The Gift

 The Gift

This is unedited...my apologies!! 

The Great Blinky Light Heist of the Elements 55+ Community

This article is written with the help of ChatGPT... 

The Great Blinky Light Heist of Evergreen Villas

At Evergreen Villas, Christmas decorations were taken very seriously—especially by the residents of Building C, who believed that blinking lights were the visible proof that one was still alive and well. Which is exactly why no one could believe it when, three days before Christmas, the community center’s legendary blinking light display vanished overnight.

Gone. Every last twinkle.

By 7 a.m., the pickleball players had discovered the crime.

“Now listen here,” said Mr. Putnam, gripping his paddle like a sheriff’s badge, “this was no ordinary theft. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were after.”

Mrs. Heim, who had been warming up her wrists with aggressive circular motions, squinted at the now-dark eaves. “Honestly,” she muttered, “those lights blinked so fast they made my recliner vibrate. I always suspected they'd drive someone to crime.”

Mr. Hunt shook his head gravely. “This is escalation. First it’s blinking lights. Next it’s inflatable snowmen.”

Gasps echoed across the pickleball courts.

By noon, rumors had spread faster than a dropped jar of Bengay. Some blamed teenagers. Others blamed rival communities. But Mrs. Perkins leaned in and whispered her theory with terrifying conviction:

“It was an inside job.”

The investigation heated up when Mrs. Montgomery discovered faint paw prints in the frost behind the center. Paw prints that didn’t look exactly… dog-like.

That’s when everyone remembered.

Rudolph the Holiday Coyote.

Every winter, Rudolph appeared like clockwork—trotting through Evergreen Villas with a red blinking collar light and a suspicious interest in lawn décor. Children loved him. Management had a restraining order. And the blinking lights?

Well.

That night, the residents gathered with flashlights, thermoses of cocoa, and Mr. Hunt’s surprisingly intense walkie-talkie setup. The pickleball crew took shifts like elite tactical units.

At exactly 9:47 p.m., Mrs. Heim hissed, “Movement by the palm tree!”

Out strutted Rudolph the Holiday Coyote—now glowing like a Vegas marquee. The missing lights were tangled all over him: red, green, blue, blinking at chaos speed.

Behind him dragged an extension cord longer than the community bylaws.

Rudolph paused, stared at the group, and wagged his tail proudly, as if to say, I fixed the blinking problem.

Mr. Putnam slowly lowered his paddle. “Well…I’ll be dinged.”

They never did get all the lights back. Some disappeared into the desert night with Rudolph. But the blinking stopped. And peace returned to Evergreen Villas.

Mostly.

Except during pickleball.

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If you’d like, I can also turn this into a short narration script, newsletter version, or add illustrations cues! 🎄🦌🐾

You said:

turn into a newsletter

ChatGPT said:

Here’s a polished, ready-to-print community newsletter version of your story:

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🎄 Evergreen Villas Holiday Edition 🎄

December Community Newsletter Feature

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The Great Blinky Light Heist of Evergreen Villas

By the Evergreen Villas Investigative Committee (and the Pickleball Patrol)

Residents of Evergreen Villas were shaken to their very festive core three days before Christmas when the community center’s legendary blinking holiday lights vanished overnight. Not flickering. Not twinkling. Just… gone.

The first to discover the shocking scene were the early-morning pickleball players.

“This was no ordinary theft,” declared Mr. Putnam, gripping his paddle like a badge of authority. “This was clearly premeditated.”

Nearby, Mrs. Heim squinted up at the now-dark roofline. “Honestly, those lights blinked so fast they made my recliner vibrate. I always suspected they’d drive someone to crime.”

Mr. Hunt, serving a ball with dramatic flair, added gravely, “This is how it starts. First blinking lights. Next, inflatable snowmen.”

By lunchtime, speculation spread faster than holiday fruitcake. Teenagers were blamed. Rival communities were suspected. Even the new maintenance contractor endured a few suspicious glances. But the investigation took a dramatic turn when Mrs. Perkins leaned in during coffee hour and whispered her theory:

“It was an inside job.”

Later that afternoon, Mrs. Montgomery made the discovery that changed everything—faint paw prints in the frosted grass behind the community center. Paw prints that did not look entirely canine.

That’s when everyone remembered.

Rudolph the Holiday Coyote.

A seasonal legend at Evergreen Villas, Rudolph appears each December like clockwork, sporting a blinking red collar and an unsettling curiosity about outdoor decorations. Children adore him. Management files reports about him.

That evening, residents staged a full-scale watch. Armed with flashlights, thermoses of hot cocoa, and Mr. Hunt’s surprisingly advanced walkie-talkie system, the Pickleball Patrol took shifts around the community center.

At precisely 9:47 p.m., Mrs. Heim whispered urgently, “Movement by the palm tree.”

Out strutted none other than Rudolph himself—now glowing like a rolling Christmas tree. The stolen blinking lights were wound around him in a spectacular tangle of red, green, and blue chaos. Behind him trailed an extension cord of heroic length.

Rudolph paused, wagged his tail proudly, and blinked at the stunned audience as if to say, Problem solved.

Mr. Putnam lowered his paddle slowly. “Well,” he said, “I’ll be dinged.”

Some of the lights were never recovered, disappearing into the desert night with Rudolph. But the blinking stopped. And peace returned to Evergreen Villas.

