For a Friend on Veteran's Day...

Almost Home ...

I recall the first time I saw Petie. It was about eight years ago this coming week.
As a disabled veteran, I go to the Veteran’s Administration Hospital for treatment of my service-connected disabilities. I had just moved back to Kentucky and needed to renew my prescriptions, so I took the bus downtown to the VA Medical Center. I chose the bus instead of driving due to a big snow the night before and I didn’t want to drive in it. Let somebody else wreck his or her vehicle I reasoned. Besides it was cheaper than driving. I walked the half of a mile to the main road and caught the bus. I shuffled about half way back and took a seat. As the bus pulled away, I pulled my coat tight and tried to get warm again. I looked around as I settled in, to see who else might be on here with me.

There were a couple of kids, maybe in their mid-teens, sitting together a few seats up from me and across the aisle. Just behind the front door sat a little old woman with stockings rolled half way up her legs. I could see her pursing and chewing her lips with toothless gums. Turning her scarf-covered head from one side to the other, she rode in silence, looking out the windows. Her old weathered hands clutched a rather large satchel of a purse and a worn, old umbrella. I felt my eyes twinkle a little as I thought about how little old women all around the world looked the same.

Across the aisle from her, right behind the driver, sat another passenger. He was a slight man; mid-fifties, I would say. He might go 140 pounds soaking wet with his pockets full of change. Like the old woman across the aisle from him, he was missing most of his teeth. He was wearing a pair of pants several sizes too large for him and a dingy old sweatshirt. His faded army field jacket had seen better days and pulled down over his head was a lint-speckled black watch cap. His gaunt features seemed to center around his pale blue eyes and hawk-like nose. I could see his reflection in the large mirror in front of the driver’s head. He never shut up as he leaned across the rail behind the driver’s seat. Her eyes met mine on several occasions with the look of ‘please, God, let him get off at the next stop’.

Well, he didn’t. We rode all the way downtown before he got off to catch the transfer to the VA hospital, the same as me. We smoked as we waited. Assuming familiarity with me, he continued his lecture as I prayed for the arrival of the bus. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something just wasn’t quite right about this guy. I nodded from time to time and smoked in silence. The bus arrived right on time and he scuttled up the steps in a hurried gait. I hung back a bit to allow a buffer of passengers to board behind him and ahead of me.

The seats were all taken and we were standing in the aisles, clutching the overhead rails for balance as we pulled back into traffic. I could hear him continuing his chatter to my rear, somewhat muffled by the other sounds on the bus. "Hell," I thought to myself, "He’s kind of annoying but he ain’t hurting anything." I mentally let his voice drone into the other sounds around me. When we got to the hospital, I was off and quickly headed to my destination and forgot all about him.

When I had finished my business, I hurried through the revolving doors at the main entrance. Checking the bus schedule posted on the board there, I lit a smoke and shrugged up under my coat. Turning my back to the cold wind and snow flurries, I noticed a glass-enclosed waiting area off to the side of the bus stop and quickly made my way over to it and stepped inside. My eyes immediately began to burn from the fog of cigarette smoke and hot air blowing out of an over-head heating duct. But it was still better than being outside. There were about a dozen people there, standing around in small groups of two’s or three’s and quietly talking amongst themselves. Hearing a familiar voice, I looked past a group of guys standing there and saw the little man from the bus earlier. He was sitting alone on the long wooden bench against the back wall talking to no one in particular. One of the guys standing beside me leaned over in my direction and whispered in my ear, "Don’t mind Petie, he’s OK".

...

Over the next several years, I saw Petie almost every time I came to the VA. Familiarity breeds friendship and over the course of time we developed an odd but comfortable relationship. I found myself half-looking for him each time I came to the hospital, knowing he was around somewhere. I would engage him or him me, as we waited for the bus. I sometimes waited for the bus with him, even on those days that I had driven, just to pass the time with him. There was more than one occasion when several buses would come and go, only to find us sitting under the trees at one of the picnic tables there, sharing stories, thoughts and the occasional joke. Petie loved to fish, he said. And you could have filled the bed of a pick-up truck with all of the whoppers he told me about. The day came when we were both late getting out of appointments and the buses were two hours apart. I offered to run Petie home. He told me where he lived and we pulled out.

He directed me off the expressway and onto the side streets around East Market where we found a parking place. I was going to let him out, but he insisted that I come up and see his place before I left. We locked the truck and started up the sidewalk towards Main. We passed the homeless shelter; with its annex for battered women. Several people standing outside called Petie by name and he acknowledged them with a hello as we walked on. Crossing the street, we came to a little second-hand store and Petie said, "Let’s go inside for a minute." He found the couple who ran the place, told them he was home and we left. I asked about that and he told me that they rented him a room above the old abandoned store we were now in front of. We turned down a narrow alley that led to the rear of the building.

We went up a set of crude steps and to the door of his little place. The landing there overlooked a postage stamp yard of overgrown weeds, dead lawnmowers and an old willow tree with a park bench under it sitting along the fence. We passed through the door into a small hallway created by a stove, fridge and kitchen sink on the left side and a closet and shower stall on the right. The hallway opened up into the only room in the apartment. It was empty except for two plastic milk crates, on one of which rested an old black and white television. He offered the other to me as a seat and he sat down on the single mattress pushed up against the wall.

He said he had only lived here for a short while. The couple we spoke to downstairs are his guardians and handle all of his VA checks. They saw to it that he had a place to stay, something to eat and cigarettes. If he needed anything else, he just told them and they would see to it that he got it. He opened the bag of White Castles we had picked up on the way here. He offered one to me but I declined. He said he had to eat, he was diabetic. I nodded and told him to go on and eat then. He explained to me that was the reason he went to VA every day, for his insulin shot. He could bring it here, but sometimes he forgot to take it. Besides, he enjoyed the trip and the other people at the VA.

