Moonlit Barn

     The trip to the barn was extraordinarily long.  Not a sound on either side, except for the footsteps that shattered the silence.  A bright December moon was casting mysterious shadows on the cold frigid ground.  As the north wind blew extreme cold into every crack and piece of loose clothing.  There was no escaping the bitterness.  The dog walked alongside in loyalty, not understanding the forlorn somber mood, but sensing the need for loyalty.  This was their second trip in as many hours and the horses had already been fed.  There was not even a hint of the dog herding Bob and Princess into the stalls of the red barn.  Bewildered, they marched silently into the open stalls of the old barn.
     Each tree stood at attention, saluting, holding their branches highlighted by the light of the cold gray moon, up to the dark sky.  Winter had stolen their leaves, giving the skeletal appearance of a fine tuned, well oiled fighting army honoring one of their fallen comrades.  Standing as an old friend, the red barn was comforting and inviting.  As with all old friends, it needed some cosmetic work.  Siding that needed to be replaced, damaged by damp hay stacked to the rafters.  Lights, dimmed by endless clouds of dust that had settled on the bulbs, shone weakly on the walls.  Boards that had been kicked and gnawed over the years.  The smell of horse manure and urine overwhelmed the senses.
     In the tack room with bridles, halters, bits and lead ropes was a calm peace.  One saddle with the left stirrup tied up in the hero position.  Even the horses were observing in silence.  That beautiful stone bridge over the great divide filled with dark despair, was inviting and tempting.  The sound of the sirens singing their hypnotic songs could be heard from the other side.  The beauty was overwhelming, but the cost was much to high.  It could change the destination forever.  Patience is a virtue and twenty or thirty years would go by in an instant.
     At that moment the wind changed and blew in warm air and renewal of life from the south.  The mice came out, in search of food, scurrying here and there.  The horses started whinnying and Bob was rearing up, turning and running into the paddock and banging his muzzle on his feed bowl.  Princess was turning circles in her stall and biting on the boards separating the two stalls. The dog, excited by the noise and change of atmosphere, turned suddenly and knocked the cocked rifle over.  As it fell it discharged, a loud noise, a flash of light, the smell of gunpowder and sudden complete utter darkness.  Halfway over the grand stone bridge, heaven's choir began singing the Haleaula Chorus as the wonderful reunion occurred.
     This is an entry to a mini-challenge on writeandreview.webs.com.  The challenge was to describe a barn from the point of view of a father just learning that his son was killed in the war, and not mention the father, son or war.  If you have time, let me know how I did.