Mostly.

(Except during pickleball.)

The Tell-a-Tale Heart - Janice

I want to tell you a tale about myself.  I am a heart.  In my neighborhood I am like the mayor.  All of my neighbors depend on me.  Without me, no one would be able to function.  But sometimes my friend the Brain thinks he runs things, but he really does not.

My homeowner, Mickey Edwards, has had me for 81 Years.  I’ve been very lucky to be here for that long.  My homeowner took better care of me when we were younger but as most tenants, I got neglected and forgotten at times which resulted in I didn’t want to stay around.  We went to a heart repair man called a cardiologist which told my homeowner to give up his favorite Jack Daniels and his stinky cigars.  He did do that, or I wouldn’t have been around as long as I have. 

As the years went by, we got older, and I got more tired. The cardiologist changed my medicine a dozen times.  Sometimes I wouldn’t beat fast enough and sometimes I just went crazy and found all kinds of ways I could stir thing up.  So, they found a device for me that’s called a pacemaker and if I was bad, it would shock me. I hated that but I behaved better after the shock. 

Soon, none of that worked and the cardiologist said there was only one thing left to try. It was an IV medication that went 24 hrs. a day.  But he also said it would only last 6months to a year. 

I felt immediately like my old self.  We traveled, partied and had fun again.  Six months were up, and I was better than ever.  The IV got clogged up a few times but we got that fixed.  I even got to go to Paris.  

Then the year was up.  My homeowner’s care giver watched us like a hawk.  Sure enough, my blood pressure started going down and I felt tired.  I also didn’t beat as fast.  We stayed in the CCU for 23 days.  That was certainly no fun.  They tried everything to get my blood pressure up, and me to work harder.  But it didn’t work. 

The Dr’s told my caregiver there was nothing else they could do and the IV had to come out. They were sending us home without the IV and no medication, for us to say our goodbyes.   They said I could last 2 hours to 2 days without the IV and no medication. 

Our care giver cried every day. Notifying family and friends of our condition.  We came home. Our bed was right by the backyard window so we could see our flowers.  We also got to hug and kiss our dogs a lot.  After two days the kids were all here, all the Grandchildren and friends from out of town.  As my homeowner said: he got to attend his own wake.  After another two days everyone had had gone home.  I thought “I fooled all of you! you suckers.  We are still here.”

Going on eight weeks at home we are STILL here.  We fooled everybody. Defied science!!!  My blood pressure , pulse and oxygen levels are better than they were when I was 20!

And the beat goes on………………………….

Jobs. marc

 https://docs.google.com/document/d/1I3LsRwguMgJe0g2dlzTr2asBUQVReL0F/edit?usp=drivesdk&ouid=102199702183800118810&rtpof=true&sd=true

A Man of Letters - Marc

            Being a man of letters, it pains me to put pen to paper on this subject. However, time is short, and the truth of things cannot be ignored any longer.

              It was not always this way. In earlier times, my youthful exuberance was boundless, as was my belief in the power of learning. I envisioned a future that was limitless, as I worked to accumulate letters after my last name, like medals worn on a uniform. The competition was brutal, oh yes, with causalities casually tossed to the wayside, pitied, and then forgotten.

              I recall, from an early age, intense competition between schoolmates to excel. In primary school, at the tender age of eight, my main competitor for brightest boy in the class was William Schibel. We would revel in the praise received from our instructors, and celebrate when the other was reprimanded. One incident, which is etched into my memory like a wound that will not heal, involved a day that I forgot an to complete an assignment. When the instructor called upon me, aghast I found myself; having to publicly admit my mistake. My humiliated cherry red face turned to look at William, whose smile was boundless. I would hate him for the remainder of my primary years.

              I believed in my area of expertise, convinced that I would help mankind, and be reimbursed liberally with wealth and prestige. As my letters accumulated, I paid scant attention to the tiny sacrifices demanded for the sake of my advancement. Ethics and morals were being slowly eroded, reshaped like the river stone. But all of that was ignored by the sea of prosperity that surrounded me.

              Of course there were signs, pride and ego can never completely bury the obvious. However, I was a man of letters, and as such, I knew what was best for those inferior to me in education and intelligence. I convinced myself that my unethical behavior was for their sake, therefore I had to persevere on my mission.

              Many of those actions shame me now; however, this is not a confession, and I seek no absolution. I knew, on some level, that power and prestige had darkened my soul, but the soul is invisible to others, its blackness known only to me. As my letters increased, the ease of committing crimes against the body and spirit appeared to not be crimes at all; simply actions demanded of my class status. How many commandments were forgotten and broken? It is easier for me to recall the few that were not.

              I looked down on those uneducated individuals who worked with their hands, their bland uniforms, bland spouses, bland lives. We, the educated and elite, were living our lives in color, while theirs was in black and white. Whenever I was forced to interact with them, they were encouraged to complete their task quickly, and I always resented paying their fee.

              My metamorphosis was gradual, I cannot point to a single episode or event that initiated it. It appeared to me that my cabal hardly recognized my profound changes that were taking place, or more likely they did so and did not care. By the time I had exited the cult of greed and hubris, they might as well have been aliens to me.

