tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49030092597056724372024-03-15T18:12:38.912-07:00It's Too Late to Leave EarlyV C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comBlogger192125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-82747719332768160362023-12-01T19:27:00.000-08:002023-12-02T09:11:18.561-08:00The Long Walk Home<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL4qzkzIf0m2TBRLKAqlKOeJsNVrgZ_qdkUtKyQe0HCyqLspx8OtQVsDSc1VpdfCEPlb3BHa0t8Z-DACG_O9p21MkVIK8bMzqOQVeKnukFGVy7PN7_XwYNTmZzaXw84JtdizuBS8ZCVB1ytEeb5GJk20JDD8q4igZZzWRkNrK28bgy1UMycKFVDZAN0-c/s939/39%203%20copy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="939" data-original-width="681" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL4qzkzIf0m2TBRLKAqlKOeJsNVrgZ_qdkUtKyQe0HCyqLspx8OtQVsDSc1VpdfCEPlb3BHa0t8Z-DACG_O9p21MkVIK8bMzqOQVeKnukFGVy7PN7_XwYNTmZzaXw84JtdizuBS8ZCVB1ytEeb5GJk20JDD8q4igZZzWRkNrK28bgy1UMycKFVDZAN0-c/w145-h200/39%203%20copy.jpeg" width="145" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />Junior high school was agonizing for me and many others. It was a crucible of terror into which were poured the human contents of a handful of grammar schools, blended and stirred vigorously, simmered in emerging hormones, and shipped off to school on buses for the first time in our young lives.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My day began a half block from my house on the 900 block of Goodwin Drive. It was a convenient location for a bus stop. My mother could even see me from the living room window if she chose to stoop beneath the level of the front canvas awnings and crane her neck far to the left. I wonder if she did.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I waited with one or two other kids I knew for years when we trekked together from kindergarten through the sixth grade to James Madison School further down the street. Ours seemed like the first stop on the route, an illusion shattered daily when the doors shooshed open and we mounted several steep black stairs. A look into the dead eyes of our driver, already fit to be tied with the ne’er-do-wells at the back of the bus, we turned to face our daily threat.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The first stop on our unfortunate route was in front of the trailer park store on Algonquin Road, between Oakton Street and Touhy Avenue. Behind the store, of course, was the trailer park. For various socioeconomic reasons, that little parcel of land was a mortar and pestle that ground resident human children into beings that in 1966 were known as greasers.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">There were five of them, a coterie of black leather-jacketed thugs who owned the back of our bus. I remember several of their faces, carved into my long-term memory with a switchblade of fear. One was a giant man-child who would be a formidable opponent for the outsized Dean of Students once he crossed the bridge to Maine South. Another was a handsome, silent but deadly James Dean type. I felt he might have the courage and heart to step out of his scripted existence if needed to save a victim like the one I assumed I might become. A third was most likely the model for the character Scut Farkus in 1983’s <i>A Christmas Story</i>, with red hair that writhed like Medusan snakes in the non-existent wind that swirled constantly around him. His green eyes were feline and his perpetual elvish grin had fangs.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The bus loaded quickly as the driver sped through his route, always running late and hoping to shorten the experience for us all. It was cowardly to sit as close to the front of the bus as possible, despite the instinct to distance ourselves from the viper pit further down the aisle. A seat somewhere amidships drew less attention from the venomous nest, and the tough guys were too enmeshed in the battle for supremacy within their ranks to pay much attention to the rest of us. Whatever corrupting force awaited them at home may have promised beatings half to death if reports of misbehavior followed them at day’s end. Exiting the bus at school was an enormous relief. We scattered to our respective lockers and homerooms.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The return trip after school was by comparison a dream, a relaxing ride by a different route devoid of the criminally insane. By mid-December, the chill in the air and occasional snowflakes sticking to our gloves and sleeves pointed the way to one of the best times of the year. Christmas break, two weeks during which we retreated to the warmth and coddled safety of our origin story, like a visit to see Santa at the local department store.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I vividly recall one walk home from the bus, about three blocks, on a late Friday afternoon that deposited me like a playground slide at ground level before a pre-holiday weekend. It was cold and overcast. The clouds felt like a cozy gray fleece over the entirety of Park Ridge. I walked slowly, not at all in the usual rush to get home and start the weekend. This break was fourteen days long with the best day of the year in its center, itself like a present waiting to be opened. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The anticipation began to mount. I relished every step of that walk home, examining familiar houses on both sides of the street, each beginning to show signs of Christmas. Strings of colored lights on metal gutters, trees showcased in bay windows, and tall red plastic candles on front walkways that said “Noel” beneath an unwavering yellow flame. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’d seen the houses a thousand times, but the large red and blue and green colored bulbs on bushes and trees out front lent them an added dimensionality, like a Marshall Field window diorama. They were big glass bulbs, half the length of your hand. I was happy to the point of bliss, the morning ride on the bus completely forgotten.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And then the snowflakes began to increase in number. The sky darkened a bit with thickening clouds as darkness approached, still an hour away. As the solstice arrived, the sun put up only a feeble struggle, vanishing so early for several weeks that my father came home from work in the dark during winter’s depth.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And then there was a surprise. On the final approach to my house, I spotted a hint of activity through our living room window. Dad was home! And not only home, but crouching down near the bare green trunk of our new artificial Christmas tree. He took his time, knowing that I’d be home soon, wondering what was taking me so long. I sped up the driveway, tossed my hat and coat aside, and joined him, sorting color-coded branches for methodical insertion from bottom to top, eventually crowning the uppermost end of the wooden pole with a genuinely fake-looking sprig of green plastic and twisted black wire.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">But it was a fine tree, with a better shape than previous real trees that messed up the carpeting in a torrent of dry needles or tipped over during the night as branches shifted, staining the carpet with rusty water from the tree stand. Lights, garlands, and ornaments masked the many gaps between branches. There were even glow-in-the-dark plastic icicles. It was beautiful.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><span>Rudolph the Nosed Reindeer</span></i><span> was on television later that evening, the yearly telecast that we dared not miss for fear of having to wait a year to see it again. It debuted as an instant favorite two years before on our black-and-white TV. But our minds filled in the missing colors, and the hour-long show’s music provided the evening’s soundtrack with songs destined to be classics.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We didn’t know at the time that Dad would be gone in three years, or how important it was that he came home early to lengthen a pre-Christmas weekend that year. It was so unlike him, a man as regular as clockwork, almost as if he felt the press of time slipping away, relentless and ever-faster, each moment more precious than the last.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you'd like to read seventy non-fiction stories inspired by my hometown, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-35629028021383925802023-11-07T08:26:00.002-08:002023-11-07T10:45:32.582-08:00 The “C” Word<p><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnGuU7_J-FHfDpQd6IsLhJc4KwQAUByJFGoc10Arf-GLj_BMnzKvojtPw6OXkxFh7Gplj_XBh07qvrxdufXbAnyC_PvpyhQ2j7H9go-m2erB-szck6GVDnF3sBMFBzBcNtrLClGGfH6GVCEnjNs9USYKOFmp0GJmS6gv3m7aCx02YFX1Fdh0biKJpB5C4/s499/The%20C%20Word%20Image.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="429" data-original-width="499" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnGuU7_J-FHfDpQd6IsLhJc4KwQAUByJFGoc10Arf-GLj_BMnzKvojtPw6OXkxFh7Gplj_XBh07qvrxdufXbAnyC_PvpyhQ2j7H9go-m2erB-szck6GVDnF3sBMFBzBcNtrLClGGfH6GVCEnjNs9USYKOFmp0GJmS6gv3m7aCx02YFX1Fdh0biKJpB5C4/w200-h172/The%20C%20Word%20Image.png" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />You’ve been warned. The photos I mentioned before you clicked to come here are posted below, as promised. This is your last chance before scrolling past the following paragraphs to avoid seeing them.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">But, to be truly impactful as a cautionary tale, you need to see the photographic evidence of my dermatologic adventure.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">So, here we go.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I see a dermatologist every six months since I was treated for melanoma in 2017. As the surgeon said at the time, “If you have to have a melanoma, this one was shallow and small, the best-case scenario.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Now that we’ve started spending summers in Illinois, I decided to establish myself with a dermatologist up there. I met with her in June of this year for a full body scan. Three women now see me naked. One of them is my wife. I got the all-clear, though she liberally blasted me with liquid nitrogen on a number of sun-damaged spots. Freezing the affected areas causes them to scab, fall off, and heal before turning into something worse. For the record, Florida is a great place to live if you collect sun damage.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">About two months later I noticed a small spot on my right shin. It looked like a pimple or an infected hair follicle. I didn’t think much about it until it refused to go away later in the summer. By that point, I also had an establishing appointment scheduled with an Illinois primary care physician. I pointed out the growing bump on my leg when she asked if I had any concerns.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Oh, that looks like cancer. You should see a dermatologist.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Ok, then. We were heading home in a few days so there was no time for a return visit to the doctor I’d seen just a few months earlier. I thought I had an appointment with my Florida dermatologist a few weeks later, but didn’t want to wait. I called and asked to have my appointment rescheduled with her as soon as possible.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">There was no availability. I even played the “C” card, conveying my Primary’s assessment from a few days before. I was put on a waiting list but never got a call. If you’re not familiar with my earlier death-by-receptionist tale, <a href="https://viclarson.blogspot.com/2021/09/practicing-medicine.html" target="_blank">click here</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I searched for another dermatologist, one willing to see a new patient as soon as possible. I had an appointment within three days.