Setting Out Hooks on the Little Choctawhatchee

     If you ever want to travel in time and space, build a fire in the cool night air.  There is something about the wood releasing it's energy as flame, heat and the smell of smoke that acts upon the brain.  As you stare, mesmerized, into the flame and red hot coals, you become transported to another time and place.  Sheila and I had cut down trees in the yard and piled them up.  Using a large lighterd stump, I set the pile on fire.  As the sun vanished and darkness descended upon us, she went inside to fry chicken and make a potato salad.
     The dogs and I were tired, they lay down for a nap, I sat in a lawn chair and stared into the fire.  I went back to a time when my body was fresh, no arthritic hands, sore back or dim eyes.  I was ten again, fishing on the banks of the Little Choctawhatchee river.  Dad had carried my brother Benny and I, Junior Key, Harold Key and Otis Cole to Mr. Woodham's place.  It was located near the Sylvan Grove church in Dale county.  My brother Wayne, who was fourteen at the time, had only one thing on his mind and fishing was not it.  We turned off the paved road at the old grocery store, traveled down the dirt road a couple of miles, turned into a field road that carried us to a large scope of woods.  After a few minutes of driving through the woods on the rough path, going around washouts we finally saw the river.  At this point it was really just a large creek.
     When we got there it was late in the afternoon.  There was plenty of light left in the day to cut sticks and sharpen the ends.  We walked along the bank and every twenty feet or so we would drive the sharpened end of the stick into the soft dirt of the bank.  To this we would tie a nylon string to the end.  At six feet or so in length with a large lead sinker and treble hook.  For bait we carried a tub of chicken livers.  We always only carried two 1 pound tubs of livers, but that was never enough.  Before it got completely dark we would overturn dead limbs and rocks to find salamanders.  This dirty job always fell to Benny and me, but we didn't mind.  The catfish always went for them anyway.
     Our next job was to gather up wood for the fire.  To get it going, we would get a few dry leaves burning and then dad would throw a half cup of clear moonshine on the small fire.  After the explosion, in any wood remained on the pile, it was definitely on fire  The first few trips to check the hooks was taken by us all.  By the third trip all the men had started a poker game and it was up to Benny and me.  Benny carried the lantern until we got to the hook.  If the cork was underwater he would hand me the light and he would pull up the fish.  Then I would have to carry the heavy string of fish in the dark and slippery mud.  However I did not mind.  At that moment I could tell that I was soon to leave childhood behind.  My father loved good moonshine whiskey, but the other men liked beer.  I asked if I could have one of those beers and dad, thinking that I would not like the taste, said "yeah, why not".  My first taste was like drinking nectar from the gods.  Nothing before or since that crossed my lips, tasted so wonderful.  I could not wait for my next can.  For the next forty years, I could not get my fill.  At fifty, I decided to not drink any more.  Thank God, I was able to lay it down.  I am not an alcoholic, but the wonderful taste of beer will always be with me.
     There was a full moon that night and the light was soft and eerie.  The woods were thick and stretched for miles in either direction.  All kinds of creatures lived and died there.  Sounds near and far were strange and terrifying.  The grown ups did not pay any attention, but we could see them looking at us out of the corner of their eyes.  Benny and I played it cool though and acted as if nothing scared us. And after a while, it didn't. 
     After the fourth trip, we had enough fish for a grand feast.  After Benny skinned the catfish, I gutted them.  Dad had a big cast iron frying pan full of hot grease.  After he battered them up in beer and Adam's Mill cornbread, he fried them to a crisp golden brown.  The white meat would just melt in your mouth.  Along about midnight, after dad had won all the money, and everyone was tired of walking the bank and drinking, we called it a night.  Some of us slept on blankets and some of us fell asleep in the vehicles.  As the sun was coming up in the east, the trees on the other side of the river, shrouded in the mist rising from the river presented a glorious sight.  That along with the blue wisps of smoke wafting up from the smoldering campfire, is a sight that I will never see again.  The sound of the wood pecker hammering on the hollow tree, the great blue heron honking and the fox in the distance, is etched in my mind.  I was suddenly brought back to the present by "Charles' supper is ready."  Now that is indeed a glorious sound.

Red Shoes with Green Heels

     Splashes of brilliant blue sky passed through the holes in the roof.  Walls made with sticks and plywood, here and there, nothing solid.  Rafters pointing at an angle to the sky, only connected at the walls, not joining at the center, like the rib bones of a dead bull drying in the sun.  Standing in stark contrast to the brightness of the sky, is this my prison, is this my future, is this my broken soul?  No ceiling here or there, but no rain comes in.  Small shacks with dozens of people milling around, touching shoulders, but not making any sounds or connections.  Small shacks turn into a mall, sitting on a hill with no sides.  Gullies with mud and dirt, no grass or vegetation, caused by bombs and heavy equipment, always around but never seen.  Buildings jutting out over the cliffs with only small boards to walk on, over the dizzying heights above the gullies.
     Sheila leaves on the Olds, driving over the dirt road, now mud, now dirt, now water.  I drive alongside in my truck on the dirt airstrip, now mud, now dirt, now water.  I look up at her and we turn right.  We stop at the on ramp of the interstate to bale hay.  We can't because of all the garbage.  Instead we edge the two feet of grass alongside the interstate ramp.  It is straight up, move you Angus bull, I can't edge the grass with you doing jumping jacks.  I take the bush axe and perfectly edge the bright green grass showing the mars black soil underneath.  In the field, several people are baling hay by hand, among the white milk jugs.
     As I merge onto the interstate, cars whiz by on the outside and inside lanes.  I am walking down a city street in the center lane.  Hundreds of people are swimming downstream against me.  I slip in and out of the school of people with the grace of dolphin, not touching a one. None of them break the school wall and hit the oncoming automobiles, knowing that if they did the cars would take wings and fly away.
     Are these three maroon aluminum poles in my hand a knight's lance?  There is a handle on the end.  Let me look.  No, when I turn it around to inspect it I can see that it is a church steeple.  Long and skinny with a bulbous end, when joined together, will stretch over a hundred feet into the sky.  Just then, I see the cathedral, in the distance, where the rafters do not meet.  I know that I can walk the rafters and install the steeple,  I look down at my cadmium red dress shoes with the green Bahia grass seeds and the sienna sesame seeds held wetly to the John Deere green stacked heels and jump deftly from rafter to rafter.
     Night is taking over as I walk down magnolia lined Park Street.  Not as many people, but they are very sinister and look at me with hunger in their eyes.  Maybe I can get home soon.  Where is home?  Houses stacked on houses, some with walls, some with roofs, some floating, some half buried in the dirt.  Ah, here it is, a French Tudor.  Cream colored stucco with dark brown stained wood trim.  I am in bed.  People come in and out of the bedroom through the closed French doors, with white lace curtains.  With pillows piled high all around me to make a high wall.  People milling all around the room looking at me. looking past me, looking through me.  Talking and laughing with each other.  All I can think of is, where are all the ghosts?  It is lonely without them, I guess they are busy elsewhere.  In their place, the witches are brewing up trouble in a pot.
     I am asleep, is this a dream?  Could it be another dimension?  Just because I am asleep, does not mean that it is not real.  If I am awake, could I not be dreaming then?  Maybe all the pain and suffering, work, bills and headaches are really just a figment of my imagination that I can see only when I am awake.  Sleep may the reality with just a bit of surrealism.

