Past Imperfect/Future Tense

I'm writing a book ("Hunter's Moon"), and this chapter is inspired by a YouTube short of Matthew West's.

The setting, time-wise, is in the nineteen-eighties, in the Colorado Rockies just south of Wyoming, mid-winter high country. Rugged, unforgiving, but beautiful country.
Levi is Minerva's dad, and also son to Mordechai (who isn't present here). There is a friend, named Matt Williams, who helps out.

Past Imperfect/Future Tense

By

Dana Hansen

(With thanks to Matthew West, whose YouTube Short inspired this chapter.)

 

(Levi)

I’m standing in my boots and parka, at the beginning of the biathlon trail. There’s no biathletes training today, and we’re dressed more warmly than usual, Min and me. Today’s exercise will be slow walking, rather than running, since we’re outfitted with the bearpaws instead of skis. Snow is coming down, but lightly. It shouldn’t affect my plans by much.

I look over at Min, snowflakes dusting the hood of her parka. She’s also wearing her dark brown skier’s headband, like I asked her to. She looks back at me.

“So what’s the plan, Dad?” she asks, smiling. Besides the bearpaw snowshoes, we have our day packs and ski poles. We’re outfitted for an easier day than usual, and she recognizes this. Smart girl.

“We’re just going to walk easy today. We’ll take the spectator’s track instead of running the race trail. We need a rest, and I need to reset the targets anyway.”

She laughs, “Funny way of resting.”

I chuckle, “You know how it is by now, we rest by—”

“—by working less hard. I know, Dad.”

“Well then, no surprise, right? We gotta keep the muscles moving so they don’t forget what they’re for.”

“Well, I’m getting cold. Don’t you think we oughta get moving?”

A small shiver runs over my shoulders, “Right as rain, er, snow, as always. You go ahead and set the pace for the first bit. Remember, fast enough to warm, but not make us sweat.”

She leads off the march, “I know, Dad, for Pete’s sake!”

“I know you know. But you know me…”

“I know. Sometimes, you’re worse than Mom.”

“Heaven forfend! Not worse than your mother!”

Her laugh comes back over her shoulder, her breath are puffs of white smoke in the cold air. I find myself grinning just from the joy of being outdoors. As we settle into an easy pace my mind drifts to other times, other places…

The time Poppa and I walked this trail in autumn with bows and quivers, not intending to shoot at anything, just walking, letting my jangled nerves learn again the rhythm of the woods. The time I was alone, just me and my backpack, looking for a suitable place to make a camp for the night. I missed a trick that time, night caught me before I had a fire built. Another time, I was caught in a summer thunderstorm, and I cursed everything in the world. Then, any wood I found to build a fire with was soaked and my matches had got wet. I cursed the wood, the matches, the rain, the forest, the sky itself, for all the good it did.

A sudden swirl of wind brought me a faceful of snowflakes, not terribly hard, but enough to remind me of where I was.

Min had gotten farther ahead that I had expected. I picked up my pace to catch her up.

When I got close, I called, “Hey, girl child. If you’re leading, you need to look back over your shoulder to make sure you still have followers!”

Min stopped. “You don’t,” she called back.

“Yah I do.”

“Since when?”

“Don’t argue with your elders, young’un.”

“I will if I wanna!”

She sounded sassy, but so did I, and we both were smiling.

I made a note to in the future make sure my followers were where I thought they were; sauce for the gosling was sauce for the gander, after all.

“Behave yourself, before I wash your face with snow,” I replied.

“You wouldn’t!”

“Oooh, wouldn’t I?”

She glared at me. I glared back. She broke into a laugh first, “You win.”

“That’s fine, Cublet. Tell you what, let’s slow the pace and walk side by side.”

“Sounds good. You want a cookie?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Here,” she held out a bag of chocolate chip cookies.

“Hold on a minute, let me get out of my mitts,” I pull off my mittens and let them dangle. I take the bag, open it, then hold it out, “You first.”

Min pulls off a glove, reaches in a hand, grabs a few cookies. I close up the bag to save the rest for later, tucking the bag into my parka, then taking my share of the cookies from Min’s hand.

Between bites of cookie, I tell Min the rest of the plan for this day: “In a moment we’ll start today’s lesson.”

“I thought we weren’t going to do training today.”

“Silly Cublet. There’s always lessons to be learned,” I take a bite of my second cookie, “Great cookies, by the way. That’s one lesson you’ve learned well.”

“Dad!”

“What?! A very tasty lesson learned, I’d say.”

We munched the last of our cookies. “Good thing we put those away, I’d want to finish the bag, then no more cookies.”

“Ha-ha! I brought two bags, Dad!”

“That’s another lesson you’ve learned: never hurts to be overprepared.

I continue, “So for today’s lesson, I want you to learn three things. One, I will never leave you. Two, you can ask and tell me anything. Three, listen only to the sound of my voice. Now, repeat those back to me.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Do you need them again?”

“No. ‘One, you will never leave me. Two, I can ask or tell you anything. Three, only listen to your voice.’”

“Close enough. I’ll be quizzing you on those three things while we’re walking, so be ready.”

“Okay, Dad.” Minor eye roll.

“Let’s get going then. I’m getting chilly just standing here.”

“Your turn to lead off, Dad.”

“That’s fair. Be sure to call out, if I get too far ahead.”

“No problem of that, Dad!”

A challenge, well…, “We’ll see.”

I zip up my parka (cookies still tucked inside), and pull my mittens back on. Then I grab my poles and start stretching my legs.

Taken by surprise, Min yells, “Wait up!” I slow my stride until I hear her close behind me.

“You there?” I ask.

“Yes, I’m here.”

She’s annoyed. Too bad. The corners of my lips twitch upward, “Let’s go, then. Stay close, but don’t dog my heels.”

“Right here, Dad.” Again the verbal eye-roll.

I set off again, snow blowing in my face. The wind should be at our back when we complete the loop. I set my pace to be steady, just fast enough to keep us warm, but not so fast as to break a sweat. I unzip the parka a little, anyway. I hear Min’s trudging steps behind me; with these bear-paws, it’s easy to step on a body’s heel if you get too close.

