The Spirit of '76

An excerpt from "The Spirit of '76, a short story appearing in "A Red Dress Night" coming Spring of 2020.

There were nine souls on board the Spirit of ’76, the morning she set out on her maiden voyage. To be more accurate it was our maiden voyage, not hers. She was a far cry from being a maiden having sailed the seas longer than most of us had been alive. She had seen more of the world than we will see in our lifetime. She had been abused by nature’s wrath and neglected by the slothfulness of man.  But for us, nine fishermen barely old enough to sprout facial hair, she was a beauty and the hope we hung our futures upon.

We learned of the Spirit’s tender state from the banker’s son, a lad named Oliver Freeman. We had gone to school with him, but he was three years our younger and being the son of a banker had little ambitions for the sea. Oliver followed the Magnificent Nine, a name given to our band of ambitious anglers by our tenth grade English teacher, Mr. Crossgod, like a little puppy nipping at the heels of his master. His pestering presence was nothing more than an inconvenient annoyance at times, but we never hesitated to tap an endless fountain of knowledge the good Lord had granted him. The school’s principal had recommended Oliver be promoted three grades because of his advanced academic comprehension, especially in the disciplines of mathematics. I, along with the others, often tapped his gift when stumbling through algebra or calculus. He never asked for anything in return other than occasionally to hang with the Nine.  

The nine I speak of by name are, Douglas, he the oldest by eighty-one days. Brian and Gregory were the boldest by miles. Then there was Greg, Douglas’s cousin, and Kurt who came to America in 1943 with his grandfather. Number six is Adolph, who changed his name to Wolf shortly after the war had ended, and of course me, James Goode. The last two are Louis and Robert. They had not been part of the original seven when we had first become inseparable. These two would join us on Saturday nights and special occasions. Mr. Crossgod had mistakenly, or with prophetic finesse, dubbed them as part of the Magnificent Nine unaware of their now and then participation. After being so knighted, their presence increased greatly. The seven had become nine. Louis and Robert were the last to join this unusual fraternity. They were also the first two to die aboard the Spirit of ’76.

Oliver was aware of my youthful yearning to purchase a fishing boat one day. It was a Saturday afternoon when after galloping into Riddell’s Pharmacy where Douglas and I sat slurping root-beer floats, Oliver breathlessly told me about the precipitous availability of a schooner named The Spirit of ’76. The vessel’s owner and captain, Theodore Pagano, had fallen upon hard times, his health and money both reaching a sad end. He was in arrears to the bank for the exact sum of $1347.76. Oliver’s father agreed to hold the schooner back from Monday’s auction until his son had a chance to present the opportunity to me, which he did while slurping his ice cream float.

“It may as well be a million dollars,” I told him. “I have a tenth of what would be needed.”

Douglas smiled and told me not to be a fool. “The Magnificent Nine will be sailing through the waters of Bristol Bay before the end of summer!” He told me to wait there for him and with a final slurp of his root-beer float, he bounded out the door.

I asked Oliver how the owner could let his property and livelihood go so easily. Oliver had overheard his father’s conversation with Pagano. He has no family to help him, Oliver explained. And his crew abandoned him after the last haul barely covered the cost of bait and fuel. The previous winter had been hard on the old skipper; hitting him twice with pneumonia.

“He told my father it was time to leave the sea and Alaska behind. He would return home to Oregon to die in the home of his late sister.” Oliver’s voice was filled with sadness.

Little time passed before the chimes above the front door to Riddell’s rang in the return of Douglas. He was followed by seven boys with toughened exteriors and grins from ear to ear.

“We are all in,” Douglas announced, “The Mag-9 will crew the vessel known as the Spirit of ’76, through the waves of Bristol Bay hauling in more salmon than any fisherman before them.”

The fountain counter at Riddell’s has eight barstools lined in front of the Formica counter; Oliver and I stood at the end as my friends mounted the stools chattering about the future. Greg, always inquisitive, asked the same question as I about why the owner would relinquish so much for relatively a small amount. I spared Oliver having to tell the story again, fearing he may start crying in doing so, “He’s too sick to fish the Bay.” I told them.

“His loss, our gain.” Wolf proffered before taking a huge bite of a hamburger oozing mustard and ketchup.

Kurt frowned at Wolf before offering a query, “What is the total amount we need?”

Oliver provided the answer as Kurt removed a small notebook from his pocket, “How much do you have Jimmy?” He asked me. He added that to his book. We all waited as he deciphered the numbers. The minutes ticked off the clock as he added and then re-added.

