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The Womanless Man

29 Jan

The Womanless Man

L. Stewart Marsden

The alarm clock pierced his early-morning dreams. It was four AM. The nagging beep-beep-beep continued until he swung his arm over to fumble with the various buttons and press the alarm stop. The alarm died in mid-beep, and it was silent. The morning air was crisp and clear. His tinnitus hadn’t kicked in — yet. It was normally worse in the quiet of the mornings, and at night, when he lay down on his bed. As aggravating as it was at times, at least it made it difficult for his mind to begin the uncontrolled whirring and spinning, bouncing around his memories haphazardly, like one of those robot vacuums advertised on television in late-night infomercials. Thank God for small miracles.

He willed himself into an upright sitting position on the edge of his bed. His calves burned slightly as his blood coursed through them. Each leg was marked with scratches and thin lines of clotted blood from scratching madly at his eczema. The itching was particularly bad last night, and he had dug into his skin several times on the edge of rage. The plight was sporadic, but tended to flare up badly during the winter months due to the dry heat of his fireplace. He had resolved to pick up a cheap humidifier for his bedroom, thinking that might help, but always forgot whenever he happened to be in the RiteAid.

He stood slowly, and lumbered to his bathroom, where he methodically repeated his morning toilet rituals: brush teeth; trim beard; urinate; shower; towel dry; pull hair back into the nub of a ponytail and tie it with a hair band. He shuffled back into the bedroom to re-don the clothing he shed the night before, smelling each article first to determine whether he needed something cleaner.

Dressed, he descended the stairway to the main floor of his condo. It was pitch dark, but the sky behind the mountains was dimly illumined by the nearby town of Boone. Years ago, his morning skyline was comprised of shafts of skyscrapers, and the ants of the world were already busy dashing for cabs or buses or subways — even at 4. Noisy and confusing there and then, quiet and serene here and now.

He flipped on the coffeemaker, prepared the night before to brew his necessary morning tonic. Years earlier he would have grabbed the newspaper from in front of his apartment door, poured his coffee, and sauntered into the living room while scanning the headlines. Then he would flick on the early morning news and sit in his favorite chair, awaiting a call from the doorman that the office limousine had arrived. Now, he lightened his coffee with half and half and sat down on his favorite recliner and quickly scanned through email and messages on his phone, deftly marking and deleting most. Now he avoided the news. It was always the same, and had long ago ceased to be of any significant relevance in his daily life. Here in the mountains, the only impactful bit of information was whether a winter snow was going to come through the area, and did he need to go stock up on anything before potentially being stranded for a day or so. Not a prepper, he nonetheless kept his condo storage room well supplied with jugs of water and cans of soup — as well as toilet paper, of course.

He flicked the gas log remote and the flames popped up with a slight whoosh, the blower fan kicking on automatically. The heat radiated throughout the room, and he glanced out the large two-floor windows as the sun crested. 

His phone vibrated.

“Hello?” he said, even though the caller’s name popped up on his phone screen.

“Stewbie!” crackled the voice. “We still on for today?”

He feigned ignorance.

”On for what?”

”Goddammit, you forget we’re going hunting?”

“Oh, yeah Brent. I didn’t forget. Just messing with you. What do I need to bring?”

“I got everything. You got warm clothing? ‘Cause it’s gonna be colder than a witch’s titty!”

“I guess. Jeans and flannel shirt. An old wool sweater and corduroy jacket.”

“Layers are good. Boots?”

“I got boots.”

“Not new ones, I hope. Cause you’ll get all blistered up if they’re new and I sure as hell don’t want to carry you back to the Jeep.”

“No, they’re not new. And I have those socks that wick up the moisture.”



“Be by in about 40 minutes.”

“Do I need to bring bottled water?”

“I got all that, don’t worry. Plus I have camo overalls I’ll lend you. And urine.”


“Fox and deer urine. Gotta have the right smells for those does. Oh, I made a rhyme!” he laughed. “See you soon!” 

Stew clicked the disconnect call button. He liked Brent. The two were not at all alike. Oil and vinegar, he often described their friendship.

Brent was a man’s man — in his own mind. In his seventies, his second wife died of cancer several years earlier. He had recently been diagnosed himself — with leukemia — which Stew knew enough about to cause worry about his friend.

But Brent could care less. “Carpe diem” was his mantra. And seize it he did. Hunting, skiing, weight-lifting, and women … He had made his fortune installing and maintaining swimming pools and hot tubs in central Florida — just at the early edge of the trend. He sold it a decade ago and still reaped profits as a silent partner. 

“I’m telling you, the babes I met putting in pools and hot tubs would blow your mind! And everything else, too!”

Brent looked like a combination of Mr. Clean, Charlie Chan, and Buddy Hackett.  Bald, he had let his Fu Manchu grow long, and his girlfriend wove several colorful beads into it. All he needed was a peg leg to complete the pirate look.

“Arghhh! Look alive, me matey!” he growled at the condo front door, his Jeep puffing white clouds of exhaust in the dark cold air.

They drove more than an hour into what Brent called dueling banjo territory. Stew was already lost after the first five minutes, and Brent turned onto backroad after backroad, finally veering down what looked like little more than a rutted path, causing the Jeep to toss and bounce. Stew was glad he had skipped breakfast.

“I figure these little roads are what the bootleggers use,” said Brent.

“Don’t you mean marijuana growers?”

“Nah. I think they still make hooch around here. You ever try it?”

“Uh, no. You go blind drinking that stuff.”

They slowed to a crawl, and Brent rolled down his window, peering off into the thick underbrush, then suddenly swung his wheel left and motored down what was little more than a creek bed. The bed finally emptied into a clearing, where grasses were waist-high. He stopped the Jeep and cut off the engine.

“We’re here! Well, almost. A few miles walking yet.”

“Define ‘few miles’,” said Stew.

“Six … more or less. We’re gonna hike in with our gear.”



Continued …

The Old Boar

11 Nov


The Old Boar

By L. Stewart Marsden

The old boar padded his way slowly down the thin rivulet that had served as his pathway for decades. Younger, he was more energetic, huffing and snorting along the trail, sending out audible warnings to trespassers on what he considered his domain. His self-coronation was the result of many battles with would-be contenders, and back then he was sinewy and strong. Now, more massive, he carried a repute that served him well, as many younger bears were simply too in awe of his renown to challenge his rule.

From the top of Beech Mountain, down into the valley, coursing up and over Sugar Mountain, and along the ridge of Grandfather, he knew the way by rote. That inner map served him well in dark moonless night, or when pursued during season by hunters.

As more humans invaded and built homes and stores and complexes, he tried to block out the inevitable from his mind. Now his great head was misted over white along his brow and under his chin. Like hoar-frost in early winter. Now his massive shoulders felt each plod more sharply, as years of winter sleep and foraging from spring through fall caused bone to grate upon great bone.

