While walking to the mailbox, I picked up a circular bit of metal on the street. It turned out to be a penny that someone had bored a hole through to form part of a necklace. A good luck charm, I thought, since it was so lucky that I had even glanced down at that exact moment. As I put it in my pocket and continued up the hill to the mailbox, I remembered the seven good luck charms I carried with me at all times during the Vietnam War.
Am I crazy or just plain stupid to have carried seven lucky charms? While I am not sure, consider this. As an infantry foot soldier, I served in a line company, Charlie Company, 1/8 Cavalry, First Cavalry Division, in a part of Vietnam that was supposedly the hottest area of operation in the country at the time. Despite this, I survived unscathed.
Yes, I understand my good luck may have had nothing to do with the seven charms I carried. Common sense and intelligence tells me as much. Still, I did not want to take the chance that I was wrong, and I continued to carry the charms long after I had returned to the real world.
Over the years, one by one, all seven charms were either lost or permanently misplaced. I never tried to replace them because I could not remember why I had considered them lucky in the first place. Today, as I walked to the mailbox, it does not matter much anymore. They had already done their job.
What job did my new charm have in store? Not worrying about it or anything else, I rubbed the penny pendant in my pocket between my fingers and continued up the hill with a smile on my face and a little extra bounce in my step.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Showing posts with label mystery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mystery. Show all posts
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
A Trick of the Mind
Like you, I do not believe this. A more plausible explanation likely exists, what I saw something other than reality. I talked about telling the future using reflection from polished objects such as crystal balls. I suggested that veils, fractures and inclusions of other minerals might affect the transmittal of light through this media such that a person trained to do so could “see” into a different dimension. The last time I visited my father in the reminiscence center where he lives, I witnessed something that lends credence to such claims.
I arrived late, Dad eating dinner, so I waited for him outside on the enclosed patio. The patio is on the east side of the building. I sat in a lawn chair, facing west so that I might see my Dad walking past when he finished eating. It was early evening, the sun shining at an oblique angle through the windows behind me.
Several more windows separated the facility from the enclosed patio, light striking them such that I could see hazy movement from where I sat. I was doing other things, reading a letter and thinking about the events that had occurred that day when I saw, or thought I saw the almost translucent figure of a man strolling down the hall.
I stood and put my face against the glass to negate the glare coming from the window behind me. Even though my actions took less than ten seconds, it was not fast enough to get a look at the man. There was simply no man there. It was a trick of the mind, I thought, caused by the low angle of the sun shining through the window behind me, and then reflecting off the windows in front of me.
My Dad is usually a fast eater but that evening he had not finished even after thirty minutes. During that time, I saw a procession of reflections walking down the hall. Even though I tried my best, their images disappeared every time I put my face to the window.
My Dad has resided at this facility since January 2007 and I have visited him at least once every week since then. Many of the people in the facility when I began visiting are no longer there – the Walking Woman, the Roamer, and many other nameless individuals. It is likely that dozens, maybe hundreds of former inhabitants have died there. Maybe an essence of their souls remains and I was able to see them because of a perfect combination of reflection and refraction.
Like you, I do no believe this. A more plausible explanation likely exists, what I saw something other than reality, or unreality, and nothing more than a simple trick of the mind. Well, maybe!
Louisiana Mystery Writer
I arrived late, Dad eating dinner, so I waited for him outside on the enclosed patio. The patio is on the east side of the building. I sat in a lawn chair, facing west so that I might see my Dad walking past when he finished eating. It was early evening, the sun shining at an oblique angle through the windows behind me.
Several more windows separated the facility from the enclosed patio, light striking them such that I could see hazy movement from where I sat. I was doing other things, reading a letter and thinking about the events that had occurred that day when I saw, or thought I saw the almost translucent figure of a man strolling down the hall.
I stood and put my face against the glass to negate the glare coming from the window behind me. Even though my actions took less than ten seconds, it was not fast enough to get a look at the man. There was simply no man there. It was a trick of the mind, I thought, caused by the low angle of the sun shining through the window behind me, and then reflecting off the windows in front of me.
My Dad is usually a fast eater but that evening he had not finished even after thirty minutes. During that time, I saw a procession of reflections walking down the hall. Even though I tried my best, their images disappeared every time I put my face to the window.
My Dad has resided at this facility since January 2007 and I have visited him at least once every week since then. Many of the people in the facility when I began visiting are no longer there – the Walking Woman, the Roamer, and many other nameless individuals. It is likely that dozens, maybe hundreds of former inhabitants have died there. Maybe an essence of their souls remains and I was able to see them because of a perfect combination of reflection and refraction.
Like you, I do no believe this. A more plausible explanation likely exists, what I saw something other than reality, or unreality, and nothing more than a simple trick of the mind. Well, maybe!
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Friday, August 28, 2009
Marilyn's Story
Marilyn had fallen asleep in the back bedroom with the TV still on, the room illuminated by the picture tube when a noise aroused her later on that night. Looking in the mirror, she saw something black and flying through the room. Turning toward the window, she watched as it flew past the TV, and then out the closed window. She said that the incident didn’t scare her as much as it simply disturbed her, and she had trouble returning to sleep that night.
“That was weird,” Marilyn, unafraid of an evil spirit, thought to herself. We both believe there are spirits in this house (from where, neither of us are sure) but we both have no feeling that they are evil spirits. I have always felt safe in this house, somehow protected.
Perhaps the dark flying creature was but a friendly specter, checking on our well-being while we slept.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
“That was weird,” Marilyn, unafraid of an evil spirit, thought to herself. We both believe there are spirits in this house (from where, neither of us are sure) but we both have no feeling that they are evil spirits. I have always felt safe in this house, somehow protected.
Perhaps the dark flying creature was but a friendly specter, checking on our well-being while we slept.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Other Inhabitants
My dog Princess sees ghosts. I have no doubt that there are ghosts in the house. Marilyn and I have both seen the evidence. A few nights ago, Marilyn heard a loud crash. When she investigated, she found nothing.