              I came to realize that most, if not all of the catastrophic episodes that have plagued mankind were because of actions, or inactions of the educated elite. It was not the farmer, or the lowly soldier, nor the nursemaid who generated conflict between men. No, it was us, the educate elites, who raised the scimitar of death that would sweep across nations, the brunt of which was borne by the serfs who served our lifestyle and excesses. We however, often escaped with minimal loss.

              What is that you say? Yes, it is true, that without us, many of the conveniences that we have come to rely upon would not be possible. But when those conveniences disappear, who will be better adapted for survival? Will it be the farmer or us? The weaver or us? The carpenter or us? As painful as it may be to admit, the farmer, weaver and carpenter have had a far longer tenure on this earth then we.

              I have come to believe it inevitable that what we, the educated elite have brought to the world would someday disappear. But which of us would bring about it?

Will it be the Diplomat class, unable to resolve a simple issue which would then snowball into the Great Final War?

Or perhaps the Geneticist, in her zeal to increase her letters and status, producing something monstrous and unstoppable.

Will it be the AI Ethicist, who decides to look the other way so his company can advance more rapidly than his competitors.

Perhaps the Bacteriologist, ignoring safety protocols in the Gain of Function Laboratory, seeking an edge over others.

              How do I know that the inevitability of these scenarios? Remember William Shibel and I as eight-year-old rivals? Every one of us who has climbed the ladder of letters, has never lost that burning need, like a thirst that can never be quenched, to rise to the top and push our rivals down.

              It was not the actions of the farmer, weaver, or carpenter that has caused this apocalypse to be placed upon us. The claim that it was a Virologist, somewhere in Asia who felt the need to ignore all caution and rain this deathly end upon us is at this point irrelevant.

What is relevant is that the creatures trying to reach me as I cower in this corrugated shed are almost upon me. How fitting, how humorous, how ironic that the most educated, elite among us, have inadvertently produced the least intelligent creatures to destroy us all.

              I have one bullet left in my .38

              I am a man of letters.

              I will not become a zombie.

              BANG

Four Poems - Marc

 Carousel

The children squeal their delight

          as the moving rainbows

Carry them gently past

          the elusive treasure just out of reach

"One more ride daddy," she pleads

          her face flush with joy

He digs deep into his pocket

          to pay the man again

And wonders about his life, going

          round and round, nowhere in particular

His dreams further out of reach each passing year

          as he hums the music of the ride

Untitled

Standing silently and helplessly

          with hands clasped behind them

Necks straining to watch

          the agile hands working

Hoping for a miracle

          as the frigid wind

Brings them closer

          on this desolate street

But the sounds make it clear

          despite his best, there will be no miracles

The man shakes his head

          and calls the tow truck

The Waiting Room

The door moans its protest

          when opened

Like a cranky old man

          given a reason to complain

Leading into a room

          of shadows

Lined with wooden chairs 

          built to cause pain

Pale adults stare

          suddenly neglecting

Magazines they weren't reading

          their eyes dissecting

And I'm certain the stillness 

          will become a grave

When the nurse calls me, like an angel

          and leads me away to save

Untitled

"Trust me," the voice coos

     in a silky tone

Just beyond my recognition

     it is movement at the edge of a fog

"Take my hand," it sings

     I hesitate

The path is unknown to me

     despite my fear and pain

"You can not know my road"

     "Although you have always known you will travel it"

"Call me Justice; rich and poor become equals"

     "When we meet"

But I know your true name

     greatest of thieves 

You steal away the last of my life

     As I place my hand in yours

All American Party - Kathy

 All American Party

Enduring Lesson - Nez

 

The boy had survived, no, endured the beating of his young life. Rather, the beating of a lifetime. A beating no one should experience. Yet he had. Beat up, bruised, a bleeding lip, his jeans ripped, now sobbing quietly, he had endured and survived. Bobby had cried out only once during his lesson. His awareness and understanding of the old man had told him that crying out would only prolong the assault. He remained quiet even after the old man had gone inside.  

It wasn’t his fault. I had cried out to stop it but the old man had simply brushed me aside. I felt terrible and guilty for his beating but didn’t know how to stop it, or how to comfort him. Then his sister screamed as she came out of the house to his side and consoled him. Her sudden appearance had even prompted the old man’s abrupt withdrawal. Bobby though was still upset, hurt and mad. Not so much for the beating, but because he had known that if anything happened to me there would be consequences, and he hadn’t listened to that warning voice in his head.

Bobby didn’t deserve that beating, though in the back of his mind he had known it was a possibility. He knew that simply being four years older made him responsible for me, responsible for not letting anything bad happen to me, yet it had, to both of us actually, “something unacceptable” in the old man’s eyes. And he had to learn. And Bobby learned.

Bobby and I were riding his horse, Trotter, bareback on the shoulder of the highway when a log truck driver, being funny, gave a loud blast on his airhorn. Startled, Trotter had reared up and we both had slid down the horse’s back and crashed, me onto the gravel and Bobby on top of me. I was bruised and had a couple of scrapes and one was bleeding a little, and I had cried but I was not badly hurt. Nothing was broken, just scrapes on my arms and a little tear in my shirt. Realizing I was okay I had stopped crying. I couldn’t let Bobby see me cry.

Bobby had raced to retrieve Trotter and together we returned the horse to its pasture. Then as we walked, or trudged, the three or four blocks back home I could tell that he was worried and I said we should make up a story that I was in a fight, and I laughed. But Bobby didn’t. He had said that it wouldn’t matter. The old man would see my scrapes and bruises and lay in to him because he had allowed something bad to happen to me and that was unacceptable.

