Detox - A study in torture

Before I start, let me caution the parents that may be reading this. Send the children out of the room. What follows is so horrible, so scary that it is not for the faint of heart or for those under the age of twelve. I’ll wait until they are gone...............ok, we can continue.

The Martin family, or to be more accurate, Mikki, Katie and me - Jake is left out of the fun since he is playing football and needs his strength - have embarked on an epic odyssey, though that may be redundant. We have adopted a new diet that promises to bring health, happiness and prosperity to all those who would dare to attempt its rigor. Not wanting to back away from a challenge, we stepped to the plate, ready to take our swing at the fence.

The name of this program is "The Food Lovers Fat Loss Diet". It appears to be a very sensible, reasonable plan that incorporates real food and is based on the concepts of Nutrisystem, with a hint of Richard Simmons’ Deal a Meal utilizing real food we eat on a regular basis. It all sounded good until the first six day detox plan was explained to me. I was incredulous when I heard what was expected of me. At hearing the directions, I was immediately taken back to those days of pledging for a fraternity and the infamous "Hell Week" that every upperclassman looked forward to with sadistic glee. "I have to do what?" was my first reaction, my second being going to my room and brooding for several hours.

After coming out of my room, I reluctantly, and against all reason, acquiesced to the regimen and now find myself in the middle of the second ‘Hell Week’ of my life. What follows is the daily detox plan:

Upon waking, I am immediately, or at least ten minutes after waking, given a glass of water laced with Pysillium husks that has the equivalent fiber rating of a large ball of twine. After ingesting the fiber bomb, I am then administered a glass of water mixed with chlorophyl. For those of you who may not be familiar with chlorophyl and its many uses, let me elucidate. Chlorophyl is touted as an internal deodorant. I can now rest from my concerns that my insides may possibly stink. In addition to its deodorant characteristics, it is also extremely green. When I say extremely green, I am not exaggerating. It is so green that even the Irish refuse to use it. And might I add that everything it comes in contact with is instantly turned green. After the greening and deodorizing of my insides, I am then given a capsule of cascara sagrada that just adds to the truckload of fiber that I have already consumed.

Now for some real food? No! A blender of blue berries, protein powder, banana and apple juice, deceitfully labeled as breakfast, is then chocked down and I am out the door, armed with a field of green fiber and fruit, sitting like a ticking bomb in my gut. What could possibly go wrong with that?

At ten in the morning, I’m allowed a cup of apple juice and at lunch I get another shake with either blueberries or strawberries and protein powder. My afternoon snack consists of a choice of a soup mix of carrots and potatoes thrown into the blender so as to render them unrecognizable both in taste, texture and looks, or a cup of chicken bouillon. The evening meal is a repeat of the morning regimen of fiber, fruit and chlorophyl, and then all we have to look forward to is our evening snack of chicken bouillon or mystery soup. With these two, one has to choose between the needed calories of the mystery soup, or the welcome taste of chicken bouillon, which is devoid of any appreciable calories. So, death by starvation or wanting to die because of a dearth of taste.
　
As any reasonable, thinking human being would anticipate, the combination of a bushel basket of fiber mixed with fruit may have a significant impact on ones regularity. That thinking human would be more than right, in fact, he would be spot on. Now, those of you who are a bit squeamish or faint of heart, may want to turn away at this part, or at best, avert your eyes. To say there were frequent trips to the bathroom would be a gross understatement, and to add insult to injury, so to speak, the offerings at the porcelain throne were St Patrick’s Day approved. (You can reference the above description of the characteristics of chlorophyl). And to think I only have to endure this for SIX DAYS!!!!
　
As I write this, I am in the middle of ‘Hell Week’ and it would appear that, with any luck, I’ll survive this ordeal and will make it to the real food part of the program. This initial stage is, as I mentioned, the detox portion of the program and is designed to rid my body of all the toxins I accumulated over the years from the regular food I was eating. I’m not sure how the toxins got into my food, but at least I am now spewing them out of my body at an alarming rate and will, in three days, be toxin free. How many other men can say that?

I am sure this program was initiated by the CIA in or around the confines of Gitmo for the interrogation of terrorist and other miscreants that are housed there. However, all of my phone calls to Langley have not been returned, so we will never really be sure.
Rumor has it that this program was also rejected for use in training by the Navy SEALS as being too rigorous, onerous and just plain mean spirited.

In closing, may I, at this time, give my thanks to all those who have sent their condolences through cards and flowers in sympathy to my plight. They are deeply appreciated. Fiber on, dudes.

Fifty items of gratitude

"And in nothing doth man offend God, or against none is his wrath kindled, save those who confess not his hand in all things." D&C 59:7,21

I have listed fifty items I am grateful for so that if the event I should ever feel as if life is picking on me or dealing me a bad hand, I can look at my list and realize that regardless of my current circumstance, I have been bountifully blessed. Even if one or several of the items on my list have been altered or removed, I still have all the others to be thankful for.

I have to admit that I am a bit chagrined that it took some thought to reach fifty. I had assumed it would be easier than it turned out to be, but a great exercise in having to really think about what I have been given. I have included some brief explanations and some commentary as well. Believe me, it is in no way complete or extensive - each item could be an essay in and of itself - I just wanted to give a brief commentary. I also need to mention that these are not necessarily listed in order of importance.

I would like to offer a challenge to all that read this - compile your own list of fifty items. You will probably use some of the same as I did, which is great, but you will, no doubt, have many that are original to you. Good luck!

The List
1. A loving Heavenly Father
I am blessed to understand the love He has for me and how involved in my life he is.


2. My Savior, Jesus Christ.
Without His atoning sacrifice, I would not be able to return to my Heavenly Father. Jesus is an example I can use in every aspect of my life.

3. Mikki, my wife.
She is my best friend, without whom I would be lost. She is everything to me. My coat from the cold (she’ll understand that reference.)

4. Tyler

5. Zach


6. Katie

7. Jake
(I listed my children separately because they are each, in their own way, a blessing to my life.)

8. My Mother

She brought me into the world, sacrificed continually for me as I was growing up, and continues to love me.


9. The promise of an Eternal family
I can be with my family forever. What a blessing that is!

10. Freedom.
Freedom allows me to enjoy all the rest of what I have.

11. Life
Just the blessing of being alive. That is, indeed, a great gift.


12. Love

13. Prayer

14. Sight
To see the beauty around me.


15. Hearing

16. Intellect
I have a mind that enables me to understand the world, to earn a living and to interact with others.

17. Speech

18. Smell
I smell good? :)

19. Mobility
I can walk, run, use stairs, etc.

20. Extended Family

21. Health

22. The Plan of Salvation
The plan that Father in Heaven gave me to allow me to return to Him someday with my family.


23. Friends.

24. A home
A place of safety from the world, a refuge from the storm.

25. Scriptures

26. Church

27. Modern Revelation


28. The United States Constitution

29. Beauty in all forms.

30. Music

31. A sense of humor

32. My talents
(Yes, it is plural)


33. Nature

34. Food and water


35. Memories
These seem to be fewer as I age.


36. Art

37. Knowledge

38. Heroes (Military, Police, Firemen, etc

39. Upbringing of values

40. Time

41. Modern Medicine

42. Science

43. Leaders

44. Employment

45. Safety


46. Technology

47. Business opportunities

48. Great books

49. Recreation

50. Transportation

So, there it is, my list of fifty things that I am grateful for. Let me know what you think of it and some of the things you would have had on your list.

Poison - A Short Story

(Note: This is a short story I wrote for a new site that is publishing short stores online. This one was longer than the 1500 word limit, so I thought I'd "publish" it here. Let me know if you enjoy it.)

Wally Huddleston, a thirty something, balding, terrible excuse for a man, sat in his cocoon like cubicle at the Americas Insurance Company, munching his twenty fifth potato chip. He knew it was the twenty fifth because he counted his food as he consumed it, obsessing over every bite, every crumb, every swallow. Wally was overweight and given his love of food and the pleasure it contained, would probably be so for the rest of his life. Besides, if people didn’t like him the way he was, then he figured they could just take a flying leap.

Wally’s love affair with food, the only affair he was ever likely to have, was all he really had in his life. He hated his work, wasn’t too fond of his fellow workers, disliked his life, or lack of it, and with one exception, despised everyone he met. The one exception, the one bright spot in Wally’s drab and pointless life, was Becky Pearce, who worked five cubicles down from Wally’s and whom he thought was the most beautiful woman in the world. Becky, of course, had no idea Wally had any feelings for her, as they rarely exchanged more than simple greetings, and even then, Wally would never look at her as he mumbled good morning to her. She had smiled at him on the day she started at Americas and from that day on, Wally was in love.

Becky’s bubbly personality and infectious laugh had won over all the men at Americas from the very first day she set foot in the drab halls of the Americas Insurance Company, perched on the 65th floor of the Allen building. The fact that she was drop dead gorgeous, added to her popularity with the men on her floor, with Wally, no exception to her siren call.

He would often fantasize about her and what their life together could be, how she would dote on his every word, bringing him his slippers as he returned from work, fixing him fabulous meals after which they would make mad, passionate love for hours, and how she would coo soft words of love into his ear afterwards. He could see himself combing his fingers through her long, blonde hair, pushing it away from her flawless, tanned skin. He kissed her forehead and touched her large, blue eyes, softly caressing her eyelids, marveling at her long, full lashes as they touched his finger tips. He sat back and looked at her, soaking in her beauty, admiring her taut, athletic figure, her long, perfectly formed legs, her small feet with designs painted on her toenails. He loved every perfect inch of her, everything worthy of admiration.

Wally was in the midst of one of his fantasies, when Larry Rissen swung around the cubicle opening and grabbed the bag of chips Wally was saving for after lunch.