We started talking about the service and where all we had been and what all we had done. My record paled in comparison. Petie had been in Vietnam and had been a prisoner of war for almost seven years. He opened a cigar box he kept by the bed there and showed me the things that he had left from his service days; most notable of which was the Silver Star, Bronze Star with Oak Leaf Cluster, Purple Heart and the Combat Infantry Badge. His eyes glazed with a faraway look as he told me of his ordeals there. He said the Purple Heart was for wounds he received when the helicopter he was in was shot down and he was captured. I wondered at the wounds that Petie had endured that no one will ever see or know about. From time to time as he spoke, he would cant his head to the side and listen to the voices he heard as they pointed out details in the stories that he had overlooked or perhaps forgotten. The voices were always there to remind him and keep his vision of Hell alive and vivid in his mind.

...

Over the course of time I got to know Petie fairly well through our short sporadic visits. I had bought a little farm in the mean time and was in the process of moving there. I had some old furniture and stuff I was going to give away. I asked Petie if he wanted any of it and told him what I had.

I loaded up a love seat, a big stuffed chair, an end table, a battered old coffee table, a lamp and several other small items he said he wanted or I knew he could use. I told him when I would be there and drove down the alley behind his place until I got to the gate at the rear of the property. There Petie stood waiting on me, a small pile of smashed cigarette butts at his feet. We unloaded the truck and carried the stuff up the awkward stairs and placed it around the room. The whole time Petie talked with excitement, telling me that he too had been a farmer, back before the war. He had grown up on a small farm down in Hart County, not too far from the lake. He said he had tried to go back there after he returned from overseas, but he was not the same man that had left those little hollows and just didn’t fit in there anymore. He knew he was different. He said, "It’s a pretty funny feeling when you don’t even fit in at home anymore." So, scorned by some, pitied by others, he hitchhiked to Louisville and took to the streets. And that is where he had been for almost the last twenty years. Drifting from the streets to the shelters to the halfway houses and back to the streets again. He had struggled with life at its most basic level. He had been locked up, beaten up, robbed and shunned. He finally made it to the VA and they helped him get this little place, a small pension every month and some medical care. He told me that he went to the VA hospital everyday, not so much for the insulin shot, but to be there with those who understood him best; to be there with his family.

I had to go to the VA last February for an appointment, and as always, I looked for Petie. I couldn’t find him anywhere. I waited and watched several buses come and go after I had taken care of my business. Thinking I had missed him, I went inside where he always went to get his insulin and asked about him. Standing there with a little bag holding two flannel shirts I had brought for him, the nurse told me Petie was gone. Gone where? Moved? No, he was gone, dead, I was told. She went on to explain that during the big freeze we had back around Christmas, that Petie had been found sitting on the little bench behind his house frozen to death. Clutched in his hands, on his lap, was a little cigar box with his medals and effects in it.

I had a hard time finding the door through the tears I was fighting back. I went outside and found one of the picnic tables off to the side of the building and just sat down there on the frosted bench in stunned disbelief. It was bitter cold but I didn’t even notice. I wondered if Petie just got tired of being Petie or if he had just drifted off into a dream and gone fishin’.

"Don’t catch ‘em all before I get there, Petie! I’ll soon be comin’ along."


Copyright © 2007 Mike Lawson

It's In The Air Again...

When Mother Lights the Fire…


I feel it coming on again
In my spirit and my mind
This affliction comes over me
Each year about this time
With warning signs clear as day
Same thing everytime
You’d think an old hand such as I
Would learn to read the sign

But I miss it as I always do
Caught up in day to day
Before I see it, the time’s at hand
And the Warm Girl’s slipped away
But She leaves for me, a gift She does
For a poor boy’s needs are dire
Nothing leaves me more content
Than when Mother lights the fire

She strikes a match and touches tender
Much smoke but still no flame
A little wilted for their cause
The world remains the same
In one starting spark the colors flow
And spread along the ground
They creep in silence as they go
Without a single sound

The Ironwoods and the Asters
Take the striking blow
Honeysuckle and briar bushes
Are the very next to go
I miss the starting spark, it seems
Busy in life’s quagmire
Somehow I fail to notice
When Mother lights the fire

Looking up the hillside
I see the subtle flame
It can’t be time already
Seems Summer’s hardly came

Pale yellows on the ashes
Timid pinks on sassafras
The dark blood red of sumacs
Orange blazes upon the maples
Burnt yellow of the hickory
Pale reds of dogwoods glow
All of these and many more
When Mother lights the fire

Woods stand in glory
Dressed in best attire
And sing the colors of Autumn
When Mother lights the fire


Copyright © 2007 WML. All Rights Reserved

We the People...

You want to know what makes this country beautiful? What makes it the best place on earth to live? Simple. We do. The people of this country do. Our constitution and the laws set forth under its guidance do. We are governed by an entity of the people, for the people, by the people and as such, we enjoy freedoms a lot of other countries are denied. We are not perfect and I am sure we are not always right. But we do the best we can, in most cases, to ensure that the majority of those affected by our decisions achieve maximum benefits. This quite often sets the stage where the hard right must be chosen over the easy wrong. Sometimes hard decisions must be made and implemented simply because they are the right things to do. It is usually up to some level of our judicial system to carry this decision-making policy out. And then, often as not, by a jury of our peers.

I have been given the honor of being called upon this month to serve on jury duty here in my community. I am one of the cogs in the great wheel that runs the machine that moves our nation along its path into the future. Last month maybe it was someone you know, next month it may be you. But for this month, in this small Kentucky town, it is I.