“Dad! Look!”

“Whichaway?”

“Left, in the bare tree.”

I look left, and sitting in the aspen is an unlikely sight: two bald eagles. “Glory! You’ve got a good eye, Min! I haven’t seen an eagle in years!” They’d been endangered for a couple of decades, “I’ll take that as a good sign.”

If there’re two, then they’re likely a mated pair. If they manage to winter over, then hopefully we’ll have eaglets. And then… I smiled at the thought. Nature is bouncing back, part of the way, anyway.

After a few more ups and downs we reached the far side of the loop. Here, there was a forestry picnic table for the spectators, covered in snow.

“Let’s break for lunch. I’ll clear the table,” So saying, I move my arm across the end of the table; the snow fell to the ground with a flumph! I continued down the table, leaning over the bench to do so. I then cleared off the bench. Loosening the straps to my ruck I swung it off my shoulders.

“I’m ready for it.” Min had loosened the straps to her rucksack as well, setting it on the table.

I brushed the snow off my arm, unzipped my parka, took out the bag of cookies, “Here’re your cookies, by the way.”

“Nah, they’re your cookies. I’ve got another bag, remember?”

“Thanks.” I got out my thermos out of my rucksack, “I packed coffee. How about you?”

“Earl Grey, extra sweet.”

“Yeey.”

“What? It’s better than your coffee.”

“Blasphemer! NO-things better than my coffee!”

“Dad, you can float nails on your coffee.”

“That’s how you know it’s ready.” I took out a sandwich and started munching. Between bites I asked, “So. What are the three things?”

Min mumbled past a bite of her sandwich, “Row?” Gulping, “I mean, now?”

“No better time.” I took another bite.

She swallowed, “One, you’ll always be there.”

“So far, so good.”

“Two, I can tell you anything.”

“You left out something.”

Thinking, “Oh, yeah, right. ‘ASK and tell...’.

“Yup. And?”

“And I should always listen to the sound of your voice.”

“That’s true, but not quite.”

“Huh? What’d I leave out?”

“ ‘Only.’”

“ ‘Only?’”

“ ‘Only,’” I confirmed, “ ‘Listen only to the sound of my voice.’”

“If you say so, Dad.”

“I say so. For this lesson, anyway.”

We munch our sandwiches and drink our tea and coffee. The forest was alive with sounds, muffled as it was by the snow. A raven made its slow way, changing course a little to check us out, gave a croak and continued its journey. I saw it swing towards the aspen with the eagles, then away, apparently thinking it was above its pay-grade to challenge the two majestic birds. There was a chattering in a pine about fifty yards away, then a racket of jays scolding at the bushy-tailed intruder.

Just as I was considering whether to save some coffee for later, I heard someone call, “Hello the camp. Can I come in?”

I looked up to see Matt Williams, a relative newcomer to our high country community. He’s been here  only about ten years. Only ten years. “Hey, Matt,” I yell back, “Sure, c’mon in.” When he gets closer I ask, “Wanna cookie? The Cub made ‘em.”

“The cub?”

“Y’know, Min. She’s getting to be a fair hand around a stove.”

“In that case, I don’t mind if I do.” I open the bag and hold it out. He takes a couple. “Thank you.”

“Most welcome. What brings you out on a snowy day?”

“The usual stuff: critters, and the things they do.”

It was then I noticed the camera slung behind him. “Did you catch the eagles back a ways?”

“I did! I was able to maneuver to a spot where they were backed by a pine, made them stand out more clearly.”

“I wouldn’t mind a print of ‘em, if you’ve a mind to share.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Matt replied, “By the way, what’re y’all out and about for?”

“Kinda the same things as you. And training.”

“ ‘Training?’”

“Always. Just ask her.”

Min answers without being asked, “He’s always training me on something.”

“Okay, cool. What’s up today?”

Min looks at me. “I’m not sure, Dad hasn’t told me yet.”

“He’s one for surprises?”

“Not usually, but today he is.”

Matt finished his last cookie. “Well, don’t get too cold. I gotta get these feet moving. Thanks again for the cookies!”

So saying, he hit the trail.

“We’d better get moving, too, kid.”

“Okay, Dad.”

We repack our bags, including the wrappers. I have a bit of coffee left, though it will likely be cooled off, despite the thermos, the next time I want a drink.

Min asks, “Who leads off this time?”

“I will,” I reply, “At least to where the trail bends back to the trailhead.”

“Sounds good.”

I settle my rucksack on my shoulders and arrange my poles in my hands. Min does the same, I look back to see if she’s ready and she give me a nod. I set off.

We shuffle down the trail in silence, letting the woods do the talking. The wind has died down, and it’s no longer snowing. The clouds are getting brighter, and we might just have some sunshine at our backs as we finish today’s hike.

The sun peeks out a bit just as we get to the eastward bend in the trail, and I call the halt. “Cookie break.”

“It’s kinda early, Dad.”

“You’re right. I’ll leave it up to you: cookie now or cookie later?”

“Later.”

“Great. Here’s where we’ll start today’s lesson. You still wearing that head band? Yes, I see that you are. What I want you to do is to pull it down over your eyes.”

“WHAT!?”

“Do you trust me, kid?”

“Yeah, Dad, but …”

“Don’t worry. Just pull down that head band, and tell me the three things again.”

“But … Okay. ‘One, you’ll always be here. Two, I can tell you and ask you anything. Three, listen only to your voice.’ Is that right?” she asked, as she finished adjusting the headband and pulling up her hood.

“Exactly right. What we’ll do is walk the next bit of trail together, my hand on your shoulder.”

“Okay. This is crazy, but okay.”

“Now we begin,” I say, placing my right hand on her left shoulder, “I’ll keep my steps short.”

I step off, she follows. She feels my rhythm and calls cadence under her breath. We continue this way a hundred yards or so.

 

(Min)

This is crazy. It’s been a fun walk so far, I don’t mind the cold. And spotting those eagles before dad did was cool! I’ve gotten used to his weird way of teaching me things, but now, in the cold, with my headband over my eyes, I’m nervous. ‘I’ll keep my steps short.’ he says. He steps, and, with his hand on my shoulder, I step, too.