Neither Marilyn nor I are afraid. Ghosts are rarely, if ever, harmful beings. I think they just subsist, alongside of the people that are presently alive.
I am aware of only three spirits that might inhabit it – Anne, my wife that died of lung cancer; my mother that died of lymphoma, and Randy, the man that Anne and I bought the house from that committed suicide three days later. The house that we live in is more than thirty years old and there could be even more.
I admit that I don’t understand the afterlife. I barely understand the present life! Still, my pug sees spirits. When she does, she barks and carries on. I have a new pup now, Scooter, her little brother. He also sees them, but even as young as he is, he isn’t really afraid of the other inhabitants of our house.
Neither Marilyn nor I are afraid. Ghosts are rarely, if ever, harmful beings. I think they just subsist, alongside of the people that are presently alive.
I am aware of only three spirits that might inhabit it – Anne, my wife that died of lung cancer; my mother that died of lymphoma, and Randy, the man that Anne and I bought the house from that committed suicide three days later. The house that we live in is more than thirty years old and there could be even more.
I admit that I don’t understand the afterlife. I barely understand the present life! Still, my pug sees spirits. When she does, she barks and carries on. I have a new pup now, Scooter, her little brother. He also sees them, but even as young as he is, he isn’t really afraid of the other inhabitants of our house.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Mysteries of Life
The lives of people often entwine inextricably. Take my family, for instance. In 1969, during the first Vietnam-era draft, my lottery number was thirty-eight. My father’s lottery number during the first draft of the World War II era was the same number. Coincidence? Maybe.
My brother, father and myself were all born in Louisiana, my mother in Mississippi. I was twenty-six when I first visited Oklahoma, my brother the same age although he is two years older than I am. My mother was eighty-four before she ever set foot into Oklahoma, my father eighty-six.
My mother died here, two years ago. My father has Alzheimer’s disease, in assisted-living care, and I am almost certain that he will die here. Both my brother’s family and my family now live in Oklahoma and both of us will likely breathe our last breaths in this state.
You are all in the same family, you say. It is logical that you will all die in the same place.
I am not so sure. Life’s mysteries may be no more than coincidence. What statistical analysis do scientists have to prove this? Perhaps we are all actors destined to play many parts opposite the same members of a large cast. Clad in ever-changing costumes, cultural backdrops, different eras and mores, we act out a play cast and directed by some nebulous being.
Reality is only what we perceive, or think we perceive. My father with Alzheimer’s is but a semblance of his former self, but he still functions, eats, sleeps - He still knows my brother and me. His recent memories are gone, but he can remember his childhood and his experiences in the war. Still, what is reality when perception has vanished?
My father is now more like my child. Maybe, once, he was my child. Who really knows? Yes, he is still my father but like so many sons before me, he remains almost a complete mystery. There are many questions I have for him. Now that I am brave enough to ask, all that I get in return is a blank stare.
Yes, some lives entwine inextricably. Of this, I am quite certain. Well, maybe not. In the words of Bob Dylan, “the only thing I know for sure is that I don’t know anything for sure.”
Gondwana
My brother, father and myself were all born in Louisiana, my mother in Mississippi. I was twenty-six when I first visited Oklahoma, my brother the same age although he is two years older than I am. My mother was eighty-four before she ever set foot into Oklahoma, my father eighty-six.
My mother died here, two years ago. My father has Alzheimer’s disease, in assisted-living care, and I am almost certain that he will die here. Both my brother’s family and my family now live in Oklahoma and both of us will likely breathe our last breaths in this state.
You are all in the same family, you say. It is logical that you will all die in the same place.
I am not so sure. Life’s mysteries may be no more than coincidence. What statistical analysis do scientists have to prove this? Perhaps we are all actors destined to play many parts opposite the same members of a large cast. Clad in ever-changing costumes, cultural backdrops, different eras and mores, we act out a play cast and directed by some nebulous being.
Reality is only what we perceive, or think we perceive. My father with Alzheimer’s is but a semblance of his former self, but he still functions, eats, sleeps - He still knows my brother and me. His recent memories are gone, but he can remember his childhood and his experiences in the war. Still, what is reality when perception has vanished?
My father is now more like my child. Maybe, once, he was my child. Who really knows? Yes, he is still my father but like so many sons before me, he remains almost a complete mystery. There are many questions I have for him. Now that I am brave enough to ask, all that I get in return is a blank stare.
Yes, some lives entwine inextricably. Of this, I am quite certain. Well, maybe not. In the words of Bob Dylan, “the only thing I know for sure is that I don’t know anything for sure.”
Gondwana
Thursday, August 06, 2009
Iceland, Jamaica and the Afar Triangle
I am a fiction writer but I am blessed, or perhaps cursed by also being a scientist of the Earth. Years ago I visited a road cut in Arkansas near the tiny town of Caddo Gap. What I witnessed that day truly blew me away, both metaphorically and metaphysically. I stood on the side of the road, staring for what must have been many minutes, or perhaps hours, at what could only be described as a visual slice of the Earth’s core. It called to me with its siren’s song as I stared in lust at its naked earthen breasts.
As a geologist I may never again experience such a visceral feeling as I did that day, but three destinations beckon to me and I hope to visit each one before I die. They are: Iceland, a land created by sea-floor spreading, dominated by geysers and ice floes; the Afar Triangle, a place in southern Africa that is the site of a triple juncture, a spot where three plates intersect and truly one of the rarest geologic places; Jamaica, an island I believe is Atlantis reborn – perhaps the most exotic geologic location on earth.
I’ve never visited any of these places. The closest I have come is Nassau in the Bahamas. I was there years ago with my deceased wife Anne and friends Ray and Kathy. We hailed a cab and had our cabbie, an islander name King, drive us around and show us the sights. King was quite the character – loud, direct, friendly and informative. He took us to a little café beneath a bridge where only the locals ate.
“Mon, you have to try the conch fritters,” he told us.
We tried them and they were wonderful. I have no recipe for conch fritters for you tonight but I wish I did. I guess my mind was somewhere else. While the Bahamas isn’t Jamaica I was in the Caribbean and the bowels of the earth were calling to me. And yes, it was nothing short of visceral!