“We are short.” He announces.

“How much?”

“More than two-hundred dollars and that’s not considering the cost of getting her ready.”

Moans from those sitting at the counter turned the heads of two women waiting at the pharmacy window. Mr. Riddell, owner, and pharmacist cast a disapproving look our way.

Standing, Brian claps his hands loudly, “We can get that. It may take some time but all of us have jobs. We work. We save. We conquer!”

“The boat will be auctioned Monday,” I tell them, “we could never get that much before then.”

“There has to be a way,” Douglas told us, “What do you think Louis? You are always coming up with a scheme to make some money. Do you have any of your crazy ideas you’ve been saving for a rainy day?”

Luis had started a bakery in his mother’s kitchen when he was thirteen years old. He sold hot cinnamon rolls in the morning before school started for a nickel apiece; ten cents cheaper than Sal’s Diner sold them for and twice as good. One summer, he sold maps to gold mines to the mainlanders getting off the ships in Seward. The maps were accurate, but the gold had been farmed years before.

“I could make some rolls.” Louis offers.

With a mouth full of burger, “That would be a boatload of rolls,” Wolf replies.

We all became quiet, the mood stained by the tally. My dream was out of reach and I knew it. An opportunity like this one would never come again. I would go back to saving every penny in hopes of buying a vessel before I was too old to sail one. I considered asking my father for the money. But with the season delivering a poor catch the canaries had also suffered. He was a leader at Inlet Cannery and was able to hold onto his job while so many others were laid off. But money was short and asking him would be unfair.

The sun had fallen to the horizon when the Magnificent Nine decided it was time to head to our homes and our beds where we could dream about what almost was when Mr. Riddell walked over to the counter.

“You boys have a dilemma.” He offered.

Kurt glanced at me with a question on his face. “A problem,” I explained.

“How short are you?” the pharmacist asked.

Oliver, who had stayed with the Nine answered, “More than two-hundred dollars.”

Riddell stepped behind the counter, placing his hands of the surface he spoke to us—

“I like you lads, always have. You were good boys who are becoming good men. Let me tell you about dreams. Life sucks the breath out of them. When I was your age, younger, I dreamed of being the captain aboard a great ship, sailing around the world, visiting ports with exotic women and golden treasures. Don’t look at me like that, I haven’t always had this limp, that came years later courtesy of a pissed-off mama-bear. But life, or in this case my father, deflated my dream like a child’s balloon. He was a hard man whose rules were followed, or consequences dealt swiftly. He sent me away to Washington to attend school and become a pharmacist.” Looking around and gesturing fully, “This was his dream. Mine sunk to the bottom of the sea.” He pauses again tapping the countertop with arthritic fingers, “I will make you an offer. I will provide you a loan of five-hundred dollars which you will pay back after your first haul. Or second if necessary. I must also add interest to this loan. You are smart enough to understand nothing good in life comes without a cost.”

“At what percentage?” Greg asked.

“Not a percentage,” Riddell replied. Glancing at Oliver he continued, “Does the vessel carry a skiff?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And does this skiff have a name?”

“I don’t know,” Oliver replied.

My heart was beating excitedly. This man I had known my entire life was making an offer to accomplish my dreams. And I suspected I knew where he was going with his question.

“If it does have a name, it can be changed,” I told him.

“Bravo! Mr. Goode, if you would see that the skiff is christened “Riddell’s” I will consider the interest paid in full.”

“I can paint her name with the flare of royalty!” Robert offered.

Robert had been born with a keen eye and a steady hand. He was a wonderful artist and known around our community as such. Lifting his hands above his head and stretching his fingers wide, “The Spirit of ’76 and her trusty sidekick the Riddell will sail the ocean blue!”

That’s how I came to be 1/10^th owner and captain, as voted upon by the others, of the fishing schooner Spirit of ’76. As I lay here tonight, I believe she has sailed her last journey. Only a miracle can hoist her sheets to catch a homeward wind safely returning a lone survivor to the frozen soil of the Last Frontier.

Audrey Raine

I wanted to share with you one of the stories from my upcoming book, "A Red Dress Night".
The following short story is called "Audrey Raine". I wrote it after watching a documentary on climbing Siula Grande, a mountain in the Peruvian Andes. I hope you like it.

