The Present

THE PRESENT


“Come on girls. Get you stuff loaded. I want to be on the road by 5:00 and it’s already 6:30.”
“Dad, why do we have to leave so early?”
“Because it’s a long drive and I want to make it before tonight.”
“Can we take our pillows?”
“You’ve got everything else in the house, why not? I just hope the tires don’t pop.”

It is our annual Christmas trip from Texas to Mississippi. Nobody from Mississippi travels, so if you leave the state, you are the one who must travel back for a visit. Many years ago my father started moving us around. We lived long distances from the Magnolia State, but we made at least one pilgrimage a year back to the old home place.

When I was a child, prior to our becoming the family gypsies, we rarely traveled more than forty miles in one day. To travel that distance in Mississippi one had to pack a bag for an overnight stay. As an adult, I chose to continue the gypsy tradition my dad started. I bought a custom van with four captain’s chairs, rear radio, TV, VCR, and a rear bench seat that made into a bed. I knew we would be traveling.

My relatives often ask, “Why’d y’all leave?”

They never consider that life in another place could be any better than it is in Mississippi. I sometimes envy their simple, uncluttered lives. I never really answer their question.

With the van loaded with traveling gear, and gifts for the family, we set out on our eastward journey. During the week prior to our leaving, I develop a dry hacking cough. It is a nuisance, but not something likely to postpone our trip.

Our first obstacle is to make it safely out of Houston. No racing driver ever needed more skill. Driving a full sized Chevy Van at 70 plus miles per hour in six lanes of traffic bounded by concrete barriers is a test for even the most seasoned driver. My stress level is at a peak. Several times I yell, “Prepare my bazooka!” as other drivers enter my personal driving space. My girls, who once laughed at my antics, just roll their eyes and give me that “oh please dad” look.

After we clear the sprawl of the megaplex and cross into the Bayou State, I settle down and put my mind on cruise control for the long quiet stretches of highway through the swampland of south Louisiana. I recall the trips we made as children with my father at the wheel of our big Buick. He was less animated than I, but not one to be trifled with. My sister and I often fought it out in the back seat as we traveled, but not so loud as to disturb dad. While in my driving dream state, I also remember the day long walks through the woods with my grandfather as he searched for the perfect Christmas tree. If he couldn’t find a tree with the proper shape, he created it. He cut limbs off of other trees and strategically placed them in holes he drilled in the trunk of the one he had selected. The tree was then trimmed with bubbling tube lights, big multi-colored strings of bulbs, candy canes, tinsel, metallic ornaments, and silver icicles. The house was full of delicious smells. There were apples, oranges, Brazil nuts, Hazel nuts, and colorful hard candies. The old side board was loaded with fruit cake, German chocolate cake, coconut cake, and pecan pie. The best place to visit with my grandmother was in the kitchen. Christmas was a magical time.

Our final destination on this trip is my sister’s house. Since my grandparents died, we meet there. She is the only one of my siblings who still lives in Mississippi. The rest of us are continuing the gypsy tradition. We broke our trip up in segments with short coffee stops at the homes of a few old college buddies who settled in south Louisiana. Frequent stops are a given when traveling with girls.

As the sun descends behind the van, we pass the Mississippi welcome center, and drive into the unchanging time warp of the “state lost in time”. The tall pine trees shade everything with their green shadows even in the winter months. We soon arrive at the winding driveway to my sister’s house. She has outdone herself again. Tradition is important to those who choose to remain in the slower paced world of the Deep South. Her house is filled with colorful markers of the season, the big Christmas tree, a Christmas card display, nativity scenes, wreaths, and a side board filled with culinary delights. It is the eve of the big day, and everyone joins in for food and fellowship.

I, however, am out of gas. I excuse myself and go to bed early. The cough is unrelenting. I can hear the others talking and laughing deep into the night as I try to get to sleep. I awake to the smells of coffee, and breakfast cooking. Christmas morning – the kids were up early. My brow is hot. My head pounds and spins when I try to lift it from the pillow. I feel like sand has been poured into my eye sockets during the night. My appetite is gone – possibly the clearest indicator that my condition is worsening. I hear the gift wrap tearing, followed by squeals of delight, as the kids open their presents. I lie perfectly still, not wanting to move. Finally, after everyone else has finished, I stumble down the hall and into the den to open my presents. I want to die. I acknowledge with gratitude the gift givers, but quietly lean over and tell my wife to load the van. If I’m going meet my maker, I want to do so in my own bed. The girls are understandably disappointed when their mother tells them we are leaving. They hate these long trips, and we just arrived.

I labor to put on enough clothing to keep from being an embarrassment to them when we make our travel stops. I push the button at the back of the van lowering the rear seat into a bed. I throw in two pillows and a blanket, and give my wife the “Forward Ho!” with my last ounce of energy. She drives through the quiet little downtown and onto the interstate highway nosing the big van into the westbound lane. It is Christmas morning and traffic is light. I shiver underneath my blanket as chills highlight every hair follicle on my body. The aft seat is right above the rear axle and after we cross into Louisiana my pounding head is buffeted with the steady “Plop – Plop” of the tires as they roll over the oversized expansion joints in the highway. Even when you’re feeling good, a road trip on a Louisiana interstate is rougher than a Conestoga wagon rumbling down the Santa Fe Trail. This trip seems to last for ever.

I spend several days recovering after I get home. As soon as I am able to sit up and take nourishment, the telephone starts to ring. Call after call comes in commenting on my present to family and friends. They refer to it as the gift that never stops giving. The dry hacking cough punctuating their conversation gives away their meaning. I infected almost the entire population of south Louisiana and Mississippi with the flu.

Now invitations to family gatherings are made by telephone shortly before the event takes place, and always include a question as to whether or not I have a cough or any other symptoms of illness.

Dennis Price

I've been trying for some time to develop a lifestyle that doesn't require my presence. - Garry Trudeau

Tuesday Rerun

This story was originally posted in February of this year when my readership was composed mostly of family members and a few friends. It is a tale of growing up in an era when things moved slower, and people were satisfied with a lot less, and knowing everything going on in the world was not a possibility. I hope you can relate.

