The Deal (Set In 1964)

The sales manager glanced toward the opening showroom door. "I'll be right with you, Bruce."

"Take your time, Pete."

Joy focused a burgundy Corvair Monza GT convertible with white top and seats and burgundy carpeting. It was exactly right. Joy immediately opened the driver's door and sat down inside. It was sporty, had a four-on-the-floor and radio with front and rear speakers.

"It's loaded," the 'up' salesman said.

"It's very nice."

"I'm Eddie," he introduced.

"I'm Joy."

"Is that a Kentucky accent?" Bruce interrupted.

"Yes sir. I'm from a little town outside of Ashland. You probably never heard of it."

"I was born and raised in Morgan County."

"No kidding. I'm from around Catlettsburg."

"I have some relatives there."

"Everyone is someone's cousin down that way. For all I know we could be related."

"You may be right."

"So is this the car you going to buy today?" Eddie floated a trial close.

"It seems small to me," Bruce replied.

"Sometimes that's a good thing. I assume the Impala you pulled up in is a V-8."

"Yes," Bruce confirmed.

"This has rear-mounted, air cooled V-6. This model has a four-speed manual transmission. Are you comfortable with that, Joy?"

"She drives my pick-up. It's manual."

"That's great. Sometimes that's a barrier."

"I like having control," Joy said.

"What are we looking at for a price?" Bruce ventured.

"We can make the price work for you. You're not going to pay too much are you?"

"Of course not."

"Well, that's good. We're not about to overcharge our customers. You bought the Impala here?"

"Last year, around this time," Bruce said.

"Who was your salesperson? I mean if you had a good relationship..."

"I deal with Pete. Actually the day that car came in for Mr. Walsh's use, I bought it."

"Mr. Walsh owns the place. He  can drive any car he wants," Eddie laughed. "That Corvette over there was his for a few days but he said it's too flashy."

"That sounds like him."

"Listen, take the Corvair out for a drive, get the feel of it and make sure it is exactly what you want. Then when you get back we can sit down and work out the numbers so Joy can drive it home today."

"I'm not comfortable yet," Bruce replied.

"Well, take your time, Bruce. If there are any questions, please ask. Since you're one of our preferred customers, you can drive it for as long as you want. Take it home and think about it. Let me get a dealer tag for you..."

"We live over fifteen miles away."

"That's no problem, Bruce."

"We'll drive it around town, maybe take it out on US-40 to open it up a bit."

"That's fine. I'll be right back and we can take it outside for you."

Pete had freed himself, "Bruce it's great to see you again. Did you get the brochures?"

"Yes, we did," Joy answered.

"This can't be little Joy?"

"She's going to be a senior?"

"Time flies!" Bruce offered.

"Why, I recall you sitting on your dad's lap when I sold him a pick-up, it was blue as I recall. That was one of the first vehicles I ever sold. You made me work for it!"

"I'm still driving it."

"It's been a good truck, then. I'm glad. I definitely sold you the right truck."

"I have no complaints."

"So, has Eddie been treating you well?"

"He likes to talk."

"It's the nature of the business. You know that, Bruce."

"Well, anyway he's from Kentucky."

"That's right, he is. You grew up there, too, right?"

"He lives close to a couple of my cousins."

"Small world."

"Yeah," Bruce allowed.

Eddie returned to the room.

"Bruce says you've been treating him and Joy very well."

"They want to test drive the Corvair."

"That's great! Bruce is family. He bought Mr. Walsh's car out from under him!"

"That's what he said."

Pete chuckled. "Mr. Walsh ordered five cars in a row that got sold before he got to drive any."

"He has good taste," Joy said.

"Well, that's what I said. If we keep selling his cars maybe he should do all the ordering. Well, let me get the door open for you."

When they returned from their test drive, Joy mentioned something was rattling.

"I'll have our Service Manager check it out it right away."

"Well, it needs to be fixed before we make any deals," Joy said.

"That's exactly what we'll do. What speed did you notice it?"

"Not fast. Forty?"

"I'll get the service manager right on it."

Eddie hurried outside to drive it to the service area, and then returned.

"Was there something else you wanted to look at?"

"No," Bruce answered. "She likes that car. Just the noise..."

"I'm sure it's minor. Thousands of parts and something just wasn't tightened enough. You don't know until you drive it."

"I'm sure you're going to take care of it," Joy said.

"So, how much is it?" Bruce asked.

"Are you going to finance?"

"It will be cash," Bruce said.

"Great! And no trade-in. Makes it simple."

"Pete always gives me a cash discount. Get with him and find out the best he can do?"

"Well, let me get all the information and we can sit down and work out the numbers. How's that?"

"That's fine."

"We can go over here. You need anything: coffee, water, soda?"

"Coffee."

"A cola," Joy said.

"I'll be right back."

When Eddie had delivered the drinks coffee and cola he took his paperwork to Pete's office and waited until Pete excused himself from the customers he was with and stepped outside to talk with Eddie. Pete jotted down a figure and patted Eddie on the back.

Eddie returned smiling broadly, "I think you're going to be very happy. The list is $2556.90 but your price today is $2250."

"That's more than I paid for the Impala."

"Everything goes up. Plus the Corvairs are very popular and that one's loaded."

"Well, there's supposed to be an end of the model year discount."

"There is, Bruce. That's $100 and Pete's doubling it plus an additional $100 for being a preferred customer."

"It's still more than I want to pay."

"Let's work on it. You tell me what you think is fair and I'll present that to Pete and we'll see. It can't hurt to try, right?"

"I was thinking $2000."

"Let me jot that down. If we can get it down to $2000, you're ready to buy?"

"If you can do that."

"What about $2050? Is that doable?"

"See about $2000."

"Okay, just do me a favor, initial this to show it's your offer."

Bruce obliged. Once Eddie was out of earshot Bruce whispered, "He made a mistake but he's pretty good. He's working us, though."

"I kind of got that."

Eddie's smile was even broader as he returned, "I think we're there. Pete said he'll gas it up, polish it, and give you your first oil change on the house."

"How much?"

"$2150."

"Well, thanks for trying," Bruce started to stand. "Tell Pete thanks. We tried."

"We can still make this work. Don't give up on it yet."

"$2000."

"Let's try that number again. You're sure there's no play. I mean we're close to a deal."

"$2000 cash."

"Well, I know he wants to see Joy in that car today."

"Look, I really appreciate you working with us," Bruce said. "I want you to earn some money, too. But I think $2150 is too much."

"Well, Bruce, $2000 is pretty low. That's the hard part. If you could meet us halfway maybe that could work. Say $2075 or $2100?"

"What about $2000 to $2025?"

"You want me to try $2025?"

"No, $2000. If that is never going to happen just tell me."

"Let me work on Pete. Okay? You're a loyal customer. I can't guarantee anything but let's try."

Behind Eddie's departure, Joy whispered, "Is $2000 reasonable?"

"That is doable for me. I think Pete's still training the new guy, letting it go this far."

Eddie wore a confident smile when it returned again. "Because it's you, Bruce, we can do it for $2075. That's at dead cost. But Pete said he'll do that for you."

Bruce started to stand, again.

"Wait, let me ask you this. Is there anything you don't like about the car?"

"The noise," Joy said.

"We're taking care of that. What I mean is like anything we could add on?"

"What good will that do?"

"Well, as you may know there's more play with the price of accessories. Maybe we can strike a deal with just a little bit more money and bury cost in the price of the vehicle."

"I'm getting the car for $2000 or no deal."

"Let me tell Pete that."

"We're just about finished," Bruce whispered as they both watched Eddie returned yet again to the Sales Manager's office.

"I really like the car, Daddy."

"Pete will make a deal. He always has."

Pete returned with Eddie and sat down across the table from Bruce and Joy. "This will be your first car," he said as he focused upon her eyes.

"That remains to be seen, Mr. Cook."

"It's always Pete, Joy especially when you're buying your first car from me."

"We don't have a deal."

"We will. I promise. Bruce and I have been haggling over prices for years. Isn't that right, Bruce?"

"We've done some trading."