"You don’t need these, do you Puddlebutt?" Larry said, opening the bag and grabbing a chip. He had started calling Wally, Huddlebutt, but morphed it further from his name into Puddlebutt. Wally viewed Larry as the most obnoxious, foul person to ever walk the earth, but was afraid to say anything to Larry as he was large, fit and, in Wally’s opinion, extremely aggressive.

Larry had made a point of taking some of Wally’s food every day, explaining that he was just trying to help Wally lose some weight and that Wally should be thanking him for his trouble. Wally, of course, didn’t see Larry’s thievery as any kind of help and had even thought of filing a complaint, going so far as to fill out the form and stick it in an envelope. The envelope sat on his desk for two weeks before he finally threw it in the trash. He binged on an entire cherry cheese cake and two dozen cookies to celebrate his spineless lack of courage.

"Why bother asking?" Wally responded.

"No hard fellings, huh Puddlebutt?" Larry said as he wandered off down the hall of cubicles.

"Right, no hard feelings," Wally mumbled under his breath, the sarcasm dripping.

That was the day Wally started planning Larry’s death. There was more to the rivalry between Wally and Larry than the food pilfering. Wally, having overheard the braggart talking to some coworkers about what he wanted to do with her, knew Larry had designs on Becky. Wally had tried to defend her.

"That’s not the way you should talk about a woman," he had said, looking down at his shoes as soon as he spoke.

"What does someone like you know about talking about a woman," Larry had said, derisively. "Come on, give us the benefit of your many years of experience with the fairer sex, Puddlebutt" he had added, laughing and slapping one of the other men on the shoulder.

Wally’s anger boiled up inside him, but he said nothing.

"Well now, look at Puddlebutt get all red," Larry had said, mockingly. "Maybe we should all stand back before he blows!"

Wally hurried back to his cubicle and opened a bag of Fritos and filled his mouth with a hand full. Somehow, he vowed, he would get even with Larry for all the times he’d been humiliated and bullied by the blowhard. Somehow, but how? Wally was not the perfect specimen of manhood one would envision when thinking of an avenging angel to go and do battle with the evil that is in the world. He had a massive comb over, held in place by a combination of pomade and hair spray, dark, heavy rimmed glasses that were best described as Coke bottle bottoms. His mass was centered at his belt line, pushing the limits of what anyone could expect from any belt, and all this was set on a five six frame, balanced on small, flat feet.

Wally planned. He planned the rest of the day and well into the night. His plan was foolproof; one that would offer him relief from the bullying and the incessant teasing, and with the bonus of no one knowing he was the instrument of death. His precise research was finished and all he had left to do was implement the plan. He began the following Saturday.

Wally rushed around the city gathering the various parts essential to making his plan work. The first item, a syringe, was readily available in the dumpster in the alley behind Wally’s apartment building where the junkies gathered to shoot up all sorts of nasty things into their veins. His next item was more difficult to find and purchase. It required extensive research and even more correspondence, but, in the end, was the key to making the plan work. Wally had emailed a small research facility in Caractao, Brazil, requesting a sample of the excretion from the p. terriblis , or more commonly known as the poison dart frog. He explained he was a scientist working on a medicinal use for the poison, going into sufficient detail that they agreed to send a vile of the poison. They explained that the poison was extremely toxic, resulting in a gruesome, ugly death withing seconds of ingestion. Wally explained he was aware of the deadliness of the toxin, but was willing to take the risk. He had them send the secretion via next day mail, costing him an entire week’s pay, but, in his mind, well worth the cost. He now had all the ingredients to make his plan work. The following Wednesday, he was ready to implement the villainous project.
Wally was up early, rushing around his small apartment, preparing the bait - a banana - chosen for its ability to mask the slight odor and taste of the poison. He was almost giddy as he went about his preparation, humming as he injected the frog secretion into the banana, laughing at one point as he imagined Larry eating the banana and instantly falling to the floor, foaming at the mouth, contorted in pain. He tried to act as natural as possible as he entered the office and walked to his cubicle. He sat the banana in a conspicuous place on the end of his desk, anticipating Larry’s arrival. He didn’t have to wait long.

Larry walked up to the opening of Wally’s cubicle.

"Say, Puddlebutt, whatcha got for breakfast? How about this banana? You don’t need it, do you?"

Wally didn’t want to seem to anxious for Larry to take the banana so he started to protest.
"Yeah, I do want it, Larry," he said, not looking at Larry.

"So do I, it will make a great gift," Larry said, grabbing the banana and walking off toward the common area.

"Fine," Wally said, under his breath, a faint smile on his thin, purple lips, "Very fine, indeed. Consider it a gift then"

Wally sat back in his chair and waited for the event he had waited and planned for. He didn’t have to wait long. He heard a scream. He jumped up and headed toward the common area, trying to look surprised and interested so as not to draw any suspicion towards himself. Suddenly, he stopped. Jutting from behind a desk, on the floor, were the legs of Becky. He knew they were hers because of her shoes, the little red pumps she always wore with the blue pinafore and white stockings. He knew most people by their shoes since he was always looking down rather than in people’s eyes. No question, it was Becky. Larry must have meant the banana was a gift for her, not him. Wally had killed the one thing in his life with any meaning.

He turned away from the death scene and walked out of the large room into the hall and up the stairs to the roof where he usually ate his lunch. He walked around the hulking air conditioning unit, where he customarily sat in the shade, directly to the edge of the building. He never hesitated, he just stepped off the edge and fell.

The tickle in his stomach stopped after about fifty feet. For the rest of the fall, Wally was calm, finding the rapidity of the descent mesmerizing. The ground approached much faster than he had anticipated and he covered the eight hundred and five feet in just a few seconds, smashing into the cement just behind two women in town early to miss the rush of the other shoppers. He didn’t feel a thing, finding death the instant he hit. He bounced once then landed in a messy heap, surrounded by blood and brains and other gooey stuff that comes our of a body when it suddenly stops and nearly explodes.

No one understood why he jumped. Certainly it couldn’t be the unexplained and sudden death of Larry Rissen, or the fainting collapse of Becky Pearce as she witnessed the ugly death of Larry. It was just one of those unexplained mysteries. And wasn’t it a shame.

The Dog is back

So, dear reader, we continue with the saga of the rabid dog and his angry antics. I finally detached his slobbery jaw from my computer’s virtual leg and was minding my own business, wondering how I was going to keep my family safe from some of the more unsavory junk on the internet, when I received a call from John Ahlander, who is one of the principles at K9 Web Protection, a division of BlueCoat. They are the trainers and former handlers of the guard dog that attacked my computer. He was very gracious and expressed his dismay at my predicament. He explained that there are over a million virtual guard dogs dispatched throughout the country, guarding families just like mine and that very few of them have turned on those families. Mine was a special case, with some unusual circumstances. He offered some explanations as to what happened to my dog and, after some discussion, we were able to narrow it down to a few things, but nothing definite.

Because the software is free, and because most all of the dogs are well behaved, there isn’t a lot of need, nor a lot of money to justify a large, extensive support staff, which I discovered when I looked to them for help. After discussing these items, we decided to run an experiment. I was going to download another dog and have a second go at it, so to speak. We are going to endeavor to tempt the dog to see if it will attack its owner again. If it does, Mr Ahlander has pledged his personal help, giving me his email address and business phone number. One can't ask any more than that from a company.

So, as we speak, the dog is wandering the virtual junk yard we affectionately call the internet, protecting my family from the virtual mail man in the event he tries to deliver Smut Magazine this month. So far, so good. The dog is doing his job, and we’re still able to use the internet. Well, kinda. We have another problem with a virus or piece of malware that is blocking Facebook and MySpace. We are currently in heated battle with this little devil using every weapon in our arsenal - AVG, Adaware, Spybot, and Malware bytes - to defeat and destroy this bad boy.

So, all is well that ends well. I appreciate Mr. Ahlander taking time out of his busy schedule to call me, some insignificant spec in the middle of nowhere, and offer his help. That shows a lot of class and devotion to service. In the end, I’ll have to retract some of my statements about k9 Webprotection and say that if you want to protect your family from the evils that lurk on the internet, K9 is a viable option.

Stay tuned to this station for a complete recap of our upcoming trip to Northern California to visit the redwoods, Pacific ocean, Oregon coast and impromptu family reunion in Eugene, Oregon next week.

Mad Dog Mauling

We all are familiar with the phrase, "Meaner than a junkyard dog", meaning a guard dog that is beyond vicious, that would just as well rip your arm off as look at you. Well, I’ve recently had an encounter with a vicious, rabid, guard dog that has left me shaken, angry and somewhat nauseous. I’ll try to recount the adventure as best I can and try not to swear.

It all began innocently, as most of these things do. I wanted to protect Katie and Jake from the evils that lurk on the Internet waiting to pounce on unsuspecting youngsters and senile oldsters. At the recommendation of a trusted friend and IT professional, I downloaded a piece of free software entitled K9 Web Protection, offered by BlueCoat. At first, our relationship was benign and friendly, with the dog - they have a dog as a mascot that you can have bark if someone tries to access a web page that is inappropriate - doing his job and keeping us all safe from the nasties that lurk on the web. But, then it happened.....

One evening, the kids informed me that the computer downstairs was ‘broke’ ,as they put it. Regardless of the nature of the problem with the computer, they always say the same things. Either ‘it is broke’, or ‘the computer doesn’t work.’ So, I took a look at the computer and found that the dog had turned on us and had taken the computer hostage and wouldn’t let go. Not only had it turned on us, but it had become rabid as well, crazy in its aggression. I tried to uninstall it, but it required the use of the administrative password. No problem. I entered the same password that I had been using for over a year and the dog said it was invalid. INVALID?????!!!! How could that be? There was no doubt that the dog was out of control and needed to be stopped at any cost!