THE LAWSON BOYS

Salty damp air smelling of pine, honeysuckle, and magnolia, surrounded me most of the time. Huge live oak trees with gray ornaments of Spanish moss shaded my world. Every road seemed long. Trips in our old blue Ford coupe seemed to go on endlessly. My sister and I would lie in the rear floorboard sweating, and listening to other cars zooming past on the two-lane highway.
It was 1952 and I was five years old. I planted my feet in the sandy soil of coastal Mississippi. Our wooden frame house was gray. It seemed large at the time, but I later discovered it was very small. We had no television or air conditioning, so we played outside most of the time. When it got dark, our mother would call us inside.
Johnny and Jimmy Myers lived next door. They were older. They pretended to like me when I brought them my dad’s tools or something to eat, but at other times they pummeled and harassed me until I left crying. My best friend, David Harper and his older brothers lived down the street. He was my age. His two older brothers were Thomas and Boogie. John Henry Jones lived next door to David. He was also our age. David, John Henry, and I played together most of the time. The older guys occasionally let us join them when they needed someone to do something stupid or dangerous. They knew we would do anything they asked to show we were worthy.
The sandy ruts we called a road ended a short distance beyond my house at a pasture enclosed by a barbed wire fence. If you walked the other direction on our street you would run into pavement just before you got to town. We occasionally shuffled to town on our summer toughened bare feet to get some treat from the grocery store, but most of our activities took place between John Henry’s house and the woods at the back of the pasture.
The woods were dark and swampy. The creeks and ditches there had black water in them. Slimy things slithered beneath the surface. Occasionally the older boys would challenge us to wade into the black water and scoop out some wriggling creature.
John Henry, David and I occasionally went to the switching yard at the railway station near town. We would walk along side the blistering hot metal rails, and pick up loose spikes. John Henry said it was our “doody” to turn them in. I guess, with a name like John Henry, he felt an obligation to the railroad. He was too small to drive spikes, so I suppose picking up loose ones was the next best thing. In the switchyard there were huge black steam engines that hissed and chugged, covering themselves in billowing clouds of white. We were a little afraid of everything.
Afraid the bull or the cows in the pasture would chase us if we got too close. Noises in the woods made us run for home with goose bumps on our arms. And, we were always afraid that we would somehow get stuck on the railroad track when the train was coming. But, more than all this, we feared the Lawson boys.
We didn’t know where they lived or how they ever found the pasture at the end of our road, but they did.
The older boys said they weren’t afraid of them, but we all made preparations to fight them off if they ever decided to cross into our territory.
The Lawson boys came to the pasture and stared at us across the barbed wire fence. They were dirty and their clothes were ragged. Their red hair was long and curly. We all had short hair. They had real big freckles. I had never seen them at school. Sometimes four would show up, but at other times five came. They were all different sizes, but we could tell by looking they were kin. They never smiled. We stayed in the road, and they stayed in the pasture.
My mother, who told us who they were, said their parents hung out in Honky Tonks. I didn’t know what that was, but mother said never to go near them.
I asked Thomas Harper what Honky Tonks were and he said that he would show me. Thomas and Boogie took David and me on the center bars of their bicycles and pedaled us by a couple.
They were buildings with brightly painted metal signs on them. The signs had words on them like “J-A-X”, and “P-A-B-S-T”. The ground around them was covered in crushed oyster shells. The doors were open and loud music blared all the way to the street. We could see people sitting at tables. The Honky Tonks were all lined up in a row across the street from the railroad tracks.
I hoped that my mother wouldn’t see me, or even hear that I had been there. I also hoped that we didn’t run into the Lawson boys or their parents.
The older boys came up with a plan to build two tree houses. They weren’t really houses, just boards nailed between two limbs high up in a big tree. We nailed flat short boards to the tree trunk to make a ladder. The boards were just a little too far apart for my short legs. I was scared when I climbed up to the platform. I was scared when I got there, and I was scared as I inched my way back down.
The Myers had a big tree in their yard, and there was another one at the end of the road. The branches of the one at the end of the road hung over the pasture fence. Thomas and Boogie said we should build one tree house in each tree.
The plan was to stock the slanted platforms with rocks and sticks. The older guys said that David, John Henry, and I should hide in the tree house at the end of the road. When the Lawson boys showed up, the older boys said they would lure them onto the road where we could shower them with rocks and sticks.
Johnny, Jimmy, Thomas and Boogie would then retreat to the other tree house and hold them off from there.
My fear was we would run out of ammunition and the Lawson boys would climb into our tree while the older guys were still in their tree, too far away to rescue us. I imagined being captured by them, beaten up, and taken to their house. I wondered what would happen when their parents came home from the Honky Tonks.
We built the tree houses, stocked them as planned, and spent many watchful hours waiting for the showdown. I had nightmares about it.
Then one day they came back. John Henry saw them first and sounded the alarm. David and I climbed into the tree house at the end of the road. John Henry soon followed. The older boys stood their ground in the middle of the street. When the Lawsons neared the fence, Johnny Myers called out and told them to come over. He said he had something to show them. They crossed the fence and walked under our tree house. The older boys turned and ran toward the Myers house just as we had planned. The Lawsons just stood in the road wondering what was going on. John Henry, David, and I unloaded on them with a shower of rocks.
Our aim was good and the Lawson boys took a pelting. They scurried for the fence and ran back into the pasture. We climbed down and followed the older boys who had seen that we had stopped the invaders at the first tree and were now giving chase. We crossed the barbed wire fence of the pasture and ran whooping behind our retreating foe. Fortunately, no cows were out that day. We chased the Lawsons until they disappeared into the trees on the opposite side of the field. We all slowed down when we got to there. Moving slowly from tree to tree, we caught sight of the small plywood house that was covered in black tar paper. The weeds grew tall right up to it. We could hear several kids crying. Creeping closer, we could see the house better. Several skinny girls with red hair and ragged dresses were looking at bumps on the heads of a couple of the boys who had crossed our fence. The yard was full of old junk, a rusted car, a broken washing machine, a metal barrel full of beer cans, and two old stained mattresses. The inside of the house was dark. I knew I wouldn’t want to live there. We all decided that we should go home.
I didn’t feel good. I was sorry for them now that I knew where they lived. Nobody felt good about what we had done, but no one said much about it. The older guys never told us how bravely we fought. If the Lawsons had ever come back, we would have treated them differently. They never did.
I grew older, and sometimes wondered how we could have been so cruel. We were just afraid, and like most kids, unable to see how our actions would affect others. Many more childhood episodes molded my character. But, our battle with the skinny, red headed, Lawson boys was the first one where I came to a conclusion about the consequences of my actions without being told by a grownup.
I moved away from my friends shortly after our encounter with the Lawsons, and did not return until I was an adult. The trees were much older, but didn’t seem nearly as big as I remembered them. The bark on their trunks had grown around the boards that we once used as ladders. The road was short, and our house was very small. I imagined that the Lawsons had probably never left, and might be in some nearby Honky Tonk.

He attacked everything in life with a mix of extraordinary genius and naive incompetence, and it was often difficult to tell which was which. - Douglas Adams

Heart of a Man - Part II

Part I - ending:
Even with a loaded gun, David still had trouble getting his feet to move further down the dark pathway.

Part II

Soon he heard the gurgling of the creek that signaled his arrival at the prime squirrel hunting area. David moved himself into position beneath one of the decaying, hollow, hardwood trees that lined both sides of the creek. His listened patiently for the tell-tale chatter of the gray squirrel. The darkness faded with the rising of the sun, and David’s surroundings became clearly visible. Suddenly the silence of the swamp was broken by a bedlam of chatter. David’s keen brown eyes turned skyward as they caught a slight movement on a leafless limb of a nearby oak. The fluffy tail of the fat squirrel moved slowly back and forth in a motion similar to that of a metronome, as he barked indignantly at those who had invaded his private play ground during the night. David’s muscles tightened as he slowly raised himself and lifted the heavy shotgun to his shoulder. His thumb caught the exposed hammer and pulled it back into the cocked position with a slight click. He gripped the large gun as firmly as possible, and planted both feet firmly into the spongy soil. His arm extended full length down the dark oil stained stock, and his forefinger stretched to make a slight arch around the trigger. David moved the barrel so that the silver bead at the end was centered on the squirrel’s body. His heart began to pound furiously, his face took on a powdered appearance, and shiny beads of sweat appeared on his brow. His finger nervously began to pressure the trigger. The guttural roar of the shotgun ruptured the early morning serenity of the swamp. David struggled to retain his balance as the barrel spewed forth its contents and arched skyward. His ears rang, his shoulder throbbed, and his nostrils were filled with the strong sulphur smell of burning gun powder. Beneath the tree, David could see a writhing lump of gray fur. He moved quickly toward his prize, pushing aside the underbrush as he went. He stopped and gazed down at the suffering creature in sickening horror. The wounded squirrel’s teeth were bared in pain, and his eyes focused momentarily on the creature that loomed over him. His hind legs moved in quick staccato jerks, and dark red drops of blood oozed from the bristled fur that covered his body. David’s stomach retched, and twisted. He wanted to cry. The squirrel twisted again and stirred the dry, spongy leaves. David knew that the job must be finished. He had seen his father do it dozens of times. He knew the suffering had to be stopped, but now it seemed so brutal. He leaned his gun up against a tree, and extended his trembling hand down, and grasped the warm underside of the squirrel. He could feel the tiny thumping beat of the heart, and see the rise and fall of the miniature chest as it expanded against his fingers. He knew if he was going to do it he couldn’t wait any longer. Carefully he placed the small head on the exposed root of a nearby oak. David’s jaw tightened. There was no time for second thoughts as he raised his boot and slammed it forcefully down causing the oak to resound with a muffled thud. He glanced at the squirrel once more, sighed, put the squirrel in his pouch, shouldered his gun, and headed home.

Youth is the period in which a man can be hopeless. The end of every episode is the end of the world. But, the power of hoping through everything, the knowledge that the soul survives its adventures, that great inspiration comes to the middle-aged. G. K. Chesterton

Heart of a Man - Part I

This story was first published when I was a Junior at the University of Southern Mississippi in 1968. The publication was featured in the student literary anthology, Contemporary. I am going to present it in two different segments. I hope you enjoy the early work of the Texican.

The Heart of a Man

The distant crowing of a rooster pierced the early morning silence. It was soon followed by similar, shrill, grating cry as another barnyard herald joined the fugue of the feathered symphony. Inside the front room of a weathered house, a pile of quilts in the middle of a big, old-fashioned, poster-bed began to unfold, and slowly assumed a more recognizable shape. A few short strands of matted red hair emerged from under the lumpy patchwork. Suddenly a freckled hand swept open the warm cotton nest exposing a sparsely clad body to the filtered chill of the room. Thirteen year old David Reins slowly raised himself into a sitting position, and turned so his legs slid off the edge of the bed, and dangled aimlessly as his mind focused on his surroundings. He glanced through the darkness and his eyes stopped as the luminous dial of the alarm clock came into view. The hands were spread to read five o’clock.