He says, “Now, I want you to keep your eyes covered until I say otherwise. Understand?”

“I understand.” I didn’t, but whatever.

We walk on. I know this trail when there’s no snow, so I know…no, I think there’s nothing to trip us, me, in the next section of trail.

I ask, “Are you sure about this, Dad?”

He answers, “Of course I’m sure,” his voice sounds steady; I trust it, “I trust you to come through this practice just fine.”

I smile a little at his confidence in me, but I relax as we keep a steady pace, falling into the rhythm of the hike. I even start counting, ‘You had a good home and you left…’ under my breath. That helps calm me as well. We go on like this for a while, then Dad says, “I need my hand for a minute. Don’t worry, though, I’m right here.”

“Okay, Dad,” I reply. But I’m not sure I’m okay. But I continue counting cadence.”

“You’re veering off the trail. Come back left a little bit.”

I correct, “How’s that?”

“Better, but not quite so much.”

I make what I think is a smaller correction to the right.

“That’s better. Now keep straight on.”

I smile to myself. I can hear Dad’s breathing, and that helps.

“You’re slowing down. Are you okay?” Dad asks.

“I’m fine,” I answer, though I’m feeling the edge of panic, despite hearing his voice.

“That’s good,” he replies, “Remember Rule One.”

“I will.”

“Great. Now walk straight the next hundred feet. I might get a little ahead of you, but I’ll be here.”

“Okay, Dad.” A little ahead of me, what’s he playing at? I continue walking, trusting his voice. But I can’t hear his breathing anymore.

I go what I think is a hundred feet. My normal pace is about five feet, and I’ve counted twenty ‘left’s. “I think I’m there, Dad.”

You’re doing well, but you’re short the distance by about twenty feet.”

Twenty feet? “Uh, Thanks.” I do some quick mental math, and I take another five steps. “Where am I now?”

“Just about right. I’ll lead off the next few steps, then you follow my voice to get your bearing.”

“When will I ever use this?”

“You’ll have to trust me that there’s a purpose for this. I won’t play tricks on you or steer you wrong. Alright?”

“All right.” I shiver. I hadn’t really been feeling the cold, but without my sight, I’m feeling every little thing.

Dad says, “Okay. I’m about ten feet ahead of you. C’mon ahead.”

I’ve been sort of feeling my way, with the toes of my snowshoes and with my poles. I’m starting to feel bold enough to start taking bigger steps, back to my normal stride. I counted off twenty paces, and I’m beginning to feel comfortable when I manage to stub my toe on something. I don’t go down, but only because my poles were planted. Dad’s ahead of me, but he must have heard me stumble. I listen, like he’s taught me, but all I hear is a raven flying overhead. I feel I should call out for him, but … I think this must be some sort of test. I try to remember which cheek I last felt the breeze on and turn my face to match the memory.

I turn my body to match my face and confidently put my left foot forward and I feel a branch on my face. Startled, I take a couple of steps back. And bump into something.

“Oof!” I hear someone say. Turns out I backed into a someone, not a something.

“Sorry,” I say automatically.

The voice says, “Can I help you?”

I recognize that voice, Dad’s friend, Mr. Williams.

“I seem to have lost the trail. Can you help me find it again?”

“I might be able to do that for you. But you seem to have something over your eyes.”

“That’s part of the test.”

“Surely you can take … whatever it is, off of your eyes.”

“I’d better not.”

“Suit yourself. But tell you what, I’ll get out of your way. Then you can take about five steps back along your track, and take a right from there. Then you’ll be back on the trail.”

I remember that this was a friend of Dad’s, so I say, “I’ll give it a try.”

I do what I think is an about-face, and take five steps, then take a right. Now I’m stopped by tree.

Mr. William’s voice again, “Sorry, I should have said five of my steps.”

I’m shaky and about to cry, but I don’t dare, not in this cold. Then I remember:

“Dad!” I call.

“I’m right here, dear.” Sounds like he’s just a couple of feet away.

Relief crashes in like a flood. “Dad! Help?”

“Certainly. Take a step back.”

I do.

“Now turn to your left.”

“Can’t I push my headband back?” I plead.

“Not yet. Walk forward three steps.”

I do.

“Now make your right turn, and take just one step.”

Once more, I do so.

“Great. You seem to be pointed right. Now go ahead, carefully. I’ll be right here.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I’m still shaky, but my confidence is coming back.

“You’re welcome, Bear Cub. Let’s get back to the truck. I’m ready to eat another bagful of your cookies!”

 

(Matt)

 I watch the two of them walk off down the trail loop, back to the entrance. I follow at a distance, still on the lookout for anything photogenic. I snap a picture of them snowshoeing together, framed by two tall spruces, one on either side of the trail. I’ll include it with the print of the eagles.

Meanwhile, I sling my camera across my shoulder and stretch my arms wide. Then push off. The Golden Hour is coming up, and, if the clouds cooperate, I might get few more shots of the countryside before I pack it in for the evening.

I wonder what the special at the Dew Drop Inn is.

 

(Levi)

 At the truck, we’ve taken off our rucksacks and tossed our bear-paws and poles in the back. Min’s in the cab of the truck and firing up that big block Ford V-8. It’s making its normal sound of a camel slurping water before it catches, then settles down to a slow lope of an idle. I pull our thermoses from the rucks and root around for that second bag of cookies.

As a last thing before climbing in, I look around at the snow-covered forest. Cold, it may be. Forbidding, I’ll allow that some may think it so. Beautiful? Without question.

I kick the running board to knock the snow off of my boots, then open the driver-side door, “Slide over, Cublet! This big ol’ bear’s comin’ in!”

“I deserve to drive!” she says, softly, but with gritted teeth.

“Maybe so, but I’ve got your cookies! If you drive, I’ll eat ‘em all myself!”

“DAD! I’m mad!”

“At what?”

“At YOU!”

I should have anticipated this.

“You shouldn’t drive mad.”

She just glared at me.

I ask, gently, “Are you gonna slide over?”

“I’m not done being mad at you.”