Audrey Raine

“Where do you want to go?” I whisper, “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would we go?”
Her eyes flutter like a butterfly with broken wings. For a moment, her sea-blue irises are visible. I love her eyes. I have since I first saw her face...
Her face is shattered. It is terrible. The sound of her face hitting the jagged rocks will echo in my memory forever. Another sound. What was it?
“Anywhere, baby. Anywhere you want to go.” I tell her. The frigid air turns my words into a white vapor speckled with dancing ice crystals. I inhale deeply warming my breath before blowing gently upon her cheeks. She doesn’t move. Audrey’s face is broken. So is her back. I think. The way her body is twisted...it must be bad.
My legs are broken; I can’t feel them.

The first time I saw her climb she was the student; I the teacher. How things have changed. I knew she would be a great climber. Audrey moved with the grace and beauty of Kirov’s Nikiya in La Bayadere dancing into the arms of Solor. But Audrey Raine dances thousands of feet above the world’s terrestrial stage.
She was the best in her class. Always the first to try something new. The first to arrive, the last to leave. She listened to every word and asked more questions than a five-year-old discovering the world. At the end of every course I ask my students where they would go, what rock face would they conquer, where would their names be carved in history. Will they stand with Norgay, Messner or Sir Edmund Hillary? Which summit is calling your name?
“Where will you go next?” I asked them.
Audrey smiled, tilting her head to one side letting her red hair fall carelessly down her shoulders, “Higher,” she told me, “always higher.”
My heart fluttered and my cheeks flushed, “Be careful,” I warned her, “you don’t want to fall, Audrey Raine.”
“Raine never falls.” She smiled.
I fell in love with Audrey Raine.
Then she was gone.

The following year I saw her in Denver. Jamie Cullum was playing at a little jazz bar I frequent whenever I find myself in The Mile-High City. Audrey was standing by the bar talking with a bartender who looked like Tom Cruise and knew it. Cullum was just starting his second set; the bar was crowded with rhythmic jazz fans and winter tourists too old to ski. Audrey spotted my reflection in the mirror behind the Cruise wanna-be and gave me that hey, I know you smile. Ten minutes later, we were sharing a booth and drinking alcoholic beverages named after jazz greats; Charlie Paloma Parker, Bloody Mary Williams, and my favorite, Benny Old Fashion Goodman. They were cheesy, but we had a good laugh reading the menu and making up jazzy drink names.
Audrey spoke about the climbs she had made since graduating. Fourteen climbs. She was addicted. She was rich, and she was beautiful. Three months later we were living sinfully together in my one-bedroom flat in Sonoma. She didn’t complain about the cramped quarters, 540 square feet, or that she had to jiggle the handle on the toilet to make it stop running. She could have bought a place ten times the size of mine and put it on a credit card, hired servants to jiggle toilet handles and still have room for dinner at a five-star restaurant. My refrigerator, on the other hand, was perpetually empty. But she was happy, always smiling. Sometimes, I think her smile was bigger on the way out of the door than when she came into our place, but that might have been my imagination.
She advised me on business decisions. She was a business genius; inherited the skill from her father. For the first time I was making a profit. A year later, I had enough money saved to open a second school. I had always wanted to try my luck in Colorado and the pieces were quickly falling into place. I asked Audrey if she wanted to become an instructor, but she declined. She told me it was my business and, she was ready to climb again. She was going to Portugal on a business trip with her father. She had always dreamed of climbing Serra da Estrela and this was the perfect opportunity. She would be gone for six weeks. My heart sank a little.

The night before she left for Portugal, Audrey came home late. I was already in bed, exhausted from a long day of climbing with my students. She came in bouncing into our bed and kissing me on the ear—
“I got a tattoo,” she whispers to me.
“Let me see,” I say, sitting up.
She turns her back to me and pulls her long red hair away revealing her first ink. Just below her neck, red letters outlined in charcoal gray, one word—HIGHER.
“I love it!” I tell her, kissing her shoulders.
Audrey turns to me kissing me hard. “I love you.”
It was the first time she told me she loved me.

I pull myself across the rocks trying to get closer to Audrey. My legs scream, protesting the few inches I require of them. We had climbed almost 16,000 feet and now a meager distance measured in inches was cause for agony. I had to wait before moving again; this time using just my arms. Minutes later, although it felt much longer, I lay beside the love of my life. Placing my fingers on her lips, I feel for breath. A few feet from where we lay there is a patch of white snow too stubborn to melt. What word is used to describe whiter than white? Beneath Audrey’s head, the ground has turned scarlet with her blood. The contrast is unsettling.