Suddenly, I felt terrible for Bobby.

And he was right. The old man, sitting on the porch-steps as we approached, saw my scrapes, bruises and slightly bleeding arm and demanded to know what happened. I began to say I had won the fight, but Bobby jumped in and told the truth. The old man grew mad, stood and began yelling. I screamed, “ it wasn’t his fault, it was the truck driver’s”, but the old man ignored me. In a rage he attacked Bobby. It was worse than we imagined.

But now, now it was done. The lesson complete.

Now, with his cuts and bruises and bleeding lip, which would all heal in time, Bobby lay where he had last landed, his spirit broken. And so was  our relationship. I liked Bobby and had hoped he would be my big brother forever. He was twelve, I was only eight. We were step-brothers and in the short time we were acquainted he had treated me as his little brother. Until now. Bobby never acknowledged or spoke to me ever again.  

One Tug, Two Moves - Nez

 One Tug, Two Moves, By Nez

LLLN-2 1968 Marc

 LLLN-2 1968

TAK-1 1968 Marc

TAK-1 1968 

Tug It, Move It, Two Times - Nez

 

An idealist might suggest that Lyman was a quiet little river town during the 1940’s and ‘50’s, but there were normally loud logging trucks passing through town so it was actually pretty noisy. And it didn’t matter where you were in town you would hear their noise. It was pretty much a constant yet occasionally we would hear other noises over the drone of the trucks.

So, one day my brother and I were uptown and we heard a loud roar coming from down by the river. Curious, we went to see what it was. We knew it wasn’t a logging truck, it was a different noise. And what we saw was different as well. There was a tugboat very slowly chugging upriver coming around the far side of Hodgin Island. That tug’s engine was working hard and making a very loud roar straining against the strong Skagit River current. Oh, we had seen tugboats before. Sometimes there were huge log rafts floated downriver with a couple of tugs to guide them, but they were relatively quiet. This tug chugging upriver was anything but quiet and it was pulling an obviously very heavy load we had never seen before, a huge barge. And both the tug and barge were pushing up walls of water. To our amazement, the cargo on this huge barge was a house, a whole house, a two-story house, sitting on big blocks of wood and on some sort of trailer with lots of tires. Behind that two-story house was a trailer-house, weirdly just sitting there. We wondered why everything didn’t just roll overboard.

The loud commotion quickly drew a crowd. Soon, it seemed most of the town was there. Comments like, “what in the world”, “holy-cow”, “where’s it headed”, “what is that” were heard repeatedly. Most of us expected the tug and barge to pass us by and navigate on up the river, but it didn’t. It rounded the island like it was going to circle it but instead headed toward the riverbank below Sweeten’s barn. From where we were standing the tug was turning away from us so we hurried toward home where we would have a viewing.

We passed by our street and going toward the river and Sweeten’s barn. Then we saw a very strange sight. We saw the back of the barge with the trailer-house and the two-story, but no tugboat. At first we couldn’t tell if the barge was adrift or not. But the noise was still loud and actually the tug had simply turned around and was pushing the barge backward. It maneuvered the barge into deeper backwater and slower current near the riverbank. Once the tugboat entered the backwater its engine didn’t work as hard and it slowed and grew quieter. When it reached the lowest area of bottomland between Chambers’ and Sweeten’s fields the tug guided the barge over alongside the riverbank and came to a stop. Both the barge and tug were then moored to trees several yards from the river. And we still didn’t know what was going on. But it was pretty exciting, whatever it was.

By then it was late afternoon and apparently nothing else was going to happen when suddenly two men from the tug appeared carrying guns and climbed up onto the barge and took positions at each end of the barge and yelled for everybody to go away and stay away. I guess they were there all night making sure nothing else did happen. The guns scared us so we headed home.

As we came down our own now noisy street we were smacked with another opened-mouth surprise. Here was a crew of men working feverishly on the Holden’s house just two doors down from ours. It was on big wooden blocks like those under the house on the barge. It also had a lot of tires under it and a big noisy truck cab was beginning to slowly pull the Holden house out into the street and turning towards the highway. Well of course, we weren’t going home now, we had to watch this stunning undertaking. Here was a truck moving our neighbor’s house, our friend’s house and literally leaving our neighborhood with it. Oh, and, on top of that, there was another house on a barge down on the river less than two-hundred yards away. We were stupefied. “ What in the name of Harry S. Truman was going on?” we wondered. We certainly had not heard anything about all of this. And even though we were young kids we thought we were usually “in the know”.

As the truck slowly pulled the Holden’s house away from their lot and nearer the highway we could see that the highway was now blocked off and was in the sole possession of the truck pulling the house. But where was it going? We had no clue. Were they going to put it on the barge, too? We were about to follow along when our Mom called out to us from the crowd to come on home. Sulking, we did so. While she prepared dinner Mom told us she just learned about all this earlier that day. Since we were gone she couldn’t share it with us until now. The Holden’s had purchased the Richfield Gas station on the west side of town near Lyman Elementary and were moving their house because there wasn’t one there. And the house on the barge should be moved tomorrow to where the Holden house had been, just two doors away from us. Our new neighbors would be the Hittson family, a dad, mom, two girls and a boy, the kids all in high school.