"Bruce and I were just talking earlier. One of my first sales was a truck he still drives," he explained to Eddie. "That was probably the hardest sale I ever made and one of the first but I also learned a lot."

"I see," Eddie said.

"So, Eddie says we're close here. Seventy-five dollars is close."

"It's still a lot of money," Bruce said.

"Sure it is, Bruce but it's like less than 4% of the cost. It's like we're haggling over the sales tax!"

"What do you need for a deal?"

"Eddie, this is what you needed to learn. You needed to get to the point of asking Bruce what he just asked me. Bruce is a very fair man. He's tough as a negotiator, though. His father Ben taught him all about horse-trading. Car deals aren't much different. I hope you didn't mind helping me train Eddie."

"I figured that was what I was doing. It was kind of fun," Bruce said with a smile.

"I thought so."

"Joy learned, too."

"That's always a good thing."

"Is $2000 doable?"

"That's very low, Bruce. Mr. Walsh would have to approve that because he wouldn't make anything on the vehicle and Eddie would get what we call a flat, just pay for his time."

"His draw."

"Exactly. That happens sometimes. It's not good for a salesman on commission but Eddie's learning. So be it.  What I need is to see Joy driving that car. I'm in the kind of business where I can make people's dreams come true. Ever since I realized that I never wanted to do anything else. You taught me that, Bruce."

"Let's do it this way," Bruce began. "I would like Eddie to make more than a flat. He's worked pretty hard to get the sale."

"I know. It's just he didn't close the deal."

"I'll bet the next deal he will close without your help."

"I think I owe you a little consideration for doing that for him and me. I threw him a curve letting him negotiate with you. So, let's make a deal for $2050. That way Eddie can show a small profit and make a little over the flat on the deal."

"Let's do it for $2075, tax, title and all. And you throw in a tank of gas; shine it up really good with three coats of wax and two free oil changes. That way Eddie makes a little more profit."

Pete smiled broadly, offering his hand across the table to Bruce, "You sign the check and I'll draw up the paperwork. Eddie can deliver the car to your house when they are all done with it. I'll have the Service Manager do the same inspection we give to a trade-in just to make sure everything is right and tight. How's that?"

"That'll be fine. I'll give Eddie a ride back. I'm thinking of trading that old blue pick-up you sold me if you have something I like."

"Well, if that's the case, then sure. We can do that. Eddie can drive back in the pick-up with you and do the trade-in evaluation on the way. Let me get all the paperwork together and in the meantime why don't you go ahead and take a walk out onto the lot and see if any of those trucks catches your eye."

Faith Island

The picture reminded me of a place from my youth. I called it 'Faith Island'. I have no idea what the place was really called or whether it was large enough for anyone else to have ever given it a name. It was small, only enough room for one tree to grow. Sure enough, there was a tree there, out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by water.

Had someone planted that tree a while back? I never knew. Surely it was a desolate island, once upon a time. Maybe someone rowed out to it, had lunch, and then left trash behind. There could have been a seed that germinated, taking root before the remainder of the trash decayed or was washed away in a flood. Perhaps a bird brought the seed there, or it was carried there on a stiff breeze. Maybe it came on the stronger wind of a storm.

Whenever I thought about it, several possible scenarios came to mind for why that lonely tree took root in the empty, exposed lake's heart surrounded only by the tranquil water.

Taking a rowboat one afternoon, I went there with a girl I liked. For me it was a chance. To her it was something to do one lazy summer day. I told her a story about how the tree was magical. It had to be, because it had faith to grow where nothing else would, except for some sparse clumps of grass that had taken root. I said, "If you make a wish on the tree, it would have to come true."

She kissed me as a measure in small payment for telling my fabrication as if it were the truth.

"See," I said. "The magic of the tree works, 'cause my wish came true."

Current Titles on Kindle, ASIN And Links

Spectre Of Dammerwald  (Volume One of The Wolfcat Chronicles includes Two Books: Curse Of The Spectre and Warrior Heart)

Ela'na and Rotor are young wolfcats who want to grow up too fast. While playing a game of hunter and hunted with the other wolfcats of their generation, they become lost in the heart of Dammerwald, an ancient forest and meet the spectre who protects the forest's heart. Their lives are beset with change as responsibilities and obligations come at a heady pace, forcing them to grow up much faster than they were prepared.

Spectre Of Dammerwald is the first the three volumes comprising The Wolfcat Chronicles. It contains two books, Curse Of The Spectre and Warrior Heart and serves as the introduction to the fantastic world of Anter'x.This volume also contains a list of all titles in The Wolfcat Chronicles.

In addition this special combined volume contains a helpful introduction titled About Anter'x, Ea And Wolfcats. The temporal terminology of the world is explained in the context of measuring the positions of the three suns and three moons of the world. It also includes a brief historical context of the origin of wolfcats, wolves and great cats and their connection to Earth.

Wolfcats, wolves and the great cats of Anter'x are intelligent,humanoid creatures with the features of their blended animal heritage. As a result they have developed a cultured civilization in the relative peace of their isolation away from the other conflicts in the world. As the story evolves, the importance of wolfcats in the affairs of the larger world comes into play as they are forced to make difficult choices but never fail to surprise and amaze the other races of Anter'x. (ASIN: B00CG73OBW) $4.99

 

Shattered Truce  Book One of One Pack (Volume Two of The Wolfcat Chronicles) 

Shattered Truce is the first of a five book series collectively titled One Pack. Set in the fantastic, hellish extremes of the magical world Anter'x, the story begins as an alpha male, Damon, and alpha female, the Wolfcat Ela'na - bearer of the fabled Wolf Stone - have led a pack of more than twenty thousand wolves in search of food far to the south of their home at Mt. Belkul and the great forest of Dammerwald, dangerously near the border with the wolves ancient enemy, the Hovdin Empire.

Dammerwald is no more. The world of the wolf Pack has changed forever. A devastating drought on the plains has led to a catastrophic disaster. As the food supply dwindled, the grasses and brush turned to tinder awaiting a spark. The prey upon which the wolf pack has long depended fled as flames spread south across the plains. The pack migrated to the southern border of their territory. In search of food the hunters set out for the southern plains, a large portion of the Pack following behind their lead. Their migration continues in fruitless search of food until the entire Pack is dangerously close to the northern border of the Hovdin Empire as established generations before by treaty with the Wolfcat Eltath, Magus and Anseil representing the Hovdin. The presence of the wolves threatens the peace brokered between perennial enemies. With one wolf's apparent violation of the established border, bloody hostilities resume, throwing the leadership of the pack into confusion and conflict.

Through the eyes and actions of characters, One Pack reveals the complexities of a precarious balance between rivals species of an exotic, magical world. Wolves must join forces with former foes in order for both to survive. Only an unexpected collaboration in the defense of the Provincial City of The'xus against the invasion of a common enemy can restore peace between the wolves and the Hovdin. (ASIN: B00CBF6SEE) $2.99

Colonial Authority  Book One of Two of The Attributes 

Over a period of two years, from orbital platforms scientific drone probes were sent to the Pravda's surface to study the planet's environment. After extensive testing of soil and water samples the planet is determined to be barren of indigenous life. Research droids discover a series of caverns close to the edge of a mountain range on the planet's largest continent. Along with possibly breathable air deep within the cavern there are traces of fresh water.
On a dangerous mission to confirm the findings, two human research teams descend from a platform to penetrate a dangerous storm in an effort to confirm the previous results. They find a naturally occurring mineral source of oxygen deep in the system of caves as well as a sub-surface water source. Despite the challenges of removing lethal concentrations of poisonous gases from the atmosphere, Pravda is chosen as the best candidate for transformation into humanity's new home.

Eighty years later, the process of terraforming nears completion. Humanity faces an unexpected challenge, the unforeseen consequence of leaving the Earth. Fertility rates have declined dramatically. The net growth of Pravda's population comes from the arrival of new colonists. Scientists determine that within fifty years, the population will no longer be able to replace itself. Evidence of the condition is corroborated in other human colonies and appears to be related to the absence of the complex electromagnetic fields of Earth.