A month after her tattoo adventure I asked Audrey to marry me. She said yes, “after we make three climbs together.” Our schedules rarely allow us to make a climb together. Managing two businesses consumed most of my time. Audrey had helped open the Denver office, getting it up and running, finding and hiring the best climbing instructors, marketing and anything else I needed. She told me being stuck inside a classroom or making climbs designed for amateurs was not what she wanted to do. She had placed her dreams of going higher on hold to help me; I wouldn’t stand in the way of her greatest desires.

She was been planning the three climbs since before the Denver school project. Siula Chico, Siula Grande, and K2, in that order.  Siula is in the Peruvian Andes. Audrey had been there once before but had become too ill to make the climb. She came home with a few hundred pictures of the west face of Siula Grande. The pictures were taken from the base, more than twenty thousand feet from where she wanted to be. K2, of the Karakoram mountain range is a dream ascent of all avid climbers. Audrey was acquainted with a team leader planning an expedition in four years. He knew of Audrey’s reputation and didn’t hesitate to agree to let her join the team. Four years waiting for the K2 climb would mean an engagement longer than I had hoped for.
“We can get married at the base of K2, after the climb. It will be so beautiful.” Her smile told me the genesis of her fairy-tale wedding likely predated me. I agreed to accompany her on the Siula climbs but gaining access to the team expedition wasn’t likely to happen. “I will wait for you at the base,” I told her, “someone has to make sure the caterers arrive on time and the guests know where to sit.” It was her dream. I was along for the ride. Love makes us do...well, it just makes us.

Our climb on Siula Chico ended before we reached the peak. We were at about 14,000 feet when Audrey’s dream of going higher was interrupted by two misfortunes. The weather turned against us. Storms came down the mountain carrying frigid rains and swirling winds. We could have waited it out if I had not cut my hand when trimming wood for a fire. The cut wasn’t too deep but would require stitches. I watched the disappointment on Audrey’s face as she skillfully wrapped my hand in a manner that would allow me to use it on our descent. I knew our bad luck wouldn’t stop her from wanting to return to the Andes and try again. The wedding would have to wait.
When the weather cleared, we began our descent; Audrey taking the lead. She hadn’t spoken all morning. I knew she was mad at me. A careless mistake with a knife had sliced away her dreams. I wish I could dream as she does. Audrey doesn’t just dream; she creates truths yet to happen. Her dreams are never cloaked with impossibilities. The dreams of Audrey Raine are moments awaiting her arrival.

I turn my eyes away from the pooling blood. It is growing; turning away won’t stop it, but I pray it does. I stare up at the sky. The clouds have been disposed of by the great sun gods, replaced by a blue that has no name. I want to get lost in its embrace. I can’t watch her die.
Irradiant. The word for whiter than white. Irradiant. I close my eyes. I cannot gaze any longer into the sky. It came from there, that is where it fell from. Tumbling out of the sky. Turning over and over. Crashing into Audrey. Tumbling. Turning. Crashing. Irradiant. Blinding...

We were a hundred feet above an outcropping when my hand began to bleed again. I called down to her, “We will need to stop.” I waved my hand with the bloody bandage so she would understand. She looked down at the landing before signaling a thumbs up to me. And then she smiled. The beautiful smile I fell in love with was telling me all was okay again. Her dreams were not gone, just delayed. We would stop and she would wrap my hand again, sealing the wound with her kisses. We could rest. Sitting on the edge with our legs dangling over the side, hand in hand we would look out upon a world rising above the turmoil, chaos, and pain, and we will talk about going higher and higher. We will talk about our wedding. Our future. And then we would climb.
But that’s not how it happened.

I heard it falling. The sound filling my ears and the sky turning dark brown. I couldn’t understand what was happening. Moments before, Audrey had been looking up at me, smiling. Her hair falling back, brilliant red hair touched by the morning sun. And then her face was gone. She was falling and falling. Knocked off the face of Siula Chico like a bothersome fly swatted off a piece of berry pie.
Where is she! I can’t see her. I am tumbling over and over, around and around. The wind tears against my face. I am falling. A flash of red. Audrey! The sound of the collision explodes loudly. The noise is terrifying. It sounds like the skin of a bass drum being drawn too tightly before being smashed by the musician’s mallet. The wind screams, flooding my ears. My screams? Audrey’s? Another sound. Her head smashing onto the rocks. The last sound I hear before losing consciousness is the air escaping my lungs as I crash into the ground.

