Danger

The danger is not that we have a private conversation in our home.  The danger is that it is stolen and broadcast to the public to ostracize us.  The danger is not what I say. The danger is that I can not say it.  The danger is not that we have a president and congress that is taking our rights away.  The danger is that we do nothing to stop them.  The danger is not that our president lies to us.  The danger is that we allow it.  The danger is not that we don't take care of someone.  The danger is that we take care of them forever.  The danger is not the freedom of the press.  The danger is that the press is giving up that right.  The danger is not giving up.  The danger is  giving in.  Whether you agree or not, you have the right to vote for your convictions.  The danger is not voting for them.  This is my opinion, and as of now I have the right to it. 

Jimmie Ray and the Winstons

  
 The single light bulb, swinging at the end of the cord hanging from the ceiling, cast moving shadows around the dirty room of the warehouse.  The men have been here since mid afternoon. At that time the sun was shining brightly through the long bank of windows, at the top of the block wall.  The dust and grime of the city showed clearly  with the  sun streaming in.  Loading the boxes onto the pallets was easy then, but the sun has been down a long time. Jimmy Ray is as weak now as the single light bulb.  He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out the pack of Winston cigarettes, taps one out and lights it.  Taking a deep drag of the cigarette, he pauses to reflect on his sorry life.
     Times have been rough for a long while now, and Jimmy Ray took the first job that he could find.  It was hard work, long hours and low pay.  It was going to last just long enough to get him to something better.  That was ten years ago and he is still here.  He finds it impossible to leave.  The working conditions are intolerable, tantamount to slavery conditions.
Mr. Bigguns was a terrible person and a worse boss.  He was of average height, but his pussle-gutted stomach overpowered the rest of his body.  Years of inactivity had shrunk his legs and they were just a little more thank pipe cleaners.  His dark beady eyes did not belie his terrible disposition.  The old flop hat that he wore down low over his eye brow was dirty and matched his yellow stained teeth.  He had chewed on cigars for the majority of his life and  was not about to stop now, teeth be damned.  He demanded loyalty from his workers and his paid goons saw to it that he received it.  He never left the room other than to take care of necessities.  He always leaned back in the wooden roll about  chair, with his feet propped up on the old wooden desk,  Over the years, deep grooves had been gouged in the top of the desk by his heavy black leather soled shoes.
     Three men worked the floor and John Paul drove the fork lift into the trailer to retrieve the pallets.  He then placed them on the floor in front of  Jimmie Ray, Joe Frank ad Frankie Joe.  Their job was to open the containers, remove the product from the large box a package it into smaller boxes that could be camouflaged easily with respectable logos that would not arouse suspicion.  At first the smell of the illegal weed was overpowering, but Jimmie Ray had grown accustomed to it.  Now it actually smelled pretty good.  It was a redundant job and they had done it so long, that they did not need a scale, just eyeballed it.  That was ok with Mr. Bigguns, as long as it did not go over three pounds per box.
     Jimmie Ray wanted out, but his will was weak.  He was present when John Bob, frustrated by the working conditions, up and quit.  Just as he reached the door, Mr. Bigguns, always present, shot him in the back of the head.  He cussed as the blood spurted onto the weed.  "Don't throw it away, we'll just let it dry and send it to London's East Side." He said.  "Tell the dealer there that it is red weed and his addicts will love it."  He gave no sign of remorse for John Bob, other than the fact that two of his goons had to leave to dispose of the body.  Every month, after that, some poor soul had to be sacrificed to satisfy the blood taste.
