QUIET AND SOMBER NEW YEAR'S EVE

As the year approaches its end, the last New Year’s Eve I spent with Paul surfaces and resurfaces often and vividly – more vividly than it turned out that night. It was barely four months before Paul’s death and we both knew it would be our last together.

Well in advance we bought two champagne glasses and a bottle of champagne for our last New Year’s Eve celebration.  New Year’s Eve we settled in for the wait. He in the rocking chair which in a few weeks would become his day time and night time resting place. I on the sofa with my head resting on the piled up cushions. A little television – a little reading – a little talking- we waited for the proper hour.

Sometime after 2:00 AM we awoke and went to bed.

The champagne I tossed out after two years. The glasses hang on the wine glass rack with the other 18 bought at various times and places during our years together.  Maybe this year I will take them down and toast my memories. More likely I will fall asleep long before midnight.

LITTLE THINGS MEAN A LOT

During Paul’s battle with leukemia he spent many weeks in the Wake Forest Hospital in North Carolina. During those stays I spent each Saturday and Sunday with him in his hospital room.  On one of those weekends he said, “We have to talk about something. The last two times you were here you screwed up the toilet paper.”

At a loss I asked, “What do you mean?”

“You leave it so I can’t get it going. You need to learn how to leave the paper hanging down so I can get hold of it.”

My initial reaction was not loving, and had I not been counseled well by the hospital social worker I might have created an unnecessary unpleasant situation. “Remember,” she said, “he’s here, confined, controlled, poked, ordered. He controls nothing in his daily life.”

I understood. The position of the toilet paper was one control he had.

With  a lot of love and little effort I made sure to leave the toilet paper with a hanging tab.

A REPOSTING I AM SURE

I suspect I posted this before. But today I was feeling particularly sad. It was the combination of the nasty weather, the early darkness, the loneliness of being alone.    It is a poem, not good, not worthy of publication (perhaps), but it was written at a time when my loneliness was just beginning. Three years is a short time when compared to the fifty +  I had with Paul.       

             THE GIRL IN THE STANDING PANTS

                             

                         His eyelids were leaden

                        His body wracked by weariness

                          He had too long been here

                 Nature whence he came was summoning him

                     The woman beside his bed faded

               Gray hair and wrinkled skin morphed into youth

                              His brow furrowed

               His lips spread recalling the first time he saw her

                           He the new shy student

                She seemingly secure in her too tight pants

                             Both were standing

                            She amid her group

                              He at the edges

               Urged to sit he shrank back with mumbled refusal

                  She without a hint of self- consciousness

                "I can't. I'm wearing my standing pants."

                     He knew then; he knew now

               He wanted the girl in the standing pants

OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT

                 

               From Thomas Moore’s 0FT IN THE STILLY NIGHT:

             

                                                      Oft in the stilly night,

                                                      Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me,

                                                      Fond memory brings light

                                                      Of other days around me

                                                      The smiles, the tears

                                                      The words of love then spoken,

                                                      The eyes that shone

                                                      Now dimmed and gone.

I recently came across this quote from Moore’s poem. It pricked my heart and awakened sleeping 

tears.  My memories of Paul went back far—50+ years when we were financially challenged graduate students. We sat for hours over one cup of coffee in the Penn State Diner. 

His smiles were captivating; his big brown eyes melted my heart.  Fifty years later after leukemia struck those smiles had become less frequent; those eyes were less bright.  But oft in the stilly night—memories of them flood my mind.

TIME FOR HOSPICE

The day Paul was diagnosed with leukemia his immediate response was –I am going to die. If I have to die it can’t be in a hospital.

“You won’t," I promised.

His treatment consisted of two lengthy hospital stays and extensive out patient care. He spent his time at home working at his desk, reading and writing, adding to his homepage and blog or sitting in the Boston Rocking chair in the living room, reading or watching TV. It was slow paced regimen with much dozing.

The day came when time at the desk gave way to more time in the rocking chair. As he became weaker he rarely left the chair. Day and night he sat there. Trips to the table for meals, to the bathroom became increasingly challenging to both of us.

One morning he declined to leave the rocking chair for breakfast. By lunch he was still in the chair with yet a trip to the bathroom. “Paul,” I said.  “I think it’s time we got Hospice.”

“I don’t need Hospice,” he snapped in that crabby voice he was known for.

“But I do. I can’t do this alone.”

“Then get it if have to. But I don’t need it.”

The next day an Hospice intake person came to process all the entry papers.

FIFTY + YEARS IS A LIFE TIME

Our 52^nd wedding anniversary.

Paul was three weeks into his first eight week hospital stay.  In a hospital two hours from home.

We would celebrate our anniversary in that hospital room.  But we would celebrate.   I packed  our favorite breakfast—sausage biscuits and home canned tomato juice.  (the commercial juice  is too thick, too salty and too sweet).  In the bag I put two small bottles of red wine.  We had asked permission,  which was not given. But which was not explicitly forbidden. The wine would accompany a meal ordered from the hospital food service.

The usual SCRABBLE game went well, as did the morning sausage breakfast.  Now it was time to consider the anniversary meal.  After scouring the menu we planned celebratory meal, put in our order  and set  off for morning exercise—walks up and down the hall, walks into the connecting corridor between wings.

Sitting in rocking chairs before a window allowing access to the sun’s rays we sat.  Silently.  Fifty some years does not need a lot of words—a look, a touch, a sigh tells it all.

A CNA burst through the double doors. “Here you are. You need to get back to your room now.”

“Why?” Paul asked.

“They didn’t tell me. They just said bring you back.”

Paul stood. His left hand took mine, his right took the mobile ‘tube holding’ apparatus.

We arrived at his room to find no one there.  The CNA assured us  someone be right there.

We waited.

We waited.