David knew his mother would object. Just in the last year she had become extremely overprotective. David eased his weight onto his bare feet. His hands kept steady pressure on the rusty bed springs until he was in a position to release them slowly and silently. Everything had been carefully placed so it could be found easily without the use of a light. His faded blue jeans, and his old checkered flannel shirt were carefully dropped on a short bench which stood in front of the dressing table with its three arched-topped mirrors. His worn leather boots were directly beneath the bench. From the top of each boot, a thick wool sock hung like a large worm about to escape a tin can. David was almost ready. All he had left to do was to pick up the canvas hunting coat, and the shotgun that stood by the dusty, old chifforobe next to the door. The coat and the shotgun had belonged to his father who died just the year before. The coat was stiff and heavy. The shell slots in each pocket were full, and the vinyl game pouch at the back of the coat still smelled of last year’s hunting successes. David’s arms hung inside the warmth of the sleeves which were several inches too long. He pushed them back in accordion fashion so his hand could grasp the cold, blued-steel barrel of the Winchester .12 gauge.

David opened the door and stepped outside. His eyes watered, his cheeks burned, and his nostrils ached as he followed the white puffs of his breath through the darkness. A November cold front was moving across the southern countryside. His boots crunched and grated on the gravel in his grandfather’s driveway as he moved toward the gap in the barbed wire fence that opened into the woods. David stopped at the gap. The roosters had stopped crowing. Everything was quiet. It was the silent time of dawn when everything pauses to await the crest of the sun. His heart began to beat faster as he gazed into the dark chasm formed by a large hickory-nut tree and some small pin-oaks whose branches arched over the narrow path that led deep into the swamp of the creek. Things were different; he missed his father’s presence on the trail beside him. David’s numb fingers fumbled in the pocket of his hunting coat as he pried three of the new magnum plastic shells from their slots. He pressed two shells into the magazine, then he moved the slide beneath the barrel all the way back, and with a quick, forward jerk slid it back into position, chambering one of the shells. Even with a loaded gun, David still had trouble getting his feet to move further down the dark pathway.

"...without heart a man is meaningless." Star Trek

Football and Life - Part III

The day soon came when the lineup for the first game was announced. Roy was chosen to play first team offensive guard. His mother rued the day when she had agreed to let him play. She believed he would probably quit before the first game. His dad on the other hand was quite proud. Central Jr. High was the largest in the division and they had won every game they played in the last several years. They were Golfview’s first opponent. During the week before the game the coach passed out the new purple game shirts with the gold numbers. Roy wore number 69. The Golfview Gators were ready to play.
The game was played under the lights at the high school stadium. Most of the Gator squad had never been there before, and most had never played under the lights. Their practice field didn’t have any markings on it. The referees had to line them up before the first kick-off. The Central squad looked huge. They won the toss and chose to receive. Coach Mays gathered the Golfview players in a big huddle and gave them a pep talk.
“Men, their return man is named DeAngelo and he is wearing number 32. All of you look for number 32. He is very fast. Hit him low, and hit him hard.”
Coach called Roy’s name for the kick-off squad. All of the team joined in a cheer that started low and got louder as they broke the huddle. “Gator bait, gator bait, gator bait….”
Roy ran onto the field. He looked at the other team and found number 32 near the goal line. He saw himself shedding blockers and plowing DeAngelo into the turf in front of the cheering masses. The referees whistle blew and Golfview’s kicker hit the football. It sailed toward number 32. DeAngelo got the football and started up field. Roy could see nothing but number 32. He was going to hit him untouched. Just as he took his angle, Roy was hit by a crushing cross-body block. He fell to the turf and caught the top of DeAngelo’s sock with one finger. The running back high stepped and jerked free. Roy watched as he crossed the goal line at the other end of the field. They made the extra point, and the score was seven to nothing in favor of Central.
The Golfview team lined up to receive the kickoff. Ronnie Massey, the scat back received the kick and ran it out to the thirty yard line. On the first play from scrimmage, Golfview fumbled the ball and Central recovered. On their next play, they scored another touchdown. They missed the extra point. The score was now thirteen to nothing after three plays. Coach Mays called a time out and the Golfview team ran to the sidelines. He didn’t call them men.
“I didn’t bring you here to have you lie down in front of the other team. You either get out there and stop them, or I’m going to forfeit and take you home.”
The team ran back on to the field. Roy and his team mates played an inspired game after that. They even scored. At the end of the game, the score was Central 13, and Golfview 7.
The rest of the season was a dream. Every team that the scrubby little Golfview team played lost. Central and Golfview met in the championship game. The scene was very similar to their first meeting except that Golfview had something to prove. Roy’s dad and mom had attended every game. Roy even had a girlfriend who ran on to the field and hugged him when the final gun sounded. The championship was a battle from the first whistle. The ball went back and forth between the two teams. At the end of the final quarter, the score was Golfview 14, and Central 7. The clock continued to run during the final two minutes. Central possessed the ball and drove to Golfview’s five yard line. The play gave them a first down. The big Central full back pounded the center of the line. In three plays he was at the one yard line. A defensive guard for Golfview fell and had to be carried off the field. Coach Mays looked to the bench and called for Roy.
“Get in there and seal off that gap. I don’t want anyone to make it through. Is that clear?” “Yes sir” Roy said as he buttoned his chin strap.
Roy got down in the awkward feeling four point stance of a defensive lineman. The center and guard across from him looked huge. He watched the center’s hands and moved when he snapped the ball. Roy lowered his butt and pushed his body upward with all his strength wedging himself into the gap. Through the mass of grunting, pushing flesh he could see the thighs of the big fullback coming straight for him. Roy lowered the crown of his helmet and strained forward with everything he had. The knees of Central’s big fullback hit Roy’s helmet and the runner fell just short of the goal line.
Roy could not hear the cheers or remember what happened on the play. He awoke minutes later on the sideline with his dad looking down at him and his girlfriend standing near by. His mother had already gone to the car. She just couldn’t stand to watch. Later he learned that he had held his ground. Golfview won.
Roy’s dad, who was gravely ill, didn’t live long enough to see another season, but sometimes one is enough.

Football and Life - Part II

He was at the practice field early. The Golfview physical training area was a large sandy expanse covered with sand spurs and bounded on three sides by palmetto, cabbage palms, and other scrub plants. The guys from Golfview subdivision were all wearing matching shorts and tee shirts. Some of the group from South Gate drifted into the brush on the other side of the fence for one last cigarette. Roy and his friends stood in between them. They watched and waited for instructions. The coaches held a clinic on how to properly put on the uniform. They told the players where to buy their cleats and other gear not provided by the school.
The practice started with fifty and one hundred yard time trials. Roy ran as fast as he could, but when the players were assigned, he was told to report to the offensive line coach. . He didn’t know the difference between offense and defense. He was just happy to be there. The rest of the afternoon was spent running. He had never run so much in his life. His lungs hurt, his legs shook, and his gym clothes were soaked and sticking to his body. Over the next few days they ran until they collapsed. The loose white sand made footing difficult. Roy hoped he wouldn’t give out. Some guys threw up across the fence at the edge of the practice field. The heavier smokers gave up on football altogether. Roy stayed. His mother was disappointed.
After a week of running, push-ups, jumping jacks, squat thrusts, and agility drills the coach told them to report to the field in pads. Roy saw the world for the first time from inside a football helmet. The curved nylon face mask looked like a small ladder just below the level of his eyes. The pads and other gear made him look like quite a physical specimen. On the other hand it made the really big guys look like giants. Roy lumbered from the field house with the rest of the team. The metal tipped nylon cleats made an awful racket as they ran down the concrete runway. The coaches and some of the football dads made a wooden seven-man blocking sled. It was a behemoth. Seven players lined up in a three point stance in front of the blocking pads attached to its front. On the coach’s whistle they lunged at the great wooden beast slamming their shoulders into the pads and driving their legs with short choppy steps. Because the field was sand, and because the blocking sled was homemade, it rarely slid. The runners of the sled tipped forward and dug into the loose turf. The linemen continued to drive with their legs until the coaches’ second whistle. A large deep hole formed beneath their cleated shoes as they strained against the immovable object. Roy’s calves cramped and his thighs burned but he continued. He wasn’t going to quit. His pads got heavy as the cotton backing soaked up the sweat.
The offensive line coach showed them how to make a proper block on a running play. He showed them how plays were diagramed with X’s and O’s, and where they were to block based on the play called. After that, they learned pass blocking, keeping their butts low and getting under their opponent. They practiced these moves over and over again. Then the coaches called the entire team back together for fumble drills and tackling practice. Roy thought he was going to die. Every time he thought it was time for practice to end they would start something else. In the early stages, they practiced everything at half speed concentrating on their form. The coaches taught them to tackle with their heads on the same side of the ball carrier as the ball. The wet pads picked up the grit from the sandy field and rubbed them raw. Just when Roy thought he could go on no more, the coach blew his whistle and lined them up at one end of the field. They were five or six abreast and on the coach’s whistle they ran one hundred yard wind sprints. At the end of the field they got back in line and repeated the drill. Before practice was over, players were stumbling and falling down. Roy drug his spent body to the showers and stood under the soothing blast. He left his equipment in the compartment with his name on it and headed home. He went to bed early that night.
The following days passed with the same intensity. The strong stench of ammonia and body odor filled the locker room and increased with each passing day. Roy thought they could probably win if the other team had to smell their pads before the game.
During the second week, the coaches picked up the speed. They added tackling drills at full speed. Bull in the ring and head on tackling introduced Roy to the physics of two large objects meeting helmet to helmet. He dreaded tackling their big fullback, Mike Rains. Mike weighed 180 pounds and had a beard as heavy as that of any man. Roy got up after some tackles looking out the ear hole of his helmet. If the offensive linemen missed a block, the coach would make them run the ball with no blockers. Several times the coaches pulled up on the belt of Roy’s football pants as he lay sprawled on the ground trying to regain his breath after a collision. He was playing football. Roy was put into the lineup at Guard. He was the smallest man on the line. He often pulled away from the line on an end run called to his side and led the running back around. Most of the players on the offensive and defensive interior line were over two hundred pounds. Roy had to try and hold them out on pass plays and block them on running plays. His battered and bruised body was evidence of his tenacity. He had been run over, stepped on, cleated, kneed, poked, jabbed, and flattened, and this at the hands of his own teammates. He wondered what playing against other players might be like. The players from South Gate were the toughest. They played dirty, and they enjoyed a good fight. Some had earned nicknames; Benny the biter, Knees Orton, Walrus, Scat. Benny would bite the nearest leg or arm in the pile after a tackle. Once, in the tangle of the pile, he bit himself, and spent the rest of the game trying to figure out who did it.

