History 101

Naomi: “ …Taralisa intends to plant a thorny hedge across the cave and make it disappear.”

Homer sat silently for a long moment, he sighed and shifted: "I almost wish you hadn't told me... They shouldn't have killed him, maybe the head injury was treatable."

"Look at me Homer--they didn't do it--I killed him. My hands,  not an abstract 'they'."

"Yes... you--last person I would expect. You've written eloquently against Death Penalty and vigilante justice... "

"This wasn't a penalty--nor was it justice."“Okay… What then?—a mercy killing?”

“Mercy for us all… ”

“If we had a jail, I’m supposed to put you there.”

“Really, Homer… ”

He made an unenthused smile: “I’m not the sheriff… Administrators are meant to boss construction. I’ve disciplined workers—fired them, called the law on a few thieves… You actually strangled the man?”

New Faces in Town

A cargo vessel from Glatz Enterprises made an orbital call and cabled a pallet down to the spaceport landing field. It was a scheduled visit to deliver fresh merchandise for the warehouses, it also brought a new staff to manage the facilities.

The passenger module doors opened, a dozen people emerged. Mostly they were laborers, from the cut of the uniforms, though some displayed handguns on their hips. Two, the first out, a man and a woman, not obviously armed and in tailored clothes, separated themselves from the others.

The couple stepped to the ground and circled the landing pod. Their eyes were drawn to the Almanor, most prominant feature of the landscape.

The man frowned at the sight, his partner had a bemused look.
Bristly back-combed hair contained under a red beret secured by a nine-inch hatpin. A short pale woman, slight, restless limbs, red jacket, white blouse, skin tight black pants and heavy soled footwear. "Where's the welcoming?" she wondered.
"I think we're being snubbed."
"Indeed," thin lips in a semi-smile, coal black eyes twinkled.
"I bet Chockswindae got a fine reception." Also black haired, it formed a shelf over his brows and tapered to a ducktail at his collar. Brown eyes pugged out of a ruddy round face and had a rock steady stare, he rarely blinked. He wore a suit in Company colors: gray top, black bottom.

She sniffed: "A peasant's affair, I'm sure. Spit-roasted animal parts and wine brewed out of the weeds. Isn't that how they do things on the frontier?"

1838 Wymore Ave., East Cleveland

       After lining up a teaching job in downtown Cleveland in October 1948, Dad found a house to buy for $10,000 in a working-class neighborhood. It was built ca. 1896 had 3 and ½ stories with a full-size attic, basement, and a small garage, the biggest home on our block. The previous owner had begun to illegally convert the second floor into two apartments.  When the town officials discovered what he was doing, they cited him and insisted he remove it all. This meant he could no longer afford to live there so he bailed out and sold cheaply. When we moved in I was nine, Joan seven, David almost 4, Sandy, 2 and ½ and Sally 6 months.

                             Down in the basement a monstrous, old gas furnace and its conduits took up half the space. To one side were two washtubs, a crawlspace for wood storage and several clotheslines Mom used in the winter. On the other side was a “workroom” for paints and brushes, and a toilet that overflowed.  The basement was where years later, Dad would take “the boys”- David and Sandy- to scold and spank. So, not my favorite place; I hated and feared him for making them cry. Mom hid to smoke her occasional cigarette down there. Joan and I learned to iron sitting in front of a machine called a mangle, burning our knees on the hot rollers. It was great for pillowcases, napkins and handkerchiefs.  We stuffed blouses and shirts into a plastic bag, added one cup of water, zipped it shut and waited for 24 hours. Then, everything was evenly moistened and perfect.  I think I did most of the ironing because Joan was left-handed and it drove Mom crazy to watch her. Years later the TV was moved down there and Dad watched the moon landing with amazement.

     We all loved the attic. It was our play and fantasy space. The ceiling was high with dormer windows that opened onto the slanted 

I Witness Crime Report

     They couldn’t have been more blatant, operating in broad daylight over a period of about three weeks. I watched with binoculars, curious of the process, utterly ignorant of the evil deed underfoot. How was I to know?