The door opened.  A young black man pushed a large wagon into the room.  Several people followed. The cover of the table was removed with the chorus of voices saying “HAPPY ANNIVERSARY”.  A sumptuous meal of roast chicken, steamed asparagus, rice, fruit  salad, sparkling apple juice (There was to be no wine) a decorated cake and a vase with roses.

We gasped;  I cried.  After they left we even opened our smuggled in wine.  It was a lovely night.

THE BEGINNING OF A NIGHTMARE

                              

This entry is out of sequence. I know that.  But memories come as memories come, not in orderly chronological order.

Days before Paul’s diagnosis we both knew something was terribly wrong.  I reacted with worry and fear,  Paul with fear and denial.  Just a month before he had put aside his daily exercise regimen, explaining that the spring and summer  farm work would be exercise enough.

The grass in the yard had grown tall from the warm temperatures and the daily rain.  He started the mower and made two swaths across the front yard.  Suddenly he stopped the mower and sat at the concrete picnic bench next to the fish pond.  His breathing was rapid; his bare chest glistened from perspiration.  From the front porch I watched as he struggled to recover.  He restarted the mower, made two swaths and stopped the mower.  

“You Ok?”, I asked.

“Just out of breath.”

Just out of breath. Just out of breath. The beginning of two years of being just out of breath.

MY EXTRAORDINARY MAN

In my 80+ years I have known many men, not in the Biblical sense, but as father, brother, cousin, son, friend, colleague and neighbor. But I have never known one with the unique qualities of my now gone husband, Paul.

He was by training a scientist with a PHD in Chemistry. By temperment and artist. By inclination a philosopher. By accomplishments a moderate success in all, a failure in none.

He was but three years old, the youngest of four children, when he was labeled "NOTIONS". I did not know him as a child, but my experience with him as an adult tells me that "NOTIONS" was the perfect moniker.

His obituary which before his death we wrote together captures his life and spirit. The first line and last few were added after his death. 

Paul Eugene Field of Elliston died April 11 at the age of 79.

Nature whence he came has reclaimed his body and spirit

A body nourished by vigorous exercise and healthy food

A spirit fed by passion, curiosity and principles

A drive to think, to learn, to know and write

A need to live, to laugh, to love and play

A love of nature compelling him to salute the sun

Revere the trees, bow to butterflies and laud the birds

An addiction to the arts leaving his domed, mural walled folly

His tiled towering obelisk

His indomitable spirit and active body have returned to their

 proper place

Cherishing his memory are his wife Jewell

Children Sylvia, Randy and Thom

Grandchildren Karen and Joey

A host of friends

SAVED BY UNDERSTANDING AND ACCEPTANCE

This memory has undergone many re-evaluations over the past few years.  Hurt- anger- resentment and finally understanding. I shall try to explain.

Paul was in the second year of his treatment, doing his second long term hospitalization in Wake Forest Hospital in Winston Salem, North Carolina.  He there, alone at meal time, at night.  Me home, alone at meal time, at night. Except for those one night weekend visits.

My sister, a devoted evangelical Christian, in an effort to be supportive and sympathetic called me frequently.  It filled the lonely evenings when television or reading did not seem to help.

Then that one night. I was feeling  particularly lonely and vulnerable.  She talked- she listened. Then she asked, “Jewell, let me ask you. Has Paul ever been saved?”

Anger, frustration, hurt born of my own youthful  disastrous ‘getting saved’ experience sprang to the surface. “He’s not lost”, I said.  She was silent. “He’s dying and so far nobody seems to be able to save him.”

I hung up and began to sob.

It has been nearly four years since that hurtful exchange. I have come to terms with my own hostility to the pain I suffered in that ‘getting saved’ experience.  I have come to accept that my sister wanted only to be helpful. Today we are more accepting of each other. 

I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S BUTTER

Paul had firm ideas about the advantages of oleo over unhealthy butter. Besides oleo tasted better. So it was through our long marriage.

Chemotherapy or leukemia itself or both took its toll on his taste buds. One of the casualties was oleo. “We need to find a new oleo,” he announced, “this one has a funny taste.”

Thus began what was to be either a comedic or a boring routine. Each new oleo was greeted with, “I thought you were going to get a new oleo.”

“I did.”

“It doesn’t taste like it. This one tastes off.”

Change- tastes wrong- change. Until I made a bold decision. I bought butter.

Then came the test. He spread his favorite blueberry muffin with the latest ‘new oleo’. After his  first bite he sighed contentedly and said, “Finally an oleo that tastes right.”

He died never knowing he was eating unhealthy ‘doesn’t taste right’ oleo.

DRUNK BUT ALIVE

My undisciplined nature at once admired and resented Paul’s discipline. The day we were married he weighed 155 pounds. During our fifty + years together his weight varied only between 155 and 160. Every morning he weighed and if he was at 160 he curtailed his calories for the day.

He loved his bourbon and wine: one shot of bourbon (nursed for an hour) before dinner every night; one glass of wine with dinner. Without exception.

Not always without exception .  There was the regular meeting of long time friends who spent one night a week sharing a movie, snacks and wine. Those nights he had three or sometimes four glasses of wine.

Until that one night.

For over a year he had been holding death at bay. For over a year he had seen a steady decline. For over a year he had experienced a whittling down of his promised two years. That night one glass of wine led to a second, then to a third. Until he was free of his disciplined thought, free of his dread of dying, free of his normal inhibitions.

“You guys are my anchor,” he said with wavering voice. “It’s  all that keeps me going.”

Uneasy moments. Then to our car. “I’ll drive”, I said.

“You think I can’t drive? Well I can.”

The drive to our house, ten miles of a curvy narrow rural road, is demanding of any driver.  But he drove.  I sat erect, scared as he swerved at each curve, as he wandered out of his half of the road.

Not since my disastrous ‘getting saved’ religious experience had I believed in a god who would help if I asked. But not this night. This night I thought but dared not utter, ”God , let us get home in one piece and I’m yours.”

