working deeper into the cavern each step taking me into greater darkness until the light had almost completely vanished. Rounding a corner, it surprised and delighted me to see illumination from another entrance to our shelter.
Here that I found what I sought, and more. Clusters of bones, human bones, lay all about me. I felt a tremor touch my soul, certain I had discovered my fate. How long would it be until my bones littered the irregular floor with the rest? What shook me most had to be the skeleton with the missing limb, the arm Joe had dragged to me. It leaned haphazardly against a rusted old trunk.
The trunk showed clearly in the light from the nearby opening, the closed lid heavily corroded by the salty ocean air. No lock graced the hasp. Only one thing stopped me from lifting the lid. In order to open it, I would have to disturb the bony guardian that relied on the trunk for support. I couldn’t do it.
At least I had solved the mystery of the severed arm, and possibly where Joe spent the early portion of the night. Depressed beyond belief I trudged back to my bedding. I had hit the all time low point of being marooned on this chunk of rocky hell.
I sat and shivered in the chill air, unwilling to waste time finding sustenance. Why bother? I already knew my fate so why prolong it? I had food and water, but no means of signaling for help or even making a fire for comfort and warmth. All I had was Joe.
Dear little creature that he was, my tiny friend proved to be my salvation. Without him I surely would have flung myself from a cliff into the driving surf and swirling currents to speed my departure from this earth, yet I could not, for I could not bring myself to kill him and I could not leave him to suffer and die alone.
Later in the day we wandered to the highest point, arriving in time to watch a distant freighter disappear over the horizon. A spark of hope smoldered again in my heart. Obviously my refuge fringed a shipping route. There had to be a way for me to signal a passing vessel. All I had to do was to find it. Smoke or fire were the only things I could think of. Smoke would show clearly in the day and fire at night. And I knew the Morse code for SOS.
The key to it all lay with the fire. I would learn, spend my time working toward that goal until I achieved it. After that I would live for the fire, never allowing it to die. It seemed my only hope.
From the water line I gathered chunks of wood, partial logs, limbs, fragments, anything that had been cast by the surf upon the shore and struggled, getting them to the highest point. Many pieces were heavy with water but I knew they would dry over time. Besides I needed only a portion of the wood to be seasoned, the damp pieces I could use to create smoke.
That night, tired to the bone sleep still did not come easy. Now that I knew of my ghostly companions, their presence bothered me. Not fear but curiosity haunted me. How had they died, how long had they lived until then and what, if any, secret did the chest hold? Did the chest have a connection with them, with their deaths? I doubted there could be any treasure within. The question nagged at me. Just what, did the chest contain?
By the third day, my signal cairn stood high on top of the hill, complete and waiting for ignition. That had to be my next goal for in those three days I had seen another distant ship cross the water to the south.
I’m told the aborigines in Australia can spin a stick between their hands and create a fire in minutes from the friction as it rubs against another. My respect for those people grew boundlessly by days end for even my most diligent efforts failed to produce more than a little warmth and not so much as the tiniest glowing coal. Exhausted, I lay upon my bed that night, hands blistered and nearly bleeding, tired beyond belief yet again I could not sleep. How sad that an educated man like myself could not duplicate the simple feat of some supposedly ignorant savages.
Bewildered and angry, my thoughts once again turned to the island’s former residents, and the chest. Often, over the past few days, it had been in my thoughts. Curiosity, like a feline clutching its prey had sunk its talons deep in my mind. Some strange morbid fascination with the rusty old thing kept pulling me back. I argued with myself about the futility of bothering with the corroded relic but it kept nagging at me.
In the morning, once daylight maximized illumination I approached the mystery chest again wondering how I might open the thing without disrupting its guardian. Nothing would do but to carefully move the skeleton. Holding my breath, fearful that the bones would disintegrate at my touch I carefully laid it to the sandy floor.
At last the moment arrived. I was ready. It’s hard to describe the grotesque squeal made by the nearly seized hinges. Time had not been kind to this ancient box. Slowly the lid inched open. I fully expected the fragile top to fracture but finally it stood without support in an upright position. I could see nothing from where I sat so I inched up to it ducking my head and leaning my body for a better view.