Fiction South
As a geologist I may never again experience such a visceral feeling as I did that day, but three destinations beckon to me and I hope to visit each one before I die. They are: Iceland, a land created by sea-floor spreading, dominated by geysers and ice floes; the Afar Triangle, a place in southern Africa that is the site of a triple juncture, a spot where three plates intersect and truly one of the rarest geologic places; Jamaica, an island I believe is Atlantis reborn – perhaps the most exotic geologic location on earth.
I’ve never visited any of these places. The closest I have come is Nassau in the Bahamas. I was there years ago with my deceased wife Anne and friends Ray and Kathy. We hailed a cab and had our cabbie, an islander name King, drive us around and show us the sights. King was quite the character – loud, direct, friendly and informative. He took us to a little café beneath a bridge where only the locals ate.
“Mon, you have to try the conch fritters,” he told us.
We tried them and they were wonderful. I have no recipe for conch fritters for you tonight but I wish I did. I guess my mind was somewhere else. While the Bahamas isn’t Jamaica I was in the Caribbean and the bowels of the earth were calling to me. And yes, it was nothing short of visceral!
Fiction South
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Mystery of the Gurdon Lights
Gurdon is a little Arkansas town located about halfway between Texarkana and Little Rock, on Interstate 30. It’s known for three things, logging, the Gurdon Lights and as the place where the International Concatenated Order of Hoo-Hoo was conceived.
Marilyn grew up there and during a discussion about the place, she provided me with an answer to a mystery that has haunted southwest Arkansas for decades – the mystery of the Gurdon Lights.
The railroad runs through Gurdon and residents have reported seeing unexplainable lights on the railroad track for many years. Many people have seen the phenomena and reported it – too many sightings to easily be discounted. Some people think it is the ghostly lantern of a man that lost his head in a railroad accident.
Gurdon has twenty-five hundred residents, about sixty-five percent white and thirty-five percent black. Growing up, Marilyn’s mother Joy had a black assistant named Hattie and when Marilyn was only twelve Hattie conveyed this extraordinary story to her and her sisters.
The story is ghostly, and creepy, but it is plausible. It is a real mystery, and also perfect Halloween fare. I’ll reveal the true story of the Gurdon Lights to the world on that day.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Marilyn grew up there and during a discussion about the place, she provided me with an answer to a mystery that has haunted southwest Arkansas for decades – the mystery of the Gurdon Lights.
The railroad runs through Gurdon and residents have reported seeing unexplainable lights on the railroad track for many years. Many people have seen the phenomena and reported it – too many sightings to easily be discounted. Some people think it is the ghostly lantern of a man that lost his head in a railroad accident.
Gurdon has twenty-five hundred residents, about sixty-five percent white and thirty-five percent black. Growing up, Marilyn’s mother Joy had a black assistant named Hattie and when Marilyn was only twelve Hattie conveyed this extraordinary story to her and her sisters.
The story is ghostly, and creepy, but it is plausible. It is a real mystery, and also perfect Halloween fare. I’ll reveal the true story of the Gurdon Lights to the world on that day.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Gold is Where You Find It
I had intended to put up a short story on the blog tonight, a ghostly tale set in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Fate got in the way and instead I’m writing about something totally different. Perhaps it still involves a ghost.
Frequent readers to Musings know that a horrible computer virus all but disabled me for the past week. First, it took out my laptop. When I transferred files to my desktop it took that computer out also. I’ve had computer viruses before but this one Antivirus XP 2008 is by far the worst. Hey, and my TV sets were also on the blink this week.
I got one of my computers back on line today, as well as my TV sets and like millions of other fans I began watching Olympic coverage from Beijing. I had meant to do something else as I watched the beginning of the women’s marathon but I was soon hooked and I watched it until the end.
I am a huge fan of racing. I follow everything from NASCAR, to Iditarod and Tour de France, to the Triple Crown. I also love track and field and think the marathon is the single-most difficult event in the Olympics. The race I witnessed tonight convinced me of that.
The race started at a very mundane pace, no one wanting to break away from the pack. The race was more than an hour old before thirty-eight year old Constantina Tomescu-Dita began stepping up the pace. I continued to watch with rapt attention as Tomescu-Dita entered the Olympic stadium to a cheering crowd. Falter she did not.
Tomescu-Dita is now the oldest-ever winner of the women’s marathon. The best was yet to come. As I began watching the swimming coverage, I set amazed as Dara Torres at forty-one years of age won a silver medal in her last individual race. Minutes later she anchored the 400 Meter Medley for yet another Silver medal.
The excitement wasn’t over. I watched Michael Phelps set Olympic history by winning his eighth gold medal in the 400 Medley Relay. The hero wasn’t Michael but the thirty-two year old Jason Lezak. He anchored the world record-setting race.
I had my ghost experience when I went to the utility room to feed my hounds and kitties. On the floor was a neckerchief – one of my neckerchiefs. I quit jogging about ten years ago but when I jogged I always wore a neckerchief around my neck. I don’t have a clue where this one came from but it was mine, and it was knotted for action.
As I peck out this story tonight, I wonder about the mystery neckerchief, where it came from, and what the message means. As I ponder the mystery, Dara Torres’ words rattle in my head. Forty-one year old Torres said “Don’t put an age limit on your dreams.”
I’m a baby boomer. I was a hippie in the sixties and served in Vietnam. Still, I believe my best days are still ahead and tomorrow I’m going to hit the track. Will I win gold or set a world record? You bet I will!
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Frequent readers to Musings know that a horrible computer virus all but disabled me for the past week. First, it took out my laptop. When I transferred files to my desktop it took that computer out also. I’ve had computer viruses before but this one Antivirus XP 2008 is by far the worst. Hey, and my TV sets were also on the blink this week.
I got one of my computers back on line today, as well as my TV sets and like millions of other fans I began watching Olympic coverage from Beijing. I had meant to do something else as I watched the beginning of the women’s marathon but I was soon hooked and I watched it until the end.