The sun poured over the ridge to the east, and the old boar squinted to see — but to no avail. He stumbled in his blindness, and slowly righted himself. Squatting, he lifted his head to the air, sniffing for any scent of danger, but his old cracked nose failed to discern anything that mattered. He headed for his rubbing tree, and shoved his back along its now barkless trunk, scratching the one place under his brittle fur that chronically itched. He let out a sigh of relief and pleasure. 

For the old boar, pleasures were fewer now. He was disinterested in mating as he had enough progeny to push the resources of the area beyond capacity. Plus, they tended to be ungrateful heirs and were obviously merely biding time.

He dined on tiny voles he scratched from the earth near the humans’ homes. The creeks were virtually troutless, and offered up the occasional crayfish or newt. The wild blackberry bushes were normally stripped by the oddly-skinned humans before he could lumber up the slopes for a meal. Roots and fungi had grown tasteless to him.

Sometimes, although not often, he considered what one of those humans might taste like, and imagined hiding in the brush near the blackberries and picking one off. A human, that is. But his great uncle warned him. “There will be dire retribution dealt by the humans.” He should know. He went a bit crazy one spring and ravaged one of the humans on a trail at Roan Mountain. He was never seen again.

The trail forked. The old boar couldn’t remember which way to go for a moment. He tried to remember his mother’s words. Was it “In the spring, right is wrong; in the fall, take either or all.” Or was it the other way around? His stomach growled loudly. Was it spring? Had he just aroused himself from his leaf-bedded burrow? Or was if fall, and he was headed to that sanctuary? A sudden panic gripped him as he tried to remember. He finally chose to go right, and leave the other path for another day.

The trail descended down and across a small creek, where he refreshed himself. Then back up and over a knoll. The trees thinned out, and the old boar could see an open area of tall, dry grass ahead. The sun warmed the colors of the opening. He stopped at the edge of the clearing and sniffed and looked and listened, as his mother always told him to do before entering a clearing. “Stop. Sniff. Look and listen,” he heard her gruff but kind grunt.

A choke cherry, bare of its leaves, leaned precariously in the line of trees across the field, its limbs filled with large black crows. Suddenly the murder took flight, cawing and winging in a uniform arch across the deep blue sky. 

The old boar peered more intensely about.


He heard a strange click off to the right as he stretched out his front leg and entered the clearing. Turning his great head toward the noise, he knew instantly — he should have gone left at the fork. He sighed. He was too tired, too old, to run.







24 Sep


By Homer P. Nogginfogger

Dear Mr. Marsidoo (I hope I spelt it right),

Please publish the following essay of my opinion of what is bass-ackwards in this great nation of ours. I’ve limited it to three or four, but believe me when I say I coulda gone on and on. Nevertheless, every journey begins with a step, and this is my first step at being vocal, seeing as how every other jack-ass is allowed to scream and shout what they think. I’m gonna use that little comment you use so often to apply to this here below: my opinion and 75 cents will get you a cup of coffee anywheres. That excludes Starbuck’s, of course. Which I also exclude on a regular basis, if you know what I mean.

Thank you, Kind Sir,



Bass-akwards. One of the best words to de-scribe most of what ails this country and me.

Once notions was based on simple and plain logic: what’s mine is mine, and what’s yours is yours; and don’t do or say nothin’ to nobody you wouldn’t want done or said to you. You know, the Golden Rule thing.

Seems to me, though, as this nation has got older and sophisticateder — “wiser” some folks might say — we ain’t done more’n get things so turned around we don’t know which way is up anymore. We got things bass-ackwards, in other words.

Like marriage. Used to be a guy and a gal honeyed up to one another on the porch and listened to the radio and sipped lemonade. Then the guy would go ask her papa could they marry (her and the guy, that is — you have to be so clear about that these days), and the wedding would be planned down to the First Baptist Church. Wasn’t no super expensive deal. Friends and family brought a cover dish and the Oak Holler Boys would show up with the music, and there’d be a barn dance afterward.

Then the new couple would sneak off to the cabin he had built during their courtship and consummate the vows. Later that night, some of the wedding guests would show up a bit tipsy and proceed with a shivaree, banging pots and pans and sometimes firing a pistol or shotgun in the air.

And they’d have kids — enough to work the land and help bring in the harvest — and that would be that. 

Today you got to sign a prenuptial agreement, where nobody much makes out but the lawyers. It is a contract that says who gets what if who does what to whom. Kind of an albatross that hangs out, waitin’ for what has come to be very common in most marriages: divorce.

I ain’t sayin’ divorce didn’t happen way back when — it was just that it was more uncommon than common — and for a lot better reasoning than in-com-pati-bility! That’s a big way of sayin’ “we don’t get along anymore.”

My parents was married more than fifty years — and to each other! I know people these days been married nearly that long, but to two or three different spouses. So it don’t really count.

These days people go into marriage kinda with the attitude if they stay hitched for five or more years, they done good! But with that prenuptial in place, they figure they done even better! Seems these days people go into a marriage for what they can come out from it with, not with the mind of what can I put into it. Used to be “for better or worse” meant the good and the bad times, period. Today, it’s better until I figure I’m worse off. That’s bass-ackwards, I think.

Then the divorce, and the only ones benefitting are the lawyers — onct again! Everyone else is miserable and angry!

And insurance. Again, bass-ackwards! I pay money to a company that is betting I’m not gonna get sick, crash my car, say something horribly bad about someone else, or any number of really bad things — while I’m betting I am! Then, when something bad does happen, the insurance company — who has already invested my money in land and bonuses and paying off the politicians — says to me, “You can’t have your money less you can prove the bad thing meets our guidelines! What guidelines! I never saw no guidelines! Well, it’s in the fine print. And I get a letter back from the insurance company saying my claim is denied. Or, if I do get any money — say for a car accident — they begin deducting. Depreciation. Mileage. Wear and tear. More if it’s my fault, yet still some even if it’s not my fault. And then they do what? They raise the amount I have to pay them! Bass-ackwards!

And, finally, taxes. I know. Ain’t nobody likes them. But some of us get the tax-shaft. You know, good, honest workin’ folk. We grind and we sweat, and we pay out to our country, state, county, city, and through sales taxes on just about anything and everything until there’s barely enough to squeeze out for the rent and the water and the lights and a trip to the grocery store. That don’t include what I call the luxuries: clothing, gas, and going to the doctor (by God, the government has got us by the scrotum on that one, too). 

So I wear my jeans and shirts until they’re so thin they don’t even make good rags. And by the time I give up on a pair of shoes, I can scoop up a dime off the street with the leather that flaps as I walk.

Even if I get a raise from where I work on account of inflation, it is eat up with higher taxes! Social Security. Medicare (do I care?). And other stuff I never see. But I hear Congress has a fine time with those dollars!

And the rich? Hell, I personally know a rich man brags every April about the amount of taxes he pays: nuthin! So many loop-holes and what-not, that only the rich understand and can take advantage of. Plus their high-paid tax accountants. Me? I go down to the Y and some volunteer helps me file my taxes for free. But even that might go away, the way the Infernal Revenuers are headed. Even the E-Z tax form takes a PhD to figure out. No matter what, I always pay more.