     It started over a year ago when the property next door changed hands. The new owners bulldozed an abandoned almond orchard and, I was told, planned to put in walnuts. All last summer I saw tractors plow and condition the soil, to my wonder the work finished up with seeding for a field crop. Orchard development is a lengthy process, planting a one season harvest brings income off of the land while the work continues.

     Over the winter the seeds sprouted and a grassy field emerged. The grower was lucky, even with the drought, somehow enough water got to this one crop, other neighbors weren’t as fortunate, planted too late and nothing grew—agriculture is a gamble.

     But with the start of the merry merry month the harvest came around. First mowers did the cut and after a week’s drying the baling machines rolled around, finally the stackers and loaders got it all upon double trailer big rigs and hauled it away.

     Like I said, I watched the entire operation through binoculars. To be honest, writing novels is a business that leaves one open to distraction, with all of the activity right next door, I had the perfect excuse for not working.

     Yesterday afternoon, while I was doing my thing I received a visit from a young man driving a Hummer. He looked every inch the modern farmer, with a phone clipped to his ear and a female companion far too influenced by the weight-loss industry. He explained that the crop next door was his, and that the harvesters were not authorized agents but were in fact dastardly thieves—they stole his hay.

     I do not wish to belittle this phenomenon, agricultural theft is a big enterprise that seems to happen under the radar—as if somebody were getting a payoff.

      But I had a front row view to the crime of the century.

Gray is a Color, Too

Heavenly Father,

On this blustery, rainy, winter morning

Remind us that gray is a color, too

Of  dawn

Squirrels

Clouds that bring needed rain

The breasts of doves

The fur of kittens

Rail fences along country roads

Smoke from chimneys

A favorite coat

Remind us that gray is the color, too

Of wisdom

Reflection

Life’s mysteries        

Difficult choices

Father of us all, help us to remember that gray is a color, too

As we face our individual winters of the soul

Times when the warming sunshine of your love

Doesn’t penetrate our clouds.        

ah

A Crime of Violence

           “I’m sorry, Synoveh. He’s unmanageable this morning. I can’t run a class—will you watch him?”

She knelt to her son’s eye level, he evaded the look: “Luvin… ” In his papoose Sunrah smiled at his older brother.

Achen elaborated: “None of the kids want to sit near him, he won’t keep his hands to himself.”

Still looking for the boy’s eyes: “What is bothering you?”

Luvin looked down, around, everywhere except at Mother, muttered: “Nothing.”

“Is school boring you?”

“I’m tired of sitting and talking.”

“What do you want to do instead?”

“I don’t know.”

“I have chores and you can’t bother me, it’s gonna be real dull with me, too.”

“I’m okay… ”

Synoveh sighed with exaggerated weariness, rose and addressed Achen: “I’ll take him. How are the other kids?”

“Fine—I left Rajin monitoring them. He’s a very serious boy.”

“How is he doing?”

“He understands about Brenda—Suthra and Taralisa are really there for him and he’s accepting them. He believes his Mom died for something good.”

“He should be proud.”

“He is.”

“I’m glad.” Another sigh, an unintended glance at Luvin, he saw an eye of disappointment. Synoveh took his hand from Achen’s. “We’ll be in the kitchen.” She led her son across the cabin circle.

Outside the cookhouse Luenda split firewood with a maul and a wedge. She was stripped to her short pull-over tunic, yellow braids tied up into a turret-like formation, leather chaps protected legs from splinters. Muscles worked smoothly, sweat ran, heavy metal tools rang and cracking logs snapped. She scarcely paused to nod greetings at mother and child going by.

Dirtiest chore at Branch House was the monthly cleaning of the huge stove and it was Synoveh’s turn. A cold breakfast morning warmed only by tea brewed on hearths in the separate cabins.