I am a huge fan of racing. I follow everything from NASCAR, to Iditarod and Tour de France, to the Triple Crown. I also love track and field and think the marathon is the single-most difficult event in the Olympics. The race I witnessed tonight convinced me of that.
The race started at a very mundane pace, no one wanting to break away from the pack. The race was more than an hour old before thirty-eight year old Constantina Tomescu-Dita began stepping up the pace. I continued to watch with rapt attention as Tomescu-Dita entered the Olympic stadium to a cheering crowd. Falter she did not.
Tomescu-Dita is now the oldest-ever winner of the women’s marathon. The best was yet to come. As I began watching the swimming coverage, I set amazed as Dara Torres at forty-one years of age won a silver medal in her last individual race. Minutes later she anchored the 400 Meter Medley for yet another Silver medal.
The excitement wasn’t over. I watched Michael Phelps set Olympic history by winning his eighth gold medal in the 400 Medley Relay. The hero wasn’t Michael but the thirty-two year old Jason Lezak. He anchored the world record-setting race.
I had my ghost experience when I went to the utility room to feed my hounds and kitties. On the floor was a neckerchief – one of my neckerchiefs. I quit jogging about ten years ago but when I jogged I always wore a neckerchief around my neck. I don’t have a clue where this one came from but it was mine, and it was knotted for action.
As I peck out this story tonight, I wonder about the mystery neckerchief, where it came from, and what the message means. As I ponder the mystery, Dara Torres’ words rattle in my head. Forty-one year old Torres said “Don’t put an age limit on your dreams.”
I’m a baby boomer. I was a hippie in the sixties and served in Vietnam. Still, I believe my best days are still ahead and tomorrow I’m going to hit the track. Will I win gold or set a world record? You bet I will!
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Karmic Highway
I never believed my wife Anne would lose her battle with cancer but she must have had an inkling. “Cremate me and spread my ashes on that beach I liked so much on Cape Cod.” Five or so months after she died, I flew to Boston to do just that.
My Cousin Angela and her then husband Bob accompanied me to Cape Cod. They had a vacation cottage on John’s Pond and we spent the night there, spreading her ashes the following day. Bob had to return to Boston but Angela and I stayed at the cottage.
“There’s a very good movie playing at the theatre. It’s gotten great reviews and I think we should see it. It will take our minds off everything.”
I wasn’t up for a movie but I decided to go anyway because I really wasn’t up for anything. The movie was called Smoke Signals and those of you that saw the movie will probably know where I’m going with this story.
The movie received many accolades and was the first film ever created totally by Native Americans. Two young men live on a reservation in Idaho. The drunken, abusive father of one of the men has just died in Phoenix, Arizona and the two heroes set out to return his ashes and belongings to the Rez. Both men are conflicted by their relationships with the older man and the trip becomes a journey of self discovery.
I won’t ruin the movie for everyone because it is worth seeing. The final scene was unexpected and traumatic for me. The two young men stopped at a river the father always admired. Standing on the rustic bridge, they dumped his ashes into the water. I can not begin to tell you how the scene affected me.
One of the stages of grief is denial and yes, my mind had latched on firmly to that particular stage and was refusing to let go. As the father’s ashes wafted off the bridge and into the rapidly moving water, the sledgehammer of realization crashed unexpectedly into the back of my head. I began to sob like a baby and I couldn’t shut up, even though every person in the darkened theatre turned to see what fool was causing such an embarrassing scene.
I’m positive that my poor cousin Angela had no idea what was about to occur. Even though the mother of two, she had no frame of reference to deal with the blubbering man beside her. She patted my hand but I know she’d have rather taken a quick trip to the ladies room.
I finally got a grip, just as the credits began scrolling across the screen. Grabbing Angela’s wrist, I said, “I’m not leaving here until everyone is gone.” We finally hurried out of the theatre, my face red with both tears and embarrassment.
Even today, I can’t explain the coincidence of having spread Anne’s ashes the same day I saw the movie Smoke Signals, but I know that it jolted me out of denial and into yet another stage of grief. When tragedy hits you upside the head it often leaves you dazed and mired for months in a muddy ditch beside your life’s path. Like me, you’ll remain there until something quite unexpected happens – like seeing Smoke Signals - and propels you, once again, down life’s karmic highway.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
My Cousin Angela and her then husband Bob accompanied me to Cape Cod. They had a vacation cottage on John’s Pond and we spent the night there, spreading her ashes the following day. Bob had to return to Boston but Angela and I stayed at the cottage.
“There’s a very good movie playing at the theatre. It’s gotten great reviews and I think we should see it. It will take our minds off everything.”
I wasn’t up for a movie but I decided to go anyway because I really wasn’t up for anything. The movie was called Smoke Signals and those of you that saw the movie will probably know where I’m going with this story.
The movie received many accolades and was the first film ever created totally by Native Americans. Two young men live on a reservation in Idaho. The drunken, abusive father of one of the men has just died in Phoenix, Arizona and the two heroes set out to return his ashes and belongings to the Rez. Both men are conflicted by their relationships with the older man and the trip becomes a journey of self discovery.
I won’t ruin the movie for everyone because it is worth seeing. The final scene was unexpected and traumatic for me. The two young men stopped at a river the father always admired. Standing on the rustic bridge, they dumped his ashes into the water. I can not begin to tell you how the scene affected me.
One of the stages of grief is denial and yes, my mind had latched on firmly to that particular stage and was refusing to let go. As the father’s ashes wafted off the bridge and into the rapidly moving water, the sledgehammer of realization crashed unexpectedly into the back of my head. I began to sob like a baby and I couldn’t shut up, even though every person in the darkened theatre turned to see what fool was causing such an embarrassing scene.
I’m positive that my poor cousin Angela had no idea what was about to occur. Even though the mother of two, she had no frame of reference to deal with the blubbering man beside her. She patted my hand but I know she’d have rather taken a quick trip to the ladies room.