Without disaster we approached our last turn. Our mailbox. “I’ll check the mail,” he said. The side mirror smacked into the mailbox.  Then we came to our parking place. The side mirror again smacked into the post of the carport.

“Paul”, I said. “You’re drunk”

“So what?”  he said, “ If I am?  I’m not dead yet.”

TURKEY SUBS, WINE AND ANGELIC HARP MUSIC

That day during the second week in December was calmer and warmer than usual. The day we were due in Wake Forest Hospital for the routine bore into Paul’s spine for bone marrow to check the progression of the disease or the treatment. The routine we knew well.

We left early, drove our favored back roads through Floyd Virginia, Fancy Gap, Mt Airy North Carolina and our beloved Mt Pilot.

From the Food Lion, half way and with a nice restroom, we bought a turkey sub (to be shared) and two small bottles of red wine. Whether wine was permitted we never asked. We did not want to know. But in the event it was prohibited, I must confess, we concealed the bottles with drink covers.

Settled in two seats in the waiting area near the outpatient intake office we began our picnic. Barely had we taken our first bites and sips  when our ears were regaled with a harp quartet of holiday music. Sandwiches and wine in hand we went to the railing overlooking the floor below. Before our eyes were four lovely ladies, perched daintily on stools before their harps, pouring out angelic music.

Sodium laden sandwiches, forbidden wine and angelic harp music combined all the elements, not enough needed to alleviate all worry and pain, but it surely went a long way.

HOSPITAL SCHEDULE TRUMPS PATIENT NEED

Memories of the two years Paul battled his cancer appear randomly with no accounting of time sequence. They are like dreams with a time sequence of their own, unaware or uncaring of our need for order.  For the choppiness I apologize.  Thus another memory.

Nurses are too often robots. They enter the patient’s room on a computer schedule. Vital signs must be taken every six hours.  Every six hours even though it is the middle of the night and the patient is sleeping peacefully after hours of wakefulness.  Sleeping medication is given to an awakened patient.

Paul had his complaints; he voiced them with vigor for he was not prone to silent acceptance of anything that annoyed him. The staff passed off his bitching as unimportant because hospital procedure was what mattered.

Then came that Sunday morning.  That morning after our late night Scrabble Game.  The sun was just peeking  in his East facing room.  Paul was deep in sleep, the best sleep he had had in days when a nurse entered.

“He’s asleep,’ I said

“I need his vitals.”

“Why”

“For the record.”

“But he’s asleep.  Can’t you get them later?”

“I’m sorry, that will throw off my schedule.”

As she approached his bed, I felt my heart race, my face flush. “Get the hell out and let him sleep ,”I said. “Come back when he is awake.”

Sleep the rest of the night eluded me.  I remained on duty, protecting the rights of my sick husband against the schedule keepers.

Not until the next Saturday night when I returned for my nightly visit did he sleep through the night without serving their schedule. 

TREATMENT BEGINS

The first days after that memorial day were for me (and I am sure for Paul) terror filled and hope laden. He confined to a hospital room—me alone in our rural home whose maintenance took no notice of  his absence or the need to wait for his return.

Grass grew. I mowed. Weeds attacked the tomato and pepper plants. Deer finished what the weeds spared.  Eating alone after fifty years of sharing mealtime left my soul hungry no matter what I ate. 

Monday through Friday I gave it my best effort.

But come Saturday I left behind all efforts to keep the place going. I left behind missing him.  I set out with deli sandwiches for lunch, sausage biscuits and my canned tomato juice for breakfast, the Scrabble Game for our usual Saturday night battle, and a change of underwear.

Twenty four hours together before I came home where I spent  another week of handling home alone and he the week battling for his life.

TO LIVE OR TO DIE; THAT IS THE QUESTION

The beginning of Paul's and my journey through cancer is etched in my mind.

That day – the day before the memorial  day weekend Dr.  Ellis said, “With treatment maybe two years. Without two months at best.”

Her plan was to admit him that day. Paul was stunned;  I was beyond stunned.  “I need time to think,” he said.

Dr. Ellis down this road so many times before said, “Fair enough.  I’ll arrange for your admission the day after Memorial day.  If you decide to keep the appointment, be here. If you decide not call and cancel.”

Simple enough!  Simple?

That drive home from Wake Forest (the first of many as it turned out) seemed an eternity. Two days ago we were reveling in the delights of retirement; today we were facing its end.

Safely if not joyfully we returned to our thirty four acres. Thirty four acres bought  twenty-five years ago with dreams of growing grapes, making wine and growing old with the best of what life and nature had ro offer . Grapes which chose not to grow mattered little.  The beauty of our place made any other place on the planet seem secondary.

Home again with a death sentence hanging over our heads we cried. We laughed at the vagaries of nature. We pondered our choices. “I’m not ready to die,” he said.

The day after the memorial weekend together we drove to Wake Forest.  The next  day I drove home alone leaving him for the beginning of an eight week intensive chemo treatment.

NATURE'S HEALING NATURE

There are two routes from our home in Elliston Virginia to the Wake Forest Hospital in Winston Salem, North Carolina. One is via the interstate requiring less time, bypassing points of delight to the eye and ear. 

On those frequent trips cancer treatment required  we chose not to bypass this little part of America. We drove back roads, through Riner and Floyd and Mt Airey. We chose to see  Mt. Pilot.

Mt Pilot looms up above the road asserting its place and grandeur. It demands attention, it demands awe. So often after a  trying and often not too positive meeting with the Wake Forest doctors we headed home.  And often we took the narrow, winding road to the top of Mt.  Pilot. With Food Lion deli sandwiches or the famous North Carolina barbecue and a six pack of beer (we never tried to learn if alcohol was allowed) we picnicked. 