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">When a physician’s assistant came in to greet me, she looked at my leg.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Oh yeah, that’s cancer,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYIxJXndMPN0qe50HDj1Ahoy-PXMyZsk6TsM5OE63BP28oQkWoDxIZNtbP3Fb7vsfpsOUpKLzqN-RzjyQyD1-fLevEl5o0_VRIsLYuaZWed2YVQmBViONo0OP0j6X5eMPRGg-qXpATcR-xfDhaUwfcG2HHEiGuU1doac9QCWlmIXlhR2BZ_faQAvmjK_g/s4032/1.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYIxJXndMPN0qe50HDj1Ahoy-PXMyZsk6TsM5OE63BP28oQkWoDxIZNtbP3Fb7vsfpsOUpKLzqN-RzjyQyD1-fLevEl5o0_VRIsLYuaZWed2YVQmBViONo0OP0j6X5eMPRGg-qXpATcR-xfDhaUwfcG2HHEiGuU1doac9QCWlmIXlhR2BZ_faQAvmjK_g/w150-h200/1.JPG" width="150" /></span></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The offending bump was “shave biopsied,” and cauterized to prevent further growth. I made the mistake of watching this procedure and was horrified to see a razor blade slicing off part of my leg. Note to self: don’t watch next time. It’s better to lay back and think distracting thoughts.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The pathology lab confirmed that my “pimple” was in fact a squamous cell carcinoma that required a MOHS procedure to be fully removed. This is a micrographic surgery that was named after Doctor Mohs in the late 1930s. I’ve had this done before with great success.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My procedure was scheduled three weeks later. In hindsight, that may have been too long to wait. The cauterized biopsy wound appeared to develop further during that time.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcIgDtMJ0fCA1xHWfltHUISdo6Oqjq182Km6EyWt_TqRiLEiw_RAbWgLb5z659ksYSV82eGZ2DwGGDUCEaqKVFBZQ7tiidg9SVsDZ1Y_jfUCBUDgozFuhK_iFeX0e6b-la227_edt05_tnHj5z7sg9eaKPZjIJlSR2ixJYEKCUS_EBe6DmW4BGhrJKZMo/s4032/2.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcIgDtMJ0fCA1xHWfltHUISdo6Oqjq182Km6EyWt_TqRiLEiw_RAbWgLb5z659ksYSV82eGZ2DwGGDUCEaqKVFBZQ7tiidg9SVsDZ1Y_jfUCBUDgozFuhK_iFeX0e6b-la227_edt05_tnHj5z7sg9eaKPZjIJlSR2ixJYEKCUS_EBe6DmW4BGhrJKZMo/w150-h200/2.JPG" width="150" /></span></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">When undergoing MOHS surgery, an attempt is made to cut out all cancerous growth, quickly examine it in a pathology laboratory, and then stitch the wound closed, or go back and cut out more cancerous tissue if the results demand it. My surgeon had to visit the leg buffet twice, sampling shin meat in a widening hole each time.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHZ1JiDylml1QJuEZ88mN6B9H3qnNaR-2mDF2FaHeBDqTpgLu011dhb9_9br4iuPS6OxkOCJ9otvbHmmounb4F_mJeoeMXMtxQeSMnwG_W-vvkIKoe7yaQnN78qG_CUyaFb51VONnWx8Gffl_YrDRUIKZ5kZ_E9oyzdOXT5kdlX81J-nEeDZW318FaZlo/s4032/3.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHZ1JiDylml1QJuEZ88mN6B9H3qnNaR-2mDF2FaHeBDqTpgLu011dhb9_9br4iuPS6OxkOCJ9otvbHmmounb4F_mJeoeMXMtxQeSMnwG_W-vvkIKoe7yaQnN78qG_CUyaFb51VONnWx8Gffl_YrDRUIKZ5kZ_E9oyzdOXT5kdlX81J-nEeDZW318FaZlo/w150-h200/3.JPG" width="150" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAlv52sNlJBiumkL2vVPwwizL2suFtvvlCxPLnlbBGfoKWmKmK6IOmGFRPm1n2dkfuIyPvecFz0ZyKZZcG3ofM3StumSppX6mb1muw8AJCoZOwBX92uLNq8dO_hubMwSz-9ahMy8LNnt4JdeJAB3Tri2-Exmi7G5MhERK3PJgqYEsAIByUoDJB9rMqMf4/s4032/4.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAlv52sNlJBiumkL2vVPwwizL2suFtvvlCxPLnlbBGfoKWmKmK6IOmGFRPm1n2dkfuIyPvecFz0ZyKZZcG3ofM3StumSppX6mb1muw8AJCoZOwBX92uLNq8dO_hubMwSz-9ahMy8LNnt4JdeJAB3Tri2-Exmi7G5MhERK3PJgqYEsAIByUoDJB9rMqMf4/w150-h200/4.JPG" width="150" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I texted my wife in the waiting room while I ruminated about the eventual outcome. The doctor told me not to panic. There’s nothing like being told not to panic to put you at ease. The other calming statement, after being shot full of anesthetic, is, “Let me know if you feel anything,” just as a knife is about to be plunged into your flesh.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">To shorten this story a bit, the little bump on my leg turned out to be a large, aggressive, deep tumor that got disturbingly close to the bone. As you can see in the photos, I discovered a way to lose weight—the old pound-of-flesh method—but immediately gained it back in staples. Lots of them. The doctor took great pride when he drew the outline of Madagascar on my leg in order to successfully close the incision with a flap rather than by simply using sutures that would have pulled out. He trusted this method to work better than a skin graft. I hadn’t even thought about that possibility.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZBiMMBUYKg0kgeeB5hv-KaZCnfg6KGFeJkr6qCScThr6-dHHkXqOTrPA3ymxdtvQIRMjvu5WiaeDsuis9f26SJkivdQr4-kMeD-y83_FZtrdS4myXhJmQLZ4AhyZQpLqoc8O8s9fQeNvN1it8tkpj8MewjJ3o3kOgvEg-7K53MCK3YNHMLL2g93j7D7s/s4032/5.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZBiMMBUYKg0kgeeB5hv-KaZCnfg6KGFeJkr6qCScThr6-dHHkXqOTrPA3ymxdtvQIRMjvu5WiaeDsuis9f26SJkivdQr4-kMeD-y83_FZtrdS4myXhJmQLZ4AhyZQpLqoc8O8s9fQeNvN1it8tkpj8MewjJ3o3kOgvEg-7K53MCK3YNHMLL2g93j7D7s/w150-h200/5.JPG" width="150" /></span></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">My message to the reader is, RUN to the doctor when something suspicious arises on your largest organ, your skin. If it turns out to be nothing, great. And of course, use sunscreen.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="text-align: center;">😎</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by my home town, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-74849708634595791932023-10-20T15:44:00.003-07:002023-10-20T16:24:09.615-07:00Off to See the Wizard<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4sAn4x4Z_vBA5rH-URQLuHBS6l1x1vEVM8jcxvXm_zsNua5ssX9c94GUrAIooP8UEk5uJY6QSbufem4vJ0Edk86evn0D-0N4DAJCktXXaT9xZH2b80rRi3KxXWZX4-klxVjv63FPMWSLeE9K-6Npaq6HvYqvm5Beq5VJgPoAsnu53oniV4Tdfs9TFJAk/s4032/IMG_4436.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4sAn4x4Z_vBA5rH-URQLuHBS6l1x1vEVM8jcxvXm_zsNua5ssX9c94GUrAIooP8UEk5uJY6QSbufem4vJ0Edk86evn0D-0N4DAJCktXXaT9xZH2b80rRi3KxXWZX4-klxVjv63FPMWSLeE9K-6Npaq6HvYqvm5Beq5VJgPoAsnu53oniV4Tdfs9TFJAk/w150-h200/IMG_4436.JPG" width="150" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />If you’ve ever been on the gentle ride at Epcot called <i>Living with the Land</i>, you have seen hydroponic and aeroponic gardening. Leave it to Disney to find innovative ways to grow their own food and turn it into a fascinating attraction.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">We recently visited a local aeroponic farm to look at tower gardens (pictured.) These are vertically stacked pods that can grow twenty or more plants without soil, with much greater yields and lower water use.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Can you grow marijuana in these?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It seemed like an obvious question, and judging by the laughter around me and the look of delight on our guide’s face, a good one.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Yes! In fact, the plants grow quickly and to a very large size.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’ll circle back to this thought in a bit.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Why my fascination with marijuana? I’ve written previously about my use of a marijuana-infused cream on my arthritic knees, and the challenge I face in Florida legally acquiring the product. Well, it turns out that my quest was much easier than I thought it would be.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I stopped by a local cannabis dispensary and was directed to one of a number of clinics in the area where “cannabis doctors” meet with you. Not unlike the Wizard of Oz, they speak a few impressive-sounding words and send you on a quest to become a registered medical user in the state of Florida.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’m sure you recall that in Oz, the Wizard was a humbug. Several of the creatures in Oz were clueless allegorical characters searching for brains, a heart, or courage. Under the influence of drugs, these things can be obtained, if not imagined.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Much like Dorothy, I stepped out of a monochromatic gray concrete parking lot through the cannabis clinic door into a technicolor office space with the vibe of the Emerald City. And much to my surprise, the first character I met was a little dog. About the size of Toto, he had a pronounced underbite, a wrinkly bulldog face, and was immensely curious, sniffing my ankles and demanding to be scratched. I swore he was going to start talking, like many of the animals in Oz. Perhaps after my visit with the cannabis doctor, he might.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Seated in the waiting room were two downtrodden customers, perhaps Uncle Henry and his wife. Auntie Em seemed confused and quite rattled by Toto.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Calm down, it’s just a dog,” said Henry. Then he turned to me and added, “She has dementia.” Maybe they were hoping cannabis would help with that.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I stepped up to a window where the receptionist asked how I planned to pay for my visit and fumbled with a credit card reader. It seemed to be just beyond her capabilities, but with a painted-on smile, she generated a receipt and pointed the wrong way down the hallway to a room I needed to visit.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">There I met a nice young man with hair like a lion’s mane. More of an Afro really. I hear they’re coming back, having been popular in the days when The Wiz was all the rage. He handed me a product list, instructions for micro-dosing, and a chart that turned out to be a prescription. I guess everyone gets the same prescription.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">That’s where my metaphor takes a break. There was no wicked witch or Tin Man. Only a Wizard.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Hi, I’m Doctor Mike!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Doctor Mike goes out of his way to be relatable, in a far too engaging sort of way. Short of saying, “Heyyyyyyy,” like the Fonz, he’s all about making the patient comfortable and tries hard to generate a cool vibe. He wears a flowered shirt unbuttoned too far, several gold necklaces, has dyed hair, and several rings on each hand. This all left me wondering just what kind of doctor this guy was in a previous life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Interesting gig you have working here,” I couldn’t help but say.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “It’s the best job I’ve ever had!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Rodney Dangerfield used to talk about his quack doctor named Vinnie Boombotz. Those jokes immediately came to mind. The more Vinnie, er, Mike, talked, the larger his memorized vocabulary became. He proudly spoke words like tetrahydrocannabinol. He was a veritable fountain of syllables, which might impress uneducated customers, but made it clear to me that he was deflecting my questions with canned comments.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “If you don’t like to smoke flowers, you can vape.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “I just want to get some cream for my arthritic knees.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “A chocolate edible right before bed will help you sleep,” he continued.