As you would assume, I turned to the original handlers of this malicious mutt, the K9 Web protection folks. Once on their site, (I had to use my computer at work) I soon discovered that they had no support, only some automated FAQ doggey doo that was of no help at all. I searched their forum for clues to eliminating this nasty threat from my computer and found others who had experienced the same misfortune. The knowledge that they had found no relief made my heart sink. I found a phone number for K9 that was in Draper, Utah. I called it and, of course, had to leave a message as there wasn’t anyone around to answer the phone. They never called me back, even after three messages. I was getting desperate.

Soon, I figured that if the K9 people were unresponsive, maybe I could go to the parent company, BlueCoat. At least there I found a human to talk to. The person I talked to took my information - phone number, email address, etc, then said he would forward it to the K9 people. NOOOOOOO! I begged him not to give me to those lunatics who had sicked this mad dog on me in the first place and then had refused to even talk to me after the mangy mutt turned on me. He explained that the people I had called were in Utah and that the people he was going to give my information to were in California. I was somewhat relieved at that news. I shouldn’t have been!

They emailed me instructions to the corralling of this dangerous canine. I had explained to them that I couldn’t get on the internet, a common problem when the dog turns on its master and takes over the computer. They sent me instructions to download the software again, overlay it on the original, re-enter a new password and then I could do whatever I wanted to from that point. Fine! But ......HOW DO I GET ON THE INTERNET TO DOWNLOAD THE SOFTWARE IF YOUR SOFTWARE WON’T LET ME GET ON THE INTERNET??????
This salient point seemed to stump the support group. I can see them all huddling around their one desk in someone’s small garage trying to answer that sublime question. Well, maybe they are in a basement rather than a garage, who knows?

So, let this be a warning to all that read this, don’t download the software known as K9 Web Protection! It may be fine for awhile, but it will turn on you and hold you in its slobbery jaws and never let go, and you will have no one to turn to for help. Whatever you do, don’t download this software.

So, now what do I do? I’ve called a friend - a different one than recommended this piece of dog doo, who is a professional IT man to see if he can eliminate this menace. Perhaps in another post, I’ll be able to report that I’m free of the malicious malware that K9 had unleashed on the world. Perhaps.

Joseph - the sequel

Last two nights! That’s right, everyone, there are only two more nights to catch the renowned performance of ‘Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat’ at the Civic Auditorium. The amazing cast have played their hearts out, singing and dancing to enthusiastic crowds who begged for more. Many visitors have compared this production to those seen in London and New York and have nothing but rave reviews for the show. If you haven’t ever seen the play, you owe it to yourself and your family to spend the meager eight dollars for a ticket and come see the theatrical event of the year. The cast has received standing ovations at every performance, so, I can guarantee you will be entertained far beyond the money you spend. Doors open at 6:30pm and curtain is at 7:30. See you there!

How's that for a nice plug? For those of you out of towners, private jets are standing by to accomodate your trip. Well, maybe not really private jets. Would you believe a Cessna 150 with bald tires and only one passenger seat? I think you best bet will be commercial airlines, actually.

Seriously, I would recommend this show to anyone who enjoys music. It is appropriate for all ages and music tastes. It is a great show with an excellent cast and chorus that will amaze you at their level of talent. And I would say that even if I wasn't in it. I'm pretty sure I would say that if I wasn't in it. Well, maybe being in it has shaded my objectivity a bit, but come and judge for youself. Just do it, you know you want to.

Allergies and other show biz stuff

　
I’m allergic to Joseph And The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat! I know that seems ludicrous but it is absolutely true. The last time I played in ‘Joseph’, I contracted pneumonia just a few weeks following the close of the show. This year, I didn’t even wait to finish the show - I ended up getting pneumonia during the rehearsals. Now, what are the odds of getting pneumonia four years apart? And only when I’m involved with the play? I’ve performed in other plays and haven’t even had as much as a sniffle, and here I am near death with pneumonia while in the throws of rehearsals for ‘Joseph’. I would have to say the odds are overwhelming against this just being bad luck. My only conclusion is some kind of a weird, bizarre allergy. Perhaps it isn’t just the show, maybe it is an allergy to Andrew Lloyd Weber musicals. The only one I’ve performed in is Joseph and....well, you know the rest. Maybe it is too many flats in the score, or too many people on stage, or.......I don’t know what! But, it has something to do with this #$^%#& show.

I do know I’ll never do this play again!!! Actually, even before I was struck down with pneumonia, I knew this would be my last show. I’ve lost the fire. They are no longer fun, and when the fun is gone, there is no incentive to put up with all the hard work that goes with a play like ‘Joseph’. I’m done. This time, I was almost done in.

The regimen for treating pneumonia.....by the way, who came up with the spelling of that lousy illness? Couldn’t we spell it phonetically? And while we are at it, I’m guessing that the same bone head that came up with the spelling for pneumonia decided to spell phonetic as well. Shouldn’t phonetic be spelled phonetically....fonetically? Good grief!!!!!

But back to the treatment of pneumonia. I received a series of three shots, one every day, for three days. These are the first shots I’ve ever received that the nurse said, "This is going to hurt." And they did! The poke didn’t hurt, but after they had injected the molten lead, the pain, stinging, and aching started. And I got THREE of those bad boys. But, the good news is that I’m on the mend. I haven’t gone back to rehearsals yet...I’m a little gun shy....but I’ll try it on Wednesday. Too many coughs, though, and ‘The show must go on’ is going in a bucket out the back of the stage door!

I’ll keep you posted.

Joseph Bio Vote

Dear Readers,

Sorry about the long absence, but what little I had to say just didn't seem worth waisting your time. I know that I didn't seem to have that regard for your time with all my other posts, but I have repented, sort of,.......well, not really, but it sounds good, eh? Actually, I've been very busy and just haven't had the time to post anything, plus, my creative juices have dried up and left me sitting here totally uncreative and without thought. But, fear not, for I have found new juice! And, I need your advice, or at least your input.

As some of you may know, Katie, Jake and I are doing "Joseph And The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat" this summer, which is one of the reasons for my dried up juices due to the three nights a week rehearsal schedule. Because I'm one of the brothers in the cast, I have to write a Bio for the program. These bio's are written by the performer as if someone else wrote them, extolling all their past successes and musical accomplishments, as well as claiming extraordinary talents. In the past, when I've had to write one, I've taken a different tack and have attempted to write something funny. This year is not different. However, I've written two and can't decide which one is the one I want in the program. And that is where you come in. I'd like to have you let me know which one you like. I have to turn it in next week, so let me know as soon as you can. Thanks for the help. You'll notice that the second paragraph is the same in both. That is because of the dried up juices thing and that is all I could think of. The two follow:

Bio 1
Dee’s first exposure to music came just after his sixth birthday when he was abducted by a roaming band of Romanian gypsies who had illegally crossed the German border and were traveling throughout the country shaving women’s armpits. After learning the shaving business, Dee was then apprenticed to the band’s one-armed musette player where he learned to play that unusual instrument as well as the gilfin rotary finger cymbals. Currently, Dee limits his music to playing the piano and singing in the shower. But, getting the piano in and out of the shower has become increasingly more difficult, so he has limited his shower singing to a Karaoke with a long cord. This years production will mark Dee’s fifth Sounds Choir Production.

Dee is easily recognizable on stage as he is the only one carrying a bucket. The bucket is the only way he can come close to carrying a tune and he has been required to use the bucket for the four productions he has performed in. Having no talent has not deterred this, want to be actor, even though all those who know him have begged him to stop punishing audiences and to pursue some of his other passions like extreme worm farming, or full contact knitting, or jumping off tall buildings holding a towel over his head yelling "I can fly, I can fly". What Dee lacks in talent for singing, he more than makes up for in obnoxious behavior and an absolute uncanny ability to make easy dance steps unrecognizable. After several death threats from music lovers, Dee has decided this years production will be his last. Dee shares the stage with his daughter, Katie and son, Jake.

Bio 2
Dee’s background in music is varied and unspectacular. He sang the title role in Joe Green’s classic operetta, "La Bonnhedda" with the wonderful featured song "If I’d Shot You When I Wanted To, I’d Be Out By Now". After that, less than thrilling performance, Dee went on to play Dave in "The Last Train To Clarksville", the short running musical based on the music of the Monkees. It was a way off-Broadway production which opened in Minot, North Dakota, and ended there. Following that debacle, Dee left music and became the Montana Full Contact Knitting champion, scoring an amazing 300 on his final round. With little left to accomplish in his professional singing career, he moved to Idaho and started a small business selling competitive knitting supplies.


Dee is easily recognizable on stage as he is the only one carrying a bucket. The bucket is the only way he can come close to carrying a tune and he has been required to use the bucket for the four Sound Choir productions he has performed in. Having no talent has not deterred this, want to be actor, even though all those who know him have begged him to stop punishing audiences and to pursue some of his other passions like extreme worm farming, or jumping off tall buildings holding a towel over his head yelling "I can fly, I can fly". What Dee lacks in talent for singing, he more than makes up for in obnoxious behavior and an absolute uncanny ability to make easy dance steps unrecognizable. After several death threats from music lovers, Dee has decided this years production will be his last. Dee shares the stage with his daughter, Katie and son, Jake.

Well, there they are. Let me know which one you like. And for those who don't like either, .......well.......that's ok too, I guess. But don't say anything, that way I'll think you just couldn't decide.