Exhausted, we went to bed earlier than usual that night but were up early the next morning to watch the unfolding events of the day. We sat and stood for hours and watched the two-story house being moved from the barge onto land and then pulled by the same truck that had moved the Holden house, through fields and up a short steep hill, over the railroad tracks and up onto the highway for about fifty yards and then turn down our street. It was a heck of an undertaking. It passed the recently vacated lot, stopped, and then performed an amazing reverse maneuver backing the two-story house onto the property exactly where they wanted it, and with the front door facing the street. We could tell they knew what they were doing.

By noon, or there about, we were hungry again and ran home for lunch. Mom wasn’t there to fix it, so we improvised with peanut-butter, jelly and banana sandwiches. Taking our lunch with us, we hurried back out to see what else was going on, and to our happy surprise there quietly coming down the street was the trailer-house that we had all but forgotten. Hitched to a wagon it was being easily drawn by two huge horses that we knew, Buck and Major. Old Bill Sweeten and his team maneuvered that trailer-house exactly where it was wanted, unhitched it from the wagon and setting its tongue on one of those big wood blocks and hoofed it back home. Wow! What a mesmerizing two days this had been! One captivating event after another. We were almost giddy.

Over the next few days, a concrete block foundation was constructed under the two-story house and it was lowered off the big wood blocks onto its new foundation. The same was done at the Holden house over by the Richfield Station. Mr. Hittson, our new neighbor, stayed in the trailer-house for a couple of months while he made the two-story livable, installing new plumbing, wiring, straightening doorways, making repairs, painting inside and out, and making sure everything was level. We introduced ourselves and became his friends and helpers.

Epilogue

While this excitement was all new to us, apparently bringing houses into the upper Skagit and other river valleys by barge was not that unusual. I never knew where the houses came from but a widely accepted rumor claimed they came from rights-of-ways where new highways were being built. Apparently, they were very cheap, perhaps even free. They just had to be moved.

Anyway, we had thoroughly enjoyed that amazing new experience, one that, to my knowledge, has never been duplicated quite like that.

Sadie - Working Copy - Kathy

 This is a story I told to my 9 year old granddaughter, Violet.  We've made up several Sadie and Annie Adventures - this is the first.  

Sadie

Kitchen Wary - Nez

Disney’s original Mickey Mouse Club had it’s star, Annette Funicello. Lyman had no Mickey Mouse Club but it did have Margie Carpenter, Annette’s doppelganger. Margie was very pretty and looked like Annette. And there was one big difference. Margie did not plan on being a celebrity and didn’t want to be one. She was very quiet and reserved, the wallflower type and preferred it that way. She didn’t like the camera, though it liked her. She avoided the spotlight. She just wanted to be a normal teenage girl with a few friends, nothing special. Yet, her teenage good looks always brought her an inordinate amount of attention, Annette-like attention. She was an unintentional celebrity pretty much everywhere she went. A local newspaper even sent photos of her to Walt Disney but Disney said they received hundreds of pictures claiming they looked like Annette. Lyman’s Annette couldn’t wait to get out of high school and move on with her quiet normal life as Margie.

Margie, along with Sharron (the group alpha) and Kay were a threesome of best friends who became lifelong friends. After high school they each married a local boy, had the normal families with two or three kids, and became housewives, though Sharron and Kay also had real jobs, and Kay moved away from Lyman. None of them went to college, that wasn’t in the plan. Because in 1959 most girls got married soon after high school and raised a family, and this threesome followed that plan. And even though Kay had moved away they got back together in Lyman at least two or three times every year …at first. Kids in school made it harder. So, they phoned regularly. And of course, life happened.

In his late thirties Margie’s husband was killed in a logging accident in the mountains and Margie was soon an affluent Lyman widow with a sizable lifetime income thanks to the Scott Paper Company. Even after her three grown children left her an empty-nester Margie did not seek out either a career or a new husband. She was a widow the rest of her days.

Margie’s son, Gordon, had considerable behavioral problems throughout his life and was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, bipolar disorder and manic depression. With therapies and medication, he managed to get through high school and then promptly left home. He ghosted his mother but brazenly showed up every few years demanding money. He spent no time with her and as soon as she gave him money he hit the road. No good-by, no thank you, just gone. Fortunately, Margie also had two married daughters and a few grandchildren so she chose to give her love and time to them, rather than wasting her time and money searching for or rescuing her screwed up son.

As the years passed life repeated itself with Gordon though, and one day Margie got a call from an attorney who was representing him in a legal proceeding. She paid for his defense but he was convicted of assault and spent the next few years incarcerated. By her sixtieth birthday Margie had finally quit paying for the reprobate’s legal defenses and had removed him from her will. She also stopped giving him money and visiting him in jail. By the time Margie celebrated her seventieth birthday her felon son had spent more than half his life in jail. And then, during the party for her seventy-fifth birthday she got a call from him saying that he was being paroled and needed a place to live. He had no idea it was her birthday. She reluctantly decided to put him in her rent-house in Bellingham, and she would pay the utilities. He approved and moved to Bellingham. Not a single ‘thank you’.