At first I saw only the emptiness. Disappointment and surprise filled my mind. Why had I expected more? What fool could not have foreseen that anything the chest might contain would be long gone, taken or used by those who preceded me?
I looked again, more closely because of the dim light I had to work by. Something caught my eye. I saw a thin brown object about four inches by six, the sole item inside.
Shaking fingers reached for the flat strip. Might it be metal? Silver perhaps, the remains of some long lost treasure, overlooked in haste and left behind? By the lack of weight, I knew different so carrying it carefully I walked into the bright sun for a better look.
The second I broke into the open I saw the cargo ship, barely two miles offshore and almost opposite the island. Without thinking I raised my hand to wave and jumped about yelling loudly, forgetting the futility of doing that.
A sudden flash of bright light startled me.
What?
I couldn’t imagine what that had been. Again I waved and again the light flashed. I saw that it came from my hand. Turning the thin plate over, I spotted my homely face looking back at me. It was a mirror. Without hesitation I waved and bobbed with it, reflecting the sun toward the passing vessel.
With delight I saw the flash of light dance across the rocks in front of me. S.O.S. I sent, S.O.S. repeating again and again until the signal was returned.
We see you, they sent via Morse code.
I could have wept with relief; they had indeed seen me, for they were launching a dinghy. Salvation was at hand.
I ran back to the cave, little Joe at my heels and with great care laid the mirror where I had found it and carefully closed the lid. From there I rushed to the shore to greet my rescue party.
I owed this rescue to Joe, for he had found the hand and arm that led me to discover the chest with the mirror. He had also saved my life; my affection for him had kept me from plunging into the turbid waters. Joe had sustained my hope.
As the boat approached the shore, I thought of the chest, wondered if it had ever held a more precious treasure than what it now contained. Like the reflection of the sun that had bounced from the mirror, the truth became clear.
Joe proved to be the real treasure.
I picked him up, held him in my arms and hugged him tightly to my chest.
Going It On Two
A while back I read in the paper that the CRD had plans to promote the use of bicycles, car-pooling, walking and transit rather then to spend huge sums of money upgrading the existing roads to handle increased traffic. The article quoted percentages of those who walked, cycled etc.
Even more recently there has been a major push by those who advocate commuter rail, not a viable option in my opinion.
Notable by its absence was any reference to motorcycles or scooters as a means of transportation. Obviously, those in the planning department have their collective heads buried in the sand or up some other equally dark place.
When my wife had surgery I had occasion to spend time at the General Hospital as a visitor. It is worth noting that they have parking set aside for those who are supposedly handicapped as well as a number of bike racks to park your pedal bike in. However in a generally ticket oriented parking system, there has been absolutely no provision made for parking a motorbike. As we all realize- you cannot purchase a 2-hour parking ticket and leave it exposed on the dash of your bike as you might do with a car. It ain't gonna be there long. The wind could blow it away: someone could pick it off and use it themselves (don't laugh, I know people that would do just that and find it amusing, particularly if the motorcycle was to get towed).
As further comment to the cities plans, anyone who has ridden a pedal bike lately has no doubt encountered places where the idiots at city hall planning department have painted a narrow 3 foot strip alongside the driving surface of a busy road way. no doubt believing that they are satisfying the need for a safe bicycle lane. Don't believe it. Doing that simply allows the motorized traffic to move at an increased speed past the cyclist. After all, you on the bicycle have your space. Fear not; just ignore the fact that three-ton dinosaurs are ripping past you just a matter of inches away? Don't fret about those idiots who have difficulty staying in their lane as they dial their cell phone or light their cigarette. ‘Nuff said.
A while back, the city of Duncan announced a brilliant plan to provide special parking areas for those who drive a "smart car", the theory being that since the smart car is so much smaller then a normal car there are a number of spaces that could be legally utilized by these vehicles. I must be living in a dream world, I had no idea there were that many "smart cars" on our streets.