“All right. I’ll take shotgun for now.” I close the door and walk around to the passenger side, open it up, toss in the bag of cookies and, more carefully, set the thermoses down on the seat. Then I haul my butt in, settle a little, and pull the door closed.

I look over at Min; she’s looking out the window at nothing. After the motor warms up and the idle is about twice as high as it needs to be, she taps the gas to unset the choke. When it drops to low idle, she angrily flips the heater switches and the fan roars to life. Min is not usually like this. She turns her head to glare at me, then back to staring out the windshield. I wait.

It took a while. The slanting sunlight shadows started walking their way up the pines.

About the time the sun disappeared from the top of the tallest pines she spoke, “I’m mad at you, Dad.”

I started to ask why, but she made a shushing motion.

“I’m mad. I trusted you. I was scared!”

There it was. I stayed silent, waiting.

“Dad, I know it was for some important lesson, but I was SCARED!” Her voice catches, then she says, “I thought you had disappeared, gone someplace!”

This was not some academic lesson at this point. I gave her more room to talk.

“I just… OOOOOOH!” She raised her right arm and thumped me several times on my shoulder. It hurt; She meant it to. I gritted my teeth and let her beat on my shoulder until she ran out of steam. It took a while. When she was done, she rested her head on the steering wheel. I could tell from her shaking that she was crying, but doing her best to not show it.

The truck had gotten very warm by then, so I turned the heater fan down. I asked, “You want a cookie?”

She looked up, sniffed, reached for a tissue from the bunch we keep in the glove box, and said, “Sure.”

I opened the bag, held it out. She reached in and took one. I find her thermos, pour her some of her Earl Grey tea. It’s even still warm. Sort of. “Here ya go.”

She takes her tea, and I repeat the motions with my coffee. It’s not as warm as her tea, but there wasn’t as much left to hold the heat. I take a sip anyway. I take a cookie as well.

Between munches, Min asks, “Dad? What was this all about?” Smart girl, she knows this wasn’t something random.

I take a sip of coffee. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure. I think you were testing me.”

“Oh? In what way?” I’m not giving anything away. Not yet.

“You wanted … to be sure that I’d follow your directions.”

“Maybe. What else?” I can see the thoughts chase around skull by the faces she makes.

“You wanted to see if I’d listen to just anyone else’s voice.”

“Rule Three.”

“Yeah. Rule Three. Was Mr. What’s-his-name supposed to be here today?”

I catch a movement out the window, in the dusk I see Matt walking towards his Jimmy. “You could ask him.”

Min sees where I’m looking, sees him as well. “Nah. I’d rather ask you.”

“Alright, Min, yes he was. It was a cunning plan, well executed. He played his part perfectly.”

She squinched her face at me, “What was his part?”

“He was supposed to lead you astray.”

“But I thought he was a good guy, you didn’t yell at him to stay away or anything. You even offered him a cookie.”

I smiled at her, “For the record, he is a good guy. He was playing the ‘red team’ part in the exercise.”

“Red Team?”

“Yeah. We’re the blue team and he was on the red team, the ‘opposing force’.”

“Yeah, but, you didn’t treat him like the enemy.”

I took a breath, let it out slowly. I asked, “Why do you think we played it that way?”

She finished her cookie, found the bag and got another. Eventually she spoke, “It was supposed to be like normal people. A normal day, except I was lost.”

“That’s part of it. Tell me more.”

“I’m not sure I trust you.”

“I can see that, but why?”

“Because you set me up to fail, in a dangerous place!”

I sighed. “I know this is going to sound like I’m blaming the victim, but what were you tasked with?”

“Huh?”

“Give me the three rules.”

“Dad!”

“No, really. What were the three rules?

“Okay! One. You’ll always be there!” I noticed the heavy sarcastic stress on ‘always’.

“Wasn’t I?”

“You were, then you weren’t!”

“I assure you, I was never more than ten feet away.”

“You were? But I couldn’t hear you!”

“A flaw in my character, I tend to go jungle quiet in the woods. I was there, in any case. What’s the second rule?”

“I can ask and tell you anything.”

“Correct. When you called me by name, didn’t I answer right back?”

Min nodded, “Then the third rule, only listen for your voice.”

I nodded, “And hearing my voice, we had the conversation that got you back on track.”

“So it was a test. And I failed.”

“No, Min, it wasn’t a test. And you didn’t fail.”

It was getting dark. Even so, I could tell that Min was very perplexed. I continued, “It wasn’t as much of a test as it was a demonstration. What was I demonstrating?”

Min’s face did that squinch thing again. “You were demonstrating that the best thing to do is listen for my guide, and follow the guidance.”

I nodded, then realized she probably couldn’t see me very well. So I said, “That’s right. And how easy it is to hear a nice-sounding voice and follow it instead.”

“So, in a way, I did still fail.”

A Bible verse went flitting through my head just then, but I couldn’t catch it. I did catch its flavor, “You made the same mistakes that we all do. This exercise just showed them to you.”

She munched on her cookie. I took one as well. We sat in the truck in the gathering night.

Finally she said, “I expect we ought to head home.”

“I expect you’re right. One more thing?”

“What?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Dad.”

I could hear the smile in her voice.

She reached for the driver’s seatbelt. I stowed the cookies and thermoses on the floor, and put on my own seatbelt. She turned on the lights, and gently put the truck into first gear, the gearbox thumping with a quiet authority.

 

The next chapter will be ‘After Action Report xxx’ (number to be filled in later), beginning with:

 (Levi)

 I cooked supper that night.

We’d left the snowshoes and the poles by the door next to our skis, and brought in our rucksacks. Min had taken hers to her room, then came back to set the table. Poppa read the room and kept his thoughts to himself.

The meal was subdued. Poppa kept his contributions to a minimum as we worked through the meatloaf and succotash. We finished off the last of a loaf of sourdough. I’d have to do some baking tomorrow. I told Min that I’d take care of the dishes. She fixed herself some cocoa and curled up in the big chair by the fire. Poppa said his good-nights and went off to his room. I finished the dishes, wiped them dry, put them away, and hung the dishtowel by the stove.

I fixed myself some cocoa as well, pulled a chair closer to the fire and sat down.

Minerva was staring into the fire, a distant look on her face.