I never really gave jury duty much thought until I was called upon to perform it myself. What an awesome power we are entrusted with. We have at our fingertips, the power and authority to alter lives forever. The impact of our decisions today can quite possibly mend lives or see to their destruction. It is the power of a loaded gun and it requires a tremendous amount of responsibility to wield it. It is not a task to be taken lightly or carelessly. Once the gun is fired, the bullet cannot be taken back.

Among our most sacred rights as citizens of this nation are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. We have given ourselves these rights, in our constitution, and hold them in highest regard. We have the right to feel secure in our person and possessions. There are times though, when due to circumstance, citizens are relieved of these rights for the benefit of themselves as well as others. It is never easy but needs to be done by a necessity born of compassion. It needs to be done because it is the right thing to do.


* * * * *

"All rise," the Bailiff orders.

"This court is now in session, the Honorable John T. Spencer presiding".

Amid the rustle of robes, as he takes his seat, the Judge tells all to be seated.He is a young man, maybe in his early forties, with stylish wire-rimmed glasses and a ready smile. His dark hair and well-trimmed beard are just starting to show the first touches of gray. He addresses the court with a clear articulate voice.

"Comes the matter of the Commonwealth versus Emma Minyard before this court today. This is a case to determine if Mrs. Minyard is capable of and able to make decisions for herself concerning her welfare or that she needs to have a Guardian appointed to her to look after her best interests."

"This court has previously ordered that her daughter act as her temporary guardian, until such time as her case could be investigated by the Commonwealth and presented before the court. Is the Commonwealth ready to proceed on this matter?"

A plain young woman in an olive drab suit stands from behind her table in front of the bar and answers, "We are, your Honor."

"Good," the Judge says, and then asks, "Is counsel for Mrs. Minyard present and ready to move forward with this case?"

"We are, your Honor," says the man behind the other table as he rises in his dark blue suit, his silver hair closely cropped above his tanned features.

"Very well, then," closes the Judge.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury pool," the Judge begins, as he addresses the gallery, "We have a case here before us today that is required by Statutes to be tried by jury. If your name is called please come forward in the court and the Bailiff will seat you."

One by one the names are called by the Secretary of the court from her place beside the Judge’s bench. When all twelve seats are full, the Judge opens the floor to both sets of attorneys allowing them to eliminate any Juror that they may deem inappropriate to hear the case. The Judge introduces all pertinent lawyers, witnesses and family members of the Respondent. Questions are asked and answered and ultimately no eliminations are made.

"The level at which this case is to be heard only requires six Jurors, so if the Secretary will pick those six by lottery, we can begin," the Judge informs the court.

The six names are called and the remaining six move back to the gallery with the rest of the jury pool. The Judge thanks them for their time and service and dismisses them for the day, before returning to the business at hand.

"The Commonwealth appointed a team of three professionals to this case," the Judge explains, "to determine the mental capacity and capabilities of Mrs. Minyard and to report their findings to this court upon completion. The separate and comprehensive findings of these individuals and the office of the Commonwealth have been reported to the court and you will be given the opportunity to review their findings while in the jury room. These reports are hereby ordered into evidence in these proceedings."

" The team appointed to conduct these investigations were a medical doctor, a psychologist and a social worker. As their individual findings concur with one another and stand as a corroboration of each other, only one of them is required by Statute to testify as to their findings at these proceedings."

Looking at the attorney for the state the Judge asks, "Is the Commonwealth ready to call their first witness?"

"Yes, your Honor… the Commonwealth calls Susan Bernson to the stand," the blond woman in the green suit declares.

An attractive brunette woman of about 35 years of age stands from behind the Commonwealths table and moves to the witness stand. Once seated, the Judge swears her in under oath and tells the Commonwealth to proceed with their examination of this witness.

The blond woman asks her to state her name and occupation for the record.

"Susan Bernson. I work for the Commonwealth’s Office for Abused and Neglected Senior Citizens" she replies.

"In what capacity, Ms. Bernson?"

"I investigate reports of abuse and neglect primarily, but I also do field evaluations when a request is made for involuntary appointment of a guardian. I was assigned to this case in that capacity."

"And in your capacity as examiner, did you go to Pleasant Ridge Manor and examine Mrs. Emma Minyard on December 26, 2005, Ms. Bernson?"
"Yes. I did"

"Please tell the court about the examination and what conclusions you reached concerning the mental capacity of Mrs. Minyard. Take your time and state it in your words, Ms. Bernson."

"I arrived at the nursing home about mid-morning, requested the chart for Mrs. Minyard, reviewed it and then asked to be taken to her. I found Mrs. Minyard to be a 77-year-old woman in a frail condition. She is not very large in stature. She requires assistance in everything she does to include eating, going to the bathroom and even walking. She was awake and cognizant but confused about her surroundings. When I asked her how she came to be here, she said she fell and this is where they brought her. She could not relate any of the specifics about the fall, only that she fell. When asked where she lived, she said here, indicating the nursing home. She said she had always lived here with her husband and her son, Tim. I looked again at the chart and noted that she did in fact have only one child, but that it was a daughter."

A soft sob is heard across the silence of the court room, as the woman the Judge had pointed out as being the daughter of the Respondent wipes her eyes with a tissue and holds her glasses in her other hand. Her husband leans close to her and can be seen to mouthing the words, "It’s gonna be OK, it will all be over soon, hon." His hand gently strokes her shoulders.

On the other side of the husband sits the elderly Mr. Minyard. His stooped shoulders give the appearance of leaning forward a bit, as he stares stoically ahead, not really looking at anything but perhaps remembering some past time. His tired, dark eyes bulge slightly from his gaunt, weathered face as his hands clutch his knees.

Ms. Bernson continues after a brief pause, her own eyes batting back tears for the other woman. What a burden of pain she must feel at not being recognized by her own mother.