Wake up councilors, for years the streets have hosted a great number of vehicles that meet and exceed the small size requirement of a so called smart car.. What’s more, there are far greater numbers of them and they don't require any special technology to achieve or better the equivalent fuel economy of the celebrated smart car. These vehicles are called motorcycles.
Perhaps it's time motorcyclists became more vocal. The number of people, both men and woman that are turning to two wheeled transportation has grown dramatically in the last few years, particularly here on Vancouver island where the climate allows a person to ride year round, providing they have appropriate wet weather gear.
Personally, I haven't found it practical to maintain a full years worth of insurance and license for my motorcycle. The cost has always seemed prohibitive, particularly when looking at the reduced number of riding days during the months from November to March. This did change for me in 2006. The older Yamaha, I have, now qualifies as a collector motorcycle thus allowing me to insure it for one seventh of the cost of the normal annual insurance.
Yikes! If the bike qualifies as a collectors item at the ripe old age of twenty five years I can't imagine what that makes me at well over triple that.
Lucky perhaps?
Speaking of lucky reminded me of this particular story which, it happens, is true.
Death on my hands.
He carried the mid-sized box from the hatchback of his car to the entrance of the seniors lodge, then down the hall into his room. We saw him, watching from the corner of our eyes with indifferent attention as we labored under the relentless sun. We mowed and trimmed and he packed, making just a few trips in from the parking lot. I ran the riding mower and my sons were busy with the other chores that occupied most of our Saturday afternoons.
We were the caretakers, or rather I was, but early teens need money too, so I had relegated to them the task of mowing and gardening for the complex. This was the way they earned their allowance, garnered their spending money for the coming week. The boys were handsomely paid, more than the job itself was worth but that is a fathers right and the stipend they received came directly from my pay.
Another box was carried past us at a slow shuffle. Mr. Nemis on this very day had turned 79 years old and he had no hurry left to him, no need to rush nor the physical capacity to hustle if he so desired. He was a good tenant, ever friendly, always a smile and a kind word no matter to whom. What he hauled into his suite or where he would put it was no concern of mine. Earlier we had offered to help him. But not him, he would not accept, choosing rather to spend the time slowly shuffling in and out with one box after another.
It was not our way to push him and I readily understood his need for independence so we graciously stepped aside and left him to his toils making short bursts of conversation only in passing as we traveled about our duties. Perhaps if we had known, had been able to view the future like a gypsy fortuneteller we might have been more insistent with our offer.
Perspiration trickled down his face. Threads of moisture like tiny rivulets mingled together to form large beads that dropped from his chin to splatter on his chest and wet his shirt. Neither were we immune to the heat, driven relentlessly into our bodies by the scalding rays of the overhead sun. In spite of the dryness of the climate anyone who chose to be outdoors this day would suffer the ravages from the golden globe that dominated the azure sky.
Warren, my youngest, slipped inside the lodge for a drink of water. Cooled by the earth from the depth of 90 feet, a drilled well provided cool tasty water for the residence. In his temporary absence we worked on, anxious to be finished, anxious to shed our clothes and wallow in our backyard pool, the reward for completion of our chores.
“Mr. Nemis must be hot.” Warren informed us as he passed by on return to his task.
“What makes you say that?” I inquired, wiping the perspiration from my brow with my sleeve, thankful for the wide brim of my hat solely for the shade it was providing by blocking the direct rays of the sun.
“Well he has his fan going in his window, and he is lying on the floor in the breeze.”
I should have clued in to his statement however it went right over my head, for just about then I could have joined Mr. Nemis knowing the breeze from the fan would be a welcome respite to the direct rays burning through our clothes. Instead I merely nodded my head then glanced toward his car noting the still open hatchback and the door left ajar.
Well why not? Ours was a very small town and certainly theft was not a problem. He could close it up later, once he finished his rest and resumed his self-appointed task. With that I returned to the task at hand, realizing that another ½ hour would see us done. I gunned the mower, pushing the engine to its maximum anxious to be finished, lured by the thoughts of the coolness of our swimming pool that beckoned if only in my head.
Another sweep around the yard with the mower, just little uncut grass left now, a few more passes to completion. At the doorway to the lodge I glimpsed another of the residents, flailing his arms, waving to get my attention.