Football and Life - Part I

This is a life story in three parts. While the story is told through a single season of freshman football, it is a story of life.

The Season

Sweat dripped off of Roy Bond’s oily teen face. It glistened in the bright September sun. The temperature was still in the high 90s in south Florida. The registration line stretched from one end of the school to the other. The hallways were open and ran along the exterior of the building. Roy was leaning out to see how much further he had to go when someone stuck a permission form in his hand. Turning, he stared at the slender man with the crew cut.
“Son, get you parents to sign this form, and report to the field house tomorrow for a football physical.”
“But…” His stammering response fell short of the back of the man’s head. The speaker continued down the long line with another man following close behind. They were dressed alike in Khaki shorts and matching purple shirts. Both had whistles hanging from cords around their necks. They sized up each male in the line. If they had any size at all, they repeated the short speech and handed them a form.
Golfview Junior High School opened its doors just two years before. Roy stood in line to register for the ninth grade. The school sat between an affluent golfing community, Golfview, and the infamous South Gate, a place where the railroad tracks literally marked the boundary between the fortunate and the unfortunate. A few kids, including Roy, lived in a semi-rural area near the school. Both of Roy’s parents worked and had no time for golf.
He stared at the form in his hand and wondered about the possibility of playing football. Roy weighed 165 pounds, but most of it was baby fat. Very few kids in his neighborhood ever played any organized sport other than baseball. Still, the thought of putting on a football uniform and running onto the field in front of cheering fans excited him. Sweat continued to streak down his cheek as he waited in the slow moving line, but Roy didn’t notice. He dreamed of stardom. In the past, only the well-to-do kids played football at Golfview. The school win/loss record was dismal.
That evening when his dad got home, Roy gave him the insurance card and permission form.
“Dad, can I go out for football?”
Before he could answer Roy’s mother said, “You’re in the band.”
“I could do both.” He countered.
“You’ve never played football.” She said, looking at her husband for some support.
His dad was an athlete: a champion boxer in the Navy. Roy could sense that his dad was on his side.
Roy remembered how his dad tried to prepare him for life. It all started in grammar school. He was too young to start. He still had his baby teeth. But there he was at school, back against the wall, trying to avoid contact with strangers. A large boy stood in front of him looking down at his upturned face. His stare was unfriendly.
“What are you looking at?” The large boy asked...
“Uh, you look sleepy.” Roy said.
Apparently he took offense at Roy’s retort and pounded him into a submissive blob. This was his first encounter with a bully. His dad later told him that crying and rolling into a ball was not an acceptable defense tactic. He tried to teach him the “sweet science”, but Roy was left handed, and a bit of a bumble foot, so he progressed slowly and avoided physical confrontation. By the end of elementary school he gained some confidence, but, just when he began to feel comfortable, Junior High School started. The process had to be repeated.
His dad looked at him and then back at his mother. “Let’s let him tryout.”
His mother turned away in defeat. Roy started in on the usual list of promises related to what he would do if allowed to play. Dad signed the form.
The next day Roy stood in front of the concrete block field house with a great host of other potential players. Three major groups huddled in separate areas around the front steps. The kids from Golfview community stood nearest the door. Most of them had played before. Another group from South Gate milled around in the shade of a nearby palm tree. This group smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and Vitalis hair tonic. Roy didn’t know the South Gate kids very well because he spent most of the last two years trying to avoid them.
The new coach stepped out of the field house and addressed them. “Men, line up and have your signed forms ready when you get to the door. After you pass your physical, report to the equipment room and check out your pads. Practice will start this afternoon at four. Bring your equipment when you come.”
He called them “men”. Roy felt tougher already. He rubbed his hand across his face to see if he could feel a whisker. He thought for a second that he did, but realized that it was only a pimple. Once through the door they were told to strip down to their shorts. Roy looked around to see how he measured up with the rest of the guys. He thought maybe he should order the Charles Atlas muscle building course after he got home. Once the poking and prodding behind the curtain was complete, they redressed and picked up their equipment. All were fitted for a helmet, pads, practice uniform and game pants. They had to provide their own jock strap. Roy had never worn one before. He left with a hefty load of armor stuffed into his football pants. He purchased a jock strap at the local drug store on his way home. That was embarrassing. Now he stood in front of a full length mirror and practiced putting it on over his pants. He had a horrible vision of standing naked and afraid in front of strangers and not knowing how to put it on. Once he mastered his most basic piece of equipment, he worked on figuring out the rest. The remainder of the day whizzed by as he dreamed of flying tackles and crushing blocks. All of these delivered by him, of course.

Boxing 101

The man in the picture is my great uncle, Randolph Dallas Price. Once know as "Blackjack Price". He was a professional boxer around 1917. He boxed in the West and Northwest and was at one time the middle weight Northwest Champion. He was a couple of years older than my grandfather. My grandfather had the first two knuckles on his left hand pushed back from their original location. I asked him once how that happened and he said that's how far up a bully's nose he pushed his hand in a fist fight. My father also boxed in the Navy during WWII. I did some boxing, and have enjoyed watching the sport over the years. My wife does not share my fascination with the sweet science. I don't enjoy the current boxing venue, but I occasionally watch to vicariously satisfy some innate need. It is probably something in the Welsh and Irish genes.

I wrote a short short story very loosely based on the life of Dallas. In real life Dallas and his brother Stanhoper went to Utah to work in the mines. Dallas met and married Bardella Smith in Utah and later the brothers went to Los Angeles and found work making movie sets. Around 1917 while in Utah, he fought as a middleweight and gained a minor championship. Other boxers in the area in the same general weight class were Sailor Pat Petrosky, Jack Dillon, and the famous "Manassa Mauler", Jack Dempsy. In his early days, Dempsy was a middleweight. Dallas was scheduled to fight Dempsy, but the fight never came off. I haven't verified all of this with Snopes. The following story is fiction. The names have been changed to keep relatives from sending me corrections related to the facts of the story.

THE COMEBACK

Dallas “Blackjack” Bond, former world light heavyweight champ, had returned to New York City. Here he had once thrilled boxing fans in Madison Square Garden, and here he met and married Angela Minoni, a petite dark haired beauty he called Angie. Born in poverty to elderly parents, he learned to make his way in life early. In the sweltering heat of the Mississippi lumber camps, he swung an axe and pulled on a cross-cut saw until he was lean and strong. When his parents died, he went to New Orleans and took a job as a longshoreman working on the docks. There were always rough men around looking for a fight. They soon learned that the tall slender kid from Mississippi had a crushing left hook.