Sheila's Sunland

     Every once in a while, a man realizes how lucky he is to have a good woman.  If he doesn't on his own, she will remind him.  Fortunately, this time I got it all by myself.  I go to three or four art and craft festivals a year.  They are to much work for me to do by myself.  Sheila is gracious enough to give up her weekends to help me with these ventures.
     We had gone to Marianna's spring festival and oh what a disaster.  The wind was blowing so hard, it blew a sunken Spanish treasure ship up all the way from the gulf.  Finally we gave up and took our tent down before it blew away.  As we were loading our stuff into the wagon, the lady next to us was telling Sheila that we needed to go the Christmas festival at Sunland.  She said there was always a big crowd and everyone was buying Christmas gifts.
     The big day of Sunland's festival had finally arrived.  Up at three a.m., the wagon is already loaded, and we head off to have fun.  We get there just before dawn and it is bitterly cold.  By the time we find our spot, unload and set up, the sun is shining bright and we have shed our heavy jackets.  The crowds were there, but no one was buying.  Thoroughly disgusted, we answered questions and carried on mini conversations with everyone.  All the time wondering when are the paying customers going to make an appearance.  The heat was getting to be oppressive, the dust was stifling, and Sheila's frustration level was rising.
     Around lunch the crowds got really heavy.  There seemed to be a lot of people there with problems.  Even for Florida, this was unusual.  The black lady at the tent next to us was a small framed, neat and dignified elderly woman with class.  As the white woman, in her face, shaking with the palsy, bent over at the waist. talking incoherently, scratching her nose, the lady acted as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.  I looked at Sheila, her mouth was open and a bewildered look was upon her face.  I was looking at her, looking at the black lady's husband, looking at the black lady.  No one offered to go her rescue.  Poor thing.
     There was a procession of groups that came by the vendors.  Each group had five or six people with diminished mental capacities and one normal person as a chaperon.  A few had a near normal grasp on reality, but most were off in space with no way home.  Some were able to move around on their own, but others were not.  Sheila looked at me with a puzzled look on her face.  "What is going on?", she asked.  "Do you know where you are?  This is Florida's mental institution", I informed her.  "What the **** are we doing here, you jack***?" she asked.  I explained that the Christmas festival is their way of raising money and allows the patients to mingle with friends and family.  She calmed down and eventually got into a festive mood.
     As the day wore down, we were loaded and ready to go, Sheila had to go to the bathroom.  While she was gone, I helped myself to a coke out of the ice chest.  About halfway finished with the drink, I heard the sound of steel striking flint. When I looked up I saw Sheila coming across the hard dry dirt.  Her hips were on her shoulders, her arms swinging stiff with each step.  Her stride covered six feet easily and each time her heel touched down, sparks flew in every direction.  After being married for thirty nine years, I knew better, but stupidity always wins.  "Do you want a cold drink?", I ask.  "Shut up and get your ass in the truck," she responded.
     Leaving the compound, she told of going into the restroom.  It was deserted, and when she sat down in the stall, she heard the door open.  Some one came in and yelled "Whooo, whooo, whooo.  Then she went by each stall banging on the doors. When she finally got into a stall, Sheila got out and started to wash her hands.  When the woman heard the water, she yelled Help, help and started banging on the walls of the stall.  "Ain't my job", Sheila said and left.
      I stopped in the middle of the drive and laughed until I cried.  This pissed her off even more, but I could not stop.  She finally came around and started laughing also, albeit not as heartily as I.  To this day if I am having a bad day, thinking of this brings a smile.  If I am having a good day and think of it, I bust out laughing.  Thank you, Sheila for an interesting life.