Hope may reside in strange genetic mutations in a small percentage of population. In recent years the mutations, referred to as 'the attributes', have appeared concentrated the twin offspring of twelve mothers who died giving birth. Do the attributes offer humanity's salvation or are they the next step in evolution?

Colonial Authority is the first of two books collectively called The Attributes. It is the story of Cristina Salerno, a young lady who is the lead singer of a rock'n'roll band from New Milan. Her tour manager, Chase, discovers that, like him, she has the attributes. He directs her to a meeting in Star City with a man known only as Raven, an eccentric reclusive member of a clandestine group of Couriers who use the names of birds as their monikers. Raven gives Cristina a small alabaster orb that will assist her in honing and harnessing her natural gifts.

After her meeting, she discovers Alix, the bassist in her band, possesses similar gifts and arranges for him to meet his own Courier. Together Cristina and Alix begin a journey of discovery. They uncover a conspiracy within the pseudo governmental Colonial Authority and a cover-up a horrible truth in the planet's past history. In the process of preparing the world for terraforming, engineers exterminated an intelligent life form that lived deep in the caverns beneath the surface.

Cristina learns that Paul, her twin brother from whom she was separated at birth, belongs to a secretive group called The Resurrection. Having discovered the truth, Paul and others like him intend to bring back to life one of the exterminated silcon-based life forms. He seeks to enlist the aid of all others of their generation who possess the attributes. The Colonial Authority will do anything to preserve their control and power over the colony on Pravda, even if it means destroying those whose altered genetics offer the best hope for mankind's survival.

While in route to reunite with Cristina, Paul is charged with murder. Pursued by authorities, Paul receives assistance from others affiliated with The Resurrection. They hide him while he waits for the interest in him diminishes.

Compelled by her realistic dream visions, and news reports that she connects with her brother, Cristina and Alix prepare to go to Star City. Before they can leave, authorities detained and interrogate them. (ASIN: B00CB5PGOW) $3.99

 An Extreme Departure  (A continuation of the One Over X series) 

Brent's a hybrid: half human, half wolfcat and - in his estimation - completely crazy. On a normal day he might be watering the plants in his two-hundred-fifty year-old haunted mansion's solarium while conversing with the ghost of his dead brother, Barry. He never knew his brother in life, as he died nine years before Brent was born. But lately he's probably Brent's the closest and maybe only friend. This is not a normal day, though. Shortly after arriving home, Brent activates the mandorla, the inter-dimensional threshold, in the second floor hallway of his mansion and goes on a ride through the Conduits, across the Continuum to the over side of Creation.

Having just completed a personal mission in southern California, saving the world from the attack of four murderous renegade wolfcats escaped from Anter'x, he arrives at the assembly area. He walks through the incorporeal spirits who await another ride among the sentient on his way to the palatial edifice where the Triumvirate Council is in session.

Before the trio of magistrates he request an escort to Never to ask one question - maybe two - of Kimberly, a past girlfriend from his college years who, like him, is a hybrid.Unlike him she is held - maybe with her consent, maybe not - for her own good but mostly the Society's. Brent figures after what happened in LA, back on Earth, the Society owes him a favor for, yet again, taking care of things.

Meanwhile, back on Earth, it's a rainy day in Southern California. Aaron, Syl and Daryl prepare for a flight to Austin. They have been invited to stay as guests of Lee Anders Johnston, a Country music star from the past who's on the comeback. Not only is Lee independently wealthy but also he's married to to the richest woman in the world, Caroline Henderson, CEO of Henderson Industries. Aaron, Daryl and Syl have been invited to stay as Lee and Caroline's guests at their estate on scenic Lake Travis. While the boys prepare to remix Lee's old band's newest album, Syl in introduced to Lee's sister-in-law, Marie Altobello, Andy Hunter's wife, former super model and current TV actress of a highly rated sit-com.

Back across the Continuum, the Triumvirate Council conditionally approves Brent's petition, provided he accepts the company of Pam - the spirit of his deceased girlfriend. And then the craziness truly begins.

An Extreme Departure is a continuation of the story of Brent Woods, a highly-trained intelligence operative who resigned in the wake of a failed mission that killed three hundred people. He's spent time in an insane asylum for making to the mistake of letting someone without the need to know that the world is an illusion and magic is the only thing that's real.

Brent lives in one of the ten most haunted houses on Earth, ostensibly to have some privacy while he writes. He's a relatively obscure writer whose books are about his past experiences among the wolfcats in a world called Anter'x - books the uninformed believe are fiction

Brent has an appointment with destiny, but The Society doesn't want him to arrive in time. He will need the help of his dead girlfriend and Aaron's wolfcat fiancee to not only save his friends but also himself. (ASIN: B00CGA9E5Y) $3.99

Fifteen Days Of Danielle 

Brent is recklessly immature, adjusting of post high school responsibilities and obligations while clinging to his personal goals: becoming a famous rock musician and being popular with college coeds. His parents have other ambitions for their youngest child.

It's the fall of 1974, his first semester of college. Among the first people he meets are the orientation counselors of his dorm. Next he meets Keith and Stan who along with Brent complete the 'terrible trio', three young men who do not want to grow up. Others consider Brent the most likely of the trio not to graduate from Purdue University. He and his friends become notorious for their partying but not particularly their studies or class attendance.

After recovering from a week-long battle with the creeping crud, Brent is obligated to attend an off-campus Halloween costume party at an acquaintance's house as the bassist of a pick-up band that was hastily assembled to provide the evening's entertainment. There he meets Danielle.

For the next fifteen day, Brent struggles to adjust and conform to the demands of a relationship he desperately wants to succeed, but barely understands. In Brent's world, things are not always what they seem and the unexpected often seems the only constant.

Fifteen Days of Danielle is a coming of age period piece, set in the mid 1970's in America's Heartland. It is a nostalgic journey into an age of change and transition, when personal computers were barely imagined, gasoline was still less than fifty cents a gallon and telephones connections were through wires.

Music was sold on viny discs of cassette tapes and attending college was a gift not an expectation.

Campus life in the fall of '74 is revisited with elements of meticulously accurate historical fact mixed with the fantasy of two teens trying to balance obligations with the feelings they are having for one another in a romance that doesn't always seem to make sense. Brent takes Danielle home for the weekend to attend her high school's homecoming dance. The local band performing has recently been receiving airplay from a Chicago Top-40 AM station, a song that becomes Brent and Danielle's. (ASIN: B00CJCTSH8) $2.99

Zen And The Residence Of The Future

A few years ago, I was privileged to tour what was then a futuristic house. It had everything imaginable to include: automatic doors, intelligent kitchen cabinets and refrigerator, automatic lights and individual room temperature controls. The food inventory system fascinated me. It maintained an active inventory of the food reserves and prompted for reorder by sending a message to email, a hand-held device or a cell phone. If a local grocery store was properly equipped, the system could place a replenishment order through the Internet for same-day pickup or delivery.

As a long time stereo buff, the sound systems in each of the rooms caught my attention. A central program library stored on a disk could supply each room with the same music or individualized selections. Each room could randomly access the music library or create a separate play list. The configuration permitted answering the door intercom, room-to-room communication and hands-free talking on the phone. Of course, there were videophone terminals as well. Everything electronic in the house tied into the central computer network.

As impressive as the interior of the house was, the exterior treatments were most memorable.

The landscaping was deceptively modern. At first glance it appeared all-too-normal. As the subtleties were pointed out, I was flabbergasted.

I had some experience in selling landscaping plants and materials, so I took special interest in how utterly low maintenance the scheme was.

First the beds were 'mulched' with a material made from shredded, recycled automobile tires. The landscaping decks and timbers were of a shredded fiber that came from recycled plastic bottles and was fused together under heat, galvanizing the synthetic fibers into a stronger composite. The value of both was clear. They would last a very long time. Both the mulch and the timbers were conditioned to be a uniform gray which might at first seem lifeless but with the landscaping relying on progressive bursts of color throughout the season, the primer gray served as an effective canvas for the gardener's artistic presentation of nature's seasonal changes.