The Dream

I died. Yes, dead, kaput, mort, no longer among us, pushing up daisies, pennies on the eyelids - dead. What the heck had happened? One minute I was here, the next I’m standing in front of the Pearly Gates waiting for them to open. Dead? How can this be. I was in relatively good shape. Sure, I didn’t exercise on any regular basis, unless you count rushing around the house looking for the tv remote, or bending over to see what was in the refrigerator. And my diet did include fruits - that is if strawberry ice cream counts as a serving of fruit - and pizza with mushrooms and olives should be counted as vegetables. I was going to do something about my cholesterol just as soon as it hit four hundred. I figured I had a few weeks to go before that milestone. But, here I was, dead.

I stood at the Gates wondering what I was supposed to do next. I didn’t see any bell to ring or any other way to alert them, whoever they were, that I had arrived. Surely, they would have some high tech advanced warning system to alert them to the fact a new arrival was waiting to get in.

I examined the gates and walls more thoroughly. The gates, tall elaborate patterns of gold bars, interlaced into intricate shapes, were tightly closed. The walls, approximately twelve feet high, appeared to be made of solid gold. Everything was polished to a high sheen, reflecting the light to the extent that it was almost painful to look at them. I wedged my face between the bars of the gate trying to see if anyone was close that I could ask for help. There wasn’t anyone to be seen. I extracted my face, sat next to the wall to the right of the gates, and waited.

"Hey, buddy, you can’t sleep there."

"What?" I answered, jumping up. "Who said that?"

"You can’t sleep there," a man standing at the gate said.

"I wasn’t sleeping. I was just waiting for someone to come and let me in," I stated, trying to explain myself and why I was there. Where had this guy come from? "Are you St. Peter?" I asked, excited to be meeting one of the original Apostles.

"No, he is on vacation. My name is Al," he explained.

Vacation? I wondered where one living in Heaven would go for a vacation. I decided not to ask.
"Al? I was expecting St. Peter."

"I know, I get that a lot," he said, looking through some sheets on a clip board. "What can I do for you?"

The question set me back. "I guess you could let me in," I suggested.

He glanced through the sheets again. "Nope, I don’t see you here," he eventually said. "Sorry."

"What! How can that be?"

"You’re not on the list. Sorry." He turned to leave.

"Wait," I yelled. "There has to be a mistake."

He turned and looked at me for a moment. He leafed through the papers on his clip board again. "Nope, no mistake," he declared.

"No, now wait a minute......Al....do you mean....I’m supposed to be.....down there....?" I said, pointing down. That can’t be.....can it? I mean, I’ve tried to be good.....most of my life, mostly, kinda....you know, there were those few times when......well, eh......alright, maybe more than a few times, but I wouldn’t think that would be enough to keep me from getting in.....would it?" I was stammering, trying to think of anything to persuade Al to reconsider. I was becoming frantic.

"Apparently," was all he said.

"No, wait, listen. I’m sure there is something we can work out. Surely, there must be something."

"There is nothing. And don’t call me Shirley." He turned to leave again.

"No, wait! I want to see your supervisor." I demanded.

Al turned to face me. "My supervisor?"

"Yes, your supervisor. I want to talk to him." I tried to sound as if I carried some weight. I wanted to let him know he couldn’t push me around.

Al walked back to me. He put his hand on my shoulder as if he were a grandfather giving his grandson some sage advise.

"He rarely makes appearances outside these walls and since you aren’t coming in, you can’t see Him," Al explained. So much for having any pull here.

"Your supervisor is....Him?" I asked, incredulously.

"Yes, now go on about your business."

"Wait, I have no idea what my business is now. And I don’t know how to get to.....well, you know,....heck,"I said, not wanting to say the real word while standing so close to heaven. Besides, I didn’t want to hurt any chances of some sort of clemency.

"Sorry, I can’t help you," Al said. "That’s not my department. I’m in charge of the gate and letting people in."

"So, who do I talk to about getting.....there?"

"I think that is....oh let’s see.......is it Bob?" Al answered looking at me as if I was going to affirm his answer.

We both stood staring at each other while Al rummaged through his brain. At some length, the various brain cells came to a consensus.

"Yes, Bob is in charge of that department," Al finally declared.
"Then can I speak to Bob?"

"He’s inside and......"

"I can’t come in," I finished for him, shaking my head in agreement. "I know. So, how do I see Bob?"

Al seemed stumped by that question. I was beginning to think that Al must have worked for the government at some point in his life and his bureaucratic thought process had hung over to the hereafter.

"Did you work for the government on earth, Al?"

"No," Al answered, " I drove a cab in the Bronx."

"Well, Al, maybe you can summon Bob to come down to the gate here and give me some advice. What do you think?" I suggested.

"Wait here," Al instructed.

I turned to return to my spot next to the gate thinking I’d be waiting awhile, when Al spoke.
"This is Bob," he said.

It hadn’t been but a second and here they both stood. Apparently, things moved fast in heaven.
Bob, thinner and taller than Al, stood at Al’s left side. He too had a clip board. He spoke. "What can I do for you?"

"Al tells me I can’t come in, so, I need to know how to get to....the other place."

Bob shuffled through the papers on his clip board. "I don’t see you here," he said.

"What!" I exclaimed. "If I’m not supposed to be in Heaven and I’m not on your list for the other place....where in the he.....heck am I supposed to be?" I yelled, almost forgetting to be on my best behavior.

"That’s just it," Bob replied, "Your not supposed to be at either place. If you’re not on either list, then you aren’t supposed to be dead yet." He looked at me as if that settled the issue.

"But, here I stand," I said reminding him of the problem we were trying to solve.
He shuffled through his papers once again, studying one in particular. "Ah, here it is," he said reading it to himself.

"What?" I asked.

He read to himself a bit more. "It says here that you weren’t supposed to die until your cholesterol hit four hundred. You have a few weeks left." he said, smiling. "Just a minor snafu. Here, I’ll give you a pass back and we’ll see you in a few weeks.....unless you make some changes. There, all’s well that ends well, eh?." Bob was quite pleased with himself for finding the answer. It was a bit disconcerting the cavalier attitude Bob and Al had toward my demise, or my pending demise. Either way, they didn’t seem to broken up or concerned that I was dead or about to be. I was about to offer my observations on that subject when Bob wrote something on a piece of paper on his clip board and stepped toward me.

He handed me a piece of paper and as soon as I touched it, I was back in bed, awake, staring at the ceiling. I sat up and looked around. It was a dream, but it seemed so real. But, how could it have been? Was it real? Was it a dream or a near death experience?
What ever it was, it got me to thinking. Maybe I’d better start exercising and watching what I eat, besides just watching it all the way to my mouth. I think I’ll start next week.
　
　
　

An Evening of Entertainment

Last night, at the Hillcrest High School Performing Arts Center, we watched some extraordinarily talented young men and women. Hillcrest held a talent show as a benefit for the Halford family who’s son was injured in a snowmobile accident this winter. As I sat there, enthralled by the amazing talent of these young people, I couldn’t help thinking of the criticism thrown at teens today about their addiction to sitting around watching tv, playing video games, etc. One can only imagine the amount of time and effort that went into these performances. These young people are indeed talented, however, talent without work is often wasted and left untouched. These young men and women had obviously spent hundreds of hours honing their talents, practicing until the performance was flawless.

On top of the dedication and discipline, we must add courage - the courage to stand in front of their peers, their friends and their families and put it all on the line. Live entertainment has a magic that comes from the performer standing on the edge of a precipice of failure with disaster waiting to grab them by the neck and pull them down. Forgotten lyrics, missed notes, botched arrangements all are specters that hover about waiting to take down the unsuspecting performer. And yet, they all rose above the fear. Undaunted, they went on and with an air of professionalism, provided the audience with an evening of unparalleled entertainment.
Katie and Jake, my daughter and son, were members of this ensemble of talented youngsters. Katie played guitar and Jake played the bongos. They sang "I’ll Follow You Into The Dark" and, since I am an unbiased and impartial judge, I’ll admit they were the best of the show. At least, they got the longest ovation. In addition to Katie and Jake, there were several pianists, a young woman who played the harp and sang, several other guitarist who all exhibited excellent talent, three violinists, a singing group with piano and violin accompaniment, a ballroom dance duo, there was even a re enactment of the Mario Bros. That is just a partial list of the wonderful acts that we were privileged to see.

In conclusion, let me say live entertainment is alive and well in Idaho Falls and these young people represent our future, not only in the world of entertainment, but, I would venture a guess and say that they represent our future in all areas. I am proud of all of them for their courage, commitment to excellence, and discipline in setting goals and accomplishing them. They are young men and women we can all be proud of.

Pictures

I wanted to post a couple more pictures since that seems to be required in the world of blogs, or at least in the country of Blogeztan, where it all started. Does that make me a Blogeztonian? Maybe just an honorary citizen. Anyway, back to the pictures. The first picture, taken about ten years ago, is of my children. I think you’ll notice they have some common characteristics. It is probably apparent to those who know me, that I don’t have those characteristics. I asked Mikki, my wife, about that but she just laughed and walked off mumbling something about free milk. I have no idea what she meant.

The second picture was taken several years ago just after we had spent a large sum of money to have our new swimming pool installed and the whole neighborhood showed up for the initial plunge. Talk about rub a dub dub, three men in a tub. We managed to get seven in our tub! The picture is taken facing North across the barley field that used to surround our home. Of course, now we are surrounded by houses that are far less appealing to the eye, and much noisier as well. And, they smell bad. But, don’t get the idea that I’m bitter.....or angry......or upset....or feel betrayed...or....or.....bah!

Back to the pool. It’s a good thing our water isn’t metered since we have such a large pool. You’ll notice at the left side of the picture is the corner of a building. That, of course, is the pool house where we keep all the chemicals, life saving devices, cleaning equipment, skim nets and alligator repellent. It contains the changing areas as well. To the right, you’ll see the exercise equipment that we installed prior to the swimming pool. As you can see, it is nothing but the best for the Martin family. Well, I’m starting to brag now, so I’ll quit and try to gain some humility. Until next time.....