“It felt like someone hit me with a blackjack.” An opponent once commented after regaining his senses.

Angie was supportive, but as the years took a physical toll, she convinced him to leave the ring. They moved to Las Vegas, where he opened a gym and became a trainer. They had no children, but lived well and enjoyed each other. Last September she lost a hard fought bout with cancer. Her death hit Dallas like a liver shot in the twelfth round of a fifteen rounder. He was sixty eight years old, conscious, but on the canvas and unable to get up. He sold the gym and moved back to New York in December, hoping he could find something of Angie. It was the old neighborhood, but everything had changed. The coldness of the winter night seeped in through the wrinkles in the old building. Dallas stirred under the covers in his small bed. His six foot two inch frame took up the greater portion of its length. He slept in his gray sweats for added warmth. Throwing back the blankets, he arose and shuffled the short distance to his bathroom. The door frame barely accommodated the width of his shoulders. Standing at the sink, he splashed icy tap water onto his face. He ran his wet fingers through his wavy graying hair, and then dried his face with a tattered green towel. He stared into the mirror and wondered what Angie had ever seen in that mug. The reflection of his slate blue eyes looked back at him. The thick scar tissue drooped at the corner of each eyebrow and made him look sad. His nose was flat and slightly crooked. With age, his cauliflower ears had lengthened and now looked like unfinished candle wax sculptures. The line of his jaw didn’t exactly line up either. He turned away and moved to the living room. A framed photograph of a youthful Angie stood beneath the lamp on the end table. Dallas glanced her way and forced a smile as he lowered himself to the hard floor for some push-ups and sit-ups, but his heart wasn’t in it. He held his huge calloused hands at arms length while working his fingers to loosen the stiffness in his knuckles. Even though his once-chiseled body had smoothed with age, it was still impressive. He stood and moved to the window. The sun shone brightly. It was time for a walk down memory lane.He slipped out of his warm-ups and put on some heavy woolen trousers and a nice plaid dress shirt. He drank the last of his coffee, put on his coat and hat, and left the building. For a moment he stood on the sidewalk, basking in the contrast of warm sunshine and crisp air. Before him an ever-changing pallet of skin colors moved over the gray concrete, accompanied by a symphony of dialects. The city had its own atmosphere. He could smell smog, refuse, and people, mixed with the more pleasing and pungent odors of garlic and onion cooking.

“Let go of my purse!” A woman was screaming.

Dallas turned and saw a gang of young punks surrounding an elderly woman who was hanging on to the strap of her purse with amazing tenacity. He felt a surge of adrenaline as he ran toward her.

“Let go of her now!” he yelled as he waded into the group, shielding the lady who had now fallen to the sidewalk. “It’s not worth it guys, back off.”

A large young man sneered as he sauntered toward Dallas. The others watched and grinned. “Looks like you need a lesson in respect old man.” The bully threw a looping right as he spoke. Dallas ducked to the left and the punch found nothing but air over his right shoulder. Instinct brought his left fist in a short arc to the young man’s jaw. His assailant fell hard to the sidewalk. The others scattered.

“Are you alright ma’am?” Dallas asked, as he helped the frightened woman from the ground.

“Yes, I think so. Thank you so much. I didn’t know what I was going to do.” “Do you want me to call the police?” She looked down at the young man now lying at her feet. “No, I don’t think he’ll be bothering anyone for quite some time.” She brushed herself off, thanked Dallas again, and started home.

Dallas thought of Angie. She had fought so hard, but he couldn’t help her. He knew she would have been pleased with him today. You know Angie, I’m thinking about making a comeback. The legs are gone, the reflexes aren’t so good, but I still have my left hook. The adrenaline was wearing off and the cold air chilled him. I think I may do it in Biloxi though. He glanced heavenward and his blue eyes were smiling again.

This is Dallas in later years with his wife Bardella. They had children and lived a long and happy life together.

I have numerous versions of this poem, because I found it difficult to put verse and boxing together. This is my latest attempt. (9th edition)

The Fighter

Sweat covers his body,
forms dark stains on
satin trunks,
a sheen on
red leather gloves.
Years of training
in stale smelling gyms
to fight.
He shuffles forward,
posing,
moving,
punching.
Sweat drips pink
over scarred eyelids
to taut canvas.
The beauty of his work
lost in its brutality.

The Wolf - Finale

When you go to Court you are putting your fate into the hands of twelve people who weren't smart enough to get out of Jury Duty. Norm Crosby

It's better to be tried by twelve than carried by six. annonymous

Continuation from Part II.

* * * *

It was Saturday. Now, instead of a leisurely ride in the stealth mode, I backed my motorcycle out of my garage and headed for Ken’s house with a sense of urgency. My stomach knotted with anticipation.
When I arrived, he was standing in the door leading from his garage into the dining room. I looked in all directions for some sign of vandalism. I parked my motorcycle, got off, and cautiously approached Ken as he stood in the doorway.
“What is it I need to see?” I asked.
Ken just stood there pointing at the wall across the dining room opposite the door. I looked, but I still couldn’t make out what he was pointing at.
“What am I supposed to be looking at?” I asked.
Ken answered, “The bullet hole.”
I strained to see the dark pine paneling across the dimly lit room. Then I saw it, a perfectly round puncture about chest high and in a direct line with the door leading to the garage.
“The slug is lying in the bathroom floor on the other side of that wall. It broke the tile, but the bullet is in pretty good condition.” Ken walked in the direction of the bathroom as he spoke. I followed. Ken and I both looked at the hole in the bathroom wall where the tile had broken. There was a big hunk of lead lying in the floor.
“How did this happen?” I asked.
“I had just gotten Judy and the kids off to her mother’s house. I came back inside and sat down at the dining table to eat a sandwich. I heard the venetian blinds on the door to the garage make a noise like someone was opening the door. My back was to the door, so I turned to see who it was. I’ve gotten so fat I had to lean to get around. I saw a muzzle flash and felt wind from the bullet as it passed my head.”
“Did you see the guy?” I asked.
“I only got a brief glimpse of him as he spun in the doorway and ran out of the garage. I fell out of the dining room chair, so I guess he thought he hit me.”
“Was he white or black?”
“White.”
“You couldn’t catch him?”
Ken smiled and looked a little embarrassed. “I got up and ran to the bedroom to get my pistol. I was so shook-up I forgot it was right on the dining room table in front of me. By the time I collected myself and got back to my gun, the shooter was long gone. I called the State Police then I came to get you.”
I couldn’t say anything. I just stood there looking at him. I bummed a cigarette and we both just sat there and smoked until Texas Ranger, Tommy Wells, arrived. Tommy notified the police department, since it was in their jurisdiction, and their detective, Jimmy Bragg arrived at about the same time. Both officers interviewed Ken. Tommy took the bullet to have it analyzed by the state crime lab.
After they left, Ken and I decided that it was time to shake the trees. Since he was a probation officer, he had numerous sources in the criminal community. We made several stops and put the word out we were seriously interested in finding out who tried to kill Ken.
The next day Tommy Wells called Ken and told him the ballistic test on the bullet showed it was fired from a .44 magnum. Wells said the gun was probably customized. He also said that because of the increased number of lands and grooves, they believed the gun probably had a target barrel.
Ken called later that evening and told me he would come by and pick me up. He said he talked to a source who told him a recently paroled ex-con named Corey House was drunk and bragging about killing a cop. Ken wanted to talk to him. The guy told Ken that House was still at the swimming pool of the Magnolia Ridge apartments.
We both knew we should call for backup, but Tommy Wells was out of pocket, and in light of recent happenings, we really couldn’t go to the P. D. We decided to try and find House ourselves before he disappeared.
Ken picked me up and we rode in his car. It was equipped with a police radio.
The Magnolia Ridge apartments were new and slightly up scale. We couldn’t figure out how a low life like Corey House could afford to live there. We pulled up in the parking lot near the entrance to the swimming pool. We both got out of the car.
“You’ve got the badge, so I’ll hang back until you make contact.” I said.
Ken nodded and opened the gate to the pool area. I followed and looked over the loungers for someone who might not belong. The prison tattoos on the ivory pale skin weren’t hard to find. Ken approached the dark haired male who occupied the lounge chair next to a pile of empty Coors cans.
“Hey! Corey,” Ken said.
“Yeah?” “What do you want?” Corey asked as he raised his head and tried to focus his beer-clouded brain.
“I’m a probation officer.” Ken said. He showed Corey his badge.
I positioned myself to the right and slightly behind Ken with an open field of fire. I watched closely as Ken talked to House. It looked like the light in his brain finally clicked on. He recognized Ken. House let his right hand slide slowly down to a wadded beach towel that lay next to his chair. I saw the towel start to rise off the concrete pool apron. I then saw the outline of a long barreled revolver.
“Gun! Gun!” I yelled as I reached for the magnum in my waistband.
Ken was very fast for a big man. He drew his pistol and stepped to his right gripping his pistol in both hands as he pointed it at House’s body. House fired wide as he swung the long barreled gun skyward. The big .44 magnum roared and tore a black hole in the white beach towel. Ken emptied his Beretta at point blank range into House’s chest. It was over in seconds. He was dead. Avant stared at House’s lifeless body. He started to shake. A healthy dose of adrenaline pumped through his massive system. We both waited for a few seconds before we put our pistols away. Everyone around the pool looked like they were playing freeze tag. They stared, but said nothing. I ran to Ken’s car and radioed the State Police. I asked them to contact Ranger Tommy Wells, and the Roseview Police Department.
I gathered the names and addresses of all those who were present, and I asked them to stay until the police arrived. No one knew what House told us, if anything. Only one or two needed to know right now anyway. We had survived the encounter, but we lost the witness. Not the best outcome, but, definitely better by a sizeable margin than not surviving ourselves.
We both smoked another cigarette as we waited for the police. We now had a firm resolve. All leads would be checked. We had to be thorough. The wolf was among us and removing the fleece would be no easy task.

