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.