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “I sleep fine. I’m here for the pain in my knees.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Well, you can see by the prescription I gave you that there are limits assigned to each category of product.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “I see. So it says I get a maximum of 1400 milligrams for topical applications. How many jars of cream will that buy?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Our dispensary folks are like gurus when it comes to that stuff,” he dodged.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">If we back up a moment, let’s revisit the notion that the Cowardly Lion moments earlier gave me a printout of a “prescription” before I ever met with the doctor.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Let’s say that again. I was given a “prescription” before meeting with the doctor. He didn’t know anything about me, my symptoms, or my hoped-for outcome. For this, I paid $154. And I am required to have a follow-up appointment in seven months. The state charges $75 annually to maintain my profile in the Medical Marijuana User Registry. This all happens before I visit a dispensary to make a purchase.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">So, back to Epcot and aeroponics. It occurs to me that with a tower garden, I can quite successfully grow a large, constantly regenerating crop of cannabis far cheaper than the $65 per ounce I’ll pay for some cream at the dispensary. I would just need a recipe to make my arthritis cream. Unfortunately, that is still illegal, but a group is attempting to amend the Florida state constitution to allow medical users to grow their own drugs. Cheech and Chong would be so proud!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I left the Land of Oz, prescription in hand, and returned to my black and white trek across the parking lot. I said goodbye to the characters I’d just met; the scarecrow, the lion, and their little dog too. I’ll miss him most of all.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by my home town, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-86111874512306593312023-09-23T09:23:00.004-07:002023-09-23T18:33:23.941-07:00Everybody Must Get Stoned<p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDKq0DVkyzO5_aJXOHw0aKHrX_J_sr95vA0XjkQecmAi49Irc09QOa_keGbV7bLGMaqLF6DtbayLvkw3tT5zYlyXsLrRDQfjv4uA1tf9eV-IBMY9W2IT8WCmthYgdoitmlOWzzU5v5-i46qxHFDzgncFubWprGqLysycjbyO-k48CX7XdHSDex5ucIwQA/s250/marijuana-bud-cartoon-character-peace-sign-vector-42903137.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="250" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDKq0DVkyzO5_aJXOHw0aKHrX_J_sr95vA0XjkQecmAi49Irc09QOa_keGbV7bLGMaqLF6DtbayLvkw3tT5zYlyXsLrRDQfjv4uA1tf9eV-IBMY9W2IT8WCmthYgdoitmlOWzzU5v5-i46qxHFDzgncFubWprGqLysycjbyO-k48CX7XdHSDex5ucIwQA/w200-h200/marijuana-bud-cartoon-character-peace-sign-vector-42903137.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I’m spending the summer in a state where marijuana is legal for recreational use. I remember, decades ago, strolling down Venice Beach in California past an early medical marijuana “dispensary.” Reasons listed on one of those A-frame restaurant placards were: headaches, anxiety, pains in just about any location, disappointing days on the waves, or living near a serial killer (then, a more uniquely Californian experience.)</span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Now that I’ve tried numerous things to alleviate my knee pain, it was recommended that I rub the new breed of CBD/THC essential oil on my joints. Funny use of the word joint, right?</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Call me a skeptic, but I’ve long insisted that CBD is just modern snake oil. I tried it several years ago in a moment of desperation, aware that my mind could convince me that the treatment was helping. It was not. But things have changed.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Back in the days of Acapulco Gold, my friends paid $200 for a “nickel bag” of buds, weak by modern standards, from a guy who mysteriously showed up at parties in Wicker Park. His name was Ray. He wore one of those paper-cut-sized little Bandaids on one of his nostrils, the left one if I remember correctly. It was always there. No one knew why. Or cared.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> “Is Ray coming tonight?” they’d ask.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">No one knew where he lived, and in the days before cell phones, burner or otherwise, he couldn’t be reached. He just showed up. It was all very shady.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">But again, things have changed. I recently visited a marijuana (weed, pot, dope, grass) dispensary called NuEra. It is certainly a new era!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The windows of the dispensary are translucent to the point of being opaque, shielded from prying eyes by gray plastic sheeting. Given that recreational use is now legal in Illinois, why all the covert tactics? Secrecy lends a naughty ambiance to the otherwise clinical setting.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Step in the door at NuEra and the overpowering scent of a skunk in full-release unapologetically hits you in the face. Are the people behind the counter smoking on the job? Or vaping. Or rubbing oils and lotions on their joints? They seemed sober enough.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">They carefully checked our IDs. From Florida. Hmm, would that be a problem? Nope. But we arrived without state-issued medical cards. Reminiscent of Venice Beach, but much more official.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> “Ok, you’re all set. Go through the door to the showroom and talk to one of our Bud Tenders.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">If I had been drinking coffee, I would have done a spit take. Bud Tenders? Has someone developed a sitcom about this yet? They must have. (Google search – oh yes they have!)<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">We passed by a young woman seated in the corner of the inhalation chamber I’m not sure what else to call it, but the room felt and smelled kind of like the bowl on a water pipe (bong, hookah.) We didn’t understand her role, but she held an iPad and appeared to be interacting with it as we passed by.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> “Oh, you’re my Florida crew,” said our Bud Tender. I don’t recall her introducing herself or wearing a name tag, but she was very knowledgeable.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The catalog of products was lengthy and detailed. Remember, I was just hoping to get more, possibly stronger, oil or lotion for my knees, so we never discussed plants, flowers, seeds, or stems in any particular strength or quantity. But behind the counter was a waist-high window to an area that looked exactly like what you see at a pharmacy, complete with labeled plastic bins. It was quite impressive.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I wondered about the supply chain, regulatory protocols, and quantification of dosing that supports this kind of business. I guess liquor stores stock suitably identified liquids, but they've had a hundred years since prohibition to refine their catalogs. The good news is, I've never met an angry stoner. The problems caused by alcohol in our society are well-known and truly tragic. This really is a new era in many ways.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And the place was doing business like Starbucks during the morning rush.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When I purchased the recommended lotion, I discovered that one thing hadn’t changed. Prices are in line with Ray’s, with one difference.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Illinois (or any state where this is legal) is making out like a bandit. The various taxes paid by individuals like myself who don’t have a medical-use card range from 25% to 41%! Other than casinos, our economy-of-addiction is raking in revenue like Vinnie the loan shark in the alley out back.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The product works and certainly beats needles in my knees or surgery, for now. I guess the bottom line is that I need to find a doctor who will agree to fill out the Florida-required form required to get a medical-use card when I return to that anything-goes state. Anything, that is, unless you’re gay, Democratic, a history buff, or a Disney fan.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Oh, and a certain doctor who tried to kill me not long ago? He owes me one!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-36453536850845545552023-07-18T05:18:00.001-07:002023-09-23T18:45:27.986-07:00When Every Day is Saturday<p><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21; font-family: GTSuperTextBook, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT0PDDgAMq3xq3oeXTJYWUuz8POYPWCbDK9Lc4VOsvrPErt4oglnPI0AX9_gH0sPX5_vYrX-T_WOsvHsIBxsQBR0Sf5KaTlf2QN6yTGjbaUnAK-69-7xobNhBmQQTValrLkd_shuzUJbKPuj6Fq5xxZ5lj_A6Q13B6yxcCraK8XsJbPWpF8fh2YFaUf2g/s218/When%20Every%20Day%20is%20Saturday.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="217" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT0PDDgAMq3xq3oeXTJYWUuz8POYPWCbDK9Lc4VOsvrPErt4oglnPI0AX9_gH0sPX5_vYrX-T_WOsvHsIBxsQBR0Sf5KaTlf2QN6yTGjbaUnAK-69-7xobNhBmQQTValrLkd_shuzUJbKPuj6Fq5xxZ5lj_A6Q13B6yxcCraK8XsJbPWpF8fh2YFaUf2g/w199-h200/When%20Every%20Day%20is%20Saturday.png" width="199" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />I retired at age sixty-two. I’m very fortunate to have achieved that goal a bit early, if at all. My parents never did.</span></div><p></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">Following a few recent conversations with younger, former coworkers, not much has changed, except, well, everything. On my side of life’s career equation I’m grateful for having made it to retirement before “Me Too” and the pandemic, except for the getting old part. Many people never get to enjoy “the golden years.” My folks paid off their mortgage and unceremoniously passed away while still in their fifties. As I like to point out, golden can sometimes be the color of urine or rust.</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">Not only did I retire into the path of the largest hurricane ever to come out of the Atlantic (Irma) and into the waiting arms of the most life-altering virus since the Russian Revolution, but I moved over thirteen hundred miles from the place I called home for over sixty years. That necessitated recruiting all new doctors, generally from online searches, in a place where the clientele needs golf carts to make the journey from parking lot to waiting room.</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">It’s no wonder so many medical office receptionists turn into unsmiling automatons in Florida. They face a slow, steady stream of achy, complaining patients from sun-up to sundowners. It’s a particularly cranky time of life in God’s Waiting Room. And although I managed to survive this gauntlet on my latest checkup, it offered my whippersnapper of an Osteopath, who thinks he’s a real doctor, a chance to comment that my lipid profile looks amazing but, “It would be irresponsible of me if I didn’t mention that…” Pause for effect. “…there are no FAT ninety-year-olds.”</span></span><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /></span><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">I thought back to the waiting room. He’s right. Jerk.