The beauty of the mountain plant life, the wind in the trees, the darting of skittish animal life filled our ears, eyes and hearts with joy. The looming threat of cancer, the fear of what the future held fell away.

Mt Pilot did more to extend Paul’s life than any of the chemo he endured for his two years of treatment.  Of that I am sure.

NAGGING IS NOT ALWAYS WRONG

Memories come as memories come, unsolicited, on their own schedule. Thus this one came.

The dining room chair in front of the ‘west facing’ deck door allowed Paul to feed his lifelong addiction to the sun.

 Well into his second year of AML treatment  he spent hours in that chair allowing the rays of the sun to bake his cancer weary body.  This day he sat, he read, he dozed.  Until he did more dozing than reading. His head nodded, snapped upright. His body swayed- always to the left. Perhaps because he was left handed.

“Paul, you’re going to fall out that chair,” I said

“Stop nagging.”

He dozed, he nodded, he swayed. “Honey, you are going to fall out of your chair.”

“Will you stop nagging.”

He dozed, he nodded, he swayed. “Paul”, I said more harshly. “You are going to fall out of that chair. Why don’t you move to the living room.”

“And what don’t you stop nagging.”

He dozed, he nodded, he fell out the chair. I ran to him. He was unhurt. He looked up at me, “Why did you quit nagging?” One of our good days at the end.

MEMORIES OF A DIRE AND WONDERFUL TWO YEARS

My husband died three years ago.

                  Three  long years.

                          Three short years.

His clothing is gone

Except for the two  sports jackets I made for him and the combat boots from his Army basic training.

His lecture notes are shredded and composted.

His bulletin is dismantled except for his army pin up picture of Anita Ekberg and his father’s 1934 calendar given to coal customers the year he died.

Memories of our 50+ years.

                 Memories of the last two years.

AML Leukemia (no cure) came.

                Two years with treatment.

                           Two months without.

We chose the two years. The next few entries will be memories of that sad and happy time.

DESPAIR OR LAZINESS

The discipline required of a serious blogger eludes me, I fear. Whether from sloth or lack of talent is open to question. Or not. Likely a little of both. BUT I ask you-- how many of you would or could produce a daily blog?

If many of you should and would, I shall either make lame excuses why I cannot or cry in despair.

Despair!
Despair is likely my problem.
Despair is surely my problem.
Despair from the chaos I see in our current political situation.

If there be a God, or if there be gods I beseech you see to this!

Alas I fear the fault is not with our gods but with ourselves.

HASKELL'S BOOZE MYSTERY

Orchard Cove 1957

The barn was a barn in name only. For years it had seen no animals, no hay, no equipment.  Only the shelf in the first horse stall served any useful  function. On this shelf Haskell kept his booze. Unknown to his wife, Cora.  Generally known to his intimate friends whom he needed.  Years ago, after a string of DUIs Haskell lost his driver’s license and depended on Cora for transportation.  Except when he needed to re-supply his booze.  Intimates met that need; intimates knew where he kept his stash.

When Haskell first noticed the lowering level of his booze bottle, he pondered who of his intimates was the culprit.  He relocated the booze to the hay loft, used now for storage of discarded furniture and ‘never to be used again junk’.  The theft continued.

After the fourth hiding place failed to prevent the loss of his liquor, he moved it to his workshop, in the tiny shed between the house and the barn.  For several weeks his stash seemed safe. The safety ended and Haskell noticed a daily dwindling of his supply.  He had never in his life felt the necessity of locking things up until now. He installed a lock on his shed  workshop. His booze was again safe. Less than a week.

Haskell began to doubt his sanity.  Was his drinking out of control?  How could he not remember? Everybody noticed the change. Haskell seemed to be aging before their eyes.

Cora urged  him to see a doctor. He struggled to hide his reaction when she said, “Haskell, this is way more than your booze drinking.”  Before he could protest she continued, “Now don’t go telling me you don’t drink. Everybody knows you keep moving your booze from one place to another.  You are so afraid someone will  drink a little of it.  Really Haskell, how selfish can you be?”  She put her hand on his arm. “Now there’s no  need to keep hiding it. You know what you need? You need a good stiff drink right now. You just sit down and relax."

Cora retrieved a key from her silverware drawer. “I’ll fetch it for you.”

Cora returned with two glasses. “Now Haskell, here you go.”

JODY AND THE BIRTHDAY CAN

1953 

Everybody knew everybody in Orchard Cove. The houses strewn along the dirt road between Appletown and Clarksville ranged from tar paper covered shacks and well- worn mobile homes to the near mansions of the Carswell clan. Most residents attended church on Wednesday night and Sunday morning. Two thirds to the Missionary Baptist; one third to the Church of God. The few who attended neither were by general opinion considered ‘jest plum no good’.

The parents of Jody Davenport fit the category. Jody’s father worked at odd jobs now and then; his mother rode once a week into Appletown with Willie, the mailman, where she cleaned the house of the town doctor. Labeling Jody, their only child, was not easy. Jody never missed Sunday services. Sometimes the Baptists; sometimes the Church of God.  Jody’s size – for he was short and thin—and his red hair and freckled face elicited genuine warmth and generosity from the members of both churches.  Regularly Jody was slipped a nickel or dime and occasionally a quarter which he obsequiously accepted.

Both churches kept their finances in order by the Sunday collection. Each had its special way of covering unanticipated costs. The Baptists used the birthday can. Every week any member, young or old, added a nickel per year of his life to the large Prince Albert Tobacco can with a coin slot carved in the lid. Care of the can rotated among the Deacons, who each Sunday carried it to church where it accepted its nickels for the week.

Jody’s church attendance fell by the wayside, at first because he had the mumps, then bronchitis and finally a newly developed habit of doing something else on Sunday.  The people of Orchard Cove paid scant attention, shaking their heads and asking, “What do you expect with shiftless parents like that?”