     The longer that Jimmie Ray worked there, the deeper into despair he sank.  When he was off work, he knew that he was being watched.  His only source of pleasure was Katie Belle.  She was nearing her prime as a street walker and was in a state of blues, herself.  Both of them were walking the street at the end of their respective shifts, when they met.  Katie Belle was exhausted and walking bowlegged as she reached for the door handle of the all night café.  Jimmie Ray reached down and grabbed it first, turned to smile at Katie Belle  and shoved the door open for her.  It had been a long time that some one had shown her a courtesy for no reason and she smiled back.  She invited him to join her at a dirty table in the back.  There they connected and talked for hours about nothing.  The blinking Coors  red neon light gave each of them a better impression of the other, than would ordinarily be seen.  It was not love at first sight or even lust, but just a feeling of comfort that each needed.
     They always sat at the same dirty old table at the rear of the dimly lit café.  Most times they sat alone, but not tonight.  Two of Katie Belle's co-workers were already there and they joined them. As they sat down a couple of Jimmie Ray's friends showed up.  As they all sat around and reminisced, the mood became dark.  Dreams had been put on hold and finally died, lives ruined.  Now they were locked into their lives and no one was happy.  No amount of liquor could change that.
     Shortly before dawn, Joe Freddy from Jimmie Ray's work joined the forlorn group.  Jimmie Ray was glad to see him, for he was normally in a good mood.  But not tonight.  Jimmie Ray could see immediately that his friend was despondent.
     "I have been looking for you Jimmie Ray," he said.
      "Yeah, what's the matter?"
     "Let's go outside where we can talk."
     "O k, I'll be along in a minute."
     No one even noticed when Joe Freddy showed up or left.  Jimmie Ray was going to say goodnight to his friends, but they were all out of it, with their heads down lost in a better time somewhere else.  He just got up and walked toward the front of the café along the unpainted floor boards, scattered with bits of food that had been there far too long.  It was a long walk to the front and a sense of doom settled in on top of the depression he was already holding up.
     As he opened the front door and stepped out into the predawn light, he saw the sawed off shot gun in Joe Freddy's hands.  Joe Freddy looked as if he were going to cry.  "I'm sorry Jimmie Ray, but if I don't do this, Mr. Bigguns  will kill my family."
     A sudden feeling of compassion came over Jimmie Ray and a surprising sense of relief.  His hard times were about to end and he was glad.
     "Here Joe Freddy" and he took off his only valuable possession and offered it to Joe Freddy.  "Take my father's watch and wear it with pride."
     That seemed to upset Joe Freddy and the tears he was trying to hold back came pouring out.
     "Go ahead Joe, t will be o k."
      Joe pulled the trigger, but the old gun miss fired.  The wood barrel support fell off as Joe Freddy tried to unjam the gun.  As he broke the barrel open and ejected the unspent 12 gauge shell Jimmie Ray began to remember happier times.  As the dawn broke upon the scene it brightened Jimmie Ray's spirits, but wrecked havoc on Joe Freddy. Just as he loaded another shell into the barrel and closed the breach, Frankie Joe rushed onto the scene yelling at Joe Freddy.  As Joe Freddy turned to answer, Jimmie Ray sank to the ground.  His legs and his nerves had given out on him.  "Joe Freddie, stop, don't do it!"  exclaimed Frankie Joe.  "Mr. Bigguns just had a massive heart attack and died.  "Bot of you are safe now"
     Joe Freddy sat down beside Jimmie   Ray, buried his head in his hands and sobbed uncontrollably.  Jimmie Ray reached over to comfort his friend.  "Come on back in and let's have us a drink."  As he got up Jimmie Ray reached into his shirt pocket and pulled the pack of Winstons out.  He tapped out three cancer sticks and passed them around.  As he struck a match on the side of the blue match box he said, "That news was better than sex."  He took a deep drag off the cigarette, pulling the smoke down into the depths of his soul and let it out with a huge sigh of relief.

Stick

This is a cedar limb that I just finished carving.  I offered it to Sheila as a walking stick when we hike at the farm.
"I don't want to become dependent on a walking stick."  she said.
"No, you have it wrong," I replied, "this is a snake knocking stick."
She looked at me, then the stick and then back at me.
"You made it way to short!" she exclaimed.