Bass-ackwards! The rich need to pay their fair share. Make it across the board fair — like five percent or so. Way it is, them that’s got, gets. Like at the bank, where when you apply for a loan ‘cause you need the money, but you get refused on account you need the money. Whereas the rich get all they want, and they don’t need it! I seen a skit on that on TV one night, where a poor man trying to keep his house is rejected. Then a rich man comes in and the banker keeps shoveling money to him by the handful. I laughed and cried at the same time. Even if it’s funny, the truth hurts.


I know. Lynn Anderson made a record, “I beg your pardon,” and truly I don’t expect a rose garden. Pretty as those flowers are, they can still stick you with their thorns. And I know that the Almighty Grave is the great equalizer. But none of that makes me feel better at the present. Maybe in the Hereafter I’ll feel better. Sure hope so.

And even if these bass-ackwards things didn’t exist, we’d still have a time of it. I know that. But I’m not asking much. Just the three. Get ‘em right, for God’s sake. Then I can turn my mind to more important matters.

Yours truly,

Homer P. Nogginfogger



We focus so much on our differences, and that is creating, I think, a lot of chaos and negativity and bullying in the world. And I think if everybody focused on what we all have in common – which is – we all want to be happy. [No, really … the quote actually ends this way]

— Ellen DeGeneres


Winnowing Time

23 Sep


The Winnowing Time

By L. Stewart Marsden


 A wise king winnows out the wicked;

he drives the threshing wheel over them.

— Proverbs 20:26, NIV


 The magistrates are God-fearing gentlemen, but merciful overmuch,—that is a truth,” added a third autumnal matron. “At the very least, they should have put the brand of a hot iron on Hester Prynne’s forehead.

— The Scarlet Letter, by Nathaniel Hawthorne



No other event in the storied history of the country had ever signaled such an abrupt turn from its previous momentum.

The President strode confidently to the podium, situated below the Lincoln Monument facing the Washington Mall. The reflecting pool, which ordinarily would have mirrored an upturned Washington Monument, had been drained and scrubbed clean so that spectators could gather in the area.

Throngs were lined and packed together like chattel. It was, at long-last, one of the greatest gatherings of humanity ever assembled to hear a Presidential Address.

The President tapped the mic — more out of nervousness than the need to check it. His lithe index finger produced several rapid “boofs” on impact.

He stared out before him, and turned to survey those to either side and behind him. Among the sunglassed Secret Agents were a plethora of other armed and battle-prepared law officers and military personnel.

He cleared his throat, and began.

“Jesus said in the Book of Matthew, ‘His winnowing fork is in his hand, and he will clear his threshing floor, gathering his wheat into the barn and burning up the chaff with unquenchable fire.’

Looking up, his audience was a study of stern and knowing expressions, stone faced and somber. Many nodded slowly. Some murmured “Amen” under their breaths. Others braced themselves with anticipation. Husbands reached for the hands of their wives. Mothers pulled their babies in close against the brisk October air. Children fidgeted arms and other body parts, and were nudged to keep still by parents, grandparents, or even complete strangers.

In a raspy voice, the President continued.

“Today is the most auspicious day in this great country’s history. It marks a time for direction that has never, ever, been embarked upon before. We have come to a precipice, and the world demands we make this leap of faith.

“The psalmist said, ‘Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress, my God in whom I trust.’

He looked up again at the sea of faces around him. There was not a cloud in the sky … nothing to deter him from continuing, no rabble nor protests. Everything, every one, was focused — at long last — on him. The clicks of cell phones sounded like insects: chit, chit, chit, chit, chit. Hundreds of news video cameras whirred nearly noiselessly. The battery of media mics on the podium seemed to stand at attention, hungry for his next words.

“We are the chosen. We are the answer to the confusion and horror that proliferates throughout this incredible world. We are the truth against the lies that seek to destroy us, the only hope for the world. But like that simple child’s song, I will not let our light be extinguished! I’m gonna let it shine! Will you let your light shine, too?”

The first eruption of enthusiasm split the silence like a sudden storm, and rolled around the podium and to the sides and down the drained reflecting pond to the outer trees and streets until Washington sounded like an old lion, lifting its head against the dark, roaring with unequaled strength and might.

He lifted his small hands above his head, quieting the tide of cheers. His eyes were bright, and he licked his lips repeatedly, as if savoring what had long been denied him most his life.

“This — this will not be an easy task. We know God is our protector, and is pointing us toward the desert. I will lead you to and through that desolate desert to the Promised Land to the very best of my ability. And, with the Lord’s strong arm, we will prevail!

An eruption of ecstasy swarmed over the Capitol.

As on cue, a battery of drones silently appeared over the throngs and hovered. No one noticed.

“In any righteous endeavor, there will be naysayers, and those who will work from within and without to try to delay our mission and cause us to stumble.”

Hints of boos rifled through the air.

“But!” he said several, hands again in the air until the seething ended, “but — my fellow Americans — we have the promise the Lord will command his angels to protect us, “For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone. You will tread on the lion and the cobra; you will trample the great lion and the serpent.”

It was as if a Hail Mary pass had been caught in the end zone in the waning seconds of the Super Bowl, propelling the Redskins to victory over the Patriots. Confetti dropped from the bays of the drones hovering overhead. Near pandemonium threatened to disrupt the event until the President raised one arm and hand over his head, calling for calm and quiet. It had the opposite effect, and nearly every person in the area raised an arm in response.

“Please! Please — thank you … thank you. Let’s continue, please!” 

Those in uniform began to mill about, ordering spectators to be quiet. Finally the chaos settled, and the President glanced at his watch and tapped the mic again.

“Thank you! Thank you all! But — but there is much work to be done. 

“Our country is called the United States of America. United. Think of that for a minute. Not divided, not of separate mind or philosophy — but united. And the only way this country will bring our world out of bedlam will be if we present a clear and united front.

“That’s what we did during the greatest war of all times, World War II. Some of you still remember, right?”

A trickle of laughter.

“Let me tell you, America is going to once again reach the greatest and most epic level of leadership this world has ever seen or known before, and we are going to do that because we … are … UNITED!

Again, pandemonium. Again, the President’s arm extended. Again, the crowds responding with uplifted arms. Again, armed uniforms controlling the respondees.

“So, how do we become united? This country of different races and backgrounds and heritages and religious beliefs? How does this great nation of differences make it through to our greatest calling?

“By concentrating on one goal. By not letting those differences deter us. By uniting whole-heartedly, and remaining steadfast — despite the odds.

“You, my fellow Americans, my friends, my neighbors — are the ones who will make that happen. Put aside your differences. Put aside what you thought was so important and take up the flag and carry it forward into battle! And this IS a battle, make no mistake about that! Not just against the enemies of our great country, but those who refuse to join the cause as well! Yes! You know them: neighbors, people you work with. Even family. And that is very sad. Very sad indeed.