A few months later Margie got another call from  him saying that the Bellingham house had burned down while he was out, and he was tired and felt he was getting old and asked if he could just come live with her. Knowing that he was now in his mid-fifties, she thought ‘how bad could it be’? So, she said she needed time to think about it and to call her tomorrow. Her friends and daughters said, ‘definitely not’. The next day he showed up, to move into his old room. She acquiesced and allowed him to do so with the stipulation that he get a job and pay rent. He agreed and went upstairs to his old bedroom. She had neighbors next door and friends who came by every day so she allowed that it was probably safe.

Margie went about her daily routines of tending her garden, taking walks and riding her bicycle around town visiting friends and doing her shopping. She didn’t mind fixing his meals and doing his wash. Her neighbors and friends got to know him a little and agreed that he seemed okay.

Then, one day Margie didn’t go about performing her daily routines as she had done for decades. No one answered the door or the phone. Later that day, June 23, 2016, Sharron, Margie’s closest friend, showed up for her and Margie’s daily coffee and walk, but the door that was always open was locked. Sharron knew Gordon as well as anybody and saw the light was on in his upstairs bedroom and called out to him. He finally came to the window but only stared down at her. She called the police. The police arrived and after speaking with the neighbors and Sharron they decided to conduct a welfare check. They found Margie’s body on the kitchen floor, blood spatter everywhere and a bloody hammer near the body. After speaking with Gordon, he was arrested on Suspicion of Murder. After an investigation and trial found Gordon guilty of murder he was sentenced to life in prison, where soon after he was also murdered.

In May 2017, less that a year after Margie’s murder, Sharron was in her kitchen removing an item from a high cupboard shelf, lost her balance and fell with her head crashing into a wall. Her husband got home minutes later and found her lying on the floor in obvious pain. She could barely tell him what happened and he rushed her to an Emergency Room in Bellingham, some forty miles away, where Sharron was pronounced ‘DOA’. Were there closer ERs? Yes, much closer. Then less than six months later Sharron’s husband was showing off a new girlfriend around town and they married less than a year after Sharron’s death. The townsfolk of the whole Lyman area were aghast. As were Sharron’s sons and their families.

Kay, the remaining friend, now living in Chicago, had unexpectedly lost her two lifelong friends in less than a year, and both under somewhat suspicious circumstances. Then, relatively lost and devastated that she never got to say good-by to Margie or Sharron or attend either funeral. For a while Kay waved both hands toward the sky every time she thought of them. Some people thought Kay was praising God and joined her, but she was just waving “Hi” and “Good-by” to her friends.

And as you might expect, Kay decided to maybe stay out of the kitchen.

Speaking of Cemeteries - Weren't We? - Nez

 Speaking of Cemeteries - Weren't We?

Pop's Projects - Nez

 Pop's Projects

Smokin' Pop - Nez

Smokin' Pop 

Smokin' Pop - Nez

 

In the 1940s and ‘50s Pop Davis was a perennial Lyman town council member. He always ran “un-opposed” for re-election. For all the time we lived there he was on the town’s council. Apparently nobody else wanted the job or everyone thought he did a good job at it. Pop lived in the third house around the corner from us. His real name was Fred, but everyone called him “Pop”. Pop was old, probably in his sixties, and his hair was white, what there was of it, and he had reddish complexion. He was officially retired. He didn’t work at a paying job anymore and pretty much did whatever he wanted with his time, which was usually working on a home project or fishing.

Pop was a resourceful old guy and we often saw him driving his pickup home with a load of materials that he had gotten somewhere for free. He stored those treasures either in his garage attic, or in his old barn or behind it. He was really handy and very adept at using tools, and usually had a project going where he utilized his handyman skills for plumbing, electrical, masonry and/or carpentry. But Pop’s real passion was fishing. So, he always finished his projects quickly so he had more time to enjoy nature while fishing.

Although Pop was a longtime Baptist church member he only attended weddings and funerals, more funerals than weddings. For him, Sundays were for  fishing. Nature and the riverbank were his church, or sometimes his boat was. His  flat-bottomed river skiff with its outboard Evinrude motor was always on its trailer parked on the street near his garage. It was gassed up and ready to go. It was named Lilia, named after his daughter, and it rarely went anywhere. The Skagit River was close by and Pop usually walked the hundred yards or so from his house to the riverbank.

Pop was an expert fisherman, one of many in Lyman. We seemed to have more than our share in those days. Pop did most of his fishing from the riverbank, as a lot of our Lyman anglers did rather than from their boats, which most of them had. Pop usually came home with a fish or two, mostly steelhead or salmon. Bullheads and catfish were always thrown back in or thrown away. They were bottom-feeders and considered inedible.

But I guess Pop got tired of eating fried, broiled or baked fish all the time, although each species has its own taste, and decided it was time to change things up a little. For years he had collected used brick and cleaned them and piled them out behind his barn. Deciding he liked the idea of smoking salmon, he used that brick collection to construct an outsized smokehouse with a thick birchwood door. He installed big racks in it and could smoke half a dozen large fish on each rack at the same time. He would rotate the fish vertically from rack to rack so they all got equal amounts of heat and smoke. And he varied the types of wood and seasoning to create slightly different flavors.

In a relatively short time Pop became really expert in the art of smoking salmon, and other fish, and beef and pork. And Pop didn’t particularly like to share. He wouldn’t give away or sell any of his smoked meats, but sometimes he did allow people sample them. And they were delectable and he got lots of requests for his smoked meats. So finally, what he did was he suggested that people could bring him their fish or meat and he would smoke it for them. They could either pay him in cash or his payment would be half of what they brought him to be smoked. And boy did they take him up on that offer!