"I handed Mrs. Minyard a hundred dollars in play money and asked her how much I had given her and she answered sixty. I asked her when her birthday was and she said January but couldn’t tell me the day or year. I asked her what today’s date was and she couldn’t say. When asked if she had eaten breakfast today, she said yes but couldn’t recall what it was. As a conclusion, I believe that Mrs. Minyard suffers from dementia and is not capable of making decisions on her own concerning her welfare or finances."

"Thank you, Ms. Bernson, the Commonwealth has no further questions of this witness, your Honor."

"Counsel for the Respondent has no questions for this witness, your Honor."

"Thank you, Ms. Bernson, you may step down now," the Judge says. "The Commonwealth may call their next witness."

The brunette leaves the witness stand and takes her seat back at the table of the Commonwealth’s attorney. The blond rises and addresses the bench; "The Commonwealth has no more witnesses, your Honor."

"Very well," says the Judge. "Does counsel for the Respondent wish to call witnesses?"

"Yes, your Honor," says the tall, grayed haired attorney. "I would like to call Mrs. Betty Clark to the stand."

The woman the Judge had indicated as the daughter of the Respondent slowly gets to her feet and carefully places her purse on the bench beside her husband and begins making her way to the witness stand…


* * * * *


She passes in front of the jury box, her eyes never leaving the floor as she cautiously moves forward. Her conservative cotton dress is half hidden by the cream colored sweater she has on. Her form is frail and her features seem small as she shuffles along and ascends to the witness stand. Adjusting her dress, she seats herself and faces the Judge. He swears her in and her reply cannot be heard as it faintly passes her lips.

The judge smiles at her and advises, "Mrs. Clark, I know you are soft spoken but you need to speak up now, if you can, so the Recorder can hear you and we don’t have to repeat your answers, OK?"

She returns his smile and nods gently and turns to face the table with the tall, gray-haired attorney behind it. She sits waiting for the first question with her hands folded in her lap; one of them still clutching a tissue. Her drawn face is void of most of its color and her mouth is forcing a smile that her weary eyes do not support. She looks so much older than her 58 years.

The gray-haired attorney asks her to state her name and relationship to the Respondent.

"Betty Clark. Emma Minyard is my mother," she says still softly but load enough to be heard.

"Mrs. Clark, you have heard the testimony of the Commonwealth’s witness, Ms. Bernson. Do you agree with her assessment of your mother’s condition?"

"From what of it I could hear, I would agree," she says, "I have a hard time hearing anymore, my ears, you see." She indicated the hearing aid she wore.

"Very well then, Mrs. Clark, for the sake of clarity, would you tell us, in your own words, what is your opinion of your mothers health and well being?" asks the attorney.

"Mother's health has been falling off for over a year now," she begins.

"She has gotten to the point that she cannot do much for herself. Someone has to feed her, dress her, and bathe her. She cannot be left unattended anymore, because she gets confused and then scared. When she gets flustered, well, that’s how she fell this last time. She just tries to do more than she is able to without help and that is when she hurts herself. Daddy, bless his heart, just can’t do for mother anymore. It’s just too much for him. Someone has to watch her 24 hours a day, make sure she takes her medicine and such. He just can’t do that; it’s too hard on him. I took care of mother, with help from Tim, my husband, until she fell this last time. We agreed as a family, myself, my father and Tim, that the best thing for Mother would be to place her in a nursing home, where she would be watched constantly and nurses were on hand to tend to her. And that is what we did, right before this past Christmas. Daddy spends all day with her there and then comes home to sleep at night. I spend a good portion of my time there with her also, as does Tim." She looks tenderly at her husband as she continues, "Mother loves Tim and he has always been good to mother."

"So, what you are saying is that you have already been looking after your mothers interests, with help from your husband and approval of your father, before any of this was brought to the Commonwealths attention?"

"Yes," she acknowledges.

"Mrs. Clark, you are now the temporary Guardian of record for your mother, is that correct?"

"Yes sir, I am," she responds.

"Mrs. Clark, if the court were to appoint you as the permanent guardian for your mother, is that a task that you would be willing to take on and fulfill?"

"Yes sir, it is," she quietly answers.

"I have no further questions for this witness, your Honor," says the gray-haired attorney.

"The Commonwealth has no questions for this witness, your Honor," the blond attorney quickly adds.

"Very well then," says the Judge. "Mrs. Clark, thank you for your testimony. I know this has been hard on you and your family. You may step down now and take your seat in the gallery."

Standing like a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders, Mrs. Clark walks back to where she had been seated and takes her seat beside her husband, who takes her hand and looks towards the Judge.

The gray-haired attorney stands and advises the Judge that he has no other witnesses to call and promptly takes his seat again. The Judge hands the documents of evidence to the Bailiff who moves over to stand by the jury box.

"All evidence having been entered and all testimonies having been heard, this hearing is now turned over to the jury with these instructions," the judge speaks first to the court and then to the jury directly.

"You are only to consider evidence and testimony seen and heard here today in your deliberations. You are being charged with the task of returning two decisions. The first is if, in your opinion, Mrs.Emma Minyard is capable of making sound decisions for herself where her health and welfare are concerned. The second is if Mrs. Minyard is capable of making sound decisions for herself regarding her financial affairs. The Bailiff has been given the reports that we discussed earlier and you will take them with you into the deliberation room as well as a form to be completed by the foreman that you pick once in the room. When you have reached a decision, please notify the Bailiff and he will advise the court and your decisions will be presented to the court."

"Follow me, please," says the Bailiff and the jury rises and goes through the door out of the courtroom.

It takes less than ten minutes for deliberations and the jury returns through the same door they had exited through.

"Have you reached a verdict?" the Judge queries.