“A peppermint penny for your thoughts,” I said, holding out a peppermint lozenge.

She blinked, then said, “I was thinking about today, going over the stuff we did. What you did.” She unwrapped the peppermint, and dropped into her cocoa.

I nodded. “Have you come to any conclusions?”

She continued her silence. I let it continue, contemplating the flames myself. When she spoke, it was with a steady voice, “You were trying to teach a bigger lesson, I think.”

The Socratic Method would have had me nod encouragingly, but stay silent. I’m not Socrates; I said, “You’re right. Any ideas?”

“I don’t want to say it aloud.”

“Kind of like, ‘as long as you don’t say it, it won’t happen’?”

“Yeah. That.”

I nod, still gazing into the flames. “That’s a form of childhood magic. We never quite lose that magic, no matter what happens. What if I say what I think you’re thinking. You can tell me if I’m right or not.” I glance over at her.

She thinks a moment, then says, “That works.”

“It goes without saying that you can choose not to answer, with no blame or penalty.”

She nods in agreement.

I nod as well, “You know that I won’t always be here, right?”

“A fact of life. I know.”

I glance over again, and see the tightness in her jaw. “Not to worry too much, kid, I’m not planning on leaving this world any time soon.”

“That’s good. I don’t know if I could stand it if you did, Dad.”

I nodded, “It’d be rough, but you’ll manage. Especially when you remember today’s lesson.”

Min’s staring at the flames, her brows knitted.

“You see,” I continue, “Mine’s not the voice you should listen to, ultimately.”

“You’re meaning God’s voice.”

“Yes.”

“How do I make sure which voice is his?”

“You do something I’ve never been too good at. You read the Bible.”

I see her look over to me. “But I see you read your Bible.”

“I’m glad you’ve noticed. I’m making up for lost time.”

Her curiosity makes her ask, “How do you mean?”

I look back to the fire, seeing the past in my mind’s eye, not wanting to. “ 'Nam beat a lot of any idea of God out of me.”

I feel her eyes on me, “What was it like?”

“You don’t really want to know,” I say, and I really don’t want to tell you. That thought stays unspoken. Thankfully, she lets it go. But I know she’ll ask again.

“Anyway,” I continue, “Remember to always listen to His voice, you can tell Him anything. And ask Him anything. And know that He’ll never leave you.”

We both stare into the fire, sipping our cocoa.

“I’m not sure I can believe that, Dad.”

“A Centurion had the same problem.”

She’s looking at me again. “What’re you talking about?”

“Yeah. I forget what was going on, exactly, but he said: ‘I believe. Help me with my unbelief.’ ”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means God will help us stretch, and meet us more than half-way.”

She turns back to the fire. I take the poker and stir it up, then throw another log on.

She says, “I’m still not sure I believe that. But I’m willing to take a chance.”

“ ‘A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.’ ” I say.

“Is that from the Bible?”

I smile, “Naw. Confucius, I think. But, you can’t say he’s wrong.”

I hear the smile in her voice, “No, Dad, you’re right; he’s not wrong.”

I try to puzzle out the positives and negatives in the grammar, give up, and say, “It’s been a long day. Soon as I’m done with this cocoa, I’m off to bed. How about you?”

Min says, “I think I’ll stay up a little longer. I have some thinking to do.”

“All right, but don’t stay up too late. ‘Tomorrow is another Day,’ remember.”

“I won’t.”

 

(Minerva)

“I won’t,” I tell my dad. Then I go back to thinking about what he said, that’s he’s not going to be here forever.

I don’t want to face this. I especially don’t want to face the thought of Poppa not being here. Death seems all around me. The eagles were a good thing, though. It was a lucky thing to see them; I just happened to glance that direction, and there they were. Majestic. Dad said that he hadn’t seen an eagle in years, that they’d died out almost. Having seen them, I couldn’t imagine not seeing them sometime in the future.

And there it was again. Death. Maybe the eagles dodged death for now. But not forever. I didn’t want to think about it, but it kept popping up.

I take another sip of my cocoa, and realize it’s almost gone, too.

I almost throw the mug in the fire, but catch myself.

I think back to earlier today, and the three Rules.

They make no sense, if they’re not about Dad. But then, they make no sense if they are about Dad.

Mom never talked about religion much. Then again, she was always so busy, and never seemed to have much time for me. The restaurant kept her busy. If she wasn’t cooking, she was cleaning. If she wasn’t cleaning, she was waitressing. I tried to help out, but I was always out of step, I could never get the rhythm of the café. The day I was going back with a bin of dirty plates, glasses and silverware she came rushing out with a big tray of plates in the middle of the lunch rush. We crashed, I can still hear one of the plates doing the spinning coin thing as it spun down. There were broken plates, lunch specials, broken glasses – it was a mess. Mom was so mad she couldn’t talk.

The next day one of her friends took me up Poudre Canyon to Jeremiah Township and dropped me off at the Conoco at the south end of town.

I blinked. That was a memory. My mom hadn’t exactly said she’d never wanted to see me again, but … it’s been a few years now.

But Dad… We didn’t hit it off at first, but, we got caught in a rainstorm, me and him and Poppa. We tried to take shelter in one of the privies the forest service set up in the woods, but it was locked. So we huddled under the eaves until the storm let up, me wearing my Dad’s oversized field jacket.

After that, we just sort of clicked.

It scares me that these two strong men won’t always be there for me.

I take one last sip of cocoa, or try to. I’d hit the bottom of the mug a minute ago, and hadn’t noticed. Time for bed, then. I’ll leave the heavy thinking for tomorrow, I’m done for the night.

 

(this may continue some more, but we’ll see)

That's it for now. 

 

"Once Upon a Time ..."

This is a “Once Upon A Time…” story. But the events happen to be true.

Once, we were visiting my wife’s folks of a weekend. We had our granddaughter with us, and with her came a great number of school supplies which were carried in plastic boxes with lids that clipped on. On those lids were carrying handles. I’m not sure why I’m going into such detail, but my mind must think that it’s important.

Of course, all good things come to an end. So, while everyone else were finishing up Sunday night activities, I was taking things out to the car, which was parked in the back.