Spring sprunged?.... sprang?....springed?

(I’m detecting a recurring theme here with posts about the weather)

Yesterday was one of those days we, here in Frozen Nowhere ,look for from the beginning of November - a day with no wind, plenty of sunshine, no wind, warm temperatures, no wind and grass poking up out of the rock hard, black snow, and no wind. It is a day I like to call a ‘Sucker Day’. I refer to it by that name because every year at this time, we get suckered into thinking that because of one great day, Spring is just around the corner. But, we should know that winter will not let go that easily and will raise its ugly, nasty head a few more times to remind us that it is still alive and well and only sleeping. Snow will return, cold will be back and the wind, lurking just around the corner waiting for us to turn our backs, will rush in to nearly blow us into next year.

But, dear Reader, what a day we had! Hope was again a word we dare use. Hope that, perhaps, someday, we would see the return of warm, sunny days. Perhaps we will again be able to walk outside without eight layers of clothes, knee high boots, two hats, a scarf, gloves, goggles, hand warmers, and electric underwear- which, by the way, mine shorted out the other day and I thought I’d fallen in love again!

What more can I say about yesterday. All my troubles seemed so far away. Now, it seems as though they’re here to stay. Oh, I believe in yesterday. (nice turn of a phrase, huh?)

Yesterday was glorious, marvelous, magnificent, outstanding, stupendous, fantastic, and good kinda... thing. (I love writing.)

Well, I can’t write any more about yesterday without crying - it was (past tense, dang it!) a beautiful day. But, it is gone, taken leave of us, exited the stage and we are left with this day, a crumpled, grey, forsaken day with little to write home about, the ugly step sister of yesterday, the son that disappoints kinda day, an, 'oh, it's only you', kind of day, a, why can't you be more like your brother day. But I still have the memories of yesterday. So, until tomorrow, farewell.

I'll try not to write about the weather for a few posts. I mean, after all, enough is enough! I'm becoming a one note sonata, a broken record, a scratched cd (a reference for the younger set who don't understand the broken record reference), an untalented writer who has nothing to say but continues to say something anyway. So, I'll try to do better in the future. Thanks for your patience.

Water is Liquid and Other Spring Realizations

Those of you who live in the warmer climates would look at the title of this post and wonder about my sanity. Yes, I know that even those who don’t live in warmer climates ponder my claim to sanity, but I’m sure our warmer friends would consider the opening statement as somewhat bizarre, even coming from me. But, I would remind them that in this part of the country, wild, outside water is solid for the better part of three months and we tend to forget, by the time the end of February rolls around, that water is really runny.

The solid water, snow and ice, has been piling up since December until we all were beginning to wonder if it would ever realize it has overstayed its welcome and leave. Finally, it has taken the many hints we have been dropping at every opportunity and has decided to make a hasty retreat, running down the street and disappearing into the storm drains.

As I drove back to work this afternoon, I stopped for just a second to admire the sun shining off the tiny ripplets in the improvised creek streaming around the icebergs and glaciers that adorn our street, on its way to the ocean or the sewage treatment plant, which ever comes first. And this water didn’t even have the hydrocarbon rainbow that is usually associated with gutter water. It was just ordinary, regular, semi-transparent water that one usually sees in the mountains, cascading around fallen trees and rocks. It was beautiful to see - a life changing experience. Alright, maybe not life changing, but certainly mood altering. Who needs drugs when all you have to do is experience melting snow on a nice, near spring day after a miserable Idaho winter? I am euphoric now, almost giddy at the mere glimpse of runny, soft, liquid water. All of the time in the Sixties and the excesses that accompanied that decade can’t compare to the amazing mood alteration that is spring in Idaho.

I feel sorry for those living in the warm climates who have nothing more to look forward to at this time of year other than more nice warm weather. Here in Idaho, we flirt with insanity every winter, nearing the abyss of utter, complete, depression. A complete hopelessness of spirit, doubting that spring will ever come and knowing the darkness will continue forever until we are completely mad. And then, we have a day like today, and we again come to the realization that water is liquid, life is good, and we will again see the sun and the ground and dirt and grass and worms and flies and all manner of insects, two of each kind.......wait, I’ve become biblical here.

And now, all that remains is for a few more days like today to string together and....yes!....we have summer!!! Could we hope for something as great as that? Sure, why not?

The Government - You've got to be kidding!

Normally, I wouldn’t use this space for worthless drivel (oh sure, you laugh.), but, on rare occasions, I am want to wander into dangerous ground, taking up your valuable time by babbling about subjects such as one equal to the weather - politics. Just as Mark Twain stated about the weather, "Everyone complains about the weather, but no one does anything about it!", I too have come to the same conclusion about politics. We all complain, but we really don’t change anything when we try to do something. We might as well try to alter the weather.

I want to make myself clear at the front, I’m not, in any way, criticizing the new administration. I think we have to give the new president some time to effect a change. However, when I look at congress, and the bulging, bloated bureaucracy that our government has become, I become despondent and feel like throwing my hands in the air in disgust. But, then I remember that it has been this way for a lot of years and we’re still here and we’re still plugging along. Evidence the sayings of Will Rogers:

A fool and his money are soon elected.

About all I can say for the United States Senate is that it opens with a prayer and closes with an investigation.

Alexander Hamilton started the U.S. Treasury with nothing, and that was the closest our country has ever been to being even.

An economist's guess is liable to be as good as anybody else's.

Be thankful we're not getting all the government we're paying for.

I don't make jokes. I just watch the government and report the facts.

Last year we said, 'Things can't go on like this', and they didn't, they got worse.

The only difference between death and taxes is that death doesn't get worse every time Congress meets.

Things in our country run in spite of government, not by aid of it.

This country has come to feel the same when Congress is in session as when the baby gets hold of a hammer.

Will Rogers certainly had the government figured out. But, the point is, it stunk then, and it stinks now, yet, somehow, we manage.

As an example, the bailout and stimulus package. Assuming that we have about 130 million taxpayers in this country, which is the number of those filing, and that the bailout at 750 billion dollars, give or take a few billion and the 500 or so billion of the stimulus package, equaling over a trillion dollars, would, if distributed to each tax filer, amount to about $7,500 per person. If that amount were given to each person, they would have two choices, either spend it or save it. Either choice would percolate back to the top stimulating the economy in the process. If we saved it, the banks would invest it or lend it back to some of us, therefore stimulating the economy. If we spent it on debt reduction, those we paid it to would have it to invest or lend, thus stimulating the economy. If we just went out and spent it, we’d stimulate the economy. Why do the powers to be think that giving it to the top will stimulate the economy and benefit us? It will only stimulate the top - the same fools who put us in this mess in the first place. Why give it to them? Percolating to the top benefits everyone, trickling down won’t work and will only benefit the fat cats who only trickle into their own pockets!

Anyway, sorry about the rant. It must be the weather. Can’t somebody do something about it?

Winter Rant II

Alright, I know I’ve covered this subject before (see December 8, 2008 - "Snow and Other Swear Words"), but a subject so onerous requires yet another rant. I am compelled, in fact, to comment further upon this season of discontent, this season that even the jaws of Hell pale in comparison. What went wrong in the creation of this world that allowed Winter? Oh, I know the argument - without Winter, we would not enjoy the other seasons. It is an analogy of life, without the heartache and sorrow, we would not appreciate the happiness and joy. Well, in the case of seasons, I’d be content with not enjoying Spring, Summer and Fall as much if I could just do away with the Winter. I’ll hold back on the enjoyment, how’s that? Here’s the deal, Winter is eliminated and I’ll promise to not like Spring, Summer, and Fall as much. That should work, don’t you think? Great, where do I sign up?

So, what makes Winter so bad, you ask. Well, let me count the ways. First, the roads. Anyone who has slid off the road into the ditch can tell you that the fun of Winter fades quickly as you see yourself rushing head long into a snow bank, trying to maneuver between a power pole and a sign post. And who hasn’t enjoyed the adrenalin rush of hitting the brakes at a red light only to discover they are accelerating? What’s even more fun is if there are a few cars already stopped at the light. By the way, it is a proven fact that it is impossible to remove the smile from the owners of tow companies until well after the 4th of July! In addition, who doesn’t love standing in sub zero weather scraping inch thick ice off the windshield. Sorry, did I say scraping? I meant chipping, prying, blasting, kicking, burning. By the way, a weed burner torch is not a good idea. You’ll have to trust me on that. $1500 for a new paint job is hardly worth the savings in effort and time.

And how can we leave the rant against Winter without mentioning white. Ah yes, white and its many shades and hues. Every stinking thing is white, or grey or whitish grey or greyish white, or white turning grey, or some shade in between those two. Gack!!! I’m so sick of white I could scream!!!! When I’m in charge, I’m going to have a variety of colors for snow, depending on temperature - the warmer, the closer to red, cooler will be on the blue/violet side. It will snow rainbows. Yeah, that’s the ticket, rainbow snow. Just imagine the snowmen. ( I could write an entire post on rainbow snowmen, but I don’t want to offend the San Francisco contingent.)

Don’t think I’m not going to mention the temperature during this rant. How could I? Winter would not be complete if, when we step outside, the moisture in our noses didn’t freeze solid. I mean, after all, in what other season can we say we haven’t felt our feet for weeks?
A few weeks ago, we had a blizzard. For those of you who don’t know what a blizzard is - how lucky can you be!? Anyway, a blizzard is where you shovel the same snow out of your driveway several times. And, if you think you are going to outsmart it by throwing the snow down wind -ha! Just wait a short time, and the wind will turn around and blow it back so that you can shovel that snow again in the opposite direction. You don’t win with blizzards!