“We can contend with the threat of arms and weapons. We can overrun military obstacles. But — we cannot — I repeat, can NOT survive those pockets of cancer that spread doubt from within. Those cancers must be surgically removed!

“So I am asking each of you, as your Leader, to help us separate the wheat from the chaff. The good from the evil. That which is healthy from that which is useless. You are the grain — the great potential for making this planet great for the first time ever. America — the United States — will lead that effort through the desert and into the Promised Land!

“You are a light — one of many, many lights. So many lights. And you must not let your light be put out! EVER!

The Marine Band, positioned on the steps to the Lincoln Memorial, began playing. The tune was familiar, and people began to hum along as the band leader directed the musicians, then turned toward the Mall to synchronize the response.

The President began to hum as well, and as he did, paper messages began to drop from the drones, fluttering to reaching arms below.

“This little light of mine,” he sang, “I’m gonna let it shine …” 

The crowd joined in, “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine

“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine! Let it Shine, let it Shine, let it Shine!”

A child picked up one of the pieces of paper and read its message:

Do you know a doubter? A friend, a fellow worker, a teacher, or even someone in your family who will keep America from being United? Call this number. We won’t ask your name. Tell us who that person is, and we will take care of it from here. Again, you won’t be involved. Help us Keep America United, and help your Leader Make the World Strong! Your Leader and your God are counting on you! Call 1-800-468-2837 (DOUBTER) today!

She pressed the paper to her heart and began to sing loudly, “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine!”

Prep Boys – Introduction (1st revision)

29 Aug

1960s Collage Montage Of Many Heads by Vintage Images†


Prep Boys

By L. Stewart Marsden


The cauldron of change had begun to boil. It had long simmered since the end of the war, above the coals and ashes of shallow graves, where man after man, boy after boy, had fallen in battle and were thinly veiled by dirt and time. The famous fights: Bull Run, Shiloh, Murfreesboro, Gettysburg, Fredericksburg; and the lesser knowns: Hoke’s Run, Kessler’s Cross Lanes and Ivy Mountain all ground sinew and bone and blood and heart into thick, fertile mulch –– enough to spread across the cotton fields of a thousand plantations in the South.

For some, the gruel of that black-iron pot smelled hearty and enticing, bringing water to the mouth and a pang in the belly. The appetite was stirred by a waft of possibility, and those who would feast on change were impatient, constantly repeating “Is it ready?” 

Still others, fearing it should not be served out wholesale because of stomachs unused to fine cuisine, or so they said, warned it was not time, was not ready to be served, and they managed to cover the gaping mouth of the cauldron with a heavy, nearly impenetrable lid.

But like anything heating up on the stove that is covered with a lid, it was bound to boil over, and boil over it eventually did.

Multiple wars later, in far away lands against enemies obvious and not-so-obvious, during a time when the country had rested and refreshed from its addiction to lead and scold the world; when the pissing contest between Our Way and the Wrong Way had escalated to shoe banging and nuclear checks; the gruel began to seep under the lid.


†Until that time, America –– the one that “we” counted –– was scrubbed white and commercial-perfect. Only those of color who were adorned with white culture were included, and then sparsely, as though a tell-tale spicing of the stew, and barely noticeable.














Kicking the Tires

15 Jun


Kicking the Tires

By L. Stewart Marsden

My dad was an auto mechanic for years. On the weekends he and me used to work on an old jalopy he bought for practically nothing. Said it was his therapy. Well he musta had a severe case of the crazies on account he worked on that car till the day he died.

Sally, he called her. And she was the jumpin’ off point for many a life lesson I never forgot.

“Sally is just like a woman,” he said a lot. “She may be old, and may not work the way she did when she rolled off the assembly line, but she’s reliable and fixable. Not like the shiny new cars you see in the dealerships. No. And she wasn’t made for the smooth life of the highway, but the bumpy backroads.

“Once she’s back in shape, she’ll purr like a kitten and be the envy of every guy within three counties.

“Not like those fancy-finned gals with all kinds of gadgets. The ones what seems great the first time you take ‘em on the road, only to fall apart after not too long. The ones with built-in ob-so-lescence. Cosmetic crates, I call ‘em. Lemons with a fancy paint job.”

My dad’s ability to hone in on Sally as a universal roadmap to life was better than a lecture from a triple-PhD at some high-powered college or university. According to my dad, those guys had nothing but wind chimes for brains, which tinkled loudly whenever a fresh wind blew.

But Sally was the real thing. The true compass. From sex to marriage to being dependable and trustworthy as a worker. She was the rusted splotch-polished real McCoy example of how life should be, and once was.

“The thing about marriage is you are drawn by the sleek sexiness of a sedan or a convertible under the lights on the car lot. Never buy a new car at night, by the way.

“Oh, the shine and the new vinyl smell and the reflections of city lights as you cruise the boulevard make you think you’re in heaven! The AM/FM works just fine, and the steering is tight. The big rubber whitewalls grip the road on every turn, and you only have to tap your breaks to slow or stop on a dime. The clutch is taut, and the gears slide like butter from first to third.

“And there ain’t no crusted-over milkshake spills on the floorboard. The cigarette lighter is virginal, and the ashtray slick and clean. The visors hold where you place them, and the rear view mirror ain’t spotted.

“And it’s just fine as it can be, you say to yourself.

“But you worry. About the first bug marks on the silver bumper that won’t scrub off. Or a ding on the side where some jack-ass parked too close and swung open his door. Or the temperature gauge light popping on suddenly when you are miles from a filling station.

“That first slow leak from a nail in the road. Is that person going to stop at the light or not?

“It’s all a worrisome time.

“Plus your car needs the high-priced gas, not the cheapest leaded fuel, although you are tempted to ask the attendant to use regular instead, knowing your baby will eventually chug and shudder on the road –– right when you’re trying to pass a semi on a two-lane county back road with oncoming traffic.

“And you begin to try to save in other ways, avoiding the manufacturer plugs and points and air filters for the cheaper no-name brands. Less expensive motor oil. Maybe you don’t change the radiator fluid for a while. You quit hand-washing and waxing and zip through the new automats.

“Then it’s not too long before you hear the door hinges and springs creak loudly, and there is a crusted-over milkshake spill or two on the floorboard. The vinyl smell is gone. The cigarette lighter has turned gray-white on the coils, and the ashtray is dusted over and no longer shiny. Rust spots dot the bumpers and other chrome trim. And when you idle at a light, blue-gray puffs of lead-filled exhaust spew from your loud muffler.

“And you think to yourself, ‘It’s time for a trade in.’”

Don’t get me wrong. Dad loved Mom. And he always treated her like the fine Cadillac convertible he saw her to be.

But he was at his happiest when he worked on Sally. And he whistled. And he compared life to his life-long restoration project.

He and Mom stayed married sixty-seven years.

“Don’t ever forget, Son. You gotta kick a few tires to find the right one. And never –– ever –– buy a new car at night.”

Words to live by.

God’s Farm … A Story. Five.