While the rest of the tour was moving onward to appreciate the balance of height and foliage density, I lingered behind. My mind drifted as I entered a euphoric state. It all made sense to me. I recalled the late humorist, George Carlin's thoughts of the subject of man's purpose in the world. He suggested mankind was intended to provide plastic to the world.

How many problems could these simple inventions solve? If the timbers could be made load bearing, they could replace wood in the frame of a house. Even if the plastic composite could not be made to bear structural weight, using the material for framing the walls of a house would substantially reduce the number of wood studs needed for building a house, sparing more trees. The rubber mulch used for the landscaping was ingenious. Not only would it retard the growth of weeds, but also it would not wash away.

When the tour rounded the corner, I hurried to catch up with them, seeing yet another example of creative recycling. It was a fountain made of plastic, but it resembled stone. As I looked at the base of the fountain, a fairly large, deep pool served as a catch basin for the rainwater from the roof and as a reservoir for the irrigation system for the ornamentals and the small lawn. Beauty and utility converged.

"You gotta see this!" another member of the tour shouted. He was right, of course. It was the reason for my being there. The universe came into harmonious order as I saw that the lawn seemed to be mowing itself. What had been a personal dream of mine finally came to fruition.

It was a technological trick. Isn't everything these days? The mower was equipped with ultra sensitive feelers and antennae that were programmed to turn the self-propelled, solar-powered deck according to pre-positioned directional signatures embedded in the landscaping materials.

Whatever the expense, it might be worth it. Then I heard just how much the special landscaping design and all the extra gizmos cost. "I guess it will be some time before I divert from the old ways," I said.

I closed my eyes and cleared my mind of any other thoughts. Someday, I might live to see such marvels. Perhaps by the time it was economical, there would be some other solution that was even better. Isn't that the way of technology? Even so, I was impressed. Except, as I walked through the freshly mowed grass I happened to step in a pile that someone's dog left behind.

Some problems are apparently more difficult than others to resolve.

Maybe someday someone somewhere will come up with a doggie pooper sensor. Whenever a dog enters the yard the position of the animal is tracked and immediately a thermal sensor is engaged to look for the remnant steamer-signature. When located a high intensity laser could be deployed to destroy the foul remnants of the neighborhood dog's trespassing.

Then again, if such a system ever malfunctioned, what remained of poor Spot might be just about all that his name suggested. It could trigger a neighborhood arms escalation, and that would do no one any good.

With Nothing Left

A year ago, I was trapped in an almost hopeless work routine with few avenues of escape. My schedule varied from one week to the next, so I could not take on a second job, even if I wanted to earn some extra money. Rarely did I have time to look for something different, spending most all my time at work.

Between my age and the economy there were few employment opportunities. I was reminded frequently that I was fortunate to have a job. That was always expressed after some additional burden was assigned. The implication was clear. If I didn’t want to do the work, the company would find someone else and send me packing.

Consistently, my employer expected me to come in early or stay later, without any additional compensation. I was salaried, which in the real working world meant the company owned me. Other than the thin promise of a bonus there was no reward for working longer and harder – not even a 'good job' or a pat on the back.

Retail management is one of the least rewarding careers, I've decided. After more than twenty-five years in store management, employment conditions never improved. Products competitively priced meant sliced margins, hourly staff cuts forced management to step in and fill the gaps in sales floor coverage and take on additional workloads. Customer service was sacrificed to spare the six and seven digit incomes of directors at the proverbial ivory tower. Nothing about downsizing proved temporary. Efficiency increased through reduced operating costs to quiet bean counters, at least until next quarter's round of cutbacks.

The last couple of years I worked for that major retailer, the sole source of sanity was coming home after work to write a few pages of fiction, or pen a poem. Sometimes my humble offerings posted online received encouraging critiques while ever I pursued the pipedream of becoming a successful writer. Without that escape, that release, I wouldn't have endured the long hours and pressure. Working was a means to sustain me, a job instead of the career a salaried position was supposed to represent.

The pressure grinded my nerves and harmed my health. Consuming more alcohol than I should, most nights, drinking was the only way I could get to sleep. Sometimes the store's antiquated security system prompted false alarms. The sensors were very old. Some were installed when I was in college! One by one they were replaced as they failed, but I was the one who responded to the calls. I lived closest to the store.

Always faithful, fulfilling every condition of employment, I arrived late at night to search with police for phantom intruders. Probably too intoxicated to do so, still I answered the call. Had anything happened, an accident on the way or an arrest or DUI, it would have been my fault, of course. Driving was wrong, but then, why was drinking when, at any moment, I might be called upon to respond to the store's needs. A salaried employee's personal time or private life is a gift of the company not an inalienable right.

At January's end in 2012, on a long delayed vacation, I visited my two young adult daughters who are roommates in Champaign, Illinois. Thank God it was unseasonably warm for the entire week. In Florida for far too long, bearing a more traditional Midwestern winter would have been painful. Seeing them, spending time with both, meeting their friends, and exploring the world that has become theirs served as a needed break. Their pursuit of dreams inspired me. Both are artists. All their friends are artists. In their world, only creativity counts for much.

The gene is strong in our family. Their mother and her sister were both gifted. My mother's sister was a painter. A cousin is a Country music legend.

Returning from Illinois, my attitude changed. Why was I putting up with the bullshit? Was the money worth the physical and mental abuse? Back to the store, the new work week started on Sunday. Working conditions changed for the worse. The general manager I worked with for nearly four years decided to retire. Although we had many differences of opinion over our working relationship, we respected one another. Through our efforts we transformed the store. Many customers commended us on the improvements. Since my arrival in early 2008, every facet of the operation was overhauled. Customers were drawn back to shop in our store. We received awards and store management earned a bonus in 2010. Yet, as is true in all retail, whatever we did never met the expectations of senior management. Next year's goals were based on exceeding last year's results, regardless of market conditions.

There were changes at the district and regional level as the corporation struggled to maintain its bloated bureaucracy. Despite our store's successes, the company failed. Instead of looking at what our store accomplished and using it as a blueprint for success, newly promoted directors imposed their ideas. We were not there to think but to execute their directions, like mindless cannon fodder in a battle.

Some those ideas were based on ludicrous assumptions of staffing levels that simply could not exist within budget constraints. So, the days ensuing my return to work were filled with additional pressures and resumed threats. New buz words came down from on high and were circulated in daily conference calls. Problems were discussed in one way conversations in lieu of being on the sales floor and actually accomplishing anything. I lost count of how many times they told me that every day I needed to look in the mirror and ask if I was giving 100%.

Along with a new manager, the micromanaging district manager was in the store every day. Individual management workloads increased. A five day work week had long since become five and a half... and then six days, as it was increasingly impossible to reach expectations and complete tasks. Since before Thanksgiving the scheduled twelve hour shifts were sixteen hours or more in reality. Days off were a gift. Planning anything away from work was impossible. Requested days off were challenged and usually not honored.

Forced to spend more time at work, my options were clear. Show up on scheduled days off or be sacked; work late or be fired; come in early or be terminated.

After working twelve days in a row, February twenty-second was to be my first full day off. The previous day I had worked hard to complete everything on my work list. I ensured there would be no need to call me in on my day off. I needed the downtime. I was physically, mentally and emotionally bankrupt.

Having come to work at ten-thirty in the morning, it was past midnight when I left the store. The company claimed that staying beyond the scheduled time was my choice. Even though at my scheduled departure time the store was not recovered properly, it was considered my fault and therefore a poor reflection of how well I managed the grossly understaffed store's recovery. In a no win situation, I asked several of the hourly employees to stay a little past their shifts. They did it as a favor to me out of respect, not in response to a threat, and certainly not out of loyalty to the company. They knew I could not leave the store a mess. Even though I would be written-up for mismanaging the store labor, I did the right thing. I walked every inch of the store to ensure it was up to standards. And then, the hourly employees clocked out. I set the alarm and we all went home.

Finishing everything on my work list, I knew the store looked better than it had in days. I was in the mood to celebrate. My plan was to wind down for a few hours and catch up on some writing. The survivor of twelve days under continual scrutiny and pressure, I was going to enjoy some time off.