And, when the snow starts to melt and you begin celebrating, the weather turns cold and turns all the melted snow -read water - into ice. Then, we get to enjoy the semi-flips, half somersaults, unscripted break dancing, prat falls associated with ice under a thin layer of snow. And these are just a few of my favorite things - tra, la, la.

And so, dear reader, that is just a bit of what I’m feeling about Winter. The rest of it is unprintable amongst mixed company. And that is all I’m going to say about that. For now.

The Other Cowboy Poem

(Just a note: The idea for this poem came from a friend of mine who lived the experience in the corral. That part is true, the rest I made up to make the poem more interesting, especially the first part. A shout out to Kent for the great story!)


TINY’S BAD DAY
By Dee L. Martin

Tiny was a man who’s edges were rough.
He was short and stocky and down right tough.
As a boy he was ugly, like a nasty train wreck.
To get the dogs to play, they hung meat on his neck.

He used his head, so he got along in life.
With a turn of good luck, he found him a wife.
They moved to New Mexico on a wing and a chance.
With hard work and luck, he ended up with a ranch.

He raised a few horses, had some odd jobs in town.
His luck had been good, being more up than down.
But one darkening day he tempted his fate,
As he walked to the corral and climbed on the gate.

In the corral was a horse the new hands were breakin’
His nostrils were flared, his legs sprayed and shakin’
The hands had him haltered, though it wasn’t much use.
They all knew in time the horse would be loose.

As you would guess, they were all on the money,
Soon he was running and it ceased to be funny.
So Tiny jumped down to stand in its way.
It was pure danged meanness is all they could say.

That colt flared its nostrils and laid back its ears,
And the sound of its snort fired mens’ fears.
The look in his eyes took away any hope,
But Tiny was fearless and grabbed holt the rope.

The colt lunged and jumped and pushed Tiny down
So he was caught between the hooves and the ground.
He was trampled and drug and just plain mistreated.
Tiny was worried but he wasn’t defeated.

He held fast to the rope and cursed at the colt
And tried to remember all that he’d been tolt
About horse and training and breaking and such.
And he decided he didn’t care for this one much.

After he’d been drug a couple’a more rounds
And the skin he’d lost was amounting to pounds.
He decided to let go and give it a rest.
Of all Tiny’s ideas, this was the best.

He lay on the ground and stared into the sky.
He had rocks in his mouth and dirt in his eye.
Tiny was beat and tired with nothing to prove.
He started to get up, but his legs wouldn’t move.

It would seem, if Tiny’s thoughts were on track
That blasted colt had broken his back.
His legs were stiff and he couldn’t feel anywhere.
It looked like Tiny would now ride a wheelchair.

With that thought in mind, he wished he were dead.
He just sat there, his legs felt like lead.
The cowboys rushed over to give him a hand.
Soon they discovered his pants full of sand.

The pants filled up while he was drug by the horse.
The weight of the sand was the problem of course.
His back wasn’t broken, his legs weren’t numb.
All of this news made Tiny feel dumb.

The horse just stood there, strong and steady.
Whatever would come, he would be ready.
Now this should be kept just between you and me.
That horse ended up at the glue factory.

A Comboy Poem - The New Truck

This is a poem I wrote a few years ago. I was reading some Cowboy Poetry and thought it would be fun to write. So, I sat down and wrote two. This is the first one. I'll post the second tomorrow or so.



THE NEW TRUCK
By Dee L. Martin

There was a rule in our family you’d better not buck.
It was, Daddy would cuff you if you got near his truck.
Yes sir, Dad was proud of that brand new Dodge.
If it wasn’t drivin’, it was parked in the garage.

It was shinny and new and without scratch or dent.
And Daddy would lecture us on the money he'd spent.
There’s no doubt to us, it was his joy and pride,
And it wasn’t too often we got to ride inside.

But one summer day, we weren’t going far.
We all jumped in the truck, cuz Mom had the car.
We headed for Stump Creek to pull a cow from the mire.
We just crossed the creek when we heard the pop of a tire.

Daddy cut loose a colorful word, maybe three,
And pulled the truck over by a big poplar tree.
We all jumped out to look at the blankety, blank flat,
Then Daddy hit his knee with his dusty cowboy hat.

He kicked the tire then looked at Emmy and me
And told us to go sit in the shade of the tree.
We sat and watched while Dad fixed the tire.
We could tell from his face, he was still hot on fire.

Well, maybe it was Emily or it could have been me,
Or maybe it was Dad, there was only us three.
It is hard to remember thinking back that far,
But it was one of us who left that truck door ajar.

It was one of those rare things, just who’d a thunk,
That through that open door would waltz a skunk.
And Dad soon discovered when he reached for his hat,
That his brand new truck was full of pole cat.

It don’t take a genius or a very big thinker
To figure out Dad was gonna get that stinker.
But there was a problem in solving this puzzle,
With Dad and the skunk standing nose to muzzle.

Dad slammed the door and then jumped back,
Cursing his luck - the gun was in the rack.
Emmy and me, we were enjoying the fun.
Watching Daddy trying to retrieve his gun.

He tried the other door without much luck.
It wasn’t looking good for Daddy’s new truck.
Daddy was fummin’ and so was that critter.
It was looking hopeless, but Dad was no quitter.

He kicked at the dirt and let go a shout.
"If I can’t shoot you, then I’ll smoke you out!"
He grabbed a bucket and hose and our hearts sank.
Dad was sucking gas from out of the tank.

He started a fire with the gas and some old clothes
And I reckon he just plain forgot the siphon hose.
It was sill in the tank, pumpin’ out gas.
The fuel was heading for the fire real fast.

I gave a yell and Emmy started to cry.
Dad dove for cover as the truck blew sky high.
We all sat there staring, amazed at our luck.
That no one had died when Dad blew the truck.

Losing the truck was bad, but what really stunk
Was out of the smoke came a waddling that skunk.

The Old Man - Part Five

A week into the job, Holly walked into the apartment to find the old man fixing a large meal.

"Wow, this is something else," she exclaimed. "What is the occasion?"

"It is your one week anniversary," he explained. "And I thought we should celebrate."

Holly helped set the table and finish with the salads. They sat at the table and began eating.

"How was work?"

"It was ok. I saw one of the girls in the store."

"One of the girls?" he asked.

"Yeah, one of Eddie’s girls. We used to work together sometimes. She walked by when I was fixing up the display in the window. She stopped in to see what I was doing."

"What did she say?"

"Nothin’."

"She just stood there and stared at you?" the old man asked.

"No, I mean she didn’t say anything worth repeating. She was surprised I was working there, that’s all."

"Anything else?"

"Like what?"

"I don’t know......just, anything else."

"She said Eddie was wondering where I was."

"Why?" the old man asked, becoming worried.

"Why what?"

"Why was he looking for you?"

"He wasn’t looking for me, he was wondering where I was. There is a difference."

"Maybe," the old man said, rather pensively.

"You’re just paranoid. Eddie doesn’t care about me anymore."

"I hope you’re right."

"What happened to Mr. Poster? All this positive crap, where’d that go?" she said, teasing the old man.

"It is just that you’ve done so well, I don’t want anything .........getting in the way right now, that’s all," he explained.

"You worry too much. I was reading the other day that worry can shorten your life. You don’t want a short life, do you?"

The old man laughed. "No, I guess not." They both laughed. After dinner, they sat in the living room and talked. Holly asked the old man where he came from. He paused for a moment before he spoke.

"I come from Poland. I was born in a small town outside of Warsaw. It was very beautiful there, so green and lush and the people all seemed so loving and caring for each other. It was like heaven. At least until the Germans invaded in thirty nine. Soon after they came, they started persecuting the jews. They wanted to gather us all up and put us in Ghettos to keep us away from everyone else. The night they came for our family, my brother ran to our house and warned my wife and me about the Nazis. We ran as fast as we could into the woods. There was shooting and.....my wife was killed." He paused for a moment to gather his emotions, then continued. "I ran with my two small sons into the woods and we lived there for four years, hiding from the Germans and fighting when we could. When the war ended, I found a way to come to America and work. I came to this city and found job making furniture. I raised my boys, who became very successful here in America. I also had what was left of my family come to America to live. My sister is still living yet, and she comes to visit sometimes".

"What about your sons?" Holly asked.

"One is still alive and lives out West in Arizona. He calls sometimes, but has a busy life. The other died last year of cancer."

"That’s too bad," Holly said.

"Yes, but life goes on, you know, and we have to go on living, as well."

"Well, Mr Poster is back," Holly said, smiling.

"What about you? Where are you from?" the old man asked.

"I really don’t have a story to tell. Not like yours, anyway," Holly said, looking at her hands in her lap.

"But I’m sure it is very interesting, nevertheless,"the old man said.

"Whatever." She looked up to see him looking at her with an interested expression on his face. "Ok......I was born in Houston, but we moved to San Antonio when I was a baby. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters for awhile, then I had a little brother come along. My dad drank a lot and used to......" She stopped to gather her thoughts. "Well....., he would, you know.....do things to me.....and I hated it...and him. I hated him so much!!" She stopped talking for a moment. The old man waited, letting her talk when she felt comfortable.

"I didn’t want to hate him, I wanted to love him like daughters should, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I left when I was sixteen and moved here cuz I had a friend who was here. She said she could help me, but when I got here, she was in jail for drugs, so I was on my own. I found some odd jobs and got set up in an apartment with a girl I met at my first job. After that, Eddie took care of me. And then some weird old man conned me into living with him so he didn’t have to sit on the bench to watch me." She smiled at the old man. He smiled back.

"It saves on sun screen," he said. "And now, what is your future?"

"My future? I don’t have a clue."