“Not now, “ I thought to myself, “We’re nearly done. Can’t it wait?” Yet the old gent padded up to me on slippered feet, still waving. The mower ground to a halt and I lifted the earplugs from my ears. ”Yes what is it?”
“It’s Nemis,” he said. “I think he’s dead.” The words drove through me like the intense shock from an electric fence.
“Why’s that?” I inquired, hoping against hope that my tenant was wrong.
“Well he’s lying on the floor, not moving”.
That was reason enough for me, so I abandoned the mower, passing the finishing to my son and ran into the building to the open doorway just down the hall.
It’s strange really as I think of it now, that a place that seemed so deserted could have sprouted people like fresh tilled earth sprouts dandelions in the spring, for as I reached the room I had to force my way past a small crowd of concerned seniors simply to enter the room. By what means had the word spread so quickly, rivaling a flash flood roaring down a once dry creek bed in the aftermath of a summer torrent?
Mr. Nemis lay there on the floor, facing upward as though relishing the draft from the whirling blades of the reciprocating fan. There was a pallid color to his skin. His face appeared ashen where it had earlier been so red. I placed my fingers gently on his shoulder, rocking him, calling out to him, hoping that I might revive him from a sound sleep. It was no avail; there was no response. Reaching for his wrist I held my breath wanting not to miss even the slightest murmur of a pulse. Yet I felt nothing, only the stillness and the breath of breeze from the still running fan. Behind me I could hear the chatter of excitement from the residents.
Solemnly I rose and walked over to the door, closing it softly in the expectant faces, not wanting to be the object of their intense scrutiny. The phone nearby linked me to the doctor at the hospital just a block away. In silence I waited cursing myself for being so stupid. “Why had I not tipped to it when my son had told me earlier of Mr. Nemis lying on the floor? Could it be my fault that he had died?” I liked not to think of it, especially with that point of view.
Soon the doctor was with me in the room, examining the corpse, for that is precisely what we had. I told him what I had known or what had been said and how I should have known, hoping to be absolved of my sin. Experienced as he was with dead and living, he spoke to me at last, and I have never forgotten his words.
“Don’t worry about it,” he looked directly at me. “Look at him. He was 79 years of age. He has had a bad heart for years now, yet has lived well. Suppose you had caught it earlier. What then? Do you think you would have been doing him any favor?”
The doctor was right, but not till some time later did I realize how right he happened to be, for Mr. Nemis had died quickly without appearing to have suffered. Wasn’t he the lucky one?
The following was written in response to a prompt. I enjoy the challenges that some of these prompts create.
This week's challenge is - while thinking about that grocery
store and your characters - write the part of the story that you
wouldn't show to your mother.
The following story is a figment of an overactive imagination.
Hicktown USA
There are a great many things I wouldn't tell my mother. And there are fewer yet that I would show her, at least regarding insights into my life. She's almost 70, still vigorously enjoying life, if you overlook the distress caused by arthritis. However, she has her religion to bolster her and lives sufficiently close to the church to attend each day. Now I'm not saying that Ma goes overboard or lets her beliefs rule her life, I'm just setting the scene so you can understand my reasoning.
I work in the grocery store, the only one in Hicktown USA. My job is not high level, nor high paying. Some might go so far as to suggest that it's not much of a job at all, but I think I'm lucky to have it and do my utmost to show gratitude to the owner for continuing to employ me. But really it's the owners wife that keeps me anchored to the daily drudgery that most would hasten to depart.
She works in the store too. And she's a looker, long of leg, slim and sinewy, with a face and figure that many movie actresses would kill to have. I'm in love, though she's twenty years my senior. I'm so in love that I'd murder for her if she asked and I'm powerless to do anything about it. That's presuming that I would want to..
She caught me in the stockroom one day. John, the boss was off to Vegas for a convention. I didn't think all that much about being in the dingy place with her till she rubbed up against me. Now I may be young and likely foolish but her move left no doubts in my mind. She also got a huge reaction, one beyond my control. If you had seen her in that form fitting, tight skirt, you'd understand.