On the way home, I bought some beer. At some point in the morning, when the beer was gone, I walked to the neighborhood convenience store and bought more. Despite my attempts at writing, mostly I was drinking between reading and revising a project I'd put on the back burner weeks before. In the process, I fell asleep – or rather passed out – in my chair while sitting at my computer.

My phone rang at around three in the afternoon. I saw from the caller ID that it was my new store manager. Expecting a question about something that I could easily and quickly answer, I made the mistake of picking up the call.

Although I had slept for a few hours, legally I was intoxicated. I shouldn’t have answered the call. Yet, if I had not, I would have been in trouble the ensuing day. Being drunk was not an acceptable answer for not answering the phone.

"You need to come in to work," my manager said. It wasn't stated as a request but as an obligation.

"Is someone sick?"

"No, I need you to come in and fix things." He went on to explain the district manager was there and had walked the entire store.

"I finished the work list."

"I saw that. Now, there's a new one."

"It can't wait until tomorrow?"

"He wants it done now. He's pissed you left the store looking like it did."

"What are you talking about? It was fine when I left."

"I opened this morning. It was a mess. I took pictures. I'll show you when you get here."

"It wasn't a mess…I walked every inch of the store--"

"Look, just get your ass in here!"

Living close enough to walk, I opted not to drive. I needed the exercise and clearing my head was a priority. I threw on casual clothes. It was my day off and if I was going to work, doing manual things, I wasn't going to wear nice slacks and dress shirt.

Other times I came in to work on my day off; wearing jeans was fine. When I reported to the general manager, he told me to go back home and dress appropriately.

I started to leave the store and got all the way outside before everything inside boiled over and something snapped. Whatever it was that released from its confinement couldn’t be put back.

With nothing left of desire to serve my ungrateful employer, I turned around and went back inside. Seeing the Human Resource Manager on my way, I smiled at her expressed what a pleasure it was working with her. She tried to talk me out of quitting. As I listened, all her reasons were her reasons, her economic rality. She had small children depending on her. I had me. After several minutes of listening to my rebuttal, she began to agree, revealing that she wanted to quit as well. She said that if the economy was better, she'd quit immediately. You see, she also felt the company disrespected employees. She had been blamed for things over which she had no authority or control. In the end she wished me good luck and we hugged - something expressedly forbidden under company policy.

The general manager was not where I left him, so it took several minutes to track him down. Handing him my store keys and employee discount card, I said, "No hard feelings, but I can’t do this anymore. If I do, I'll be dead before the year's out."

Whether he was stunned or expecting it, I don't know. All he said was, "Okay." Maybe that was all he thought I deserved for quitting. Perhaps he thought it was better for the store if I was gone. I turned and walked back the way I came, except I was unemployed.

Since then, friends and family have told me I should have stayed on until they fired me. The way it ended, I couldn't draw unemployment benefits. But they weren't suffering the daily knot in the stomach, the continual blame for everything imaginable and the unrealistic demands. The State of Florida told me the same thing as my friends and family. Despite agreeing with me in principle, the representative referred back to the law. Salaried employees are treated differently than hourly.

The company expected me to work at its behest without additional compensation. They paid a salary which I had accepted under the conditions of my employment contract. It didn’t matter that if my pay was for forty-five hours a week but had been working consistently above seventy hours a week. State denied my claim and appeal.

Unemployed for nearly a year, maybe it was a mistake to quit. It never felt like an error in the one way that counts, though. Walking home from the store that afternoon, after I turned my keys over to the manager, I felt better than I had for years. For six months afterwards, I still received alarm calls, though I repeatedly requested to be removed from the call list. Maybe it was their means of harassment. The calls ended after I threatened legal action.

Although I languished in a malaise for a while, somewhere along the way I realized I no longer needed to drink in order to sleep at night. My health gradually improved. After the years of wear and tear borne of working crazy hours and poor eating habits and bizarre sleeping schedules, some things were better. No longer did I need to deal with the unpredictable general public. They believe that, as a customer, they are always right, even when what they expect is profoundly wrong or occasionally just simply nuts. In a sense, the customers and their demands were not as insane as what came from the company's upper management.  

Ending the story happily would be nice, but it’s a work in progress, just like life in general. Sometimes it is what it is, but more often it is what we let it become.

What Are The Odds?

Living and learning in California, and being paid for it - what could be better?

I was assigned to study at the Defense Language Institute at the Presidio of Monterey. On weekends, my friends went to the beach in Carmel or I drove up to San Francisco to spend a day sight seeking. On longer holiday weekends, we drove Los Angeles.

We didn't have to drive far to find stunning scenery. The Lone Cypress is on the picturesque coastline south of the Monterey and Carmel area. Big Sur has some of the most spectacular views in the world. I spent a fortune in film for my Minolta taking many pictures.

One weekend in the latter part of the summer, my Chinese Mandarin class, most of whom were also a part of the Air Force Training Squadron stationed at DLI, attended a picnic at the Big Sur State Park. Due to the nature of the intense training we were receiving, any time away from the Institute was a welcome diversion. It was a great way to loosen up and, in the process, get to know the other people in the class without all the formalities of military discipline.

For the most part, it was a traditional cookout, replete with hamburgers, hot dogs and all the fixings. On the side there were baked beans, coleslaw, corn on the cob and watermelon. The class invited all of our Chinese language instructors. Each of them contributed to the meal, providing a sampling of the best Chinese cuisine.

As the afternoon wound down, we grew weary of playing volleyball and horseshoes. We cleaned up, packed up and loaded up our cars for our return north.

My roommate, Chris, had a car. I rode down to the picnic with him. Each of us had a few beers over the course of the afternoon. Ensuring he would be able to drive afterwards, Chris consumed much less than I did. Still, as we drove back up the coast, we both found the pressures on our bladders growing intense. The urgency to find relief consumed our thoughts and dominated our conversation.

If you have never driven on the Pacific Coast Highway, let me explain. Between Big Sur State Park and Carmel, there were exactly no filling stations, no roadside rest areas or anywhere else to stop to use the facilities. I suggested to Chris that we find a nice long lane that wound up from the highway into the coastal hills. It seemed like the perfect solution and so the next time we saw an entrance to a lane, Chris slowed down and we turned off the road. There was a fence to either side of the lane as we ascended the hill. When we reached a locked gate, we stopped. It seemed far enough off the road that no one would observe us as we relieved ourselves on the grass.

Where I grew up, on a farm in Ohio, it was natural. Whenever I was out in a field or a cow pasture and needed to take a leak, I did. The place we picked kind-of reminded me of a cow pasture back home, except for the rather steep incline of the lane's ascent from the highway to the gate.

As Chris was on the upside of his car and I was on the downside, each of us purging our bladders, another car came up the lane and startled us. It underscored the random bad luck of our choice.

Inside the car was a California Highway Patrol officer. As we learned rather quickly, the lane and the surrounding land was his. "I don't appreciate you boys peeing on my front yard."

What are the odds?

"I'm very sorry, officer," Chris said. "We didn't intend any offense. It's just there is nowhere around here to, well..."

"You boys are in the military, I take it."

"Yessir," Chris said.

"Fort Ord?'

"Nosir," I said. "We're in the Air Force. We're stationed at DLI."

"The language school."

"Yessir," Chris said.

"I was in the Air Force myself," the officer said, "Security Police. Spent my entire tour of duty in one of the coldest places on the face of the Earth."

"Minot, North Dakota?" I ventured a guess.

"How did you guess?" the officer said, then chuckled. "You've been there?"

"I've heard stories. It's one of the places they send people like us if we washout of language school. Because of our security clearances, they train us to be SP's."

"What's in Minot?" Chris asked.

"A whole lot of holes in the ground," the officer said.

"ICBM's in silos," I explained to Chris.

"Oh, those kind of holes"

"Yeah," I said.

"You know what, I'm off-duty right now. I really don't want to deal with any more paperwork today. And seeing as how you boys are in the Air Force and all, I'll accept your apologies. But, in the future, please don't pee in other peoples' front yards, okay?"

"Yessir," Chris and I said in unison.

"Drive carefully. I'll back up my car a bit so you can get around me."