3 May




God’s Farm … A Story


Chandler pickup up Billy for the meeting. Along the way they caught up. They had once lived next door to each other, and were like Yin and Yang as friends. Chandler was more athletic — always the aspiring quarterback type; Billy was less agile, bulkier, and more the grind-it-out lineman type. Chandler loved the beach — Holden and Ocean Isle. Billy, some lake in upper New York where the swimsuits were skimpy.

Even though Chandler’s parents were from Minnesota, he was a Dixie boy in the sense everything he saw on TV, like The Rebel and The Gray Ghost, which romanticized the South and vilified the North and the Yankees. He made no connection at the time with the horrors of slavery.

Billy’s father traced their lineage back to William Tecumseh Sherman. Chandler bit his lip whenever his friend brought that up. And he kept mum that his own father alleged their heritage traced back to Ulysses S. Grant. The alcoholic president. A Yankee.

But they were pals despite the differences, and it felt good to Chandler to reconnect. Billy understood Chandler’s need to do something. He had also mildly protested on the campus of Guilford College in Greensboro, where he was a freshman. He had repeated a year at Randolph Macon Military Academy prep school, otherwise he and Chandler were the same age.

“So what’s your plan?” asked Billy.

“I don’t really have one. Figured we’d go to the meeting and see what’s going on. You remember Alice Price?”

“Not really. A vague memory at best.”

“Her dad’s church bought the house I used to live in before I moved next door to you.”

“Yeah? She a babe?”

“Not that I can remember. Studied a lot. Wore glasses.”

“Oh. About my speed, then.”

Chandler laughed as they pulled into a space in the St. Mary’s Episcopal parking lot, and wandered about the church until finally being directed to the sanctuary. The meeting was already in progress. As they entered and the doors closed with a loud click, all eyes momentarily turned toward the duo. Chandler and Billy quickly found seats and the meeting continued.

“I will need to know by Monday who can commit to the trip. We will either provide the church van for transportation, or if there is overwhelming response, which I truly hope there is, we will charter a bus and there will be a charge for that, which would be more than the expense of the van, of course.”

A slim blonde, wearing thin-rimmed glasses, addressed a handful of people seated in the pews in front of her. Chandler recognized her to be Ann Price. Other than her living in his old house and the time he showed up on the doorstep of the Colonial residence to see “the old place,” he had not had much contact with her. During junior high he had never considered her or regarded her to be more than a studious and dutiful preacher’s kid. He was a bit surprised at her organized and officious manners, though she was still a bit stiff, he thought. He didn’t recognize any of the people gathered.

Off to the right, somewhat isolated from the main grouping of people, sat a balding man, dressed in shirt and tie. He was flanked by kids Chandler judged to be about his age, or perhaps younger, and dressed in a way he knew they were not from Emerywood. A teenage girl with long blonde hair, a skinny curly redhead, a black kid with an Afro and another burly kid with bushy hair comprised the band of obvious tagalongs.

Chandler raised his hand.

“A question? Oh, hi, Chandler!” Price recognized him. He stood nervously.

“Hi, Ann. What’s the purpose?”

She smiled patiently. “The purpose of what?”

“Of going to Washington. I know I came in late, and maybe you already covered that.”

Obviously a little irked at the interruption, Price gathered her thoughts.

“It is to demand that our government address several very important issues. Being there in person will help to flesh out the reality to our elected officials that we cannot as a nation continue along this path.”

“Which path?”

“You don’t know? Where’ve you been? The path to peace in Vietnam! The path to peace in the rights of black Americans! The equalization of women to men in terms of opportunity!”

Ah, he thought. The very triumvirate he had highlighted in his Shakespeare final exam.

“And you expect the politicians in Washington to even listen, much less respond?” Chandler’s father had at least taught him that politicians were in it for themselves. Less government the better. His dad’s favorite quote was Mark Twain’s: Politicians and diapers must be changed often, and for the same reason. He had struck a chord with Price, who was now more than a bit flustered.

“Do you have a better way? I mean by going to Washington at least the media will cover it. What bright plan do you have?”

“Well, it strikes me that you can’t have peace in the world, or peace in the country, until you have peace in the community.”

An uncomfortable pause filled the sanctuary.

He continued. “Look, I watched the protests on my campus this year. What has changed? We’re still in ‘Nam. Whites and blacks are still alienated. And the only thing the bra burning did was to pollute the air — which seems a bit ironic if you ask me.”

“Nobody asked,” Price said louder than she meant.

“Spend your energy organizing efforts to bridge these gaps here in High Point.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

“I don’t know! I’m new to this.”

“Obviously. Well, Chandler, I’m sure we all appreciate your thoughts and wisdom on the matter, but the fact is, we are going to Washington. We don’t have the time nor do we have the inclination to sidetrack from our original goal, which is, to go to Washington. Other than going to Washington, we will not be getting involved locally.”

Each time she said “going to” or “to go to” Price slowed down and enunciated the words, so that Chandler might understand that Washington was the intent. Chandler sat down, effectively put down.

In his defense, Billy stood and said a few choice words in the direction of Price that were more than angry, then sat, satisfied he had at least exercised his coveted right to express his opinion.

“Well!” she responded uncomfortably, “If there is no more discussion,” where she paused, and there were no other hands raised, “get back to me ASAP regarding your plans to go to Washington’ — (again with exaggerated emphasis) — and we will see you soon!”

Before Chandler could get to her to apologize for his disrupting the meeting, Price disappeared among the group that milled about her, perhaps to protect her, he thought. He and Billy stood and shrugged at each other as the balding man and his motley entourage approached. The man stuck out his hand to Chandler.

“I’m Tom Kirby,” he said, and Chandler shook his hand.

“Chandler. Chandler Wilson. This is my friend Billy.”

“Hello, Billy.” The man shook Billy’s hand.


“Chandler, what you had to say today is very interesting to me. Ever hear of the Kum Ba Ya?”

“I know the song.”

“I’m the director. We have an outreach ministry to the community that normally no one cares about. Kind of like what you were talking about in the meeting. We’re down on Greene in a warehouse the city lets us use. Think you can drop by some time? I’d like to talk to you about your ideas and where you’re coming from.”


Kirby handed Chandler a business card.

“Give me a call soon and we’ll set up a time, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“What about you, Billy? Interested?”

“Nah, not really. I’m here for moral support. I’m the kind of guy who would go to Washington to listen to the music.”

“At least you’re honest. Which is a rarity in Washington, by the way. See you guys.”

Kirby passed by and out of the church with his band of follows. The blonde girl had the redhead boy by the arm and was whispering nonstop in his ear. The redhead laughed out loud and turned back to look at Chandler, then winked and laughed again.

Later Chandler found out what the girl had said to the redhead that made him laugh.

“That’s the guy I’m going to marry!”





God’s Farm … A Story. Four.

27 Apr


God’s Farm … A Story.



Chandler hoped his confession would go much better than he could imagined. It always had in the past. This was not the first talk he and his father had had.

The earliest he could remember was when he was a child, and the family lived in a large two-story brick home on the sloping side of Colonial Drive. He could not remember what he had done, but it was the final straw for his mother, who had uttered the dreadful decree, “Wait till your father gets home.”