The foreperson stands as she hands the form and the reports to the Bailiff. "We have your Honor," she says.

The Bailiff crosses the room and hands the packet to the Judge. He sits the reports to the side and looks down at the verdict form. Taking a moment to read it, he looks back at the jury…


* * * * *

"Let it be entered into record that the Jury has returned a verdict and that it has been reported to the court," the Judge says to the Secretary.

"The Jury has decided that Mrs. Minyard is not capable of making decisions for herself in regards to her health and welfare. Is this the verdict of the Jury? A simple nod from everyone will be adequate."

The Jury nods as one body before the Judge continues.

"It is further the verdict of this Jury that Mrs. Minyard is not capable of making decisions for herself in regards to her financial affairs. Is this also the verdict of the Jury," the Judge asks?

Once again the Jury nods in unison.

"Would the Commonwealth like to poll the Jury?" the Judge asks.

"No, your Honor," the blond attorney responds.

"Council for the Respondent, would you like to poll the Jury?"

"No, your Honor, we accept this verdict," says the gray-haired attorney.

"Very well then. Let the record show that a verdict has been reached and accepted by the court. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury this ends your service in this case and the court thanks you. Before releasing you I would just like to say that you did a good thing here today and the court believes that the interests of Mrs. Minyard will benefit from your decisions."

"What you decided here today is to allow Mrs. Clark and her husband to take care of her aging mother. It is the right thing to do; it is what families are supposed to do for one another. And in thisinstance, I am confident that that is what will happen. None the less, I hope you don’t diminish the importance of what transpired here today, the basic gravity of it. It is no frivolous matter to deny anyone the right to make decisions for themselves. But the human condition, being what it is, sometimes makes these things necessary."

" If anything, you should leave here today with a sense of confidence, that even if you find yourself incapacitated, that your basic rights under the constitution will be looked after and protected. You are dismissed."

With misty eyes, Mrs. Clark mouths the words, "Thank you, thank you," to the jury as they leave the courtroom.


Copyright © 2007 WML

War Babies

Who will suffer these little ones?
Alone at this tender age
Robbed of unknown futures.

Because men could not
Abide one another in tolerance?
Because adults chose actions
Infantile in nature?
Egos raged as
Shots rang out.

--------------------------------------------

Strong idiologies
Erase reason and logic
Initiating carnage.
Bledout bodies
Already rotting in the sun
Belong to someone’s father.

Remember this legacy
As it predicts the future
When men learn nothing from history.


Copyright © 2007 WML

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Missed Chances...

I suppose the thing that struck me most was how large the oak tree had grown in these past twenty years. When I left home it was in its first year and maybe five feet tall. Now its massive knurled arms held a million leaf-covered fingers in a canopy that covered the small yard with shade. The old house looked the same with its redbrick facade and white soffit, yet some how different. Maybe the knowledge that neither anyone I knew nor myself lived there anymore gave it a foreign appearance. “You can’t go home again,” they say and the meaning of that phrase became crystal clear to me as I slipped the car into gear and slowly drove away.

I looked left and right in mechanical fashion as I drove past the homes I grew up around. I wondered if anyone I knew even lived here anymore. Maybe a few lingered on but my guess is that most were long gone now. No matter, I was not here to see anyone anyway. To tell the truth, I was not sure why I was here at all. This visit had no logical reason to it other than I just wanted to see things here one more time before I put it behind me and moved on.

There was Suzie Jenson’s house with that carport where we both had our first kiss. The old porch swing that had hung there was gone now but its image was fresh in my head. We had sat there nervously swinging back and forth in the pale glow of a yellow porch light. I felt the hand that I held tremble a bit as I leaned my face into hers and our lips touched. I could have stayed there forever, and just might have, if her father hadn’t been watching us through the kitchen window. He damn near tore that door off the hinges and squalled for Suzi to get in the house. “You get your ass home, Paul Miller and don’t you come back here again ‘til I send for ya,” he had said. I grinned to myself a little as I thought about it. He would have shit a meat axe if he knew that kiss was not the only ‘first’ Suzi and me would share further on down the road that summer.

Across the street and one house down was where Billy Crowder lived. The old cinder-block garage we used to sneak behind with stolen cigarettes was still there but in bad need of a roof. I remember the day Momma caught us back there and had a bona fide conniption fit. She demanded my pocketknife from me and cut a switch off of one of Mr. Crowder’s apple trees with it. It was about as big around as your little finger and five feet long. She had me by my left wrist and fairly well cut the backs of my legs to pieces with it as we went towards home. She cussed me and prayed to Jesus in the same sentence and breath as we danced down the street in front of God and everybody. All’s well that ends well, I reckon, and I lost my taste for tobacco that day.

The street ended at the main highway, a four-lane road that ran to Nashville in one direction and north to Louisville in the other. There was a traffic light here where none had been my last time home. The old Greyhound sub-station across the road and Joe’s Bar and Grill beside it were gone, their footprints buried under a new road that had emerged over the years. I guess nothing is safe or sacred anymore. I turned with the light and headed towards town.

It was hard to see now through the thick growth of hedge apple trees surrounding the yard, but there on the right sat old Dixie Elementary. I thought how very small it looked now. Its halls seemed so massive to me as a child. It was here that I had learned some of my most important lessons in life. I learned that bloody noses and black eyes don’t hurt near as bad if you win the fight, broken hearts are not fatal and even grandmothers have to die. I was shown the world is not a happy, friendly place every time we had a civil defense drill in the hallway. “Sit on the floor with your backs against the wall, pull your knees to your chest and place your head between your legs,” they told us. But they didn’t tell us everything. They left out the part about kiss ‘your ass goodbye’ because you ain’t walking away from a nuclear attack. But we all knew it intuitively.