That is until they were forced to think about Jody. The Birthday Can was stolen, taken off the closet shelf in Carl Martin’s house sometime between the Sunday he stashed it away and went for it the next Sunday.  On evaluation of the situation the unanimous conclusion was “Only Jody could have done it.”

Demand repayment from Jody’s parents was the plan.  At the agreed time on a Saturday afternoon,the Deacons met at the church and planned to go in masse to the Davenports.  No one had asked Jody; no one had considered anyone but Jody until just before the departure time to the Davenport house.  Harry Carswell  arrived at the church with his two boys, ten and twelve,who looked none too happy.  As Harry stood by with lowered head, his boys confessed to the crime and handed over the money. Jody never knew; Jody resumed his church attendance.

THE STOLEN DEER

Orchard Cove 1944

Orville took a last look at the deer, properly bled, hanging in the shed next to the smokehouse. It was a beauty, meat for some time and a marvelous head for the wall. Tomorrow he would do the processing.

Twice during the night the barking of his three dogs woke him. Both times he went out with his lantern to investigate. Twice he was met by the little gray fox who, it seemed, considered this home. Twice Orville went back to bed with visions of deer steaks in his head. The third dog chorus Orville ignored, silently swearing at the persistent nocturnal antics of his resident fox.

The chill of morning on any other day would have kept Orville in bed until the last possible moment. But this morning he had a deer to deal with. Before the morning feeding and milking he went to the shed to check on his deer.

The shed door was open; the deer was gone.

Orville was not a ‘shoot from the hip’ kind of man. He was thoughtful, calm, and calculating. He analyzed and re-analyzed all situations. Who would have taken his deer? Who knew he had it? He had told Harry, the mailman and Tom who came to borrow a level. No one else. Neither of them would take his deer.

Orville said nothing; he forbade his family to say anything. Orville waited. He would wait as long as needed; he would watch; he would learn who took his deer.  “And when I find out,” he told the family, “there will be hell to pay.”

Orville’s patience paid off and from an odd source – or as the saying goes ‘out of the mouths of babes’- came the answer. It was his six year old daughter  who identified the culprit. At dinner two weeks after the theft she nibbled on her chicken drumstick.  “Daddy,” she said, “when can we have deer?”

“When I shoot one.  But I wonder since when did you decide you like deer?  Last year you said it was yucky.”

“Since Carrie told me how good it is.”

Orville’s mind did somersaults. He knew. Carrie’s family was going through a rough patch. Dave had not worked for months now, not since the accident. The church had offered on several occasions to help, but Dave harbored a male pride keeping him from accepting.

The next afternoon Orville dropped by Dave’s place.  Dave down to one cane now met him at the door.  “Dave, how’s it going?”

“Not bad.”

“I was at the mill this morning. Clint asked me to stop by here on my way home.   Seems like you left some corn over there just before your accident.  Asked if I’d drop off the ground corn. Got three big bags of meal. Where do you want me to put it?”

“I’m grateful, Orville.”

"I'll take it to the smokehouse."

"No just leave it here on the porch."

"If you're  sure", Orville stacked the three bags of corn meal on the porch floor. "Then I'll get on home. Let me know if you need anything."

I'm grateful."

Orville took the long way to his truck, past the smokehouse ,   A quick glance inside showed the signs of butchering activity.

LYDIE POTTER'S DISAPPEARANCE

Orchard Cove Tennessee 1941

Clyde Potter drove his newly acquired Model A past Walter’s house. Seeing Walter coming out of his sheep barn he stopped. “Hey Walt, I got me that car.”

Walter examined it. “What’d it cost you, Clyde?”

“A good hunk, I can tell you. But I managed, and she’s a beauty don’t you think?”

“She is that.  Lydie all right with it? She said to Mary she wasn’t going to have no car before the roof was fixed.  Get the roof fixed?”

“Not yet, but I nearly got enough saved up for it. Lydie is coming around.”

“Guess she’ll  be all right when you drive her to church and she don’t have to walk or ride Old Solomon.”

“Guess so,” Clyde said.

Lydie did not come to church Sunday; nor to Wednesday prayer meeting; nor the next or the next Sundays.  In Orchard Cove  one did not miss church more than once without explanation.  So questions floated; rumors soared. Mary nagged Walter to check.

“Check  what?”

“On Lydie. It ain’t like her to skip church.  She might be sick.”

“Then ought it not be you and some of the other women to check? It don’t seem right for me to do it.”

Lydie was not at home when Mary appeared at her door.  She was gone when Walter, yielding to Mary’s nagging, checked.  Lydie, it seemed, had dropped out of sight.  Clyde offered no explanation.

The incessant questions of one after another of the men and women of Orchard Cove proved too much for Clyde. Under duress and sweating brow he confessed. He had traded Lydie to Harry Martin over in Peavine for the car.

ABBY'S SECRET LOVE

Abby slipped as surreptitiously as she could into a seat at the back of the funeral home. The service was underway.  Frank’s body lay in the open coffin before his widow, Karen, his children, Nancy and Harry, his sisters, Mazie and Lily.  A preacher Abby did not know was speaking.  He regaled the virtuous life Frank had lived, the courage with which met the cancer that took him.  “He was a true servant of God, strong in his faith, faithful to his family and friends.”

On and on the preacher recollected specific  godly acts of Frank’s seventy years.  Karen sobbed; Nancy wept silently; Harry blotted tears.  “To his beloved Karen”, the preacher said in a high pitched voice. “we  offer the promise that one day she will join Frank in the wonders of Heaven where they will spend eternity with the love and trust and faithfulness that marked their time on this earth.”

A chorus of ‘amens’ followed.

Abby closed her eyes; she breathed deeply; she fought back her tears.  She would miss Frank.  She had loved Frank since they were in their teens—ever since that first kiss behind the barn.  She had loved him through her marriage and divorce, through his marriage to Karen and the birth of his children.  It had been rife with joy and difficulties.