He figured she said that because, with him, her next disciplinary step would have been murder. Scoldings, spanking the hand, then the bottom, and finally whipping bare legs with a switch torn from the bumblebee bush outside the kitchen door comprised her repertoire of behavior modification. Plus, there were three of us, my two older sisters and younger brother, although Daniel was only a toddler.

He sat in the sun room “to think about his sins.” He didn’t really know what a sin was, except it must be bad, because the word echoed about the huge stone sanctuary from Dr. Watt’s on Sundays.

His friend who lived next door, and whose family was Baptist, said a sin was a kind of fish. He thought that because once he had looked in the baptismal pool where peoples’ sins were washed away, and noticed what he thought were fish in the water. It later turned out it was algae, and after several years of baptisms, people began coming out of the water only to develop severe skin rashes. The pool was finally drained of the sins, refilled and chlorinated against further sin infections.

Chandler and his family were Presbyterian, and members weren’t dunked, but sprinkled. If you were sprinkled as an infant, the baptism “stuck” for the rest of your life. There was no danger, therefore, of getting infected by sin, because you weren’t put in the font, and Dr. Watts towelled your head off afterwards. Chandler figured the worst that could happen to you was maybe head lice.

So he waited for his dad to come home, and when he heard the loud roar of the Corvette pull into the drive, began to get nervous.

“He’s in the sunroom thinking about his sins,” he heard his mother say when his dad walked through the front door. No hug or kiss. Just, he’s your problem now.

Chandler loved the way his dad smelled. It was a mixture of cigar and aftershave. So he had mixed feelings when the door opened to the sunroom, and his dad peeked in.

“Maybe we ought to do this in my office,” he said, lips pursed.

The office. Chandler had been to the office of the principal on his very first day as a first grader. He and his older sister Leigh (who should have known better) were late walking to school, and crossed the final street without the help of a crosswalk patrol guard, a Sixth grader with a white safety patrol belt strapped about his torso.

“Hey, you two! C’mere!” And they were hauled off to the principal’s office, whimpering along the way. He discovered that the rumors Dr. Dingman kept a large paddle hung on the wall next to his desk were true. Also true was the lettering on the paddle: Board of Education.

Chandler’s dad closed the door to his office and pointed to a chair, where the young boy sat obediently. He asked the offense Chandler had committed.

Chandler told him.

“Are you sorry you did it?”


“Will you ever do it again?”


Now for the punishment. Chandler sat up straight, prepared to take it like a man.

“When I smack my hands together, I want you to yell and scream, okay?”

Wha –– ? Okay!

“Do you think you can make some tears?”

Think so.

His dad slapped his hands together, and Chandler wailed loudly. This went on for about thirty seconds, and his dad stopped, then opened his arms to Chandler, who hugged his hero for several precious minutes, really crying now.

Chandler’s dad was an only child. His father had died in the Great Flu Epidemic of 1916. At the time they lived in Luverne, Minnesota, near the southwest corner of the state. His dad’s father contracted the flu in October, and his condition worsened as he did not respond to treatment. Actually, he did respond, because the treatment killed him. It was believed that fresh air was part of the cure for the flu, and the windows of the bedroom his father lay ill in were kept wide open. He died in November of pneumonia, brought on by the flu and exacerbated by the freezing Minnesota “fresh air.”

Chandler’s grandmother, Bapa, was pregnant with his dad at the time, and moved in with Great Aunt Vi, the matriarch of the Wilson family, a widower whose husband had owned the town bank. She inherited the deeds and titles of nearly all the farmers in Rock County, and was more than glad to raise Charles Chandler as her own –– conditionally, of course. Bapa was a school teacher at her husband’s death, and Great Aunt Vi secured her pledge not to remarry. The payoff? Charles C. Wilson, II would become her sole heir to a considerable estate.

As a result Chandler’s dad was reared (the correct term, his grandmother insisted. You raise chickens and cows, you rear children) by his mother and great aunt. There was no male present in his life at the time –– other than his friends.

He had no idea how to rear a son. And, as his nature was in the more lenient direction, he abhorred the thought of striking any of his children, and all were coddled by him, much to his wife’s consternation.

Chandler uncapped a green bottle of Coke, and pried the top off a can of Charles’ Chips to eat as he awaited his father’s return home from work. He had avoided any conversation about his impending confession to his mom, murmuring things like “fine,” and “okay drive” and “I’m bushed” to her questions. He had already dumped his duffle crammed with dirty clothes in the laundry room, and Virgie Mae was busy starting loads of laundry.

He heard the garage door below open automatically as his father pulled into the driveway in the Stingray. He heard it close. He heard his father’s heavy steps on the wooden stairway thumping up to the main floor of the house. His father was whistling Oklahoma, one of his favorite musicals. When he came through the door at the top of the steps, he saw his son sitting with the can of potato chips in his lap.


Chandler put the chips and Coke down and stood.

“Hi, Dad!”

“God it’s great to have you home! How long did the drive take?”

No matter where they went, family always greeted each other with an accounting of how long it took to get wherever, like the beach.

“Took me three and a half hours.”

“Not bad! Not bad at all!”

“Dad, I need to talk to you about something.”

“Can it wait till after dinner? Haven’t hugged your mom and I’m starved! Where’s Daniel?”

“Next door I guess at the Lynch’s.”

“Can I fix you a G and T? I mean, you are a college man, right?”

“Sure, Dad. That’d be great.”

Which was the way it went for two days –– his dad putting off the talk because of this or that, which was perfectly fine with Chandler. He began to think he might be able to get away without any kind of confession until his grades arrived in the mail. But even then, since he was expecting the grades and knew when the postman came by, he could intercept them. Perhaps it would be better for all concerned if his kept this bit of news from his parents for a few years –– say ten or twenty. Then he could bring it up in a laughing manner, as if looking back into the past at everything he had done they didn’t know about.

“What you don’t know can’t hurt me,” he thought, realizing that was not exactly the way the phrase went.

On the third day, he opened the High Point Enterprise, and drifted through the various sections. World News, local news, sports news, social news, and finally, community news.

A photo of a girl he knew was featured, with the headline, Price Organizes Local Group For Peace March on Washington. Alice Price! Her father was a minister, and the church he was pastor of had bought the two-story brick Wilson home on Colonial years before.

“This is fate!” A box at the end of the article gave the day, time and location of the organizational meeting. He tore the item from the paper, folded it, and put it into his billfold, then walked quickly to the phone and dialed.

“Is Billy there? Hey, Billy, what are you doing this coming Thursday afternoon? There’s a meeting about organizing a group from here to attend the Washington peace rally this summer. Want to go?”

He and Billy chatted a bit, then Chandler hung up. He was psyched! He was going to actually do something to make up for all of his sins.

“This calls for a beer!” And opened the refrigerator.










God’s Farm … A Story. Three. Point. Five.

25 Apr



God’s Farm … A Story.