For that next year or so Pop was constantly busy tending his smokehouse and smoking fish and meat all the time. He found himself busier than he wanted to be. He was so busy he didn’t have time to enjoy his passion, fishing. Yet, it wasn’t like he had a lack of fish or meat. In fact, he had so much smoked meat as payment that his family couldn’t possibly eat all of it and he ended up having to give a lot of it away, which really perturbed him. Many of his neighbors were fortunate recipients and we got used to enjoying that free smoked meat. He also didn’t like that we loved it.

All of this added up to an exasperated Pop growing so tired of tending the smokehouse all the time and spreading his payments around so freely that he made major decision. He decided that he wouldn’t stop smoking fish and meats for others, but he changed his practice and only accepted cash as payment. No more would he accept fish or meat as payment for smoking theirs. And from then on he didn’t do as much smoking business, but that was just fine with Pop. He had time for fishing again.

Speaking of Cemeteries...Weren't We? - Nez

 

Growing up in the 1940s and 1950s several of our Lyman neighbors were in their retirement ages. Avery and Maggie Bryson, Nate and Bicie Watson, Pop and Mrs. Davis, Eula and Ruth Aiken, and my great-grandparents J.G. and Mary Buckner were all enjoying their “golden” years. And, eventually, some of them passed away. It was hard as a young child to really understand what was happening, to understand death. Especially since no one explained it. I wasn’t devastated or sad when any of them died. I think the death of Grandpa Buckner, my great-grandfather, was the first time I got it, when I began to understand.

We attended Sunday school and church, and we knew that people from church had died, but I think the way we processed it was that they just stopped coming to church. Of course, I knew that Mr. Self, Mrs. Price, both Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan, and Mr. Bryson had “died”, but I didn’t really know what that meant. And I actually knew Mr. Bryson, he was our next door neighbor. The others were simply church people to me. As young kids we weren’t permitted to attend any of the funerals or burials. And most of them were buried in Lyman Cemetery, just a block away.

I was barely six years old when Grandpa Buckner died. Mom and Dad were divorcing at the time and we lived with our great-grandparents. His death is how I learned what death really meant. It wasn’t explained to me though. He died on December 29, 1949. My sister, brother and I had been sent to our other grandparents in Seattle a few days earlier. We knew Grandpa was sick and in the hospital. But we didn’t know he was dying. We didn’t know that he wasn’t going to get better and come home. We were kept in Seattle until after the funeral. After we got back home nothing was said or explained to us. It took a couple of days for us to learn that he wouldn’t be coming back home but there was no mention of his having died. And we missed him. That Spring Mom took us to the cemetery to his grave and we learned that he was buried there in the ground. I thought that was horrible. It made me so sad I cried. And I didn’t get to tell him “good-bye”.

We were constantly in Lyman Cemetery as kids. It’s contiguous to the city park with no fence between them. We kids took a shortcut through the cemetery to school. It had a gate and path so we wouldn’t walk on graves and we even played in it, usually disregarding the graves. It had/has several prominent tombstones we hid behind to scare girls on their way to school. We also used it for cowboys and Indians, other games and even snowball fights.

As a kid I had several pets at different times. I never had good luck with them. We had a couple outdoor cats. But my first pet was Blacky, a black cocker spaniel puppy that I got from Pop Davis. I was eight or nine. We didn’t have any leash laws in Lyman and dogs pretty much ran free but always came back home. I had him for about a year and a half.  A neighbor out near the highway killed Blacky by poisoning  him. A year later I got a real cute female Beagle puppy and named her Trixie. After she had her first litter of six, I gave four away but I wanted to keep two of them. Mom declared we could not keep three dogs, so one would have to go. When the puppies were about three months old I decided to give Trixie away. I put notices in all over town in stores, the post office, churches, schools and tavern. I talked with everyone but couldn’t find anyone who would take another dog. I told Mom it looked like we were keeping three, and she declared that if I didn’t get rid of at least one she would get rid of them all. She said if nobody would take one, then I would have to terminate one. Days later, I ended up tying Trixie to a tree in the woods to shoot her. I was a really good shot, but after eight shots at her and not coming close I took her back home and told Mom I couldn’t do it. Two days later my Dad showed up and said, ” get your gun and dog and let’s go.” He seemed a little perturbed at me. We went to the dump where I tied her up again. Dad told me to shoot her. When I told him I couldn’t he took my gun and shot her, in one shot, and told me to go remove her collar and with tears in my eyes I did so, while promising myself that I would never own another dog. When I asked if we could bury her Dad picked her up and tossed her over the edge of the dump. That only hardened my promise to myself. I told Dad to take the two puppies with him. I didn’t want them anymore. He did. The next time I went to his place I was surprised to see the two puppies were there but I wouldn’t play with them. His new wife said she wouldn’t let him get rid of them and said if I wanted one or both I could have them. I told her “no thanks”  so she said she would keep them for herself. I was okay with that.