Her memories were sweet and bitter.  Sweet were those stolen hours when they spent an evening, a night, a weekend together.  Bitter when he left her and returned to Karen and his children.

Shaken from her reveries by the quartet’s cacophonous rendition of AMAZING GRACE Abby surveyed the congregation—fighting her desire for revenge against the woman who stole so much of her time with her only love.

All heads bowed for a benediction.  Abby surreptitiously slipped out of the funeral parlor. 

CAROL IS DEAD

Marie Jones sat alone in the corner of the funeral home parlor where her mother, Carol’s body lay in repose. The chatter of the sizable crowd of neighbors and one time friends flowed over her consciousness. Her brother Harold had not come for the funeral. Harold, whose lack of love for his mother was well known, had not been home for the past five years.

Carol’s care during her long illness had left Marie almost as lifeless as Carol. At first it was not so hard. Carol could manage the care of her bodily needs. But as time and disease ravaged her body care fell to Marie. For the last three years Marie had lifted, bathed, dressed, fed and diapered her deteriorating mother.

Marie was shaken from her thoughts by David Harris, her nearest neighbor. “I am so sorry, Marie. I know it must be so hard for you to lose your mother.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“If we can do anything..”

“No”, Marie said wishing she had the courage to ask, ‘Where the hell were you when I needed help?’ “No,” she said “I’m ok.”

She closed her eyes and let her mind imagine what it would be like to go home to an empty house. Empty. But for Carol it had been empty for a long time. Her shaky relationship with Frank had fallen victim to Carol’s intrusion into their lives. Frank had given her an ultimatum. “Either she goes or I go.” Marie could not fault Frank. Had it been his mother she would have done likewise.

What should she have done? What could she have done?  Her mother had no money, nowhere to go, no one to take care of her. Carol’s hostile, demanding, unappreciative behavior had proven the end of Frank, the end of her marriage, the end of her hopes of a family of her own. And the beginning of Marie’s withering spirit and life.

One by one neighbors filed by her. “Marie, she’s in a better place.”  “”She’s not in pain anymore.”  “You took such good care of her.”

Words, words, words. Words pierced the spaces of her thoughts. “I know,” she muttered over and over.

Her mother was better off.  She was no longer in pain. Marie had seen to that. Carefully for months she had monitored and measured  pain medication, daily putting aside some until ---.  She had watched as her mother took that last dose.  Yes, her mother was in a better place.

And certainly Marie was.

THEFT AT THE FARMERS' MARKET

The farmers’ co-op was at odds with itself. Complaints equaled accolades.  Accolades  were  widely proclaimed; complaints – it was hit or miss.  Wealthier  farmers  got attention; others were not so fortunate.

So it was with Charlie who had avidly welcomed the local co-op. It gave him access to big buyers like Bush and De Monte; it eliminated the long haul and overnight stay in Knoxville.

Farmers  delivered their produce to the co-op shed  at  day’s end where it was weighed, labeled and set up on tables for the next day’s auction. Early the next day buyers arrived in their big cars; trucks arrived as did the farmers with their table number certification in hand. By noon it was over.  The trucks were loaded; contracts were signed. Checks would arrive later.  Clean and efficient.  A system that worked for most and was appreciated by most.

Charlie’s doubts and questions came intermittently.  Sometimes the produce he left behind at the end of the set up day looked different from the produce he saw the day of the auction.  Was it possible that someone was switching produce?  Knowing he was at the bottom of the pecking order he said nothing.  He watched, he noted, and he watched until he was sure. And he acted alone for he trusted no one.

On his chosen day for action he delivered  his load of green peppers. He watched as they were weighed, placed in crates and placed on the sale table. No one paid any mind to Charlie sitting near his crates on table 9 and whittling. No one noticed as Charlie scratched his initials on the sides of his crates.

Charlie arrived early the next morning. His crates had been replaced. Up and down the tables he went until he found his marked crates on table 2.  Charlie waited for the table tenant to arrive. Howard Cox from the biggest farm in Rockwood.  Charlie continued to wait until all farmers and buyers were there. He climbed up on the edge of Howard Cox’s table and yelled.  “This man stole my peppers.”  

The buzz activity stopped immediately and all eyes were on him. Charlie presented his case.  One by one all eyes moved from Charlie to Homer.  Homer watched  the farmers helped  Charlie reclaim his crates.

MARGIE'S SECRET TREASURE

This task I so confidently  accepted three weeks ago has challenged and humbled me.  It is not easy to come up with a fewer than 1000 word mystery every week.  But I will keep trying. Thus my new effort—

MARGIE’S  SECRET TREASURE.

The clutter in Harry’s barn challenged description.  Piles of magazines, stacks of books, shelves of bottles and endless rows and columns of boxed whose contents,  if truth be known, even Harry had long forgotten. What better place to hide treasures, treasures of mice, litters of stray cats, hibernating snakes and shelter seeking  wasps.

So thought Margie who for years had nagged Harry to get rid of ‘some of that junk’.  To no avail.  Harry’s stock response was ‘you never know when you might need it’.

It was the bane of Margie’s life for years.  Until Harry died.  He had been central to her life for fifty years.  Fifty years of adventure, ups and downs, tears and laughter, and most of all consuming love.

Harry’s enthusiasm for life knew no end, no end until he met his end, the victim of a drunken driver, leaving behind his wife, his barn, the storehouse of his  life.

Margie met  her loss, alternating between despondent inertia and frenetic activity.

Sort, donate, trash.   Organize, give, toss.  Day after day, month  after month.

At the back of a three tiered stack of boxes she found the wooden trunk, stored unexamined, in the barn after Harry’s mother died. The trunk cleared of dust, mouse drippings, dead lady bugs and abandoned snake skins spoke of another time.  With apprehension, hope and wonder Margie opened the trunk. Fragile crumpled newspaper cradled  hidden items  which Margie eyed with wonder and handled with care. She picked up the first item, carefully removed it the newspaper—The Philadelphia Inquirer, Jan 1925.