</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">But I digress, another symptom of life in which every day of the week is Saturday. Honestly, we just say that because it sounds like fun. Every day of the week is actually Tuesday, I think. And therein lies the singular value I can assign to having worked for almost forty years. The days had structure, and each sucked to varying degrees depending on its proximity to Friday.</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">I was dreaming about work again last night, much like the journeys I have taken for decades through the halls of my high school and college. In those dreamscapes I was generally naked and staring at a combination lock I couldn’t open, or arriving on the last day of the semester without a clue as to why I haven’t gone to class until the day of the final exam, which I am late for, in a room that’s written on a class schedule I can’t find. The question is, do I miss these places, or am I working through long held fears of failure and of being exposed as a complete fraud?</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">Flavor my new recurrent middle-of-the-night thrill ride a bit differently, and with a happier outcome. I am somewhere near my desk. I liked my desk. I kept a bowl of candy there. People visited, even ones who didn’t particularly care for me. Ah, the power of chocolate.</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">The dreams have evolved, coinciding with a news story about returning to work after the pandemic and how different it may be. Employers might insist upon sharing desks in open spaces that maintain distance and create a flexible timeshare sort of arrangement between workers who used to value their privacy. News flash: they still do! Workers will hate this setup if forced to return after months of Zooming with no pants, endless supplies of coffee made exactly the way they choose, and no one messing with the supplies or leaving things for the next guy to wash.</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">So, my real office was a fairly safe space, and I’m almost enjoying it in my dream when I realize I’ve been coerced into working on a large, multifaceted project with a deadline that’s utterly ridiculous and with almost no budget. Yeah, the kind of “opportunity” clients would predictably bring me on Friday after pushing it around their desk for perhaps three weeks.</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">These work dreams are becoming more layered, nuanced and real. In the most recent episode I approach my old office early in the morning. Someone is at my desk. In fact, a bold nameplate indicates that it is definitely no longer mine. A nicely dressed woman has been given my management job. Well, it’s about time! I’m impressed by her youth and intimidated by her sidelong glance. I back away, apologizing for the interruption.</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">Work is now structured like college, complete with long hallways, separate buildings, elevators that go all the wrong places and sneering, unfamiliar faces that scan my uncombed hair and outrageous attire. Oh my goodness, work and college nightmares are coalescing!</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">My attire! I’m wearing bright red-striped short-shorts, unusually white gym shoes and a tank top. I’m looking far too much like a Richard Simmons exercise video to be at work. I press the elevator call button and realize that I don’t know where my next hour of work or my next desk is located. I return to my first wrong desk and collect a small cardboard box of my colorful personal effects. By the way, if you dream in black and white, you were not human in your previous life.</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">My car keys are missing!</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">Back on the elevator, I exit, somehow in the corridor of a hospital, an intensive care unit where beeping and swooshing is background for hushed conversations. I look out the window at a brightly lit, snow-covered parking lot. I need to go home and get my clothes. Still no keys.</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">At this point stress is elevating my heart rate, the speed at which I take shallow breaths, and I realize that not only do I not know which building I should be in, I can’t remember what floor I’ve exited. I try to calm myself, duck into the nearest bathroom to wipe the sweat from my forehead and am immediately confronted with a tiled sub-nightmare, as if passing from one level of a role-playing video game to the next, having chosen to apply the wrong token.</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">It is a filthy apocalypse of dark, putrid fluids and unclean sinks. I can’t get out of there fast enough. I look down at my box of effects once more and consider the possibility that I am having another work nightmare, the off-ramp to lucid dreaming.</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">I shake myself; I shake the box. My keys jingle and rise to the surface of my collected things. Thank goodness, because this is no dream. It is real. But of course, it is not. I head to my car. Where did I leave my car?</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">But here’s the cool part. In my most recent dreams, the horror of the experience jolts me into a state of semi-lucidity. Not really a dream within a dream, but an awareness that I’m not unlike Howard Beale and “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.” And since I realize in the dream that I retired years earlier, I loudly and gleefully exclaim, “You know, I’m retired. I don’t have to be here!” </span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">And then I wake up, relieved, breathing hard. Perhaps my CPAP came loose on my face. Or maybe the power went out briefly. I’m gasping for air, heart racing and happy to be awake.</span><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><br style="box-sizing: inherit; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;" /><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;">It was a dream after all. I never have to go to work again, until tomorrow night. For now, I’m ready for another Saturday, or Tuesday. It doesn’t matter.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(4, 42, 33); color: #042a21;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); clear: both; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: center;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); clear: both; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); clear: both; color: black; font-family: -webkit-standard; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div></span></span></div>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-14757375095814153862023-07-11T09:35:00.002-07:002023-10-02T17:34:36.214-07:00The Delta Tau Delta Murder - A Chastity Delarue Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3PrDC8W8R0HET1wuujacuReIhQnLGdAOcKyITYdehHEhMI5S6riNcJ8ONXv9bvV8-Yz40WxfGWZgbPSVilwc2Ky-1TKGQxoD9tE83W5k7TR4b8C3Pq9dKQOkgmH_BxBWC15pxie4hJAH0X_SiXMjGP2RJZJweLMYg_DvB6zpoi48DuXfMF_Kq1yD_0FU/s1044/Body%20Count%20copy.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="713" data-original-width="1044" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3PrDC8W8R0HET1wuujacuReIhQnLGdAOcKyITYdehHEhMI5S6riNcJ8ONXv9bvV8-Yz40WxfGWZgbPSVilwc2Ky-1TKGQxoD9tE83W5k7TR4b8C3Pq9dKQOkgmH_BxBWC15pxie4hJAH0X_SiXMjGP2RJZJweLMYg_DvB6zpoi48DuXfMF_Kq1yD_0FU/w200-h137/Body%20Count%20copy.png" width="200" /></span></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Street lights flickered on outside the office building at the corner of Market and Main streets in Vermillion. The incandescent yellow glow of a second-floor office window reflected off the snow on the main drag in town like an after-hours beacon. Its sole occupant celebrated the end of another day with a drink and a cigar.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Chastity Delarue looked at the darkening sky outside her window, tilting as far back as she dared against the squeaking springs of her ancient leather office chair. The pace of recent business was a concern, but something always came along. For now, it was as slow as the arrival of a South Dakota Spring, when dirt-encrusted piles of snow crystals lingered like black mold near lamp posts and fire hydrants.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The pebbled glass in her office door and the odor of musty wood and cigar smoke in the foyer had a strangely calming effect on her more apprehensive clients. It was a soothing incense from a trip to another era, one populated by city-dwelling grandparents in old three flats. It also lent an appropriate air of mystery to her noirish setting. She drank from a cocktail glass filled with Southern Comfort over ice, dripping condensation on her desk each time she lifted it to her lips. She alternately sipped and launched a series of ethereal smoke rings after each drag on the cigar she held in her left hand. Confidence warmed her from head to toe, each in their own way. Smoke drifted across the office, creating a haze near the single word she viewed from her inverted perspective – “Office,” backward.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The door opened...<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s1500/natural%20selections.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s320/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p></div>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-9037354927318980272023-06-27T19:11:00.003-07:002023-10-02T17:34:54.386-07:00 The Yard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEyvQPJIOiacNOTUjVtmffydU3PEmyuyRrHDJX2iPznyNfr7r4h-hgYaJb6tty-r8I8EqLTe5MbRh-nLWyjSK_q-lm4eS7I1r9h123Y28n638zwe3PzWOtv54cz4kkQfJd4ucvdeF-lL3q9dlyBfi62PLWHevybgrNBYqTq9-ed5EGi28Ifs0ZAoX4DZU/s1200/The%20Yard.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEyvQPJIOiacNOTUjVtmffydU3PEmyuyRrHDJX2iPznyNfr7r4h-hgYaJb6tty-r8I8EqLTe5MbRh-nLWyjSK_q-lm4eS7I1r9h123Y28n638zwe3PzWOtv54cz4kkQfJd4ucvdeF-lL3q9dlyBfi62PLWHevybgrNBYqTq9-ed5EGi28Ifs0ZAoX4DZU/w200-h113/The%20Yard.jpeg" width="200" /></span></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Each of Leon Petrovsky’s days were ponderous replays of those that came before, like the endless parade of lumbering elephantine boxcars outside his dirty office window. One after another, a monochromatic freight yard tableau of corroding steel under a remorseless Illinois sky taunted him in the yard house at his painted metal desk. His eyes were gray. Even the untrimmed hairs protruding from his ears and nose seemed to be an outgrowth of the creeping arthritic tendrils in his graying bones.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> His time on the yard forced him here, the logical next step in a trainman’s career if engineer or brakeman wasn’t an option. His body could no longer take the punishment the young gandy dancers continued to tolerate. They were so much like his son, and were for him beneficiaries of the anger triggered by that painful reminder. Especially Noles, the twenty-four-year-old switch tender with aspirations like his own. <i>He wants to be on the trains. Well, so did I, </i>thought Leon<i>.</i> <i>He’ll put in his time just like everyone else.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Joe Noles complained that his job and boss were sapping his youth and vigor, the drone of a much older man, as if his days were numbered. When he headed to work at the yard, he left the care and comfort of his wife and a small apartment, steeling himself for another eight hours of repetitious exertion under the eyes of a tyrant. He hated second shift, the dimming light that consumed the train yard after a diesel-stained sunset, and the need to be extra alert to the dangers of performing maintenance on switches at night. Daylight turned to darkness with the speed and mechanical precision of all the other switches in the yard.