I finally got a grip, just as the credits began scrolling across the screen. Grabbing Angela’s wrist, I said, “I’m not leaving here until everyone is gone.” We finally hurried out of the theatre, my face red with both tears and embarrassment.
Even today, I can’t explain the coincidence of having spread Anne’s ashes the same day I saw the movie Smoke Signals, but I know that it jolted me out of denial and into yet another stage of grief. When tragedy hits you upside the head it often leaves you dazed and mired for months in a muddy ditch beside your life’s path. Like me, you’ll remain there until something quite unexpected happens – like seeing Smoke Signals - and propels you, once again, down life’s karmic highway.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Monday, July 06, 2009
A Cat Named Max
Cats are graceful creatures that never really have an owner and I’ve told lots of stories about those that have occupied large places in my heart. One of them was a big tom, a little special and just a bit more memorable than most.
All our acquaintances knew that Anne and I were cat people and rarely a week passed that someone didn’t try to give us one. We almost always resisted or else we would have had hundreds of cats instead of the handful we felt responsible for. A cry for assistance occurred one day that we couldn’t ignore.
Friends of friends owned a small apartment complex and someone had abandoned two cats in an upstairs apartment. A week had passed before the landlord found out and by this time the two felines were traumatized. Anne and good friend Bruce rescued them from the locked apartment after much ado and lots more trauma.
Both cats were solid white, one a young female, the older a grown male. Bruce fell in love with the little female and took her to care for. The big tom was half crazy from his stay in the apartment and it was soon apparent that if Anne and I didn’t take him we would have to have him put down.
We named him Max because there was a Mel Gibson movie out at the time called Mad Max and this new addition to our family qualified as more than a little wacky. Max was a cross between a Siamese and a Manx. He was solid white with gorgeous, slightly crossed blue eyes. He had only the semblance of a tail and his hind legs were longer than the front ones. He was fixed but had a heavily muscled torso and tufted ears that caused him to look like a white bobcat. Oh, and he was very strong.
For the first few days we fed and watered Mad Max while giving him a wide berth. There were other cats in the family and soon he began to cozy up to us. He liked King Tut and followed him wherever he went. Tut was as regal as his name implied and I think he liked having a lieutenant around.
After a year or so we noticed Mad Max was looking sick so we put him in the cat carrier and took him to Dr. D our friendly vet. He spent the day there and when we picked him up, Dr. D explained what had happened.
“Tailless cats tend to rub their rear ends in the grass and occasionally get plugged up. Max had an excretion ball that solidified to the point it wouldn’t pass. We gave him a sedative and then soaked his rear in warm water until we could extract it.”
Dr. D gave us some antibiotics for Max and the big boy was back to his normal self in a day or so. As time passed, he became an integral part of the family. He loved his daily full body strokes and began demanding his share of the attention. He was still sort of nuts and if you rubbed him once too often he would take a swipe at you with his powerful paw.
Another couple of years passed, along with the oil boom. Anne and I were struggling and had little money to go to the doctor or dentist ourselves. The cats were relegated to emergency only vet visits. One incident finally occurred that we had no money to let the vet remedy. Max had developed another petrified poop ball in his rear and he was miserable by the time we noticed it.
“You’ll have to fix it or he will die,” Anne said.
I knew that she was correct. Drawing a bucket of very warm water, I pulled on a pair of gloves and prepared for the worst. I needn’t have worried. Powerful Max was too sick to fight. He didn’t even squirm when I lifted him and lowered his rear into the warm water.
I don’t know how long it took but the petrified poop soon began to soften. I finally got hold of it with my gloved hand and worked on it until it finally came loose, Max and me both breathing huge sighs of relief as it did.
Max and I both survived the petrified poop ordeal and he lived with us altogether for almost ten years. He met his demise early one morning in a dramatic fashion. Anne was walking outside to get the morning paper when she heard a commotion in the garage. The cats liked to sleep there, roosted on the hoods of our car and we always kept the door cracked so they could go in and out.
As Anne stood looking at the garage door, a large German shepherd came bounding out with Max in his mouth. Anne chased them down the street in her robe and nightgown, yelling at him to stop as she ran. The dog paid her no mind and quickly outdistanced her, disappearing down the block. We never found Max’s body.
Max was limp, his eyes closed when the large dog came running out of the garage with him. Our vet told us that he was likely killed the moment the dog got him by the neck. “He probably never knew what hit him and I’m sure he never suffered,” Dr. D told us, hoping to make us feel better.
Mad Max met his dramatic demise, hopefully without suffering, and Anne and I consoled each other with the knowledge that he was a grown cat when we got him. He lived another ten very good years with people that cared for him deeply before the dog got him.
Yes, Max was a little different and slightly crazy but we loved him despite his less than perfect qualities. Max was a special cat, and sometimes you love special beings in ways hard to explain – except in your heart.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
All our acquaintances knew that Anne and I were cat people and rarely a week passed that someone didn’t try to give us one. We almost always resisted or else we would have had hundreds of cats instead of the handful we felt responsible for. A cry for assistance occurred one day that we couldn’t ignore.
Friends of friends owned a small apartment complex and someone had abandoned two cats in an upstairs apartment. A week had passed before the landlord found out and by this time the two felines were traumatized. Anne and good friend Bruce rescued them from the locked apartment after much ado and lots more trauma.
Both cats were solid white, one a young female, the older a grown male. Bruce fell in love with the little female and took her to care for. The big tom was half crazy from his stay in the apartment and it was soon apparent that if Anne and I didn’t take him we would have to have him put down.
We named him Max because there was a Mel Gibson movie out at the time called Mad Max and this new addition to our family qualified as more than a little wacky. Max was a cross between a Siamese and a Manx. He was solid white with gorgeous, slightly crossed blue eyes. He had only the semblance of a tail and his hind legs were longer than the front ones. He was fixed but had a heavily muscled torso and tufted ears that caused him to look like a white bobcat. Oh, and he was very strong.