I dream about Audrey. She’s standing on top of a building made of glass. She is looking up at the sky. I am twenty, thirty, maybe a hundred floors below her. People are walking past me carrying briefcases, shopping bags, and babies. A man in a gray suit wearing green sandals walks by with a yellow umbrella. I think that’s strange; it’s not raining inside. The floors above me are all made of glass. I can see Audrey. Arms outstretched, she slowly turns in a circle, looking up at the sky. The sky is the color of a sapphire. A white flash. No, not white. What word is used to describe whiter than white? The white was coming towards her. The sky was falling! She doesn’t see it!
“Audrey!” I scream.
 She can’t hear me. She keeps spinning and spinning like a ballerina with her head tilted back, her long red hair flowing in the wind.
I look around at all the people walking this way and that. “Help me,” I cry. They don’t stop. They can’t hear me. That sound from above is loud. A young woman wearing a white wedding gown runs past me. She’s crying. “Don’t cry,” I tell her. Her white dress turns black before turning to ashes, falling like dirty snow away from her body. She turns in circles, naked among all the people. I try to look away. She stops and stares at me then looks up at the sky. Up towards the sound. I follow her eyes. The white shape is falling faster and faster. “Don’t hit her,” the naked girl tells me, “Audrey Raine will fall.” A horse gallops past me, it changes colors like the one from Oz. Purple, yellow, green, and then the horse is gone. The girl pulls on my sleeve, “Audrey. Don’t hit Audrey!” What? I would never...then I remember. The whiteness, the glass floors. I look up. Audrey has stopped turning. She stands with her hands on her hips. I have seen that stance a thousand times, always just before she tells me about her next climb.
“Where are you going, Audrey Raine?”
“Higher, always higher.”
I turn to the girl. She looks like Dorothy from Kansas. But that can’t be right. Dorothy’s dead...
I wake up on the ground next to Audrey. I thought she was dead. I try to stand, but I can’t. Struggling against the pain, I sit up. I look at my legs, a jagged edge of my fibula has punctured through the skin on my right leg. My left leg is canted at an awkward angle. What happened?
It takes long minutes for me to close the small gap separating me from Audrey. I see her breathing just before I pass out again. I don’t know how long I was out, but I don’t think it was very long. When I wake, I see the blood covering her face and her twisted back.
I lean to her, “Where do you want to go?” I whisper to her. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would we go?”

That was hours ago.

The horizon is painted with brushed strokes of orange and pink and powder blue. It is beautiful.
The sun will go down soon. If someone doesn’t find us before nightfall, we will die on Siula Chico. I thought I heard someone earlier, but I may have been dreaming again. I managed a tourniquet on my leg, I don’t remember doing it, but the bleeding has stopped. I don’t think Audrey’s head is bleeding anymore. Maybe it’s too cold. Or maybe...
No! She’s not dead. Every time I think she is dead she gives me a sign—her eyes flutter or her lips make a popping sound when she breathes. But she has lost a lot of blood. I hope an animal doesn’t smell it.
I place my ear against her chest. I must tell her.
The falling white. It was me.
“Audrey,” I manage a whisper, “my hand had started bleeding again. The white bandage was bright red. Looking down, I saw the outcropping. I called down to you, “We will need to stop.” I waved my bloody hand to show you. Drops of blood fall like burgundy rain. I wait as you adjust your position to be over the outcropping. My hand was throbbing. The bandage was soaked and had come loose. Holding on to the crag with my good hand I tore the bloody cloth away with my teeth. I heard you call up to me, “Okay, let’s go, teacher.” I remember smiling at you, but you were looking at something off in the distance. What did you see, baby?  Siula Grande? Were you thinking about going higher?”
I talk to her still body, “I began my descent. Without thinking, I grabbed the hold with my bloody hand. It slipped off and I lost my balance. I turned too quickly, trying to catch myself. My leg slams against the rocks, I hear the bone shatter. I was going to scream to you, to warn you. Then I was falling...”
Her heartbeat is far away.
“I was falling. Falling from the sky. Upside down; I couldn’t see you. My leg, the other one, collides with something hard, jerking me around. Then I saw you. You had begun your descent, looking down for the next foothold. I knew I was going to hit you Audrey, and I couldn’t stop. Dear God, I couldn’t stop falling. You looked up and saw me. One hundred sixty pounds dressed in the white Northern hoodie and bib you bought for me before our trip to the Andes. You always spent too much money on me. I didn’t need anything but you, Audrey. I was falling from the sky and I knew I would knock you off the mountain. I’m so sorry. You tried to move but it was too late. I slammed into you. It sounded like a drum, a big marching band drum. I was tangled in the ropes, my body twisted and hanging upside down. A flash of silver explodes past you. It was your camalot pulling out of the ice. And then you were gone.”
I think she is dying...
“Audrey, you were falling back, looking at me. I wanted to reach out and stop you. I tried to grab the rope. Baby, you must believe me. I tried, but everything was happening too fast. I watched as my Audrey Raine fell to the earth. You hit the ground first. The trailing ropes pulled around my legs yanking me off the face. The last thing I remember seeing was your face crashing into the rocks. And then...oh God.”
“Audrey, I landed on you. I broke you...”
My tears are warm against my cheeks, “You saved my life...Audrey Raine”
Night has come. I am freezing. I think Audrey is dead. I saw a condor flying overhead before night stole the day. The giant bird circles slowly, climbing higher and then swooping down. She came close enough for me to see her eyes. Black and determined. Her collar is white. No, whiter than white. Irradiant.
I wait. Closing my eyes, I dream of her.
“Where do you want to go, Audrey Raine?”
“Higher.”