"Yessir," Chris said, and then smiled. "Thank you, officer."

When we were back inside the car and backing down the lane, Chris glanced my way. "Great idea you had there, dude!"

"Hey, I couldn't hold it any longer. Could you?'

"No."

"There you go, then."

"What are the odds? I mean seriously, what are the friggin' odds?"

An Ethical Man's Story

Bruce Williams, my father,  was born in April 1914 near West Liberty, Kentucky. He was an honest, decent man who was raised on a farm. All he knew was farming. So, it was natural that it would become his life's work.

When he was starting out, he worked for the government in a federally funded recovery program called the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC). Dad worked on reservoirs in the Tennessee River valley and helped construct roads throughout Appalachia. He saved his money and, after two years in the CCC, he returned home and married Alta Ferguson, my mother, in the early spring of 1935.

Jobs were scarce in Morgan County, Kentucky, where my parents grew up. Bruce heard there were better opportunities in Ohio. So, in late summer, he left my pregnant mother behind with a promise he'd send for her when he saved enough money.

He found a job as a laborer in a feed and grain store that serviced farmers in west central Ohio. The last throes of the Great Depression still stifled a good portion of the economy. He worked all week for enough money to buy denim overalls to wear at work. He saved every cent he could spare. Mr. Ballenhoffer, who owned one of the largest farms in the area, offered Bruce a small place to live. It was actually an old chicken coop that my dad cleaned out to make ready for bringing his wife from Kentucky to live with him.

My brother, Barris, was born on May 4, 1936. Shortly afterwards, Bruce brought Alta and the baby to Ohio.

Despite his responsibilities as a new father, one day he had an argument with his supervisor. He never told me exactly what the argument was about, only that it was a matter of principle and ethics. So, I'm sure it was something he considered wrong. My dad hated no one except for liars and cheats and would never compromise his beliefs for any reason. I'm sure his personal integrity was challenged. What he did tell me was that being right does not always matter in an argument. When his supervisor threatened to fire him, Bruce quit.

The same day, Mr. Ballenhoffer hired him as a farmhand. Maybe they didn't need another hired hand, but Mr. Ballenhoffer knew Dad from the feed and grain store. He witnessed first-hand how hard Bruce worked.

It was a struggle for my parents to survive their living conditions in those first years of marriage. To keep out the cold winds of winter, Alta had to chink rags into the cracks between the clapboards of the chicken coop that was their first home. She blamed those harsh conditions for why my brother Barris was sickly as a young child.

In time, Bruce was offered a sharecropping position on a farm near South Charleston. As part of the deal, my folks could live in the property's farmhouse. During that time, Dad suffered a severe injury. While attempting to straighten a nail to be reused in repairing a loose board, the nail snapped in two, and one piece flew up into my father's face, putting out his right eye.

Adjusting to life and working with a missing eye nearly consumed him with despair. He contemplated suicide at one point, something he never told me. My mom swore me to secrecy. When she told me, it was not to diminish him in my eyes but to explain to me that a man can overcome anything as long as he has faith.

On that day, Mom noticed not seeing Dad for a while. She was uneasy about him and went to check on him. She disturbed him in the work shed while he had the barrel of a gun in his mouth, ready to pull the trigger. She told him they both needed to get down on their knees together and beg God to forgive him.

Bruce's position as a farmer was considered critical and exempted him from being drafted into military service. Although Dad was patriotic and wanted to serve, he was not allowed to volunteer. His eye injury prevented him from going to war. Perhaps the reason my sisters and I were born was that he lost his right eye in an accident - if you want to believe in accidents.

In 1945, a few weeks before his birthday and the end of the war in Europe, my brother Barris, died. He succumbed to seizures that my mother called Epilepsy, though they could not afford proper medical treatment and so the illness was never diagnosed. He was buried in Kentucky, at the Cold Iron Cemetery, near where my parents were born.

Bruce and Alta were devastated as they grieved the loss of their firstborn child. Parents are not supposed to outlive their children. It was several months before the emptiness in their life seemed bearable. It was over a year before my mother and father attempted to replace him.

During that time, Bruce was offered a job managing the farm where he had once worked as a hired hand. It was considerably more money and so he decided to take the position. Still, my father left on good terms with the Wildman's, whose farm he had been operating for several years. He helped them find someone to replace him.

Joyce, my oldest sister, was born on February 7, 1947. She was not the son Bruce wished to replace his loss, but he doted on her all the same. My family's living conditions were dramatically improved from when my parents last lived on the Ballenhoffer farm. They were allowed a farmhouse as part of the compensation, and land to use for a garden and raising their own chickens.

Two and a half years later, William E. Bailey, a young attorney in Springfield, contacted my dad. His last surviving parent passed on, leaving him the family's two farms. The Wildman's recommended Bruce to Mr. Bailey. My father accepted the position, establishing a business relationship and friendship borne of mutual respect that would endure for their lifetimes.

Subsequently, when Mr. Wildman died of a heart attack, Anamelia Wildman offered the operation of the two farms she owned and the farmhouse where my parents lived before. Between the Wildman and Bailey farms, Dad was overseeing the operation over 2400 acres and had four hired hands working for him.

Still, Bruce wanted to have a son to carry on the family name and to inherit a farm he dreamed of buying, a goal for which both my parents were saving for since they were married. Again, they tried to replace Barris.

Genette, my other sister, was born on January 10, 1952. Once more, my parents brought a beautiful daughter into the world. At that point, with the doctor's recommendation, my parents decided two children were enough.

Over the next three years, many things changed for my mother and father. The crops were good and the livestock markets were rewarding. My parents saved enough money from their share of the profits from the farms to buy two acres of land from Mrs. Wildman. They planned to build a new home.

My mother told a strange story that I am sure she believed happened. Dad was convinced it happened, too. She heard a voice telling her to have another child. When she consulted with Dr, McIntyre, the family doctor, he confirmed that she was not too old but he warned her, as he had after Genette's birth, that it would be very risky.

It was not an easy pregnancy. There was a point when she was convinced she would miscarry. With her faith and the prayers of others, she weathered the crisis. On May 7, 1956, eleven years to the day after the end of the war in Europe, I was born. Finally, my parents had a son to replace Barris. I grew up in my dead brother's shadow, more so than either of my sisters.

My dad asked his cousins who were carpenters to come stay for the summer and build the new house. When it was complete, my parents moved the family into a modern home, the first they ever owned.

As I grew up, Dad referred to me as his buddy - his little helper. As I grew older, I could help with the chores and a good deal of the backbreaking labor of working on a farm. The days that I worked with my father wore me out. It was time well spent, though. I appreciated how hard my dad worked for a living. I was amazed at how smart he was. He seemed to have the solution for every problem. Nothing was beyond him.

When I was big enough to reach the pedals and steer the tractor, I spent many a summer day in the hot sun. Whether it was piloting a tractor towing a baler along windrows making hay bales for my father to stack on the wagon we pulled behind or cultivating the corn and soybeans, it was what I did and Dad paid me a man's wage.

Shortly before her senior year began, Dad bought Joyce a 1964 Chevy Corvair Monza GT convertible. He intended it as an early graduation present and a downpayment on buckling-down in her school work so she could be accepted to attend college. Things did not work out that way.

Joyce was never interested in school. She was taking classes that would prepare her for being a secretary or a beautician. Marriage was also something she contemplated. She was serious about a guy she dated for a while.

Joyce was a very outgoing, social person. She was popular at school and had many friends. She was never focused on her studies, though. She was an above average student but certainly did not apply herself.

Joyce graduated from Southeastern High School in 1965. The event fulfilled a part of one of Bruce's personal goals, that his children would earn diplomas. Dad always wanted a high school education. But when he was a teenager, the Great Depression began. He had to quit school to work on the farm and help support and feed his family. He had a ninth grade education. Mom finished the eighth grade. Education of their children was paramount in importance to both my parents. They wanted to offer their children the opportunities they never had, including the chance to attend college.

Joyce declined the offer of higher education. She saw her future quite differently than Dad envisioned. She had the intelligence but not the desire. She realized she would fail in college because she lacked interest. To her, it seemed a gross waste of her time and family resources.