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s1500/natural%20selections.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s320/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br style="font-family: -webkit-standard;" /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-36415118149353908602023-06-13T18:21:00.003-07:002023-09-23T18:45:49.011-07:00 An Open Letter to Mark Twain<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOMZaoUFaRiOiccMXFXDsPqZcdA81Cf90EPvI4b8XNVZ3RBs-x3UklN7_wO0gJSkyhQ52PFIsrxSfsCa4y-7qwO1_zZ0ZNsslOK_gaBV11qx9N0LZGHdDKZqajq5xKOR-U4Sxe7aqU12dTPGpjQDheLdVBKghDKbJMcQ1BZB8nIv2Znu1Mp-176TT2/s298/Mark%20Twain.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="298" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOMZaoUFaRiOiccMXFXDsPqZcdA81Cf90EPvI4b8XNVZ3RBs-x3UklN7_wO0gJSkyhQ52PFIsrxSfsCa4y-7qwO1_zZ0ZNsslOK_gaBV11qx9N0LZGHdDKZqajq5xKOR-U4Sxe7aqU12dTPGpjQDheLdVBKghDKbJMcQ1BZB8nIv2Znu1Mp-176TT2/w200-h187/Mark%20Twain.png" width="200" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;">Dear Mr. Clemens:</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I waited fifty-six years for your autobiography to be published, but the delay of one-hundred years you insisted upon after your demise went quickly, and were somewhat eventful.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I am halfway through the second volume of your post-mortem treatise, and I relish your words greatly. At times I feel you looking over my shoulder, appreciating the moments when you make me laugh or move me to tears. I only wish I could reach back and shake your hand.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">A lot has happened since 1910. You missed two World Wars. Yes, the whole world. They were quite dramatic and conveniently numbered one and two. Tens of millions of souls perished but accomplished very little. In your time, King Leopold of Belgium slaughtered upwards of ten million in the Congo. It seems each generation lofts a murderous monster upon its shoulders lest we forget our history and fail to repeat it. As intrigued as you may have been by the German people in your time, in the 1940s they focused their industrious natures and energy on the extermination of the Jew. A strange little man with a partial mustache and carefully combed hair fell short of Leopold’s mark, but marched six million men, women and children into carefully engineered extermination machines by the boxcar. The country has borne the burden of cultural shame ever since.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">You’ll be surprised to know that Democrats are now Republicans and Republicans are now Democrats. They traded hats, coats and desires without sacrificing any of the animosity and corruption each had mastered. Our country now has not one, but a thousand Jay Goulds, each of them sitting on financial empires as big as the budgets of moderate sized countries. We are within spitting distance of crowning our first trillionaire. Several billionaires are launching rockets to space, with their eye on Mars. That red planet seems within reach and is ripe for ruination. H.G. Wells would be upset about the loss of his copyright.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">As you suspected, the United States of America is finally on the brink of becoming a monarchy. A swindler and asshat of unparalleled dimwitery somehow brought half the population under his spell, married a showgirl, slept with several sex workers and defrauded the general populace in a recent election. His insouciant density and tiny vocabulary appeal to a vast number of similarly deficient souls so obsessed with dethroning the imagined deep-state political establishment that they wear his clothing. (Recall the emperor’s clothes of course.) <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">He lost, but the damned Electoral College mistakenly declared him king, thrusting the country into a bloodless civil war. Or so he thinks. He has been indicted for scores of felonies but plans to govern from behind bars. These are interesting times. If you can imagine it, this grifter encouraged the murder of his vice-president by an angry mob. That hapless fool lived and is now running against his former boss in the next election. People believe anything unless it is the truth.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">You would have much to write about if you were still alive and would also be pleased to know that copyright now extends seventy years beyond an author’s life. Dictation no longer requires a human assistant. You would be mortified to know that the Paige Compositor became a reality, and then some, but not until the 1970s. An electric device called a computer captures your words and holds them in its memory until you are ready to print them on paper, also without human intervention or a printing press. These devices are as common as children’s toys.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Did I mention that men can fly? I’m sure you saw it coming, but imagine traveling abroad in hours, not weeks or months! You would struggle to even collect your thoughts before your trip’s end. “<i>Innocents Abroad”</i> would be obsolete before the ink dried.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Books are in jeopardy, and in particular one of your own. “<i>Huckleberry Finn”</i> now offends some people and has been banned in some libraries. Your use of the word, “nigger” has gone out of fashion. We now substitute, “n-word” in its place. I don’t know about you, but when someone employs that substitution, I hear the offensive original in my mind and wish they would just avoid it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Women were given the vote ten years after your passing. Men have long sought to understand their better halves and finally succeeded, though we dare not let them know. To perfect this equation, we understand our need to be murderous cowboys with hearts of gold, assassins who melt at their touch into sensitive poetry-spewing codswallops. This life is not for everyone.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I hope that wherever you found to be your final destination you can read this. Big hugs to your entire family. We miss you and need you now more than ever.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-89787435781965053732023-04-27T14:53:00.005-07:002023-09-23T18:50:01.181-07:00Walking the Green Mile<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpJ67A_E8ZIyaqMwE-il5JpnHbGFgY9-1Jf5zCYEaxUiQTbk0I_KnPZG1BYffBbUjcVbCtK_7M3DcM9aEswu3z7M71zesX1OOII5pQEY45qMDv2ZypoinflBtwa0chSxgHhHAxdwL7Ccvvr3acf5uRlPAqo34asfQcA9cQlwrvuyyk2oWrs8EHQPEN/s251/Bucky.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="245" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpJ67A_E8ZIyaqMwE-il5JpnHbGFgY9-1Jf5zCYEaxUiQTbk0I_KnPZG1BYffBbUjcVbCtK_7M3DcM9aEswu3z7M71zesX1OOII5pQEY45qMDv2ZypoinflBtwa0chSxgHhHAxdwL7Ccvvr3acf5uRlPAqo34asfQcA9cQlwrvuyyk2oWrs8EHQPEN/w195-h200/Bucky.jpg" width="195" /></span></a></div><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> I have officially run out of places I’m willing to walk our dog. The street we live on is a Boulevard, which means that it goes from one heavily traveled arterial road to another, thus being a favorite mile-long dragstrip for locals who should drive at the posted thirty miles per hour, but who are also chronically late or feel that speed limit signs are a violation of their right to be unsafe. Recall, this is Florida, where “turn signal” is a recent addition to the local lexicon.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> So Toby and I used to spend as little time as possible on that stretch of otherwise unremarkable asphalt. Unremarkable except for the skid marks and blood stain at the corner of Mockingbird, where Port the yellow lab was smeared by a speeding knucklehead. The driver felt so little remorse for what he’d done that he insisted to the police he wanted to sue Sammy Hagar for the damage to his car.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> At the time I originally wrote this, Sammy Hagar was the nickname I gave to the late Port’s owner. He’s a shaggy-headed older blonde man whose eyes look in two different directions. He really has no business owning dogs, but that’s probably not fair to say unless you factor in the irresponsible behavior that led to Port’s untimely death. He’s one of the Mockingbird Hillbillies, a nickname I gave to a disheveled assortment of men who sat just outside their tilted, broken garage door with one or both of their dogs. They often issued greetings to me in the dark by the light of their pulsing orange cigarettes, called me sir, and couldn’t seem to remember my name. I wasn’t sure by daylight who I had introduced myself to the night before, so I just said “Hey, how ya doin?” <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> There is a local leash law that most residents choose to ignore. Poor Port, he was the sweetest pup, a large, bounding, playful embodiment of happy fur and gladness at seeing another dog or human. We always stopped to play, even though Port made the much smaller Toby kind of nervous.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Port’s “brother” Zack is another big guy, white and brown splotches of Spaniel anxiety, afraid of the much smaller Toby, but curious and also generally off-leash. He was sporadically tied by rope to a metal lawn chair that choked him at the last second when he ran out to visit. All of this running, choking, and bounding has resulted in Toby not wanting to even make the turn down Mockingbird Drive, but we always did anyway because Port and Zach were harmless. Their humans have since moved away with Zach and a mean dog they bought when Port died. As they left, they spraypainted the rental house they were evicted from with fluorescent orange warnings about the “deadly” black mold within. It was as if algae were to warn pond-dwelling relatives about their dangerous fungal neighbors.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> A bit further down the block was Trash McAllister’s house. This nicknamed residence had more occupants than is probably healthy or documented, an occasional see-ment mixer parked out front, with one or more young ladies hoisting a baby child on a hip and smoking a cigarette while they unloaded groceries. We met their dog Silvia, a beautiful gunmetal gray pit bull, late one night when she got out the screen door, no doubt unlatched for the safety of resident children. The sound of rapidly approaching, scratching paws on pavement alerted us to incoming trouble. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Silvia began to circle us, snarling because Toby provokes anything or anyone he feels threatened by, whether it’s an approaching turkey buzzard, motorcycle or pit bull. We scampered quickly up to the front door of the house across the street, ready to beg the owner for mercy when Trash appeared and called Silvia. I politely but firmly yelled, “Please call your dog!” and he did. I did not yell profanity and threats, since Trash is kind of a scary-looking dude who remains my neighbor in daylight. Plus, he has a see-ment mixer.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> We have subsequently met Silvia in the light of day and she’s actually quite sweet, but Toby refuses to walk down that street anymore even though they moved too.