My Bucket List

September 17, 2019-

Another year will chime euphoniously in five hours marking more time than I ever believed I would enjoy.Clanging in harmony with Father Time is the call for an annual tradition-the sharing of My Bucket List. If you have read it before then you know it is not a Bucket List in the conventional sense. I won't say more than that in case you are reading it for the first time.
Every year I read through it, some years making changes as memories conduct. This year was no exception.

My Bucket List

This year I turn 62. I had a thought early this morning, what if this is my last birthday? What if 62 is all I have?

Throughout the day I pondered this nomadic thought. What will I do with the time left. A Bucket List was born!

I scratched my head and put teeth marks in the proverbial pencil as I mused over what would be number one on my list. Minutes then hours passed with nothing rising to the surface. So, I changed strategies, I thought about the things that I have already accomplished or have been blessed with. Events that may have been on a Bucket List if I hadn’t already experienced them.

Family always comes first to mind. I was born into the most incredible family 62 years ago. I still see them every week, we still talk and hug. We laugh and cry together. We grow old together.

I was raised by my incredible children-Jennifer Lynn, Elizabeth Clara, James Edward, Sara Rose and Joseph Tyler-they did a pretty good job.

I have lived in the Great Northwest, the South Pacific, the east coast and the great state of Texas. I have fished for rainbows in the Russian River and went snorkeling along the Coral Reef.

I have left my footprints in the sand of Hawaii’s North Shore and boot prints in the frozen snow of Alaska’s North Pole.

I had hair past my shoulders and was called a Hippie.

I had a high and tight and was called a U.S Marine.

I went to school with Mark Twain and Thomas Edison and tasted college for a short while. I have read Tolstoy, Dickens, Stephen King and the Bible.

I have eaten at the Ritz Carlton and Taco Bell, both on the same day.

I have had money in the bank and I have sold Coke bottles to scrape up enough to buy a pack of smokes.

I have had cancer, chemo and misery.

I have experienced remission, recurrence and rejoice that I was still alive.

I have celebrated four years of remission...looking forward to five.

I have been high and I have been low, so low that all I could see was the bottom.

I have run marathons and I have crawled across the cold floor on hands and knees, unable to stand because of pain.

I have gone from a 34 waist to a 38 waist and back to a 34 waist. (it is okay to applaud here)

My favorite teams have won the Super Bowl, the Stanley Cup and the World Series. I have watched a perfect game and caught a foul ball.

I have listened to Vivaldi, Miles Davis and ZZ Top, all in the same afternoon.

I have tasted Opus One in Napa Valley and drank a Lone Star beer with Willie Nelson and Mickey Gilley while sitting in the Recovery Room.

I have seen every episode of Seinfeld at least three times.

I’ve published a novel, a short story and have tucked away in the back of my imagination the Great American Novel.

I have fallen in love and out of love.

I have made love on a beach and on a mountain top.

I have had two wives, two ex-wives and six children. (Maximized the limit on both!)

I was with four of my children when they took their first breath.

I was with my father when he took his last.

I have done everything I want to do... almost. At the end of the day, my Bucket List only had one thing written on it… You.

I figure if you are reading these words then you and I have at least met somewhere along the way. And I don’t know if I have ever told you the story about Jesus. You see, He is the reason I made it to 62, I know without Him I wouldn’t be here today.

So, on my Bucket List I wrote just one thing.

Today, tell someone about Jesus.