“Oops, I'm sorry Eric.” her sweet voice purred as I tried to turn away. “I didn't realize that you were so close.” The smile and parted lips told me otherwise. I swear the light, dim as it was, twinkled in her hazel eyes.
“N-n-n no problem Ms Harrington I'll work a little farther over here.” and I went to move away.
“Eric. You'd think you were afraid of me, the way you scurry off. Now just what reason would a nice looking young fellow like you have to be afraid of a little old me?” I could feel her hand sliding along my backside, the type of caress that could be taken as either sexual or simply over friendly. “It's not that you don't like me is it?”
I couldn't answer, my mouth dry, I turned away. I had to. The bulge in my jeans was suddenly a source of embarrassment. I had no idea how to deal with it.
She did.
“Oh. Look what's happened. ... Oh my.”
I was speechless as she gripped me firmly through the denim.
“I can help you with that.”
Those were the last words I recollect. Everything after is a blur, a fact I truly regret, for what happened next was something that I wish I could remember for all time. I can only recall feelings, not actual actions. Things like floating in time, hyperventilating, perspiring and a mind numbing explosion of sensations. Then suddenly standing alone, feeling the cool air on me, finding my clothes undone and wondering just what had happened and where I was.
She had gone and I guess lady luck stood by us for it was a slow day for business, or perhaps it was simply early and nobody else had come into the storeroom during the time she had me so mesmerized.
Out on the retail floor I avoided her glance for the better part of the afternoon. Later, when I caught it, she had a noticeable twinkle in her eye as she pranced about, hips swaying, chatting gaily with ever present customers.
Now Ma don't know what occurred that day and I'm surely not about to tell her, even when she queries me as to why I stay at such a dead end job. She wouldn't believe what happened if I did choose to confess. Heck, I'm not certain I believe it myself but I'm staying. Odds are, if I hang around long enough, it'll happen again and this time I plan to remember it all. Every sweet second.
Brutus - Dogs age too - 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” so to speak. 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 Brutus proved to be easy if not done exactly according to accepted practice.
I trained him in single day. 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 to his brain. 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 fifteen pounds of body weight, stands eleven inches high and gets whatever he wants for neither the wife or 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.
As a follow up, I thought I would mention that he remained a champ to the very end. I used to take Brutus with me to the archery range where we had a field course that was laid out through a brushy, treed area. Since there was seldom anyone else using the range in the early mornings, I typically allowed him to range freely, unencumbered by a leash. That worked fine until one day when he lost site of me due to the trail I followed weaving through the Broome and tall grass.
Apparently he panicked when he could not hear me or see me,. I saw him racing back along the course and realized what had happened. Even though I called to him as loudly as I could, Brutus failed to hear my call. Since the trail weaved around from target to target, I realized that I could cut him off by dashing ahead and thereby saving myself multiple steps. I managed to get ahead of him and I am certain he felt very much relieved to find me. Knowing that this would likely happen again, I snapped his leash on him for the remainder of the distance back to the parking lot. From then on, whenever we returned to the archery range, much to his relief I am sure, I kept him on the leash which I fastened to my belt and it being a retractable leash, it allowed him 20 feet of independent mobility and peace of mind.
On the evening before his last day we walked with him for a short distance. Age had taken its toll on his body and that caused us to stroll along slowly allowing him to sniff at the usual doggy pee mail sites and leave his typical reply. There was no direct evidence that this would be his last walk. He seemed not to experience any particular discomfort and as far as we knew he was just fine. But it was not to be. By morning, Brutus had passed on. He slipped away silently with no sign of discomfort. Oh yes, it hurt and even today as we think of him fondly along with the great memories we have there is a degree of sadness that he cannot be with us any more..
The Lucky Skunk By G. Schumacher April, 26. 2024
I watched silently as the large van pulled away from the house loaded with furniture. My furniture. Well, our furniture actually, now hers I guess. She loaded the two boys into the car that had been mine until now, avoiding even looking at me. I wanted to call out to her, restrain her, but I kept silent, all choked up! Something inside me prevented me from pleading with her as I watched her climb into the drivers seat and buckle her seat belt
“15 years!” I wanted to scream at her. “15 years, and you are leaving me! Why? Haven’t I treated you well? Haven’t I always been there for you?” But I knew the answer already. It wasn’t me. It was the dentist, or his salary at any rate that was luring her away.