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Ordinarily, we would continue around the block and turn left to begin the second half of our journey home. That leg of the trip has been generally uneventful, and for the longest time, we’d pass a beautiful black cat named Midnight who was brushed, fed, and watered for nine years by an uncommunicative older woman in dark glasses. Eventually, I assume something in the Floridian natural order of things killed the lady, the cat or both. No more cat. No more lady.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> A bit further we passed a home with three little white yappy dogs who never get to go outside. It sounds like they throw themselves against the picture window when we go by the house, and on rare occasion they are tethered for a brief breath of fresh air by a man I’ve come to call “Fraidy Krueger.” I’ve given up trying to be friendly to Fraidy, since he almost always makes a fearful retreat back into the house when he sees us. One day I heard his wife shout for him to stay out with the dogs a bit longer only to be told, “You’ve seen that movie, <i>Dog Without a Leash!</i>” by her paranoid husband. For the record, there is no such film, so I really do think he’s delusional. He must have had heart palpitations the day a bald eagle battled with a bunch of vultures over a dead opossum across the street. And by now you’re probably thinking, <i>where the heck do you live, and why?</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> A few more yards and we’re turning left again, home stretch. Other than the day Toby was attacked and bitten by a psychotic mongrel who escaped the backyard of some friends, this has always been the beginning of a safe zone. The owners were nice and offered to pay for the emergency veterinarian visit, after hours on a weekend of course. They immediately repaired the rusty gate through which the dog escaped. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> There’s a long stretch of lawn that Toby realizes is his domain of last chance. Poop, Toby, poop for God’s sake! Unfortunately, this is exactly where the seemingly always-outside Bucky and Pepito the Burrito come unglued at seeing us pass by. They are nicknamed after characters in a Chicago children’s cartoon from my youth. Bucky is a raging black Lab mix, perhaps fifty pounds. Pepito is a Chihuahua who draws strength from his much larger brother. They are carefully chain-linked into their yard.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> I repeatedly ran into Bucky at night on the leash of a Slenderman impersonator, so tall and thin he was barely able to control the dog and reluctant to take a different route when we passed by. I wore a bright headlamp that illuminated Bucky’s demonic green eyes in the dark and rendered Slenderman even more ghoulish and silhouetted. I would yell down the street, “Which way are you going?” No response. “Are you going this way?” No response. Finally, frustrated I yelled, “Hey, you!” No response.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> The resident Grandma can be seen by day. A very pleasant lady who speaks little English, I would say, “How ya doin’?” They are part of a larger story that I’ll come back to.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> There are other less noteworthy dogs, some controlled by owners and some not. At last count there were twenty dogs in our immediate vicinity. At the end of our walk, we cross our Boulevard and head up the driveway, having survived another journey. Until recently.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> We long ago shortened the walk described above, at Toby’s request and out of my own desperation to reduce the stress of our twice-daily stroll. We began traveling up and down the nearest street to a strategically located yellow fire hydrant, and back. With each pass by the Slenderman family residence, Bucky would begin throwing himself at the chain link, barking fiercely and scratching at the ground with fortunately poor digging skills and setting Pepito off in a comical attempt to sound larger and more ferocious. For several years I considered our options should Bucky manage to escape.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> And escape he did. One of the unforeseen results of Hurricane Ian was the arrival of roofers at the Slenderman’s, replacing shingles and leaving the critical gate open at day’s end. The owners didn’t think to check before shagging the dogs into the backyard when they got home.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Toby and I headed out for our 6:30 pm walk. It was 6:24 pm actually. I know this because we have a web camera pointed at our driveway. It views a distant stretch of street where we begin our walk. The video I captured over the next ten minutes is like watching a Zapruder film of my own murder.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Those options I mentioned about what to do if Bucky got loose? Yeah, nothing worked. The dog got out, spotted us a half block away, and took off running to attack us. I picked up Toby to protect him, probably a mistake since I was now essentially between the two dogs, and he felt it was his job to defend himself, or maybe me. But I couldn’t stand to see my little guy shredded by the much larger, clearly vicious, and amped-up hairy monster. I tried kicking, punching, kicking more and more. Nothing phased Bucky. Toby became mayhem in my arms and slipped to the ground, somehow coming out of his harness. A second level of nightmare now unfolded. Toby is a runner. We take great precautions to keep him in the house or on his leash. In the midst of the ensuing dog fight, Toby was snarling at a pitch that sounded more like screaming. The other dog had a much deeper, more fearsome sound. Toby yelped as he was repeatedly bitten, and then my left hand lit up like fire and ice, which is what I guess teeth shredding your flesh feels like.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Then Superman arrived. I’m kinda not kidding. A neighbor witnessed the whole event, ran out, grabbed Bucky by the fur on both sides, and pulled him off of us just long enough for Toby to take off running. Across a boulevard. I watched. He runs really fast for an old man of twelve years. Faster than I was able to catch up. A second stroke of luck, after Superman’s arrival, was the emptiness of the street Toby now blindly ran across. He could have wound up a smear of blood and fur like Port, a bit further down the road. Instead, I watched in utter disbelief as he tore to the bottom of our driveway a hundred yards away, turned, and streaked to our front door, where he stood panting and waiting for me to catch up. I was so proud! I would never have imagined him doing that.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Fast forward. Calls to the police and animal control. Both useless. They lectured the Slendermans on leash law and confirmed (under pressure) that Bucky was up to date on rabies vaccines. We still don’t know their real name. There was some cleanup needed along the bloody trail I left walking through our living room to the kitchen sink, then four hours and six thousand dollars at a local emergency room to get stitched up and be given antibiotics and x-rays.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> I got lots of advice from listeners. What would have helped us? A gun, taser, pepper spray, a baseball bat, knife? I can’t honestly say. An enraged animal has superpowers, and most of what you can do, short of shooting a neighbor’s pet dead, will just piss it off, especially amidst the swirling chaos of two dogs fighting. Spraying bullets down a residential street would likely be taken much more seriously by the police than a “simple” dog attack.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> We had a talk with the Slendermans. We’re hoping that insurance will cover our costs. If not, there will be another awkward conversation. And now I try to walk Toby around our property or not far from it. I haven’t seen a bobcat, snake, or alligator in our yard for quite a while, but I’m watching.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-85574328598301741432023-03-30T17:08:00.003-07:002023-10-02T17:35:32.160-07:00 The Lerious<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC_EjFycOjKaUxNzmv3BcmAy8XLH4HXLGkYzZAt7kOFIwo2tlhFTRBQzXgpgZgxSXDOcgYWwSV2IlAeczMCnf-I7LI67KRMqhNMYcQBshcq6TPCCn8_Q_CoWQAXMz0LrMd_aNyl1Yzixn8JDBMS2-lWpDf7Brb8FYxSxw-JakqWlUrFESCUnM_Kaya/s261/The%20Lerious%20Image.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="258" data-original-width="261" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC_EjFycOjKaUxNzmv3BcmAy8XLH4HXLGkYzZAt7kOFIwo2tlhFTRBQzXgpgZgxSXDOcgYWwSV2IlAeczMCnf-I7LI67KRMqhNMYcQBshcq6TPCCn8_Q_CoWQAXMz0LrMd_aNyl1Yzixn8JDBMS2-lWpDf7Brb8FYxSxw-JakqWlUrFESCUnM_Kaya/w200-h198/The%20Lerious%20Image.png" width="200" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Beatrice Loude tossed her apron into the laundry cart and unsnapped her crossover chef’s jacket. She pulled her undershirt from her waistband and encouraged sultry kitchen air into the space between the fabric and her skin. She was drenched with sweat. Simply soaked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> The dining hall air conditioning was broken again. Without exhaust fans, the kitchen would have been intolerable. The stale influx of outside air brought little relief. As she stepped out of the building, the intense late afternoon sun was in retreat beyond the shadows of the camp’s tree-lined perimeter. The heat and humidity took her breath away, like a steaming towel around your face at a day spa. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Be proud, Bea Loude!” shouted an approaching voice. It was Leah Strange, her only friend at the upscale adult camp.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Make way for Loude and Strange,” the camp counselors teased when the inseparable pair walked between buildings or along the short path to the seasonal employees’ cabins.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Job of a lifetime, my ass,” said Bea I’m half delirious by closing. Can you believe the air is broken again?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Oh no, I’m sorry,” said Leah. She worked along the beach, helping pampered guests learn stand-up-paddle or kayaking, Baby Boomers mostly, trying to recapture childhood glories.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “At least I can get into the water. I mean, it’s kinda gross but it helps. I shower a lot.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “The Lerious,” Bea muttered under her breath.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “What’d you say?” asked Leah.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Oh nothing, just a story my mom told me when I was little. She told me I was being delirious and I thought she said The Lerious. It became kind of a running gag in our family. Any time we misbehaved she said <i>The Lerious was gonna get us.”<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “So where did The Lerious come from?” asked Leah.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s1500/natural%20selections.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s320/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-60292732826940646782023-03-20T17:32:00.006-07:002023-10-02T17:36:00.734-07:00Me Two<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQygDjMlP2eDWur7ohP5Zb8vsmVxUvoE1xzHiLZkAioZYLaoI-bymawbiLd8u05g7TuUKet4ZBrLg-uXdG216hBkGeQELexFWOT_ccI92lzOE6gLDVZb9t8MP6-NFUpaS5ruivpQvaUxNOF0ldDLbA-pxlATmcXI-epJ2Bpl7DHCVMlcEQpWiZhaUZ/s312/Me%20Two%20Image.