Chandler jammed on the breaks, at the same time shoving in the clutch and downshifting to 2nd gear when he saw the bright red brake lights suddenly appear in the fog. The Firebird skidded slightly to the right towards the curve rail on the road, but he managed to bring the car to a stop before hitting it.

“Damn!” he said, holding his arms locked straight, close enough to the back of the semi trailer to read the mud flaps.

He had driven nearly ten miles without being in conscious control, lost in his memories and worries.

A hand appeared out of the driver’s side of the semi with thumbs up, either in a gesture meaning either “you need to drive stock cars,” or, “I’m okay –– you okay?”

Chandler flashed his lights “I’m okay,” and the truck continued forward slowly, navigating around a large boulder that had apparently fallen into the road and come to a rest in their southbound lane.

Both vehicles crept forward, emergency lights now flashing. Chandler hoped the truck driver radioed the nearest highway patrol station about the rock, otherwise some other fool might come speeding down the grade and not be so lucky.

Highway 52 was the best –– meaning quickest –– route to and from Blacksburg, and Chandler had driven it dozens of times in the past. He had no memory of passing through what he called The Slaloms –– a stretch of the steep two lane road that swooped down in hairpin curves just below Galax.

“Damn!” he repeated, and turned on the car radio, forgetting he would find nothing clear where he was in the mountains. Still shaking, he flipped off the radio  and reached an eight track tape of Crosby, Stills and Nash, shoving it into the tape player mounted under his glove compartment.

Our house
Is a very very very fine house
With two cats in the yard
Life used to be so hard
Now everything is easy ‘cause of you …

He and Teri had sung the lines at the top of their lungs not over a year ago. Sound turned up and windows rolled down; the wind in their faces and their hands tightly gripped on the console –– everything was easy ‘cause of her.

O wha tafoo liam.

They met on a blind date. He was home for spring break from Woodberry Forest where he was a junior. His childhood friend Judy Sloan had arranged the date, and she paired up with Sandy Lyle, Chandler’s best friend from school.

They went to see the movie In Cold Blood in Greensboro. Teri, who reminded Chandler of Sophia Loren, gripped his hand during the entirety of the film. Later, on the drive back to High Point, he and Teri snuggled and kissed in the back seat while Sandy chauffeured and chatted with Judy.

Teri Carson was his first love. While there were problems to overcome if the relationship was to grow, their love could handle anything.

He lived in the posh section of High Point, called Emerywood. She did not. He lived in a huge home with air conditioning and a two car garage. She did not. His father was a successful businessman making lots of money –– enough to send him off to private school where public school integration would not be a problem. Her father was an upholsterer for a small shop that renovated cars. Her mother sewed handbags in the basement of their small two-bedroom house using the vinyl fabric from discarded end rolls from her friends who worked in upholstery businesses and grabbed remnants for her at the end of the day.

Teri was, his father had hoped, a passing fancy.

But Chandler was slain by her. Smitten far worse than he had ever been smiled before, he liked to tell her. He even invited her to the Senior Formal at Woodberry that next fall. Woodberry Forest was and remains an elite prep school in the southern drawl area of Virginia, replete with acres of wandering rural grounds, the best education afforded south of the Mason Dixon, and steeped in a tradition of Southern aristocracy.

When the seriousness of the relationship became obvious to his mother, she nudged her husband to “do something about it.”

Chandler’s father invited Teri and him out to dinner on the occasion of her 18th birthday.

“We’ll go to the Plantation Supper Club,” he said.

Located on the edge of Jamestown between High Point and Greensboro, the club offered good food and dancing to live music. Not exactly a club per se, it was still somewhat exclusive, and offered brown bagging –– a requisite for success in the city limits of Jamestown, which had not yet voted in liquor by the drink.

On Sundays, the club served a ridiculous buffet, with meats and fish and all sorts of upper end dishes and desserts. Sundays were Family Day. Years earlier Chandler remembered that children were invited by the band leader to come up and direct the band in order to earn a huge, multi-colored lollipop –– one as big as a dinner plate. Chandler and his older sisters were prompted by their parents to go up, and Carrie and Leigh took turns swishing the baton in the air while the band played a popular tune to a beat not even close to their arm waving.

At Chandler’s turn, he asked if he could sing a song instead of leading the band.

“What song do you want to sing?”

Jesus Loves Me.

The diners and the band leader laughed.

“Well, that’s fine with me. Do you boys know the song?” He was pretty sure it was not in their repertoire of favorite music. They grinned back at the leader.

“Okay, then. Jesus Loves Me it is. Hold this mike close to your lips, son –– and sing away!”

The diners laughed again.

Chandler began softly.

“Jesus loves me, this I know …”

His mother often recalled the moment that this sweet little angel of a voice began, a bit nervous at first, but in perfect pitch.

“For the Bible tells me so …”

The band, still trying to figure out the tune in the background, was hushed to silence by the band leader, and Chandler continued a cappella.

“Little ones to him belong,
They are weak and he is strong …”

Then the diners began to sing along, like a congregation at church in accompaniment to a church soloist on the chorus.

“Yes, Je-sus loves me …
“Yes, Je-sus loves me …
“Yes, Je-sus loves me …
“The Bible tells me so.”

Chandler’s dad said you could have heard a pin drop, and Chandler’s grandmother, who was with them, pulled out a handkerchief to dry her eyes.

Grabbing the lollipop payoff, Chandler hopped down the steps and ran back to the table.

It was this same location Chandler’s dad took Teri and him for her birthday dinner –– though not on a Sunday afternoon.

A band played various tunes onstage, again led by the now aging band leader. The maitre d seated them close to the stage. He handed out menus and asked for their drinks. Teri and Chandler were not of legal age, but Chandler’s dad requested a chilled bottle of Chardonnay and glasses for everyone.

“Not to worry,” he said. “This is a private club and the police know better than to raid it!” He winked at Tina, who blushed.

They ate their dinner, chatting nervously about practically nothing, except for his dad. “So, Teri, what does your father do?” And “Teri, do you have college plans?” And “Teri, have you been to Cozumel? We went last winter. A great place to escape the cold weather here.”

Teri found it difficult to respond. Chandler seethed, trying to make eye contact with his dad to get him to stop the embarrassing grilling.

Suddenly the band leader broke off the music and, stepping forward to the edge of the stage, announced in circus barker style,

“La-dees and Gen-telmen! Now for the main attraction of this evening’s entertainment, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! From the lurid lairs of New Orleans, where legs and hips and other feminine parts gyrate and leave you nothing to speculate! Please welcome in whatever manner you wish, the bump-and-grinder who has come to remind you what a measure of pleasure is all about, from Winder, Georgia where –– truly –– nothing could be finer! The quintessential snake dancer of sensuality … Miss LAVI-TAAAAAA … HOT!”

The band launched into bump and grind mode as a spotlight focused on the side curtain of the stage. A net stockinged leg slowly emerged — like a writhing snake. Chandler suddenly realized that Tina was the only woman in the club, and the other tables were occupied by delighted and overly tippled men. He and his father were the only ones wearing ties and jackets.