The Wolf - Part II

Everywhere I go I'm asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them. There's many a best-seller that could have been prevented by a good teacher. - Flannery O'Connor

Continued from Part I

I returned to Roseview with some information, but a lot more questions. The Dallas DEA agent told me Coomer was part of a group of narcotics agents who thought that it was necessary to use drugs in order to do your job. Several of these guys became addicts themselves, and he believed Coomer was one of them. He said most of them were no longer cops. He wondered, and so did I, why Roseview hired someone with this kind of reputation.
I continued interviewing the clients for the attorneys who hired me. How could one undercover officer, operating with no help from anyone else, be successful with such a diverse group? Some of the defendants came from the most well to do families in town, others from the middle class, and some from the dregs of society. Until ten months ago Coomer and his girlfriend were strangers to Roseview. This just didn’t sit right with me.
The media-blitz continued and the anti-drug sentiment in the community was stirred to a boil. The trials began and the prosecution was scoring big points. During the first trail, one indigent mope was given ninety-nine years to serve for simple possession. He was charged with possessing a quantity of cocaine that weighed less than a paper clip. His attorney had no previous criminal defense experience. All of the clients who I interviewed told me Coomer, and his girlfriend injected cocaine, and smoked marijuana right along with them during their encounters. Many of them said Coomer provided the drugs they used. This story was repeated by all the defendants, young, old, white, black, rich, and poor. I saw a lot of smoke and I knew that there must be a fire burning somewhere.
I got a late night call at my home from an anonymous source. The mystery caller said that Coomer had just recently gotten a large dragon tattooed on the inside of his right forearm. The caller said it was put there to cover needle tracks. The next day I checked with the only two tattoo parlors in town, and I found Mark Gwaltney, the artist who painted the dragon.
Mark told me that just about a week ago a guy came into his shop and picked out a long dragon tattoo. He said that the guy told him he was on probation and he needed a long tattoo to cover up some needle tracks. Gwaltney told me he looked at the guy’s arm and told him he could do it.
“I really didn’t think that much about it until I saw the guy’s picture in the newspaper. When I found out he was a cop, I nearly freaked. I wanted to tell somebody, but this guy was a cop, so who could I tell?” Gwaltney said.
I took a sworn statement from Gwaltney and told him he would probably have to testify in court in the near future. He was a little nervous about testifying, but said he would.
I gave this information to Harry Beal. He was a skillful defense attorney, and one of the attorneys who used my services. His client was next on the docket. Harry used some of the background information I had obtained in Garland, and the sworn statement of Gwaltney as he cross-examined Steve Coomer. Coomer was taken by complete surprise. He was visibly shaken. Harry had opened “Pandora’s Box”.
Judge T. Erskin Ross ordered Coomer to take off his jacket and roll up the sleeve of his shirt and show his arm to the court. Much protesting ensued but to no avail. After the attorneys for both sides had a lengthy conversation at the bench, Coomer was allowed to show the judge his arm in chambers.
Judge Ross ordered his probation officer Ken Avant, to investigate the allegations of drug use by undercover officer Steve Coomer. Probation officers often act as the investigative arm of the court when the judge feels there is a need. The Dallas press picked up the story and started running an investigative feature that was not nearly as kind to Steve Coomer as the Roseview paper had been. The evidence in the case before the court went to the jury and Beal’s defendant was acquitted. The whole town seemed to be in turmoil.
Ken Avant caught me as I was leaving the courthouse.
“I want everything you’ve got on Steve Coomer. My judge wants to know everything.”
I called the attorneys who hired me and they told me to turn the entire report over to Avant.
“Ken, if you have any questions about the report just give me a call. I’ll be in my office all afternoon.” I left and went to my office to make some more calls. I knew we struck a nerve and this might loosen some tongues. The rest of the afternoon flew by. I was about to leave when the phone rang. It was Ken Avant.
“You’ll never guess what happened to me after you left.”
“You’re probably right, why don’t you tell me?” I said.
“I called the chief and asked if I could come and interview Coomer about the allegations made in court today. He told me he and Coomer would be at my office no later than 4:30. I was right in the middle of reading your report when the phone rang. The caller did not identify himself, but it sure sounded like Coomer to me.” Ken said.
“Well, what did he have to say?” I asked.
“That’s the weird part. He said if I knew what was good for me, I would use my influence with the judge wisely. Then he hung up.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I went in and told the judge about it. He was really upset, but we couldn’t prove who it was so he told me to really press the issue. I waited at my office until after 5:00, but Coomer and the chief didn’t show.”
“Big surprise right?” I asked.
“You haven’t heard anything yet. I went down to my car and started to leave the parking lot and my left front wheel fell off. I got out and looked at my parking space and all of the lug nuts were lying on the ground.”
“I guess we really hit a homerun with our little surprise in court today.” I said. “How did you get home?”
“I put my tire and wheel back on and drove to the house. I was really pissed, but it just keeps getting better. When I got home the phone was ringing. I answered, and the same anonymous person who called the office asked me if I made it home O.K. I told him yes, and he said I was lucky. He warned me again to use my influence with the judge properly. I assured him I would be very thorough and fair in my investigation. He hung up before I really got to tell him what was going to happen if I caught him.” Ken said.
“Man, I can’t believe these people. You be careful. Let me know if you need any help.” I said.
“Okay, you do the same. We’ll get the bikes out this Saturday afternoon if the weather holds and see if we can’t cold trail Mr. Coomer for a while. I need to get to know him a lot better.” Ken said.
“That sounds good, see you Saturday.”
Ken just lived two blocks behind me and after the strange events of the afternoon, we all decided to take extra precautions. I called the attorneys and told them what happened. Ken prepared to send his family to stay with relatives. Several of the attorneys did also. I loaded several shotguns and placed them strategically throughout my house. The remainder of the week flew by.

To be continued.

The Wolf - Part I

This will be a serial story in three parts. I hope you have time to visit over the next three days and read the complete story.

THE WOLF IS AMONG US


The roar of Ken’s big Harley caused me to stop chewing on the tuna sandwich I just started. I expected him later in the afternoon. I slid back from the table and walked to the back door. Ken Avant was huge. In his college days he was an offensive tackle for Kansas State University. Now he was a probation officer. I noticed his face was ashy white. He sucked hard on a cigarette, pinching the filter between his thumb and forefinger. A ring of red turned the white paper into gray ash. He flipped the butt into the yard. I could tell something wasn’t right.
“Hey. Stone, you’ve got to come to my house right now.” Ken’s words seemed to float out on a stream of smoke.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Just get your bike and come with me. I’ll have to show you. Bring your pistol.”
It was then I noticed the 9mm Beretta stuffed in the waistband of his jeans. He turned and walked back to his Harley. Rushing inside, I grabbed my keys and my snub-nosed Smith & Wesson revolver. Lately I kept it loaded and close at hand. I shoved it under my belt at the small of my back, and ran to the garage to get my motorcycle. Ken’s Harley rumbled away in the distance. I sat there on my cycle waiting for the engine to warm up.