Her car slowly picked up speed heading for the corner. When it reached that distant corner I already knew the pain I was going to feel, the hurt, the totally loneliness. Damn my luck!
Just then a gust of wind tugged at me, blasting into my face, slamming debris into my eyes, forcing them closed. I felt the slap of something across my face and I reached up to grab it and wrench it away.
“You lucky skunk!” I heard a voice say.
“Come again?” I responded.
“Oh man I can’t believe it.” The voice spoke again. “Talk about luck! I have been chasing that $20 bill for half a block and here it lands right in your face. You lucky skunk!”
I couldn’t see him for the sand in my eyes but I held out the bill to him. “Here you take it.”
“Are you sure?”
“ Absolutely. Go on. Take it. With luck like mine, I don’t need it.”
The Future or the Past? May 9/2024
“What if you owned a time machine?” He asked. I didn’t even have to think about my answer.
“Easy enough,” said I. “I’d use it to travel back in time.”
“Why back? Why not go ahead? Move forward to places and things you’ve never seen, and won’t otherwise ever know.”
“I’m not so interested in the future. I can already foresee much of it and I have to tell you that I have no taste for what I’m imagining. Now the past…Well, I know enough about it to be able to pick the places and times I would enjoy to live through”
“Really? I would have thought the future would hold more appeal.”
“Perhaps for you, but for me I see my future in the past.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” He said. “Think about it. In the future, we may see men reach other planets, perhaps even travel to such exotic locations ourselves. Imagine being able to live to the age of one hundred and fifty or longer. Medicine will have made such great advances that life expectancy may easily reach beyond that.”
“That is precisely what frightens me. Imagine what it would be like here by the time I reach one forty let’s say. We currently have over seven billion people on earth and in three years time the figure is estimated to reach nine. How long until it’s twelve, then fifteen, twenty? What then? What quality of life do you expect to have? People have to die to make room for the coming generations. It’s that simple.”
“ I admit that could be a bit of a problem. Mother nature will mostly take care of the excess. You know, send a few natural disasters our way. You have to admit that the future will be interesting. I don’t understand your attitude. We already know what the past holds, the future is exciting.”
“No more exciting then the past.”
“The past is old history, who cares about it?”
“Think about this will you? Would you rather live until one hundred and fifty and have to scrabble for that living, competing against twenty or thirty billion other people, all of whom will kill you in a flash for a piece of bread or crumb of cake in order to survive or would you rather enjoy living to the ripe age of around 75 but living in the lap of luxury while you do?”
“How do you figure you’d be living in luxury, just because you chose the past?”
“Because of what you know or I know as the case may be.”
“What do you know that will make you so rich?”
“I hate to say this Brian, but you’re an idiot if you can’t see the answer to that. Everything I know could potentially make me rich. For instance, I know who has been elected Prime Minister for the last few terms. If I were a sports fan, I would recall who won the Stanley cup in the last few years. Think of the possibilities here. Would I buy IBM stock? Telus? Nortel?”
“Nortel didn’t do so well. You’d lose your ass on them.”
“Geez Brian. If I knew when to buy them, I would surely know when to sell wouldn’t I? No, it’d be the past for me. I might get to visit again with my dad, perhaps meet my grandfather, even Abe Lincoln or some great man like him. I’d like that. Best of all I would like to go back to my youth and relive those days again.”
“But you couldn’t do that. That would screw up everything if you messed with your past.”
“Better yet, I could mess with yours. Your past and your future.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“It’s easy really. You might never get born if I went back. I could arrange that. The future might be entirely different if I could interfere with events that occurred and change the outcome. Man might never make it to the moon. Perhaps a nuclear holocaust would actually occur. I might be able to do anything. Without the past, there is no future. The future would be mine, because I would be there first.”