I moved on up the road until I came to the little strip mall on the left where we used to get our groceries. Winn-Dixie on one end and A & P on the other kept one another honest for the customers. Between them lay the drug store, the bakery, a barbershop, the old ‘Ten-Cent Store’ – Woolworth’s and the bank. The buildings were still there but I didn’t recognize a single business in them. The memories rushed over me as I recalled those hot summer days when Ronnie and me would ride our bikes the mile or so to get here. One or the other of us had done a chore for somebody and had fifty cents or a dollar, maybe. We had a pact that way, a “one for all, all for one” understanding that the good fortunes of one was good fortune for the other as well. Candy bars were a nickel then and donuts were three cents each. Ice cold bottles of pop were a dime at the bakery. A half dollar would find us over under the big maple trees across the street at the church eating 10 donuts and washing them down with a couple of cool drinks. Only my memories remain of those days now, the rest of it has gone.

I glanced left at my old high school on the left as I waited for the light to change. There had been much added on to it since I attended. I hardly recognized it anymore. School was out now and only a few cars were in front of the main building, probably maintenance men or janitors. The light changed and I made a right turn before I had time to get lost in thought about my high school days.

Most of the businesses here on Old Third Street road had changed, too. Burger Chef was gone and so was that little diner where our neighbor Ann had worked after her husband died. Champ’s Roller Rink, just before the railroad crossing, was now a small warehouse of some kind. But the times we had there! As a matter of fact, it was here that I spent my last night in this town.

It was like almost every other Saturday night. At least it started out that way. I was at Champ’s with Ronnie to see what kind of luck we would have with the ladies. Ronnie had pilfered a pint of Canadian Mist from his father’s liquor cabinet and we were not having a bit of trouble in the courage department. We hooked up with Cathy Crawford and her little sister, Mary Beth. We flirted and laughed and skated around the floor backward for a while. Every so often, Ronnie and me would excuse ourselves and slip outside for another sip of courage. Eventually we ended up leaving with the girls in tow, headed to a little secluded spot down by the river.

The radio was blaring inside the little Chevelle as I pulled out of the parking lot and turned right and headed across the railroad tracks there. The crossing guard must have been broken and I never saw the train. The last thing I remember was Cathy’s screams being drowned out by the train’s horn, a great concussion and then nothing.

I awoke in a hospital bed in the jail wing of the hospital. As soon as the doctor had examined me and determined I was lucid enough to talk, a sheriff’s deputy stepped forward and read me my rights and the charges against me. Three counts of vehicular homicide, he said. The rest is history, as they say. My history.

My folks both died while I was in prison. They left me what they had in a bank account so I could try to start my life over when I got out. I made parole this week but I will never be out of this prison in my head. Every night for the last twenty years when I laid down to sleep, six eyes stared at me from the dark ceiling of my cell. I can’t imagine that being anything but a life sentence.

The last big holiday of the Summer is fast approaching and with it the parties and celebrations. I hope everyone has fun and stays safe. I am running this piece in hopes that someone, somewhere will read it and think before they make a mistake like Paul, the character in the story.

Walk On...

Walk On...

When trails are hard before you.
A journey of a thousand miles
Begins with a first step,
But it also ends with a last.

Walk On...

When brambles tear your mind's legs,
The soles of resolve are blistered and bleeding
And the muscles of your spirit
Scream for rest inside your head.

Walk On...

When voices by the wayside
Tempt to stop your travels,
Offering cool drinks of mediocrity
To distract you from your mission.

Walk On...

When naysayers chide your efforts,
Trip you up or try to block passage.
Brush them aside with determination!
Only your heart knows where it seeks to go.

Walk On...

When the quest is through you will
Feast at contentment's table
And sleep in serenity's bed
Reconciled in your constitution.

Walk On... Until you get where you are going.

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Behind the Ring...

Smells of pungent manure and sweet alfalfa mingle this morning,

Aged by a gentle whiff of charcoal and hickory smoke now and then. The overcast skies have opened a little,

Letting the sun show her pale face a bit,

Warming man and beast alike on this cool March morning.

Final drags on cigarettes are carried away on frosty breaths,

Swirling, then disappearing, over the backs of the penned animals.

Folded arms resting on the cold steel rail of the cattle panel,

Chin perched on gloved hands, I take in this moment of peace.

As I watch calves suck the last of their breakfast,

I know this is the calm before the storm.

As I wait, I listen…

I hear the crushing of straw as cattle shift their stance,

Taking another bite of hay or licking a calf.

Behind me I hear the hurried crunch of gravel,

As booted feet shuffle past, headed for the sale barn.

The quiet din from inside the building gets louder,

Then slowly grows vague again as the door opens then closes,

Allowing passage for someone in or out.

The voices from small groups gathered around are a soft buzz,

Broken by occasional bursts of laughter as some tale is told.

Impatient animals rattle metal gates and chains,

As a final test of their confinement.

A bellowing bull or a bawling calf,

Drowns out the song of the mockingbird,

Who has taken the stage in a nearby redbud tree.

As I listen, I watch…

Cowhands sit, stand or mill around the places they will work today.

Older men and young ones too, all colors, shapes and sizes,

All equal in the job at hand, all ready to do their duty.

Confident men with quick eyes, legs and wits,

A Godsend, in that moment of truth, should an animal go wild.

Fathers and mothers walk the pens, talking quietly amongst themselves,

Pointing here and commenting there as they move along their way.

The eager ears and curious eyes of sons and daughters close behind,

Clinging on every word of the lessons being offered up today.

An old man with a garden hose wets the ally between the panels,

Filling the air with the smell of a new plowed field after a rain.

It won’t help much and it won’t last long, but it will settle the dust a bit.