For the first few days we fed and watered Mad Max while giving him a wide berth. There were other cats in the family and soon he began to cozy up to us. He liked King Tut and followed him wherever he went. Tut was as regal as his name implied and I think he liked having a lieutenant around.
After a year or so we noticed Mad Max was looking sick so we put him in the cat carrier and took him to Dr. D our friendly vet. He spent the day there and when we picked him up, Dr. D explained what had happened.
“Tailless cats tend to rub their rear ends in the grass and occasionally get plugged up. Max had an excretion ball that solidified to the point it wouldn’t pass. We gave him a sedative and then soaked his rear in warm water until we could extract it.”
Dr. D gave us some antibiotics for Max and the big boy was back to his normal self in a day or so. As time passed, he became an integral part of the family. He loved his daily full body strokes and began demanding his share of the attention. He was still sort of nuts and if you rubbed him once too often he would take a swipe at you with his powerful paw.
Another couple of years passed, along with the oil boom. Anne and I were struggling and had little money to go to the doctor or dentist ourselves. The cats were relegated to emergency only vet visits. One incident finally occurred that we had no money to let the vet remedy. Max had developed another petrified poop ball in his rear and he was miserable by the time we noticed it.
“You’ll have to fix it or he will die,” Anne said.
I knew that she was correct. Drawing a bucket of very warm water, I pulled on a pair of gloves and prepared for the worst. I needn’t have worried. Powerful Max was too sick to fight. He didn’t even squirm when I lifted him and lowered his rear into the warm water.
I don’t know how long it took but the petrified poop soon began to soften. I finally got hold of it with my gloved hand and worked on it until it finally came loose, Max and me both breathing huge sighs of relief as it did.
Max and I both survived the petrified poop ordeal and he lived with us altogether for almost ten years. He met his demise early one morning in a dramatic fashion. Anne was walking outside to get the morning paper when she heard a commotion in the garage. The cats liked to sleep there, roosted on the hoods of our car and we always kept the door cracked so they could go in and out.
As Anne stood looking at the garage door, a large German shepherd came bounding out with Max in his mouth. Anne chased them down the street in her robe and nightgown, yelling at him to stop as she ran. The dog paid her no mind and quickly outdistanced her, disappearing down the block. We never found Max’s body.
Max was limp, his eyes closed when the large dog came running out of the garage with him. Our vet told us that he was likely killed the moment the dog got him by the neck. “He probably never knew what hit him and I’m sure he never suffered,” Dr. D told us, hoping to make us feel better.
Mad Max met his dramatic demise, hopefully without suffering, and Anne and I consoled each other with the knowledge that he was a grown cat when we got him. He lived another ten very good years with people that cared for him deeply before the dog got him.
Yes, Max was a little different and slightly crazy but we loved him despite his less than perfect qualities. Max was a special cat, and sometimes you love special beings in ways hard to explain – except in your heart.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Teenage Fantasies and Small Town Ghosts - conclusion
“Larry, where are you?” I called.
“In front of you,” he said in a whisper. “The light is coming from over that rise.”
The little country cemetery was well kept, grass trimmed around the tombs. Some of the headstones were large and ornate but most were old and crumbling, many no more than wooden crosses and rectangles of worn concrete. We had no flashlight but didn’t need one as there were few trees to block star light and bright glow of the full moon. A graveled path led up the hill toward the gleaming blue light.
Larry and I were in ROTC and both already experienced in night maneuvers. The ghostly light that continued to beam from the center of the cemetery apparently didn’t frighten my large companion and I was feeling more elated anticipation than fear. As we crested the slight rise we both saw the origin of the eerie light.
Larry halted in his tracks and held up his hand for me to stop. Moonlight was shining directly on a large piece of blue foil once used to wrap a flower pot. The light was reflecting off the foil and onto the polished marble surface of a headstone. The resultant glow shone like the beam of a spotlight, straight up into the sky.
The light wasn’t all we saw. In the darkness, just beyond the spot where the little hill began to drop in elevation, an almost indistinguishable shadowy figure came into view. It remained a moment in one spot before continuing slowly toward us, its amorphous shape wafting in the gentle summer breeze. Larry took a step forward to investigate but a shout from behind caused us both to turn and look.
“Larry, where are you?” It was Leeann. Worried about her brother, she had followed us. We watched as she picked her way up the little hill. Just as she reached us she froze in place, put her hand to her mouth and said, “Oh my God!”
A vivid flash of summer lightning accompanied Leeann’s exclamation followed quickly by a clap of thunder that seemed as if it were right on top of us. Leeann didn’t appear to notice. She was staring at a spot behind us, still grasping her open mouth with her left hand as she pointed straight ahead with her right. Need I add how wide her eyes had grown?
Another flash of lightning lit the sky as Larry and I turned to see what she was pointing at. A sudden summer rainstorm had moved quickly overhead, already covering the stars and moon with dark puffy clouds. As lightning dissipated only gloom remained, but not until Larry and I saw a shadowy nimbus floating up the hill toward us.
Before either of us could react Leeann grabbed me from behind and screamed at the top of her lungs, trying, it seemed to squeeze the breath out of me. As she did clouds began unloading with large heavy drops of warm precipitation that lasted for no more than a minute. Dark clouds passed with the rain, again revealing clear sky complete with stars and full moonlight. Whatever we thought we had witnessed had disappeared along with the momentary storm.
“Did you see it?” Leeann asked, her long arms still wrapped tightly around my chest.
“I saw something but don’t know what it was,” I answered.
Leeann gave me an incredulous look when Larry said, “It was just a low-lying cloud.”
“My ass!” Leeann said. “It was shaped like a man and it was coming up the hill after us. You saw it didn’t you Eric?”
“I saw something but I didn’t get a good look. We turned away just as you called to us.”
“Trust me, it was nothing but a cloud,” Larry said as he led us back to the Fairlane.
Leeann had already begun to disbelieve her eyes as she followed her brother down the hill. I didn’t know what to believe but I was already missing the warmth of her breasts against my back. We had to bang on the car door for Jim and Cindy to let us in.
“Did you see it?” Cindy asked.