The Scrooge With Rouge

There is an old town
in England, it is told,
of a man of great reknown.
But if I may be so bold,
to tell of one living with the prick,
who in trying desperately to feel fine,
gave up beating him with a stick,
and gave in to drinking fine wine.
Every day just before lunch,
you know that she was feeling good,
simply because shse had drank a bunch.
Picking up the stick of wood,
she threatened to put him in his place,
she yelled, I am the Scrooge
that every day, to my face,
I apply a pound of rouge.
You had better be nice and make a pass
or I will grab the spirits three,
and with them, I will thouroughly beat your ass,
turned pitifully over my knee.
Merry bah-humbug Christmas from
the Scrooge with rouge.

Charles Sims

The Greatest Gift

     Ah, the sounds and smells overwhelm me.  Food and people everywhere.  The fresh home baked bread sent it's wonderful pungent aroma over to me on the slight breeze blowing my way.  I had not eaten in several days and the fragrance was overwhelming.  The small amount of food that we had went to feed the wife and kids.  With no money to buy food, I watched the street vendor out of the corner of my eyes.  I was not normally a thief, but with hunger and the amount of people milling around, I was just waiting for my chance.  Eureka, there it was.  He turned his back for a moment to speak to a customer and quick as a fox, I snatched the bread and ran. 
     "Thief, thief", he shouted and I knew that I was in trouble.  My bad knees slowed me down and allowed the young men to overtake me.  As desperate as I was, I could not escape.  Being caught could mean the loss of my hand, but desperate times make for desperate measures.  After loosing a couple of teeth and a broken nose, I was taken before the magistrate.  As he looked at my condition and listened to my sad story, he had compassion on me.  Instead of cutting off my hand, he sentenced me to six years hard labor.  Now I know why I got to keep my hand.  Nothing to do with compassion.
     Prison was hard, however I did get one meal a day or rather I got to eat one time a day.  Just enough to keep up my strength, but that was more than my family got.  During the day was terrible, moving heavy stones to pave the roads was back breaking work.  Later due to my age, I was given to the group that poured sand and soil into the cracks around the stones to level out the road.  It was night that was the worst, though.  We were kept in the dungeon with no light, locked in our own stocks by our hands.  You soon learned to control your bodily functions until you were released in the morning.  The sound of grown men crying and weeping made my plight only the more deplorable.
     This night, at the end of my sentence was different.  From a slight distance, we could hear two men praying and singing psalms at the top of their lungs.  Praising their God as if they were on top of a mountain, not down in a deep, dark, damp dungeon.  They were locked in their stocks with hands and feet.  This was reserved for the worst offenders.  When they had been brought in during the day, the jailer was given strict orders to guard them with his life.  If they escaped, the jailer would be killed. 
     As Paul and Silas prayed, the dungeon was rocked back and forth by a massive earthquake that shook the foundation.  The doors came open and the stocks were broken away from all the prisoners.  The jailer seeing the destruction and supposing the prisoners gone, pulled his sword to take his own life.  Paul cried out with a loud voice, "Do thyself no harm, for we are all here."  The jailer cried out for a light and went in and kneeled to Paul and Silas.  "Sirs, what must I do to be saved?"  "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved and thou house."
     As I heard the story of Jesus Christ and His death and Resurrection, I believed also.  The following week I was released and reunited with my family.  I knew that had I not stolen the bread, I would never have received the most precious gift of all, eternal salvation.  God is with us
    

Bill Sketo

Ahoooo! Ahoooo! clackity, bang,
As I look up with a start,
my fork falls with a clang,
the misty vapor makes my eyes smart,
Who's there? Who's there? I ask
as I reach deep into my vest,
and pull out my half empty flask,
as he reached out, it put my heart to test,
and grabbed my liquor. "Sketo, Bill"
he shouted, as my whiskey he downed,
while he rested on the window sill,
give that back and leave me, I frowned,
or a rope I will find,
and a tree with a low limb
to hang you from behind,
and rename you Jim.
Take your spirits back from me,
all I wanted was a soul to scare,
and you wanted to find a tree,
just to show that you did not care,
Oh, but I do, I do and that is true,
as the air is clear and the moon is bright,
my liquor is not shared by you,
as you gave me such a fright.