When our kids wanted pets we went to the pound and let them each pick out their choice. Our son picked out a year-old Border Collie and named her Pepper. Our daughter picked out a Chow-African Ridgeback mix puppy with huge paws, which she named Snickers. Snickers grew to about eighty-five pounds. At thirty-five pounds Pepper was in charge. They were really close. Both dogs eventually became Judy’s. Then at seven years old Snickers became ill and the vet diagnosed her with diabetes, and said,” bring her back tomorrow and we’ll have insulin for her.” She died at home that night. Judy was crushed. Pepper was despondent for some time but mostly recovered. Then Pepper was Judy’s only dog. We had her for a total of eighteen years before she was humanely euthanized. Pepper was Judy’s dog but she became adopted me against my will, but I have resisted doing so with others. I don’t know that I ever will. They are buried in a pet cemetery outside of Bowie, Texas.

I’m not comfortable at pet cemeteries. I find them creepy. We visited a couple before deciding on one. Playing in our cemetery as a kid I don’t mind visiting deceased loved ones, but I’m not keen to attend a burial. I know that I will do so again at some point, maybe my own, but I’m certainly not looking forward to it.

Pop's Projects - Nez

 

My Mom’s mother was Letha Davison. I never got to meet my grandmother. She died when Mom was sixteen, several years before I was even thought of. She is buried in the Lyman cemetery in the adjoining grave to her eldest daughter, mom’s sister, my Aunt Thelma, who I also never got to meet. Aunt Thelma had died two years earlier than grandmother while giving birth to  Milton, her only child. Their graves are beside the north fence of the cemetery, right where Pop Davis could keep an eye on them. Except for a barbed-wire fence they were basically in his front yard. That fence divided all of Pop’s property and the cemetery, about a hundred yards wide.

Pop Davis place was just three houses around the corner from us, yet our families weren’t particularly close. Though he was retired Pop was always busy. I guess he wasn’t anxious to claim a spot across the fence just yet. He kept a really nice looking place. And you rarely found him sitting around unless he was in town talking to voters and families. Pop was a longtime town council member. Oftentimes, you found him home working in the yard or on a project or fishing. But every few weeks you could find him in town talking with people and building relationships. I thought he was old, but he was probably only in his sixties, and he still climbed ladders, worked in his orchard and built anything he wanted.

Pop’s small old unpainted barn sat about twenty yards from his house and about as far from the cemetery, among the fruit trees in his large orchard. If you weren’t paying attention you didn’t even notice the barn. He used it for storage and kept it locked. We figured there were all kinds of treasures in there. The orchard was several acres and had walnut, hazelnut, apple, plum, cherry, and pear trees. There were at least fifteen trees, several quite large, and they all produced every season. Each season he harvested all he needed, then he invited others come and take what they needed for their personal use. Pop kept baskets of apples for his cider and applejack. The still was in his basement. He could have taken his fruits to local stores and sold them but he chose to share. He had a big smokehouse between two big cherry trees.

His only other field was treeless, was beyond the orchard and was contiguous to our school grounds. At times we cut through his fields as a shortcut to school. He didn’t like it and would yell at us to go around, which meant through the cemetery. But if we were already in the second field we just kept going. Pop rented out that field. There were three semi-wild horses there for years. They were never ridden or worked. Nobody got near them. If we tried they ran away. I never understood why they were there.

I never understood this either. I thought houses were normally built facing the street, but not our neighbor’s, Pop Davis. His house should have faced east toward the street. He certainly had the space. But no, his house faced south, toward the cemetery, just across the fence from his front yard. His neighbor, George Davidson, directly across the street, was just the opposite. George should have built his house facing west, but it faced north toward the hills. Every other house in Lyman faced the street. Two neighbors houses facing the wrong way from each other was weird. No one knew why and it remains a mystery to this day.

Another project Pop did was when he tore down his old single car garage all by himself, preserving all of the old lumber from which he built the footings, had a concrete floor poured and then built a modern two-car garage and workshop, which he painted white both inside and out. The attic was extra tall for storage and he installed windows and hay-loft type doors on each end. He put red shutters on the windows. He could reach those doors from the bed of his pickup. He had stairs up to the attic in his workshop. Except for pouring the concrete floor Pop did all the work himself in just a few months. Other than a table saw he didn’t have power tools. The garage matched the look of his house. He was that good.

Pop kept a pristine front yard and lawn facing the cemetery. It was like a flower garden with several trees. But one Spring  he tore it up and dug a large hole in the yard. At first people thought he might be digging a grave, but it was too large for that. You could have put a whole family in there. Then we thought maybe it was going to be a swimming pool, but it wasn’t deep enough. After a couple of weeks with this new project taking shape, it was done. He had built a big, beautiful koi pond with big golden koi right in front of my aunt’s and grandmother’s graves.  He surrounded it with flower beds and placed Adirondak chairs looking across the pond at the cemetery. Their graves were not ten feet from his koi pond. When my Mom visited her mother’s and sister's graves she really enjoyed Pop’s koi pond and told him so. Pop replied, “It’s for your family. You should sit and relax in the chairs.”

 

Nez Nesmith

October 2024

 

Note: Though we only lived in Lyman for sixteen formative years, I walked or ran or bicycled to every nook and cranny of the town. That whole town was my playground and growing up there in the 1940s and 1950s I still remember every road, street, alley, barn, building and house in Lyman during those years. It was a tiny town of only 435 people and while I may no longer always remember what I did yesterday, I still have those memories from long ago.