She was married a few months later.

Despite the feeling they had somehow failed with Joyce, later that year, Dad and Mom realized their lifelong dream. They bought a farm. It was adjacent to Mr. Bailey's farms so, even though father now had an additional 160 acres of his own land to work, it was close enough to some of the other farms that it was not as much of an increased burden. The new farm also allowed expansion of beef cattle production. The problem was that operating Mrs. Wildman's farms, which were several miles away from our new farm, was increasingly difficult. Bruce continued to do it for an additional year, but all the time he was seeking someone to take over the operation from him.

The other logistical consideration was that we still lived in Selma, on land adjacent to the Wildman's farms. Mom wanted to build a new house on our farm so she could correct all the deficiencies she found with our present house. I was ten at the time and had mixed feelings about moving away from the only house I remembered living in. The idea of a new house excited me and living on the new farm made a lot of sense. But I had memories. The house where we lived was my home.

Once again, Bruce called on his cousins to come spend the summer while they built another dream home. Meanwhile, Dad and Mom were remodeling the interior of the farmhouse on our new farm, with the intention of Joyce, her husband Jerry and their newborn son, Jame (Jay), living there.

While driving back from working on the old farmhouse, Mom, Genette and I were in a car accident. Other than the bloody nose I received from slamming my face into the back of my sister's hard head and the resulting knot on Genette's noggin, my mother was the only one injured. Her wrists were badly sprained from where she braced herself against the steering wheel in anticipation of the impact. Her right kneecap was shattered. Our car, a Candy Apple Red 1963 Chevy Impala, was totaled.

Mother spent the summer in a full leg cast in a house that was built before central air conditioning was common. She spent a lot of time sitting on the front porch, with her cast propped up on a chair while she hoped for a cool breeze. When it didn't come, she used a box fan and an oscillating fan to fend off the heat.

Despite recovering from her injuries, she had to take care of the new baby while Joyce worked. Of course, Genette helped, not only in caring for the baby, but also doing housework and cooking.

It was not an easy summer for anyone. We had two house guests. I gave up my room  to Marvin, one of my dad's cousins. Norman, the other cousin, slept in the room we called the breezeway, a family room we had made from enclosing a walkthrough between the house and the garage. My bed was a foam rubber pallet on the living room floor.

Mom's cast was removed in early September. She was leery of driving but she liked our new car, a 1966 Chevy Caprice.

A few weeks later, we moved into the new house. Regardless where I lived, I was still  attending school in Selma. That was where the school district's consolidated middle school was located. The only difference was I rode a bus to school instead of my bike or Mom dropping me off.

I matured a good bit over the next couple of years. My dad and I began to work together as a team and sometimes we traded places. My muscles recovered much more readily from the aches and pains of strain and overexertion. It was a welcome relief for Bruce to have someone he could count on to do some of the things he was never able to trust to hired hands.

As I entered the eighth grade, the newly constructed elementary school in South Charleston was ready to open. My class received the honors of naming the school and selecting a mascot. There were several suggestions and a good bit of campaigning, culminating in a school assembly, after which everyone was allowed to vote. The school's name became Miami View. It was apt as a branch of the Little Miami River flowed behind the school. The mascot for every athletic team was The Patriots.  Of course, the school colors were red, white and blue.
     
The chores continued, either in the morning before going to school or in the afternoon after I returned home. On weekends I helped my dad on the farms. Sunday was the only day either of us had off. Dad refused to work on Sunday, except to feed the livestock. Dad believed that God understood His animals needed to be fed. Otherwise, Dad refused to do any business whatsoever on a Sunday.

Dad purchased an adjacent 90 acre farm that had belonged to a man we referred to as the Old Bachelor. He was descended from the family that had once owned not only the farm where he lived and our farm, but also much of the surrounding land. He died in his house. As I was on friendly terms with him and went to see about him from time to time. It was an unfortunate circumstance that I discovered his body.

The family farm was now 250 acres.

When I  worked I was constantly analyzing everything, figuring out more efficient ways to doing nearly every task. Dad said it was because I was lazy, but really it was not. When given the option of working hard or working smart, I opted for the latter. If an easier way could be determined to do the exact same thing with less effort, I would take that course. Anyone would.

The problem with my father's dream for me to take over the family farm was related to my allergies. A day of baling hay, for example, would result in irritated, itching, swollen and watering eyes. I'd sneeze throughout the day. At night, I was beset with coughing fits. Still, by the next morning, I was ready to go at it again. I had to endure the discomfort. However, it was obvious I was not cut out to be a farmer.

Genette's goal was attending Wittenberg University in Springfield. It was an outstanding private college with high academic standards. If she attended Southeastern High School, he believed she could not receive the sort of education she needed to qualify for admission. From her sophomore year to graduation, Dad and Mom paid tuition for her to attend Shawnee High School in Springfield, reputedly the best public school in the county. As a result, Mom drove her to school every day until Genette was old enough to get her driver's license. Once Genette was able to drive, Dad bought her a 1968 Plymouth Barracuda.

In the early summer of 1970, Genette received her diploma from Shawnee High School. She was preparing to attend Wittenberg in the fall, to study art education. She became the first of our family to go to college.

My dad and mom wanted me to follow in Gennete's footsteps. Obviously, Shawnee prepared her well for college. But, because of the overcrowded conditions in all the public schools due to the 'baby boom' of the 1950's, Shawnee was no longer accepting tuition students.

At the time, I was seriously considering a military career as an officer. I wanted to attend the United States Air Force Academy. I felt that if I attended a military school it would be a great help in meeting the admission requirements. Mr. Bailey, my godfather, was a personal friend of Congressman Brown who represented the US Congressional District where we lived. So, obtaining a letter of recommendation for appointment was no problem.

Greenbrier Military School in Lewisburg, West Virginia accepted me and I began classes in late August 1970. Although I got over homesickness and adapted to the structure of the school, there were very few students who were there for the sake of getting a quality education. Most needed correction and many of them were still resisting the effort. Drugs were a problem and my roommate was one of the people involved.

Shortly before Thanksgiving, I told my parents what was going on at school. My father called the school and had a lengthy discussion with the administration about what I told him. They promised my father I would be moved to a private room. It seemed everything was resolved.

While I was home for Thanksgiving break, my father and I discussed everything and I was fine with going back to school. But when I returned, the new room to which I was assigned was a disaster. It needed repairs and there was a big inspection coming in a few days. There was no way the room could be made presentable before the inspection. It was obvious to me that I was set up to fail. It was punishment for opening my mouth to my parents about what was going on in the school. In the minds of the school administration, I broke a code of conduct. If I had a problem, I should have gone directly to the administration. No parents needed to be involved. The reputation of the school did not need to be tarnished.

I was in fear of the retaliation I might suffer from the other students. I called my parents to come take me back home. While I waited, I did anything to avoid being in my room.

When my parents arrived at the school, they had a lengthy discussion with the administration after which I packed my things into the family car and returned home.

Although I was prepared to attend Southeastern High School, my dad and mom insisted that I not. They rented an apartment in the Springfield Local School District so that I could live there, ostensibly with my mom, and attend Shawnee High School. I was never to tell anyone at school that I lived alone. Not only was it no one's business but also I knew my parents trusted me. If anyone found out Mom wasn't living with me, she could get into a lot of trouble with the State. Despite my emotional and mental maturity, I was still a minor.

At first, Mom came to the apartment regularly, almost daily. I always had food. Although I could do my laundry and knew how to cook for myself, whenever she was there, she took care of those things. She let me clean my apartment, vacuum the carpet, mop and wax the kitchen floor, clean the bathroom and carry out the trash. At night, I set my alarm clock to wake up in time to get up and get ready for school. The bus stopped for me in front of the apartment complex.