It was nighttime, and it must have been winter, for there was snow on the ground and it was cold. I was carrying out two or three of the school-stuff boxes when I tripped. Not able to catch myself, I fell flat on my face. I was a bit shocked, to say the least. I called for help, then realized that I’d shut the kitchen door against the cold, and, since everyone was in the front room they weren’t likely to hear me.

So, it was all up to me to pick myself up, dust myself off, and continue. With some difficulty, I rolled to one side and was able to draw my legs up and get one foot, then the other, under me.

I got to my feet, and did a status check of myself, then of the boxes I was carrying. I was shaken, but not hurt to speak of. One of the boxes lids had popped off, and some of the contents had spilled. I put that to rights, gathered the three boxes (it had been the top-most box under my left arm whose lid had come off), and proceeded to the car. I loaded them into the back seat, locked up the car, and headed back in.

I don’t remember if I ever bothered to tell anyone about my trip-and-fall. I most likely went into the front room, found a place to sit, and joined in with the conversation.

Fast-forward a few years. D__ and J__ are staying at her folks, helping Dad take care of Mom. They have the car, so I take the bus to work. It was really handy, the bus stop for where I worked was right outside the employee entrance, and the stop at the home end was right around the corner from our house. In all, a sweet arrangement.

Except for Saturday shift.

At that time, I was working the graveyard shift Tuesday to Saturday, which meant I came in on a given day for my start of shift at ten pm, then left the following morning a little after six-thirty. That was fine most days, except the busses didn’t run on Sunday. Every Sunday I needed to walk from the north end of town, to the south end, pretty much a straight shot, just like the bus.

That was fine, I needed the exercise. A few blocks from home was a strip mall, and in the strip mall was a buffet-style Chinese restaurant. Having just walked most of five miles, I often chose to kill some time in the modern five-and-dime store until the restaurant opened at eleven-thirty.

This was fine most weeks, but inevitably there would be weather. One Sunday morning we had a fine mist, and dew point was just below freezing, and the ambient temperature was just below dew point.

Now I love misty days. If I have nowhere to go and can grab my camera and walk around, fog and mist lend an air of mystery to otherwise familiar surroundings. Great enjoyment.

This kind of mist, however, was more of a gentle sleet, than a friendly cloak. I knew the sidewalks would be slippery; I also knew my sense of balance had been going south on me.

Nothing for it, though. I drank some break-room coffee, pulled my coat’s hood over my head, and set off. I found that if I kept my stride a bit shorter than usual I tended not to slip. With that in mind, I sallied forth.

About a half a mile into the walk, past the bridge over the Cache, it happened. I strode a little too long, my left heel slipped in front of me and I did the splits on the icy sidewalk. I was down, and no mistake. Like my stumble in my in-laws’ back yard I was alone. The only other people were the occasional pedestrians, easily hundreds of yards to the nearest one. Yelling for help was pointless.

I rolled onto my back and brought my legs together, and took some time to catch my breath. I started feeling the cold seep through my coat, into my body, the chill causing my body to stiffen. I couldn’t let that happen.

I had to move, so I rolled further onto the grass, pushing myself up onto my hands and knees, then straightening up, and getting my left foot flat on the ground, knee bent. Straightening my left leg, and bringing my right leg into action, I walked beside the sidewalk on the frozen grass until I got near to a post to lean on and catch my breath.

Still another four-and-a-half miles to home, but it’s got to be done.

Later that morning I had hot tea at the Chinese restaurant.

Sometimes the only one you have available to depend on is yourself and your own strength. When that happens, you may not be at the height of your powers; for whatever reason, the bounce you had when you were young is no longer available. Don’t give up. You still have strength. 

Decide to find that strength, find it, and do.

One step at a time.

Yes, you can.

Where There's A Will ...

... The Tax-Man Cometh.

(which is a great blog-post title in its own right, but I digress...)

The Left (use your own definition, it'll get you close) seems inordinately interested (not to say nosey) about the average Joe's money, and how he spends it. It seems the Federal Government (especially under Democrat leadership, but not exclusively so) agrees. To wit, the previous Administration arranged to expand the workforce of the IRS by a number uncomfortably larger than eighty thousand (80,000) bodies. Feel free to search for the references, they're there.

Thankfully, that idea was quashed, along with mandatory reporting of any expenditure to a particular recipient larger than $600 in a year's time (that amount tracks your UTILITY payments, folks). The IRS already requires tracking of amounts larger than ten thousand dollars. It (the government, et. al.) has done this in the past under the idea that We The People have been underreporting income, and what we did with it, in order to make sure we give the Government its fair share.

Fair Share. 

What is our 'Fair Share'?

Before I continue, it is important to note that we did not always pay an income tax. It wasn't until the ratification of the 16th Amendment that we did so. And the common person was not in its sights; the amendment was passed under the slogan, "Soak the Rich" The One Percent, of the day, if you will. And, envy, in the hands of a democratic (a.k.a. "mob rule") vote, the 99%  envious majority voted predictably and Income Tax became the law of the land.

But did it stay just the 1%? 

I'm afraid not. 

It has crept down the brackets to the average Joe, and even the below average Joe. We each must put in our 'withholding' amounts every paycheck, and hope to get a fraction back at tax time. We call it a 'refund'. Technically, that's what it is. But it is good to remember that this 'refund' is in actuality our own money that we overpaid.

It wouldn't bother me so much if the Government would stick to its original mandate, and paid attention to the needs of the country as a whole, defending the nation, mediating interstate commerce, and other such things. But it got into the generosity business. And, with the common sense of a prodigal child, it has spent this country's income prodigiously. 

But has it come to it's senses? If it weren't so painful it would be laughable. Thus we come to Randy Cassingham's nugget below.

The nugget comes from Randy Cassingham's web-paper, This Is True (tm), from his archive section (click here to see the original). 

Stanley S. Newberg fled persecution as a Jew and came to America. He did well, and when he died, his estate was valued at $8.4 million. 

He was also grateful to the country that took him in: his will left $5.6 million in cash to the U.S. Government. 

Based on 1994 spending rates, the money will last just under two minutes. 