As I watch, I think…

Nervous sellers greet anxious buyers with smiles and handshakes;

Much of their livelihood is at stake here today.

The sellers have the past year of their lives on the block,

And the buyers gamble their futures.

It is what they do, it is who they are, these Herdsmen,

Raising cattle as a vocation of total commitment.

The stewardship of these massive, fragile beasts,

It is a way of life to those born to it.

Bulls breed, cows calve, calves grow and are sold,

And the endless cycle is repeated again and again.

The blood, sweat and tears of years past and yet to come,

Sweeten the pot to be played for here today.

The ante is up and the cards are dealt,

Let this hand begin…

"All right, girls! Is everybody ready?" shouts the yard boss.

Startled cowhands jump to their feet and face the old man.

Grinning through his gray stubble he yells, "Then bring `em on!"

Coats are pulled off and flung across fences, as the first gate opens.

Daydreams shatter against the wall of reality as cattle sticks are found.

Shouts and whistles fill the air!

The first group of cattle runs past me in the ally.

The cowhand pushing them turns back for the next bunch.

I close the gate behind him with a metallic clank.

The cattle are driven up into the working chute.

Sliding gates close behind them.

I open my gate again, just in time for the next group to pass.

Over and over again the cattle are driven past me.

Over and over again I catch them in front of me with the cut-off gate.

The pace is furious and the pulse is rapid,

I wipe sweat from my brow, keeping it from my eyes.

Soon the chute is full, as are the pens formed from cut-off gates.

Taking a moment to catch our breath, we rest and wait.

But there being no rest for the wicked, as they say,

The ring door opens and the first cattle up disappear through it.

"Keep `em movin’, girls." shouts the yard boss, over the song of the auctioneer,

"That auctioneer charges by the hour, and he can’t work if it ain’t in the ring."

The pace has slowed some, but remains steady as we advance one group at a time.

Cows with calves are sold, bred heifers, bred cows, open heifers and cows.

All are moved through, sold and returned to their pens.

"All right, ladies," hollers the yard boss, "Now you earn your keep."

We all know what he means, time for the bulls.

"Work `em easy now, don’t need anybody gettin’ hurt."

"Just remember the boss man’s policy, if you get killed, you’re fired!" he chuckles.

The laugh that leaves my mouth is replaced by the taste of brass,

As the first bull moves down the ally towards me.

I face the fence, avoiding eye contact with the big animal.

As he lumbers past me, I can feel the ground move,

And feel the heat coming from his body.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a passing glance from him,

As he seems to almost float by, sniffing the air as he goes.

He knows who owns this alley today and it isn’t me.

Straight up in the chute he goes without a hitch.

What a magnificent, majestic creature!

One by one, the other bulls are moved forward,

Filling the chute and the catch-pens at last.

The ring door opens and the sale resumes.

One by one the massive beasts are moved forward.

One by one they enter the chute and then the ring.

Several of the younger bulls balk at the chute, trying to turn back,

But relent and go on at the behest of cattle sticks and twisted tails.

As the last bull enters the chute, I climb the gate out of the alley.

I pull my bandana from my pocket,

And wipe the sweat and dust from my face.

I light a cigarette and take a deep drag on it,

Just now realizing how warm the day has become.

Picking up my coat and cattle stick from the fence,

I turn to walk to the sale building.

s I enter through the passage door,

The last bull enters the sale ring.

Hell," I grin to myself, "I wanted to see at least one of `em sell."

Copyright © 2007 Mike Lawson

Just Something to Think About...

I didn’t write this but wish I had. I like to read it now and then. If anyone knows the author, please post their name in the comments section of this post.

The Daffodil Principle…

Several times my daughter had telephoned to say, “Mother, you must come to see the daffodils before they are over.” I wanted to go, but it was a two-hour drive from Laguna to Lake Arrowhead. “I will come next Tuesday,” I promised a little reluctantly on her third call.

Next Tuesday dawned cold and rainy. Still, I had promised, and reluctantly I drove there. When I finally walked into Carolyn’s house I was welcomed by the joyful sounds of happy children. I delightedly hugged and greeted my grandchildren. “Forget the daffodils, Carolyn! The road is invisible in these clouds and fog, and there is nothing in the world except you and these children that I want to see badly enough to drive another inch!” My daughter smiled calmly and said, “We drive in this all the time, Mother.” “Well, you won’t get me back on the road until it clears, and then I’m heading for home!” I assured her. “I was hoping you’d take me over to the garage to pick up my car.” “How far will we have to drive?” “Oh…just a few blocks,” Carolyn said. “But I’ll drive. I’m used to this.”

After several minutes, I had to ask, “Where are we going? This isn’t the way to the garage!”“We’re going to my garage the long way,” Carolyn smiled, “by way of the daffodils.”“Carolyn,” I said sternly, “please turn around.” “It’s all right, Mother, I promise. You will never forgive yourself if you miss this experience.”

After about twenty minutes, we turned onto a small gravel road and I saw a small church. On the far side of the church, I saw a hand lettered sign with an arrow that read, “Daffodil Garden.”We got out of the car, each took a child’s hand, and I followed Carolyn down the path. Then, as we turned a corner, I looked up and gasped.

Before me lay the most glorious sight. It looked as though someone had taken a great vat of gold and poured it over the mountain peak and it’s surrounding slopes. The flowers were planted in majestic, swirling patterns, great ribbons and swaths of deep orange, creamy white, lemon yellow, salmon pink, and saffron and butter yellow. Each different-colored variety was planted in large groups so that it swirled and flowed like its own river with its own unique hue. There were five acres of flowers.