Margie rowed up twelve unwrapped  coffee/tea cups and eleven matching  saucers deep enough to be considered bowls. A jingling Clabber Girl Baking Powder resisted her attempts to open it. Margie shook it gently, then vigorously producing the sound of cheap castanets . Tapped gently with the wooden end of a screwdriver,  squirted  liberally with WD-40 the lid yielded.  Inside the can were marbles – aggies and cats eyes. When Margie dumped the marbles into her hand small pieces of marbles slipped through her fingers onto the barn floor. Margie picked up one of the pieces – no color, no evenness. These were not marble shards.  They were – she dared not think that.

‘Oh my God,’ she whispered to the barn walls. ‘I am rich.’  She returned the Clabber Girl can contents, refitted the lid and replaced it in the trunk. One by one she rewrapped and carefully positioned  the cups and saucers atop her treasure. She  re-stacked the boxes above the trunk.  No one need know she was rich.

BUTTON, BUTTON, WHO'S GOT THE BUTTOM

BUTTON, BUTTON, WHO’S GOT THE BUTTON

Characters:

 Jane:   Emma,  Jane’s younger sister:    Sandra: Emma’s daughter :   Thomas and David, Jane’s sons:

Carolyn, Thomas’ wife:    Jennifer, David’s wife

The button had been in the family for a hundred or more years,  proposed to be a button from the coat of Theodore Roosevelt, attested to by a reputable museum in the Midwest, confirmed by a Smithsonian anthropologist.  It was a cherished relic handed down from mother to daughter.  Until  Jane produced two sons and no daughter.  Jane’s sister, Emma proposed the button be given to her daughter, Sandra. Thereby keeping it in the maternal line.  Jane refused, leaving it to her oldest son, Thomas.

Years passed! Sandra, an avid antique researcher and would-be collector, discovered the value of the button.  She set out to get it. Always clever with her sewing projects she took up purse making. Purses from old denim jeans, upholstery remnants, discarded tote bags.  All of which needed buttons for closure.

Buttons she requested from Thomas’ wife, Carolyn.  Carolyn,  more interested in her watercolor than purse craft, readily produced a small collection of buttons.  Greedily examining the scanty collection Sandra said, “I’m looking for old or old looking buttons for my period purses . You have any idea what happened to Aunt Jane’s buttons?”

Carolyn shook her head. “I think we gave all those buttons—a cookie tin full—to David’s wife for some kind of crafts project in her after school day care.”

Mess, activity, exuberance of a dozen of children welcomed Sandra at Jennifer’s after school program. “Good lord,” Jennifer said, “I have no idea where the buttons are or when we used them. Maybe to make Thanksgiving table decorations.  Or valentines.  Who knows?   Can’t you just buy some buttons? That thrift store over near Walmart has them in a box, near the door.  You can scoop out a handful that cost you nearly nothing.”

“My problem is,” Sandra said, “I am making a purse for a woman who wishes to remain anonymous. She requested a special button which she said Aunt Jane used to have,”

Jennifer broke into  laughter . “That old button  she kept on a card. I know which one you mean.” Sandra felt relieved until Jennifer added, “It’s the one we gave to the theater group at the community college. They needed it to repair a turn of the century jacket for a play.”

“When?”

“Jennifer shrugged, “Two or three years ago, I think.” Sandra’s spirits sagged.

BUTTON, BUTTON, WHO’S GOT THE BUTTON?

A BOMB IN THE SCHOOL

Hendricks High School was on alert. Under the appearance of routine nerves were on edge. Under pretended control chaos reigned.

Today a special pep rally was scheduled to send the boys basketball team off to the finals of the state tournament.  A day of abandoned celebration for students; a day of trepidation for staff and faculty.

The day began  badly—with an unscheduled faculty meeting—short and to the point. Principal Carol Collins presided with more than her usual officiousness.  “Coach Bilbrey had  found a note in his mailbox this morning stating a bomb will go off during the pep rally.”

From the back of the room someone called. “Ms Collins, we will cancel. Won’t we?”

Carol Collins resented not being called Dr. Collins since she had finally gotten the DED from the local University. “Indeed not,”  she said curtly.  “That is exactly what whoever did this dastardly act wants. We will not give in to this. All faculty and staff will be on duty, checking students as they enter the gym, collecting backpacks and checking loose clothing . Planning period teachers will report to the gym to help in a thorough search of the premises.”

The faculty was of three minds: those into school spirit agreed;  those scared of the consequences questioned;  those few resenting lost time from their academic classed objected.

When the meeting was over,  teachers , most adamantly opposed stood near the  back of the library. Three of the most vocal were:   Ellie Harris, AP Chemistry,  Carl Jones, AP Calculus , and Susan Morrison, AP English. “Much as I detest this pep rally tomfoolery, “ Ellie said, “I can’t see going so far as a bomb threat.  And making one is stupid. If you get caught it’s jail.”

“You never know what motivates them. Ever since Columbine they are more common. And every time it’s some disaffected or mentally disturbed person.” Susan said.  “Who knows what kind of sick person is out there.” She shrugged.” Or should I say in here?”

Carl Jones raised an eyebrow. A faint smile appeared. “Maybe he or she or you or me is not sick at all. Maybe just the sanest.”

MURDER IN A ROMAN LAUNDRY

MURDER IN THE LAUNDRY (Rome)

Scene: Rome 102 A D

In front of Didius’s Fullonica on a narrow side street off the Vicus Sacra a sizeable crowd had amassed. Three Vigiliae kept the crowd well back from the entrance.  All laundry activity was suspended.