Randy adds the tag line of, "And we thank you for the six wrenches and four vinyl binders from the bottom of our hearts," (because we all know how well the government spends other people's money). 

(From Randy's letter code on the original posting, the article came from Associated Press, and he, himself, wrote the nugget. This, and the links already included above, should cover any 'fair use' requirements.)

Back to the diatribe. Many of you readers (heh, who am I kidding? My 'readership' is the equivalent of whispering down a well.) As I was saying, many of you readers will yell at me and say we need things like roads, bridges, a capable military, basic research, etc. To which I say, "You are absolutely right!"

I am not against the things listed in the Constitution as a mandate: protect our shores from invaders, our people from criminal harm, insure that we have a country worth keeping, help fund basic science, the stuff that often slips through the cracks. The Government, Federal, State and Local, has a job and duty to its citizens in making sure our country and the communities within have access to the means to 'pursue happiness'. 

Then to get the heck out of the way.

Various things have been added over time. The 'not-tax' of Social Security and the 'not-tax' of Medicare, being a prominent two. If Social Security had remained the trust fund that it was originally intended to be, it would be solvent, and contributions would be less onerous for those currently paying in. They (that's 'You', folks), like my parents, would be paying in for their own retirement. Medicare tax payments, likewise. Instead, it's a Ponzi scheme, and young adults today are rightly bothered by it. 

But please, don't lay the blame at my feet. That decision was made in the Sixties, when I was still in grade school. I'll let you guess what president and congress made that decision. I'll help you out: it wasn't JFK. It wasn't Tricky Dick. 

And, by and large, I'm not even blaming the Welfare State. Decisions there could be wiser.

What bothers me, is the idea of this enormous pot of money that we can grab out of, without the need to pinch pennies, or even gold pieces. It's as bottomless as a leprechaun's crock of gold.

What a crock!

And even if we reach the bottom of that crock we'll fiddle with the tax brackets, assess a new tax or fee (the secret work-around to 'No New Taxes'), find a new way to have each citizen pony up another buck, and by the time each citizen does so, that's another three-hundred-million dollars.

That's almost Real Money.

If the various levels of governments pinched the pennies as do you and I, choosing chicken instead of steak, tofu instead of chicken, beans and rice instead of anything else, We The Individual People would have a few more dollars with which to make our own choices.

Yet we have people saying that we don't deserve better than beans and rice. THEY do, but we don't. We don't deserve to make our lives a bit more comfortable. 

Those on the dole can spend the money they get foolishly or wisely. Those who spend foolishly buy junk food and manage to buy cigarettes (it happens). Those who spend wisely manage better. And yet...

Those who are on the dole who want to get off have nearly impossible walls to climb: if they have a job and don't go over the limit, but manage to save the least little bit to maybe get out of state housing and into an apartment, then they are disqualified from the assistance. Yes they can save money, but (especially at the current housing market) by the time they get first month-last month-security deposit amounts of money, they no longer qualify for assistance and cannot make that leap. In other words, they can earn and save money, but not enough for the day-to-day of the Average Joe, or even the Below Average Joe to make the leap from net taker to net earner and tax payer. 

That some do despite the hold-backs is truly miraculous. They truly have a will and determination to succeed. God bless them, and may they have continued success. And may they pay it forward.

I'm going to borrow from Chuck Woolery (you can laugh if you want to), and request that Congress refrain from spending money on metaphorical Albino Squirrels. Disregarding any malfeasance on the part of congress, I am sure there is an abundance of sympathy for those in need, and since we have this great big pot of money, and the American People are a generous bunch (and gullible, besides, what they don't know won't hurt them - except in the pocket book). And Congress puts it in the budget. 

At first, this wasn't so bad, I mean, how many Albino Squirrels (metaphorically speaking) are there really? And, look, "Here's the Social Security fund just brimming full of money, surely we can use some of it for this or that, as long as we put it back."

(A Doonesbury story arc comes to mind, not going to search for it, but you go ahead: "The Union Retirement Fund Was Just Sitting There." or words to that effect.)

Two problems have occurred over the years: one, it didn't stop with just one squirrel, and two, the way it would need to be paid back was from taxes. And taxes came from? Yeah, you got it in one guess; us.

So, now we're paying into a fund that is being paid out to retired funders, but also to orphans and widows and disabled and ... out of work, and immigrants, and (I'm gong to use a hateful term here, but it fits) wetback immigrants. 

It has gotten bad enough, that not only are the people who are willing to assimilate and become United States citizens taking from our hands, but people who only see the U.S. as a rich uncle with deep pockets have come, not wanting to assimilate, not even wanting to obey our laws (they've broken one law, what's one, or a dozen, more?), to take from our hands. 

And it pains me to think that some of our government lawmakers are complicit in this, seeing in these smiling faces voters, or at very least larger districts, to allow themselves to stay in congress. We try to elect responsible men and women who look out for the general welfare of our nation. Instead, we have many of these people using the phrase 'General Welfare' to mean anything they want, to the point of placing the needs of Albino Squirrels (as cute as they are) above the real needs of the country.

Once upon a time our generous nature was expressed in the funding of non-profit organizations, or just simply giving to the person in need. We have deductions from our tax bite for that nowadays, but before the need for the bookkeeping to keep the IRS happy, we simply gave.

We gave to organizations such as The Salvation Army and The United Way. I've given to both, and will do so again. I'll also give what I can, where I can, when I can, to individuals. This includes the homeless; I make the judgement call and I make the decision, not a bureaucrat hired to do so.

But that's not what I was talking about. I could fill the need by creating a company to meet that need. I would sell something that someone else needed. Back in the day it was a barter economy: you had something I wanted, I had something you wanted. We haggled over how many these for how many those, and when we came to an agreement, the deal was struck and stuff swapped hands.

Nowadays I would create something that you might exchange some small green pieces of paper for. I in turn, would swap a number of those green pieces of paper for something I needed or wanted, maybe more raw materials or a machine to help me create the stuff I sell more economically. I might even employ someone to help me make more of the things I make, and give HIM (or her) some of those green pieces of paper so he (or she) can exchange them for things they may want or need.

In short, I could create a business. 