“Yes, just before the rain started.” Leeann said.
“What rain?” Jim asked. “It’s been clear as a bell ever since you left the car.”
“Well it sure as hell rained on us, didn’t it Larry?”
“For a minute or so,” he said.
Cindy and Jim stared at him, and then at me. “You don’t look wet. Are you guys pulling our legs?”
My shirt and pants were almost dry and I could do little more than shrug my shoulders. By the time we dropped Jim off at his house, talk of the ghost had ended.
Cindy and Leeann were already gone next morning before Larry and I ate breakfast. Larry didn’t want to talk about the ghost except to say it was “bullshit” and I never spoke to either Leeann or Cindy again.
The mind plays tricks and sometimes what you think you see is nothing more than an invention of your imagination. Still, as Larry and I waited on the edge of I-20, trying to thumb a ride, I reached in my shirt pocket and pulled out the remains of my scribbled journal. My shirt - we were out of clean clothes and I was wearing the same shirt and blue jeans as the previous night - was damp from sweat, crumpled paper equally moist. Something prompted me to unfold the soggy journal and look at it and I got quite a shock when I did.
Either rain or sweat had caused the blue ink to bleed on the paper and render my scribbling all but indecipherable – except for one word. In large blurry letters it spelled out WRAITH.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
“In front of you,” he said in a whisper. “The light is coming from over that rise.”
The little country cemetery was well kept, grass trimmed around the tombs. Some of the headstones were large and ornate but most were old and crumbling, many no more than wooden crosses and rectangles of worn concrete. We had no flashlight but didn’t need one as there were few trees to block star light and bright glow of the full moon. A graveled path led up the hill toward the gleaming blue light.
Larry and I were in ROTC and both already experienced in night maneuvers. The ghostly light that continued to beam from the center of the cemetery apparently didn’t frighten my large companion and I was feeling more elated anticipation than fear. As we crested the slight rise we both saw the origin of the eerie light.
Larry halted in his tracks and held up his hand for me to stop. Moonlight was shining directly on a large piece of blue foil once used to wrap a flower pot. The light was reflecting off the foil and onto the polished marble surface of a headstone. The resultant glow shone like the beam of a spotlight, straight up into the sky.
The light wasn’t all we saw. In the darkness, just beyond the spot where the little hill began to drop in elevation, an almost indistinguishable shadowy figure came into view. It remained a moment in one spot before continuing slowly toward us, its amorphous shape wafting in the gentle summer breeze. Larry took a step forward to investigate but a shout from behind caused us both to turn and look.
“Larry, where are you?” It was Leeann. Worried about her brother, she had followed us. We watched as she picked her way up the little hill. Just as she reached us she froze in place, put her hand to her mouth and said, “Oh my God!”
A vivid flash of summer lightning accompanied Leeann’s exclamation followed quickly by a clap of thunder that seemed as if it were right on top of us. Leeann didn’t appear to notice. She was staring at a spot behind us, still grasping her open mouth with her left hand as she pointed straight ahead with her right. Need I add how wide her eyes had grown?
Another flash of lightning lit the sky as Larry and I turned to see what she was pointing at. A sudden summer rainstorm had moved quickly overhead, already covering the stars and moon with dark puffy clouds. As lightning dissipated only gloom remained, but not until Larry and I saw a shadowy nimbus floating up the hill toward us.
Before either of us could react Leeann grabbed me from behind and screamed at the top of her lungs, trying, it seemed to squeeze the breath out of me. As she did clouds began unloading with large heavy drops of warm precipitation that lasted for no more than a minute. Dark clouds passed with the rain, again revealing clear sky complete with stars and full moonlight. Whatever we thought we had witnessed had disappeared along with the momentary storm.
“Did you see it?” Leeann asked, her long arms still wrapped tightly around my chest.
“I saw something but don’t know what it was,” I answered.
Leeann gave me an incredulous look when Larry said, “It was just a low-lying cloud.”
“My ass!” Leeann said. “It was shaped like a man and it was coming up the hill after us. You saw it didn’t you Eric?”
“I saw something but I didn’t get a good look. We turned away just as you called to us.”
“Trust me, it was nothing but a cloud,” Larry said as he led us back to the Fairlane.
Leeann had already begun to disbelieve her eyes as she followed her brother down the hill. I didn’t know what to believe but I was already missing the warmth of her breasts against my back. We had to bang on the car door for Jim and Cindy to let us in.
“Did you see it?” Cindy asked.
“Yes, just before the rain started.” Leeann said.
“What rain?” Jim asked. “It’s been clear as a bell ever since you left the car.”
“Well it sure as hell rained on us, didn’t it Larry?”
“For a minute or so,” he said.
Cindy and Jim stared at him, and then at me. “You don’t look wet. Are you guys pulling our legs?”
My shirt and pants were almost dry and I could do little more than shrug my shoulders. By the time we dropped Jim off at his house, talk of the ghost had ended.
Cindy and Leeann were already gone next morning before Larry and I ate breakfast. Larry didn’t want to talk about the ghost except to say it was “bullshit” and I never spoke to either Leeann or Cindy again.
The mind plays tricks and sometimes what you think you see is nothing more than an invention of your imagination. Still, as Larry and I waited on the edge of I-20, trying to thumb a ride, I reached in my shirt pocket and pulled out the remains of my scribbled journal. My shirt - we were out of clean clothes and I was wearing the same shirt and blue jeans as the previous night - was damp from sweat, crumpled paper equally moist. Something prompted me to unfold the soggy journal and look at it and I got quite a shock when I did.
Either rain or sweat had caused the blue ink to bleed on the paper and render my scribbling all but indecipherable – except for one word. In large blurry letters it spelled out WRAITH.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Monday, June 22, 2009
Teenage Fantasies and Small Town Ghosts - part 2
“Have you ever seen the ghost?” Leeann asked.
There was swagger in Jim’s voice when he said, “Lots of times. Once it waved a knife at a friend and me.”
“Did it scare you?” Larry asked.