Behind the laundry were two tomb-size vats.  One half full of urine.  At any hour of the day from well before dawn until long after sundown men lined up to relieve their full bladders. The other vat was nearly full of days old urine, turned to ammonia, ready for transfer to laundry tubs.  Also in that vat was the body of Didius.

Didius, the proprietor, owned the laundry and the slaves who did the work—carrying pails of cured urine from the vat to tubs, diluting it with water. After which they agitated clothes by stomping on them, as if crushing grapes, before stretching them over racks under the bleaching sun.

Didius’s business was good, twice and three times the volume of other laundries. Partly because of its location, mostly because of Didius promotion genius.

Slave workers were lined up, questioned gently at first, then under torture. To no event.

Attention turned to personal and professional enemies of whom there were many. Part of Didius’s business genius rested in his unscrupulous treatment of family, friends, enemies and employees. Notable among those who without pangs of conscience would have killed Didius:  His wife, Flora, resentful of what she considered theft of her personal wealth and known for her preference of younger more virile men:  Clivus , the weaver whose business faced failure from what he claimed was Didius’s improper cleaning:  Flaucus, an ex- slave who had surreptitiously bought his freedom through a third party and set up a competing  Fullonica.

Flora was dismissed as too short, too thin and too weak.  Clivius produced proof of an out-of-town trip to buy yarn.  Flaucus with no alibi and much motive was chief suspect and might have been tried had not Fortune intervened.

Two Vigiliae, breaking the monotony of their night shift, entered the bar near Didius’s laundry. Mucius, the young son of  Senator Tertius boasted of dumping an officious man in a water trough. Goaded by the Vigiliae,  Mucius regaled the patrons of the bar with an account of the evil pleasure of the night marauding  activities of  the idle young  nobles.

As justice unfolded Flaucus was cleared of any wrong doing; as injustice unfolded Young Mucius and his gang were surrendered to their noble parents.

Fights for Survival

Peeper, Jakie, Ranie and Anura stood by the body. Peeper spoke, "This man called Patrick lacked courage; he lacked rectitude: he lacked responsibility. He deserves nothing from us."

"Without accountability he did immeasurable harm not only to us but to all the residents of the world. Justice has been done."

"We tell no one of our part in this." Peeper breathed in, breathed out, filling the bubble in his throat. "Swear on your lives," he said, "Swear on your very lives that no word of how this evil man met his end will ever be made known."

A universal "We swear!"

One by one they left the bank of the pond on which Patrick's inert body lay, face down in the backwaters free of flora and fauna-- a result of his chemical farm practices.

Patrick's death was investigated, and re-investigated, and determined an accident. His one hundred acres were willed to his nephew, Carlos. (Patrick had no children; Patrick deserved no children or no child deserved Patrick). Carlos like his uncle saw his legacy in terms of DOLLARS, as profit. He sought the advice of a local land developer. Advice -- "Get rid of the mosquitoes! Build high end houses, and you're looking at a nice profit."

Peeper, Jakie, Ranie and Anura met.

"Carlos must go." Peepers said.
"Carlos must go,' the others chanted.

Two days later Carlos's inert body, face down in the pond's breakwater was found.

Investigation said, "Death by accident."

Croaks filled the night air. Peeper, Ranie, Jakie and Aunra dared dream of the future.

Mystery Writing Challenge

A challenge was put to me by a long time friend. A weekly 500 or  fewer word mystery story. Foolish (probably) or not I agreed.

Thus my first effort. Reader, Be kind.

Persistent ringing of the phone. Number unknown. She knew it was Jake.  Had he bought a cheap throw-away? Persistent ringing of the doorbell. She knew it was Jake. He had sworn he would never give up.

Kendra Cochran, fresh from a hostile breakup with Jake swore at each phone call and each doorbell ring. Would he never accept it was over?

The doorbell rang. She buried her head under a pillow. "Miss Cochran, a voice penetrated the room. "Miss Cochran, Police. We know you're in there."

Kendra opened the door. An overweight, red faced, middle aged man in uniform, a size too small stood next to a younger trim, short haired,  make-upless woman.

"Do you know Jake Harris?"
"Yes."
"When did you last see him?"
"Four days ago."
"Have you heard from him since?"
"Everyday. several times everyday. Why?"
"Today?"
"Yes." Their raised brows prompted her to say. "I don't know for sure. My phone rings. My door bell rings. I think it's Jake. He is relentless."
"Miss Cochran, Jake is dead. We found his body yesterday. He had your name and address in his pocket."

Dead. Jake was dead. He could not be dead. He kept calling her. She opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came forth. The policewoman's hand rested on Kendra's arm. Their eyes met. "Can we come in?"

The details were few. Jake's car went off the road, over an embankment, into a ravine. Dead on impact. But Jake had no car. He never had a car-- unnecessary in the city he said, Buses and trains went everywhere; the environment deserved it, he said. "But Jake doesn't have a car."

"Last night he seems to have had a car."

"Where did it ---"

"About ten miles outside the city on Rte 214. He had an address on an index card. . Carol St in Sommersville. Ever hear of that?"

Kendra closed her eyes, shook her head and finally said, "Jake's ex lives in Sommersville."

"Ex wife?"

""No wife-- an ex live in. Five years ago, I think."

"Janice Belden, by any chance?"

Kendra's eyes widened. "Yes,' she whispered.

The police woman's smile looked to Kendra menacing. "Her name was also on the index card. Can you think of any reason why?" Kendra stared into space. "Can you think of any reason why he would have both your names on that card?  Can you think of any reason he might want to kill her?"

Kendra's body froze. The policewoman  led her to the sofa. "Are you all right?"

Kendra sucked in her breath. In a barely audible whisper she asked, "Janice is dead?" The police said nothing. "And Jake is dead?" She fell silent.

The overweight policeman said, "And you are alive, Miss Cochran, thanks to a lethal accident."

The phone rang. Kendra jumped, smiled weakly and answered. "No Jake does not live here anymore."