In fact, having accumulated some of those green bits of paper into a fairly large stack, a certain Mr. Newman created a company for the sole purpose of giving. But he didn't just build a foundation, per se. He built a company, with himself as the brand, in order to fund, from its profits, his giving forever. Or, at least as long as Newman's Own salad dressing keeps turning a penny now and then.

He did this with a pile of his own money, earned in the movie business. I can do the same thing with whatever I've earned by whatever means.

However, if even the slightest bit of over-and-above a hand-to-mouth existence is removed from me in the form of a tax, then given to someone who doesn't even share my values, I cannot create this business. I cannot employ anyone. I cannot sell my whatsit to anyone, because I cannot make it, I cannot even buy the materials or the tools I might need to get the job done. 

But, my government 'friend' will hand me enough to keep my belly filled, just as long as I don't aspire to anything higher than to be a drone, nor even a worker bee. 

And I'll eat beans and rice, and like it.

But then, what of the Stanley Newbergs of our nation, the ones who fled persecution to settle in this land of opportunity? Or the ones born here, but dirt poor? Stanley Newberg did well enough to set aside $8.4 million by the time he died; he chose to thank our fine nation for the opportunity by giving two-thirds of that, or $5.6 million, to us, These United States, to spend wisely on his behalf.

And in 1994, it disappeared in under two minutes, flat.

We, as a nation, can do better. Our governance must do better. We need to go back to the speech that President John Kennedy gave back in the early sixties, and take his words to heart:

"Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country."

Not just by paying taxes, but by creating opportunities for others. 

Zig Ziglar said it years ago: 

"You can have anything you want as long as you help someone else get what they want!"

Not a hand out, but a hand UP.

Yes, We Can!

Real brief, for Doug Adams fans

I know it's been a while, and this is real brief since I need to rush off, but,

Today's phone bots have yet to rise to the level of Sirius Cybernetics systems.
(And we ALL know how bad THEY are!)

Carry On in Spite of, 

Yes You Can!

The Hulk is Dead, and I Don’t Feel so Well Myself

    Hulk Hogan  has been a figure who has been hard to avoid over the years. He has been on the wrestling circuit for decades, starred in movies, stumped for politicians, and generally has been a force to be reckoned with.

    Not being a wresting fan myself, the first encounter I had with his image was not a good one: he was being interviewed and the interviewer asked the question that many people were asking: “Isn’t this all just fake?” By way of an answer Hulk reached out with is right hand and slapped the interviewer on the left side of his head, and asked his own question: “That was an open-hand slap. Did that feel ‘fake’ to you?”

    The interviewer was nearly knocked over and understandably backed away. 

    Before you start laughing at this, I saw that, and immediately said to myself, “That was undeserved.” Turns out Hulk had broken the interviewer’s eardrum, and the man ended up losing about thirty percent of his hearing in that ear. 

    Now I know that that question had been floating around for years, and I’m sure the Wrestlemania folks had gotten tired of the question, or assumption, that they just faked stuff for the camera. And Hulk Hogan was probably tired of hearing about it. But that moment, he lost any respect I might have had for him.

    Over the years my feelings mellowed. In one movie 'Mr. Nanny', he was babysitting an unruly family of kids and got the usual 'Davids beating Goliath' treatment, including buckets of water, slippery surfaces, and a bowling ball on the high shelf in the closet rolling onto his head. 

    It showed that he could take a joke for the camera.

    Good Times.

    I tend not to take celebrity endorsements seriously, so when this actor or that sports figure says they’re voting this way or that, I usually tune them out. But I do occasionally get a kick out of their antics.

    For those who don’t know, Hulk Hogan’s signature front-of-camera move is to rip off his t-shirt (sorta like the Big Green Marvel character), while yelling his defiance to any challenger.

    It's fun to watch.

    The last time I saw Hulk Hogan rip off his shirt, it was to reveal a ‘Make America Great Again!’ shirt underneath.

    Whatever your politics, you should admit that that was cool!

 Sail on, Sailor.

Every Now and Then ...

Every now and then I find unusual things. Sometimes it's an odd item, sometimes an odd thought. 

Sometimes it's an odd bit of archaic whatnot. 

A lot of people have heard of the Anasazi, and the Mesa Verde cliff dwellings. There are some cliff dwellings in the Garden of the Gods area west of Colorado Springs. And, of course, Chaco Canyon. 

RadioShack, when it was trying to be relevant to the (then) current shopper included an Alanis Morissette  unplugged session in Chaco Canyon. Personally, I wasn't impressed by her, but hey, even then I was an old guy.

Just lately I learned of a site in southern Colorado that seems to be an extension of the Chaco culture: Chimney Rock, Colorado (go to this website: chimneyrockco.org). It sounds like an interesting place, and in all my sixty years in the state of Colorado I'd never heard of it. (I found out about it through this channel: TheRandallCarlson, the particular link: They Built This to Catch the Moonrise)

There are new things to be learned even in a place I have resided most of my life.

I am unsure if I'll be able to visit the site this summer, but here's hoping. 

The biggest thing that stands in our way of learning new things, accepting new challenges, or taking new paths is our own short-sighted sophistication. It's that Dunning-Kreuger thing: 'I know something about something, so I know all I need to know.' 

Novice confidence, gotta love it! 

Novice confidence can be a good thing. It is what kept me on the ski slopes, learning without meaning to, that if you're skiing moguls it really does help to keep a bend in your knees. 

With my Cognitive Field Theorist brain I try to learn a little (the world-at-large, as well as the people in it, is/are my teachers, though not officially), while showing/teaching people (again, not officially, but, everyone you meet is a student) how to do the same, filling in the 'Here Be Dragons' places on personal knowledge maps. The trick is to teach something without the learner realizing they are having their mind expanded. When you hear, 'Hey, that's cool!' or similar, you know a lesson has hit home. I've always tried to teach the wonder.

I'm at a stage in my life that I'm at the other end of the D-K process: I know enough about most things to realize I really don't know a lot about anything. So I try to keep an open mind, but also I test the new knowledge as best I can before redrawing the map.

That's a Mizpah I keep with myself.

So should you. 

Yes, You Can!