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="295" data-original-width="312" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQygDjMlP2eDWur7ohP5Zb8vsmVxUvoE1xzHiLZkAioZYLaoI-bymawbiLd8u05g7TuUKet4ZBrLg-uXdG216hBkGeQELexFWOT_ccI92lzOE6gLDVZb9t8MP6-NFUpaS5ruivpQvaUxNOF0ldDLbA-pxlATmcXI-epJ2Bpl7DHCVMlcEQpWiZhaUZ/w200-h189/Me%20Two%20Image.png" width="200" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> First, we need to address the pachyderm on the premises, the issue being that my given surname is Gilligan. Troy Gilligan. Yeah, Sherwood Schwartz pretty much set me up for a lifetime of teasing back in the early sixties with his silly sitcom and its iconic, dimwitted leading man. So I changed my name to Gill, Troy Gill. No more ribbing about three-hour tours.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Toughen up, you say? Easy for you with your normal brain and thick skin. You see, my challenge is that I remember everything. Not just a lot; everything. That brings painful past events, even minor teasing, into the realm of my present experience. It’s not like photographic memory, summoning up pages of text like a mental PDF. My old stuff feels like current stuff, whether being badgered mercilessly about Skipper and Ginger or recalling the time I sneezed and a gob of green mucus landed with a humiliating splat front and center on the blouse of the school’s homecoming queen. And then she threw up.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> But that never happened to me. It happened to the owner of one subset of my memories. Now, don’t go thinking I’m schizophrenic. I don’t hear voices or think I’m Jesus. I have full recall of conversations, printed images and sensations that cross traditionally defined eidetic and photographic memory boundaries. Plus, the duration is all wrong. Unlike traditional mental disorders with fading dreamlike thoughts, my memories endure forever, vivid and intense. And I don’t know who they belong to.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s1500/natural%20selections.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s320/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br style="font-family: -webkit-standard;" /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-73112338035584083522023-01-25T09:15:00.007-08:002023-09-24T05:29:40.987-07:00A Plunge to Remember<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi55-fBxIFS-LoQEk24shs4jkO34PQpw8FLi-jhVc4QcTOPjY5ubw9_eH75SWPtB5R3DR6ncEwxTGDPgNWtf2if3MqfNkNlCUkr6dg1ruVcF6HnH4CTHtT1l9DFjxArTgDE2m8RvRg5JFeXfyC_8zwF2gHQzSo07T47NEAqDCy-69cTVZ_MRUWpurot/s287/Plunger%20Image.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="287" data-original-width="217" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi55-fBxIFS-LoQEk24shs4jkO34PQpw8FLi-jhVc4QcTOPjY5ubw9_eH75SWPtB5R3DR6ncEwxTGDPgNWtf2if3MqfNkNlCUkr6dg1ruVcF6HnH4CTHtT1l9DFjxArTgDE2m8RvRg5JFeXfyC_8zwF2gHQzSo07T47NEAqDCy-69cTVZ_MRUWpurot/w151-h200/Plunger%20Image.png" width="151" /></span></a><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> After my dad passed away, it fell to me and Mom to be the handyman and handywoman of the house. We could do simple things, but there was no YouTube in those days to learn from other people’s mistakes. We had to make our own.</span></div><p></p></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> We found ourselves in the plumbing section of the local Ben Franklin in Park Ridge, Illinois. <span style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px;">It was one of those wonderful old dime stores that had one or more of anything you could imagine, from penny candy to picture frames, paper clips to plungers. </span>Our feet announced our whereabouts in the store on lacquered hardwood floors better than a GPS. We squeaked everywhere we walked. The salesman was very helpful, finding us perusing a selection of terra cotta-colored rubber plungers with wooden handles. You know, the usual kind.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> My mother was a cost-minded and quality-conscious shopper. She had to be now that she was widowed. I was there for moral support and to carry our purchase to the car. So she selected one of the plungers from the shelf and looked it over, appraising its value and appreciating its newness. I could sense her thinking, “<i>how do I know this will work?” </i>After all, apparently the one at home did not. Before I could object, she gripped the handle like Babe Ruth stepping up to bat and drove the plunger down onto the shiny wood floor. I saw the salesman approaching at the far end of the aisle.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Mom pulled the plunger upward. It stuck. I mean it was STUCK! She had me give it a try, strapping sixteen-year-old that I was. No luck. We had just plunged our way into Ben Franklin history–architects of the permanent plunger display in the plumbing aisle.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “May I help you?” asked the salesman.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> We were both giggling somewhat hysterically at the absurd situation by this time. Mom managed to get the words out:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “We’ll take this one!” and stepped back to give him room to pull Excalibur from the wooden stone.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>To read the rest of this story and more than seventy others, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-12751172159957149652022-11-30T01:22:00.002-08:002023-09-24T05:30:35.376-07:00A Close Shave<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDUMZApOzby-tNynvhTkho_wWOxg05Caq1_slyqLKgNOoSCm3-9m_tK4QncEO8CeC15rics2yG2oBGLvo5oYjKmgloiHdqOzHwqOTV9hmpNMTwGbXnbRTlbhKUPscftWiZJ2pv4yWzp2W7JSVGWlCWpuY9BPwHcAGHlbth-nL9s1wjCsJbfihEU5FE/s2048/pops.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDUMZApOzby-tNynvhTkho_wWOxg05Caq1_slyqLKgNOoSCm3-9m_tK4QncEO8CeC15rics2yG2oBGLvo5oYjKmgloiHdqOzHwqOTV9hmpNMTwGbXnbRTlbhKUPscftWiZJ2pv4yWzp2W7JSVGWlCWpuY9BPwHcAGHlbth-nL9s1wjCsJbfihEU5FE/s320/pops.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />My favorite barber opens the doors of Pop’s Barber Shop in
Port Charlotte, Florida at 8:30 am. His chair is the first of
four. Amanda, Ray, and Mary Jo work behind the other three. Long-time customers might be inclined to make an appointment or just say,</div>
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“No thanks, I’m waiting for Rick”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">It's a hard choice with four such skilled stylists, but there’s no attitude. They get it. Rick’s father owned Pop’s
when Rick was still in barber school. Decades later, he is at the helm of our town's oldest shop, but at the time of the visit documented here, there were only so many haircuts available from this Port Charlotte legend,
who was in “semi-retirement.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I sometimes let my hair grow a couple of weeks past the onset
of bad-hair days in order to get a meaningful cut in a traditional setting, often timed to follow my return from the north.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Is it like Floyd’s?” asked my brother-in-law.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It does in fact feel very much like the iconic barbershop from the
Andy Griffith show. And therein lies its magic and charm. Getting your haircut at
Pop’s feels a lot like stepping back in time. I fondly recall Saturday morning
trips to the barber shop with Dad. It was at a time in my life when I needed a
booster seat to be hoisted to the proper level in a leather and metal hydraulic
chair.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As a kid, I watched in fascination as scruffy, serious men
leaned back, faces soaped and hot towels applied, for a shave with a straight razor. Whiskers disappeared in neat swaths, like snow being carefully shoveled
from a white, blanketed driveway, and the stoic mid-1960s men couldn’t help but
smile after the cleanup was complete. This traditional, self-indulgent
pampering on a day off in the company of peers was clearly a treat. So on one trip to Pop’s I decided to up my game and get an old-fashioned shave.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I do not have a heavy beard, and have always used an
electric razor. It does a quick and adequate job, but falls far short of the
close shave that results from lather and steel. Rick informed me that his first
razor cost $125, before the advent of, in his opinion, inferior stainless
steel. He prepared a hot, wet towel, arranged his equipment behind me, carefully
removed my glasses and reclined me in the chair.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s hard to imagine being at ease with a stranger holding an
exquisitely sharpened blade to your throat. Overcoming that anxiety is a
trust-fall, a deliberate mental release into the capable hands of a seasoned
professional. What followed was a womb-like series of room-darkening hot, wet towels
that comforted and relaxed my skin from chin to forehead. The realization that
my fists were nervously clenched, much like at the dentist, reminded me to
allow full body relaxation to take hold. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When my pores were sufficiently opened and my beard
softened, Rick gently brushed on a thick cocoon of soothing natural-oil,
emollient lather to the lower half of my face. It made me feel like a large
scoop of melting butter pecan ice cream under a minty mound of warm whipped
cream. During the next twenty minutes, the delicate passage of metal over skin
sent scritching echoes through my head, amplified by the bones in my jaw. It
was evidence of the work being done, and an indicator of a sufficiently smooth
face when the noise subsided. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The final step was a bracing aftershave lotion that in
Rick’s words were, “the eye-opener” – the unexpected flame-thrower that young Kevin
reacts to in “Home Alone” with an open-mouthed camera-facing scream. As a
forewarned adult, I was able to suppress my inner child's reaction while the icy needles
in my face subsided. As I returned to an upright position and put on my glasses
I realized that, much like the men I had witnessed in my childhood, I too had a
big smile on my face. It was as enjoyable an experience as I’ve ever had in
public.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As Rick spun me slowly around to view his handiwork in the
shop-facing wall of mirrors, I remembered my father standing behind me, looking
approvingly over my shoulder, but in fact handing me the decision-making reins.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“How’s that look, Sport?” Dad would say.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I smiled and said, “That looks good!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Several generations after my own are now rediscovering traditions with roots in our distant past. Among them are
beards, whiskey and cigars. I suspect they think they’re onto something new and
are applying their signature with a few twists of their own, like skinny jeans
and bow ties. Some are comical, but a few are right on the money. The more
things change…<o:p></o:p></div>
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Someday I hope to treat my grandsons to an old fashioned shave. They are growing up in the era of Great Clips and Supercuts, and will never meet my dad. In the meantime, the
girls can have their hair and nails done at Pop's sister salon called Tammy's, just down the side walkway, but eventually it will be time for the boys to get a
shave like Grandpa. Who knows, maybe we’ll even throw back a whiskey and smoke
a cigar. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">My son and I never shared the “Floyd’s” experience when he was a kid.