"You should think of the future. It will come whether you have a plan or not. A plan is better than not."

"Some how, I get the idea you have a plan for me."

"You need to go to school. You are smart and you should get a degree and make something of yourself. This is America, the land of unlimited opportunity. You should go to school."

"Are you saying you think I should go to school?" she asked, playing with him.

"Yes."

"And what should I be?"

"I don’t know. What would you like to study?"

"Well, I suppose being a pharmacist would be out of the question," she said, smiling. She stood up and walked into the kitchen to get some juice. "Do you want some juice?" She asked.

"Yes, thank you. Why not pharmacy? You could do that."

"I was kidding. I think I’d like being a nurse."

"Good, then tomorrow we start looking into nursing," the old man said, as he took the glass from Holly. She sat down in the chair where she was sitting before she went into the kitchen.

"You just don’t waste any time, do you?" Holly said.

"At my age, I don’t know how much time I have left. I can’t afford to waste any," he said, a glint in his eyes.

"I don’t think I’m smart enough to go to college, besides, I don’t have a high school diploma," she informed him.

"Then that is the first step," he explained.

"Yeah, whatever. I’ll think about it, okey?"

He decided not to press to hard on the schooling. He would be patient and wait a bit. "You think about it."

They finished talking then they retired to their respective rooms. Each to contemplate the future of Holly.



The old man pulled his coat collar up around his neck to protect it from the cold wind as he hurried along the sidewalk. He was late for dinner and Holly had told him to be on time because she wanted to surprise him with a special dinner she had read about in one of the books at the shop. Besides, it was their two week anniversary.

He had been talking with Ben, his old friend, at the senior center where they played chess every Thursday. It was a long match and he had lost track of time. As he turned the corner near his apartment, he saw the car parked in front of his place. It was a pink Continental with wide, white sidewalls on the tires. He had a bad feeling about that car. It didn’t belong in this neighborhood.

He hurried up the stairs, scrambled for his key, nearly tearing his pocket as he pulled the keys out. Once in, he rushed up the stairs. As he neared his door, he heard the glass break. He quickly pushed the key in the lock and shoved open the door. Across the room stood Holly, her blouse ripped open and a trickle of blood dripped from her nose. She was terrified.

The old man looked to the other side of the room and saw a man dressed in a white suit holding his head, blood running between his fingers from a cut on his scalp. The shattered glass on the floor, the remnants of a vase that once sat on a table in the living room, must have been the cause of the cut.

The man charged at Holly, cussing as he ran at her. The old man moved toward them, catching the man just as he hit Holly with a crushing right hand, knocking her to the floor. The old man, his hands still strong from so many years making furniture, grabbed the man by the neck and held him up against he wall, strangling him. He squeezed as hard as he could, hoping to stop this man from ever hurting Holly again. As the old man held the man, he heard Holly scream. "No!!"

The old man felt a strike to his stomach, then an extreme burning, as if his gut was on fire. His breath left him and his grasp on the man’s neck loosened. He felt another strike, then another. He was becoming weaker and his grip loosened some more. He tried to squeeze harder, but he was unable to. Why couldn’t he squeeze? What was wrong? He looked down and saw the blood. Then he saw the man stick the knife into him again. He let go of the man and grabbed his stomach. The front of his shirt was becoming wet with his blood. His knees gave out, and he fell to the floor. The man ran out of the apartment. Outside, the sound of sirens could be heard. The neighbors must have called the police, the old man thought.

"Paul?" Holly said, as she kneeled at his side. "Paul, I’m so sorry." She was crying. "I don’t know how he found me. It must have been that girl that saw me in the store. I’m so sorry."

"Don’t worry, Holly, it will be ok."

"Help is coming. Don’t you die on me," she said, sobbing as she held his head.

The police came in, saw the old man, examined his injuries, then called for an ambulance. Holly stayed by his side until the paramedics arrived and started attending to him. She stood by as they moved him onto the stretcher and then followed them down the stairs and into the ambulance.

"Are you a relative?" one of the paramedics asked.

"She is with me," the old man said, weakly. "It’s ok."

"Hop in," the other paramedic said as they closed the door.

She watched the paramedics work on the old man, trying to get IV’s in him, covering his face with an oxygen mask, and trying to get the bleeding to stop. She reached in and grabbed the old man’s hand, squeezing it. He squeezed back very slightly. It was the last communication they would have. He died on the operating table later that night.



The sun felt warm on her face as she stood facing Fourth Street. The sound of the traffic drowned out the sounds of kids playing in the park behind her and the birds singing. She wasn’t able to hear any of that, just the sound of the cars driving by. She stood there, waiting, like before. Holly watched the oncoming traffic, watching for a car to stop. She impatiently paced up and down the sidewalk, watching each car as it passed. Occasionally, one of the cars would slow and the man driving would look at Holly, his eyes searching her face for an indication of why she was standing there. A grey sedan slowed and pull to the curb in front of her. She stepped to the car, opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.

"Hi, how’s things?" she asked, as they pulled into traffic.

"Ok, how about you?"

"I’m ok," she answered. "Thanks for giving me a ride. This class schedule makes it hard to get to school if I have to ride the bus."

"Hey, I’m happy to have the company," the young lady driving said.

"Yeah, company is good," Holly added, looking out the window at the bench where the old man used to sit. "Company is good."

The End

The Old Man - part four

On the way to the apartment, they stopped at a drug store and picked up some toiletries and sundry items, then a quick stop at a small second hand store for some clothes.

"Lovely," she said, holding up a sweater with reindeer on it. The sarcasm was thick as she examined the various clothes hung on the racks. "I don’t think I can wear these....things," she said, searching for a word she could use in public.

"You can’t go to school or work wearing, or almost wearing, the clothes you are used to," the old man said.

"Oh, so now you’re a clothes critic. That didn’t take long, did it? Thanks, Dad!" She looked at him with her eyes wide in mock anger.

"You should always look your best," he added.

"Thanks, for the advice, Mr. Poster. How about, mountains are climbed in many steps, or, do onto others........." she said, failing to finish the last. "These clothes stink!" she added, throwing the clothes she held in her hand on the top of the racks.

"Keep looking, you’ll find something you’ll like," he instructed.

"That would be a miracle."

"So, we wait for a miracle," he said, smiling.

Eventually, she found a few things she could tolerate and they continued to the apartment. Once there, the old man saw that she was settled in her room. She hung the few clothes she had bought in the closet, arranged the bathroom items in the small cabinet hanging over the bathroom sink and met the old man in the kitchen. She was acting nervous.

"Are you settled in?" he asked.

"Ya, all at home here." She was having second thoughts already.

The old man, sensed her reluctance. "You’ll get used to it."

"Sure," was all she said. "What do you do all day....besides stare at hookers?"

"I read, sometimes I visit with friends, watch tv, listen to music.......I do things," he said, ignoring her comment and thinking hard to make a list.

"Oooh, party hardy," she said, dancing in place a little. " I don’t know if I can stand the pace. I hope you don’t think I’m going to do that."

"You can do what you want," he said, then added, "as long as it doesn’t include drugs and street walking."

"Right." She walked into the small living room and fell into the green stuffed chair near the window. "Right," she repeated.

The old man followed her into the living room and sat on the matching sofa. "First things first, though. First we have to find you a real job. After that, we should see about getting you in school."

"Ya know, I’ve done that job thing and it didn’t work out to good," she said.

"To well," he corrected.

"What?"

He realized he had corrected her and thought better of it. "Nothing. This time you can do it. I’ll talk to some of my friends, maybe they can help."

"Whatever," she said, looking out the window.

"Why don’t you try on your new clothes."

"Oh, a fashion show. That would be sexy, huh?" she said, implying the old man had other motives.

"No, I just thought if we are going to look for work, you should look like something besides a street walker."

"We’re looking today?" she asked, incredulous he would think she should be doing something so soon.

"Why not. We’ll go talk to Mr. Benson at the book store. He said he was thinking of hiring some help. Maybe we can get something there."

"I don’t know if I’m ready yet. Ya know, it might be too soon to....ya know......go looking for work.....I just don’t think I’m ready," she said, pausing as she looked for words, stalling for time. "Shouldn’t we just wait awhile?"

"How long?" the old man asked.

"I don’t know, maybe a day or two."

"I think it would be best if you jumped right in. The best way to get in to cold water is to jump right in."

"Really, Mr. Poster, is that how you do it?"

"Yes, why not? Are you doing anything else right now?"

She turned and looked out the window, not answering him. He watched her, realizing she was afraid. He gave her a little time before he spoke.

"We might as well start now in case it takes some time to find something. I’ll go with you and introduce you to some of my friends. Maybe we’ll find something you’ll like," he said, standing.

"And just who are you going to introduce me as?" she asked.

"A friend."

"A friend? Do you have a lot of young women as friends?"

"Just one," was his simple answer. She didn’t say anything, just sat looking out the window in obvious contemplation of her options. He waited for her answer. When she didn’t speak, he walked into the kitchen, pulled some juice out of the refrigerator, poured two glasses and returned to the living room. "Here, this will help you think," he said, handing her a glass. She sat quietly sipping the juice and continuing to look out the window. Finally, he spoke.

"Well?"

She looked at him, turned to look out the window and spoke. "Ok, I’ll give it a try."

After she had changed into tan skirt with a matching jacket and a white blouse, they walked down to the street and up a few blocks to the Book Worm Book Store.

"You look very nice dressed like that," the old man said, admiring Holly's new look.

Holly smiled. It had been a long time since anyone had given her a legitimate compliment. She looked at her reflection in a shop window and was amazed at how attractive she looked in her new outfit, even though she was completely covered. Maybe the old man knew what he was talking about.