I think that someone is you, so here goes-

God loves you and me so much; He has since the very beginning of time. God knows everything from the beginning to the end; everything, every day and everybody and everything in between.
God knew that we would never love Him as He loved us. He knew until we loved Him as he loves us we would be separated forever and ever. But we can't love like that because...because we are hooked on sin.

So, God sent His son down from the heavens, down to earth. We called Him Jesus, teacher, King and Messiah...

And then we killed Him.

And when He died, He took all your sins and all my sins to that cross on Calvary. He paid the price in full. He paid the price of our admission to an eternity with God. He did it for you and me. He unhooked us!

And then, incredibly, He told us, all you must do is believe, He has done the rest. It is finished.

If you were the only one in the entire world, He would have done it all for you.

Do you believe?

Thanks for listening. Thanks for helping me finish my Bucket List.

OnE WorD

in midnight dreams we
Dance
unyielding, i stir
unwilling to awaken
incessantly seeking
You
like virgin wings of the monarch
your shape gently unfolds
i clutch the edges of slumber
aware in my wakening
you will be gone
Again
you have come before
tauntingly, teasingly tendering talents
only to vanish with the coming dawn
stranding in your wake, blurred
Images
i pray
one more heartbeat
one more tick
one more tock
one more time with
You
only with eyes closed
my head pillowed
can I see you
Clearly
i hold my breath
sinews stilled by anticipation
Waiting
at last!
lyrical expressions
birthed in the mist of dreams
dangling before my outstretched
Hands…
Eyes
one Word
an impeccable, exquisite, splendid
Word
a preeminent, boundless
fortuitous
Word
ten thousand dreams
have flowed like sunless waters
harboring words in the darkness
musing and scoffing at the ancient
Bard
a creak and a groan
hail the pre-dawn day
as the merry minstrel swings
his stocking clad feet
upon the hard, cold
Floor
crooked and leathery fingers
sweep sleep from weary eyes
ere lifting his trusty quill
and jaundiced parchment
from the hollows of
the black cherry
Ark
carefully
painstakingly
the pinkish tip of his tongue
pecks the dry tip of his quill
(a habit of uncountable decades)
eyes straining to capture
Focus
before,
like a magician’s golden coin,
the oneiric one
Disappears
he scribbles one Word
across the
Paper
the aging poet sits in silence
revering one Word
weeping like raindrops
on a willow tree
a lonesome tear
Falls
Falling
Fell
the liquid glass plunges
a final resting place
upon the yellowed
parchment
“what will you be?”
he whispers to the moist word
“what words will follow?”
a sonnet
singing Shakespeare’s
Ictus?
“how will I see you?”
a haiku?
childish thoughts!
wasted on the one
i have so
Longed
“perhaps…”
an epic adventure
before this wisp of life
is swept
Away
we will journey to
faraway lands
with endless horizons
and bountiful botany
donning fantastical
Flora
a kingdom of pixies and pansies
hobgoblins and sprites
enchantresses
and evil
Queens
a land of watermelon wines
and licorice vines
throw in
a baritone bullfrog or
Two
a place with
a beginning
“once upon a time”
a middle
not too wearisome i
Beg
a grand finale
scholars will anticipate
and,
hoping my story
never ends,
Dread
one Word
kindles the imagination
of poets and
Lyricists
one Word
borne in the night
an invitation to
begin
writing
again

Broken Crosses

Excerpt from "Broken Crosses"

Scott shook his head and put his arm around Karen again. She had stopped crying and was staring off
 into space. He wanted to know what his daughter was thinking, but not now. Now was not the time.

“Karen told me a couple of weeks ago that Jake had a problem with drinking. I knew she was right, but I wanted to deny it, so I did. I couldn’t understand how someone so young could already be a drunk.”

Chris flinched at the choice of Scott’s word but continued, “Teenage alcoholism is a huge problem. Kids start drinking as young as eleven, it’s sad,” Chris pauses and touches the tattoo again before continuing.  “anonymity of person and story are both important to the alcoholic, but I think it is essential for you to know what Jacob shared with me, considering the circumstances.”

He pauses again; knowing he was about to compromise Jacob’s trust was uncomfortable. The eyes of Scott and his daughter were enough to convince him to continue.

“Jacob started drinking when he was sixteen, just a little at first, a beer now and then. He told me about his mother leaving and how that had bothered him but that wasn’t why he started binge drinking. He blamed his drinking on you, Mr. Kelso.”

Scott shuts his eyes but doesn’t say anything. Without realizing it Karen pulls away from her father.