* * * *

“Nine Month Undercover Drug Operation Nets 120.” This April headline in the Roseview Telegraph changed our lives.
I spent twenty years as a criminal investigator with the feds before I finally quit. I loved the work, but I hated the bureaucracy. I took a job teaching Criminal Justice at the local Junior College, supplementing my income by working as a private investigator. I enjoyed owning my own business and being my own boss. Stone Turner Investigations was a one-man operation, and until recently, it involved helping insurance companies check out questionable claims. The pace was comfortable.
Now, my old black rotary phone seemed to ring again every time I cradled the handset. The office of Turner Investigations was small and opened into a hall near the back door of an older business property. It seemed that every attorney in town suddenly needed my services. They all had either been appointed or hired to represent defendants arrested in the sweep. They wanted me to do the preliminary interviews with their clients. I was an expert at sifting bullshit, and sorting out jumbled accounts of criminal activity.
My calls to the police department left me puzzled. First of all, it surprised me I hadn’t heard anything about the operation before I read it in the paper. None of the local police officers seemed to know anything about it either. I could tell they weren’t just holding back. Police officers are terrible liars, and they usually share information with others in the fraternity. My teaching status kept me connected.
Undercover officer Steve Coomer had become the man of the hour. His picture appeared daily in area newspapers as he made the rounds of local service clubs talking about the evil influx of drugs in our quiet little community. Soon, the drug bust became the topic of conversation from the Club D’Lisa to the Country Club. The one big question in everyone’s mind was – Who is this guy Coomer?
I made a call after hours to the residence of a police sergeant who was a personal friend of mine.
“Hey, Bob, it’s Stone.”
“Yeah, what’s up on your side of the fence?” he said.
“Same as you – This drug bust. What do you know about Coomer?”
“Nada, amigo. I don’t think anybody here knows much about him. The talk is that the chief hired him, and that he reports directly to him.”
“Doesn’t strike you as being a little unusual?” I asked.
“Yeah, several people around here think the air smells a little funny, but you didn’t hear any of this from me.”
“I never talked to you – You know that.”
“Well, I’ve done a little checking on my own and you might be interested in this. He was a lieutenant with the P. D. in Garland. I hear he left under a cloud. He’s got his former female partner living with him here. You might want to go there and look under a few rocks.”
“I think I will. Keep me posted. I’ll let you know what turns up in Garland.” I said.
“O.K., but call me at home. Things around the station are a little strange these days and I might be able to help you more if no one knows I’m talking to you.”
“I don’t even know you. Keep you head down. I’ll talk to you when I get back.” I said.
I headed for Garland. My inquiries at the police department there were met with a chilly response. I didn’t get the feeling they weren’t talking because I was a private investigator. We often got snubbed when we approached cops who didn’t know us. I had a sense most of them wanted to say something. I was sure they had read the newspaper accounts. Finally, I found a police dispatcher, Hazel Mize, who was willing to answer some questions. It was her day off and she was at home. Hazel was beyond middle age. Her hair was dyed jet black and she wore a loose fitting cotton print robe and house shoes. We sat at the kitchen table in her small home and drank coffee as we talked. She lit a Virginia Slim cigarette and took a long drag. As we talked she alternated between the coffee cup in her right hand, and the cigarette in her left hand.
“I’m not afraid of Steve Coomer like some of these people are. I’ve been around a long time, and I don’t plan to leave any time soon. He had some people around here real scared before he left.”
“Why were they scared?” I asked.
“Well, there were all sorts of rumors about people who crossed him. He was running with a bunch of other narcs who worked on task forces in this area. They had a way of taking care of people who didn’t go along with their program. They made up their own rules.”
“Well what do you know from your own experience with Coomer?” I asked.
“I was dispatching one night when another officer came in and gave me a serial number from a pistol. He told me to check it to see if it was stolen. I did and I got a hit. I asked him if he had recovered the gun, and he said that Coomer was carrying it. I asked Coomer about it and he told me that he had gotten it in a recent drug bust. He said he was using it for a while before he logged it in. I don’t think he ever did put it in the evidence vault.”
“Was that the only thing you knew about?”
“Directly, yes, but there was a lot more. The city let him resign rather than fire him. There were drugs missing from the evidence locker, informants turned up dead, several other people had mysterious fires, and a lot of other strange things happened to people who had dealings with him. He had a fire at his apartment and had to jump from an upstairs window to get out. The firemen found a stash of drugs in his closet after the fire. He told them he had checked the drugs out of the evidence vault to use in his undercover work. You should check with the guys at the fire department.”
“What do you know about his partner, Kay Holtzcraft?” I asked.
Hazel shook her head and lit another cigarette. “Kay came here as a rookie patrolman. Steve asked the chief if she could work with him after she finished the academy. He said she looked young, and no one in the area knew her. The chief agreed to let her try. Steve was a sergeant back then. He was married to his third wife, Judy, at the time, and his second wife, Diane, lived with them in the same house. Rumor had it that he was fooling around with Kay too. Pretty soon he divorced his third wife and moved into an apartment. Kay resigned from the department shortly after he did. I heard that they were still living together.”
I finished my coffee and thanked her for her information.
In route to the fire department, I stopped by the employment office for the City of Garland and asked if I could see the personnel files of Coomer and Holtzcraft. I was given the standard answer about the confidentiality of files. I left my card just in case someone changed his mind. I did confirm their previous employment at the Garland Police Department. My investigator’s intuition told me there was a stink here that everyone wished would just go away.
My visit to the fire department was more fruitful. Several of the firemen present told me that Coomer had been at home at the time of the fire, and had jumped from a second story window to escape the blaze. They also confirmed Hazel’s story about a stash of drugs in his closet. One of the firemen said no one bought Coomer’s story about the drugs, including the police chief. He said that Coomer was asked to leave or get fired after the fire.
I interviewed several other officers who worked with Steve Coomer in Dallas and Collin counties. They would only talk in generalities about Coomer. They knew if they gave me specifics, they might end up in court testifying for the defense. No cop likes to do that. I also interviewed a retired DEA agent who worked with Coomer in the past. He told me straight out Coomer was dirty. They all knew the stories of the stolen pistol, the drugs and the fire, missing drugs, and dead informants. None of them however could point me to the source of any hard evidence. I sensed that some of them might still be afraid of Coomer and his former partners.

To be continued.

Bullies

I'm inclined to believe we have all encountered those who because of their physical size and poor self esteem became bullies. Those individuals who prey on others, whom they perceive to be weaker, to elevate their own feelings of self worth or self importance. It may have been when you were young, or it may have been at the job site when you were an adult. Regardless of where and when you meet one, you are likely to remember the experience. I was never much over average size and I had average physical abilities when I was growing up. I didn't really blossom physically until I was an adult working in law enforcement. I spent countless hours in the gym to create a look that said, "Don't tread on me." When dealing with bullies, the psychological edge is often enough to cause doubt and send them looking for easier targets.

BULLIES
I was too young to start school. I still had my baby teeth. But there I was, back against the wall, trying to avoid contact with strangers. A large boy stood in front of me looking down at my upturned face. His stare was unfriendly.
“What are you looking at?” he asked.
“You look sleepy.” I said.
Apparently he took offense at my retort and pounded me into a submissive blob. This was my first encounter with a bully. I didn’t report the incident to my dad because I knew he would have questions about what I did to defend myself. I didn’t think crying and rolling into a ball would count for much.
I come from a long line of good boxers. Dad made attempts early in my life to instruct me the art of self-defense. I’m left handed, and a bit of a bumble foot, so I avoided physical confrontation. Several times I tried to mock the tricks of my favorite cowboy stars, but it never worked out just as it did on the big screen. I once tried to grab a charging playmate and roll backwards with my feet in his stomach thus launching him over my head. My legs were unable to support his weight and to my father, who was watching from the window, it looked as though I had wilted in the face of a challenge. Further lessons were a necessity.
I gained confidence as I rose through the elementary grades, but, just when I felt comfortable, Junior High School started. I was a round faced seventh grader. The bullies I encountered here were bigger and meaner than any I had seen before. Some rode motorcycles to school and wore leather jackets. They had longish greasy hair combed back on both sides forming a duck tail at the back. The front was curled to fall over on their forehead in the front. I spent hours contemplating what I would do if attacked. I timed my comings and goings from school to avoid any notice from that crowd. However, it was not to be.
It was picture day and I dressed in a new white shirt and a bow tie. Sammy, the class bully, sat directly behind me. The teacher was out of the room. Sammy had a side kick named Earl who always jumped in after Sammy softened up his mark. I don’t know why the teacher decided to put me in front of these two. As I sat with my face forward trying to be invisible, I felt dampness on the back of my shirt. Sammy was slinging blue ink from a cartridge pen all across my back. I knew my dad would ask about the shirt when I got home. I had to do something. I stood facing Sammy and hit him hard with my left fist right between his eyes. A big knot formed over the bridge of his nose. I turned on Earl who was trying to slide down in his chair. Just about that time, the teacher walked back into the room. The class monitor, a girl with a pen and pad, was only to happy to report my breach of good conduct to the teacher. I was held after school along with Sammy and Earl. After a while my dad walked through the door of the classroom. He asked why I was being detained. The teacher, a small woman, explained the happenings from earlier in the day as my father listened. He asked her if she had seen the incident and she reported she had not been in the classroom at the time. My father came back to where I was seated and said “Come with me son we’re going home.” As we passed the desk he turned to the teacher and said, “He did just what I taught him he should, and he won’t be staying after school for that.” From that day forward I had very little trouble with any of the other bullies in the school. A bad reputation can be a good thing.