There were two customers browsing the shelves as the old man and young woman walked in. A small, bald man with glasses hanging down on his chest held by a black band, walked up to them. His squinty blue eyes studied Holly as he approached. Even though his suspenders held his pants above his large belly, he pulled at the waist line of his pants as he walked toward the old man and Holly.

"Hello, Paul. You’ve brought a friend?" He said, holding out his hand to Holly.

"Yes, Bernie, this is Holly. Holly, this is Bernard Benson, the owner of this fine book store," the old man said.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Holly," Bernie said, shaking her hand enthusiastically with both hands. "A friend of Paul’s is a friend to mine. Are you looking for a book?"

Holly looked at Paul, not knowing what to say.

"Well, Bernie, Holly here is looking for a new line of work and we thought you could use a good worker here in your shop," the old man said, smiling at Holly.

"Oh, I see," Bernie said. "What kind of work are you in now?"

"Uh.....sales," the old man said before Holly could answer.

"Sales......that is a very good field," Bernie replied.

"So, do you need any help here?" the old man asked, trying to redirect the conversation away from Holly’s current employment.

"Yes, yes indeed I do. Have you had any experience with books?"

"You mean besides reading them?" Holly answered.

Bernie laughed a squeaky little laugh. "Yes, besides reading them."

"No."

"Well, that’s ok, I can teach you what you need to know. When can you start?"

"I can have the job?" Holly asked, not believing it could be that easy.

"Sure, if Paul brings you in here, then you have to be ok. Would tomorrow work for you?" Bernie pushed.

"Uh.....ya....sure," Holly stammered.

"Great, stop in tomorrow at nine and we’ll get you oriented," Bernie explained.

"Thanks, Bernie. Nine in the morning it is," Paul said. They left the book store and started walking back to the apartment.

"So, there you are. See how easy it can be?" the old man said trying to encourage Holly.

"But, what if I don’t do a good job? What if I really screw up and get fired? Did you ever think of that?" Holy asked.

"You’ll do fine, Holly. Have some faith in yourself. You seem to be smart, you know how to deal with people, your personable and likable, and your pretty. You’ll be great!

"Right," she said, sarcastically. "I’m glad your convinced."

The old man spent the rest of the day trying to convince her. Later that night, just before they retired for the evening, she came close to buying into his enthusiasm.

"Ya know, maybe I can do this," she said. "Maybe I can beat my demons."

"So far, so good," the old man added.

"Yeah, so far so good."

The demons had been held at bay. But, they wouldn’t stay gone for long.

End of part four

Part Three - The Old Man

When he awoke, the apartment was dark. He had been sitting in the chair for hours, waiting for Holly to return. "I must have fallen asleep," he thought, looking at the clock. "Half past eight?" he said to the clock "So, where is she?" He worried that she had changed her mind and wouldn’t be coming back. He pushed himself up out of the chair and made his way into the kitchen to find something to eat. He rummaged through the cupboards and refrigerator, gathering enough to make a small, make-do meal. He finished eating at nine fifteen, late for him, cleaned up the dishes and set them in the sink to be washed. After the dishes were finished, he returned to this chair, clicked on the light next to it, and picked up the book sitting on the table next to his chair. He glanced at the clock again. It was nearly ten.

"Well, I guess that settles that," he said to the silence. He continued reading.
He awoke the next morning, still sitting in the chair, the book laying shut across his lap. "Drat," he said. "I’ll never find my place again." After a quick breakfast of instant oatmeal, toast, and milk, he jumped into the shower, then hurried down to his bench to see if she was there.

The late morning sun warmed him as he walked the few blocks to the park and the bench that faced Fourth Street. He arrived to find no one in sight. He sat down and waited. He waited several hours, finally, feeling unusually tired, he walked home. When he arrived, his eighty years seemed to fall on him like a ton of bricks, leaving him exhausted and feeling sick. He napped until late into the afternoon, waking up only to find something to nibble on before falling back to sleep. At six, he awoke, threw a tv dinner into the oven, made a small salad, then sat at the table to wait for the tv dinner.

After he had finished his meal, he returned to his chair. He picked up his book and started working through it to try to find the place he had reached the last time he was reading. Twenty minutes later, he found the place. He continued from that point until he thought he might break his neck from having his head drop down every time he nodded off. He finally gave up and went to bed. "Maybe tomorrow she’ll be there," he thought.

But she wasn’t there the next day, or the next. The old man was worried, and puzzled. She had seemed to warm to the idea of staying with him and giving up the lifestyle she was living, or, at least, that is what he thought. Maybe she was just pretending to like the idea. Maybe she was planning to rob him and that is why she agreed to go to his apartment. He ran several kindred ideas through his head, finally rejecting each one as just paranoia of an old, lonely man. He would just push the thoughts of having her stay with him out of his head. She would have to decide to help herself before he could help her.

It was anther sunny day, not as warm as the previous few, but nice anyway. The old man sat on the bench warming in the sun. His periodic bench mate, Ben, had just left for a doctor’s appointment to have his vitals checked, as he put it, and the old man was, once again, alone on the bench.

He watched two young women on roller blades approach from his right. He marveled at their grace on the blades, almost seeming to be gliding above the cement. He watched them until they passed him, talking incessantly as they wove back and forth on the sidewalk. As they passed, he turned to watch them continue down the walk. Then he saw her. She was facing the opposite direction, watching the traffic on Fourth Street. He was almost certain it was Holly. She was wearing her trademark knee high, six inch heeled, boots, a black, short micro mini dress with a wide red belt and a short, red jacket. Her hair was pulled into two pony tails at each side of her head. She was a mixed metaphor - part little girl, part Parisian call girl.

He stood and walked slowly toward her, trying to think of something to say to her that would not sound as if he was being critical, yet, in someway, say something that would help him understand why she had not returned. As he approached, she turned her head and looked at him, then, recognizing him, turned away quickly and started to walk away.

"Holly?"

She continued to walk, not looking back or acknowledging him.

"Holly!" he said, sternly, hoping he could get her to stop.

She stopped and slowly turned. As she turned, he saw her face. Her left eye was discolored and swollen, as well as the area under her eye on her cheek bone. Her upper lip was swollen and it looked as if the right side of her face was puffy. The heavy make up, that was applied to cover the damage, wasn't doing its job.

"I’m sorry I didn’t come back," she said, looking at the pavement.

"Did Eddie find you?" he asked.

She didn’t answer for a moment. "No," was her only comment.

"No?" Then what happened to your face?" the old man asked.

She looked at him, a mixture of hurt and anger flashed over her face. "What’s it to ya, anyway?" she snapped. "I don’t get it. Why do you keep buggin’ me? Are you a perv, or somethin?"

He didn’t answer. After a moments reflection, he spoke. "You went back, didn’t you. Was it the drugs?"

She was angry. "So what! I tried, ya know. I just wanted one more taste........... just one more.........that’s all, just one more." Her voice trailed off.

"You can beat this, Holly. You have too much promise to give up now," he said.

"What do you know?" she countered.

"Want to give it another try?" he asked, persisting.

She laughed a short laugh, more an exhale than a laugh. " I didn’t even try it once. I didn’t even get through one day. What makes you think it would be any different this time?"

"All I know, is that the only way you fail is by quitting....or never trying. I think you should try again."

She looked at the old man, still unable to understand why he was doing this. She thought he must be a dirty old man that had something up his sleeve, some other reason than wanting to help her. Everyone in her life had used her for their own purposes and she figured this old man wasn’t any different.

Her father had abused her from as far back as she could remember, up until she left home at sixteen. When she was on her own, she found a job at a car wash as a cashier until the boss tried to get handy. When she refused his advances, he explained that if she wanted to keep her job, she was going to have to ‘cooperate’, as he put it. She ‘cooperated’ until she could find another job. She was working as a waitress when she met Eddie. He immediately made her feel like a woman and treated her as if she were a queen. He gave her expensive clothes and jewelery and took her out to eat at fancy restaurants. And, of course, there was the drugs....the lovely drugs. She loved going away with them where no one could hurt her, where she felt good. The drugs were the anchor that kept her with Eddie. She hated having to work the streets, and she hated the beatings when she didn’t perform the way Eddie thought she should. All the men in her life have wanted something from her. She just couldn’t get her mind around what this old man’s angle was. "It’s too hard," she finally said.

"Anything worthwhile is hard," he countered.

"Why is it you always sound like a stinkin’ motivational poster?" she asked. "Maybe I like doing things the way I am. Did you ever think of that?"

"You like getting beat?"

She looked at him for a moment. "No," she said, quietly.

"Then, try again. I’ll help."

"I don’t think I can," she said, sounding more dejected than he had ever heard her.

"Well, if you don’t try, you’ll never know if you could have done it. At least, if you try and you don’t make it, you’ll know you can’t do it. So, you might as well give it another try," the old man said, trying not to sound like another poster. "I’ll help all I can."

"Why are you doing this?" Holly asked, looking the old man directly in his eyes. "You don’t even know me, I mean, what’s in this for you?"

"I just want to help. You seem like a nice girl......I just want to help," he answered.

"No body just helps someone else like that. There always has to be another motive. What’s yours? There has to be something."

"There is nothing."

"I don’t believe you," she said, putting a hand on her hip and standing hip shot. "What, do I remind you of your dead wife - daughter - niece - girlfriend......what?"

"No," was his only answer.

"Gads!!!" she exclaimed. "You just don’t make sense."

"And getting beat, being strung out on drugs and working the streets makes sense?" he asked.
She said nothing. They both stared at each other waiting for the other to speak. Neither would. Finally, she broke the silence. "Damn it! Okey, I’ll try it one more time - or, at least, one time."

"Great. This time will be different, you’ll see," he said, smiling broadly. "Besides, company is good. It is always good to have company."

End of part three