“Jacob couldn’t believe in the things you do. He wanted to. He wanted to believe in God, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t against your beliefs; he just wasn’t able to hold onto his own. It began to bother him; he knew how important your faith was to you and knew that if you learned of his disbelief you would be hurt, disappointed. He realized that drinking took away the guilt of hurting you. It didn’t take long for the booze to take control. Jacob was a full-fledged alcoholic by his eighteenth birthday.”

This weekend you can download a free copy of "Broken Crosses" at Amazon-Broken Crosses

125 Vassar Lane

I did something today I haven’t done in forty-five years—I stood in the front yard of my childhood home. The yard, at 125 Vassar Lane, sketched the boundaries of life during my insurgent adolescent years. Times I thought I had long forgotten.

I parked against the curb, looking through the window at the first home I remember. I had come to this spot today to show my daughter and grandson where I had grown up. I hadn’t intended to get out of the car, but my daughter convinced me to do so; she wanted to take a picture of me standing in a place I had not tread upon in almost five decades.

I looked around, urging memories to come with me. The house seemed smaller than I remember, the street shorter in distance from block-end to block-end. There had been a hedgerow of fig trees between our house and the neighbors. Now, only a single fig tree, barren of fruit, stands. The mesquite tree that had skinned my shins and poked her thorns into my side is gone.

My first job was delivering newspapers for the now defunct San Antonio Light. I would sit under that old mesquite tree rolling newspapers, popping a rubber band around them before mounting my bike, hands covered in black newspaper ink, and soaring through our neighborhood delivering with great precision the day’s news to a hundred-plus front doors. I may be mis-remembering the precision part, but hey, it’s my memory.

The St. Augustine grass beneath that old mesquite tree also marks the spot where I had my first real kiss.

The tree is gone, so is the girl. But the memories are fresh.

I let Sara take her picture and then turned and looked at the old house one more time. It’s in bad shape; the siding is falling off and in bad need of fresh paint. I think it was the same back then. That’s how I remember it.

Dad had just retired from the Air Force; both him and Mom were unemployed having just moved six kids, crowded in the back seats of an old station wagon filled with...whatever would fit...from Oscoda, Michigan to this great state. We didn’t have much money and the house at 125 Vassar Lane fit perfectly into that budget. I don’t know the details; Mom and Dad never talked about family finances or such things. We just trusted that somehow there would be a roof over our head and food on the table.

Mom did that.

My dad was a good man but had a passion for cheap bourbon and cheaper beer. Yet, he always managed somehow to provide the necessities of life. But I was too young to appreciate that and for years only held the memories that hurt. There were many of them.

But my Mom never gave up on having a family...a large family. She could take a can of stewed tomatoes, a slice of pork and half loaf of bread and feed her family like we were the children of kings and queens. She would save Popsicle sticks, rubber bands and the Sunday funnies, convincing us these were the tools of great artists, placing them in our hands, encouraging words whispered as we created masterpieces to be hung by a magnet on the front of the icebox...for just a moment...and just in our imaginations.

I look at the small front porch and can almost see my Mom standing there waiting for one of her children to come home later than he was supposed to. As I cross over the front yard, passing the mesquite tree and hedgerow of figs, she would place her finger against her lips warning me to walk quietly, Dad had passed out, safer to let him sleep.

We got to Mom’s house after my trip down memory lane to celebrate Mother’s Day with her and my sisters who have daughters who are Moms. Today is the 64^th time Mom has been celebrated on a Sunday in May.

I showed her the picture Sara had taken of me standing in the front yard of 125 Vassar Lane. I asked her—

“Do you remember this place, Mom?”

She looks at the photo for just a moment before smiling, “That was our home.”

I love you Mom, Happy Mother’s Day.

Thanks for all the memories.

Shadow of Faith

"Shadow of Faith" is now available in paperback. I changed the cover and added one of my favorite short stories, the award winning "God's Breath".

Below is an excerpt from "God's Breath" and the link to order the paperback. The e-book is also available on Amazon.

Excerpt-

She called it God’s Breath. “It’s like you’re flying above a faded world. Looking down, you’re hoping you never crash. It’s flying and believing. Believing rock bottom only exists in the world of haters and liars, shirkers and criers. Crashing knocks God’s Breath right out of you. Crashing is dying.”

 “It will blow every fantastical cell in your mind”. When she spoke about it, she chattered like a late-night infomercial hawk, not like the addict she had become. “It will suck your breath away!” She left out the part about killing you.

Shadow of Faith & Other Short Stories