Without courage all virtues lose their meaning. Winston Churchill

Loutisha

This is not the actual house or the characters referred to in my story. I borrowed this from a Mississippi blogger. The house however is similar in appearance. The middle of the house had an open hallway called a "dog run," running the full length of the structure from front porch to back porch separating the house into two fairly equal sides. It sat on the main road and was a short distance from my grandmother's house. A short gravel lane ran between my grandmother's house and the main road. When I would visit my grandparents, one of my first stops was my great grandmother's house. This is a condensed version of my memories.


The old white frame dog run house sat atop a bluff overlooking the paved road. Its tin roof was topped with two lightning rods which were grounded by a large twisted cable. Each rod tip looked like a spear head pointing skyward. About midway down the shaft was a clear glass ball. The house had a porch which ran all the way across the front. On the porch was a rocking chair, and in this chair on almost any given day sat Loutisha. She was my great grandmother. We called her Granny Tish.
The dog run was open and split the living quarters of the house in half. Granny Tish almost always dressed in a long skirt and long sleeved blouse even on the hottest summer day. A cotton bonnet hung over one of the rocking chair’s back posts. She wore gold wire rim glasses that didn’t seem to help her eyesight much. She would squint at your approach and make a guess at which one of the grandchildren’s offspring you were. Her once dark hair was mostly gray now and she wore it in a bun at the back of her head. The skin on her face was wrinkled except on her high cheek bones. She had a pleasant earthy aroma. It was a mixture of Calgon bath soap, cooked bacon, wood smoke and coffee. Her old Collie dog was always nearby. The porch was adorned with a few pot plants in tin buckets, a broom made of broom sage, and a water pail with a dipper for drinking. A metal basin for washing your hands was also on the shelf with the drinking water.
She had a well out in back of her house with a wooden windlass. A long metal bucket hung over the tile curbing attached to a long cotton rope. I still can hear her saying, “Don’t you kids turn a loose of that windlass, you will break my curbin’” The water from her well was sweet and cold. She had a big wood stove that could be stoked from the front or top. A metal cabinet over the cook top was designed to keep food warm. In the morning she kept a pot of coffee warm on the stove. Her breakfast usually consisted of buttered “cat head” biscuits and slab bacon. I liked to watch her eat.
If the weather got stormy she would leave the porch and go inside. She didn’t like lightning. She would say “It’s a comin’ up of a blowout.”
I was young and I found almost everything she did fascinating. Several long cane poles leaned against the front porch and she always had a coffee can of worms at the ready. She loved to fish. I can picture her ambling down the gravel lane toward the creek with her cane pole in one hand and her worm can in the other. Her old dog went along to keep the snakes away. He occasionally showed up with his head swollen from an encounter with a water moccasin. She would never allow you to fish with her if you were wearing light colored clothing. It scared the fish. She carried a folding knife to repair her line, and stab turtles who were stealing her bait. “I neigh stobbed me a turkle” she’d say.
Sometimes she asked me to stay the night with her, but I was afraid. My cousins said the house was haunted because my great grandpa Jack had died there. I always went back to my grandmother’s house, which was just down the lane, when the sun went down. Granny Tish was from a large family, and when she was fifteen, Jack (my great grandfather) was courting her older sister, Mandy. When he came to ask Mandy to marry him, she turned him down. Tish knew she would and had climbed a tree near the walk leading to their house. As Jack walked dejectedly away from the house, Tish dropped down onto the walk in front of him and said, “If Mandy won’t have you I will.”
I was in grammar school and learning to read and write. Granny Tish did not have much formal education. She would labor over the grocery list before the delivery man came. I was comforted that someone had as much trouble writing as I did. She died when I was fairly young, but I’ve always had fond memories of my visits with her.

The Season - Part III

Happy Easter. I hope you have a great Resurrection Sunday.

Part III - The Game

The day soon came when the lineup for the first game was announced. Roy was chosen to play first team offensive guard. His mother rued the day when she had agreed to let him play. She believed he would probably quit before the first game. His dad on the other hand was quite proud. Central Jr. High was the largest in the division and they had won every game they played in the last several years. They were Golfview’s first opponent. During the week before the game the coach passed out the new purple game shirts with the gold numbers. Roy wore number 69. The Golfview Gators were ready to play.
The game was played under the lights at the high school stadium. Most of the Gator squad had never been there before, and most had never played under the lights. Their practice field didn’t have any markings on it. The referees had to line them up before the first kick-off. The Central squad looked huge. They won the toss and chose to receive. Coach Mays gathered the Golfview players in a big huddle and gave them a pep talk.
“Men, their return man is named DeAngelo and he is wearing number 32. All of you look for number 32. He is very fast. Hit him low, and hit him hard.”
Coach called Roy’s name for the kick-off squad. All of the team joined in a cheer that started low and got louder as they broke the huddle. “Gator bait, gator bait, gator bait….”
Roy ran onto the field. He looked at the other team and found number 32 near the goal line. He saw himself shedding blockers and plowing DeAngelo into the turf in front of the cheering masses. The referees whistle blew and Golfview’s kicker hit the football. It sailed toward number 32. DeAngelo got the football and started up field. Roy could see nothing but number 32. He was going to hit him untouched. Just as he took his angle, Roy was hit by a crushing cross-body block. He fell to the turf and caught the top of DeAngelo’s sock with one finger. The running back high stepped and jerked free. Roy watched as he crossed the goal line at the other end of the field. They made the extra point, and the score was seven to nothing in favor of Central.
The Golfview team lined up to receive the kickoff. Ronnie Massey, the scat back received the kick and ran it out to the thirty yard line. On the first play from scrimmage, Golfview fumbled the ball and Central recovered. On their next play, they scored another touchdown. They missed the extra point. The score was now thirteen to nothing after three plays. Coach Mays called a time out and the Golfview team ran to the sidelines. He didn’t call them men.
“I didn’t bring you here to have you lie down in front of the other team. You either get out there and stop them, or I’m going to forfeit and take you home.”
The team ran back on to the field. Roy and his team mates played an inspired game after that. They even scored. At the end of the game, the score was Central 13, and Golfview 7.
The rest of the season was a dream. Every team that the scrubby little Golfview team played lost. Central and Golfview met in the championship game. The scene was very similar to their first meeting except that Golfview had something to prove. Roy’s dad and mom had attended every game. Roy even had a girlfriend who ran on to the field and hugged him when the final gun sounded. The championship was a battle from the first whistle. The ball went back and forth between the two teams. At the end of the final quarter, the score was Golfview 14, and Central 7. The clock continued to run during the final two minutes. Central possessed the ball and drove to Golfview’s five yard line. The play gave them a first down. The big Central full back pounded the center of the line. In three plays he was at the one yard line. A defensive guard for Golfview fell and had to be carried off the field. Coach Mays looked to the bench and called for Roy.
“Get in there and seal off that gap. I don’t want anyone to make it through. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir” Roy said as he buttoned his chin strap.
Roy got down in the awkward feeling four point stance of a defensive lineman. The center and guard across from him looked huge. He watched the center’s hands and moved when he snapped the ball. Roy lowered his butt and pushed his body upward with all his strength wedging himself into the gap. Through the mass of grunting, pushing flesh he could see the thighs of the big fullback coming straight for him. Roy lowered the crown of his helmet and strained forward with everything he had. The knees of Central’s big fullback hit Roy’s helmet and the runner fell just short of the goal line.
Roy could not hear the cheers or remember what happened on the play. He awoke minutes later on the sideline with his dad looking down at him and his girlfriend standing near by. His mother had already gone to the car. She just couldn’t stand to watch. Later he learned that he had held his ground. Golfview won.Roy’s dad, who was gravely ill, didn’t live long enough to see another season, but sometimes one is enough.

If you don't learn to laugh at trouble, you won't have anything to laugh at when you're old. Edgar Watson Howe