“No way,” Jim said
As we sat on the side of the road, listening to Jim’s story, a gentle summer breeze wafted the large tree’s leaves and branches causing shadows to dance across warm blacktop. None of us commented as Cindy applied the gas and started away toward the cemetery.
As I recall the short ride to the suspected rapist’s place of internment, I realize that Jim probably had visions of mending fences with Cindy, and perhaps a romantic connection induced by her anxiety at possibly seeing a ghost. When we reached the cemetery, I’m sure the visualization we soon saw caused his thoughts of romance to disappear out the open window, along with his phony boldness.
The little cemetery lay just off the blacktop and had a small dirt parking lot. Cindy pulled into the lot and turned off the car’s lights. The night was moon bright and it took only a few moments for our eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. A fence of wrought iron surrounded the cemetery stretching before us like a silent metropolis of the lifeless.
“Hear it?” Jim asked. “The dead boy’s soul is calling out to us.”
I couldn’t hear anything except semis passing on a distant highway along with a chorus of crickets and tree frogs. Still, Jim’s words evoked a certain anxiety. Cindy also felt it as she slid toward the center of the car and closer to Jim. Leeann uncrossed her legs and grabbed my hand in a firm clasp. I couldn’t see Larry’s eyes but I knew he must be frowning. We had all just noticed something that none of us could explain.
Leeann clutched my hand even tighter when Cindy said, “Oh my God! What is that?”
Before us an eerie blue light rose straight up from the center of the little cemetery, stretching like the creepy luminescent beam of an ethereal spotlight pointing high into the sky. A slight breeze caused the beam to vacillate like the luminous arms of a ghostly hula dancer.
We all sat in silence, waiting for the image to disappear so our minds could promptly deny what we all had seen. It didn’t happen that way.
Talk of the ghost had elicited Jim’s desired effect on Cindy. By now she was practically sitting in his lap, her arms clutched desperately around his neck. Jim didn’t seem to notice as his eyes in the reflected moonlight were big as proverbial saucers, his own arms gripping Cindy as tightly as she held him.
They weren’t the only ones caught up in the spooky moment. Leeann clamped my right hand with both of her own. She couldn’t have drawn any closer without occupying the space where I sat. What Larry was thinking about the situation briefly crossed my mind.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Leeann finally said.
Larry was having none of it. “No way, we need to find out what’s causing that light. I don’t believe for one minute it’s a ghost.”
When no one responded to his statement Larry opened the back door and started for the cemetery gate. I was more interested in Leeann’s pressing warmth and tender softness than the ghost but it quickly returned to my attention when the door slammed behind him. Concerned for her brother, Leeann released her grip and pushed me toward the door.
“You’re his friend. You go with him.”
When I glanced at Big Jim his wide-open stare quickly told me he would be of no help. Leeann’s frown and folded arms had returned so I opened the back door and followed my friend into the night.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
There was swagger in Jim’s voice when he said, “Lots of times. Once it waved a knife at a friend and me.”
“Did it scare you?” Larry asked.
“No way,” Jim said
As we sat on the side of the road, listening to Jim’s story, a gentle summer breeze wafted the large tree’s leaves and branches causing shadows to dance across warm blacktop. None of us commented as Cindy applied the gas and started away toward the cemetery.
As I recall the short ride to the suspected rapist’s place of internment, I realize that Jim probably had visions of mending fences with Cindy, and perhaps a romantic connection induced by her anxiety at possibly seeing a ghost. When we reached the cemetery, I’m sure the visualization we soon saw caused his thoughts of romance to disappear out the open window, along with his phony boldness.
The little cemetery lay just off the blacktop and had a small dirt parking lot. Cindy pulled into the lot and turned off the car’s lights. The night was moon bright and it took only a few moments for our eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. A fence of wrought iron surrounded the cemetery stretching before us like a silent metropolis of the lifeless.
“Hear it?” Jim asked. “The dead boy’s soul is calling out to us.”
I couldn’t hear anything except semis passing on a distant highway along with a chorus of crickets and tree frogs. Still, Jim’s words evoked a certain anxiety. Cindy also felt it as she slid toward the center of the car and closer to Jim. Leeann uncrossed her legs and grabbed my hand in a firm clasp. I couldn’t see Larry’s eyes but I knew he must be frowning. We had all just noticed something that none of us could explain.
Leeann clutched my hand even tighter when Cindy said, “Oh my God! What is that?”
Before us an eerie blue light rose straight up from the center of the little cemetery, stretching like the creepy luminescent beam of an ethereal spotlight pointing high into the sky. A slight breeze caused the beam to vacillate like the luminous arms of a ghostly hula dancer.
We all sat in silence, waiting for the image to disappear so our minds could promptly deny what we all had seen. It didn’t happen that way.
Talk of the ghost had elicited Jim’s desired effect on Cindy. By now she was practically sitting in his lap, her arms clutched desperately around his neck. Jim didn’t seem to notice as his eyes in the reflected moonlight were big as proverbial saucers, his own arms gripping Cindy as tightly as she held him.
They weren’t the only ones caught up in the spooky moment. Leeann clamped my right hand with both of her own. She couldn’t have drawn any closer without occupying the space where I sat. What Larry was thinking about the situation briefly crossed my mind.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Leeann finally said.
Larry was having none of it. “No way, we need to find out what’s causing that light. I don’t believe for one minute it’s a ghost.”
When no one responded to his statement Larry opened the back door and started for the cemetery gate. I was more interested in Leeann’s pressing warmth and tender softness than the ghost but it quickly returned to my attention when the door slammed behind him. Concerned for her brother, Leeann released her grip and pushed me toward the door.
“You’re his friend. You go with him.”
When I glanced at Big Jim his wide-open stare quickly told me he would be of no help. Leeann’s frown and folded arms had returned so I opened the back door and followed my friend into the night.
Louisiana Mystery Writer
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Ann's Chicken Fry, Rt. 66, OKC
Here are a few pics Marilyn took Friday at Ann's Chicken Fry located on historic Route 66 in Oklahoma City. You can almost hear the Route 66 theme song!
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