“Who did this?” I asked Carolyn. “Just one woman,” Carolyn answered. “She lives on the property. That’s her home.” Carolyn pointed to a well kept A-frame house, small and modestly sitting in the midst of all that glory. We walked up to the house. On the patio, we saw a poster.
“Answers to the Questions I Know You Are Asking” was the headline. The first answer was a simple one. “50,000 bulbs,” it read. The second answer was, “One at a time, by one woman. Two hands, two feet, and one brain.” The third answer was, “Began in 1958.”

For me, that moment was a life-changing experience. I thought of this woman whom I had never met, who, more than forty years before, had begun, one bulb at a time, to bring her vision of beauty and joy to an obscure mountaintop. Planting one bulb at a time, year after year, this unknown woman had forever changed the world in which she lived. One day at a time, she had created something of extraordinary magnificence, beauty, and inspiration.

The principle her daffodil garden taught is one of the greatest principles of celebration. That is, learning to move toward our goals and desires one step at a time–often just one baby-step at time–and learning to love the doing, learning to use the accumulation of time. When we multiply tiny pieces of time with small increments of daily effort, we too will find we can accomplish magnificent things. We can change the world.

“It makes me sad in a way,” I admitted to Carolyn. “What might I have accomplished if I had thought of a wonderful goal thirty-five or forty years ago and had worked away at it ‘one bulb at a time’ through all those years? Just think what I might have been able to achieve!”

My daughter summed up the message of the day in her usual direct way. “Start tomorrow,” she said.

She was right. It’s so pointless to think of the lost hours of yesterdays. The way to make learning a lesson of celebration instead of a cause for regret is to only ask, “How can I put this to use today?”

Use the Daffodil Principle.

Stop waiting…..

Until your car or home is paid off.

Until you get a new car or home.

Until your kids leave the house.

Until you go back to school.

Until you finish school.

Until you clean the house.

Until you organize the garage.

Until you clean off your desk.

Until you lose 10 lbs.

Until you gain 10 lbs.

Until you get married.

Until you get a divorce.

Until you have kids.

Until the kids go to school.

Until you retire.

Until summer.

Until spring.

Until winter.

Until fall.

Until you die…

There is no better time than right now to be happy

Happiness is a journey, not a destination.

So work like you don’t need money.

Love like you’ve never been hurt, and

Dance like no one’s watching.

Hometown Boy Does Good...

There are quite a few aspiring writers on the Internet, myself being one of them. We come here to have a forum to practice the craft. The immediate feedback is such that it affords writers the opportunity to study their work and the work of others, in an effort to determine why a particular piece works or doesn’t work. One of the fundamental tenants of writing, in any form, is the need to be concise in presentation, yet clear in meaning. It is often one of the hardest objectives to achieve.

One of the best examples of a concise yet profound piece of American literature may be found in the remarks of one of our presidents at the dedication of a new national cemetery on 19 November, 1863. Following is an account of the event as it occurred that day and the impact this short, concise piece has had on readers ever sense.

- - - - - - -

Cemetery Hill, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania November 19, 1863

The weather was quite brisk on that late autumn day. The ground was still a bit muddy from the late fall rains. Fifteen thousand or so weary onlookers, soldiers and dignitaries were on hand, either by design or duty, to witness the ceremonies that day and to hear the famous orator from Boston address the crowd. Edward Everett, a man of many letters and accomplishments was to be the principal speaker that day. Everett; former congressman and senator, 4-term governor of Massachusetts as well as a former president of Harvard University, was considered to be the foremost orator of the day.

Around noon the ceremonies opened with the benediction followed by music from the Marine Corps band. After introductions, Everett rose to speak and did so in a fashion that belied his 70 years and gave those present what they had come to hear. Everett began with an unfaltering voice and was in his best form as he addressed the crowd for nearly two hours. When he had finished, the crowd was exuberant in their appreciation of the words he had spoken and applauded him hardily. The Baltimore Glee Club then sang a song that had been written for the occasion followed by the introduction of the President.

Ward Hill Lamon, personal friend and bodyguard to the President did the honors. “The President of the United States”, he announced.

The President, almost like an afterthought, had been invited by the organizers to “set apart these grounds to their sacred use by a few appropriate remarks.” Lincoln stood, tall and gaunt, walked to the podium and put on his spectacles. Taking a single sheet of paper from his pocket, his high pitched voice strong and clear, laced in his frontier accent, he began:

“Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation: conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war . . . testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated . . . can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war.

We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that this nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate . . . we cannot consecrate . . . we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here.

It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us . . . that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion . . . that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain . . . that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom . . . and that government of the people . . . by the people . . . for the people . . . shall not perish from this earth.”

He spoke for barely two minutes, 269 words in ten sentences. He was through before the crowd had realized that he had begun. A photographer, who was taking his time to focus his camera, didn’t even get the shutter open before Lincoln was back in his chair. The bewildered collection of onlookers gave him only a sprinkling of applause and Lincoln, taking his seat again, turned to his friend Ward Lamon and told him, ” that speech won’t scour”, in reference to a worn out plow that will not turn the mud off in the field. Lincoln felt that his speech had failed.

In reality though, it was recognized almost immediately as a literary masterpiece. Edward Everett wrote to Lincoln the next day, praising him for his eloquent words, “I should be glad if I could flatter myself that I came as near the central idea of the occasion in two hours as you did in two minutes.”

This simple prose-poem by Lincoln, words of healing for all people for all times, is so elegant and graceful that the grandeur of its message is obscured.

Authors note: some 150,000 people were involved in the Battle of Gettysburg, with over 28,000 casualties. It was fought in the most ordinary of places when the two forces, seeking the shoes stored there, clashed on the field of battle. It is the largest battle ever fought in the Western Hemisphere and considered by most to be the turning point of the Civil War. Over 7,000 Union troops are buried there.

Copyright © 2007 Mike Lawson