Twice, my mother slept in the apartment. That way she could say she stayed there without telling a lie. The phone was in her name. Each morning, when I woke, I called home. Each afternoon, when I got off from school, I called home. Mom would call me some time in the evening to see how I was doing. She called at random times, even two times in an evening. Although she said she trusted me, I understood she didn't want me to think I could get away with anything. She was minimizing the opportunity for me to become a bad boy. On Friday afternoon, when I got off the bus, Mom would meet me at the apartment. I slept at my parents' house on the weekend and helped my dad on the farm every Saturday. On Sunday morning I did the chores and then went to church with Mom. In the afternoon, I did my laundry and folded it. In the evening, after dinner, Mom drove me back to the apartment.

As far as anyone at school knew, I lived with my mother. They assumed my parents were divorced. No one bothered to ask for clarification, and so, I never provided any details.

Over the summer before my sophomore year, I periodically stayed in the apartment. I told my parents that for appearance's sake I probably should spend time there. Besides, I liked some of the freedom and privacy I acquired. All of my things were there, so when I was at my parent's house, it felt a lot less like home to me.

One of the nosier neighbors at the apartment complex stopped me in passing and asked where I had been all week.

"Oh, I was helping my dad. He has a farm," I said and started to walk away.

"Where's your mom been?"

"She was seeing her sister. She's been sick," I replied. It was true that my mom had seen her sister and Aunt Verna was sick. Despite my inference through omission of detail, Mom did not stay with her sister, though.

"Where's she now?"

"Working," I said. That was also true. My mother was a housewife. So, when was she not working? Then, I smiled at my neighbor. "Okay, it's my turn. Why is any of this your business?"

"I was wondering where you've been?'

"I always help my dad on the farm when he needs help. He pays me. I can always use the money."

Apparently that satisfied her. No one else at the complex ever bothered to ask me anything about my business.

Sometimes, Genette came to see me. She was taking summer school classes at the university. She moved onto campus when she pledged to join the Sigma Kappa sorority. Although Mom maintained her room at home, like me, my sister was seldom there.

Genette and I would see movies together. Afterwards we went shopping in Springfield or at the Upper Valley Mall. She took me to her sorority and hung out with her sorority sisters and her friends who were in fraternities. I stayed overnight on campus a few times, sleeping at the Pi Kappa Phi fraternity. I sat in on some of her classes and met her professors. We went to the library and the Student Union. I really liked the learning environment and the campus atmosphere.

My primary means of transportation throughout that summer was a ten-speed Schwinn. I rode it everywhere, into Springfield, across town to my friend Brice's house, and sometimes to Wittenberg to see Genette. Sometimes I rode the bike to my dad's farm which was thirteen miles from my apartment.

I rode the bus for another school year. It was pretty much the same routine as during my freshman year, except I spent some weekends at the apartment. My dad decided to get out of the livestock part of farming and so he raised grain only. There were fewer chores to do and less need for me to help him on weekends.

The summer before my junior year, I took driver's education in summer school. I was eager to get my license. The irony was that I had been driving for years. As a farm kid I was allowed to drive farm equipment on the roads between farms. On the farms, I drove my dad's trucks to and from the fields.

I rode my bike to school every weekday until the conclusion of the course. The day I received my certificate of completion for the course, I took my driving test and received my license. I acquired the gold 1972 Camaro my mother had been driving. As she liked Camaros, dad bought an orange and black one to replace the gold one I was driving.

Once my junior year ended, I was grandfathered into attending Shawnee for my senior year. I did not need to live in the school district. So, I moved back home and drove to school each day from my parent's house.

It felt strange being back home, especially since I had grown accustomed to considerable personal freedom. I also played bass guitar in a rock band and had a number of outside activities. During my senior year, I think I tried my parents' patience to the limit more times than not.

Wittenberg University accepted me a few weeks after I submitted my application. I figured that since my sister was a senior there, they could not turn me down. But I wanted to attend a major university and study journalism, a course that was not offered at Wittenberg. So, I applied to some Big Ten schools. Purdue University accepted me.

In the early part of the last summer I lived at home, I received my diploma. Bruce and Alta saw all three children to the completion of a goal neither of them ever reached. A few days after my graduation, Genette received a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from Wittenberg University, making her the first in the family to graduate from college. I don't think I ever saw my dad and mom as proud as they were of Genette. She worked hard and even struggled at times to receive her degree. But she would not quit. I was proud of her, too.

At the end of the summer, when I moved to West Lafayette, Indiana to attend Purdue, for all intents and purposes, all of my parent's kids were grown up. I think the realization that I would not be following in his footsteps disappointed my dad. The dream of carrying on the family farming traditions would perish with him. He and my mother had saved to buy a farm that they could pass on to their children, yet their only surviving son was not going to be a farmer and neither of my sisters had any interest or inclination toward owning a farm, let alone operating one.

After a year of substitute teaching in the public schools, Genette decided that she really did not like teaching as much as she thought she would. She enlisted in the United States Air Force in 1975.

My oldest sister, Joyce, her husband, Jerry and their son, Jame (Jay), moved to Clearwater, Florida in 1978. Joyce became a successful administrative assistant for an executive before leaving to handle the office work for her husband Jerry's private business.  

Having endured the blizzard in January 1978, Mom said she was tired of living in a cold place. My parents sold their farm and some of their household furniture at auction. My dad had always dreamed of living in the southwest, so they moved to Texas - just about as far south in Texas as they possibly could go. They relocated to a little town called Mission that was just north of the Rio Grande River, near the cities of McAllen and Edinburgh. Genette's first husband and I helped them make the trip.

At some point during the next year, Genette divorced Andy, her first husband. She received a commission through Officer Training School and, after a few years ended up in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, where she eventually met her second and present husband, Michael 'Scott', an Air Force pilot.

When I finished my degree in Mass Communication, the economy was suffering from a curious mess called 'stagflation', a combination of double-digit inflation and double-digit interest rates. I interviewed with several prospective employers but no one offered me a job. I spent a summer with my parents in Mission before moving to Austin to attend the University of Texas, majoring in Marketing.

Shortly before I graduated from UT, my parents moved to Clearwater, Florida and eventually to Palm Harbor, just to the north of Clearwater. I lived with them for a time, and then moved out into an apartment in Dunedin while I worked for a small advertising agency. A year later I joined the Air Force and learned Chinese Mandarin.

Before I left for my first overseas tour of duty in Korea, I sat with my dad on his driveway in front of his garage. There was a cool breeze that afternoon as we enjoyed sitting in the shade of a large oak. The subject was one we discussed before but never in as much detail as that day. He was a little concerned about what I was getting into with the Air Force. Genette was an officer and had a desk job. He was not as concerned about her. He did not understand what I was going to be doing and, frankly, I really could not tell him much because nearly everything I worked with was highly classified.

Dad expressed how proud he was of each of his children, not because of what we accomplished but that we were decent, caring people.

"I've had to work hard all my life," he said. "I didn't have the kind of education a man needs to get ahead. Your mom and I scrimped and saved everything we could because we knew what it was like not to have anything. We didn't want for our children to know that kind of hardship."

"I don't know how you worked as many years as you did as a farmer. It's hard work."

"It's honest work," he responded. "I love the land. I enjoy watching things grow and taking care of animals. It's not an easy job feeding the world. But that's what I did with my life."

"I'm sorry I couldn't take over the farm."

"Farming isn't what it used to be. It won't be too many years before having a family farm is nothing but a memory. The world is changing very quickly. I'm not sure how it is going to work out. I've always heard that the world will end sometime after 2000. I don't know if it will. Only God knows those things. But I think if you are ready, it doesn't matter when it happens. Until then, you need to live as good a life as you can, be honest and always keep your word. When you make a mistake beg forgiveness. When you succeed, be humble. When you have children, teach them how to be good people. That's the best anyone can do."

Bruce was an ethical man who raised a family to honor what he stood for and what he believed was right. He fed us, clothed us, and gave us a roof over our heads with warm beds to sleep in. We never worried for a thing as children. If there was not enough for everyone, he would do without. I never knew a soul who didn't like him. Most respected him and considered it an honor to know him. He was generous to a fault. He helped people who had nowhere else to turn for help, cosigning for loans when the bank would not give them the money they needed for something urgent.

My father died a few days before his birthday in April 2000. My mother died nearly on her birthday in April 2003. People came from everywhere my parents had lived to pay their respects. They both lived to be nearly eighty-six.