Out squirmed Miss Lavita Hot, dressed only in a lacy bra and panties, plus the net stockings held up by a black garter belt. About her shoulders she held outstretched a see-through shawl. Her assets rippled with each step, and her more-than-ample breasts swayed like pomegranates in the wind as she wriggled onto the stage under the spot light.

Later at home, an enraged Chandler screamed at his father, who seemed as surprised as both he and Tina at the striptease that ensued a mere feet from their table.

“YOU PLANNED THIS ON PURPOSE!!! Oh, God, Dad! And TOTALLY like The Graduate, too! Jeesh! What the hell were you thinking?”

His dad’s sheepish responses only added fuel to his rage. Still, Charles C. Wilson, II held on to his insistence that it was all a horrible mistake, and he didn’t mean to embarrass Tina, and yes, he liked his son’s girlfriend, and not to worry –– this, too, will pass.

“I’m the victim of circumstance!” he pled to no avail.

Owha ta foo liam.

As he neared High Point, Chandler could feel the blood beating a pathway up his carotid arteries to his brain. He gripped the wheel and tried to calm himself. After all, the roles were about to be reversed. Instead of his father being the defendant, Chandler was about to go before his father and plead nolo contendere, except in this case, the guilt was not in question –– only the sentence.

He had eventually forgiven his father (who never confessed), and hoped that he would receive his father’s compassion for his own stupidity. His mother? She was another story. She had never denied help to plot to rescue her first-born son from someone she saw as an adversary. On the other hand, Chandler knew better than to ask his mother regarding her complicity. Plus, her rule of thumb was if you aren’t asked, don’t tell.

As far as her punishing him, she would simply say she was “disappointed” –– which was far worse than forty lashes.

All to quickly he found himself turning up the driveway to his house. He hoped his father was at work, or better, was away on business. He parked the car and set the hand brake. He hesitated, breathing a prayer.

“Lord, if you are there, I’m asking for your help.”

This is getting to be a pattern in my life, he thought.











God’s Farm … A Story. Three.

22 Apr


God’s Farm … A Story.


The drive home at the end of the quarter was a time for reflection and self-castigation. Chandler remembered a skit performed during his time as a junior counselor at Camp Cheerio during the summer. Camper volunteers were selected to join The Secret Society, and were lined up in front of the camp in the dining hall. They were told once they figured out the significance of the secret chant, they were to whisper it in the ear of a counselor and could sit down.

“Here’s the sacred chant. Repeat it very slowly after me, with awe and reverence,” one of the counselors directed them. “O-wha …”

“Owha,” the campers repeated slowly.

“Tafoo …”




“Now, say it again, only quicker.”




And, one by one, the campers began to realize the significance of the chant, they whispered it into the ear of the counselor, beet red in the face as the rest of the camp began to titter and laugh aloud.

“Oh what a fool I am!”

That’s me, he thought. A big, fat-ass fool!

He groaned and shook his head with remorse during the entire trip as he recalled his parents’ expectations and his failure to measure up. How Hump Day, which first began on Fridays, gradually slipped back to Thursday, and then Wednesday. How the fraternity had become the hub of his existence, and school and studies an inconvenience that loomed on the periphery of his consciousness.

Gotta paper to write.

Have another beer!

Gotta important class early tomorrow morning.

Have another beer!

He vaguely remembered house-hopping one night in the middle of the week after a $2 all-u-can-drink keg party. What he couldn’t remember at the time was what was that phrase again? Beer after whiskey, mighty risky; whiskey after beer, never fear? Or was it the other way around?

Have another beer!

Someone poured him a large Dixie cup of straight vodka and dared him to drink it in one gulp. “Never dare a daredevil,” he replied. And to the cheer of blurry and bleary-eyed spectators, he drained it. Then someone handed him another Dixie cup.

Have another beer!

As he staggered up North Main Street towards the Delta Pi Zeta frat house (aka, Zeta Zoo), Chandler noticed a harvest moon rising in the black sky above, and tilted his head back and howled like a wolf. In his stupor, he imagined he was a werewolf, and his timing was incredible. Wednesday night services at the Main Street Baptist Church had just let out, and very prim and proper and perfect parishioners streamed out of the front door.

Ha-woooooo!” he wailed loudly, the eyes of every church member drawn to his direction.

Snarling, he leapt over a picket fence and ran though a yard to escape what he imagined was the angry mob chasing him. Dogs began barking as he caromed off bushes and sheds and clotheslines in his frantic efforts to find his way back to the fraternity house.

Owha ta foo liam, he muttered to himself at the memory.

Then there was the time he and Joe, a fraternity brother, were walking at night from the Zoo to another frat house. It was winter, and snow had fallen, and he and Joe reeled and slipped in laughter up the sidewalk.

“Watch this!” Joe said, and scooped a handful of snow which he packed into a perfect snowball. A sputtering Volkswagen bug was struggling up the hill, it’s rear wheels spinning in the snowy slush. A southpaw, Joe cocked his arm and let fly a perfect throw which smacked the driver’s side window. The bug’s breaklights glared as two huge men crawled out of the tiny car. Each wore a Virginia Tech football letter jacket, and as they approached, one angrily shouted,

“Who is the fuckin’ moron that threw that snowball, ass holes?”

Joe and Chandler looked at each other, then around. They were the only fuckin’ moron ass holes to be seen.

Chandler stepped forward. He wasn’t small, but he was nowhere nearly as big as the jocks bearing quickly down on them.

“It was me,” he confessed. “You guys know Rod Caughlin?”

“Who the hell is Rod Caughlin?” growled the bulky driver, his grizzly-sized paws balled into iron mallets.

“Rod’s a freshman who plays for the Hokies. He and I played football together in high school.” Chandler hoped the association would somehow get him and Joe a reprieve. As he remembered the scene, it struck him, along with his Dear Professor Calloway letter, he was in the habit of doing things like that.

“Don’t know no fuckin’ Rod!” the grizzly bear snapped, poised ready to knock somebody’s head off. His passenger, not quite as big, but no less imposing, grabbed the bear by the sleeve.

“Wait a minute, Larry! Let’s think this through.”

Chandler immediately liked the other guy.

“You know what Coach told you. Let it go. They’re punks.”

“Ass-holes,” Larry corrected.

“Ass-holes. We gotta party to get to.” Then he turned to us. “Let me advise you guys to leave the snow on the fuckin’ ground, and to quit while you still have your heads.”

Chandler was about to say, “Don’t you mean quit while you’re ahead?”, but thought better of it.

When he and Joe reached the other fraternity they began to boast about the snowball incident, including the fact that “Larry” had backed down because of his friend’s intervention. Someone in the know countered,

“That’s not why. That Larry is Larry Creekmore, a starting defensive lineman who got in trouble last week because he broke into a store on Main when he was drunk. Claiborne threatened to put him on the taxi squad if anything else happened. Otherwise, you would both now be bloody pulp.”

Owha tafoo liam.