That particular father/son bonding experience is mostly a thing of the past.
But the best parts of the past live on at Pop’s, where you can still get a hot lather neck shave, and thanks to the advanced age of many customers in
Florida, it will likely continue for at least a while longer. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div></div>
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V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-9412145882847446242022-11-20T12:23:00.004-08:002023-09-24T05:31:20.882-07:00 The Guardian<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwmLQIQ3mQ7I8hZglZjmP460uY73xdCsNof2htIqAixkhndRv2bApklwZXfg6z9Htu7Pis2MZ_GzpsTq1DwnihoZM2ymPoWDw5g6721IW1CrYUEOLh_h4FQKihs8lYPl-7iIjJ4rpNG_RAeWr09K8T8laHs9EwwukLZLQYH-M9mXC3CUAZRT7jHQ4/s352/The%20Guardian%20Image.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="295" data-original-width="352" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwmLQIQ3mQ7I8hZglZjmP460uY73xdCsNof2htIqAixkhndRv2bApklwZXfg6z9Htu7Pis2MZ_GzpsTq1DwnihoZM2ymPoWDw5g6721IW1CrYUEOLh_h4FQKihs8lYPl-7iIjJ4rpNG_RAeWr09K8T8laHs9EwwukLZLQYH-M9mXC3CUAZRT7jHQ4/w200-h168/The%20Guardian%20Image.png" width="200" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> Clouds of steam atop the mountain hinted at a change. Esilda shivered when a gust of hot air from the volcanic peak rushed like a warm river, breaking the chill of the cloud forest and surprising her. She anticipated challenges ahead. Eruptions and earthquakes were not among them.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Deep red and yellow leaves rustled as she trudged along the path into the darker reaches of the jungle. A canopy of green, a thousand shades, shielded her and provoked an ominous feeling in her gut as she hiked. The colorful vegetation seemed ready to consume her, but the map indicated otherwise. Legions of curious hummingbirds guided her into the dense mist and greenery.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> She was on course after a strange series of delays that were beyond coincidence. Was she being warned? Or summoned? Questions outnumbered answers, but she felt born to this quest as if it was her destiny.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br style="font-family: -webkit-standard;" /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-4566064042715186252022-11-13T09:31:00.004-08:002023-09-24T05:31:37.217-07:00The View From Mars<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPw6spTiCzZgBaBzovy8jbfOC3Dw7yuVwtu_YAhajUoKHu-yPRAHIG9MzcTZJuXBLktaQlNIIkPwQW0NTPRfsMd8-5i9xGth8fpP8UxTP_m6IB_4MC3JjUcJoZfN8xcY_zsFzbcsKkBa4d_LfyshsS9tC0GwnLeF_ILyoOyrIP6NGBHfhhVGE_AGEO/s272/The%20View%20From%20Mars%20Image.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="182" data-original-width="272" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPw6spTiCzZgBaBzovy8jbfOC3Dw7yuVwtu_YAhajUoKHu-yPRAHIG9MzcTZJuXBLktaQlNIIkPwQW0NTPRfsMd8-5i9xGth8fpP8UxTP_m6IB_4MC3JjUcJoZfN8xcY_zsFzbcsKkBa4d_LfyshsS9tC0GwnLeF_ILyoOyrIP6NGBHfhhVGE_AGEO/w200-h134/The%20View%20From%20Mars%20Image.png" width="200" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> A cascading waterfall was a highlight of the campground that had been thoughtfully designed and meticulously constructed at the periphery of Base Five. The red soil was reminiscent of Georgia clay, and gurgling river water was in fact Martian, but circulated endlessly through a meandering stream by pumps powered by nuclear fusion. Camping rated high on the list of desired amenities for homesick colonists. Eileen sat with the kids around a simulated campfire eating s’mores, gazing skyward and searching the blackness for Greg’s incoming ship.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> There were other reminders of home. The base was named Cook County, a tribute to the first Martian governor, a Chicagoan. It sounded less sterile than “Base Five.” Other bases had followed suit: Los Angeles, Maricopa, Queens and Milwaukee. Pathways between structures had been given street names, and unnecessary mailboxes adorned living quarters, brightly painted and decorated. This explained the manatee that stood watch over Tamiami Trail.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “I wouldn’t want that commute on a regular basis,” Greg stated as he cleared the Cook County airlock.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “It once took seven months Captain,” reported the AI gate attendant. “Welcome to your new home.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Yeah, new home. Old home may not…” he choked back emotion at the thought.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s1500/natural%20selections.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s320/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><br style="font-family: -webkit-standard;" /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-65131892366330520282022-11-06T09:45:00.004-08:002023-09-24T05:32:03.734-07:00The 3000 Word Report<p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixrlG4Btsh-G6DF1SIpADz_tXusvHrtCfbeNdr0WZRid0fPwU1KS0dddiD0bGdz3e38iY_0D5iHc98nP9Ge9ZLmIITjpFsSLri4wY5O43ErnD29MjGntqpAxD-NIPoA3gFJaP1lsi1jg0DZKksAiWMJ42ZkoAx6Gi_EtB9Dhg7TBwFJ9Rcw0Z7C9_g/s481/3000%20Word%20Report.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="361" data-original-width="481" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixrlG4Btsh-G6DF1SIpADz_tXusvHrtCfbeNdr0WZRid0fPwU1KS0dddiD0bGdz3e38iY_0D5iHc98nP9Ge9ZLmIITjpFsSLri4wY5O43ErnD29MjGntqpAxD-NIPoA3gFJaP1lsi1jg0DZKksAiWMJ42ZkoAx6Gi_EtB9Dhg7TBwFJ9Rcw0Z7C9_g/w200-h150/3000%20Word%20Report.png" width="200" /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"> How could I avoid the worst homework assignment of my life? It was still only a possibility in the distant future, but those of us in third grade began hearing about the horror that awaited half of us in two years. We’d been together since kindergarten, but learning was starting to get real.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> There were enough students to fill two classrooms in my grammar school. We were propelled along en masse each year unless held back, skipped to a higher grade or sent to military school. No one in those three aberrant categories was ever really missed. Too slow to catch on, too brainy to relate or too unruly to fit in. There were perhaps one of each during my time in James Madison school. We progressed like sports teams, trading players from year to year and getting to know each other really well by the sixth grade.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Many of us had older brothers and sisters who had survived this gauntlet and disappeared into the abyss of no return – junior high school. That was a place reached by bus, a building with multiple floors and a population comprised of students from several feeder grammar schools in parts of town we’d seldom visited. We just didn’t think about it. But rumors of fifth grade began circulating as early as two years prior. We heard it over and over:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> <i>If you get Mrs. Smith, you have to write A THREE THOUSAND WORD REPORT!<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Writing had become second nature by third grade. We practiced our cursive and increased our comprehension. But a paragraph consisted of perhaps thirty words. How on Earth could a human child at age ten be expected to compile a hundred times that word count in any amount of time?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>To read the rest of this story and more than seventy others, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/s320/Book.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div></div>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-2504576591190765512022-11-05T16:19:00.002-07:002023-09-24T05:33:10.878-07:00Father's Way<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2YGlN7dOBrVLunWRmmiSOCEA2D_icfoe72cOyjRxkHdLg0lhkFMw9YnyODNKWFKa1Kg_AHhGFCGmyjzgTkgWr1zo5zFe6-_rWKy8Pj6rvc0ZrajcmnUnnx8a_0Pq83WG_LTmD60IndxNGllt_jDLgySlVsJdiiugXY110Cw_SoV5KgZ0dwMNTzkTc/s290/Father's%20Way%20Image.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="290" data-original-width="285" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2YGlN7dOBrVLunWRmmiSOCEA2D_icfoe72cOyjRxkHdLg0lhkFMw9YnyODNKWFKa1Kg_AHhGFCGmyjzgTkgWr1zo5zFe6-_rWKy8Pj6rvc0ZrajcmnUnnx8a_0Pq83WG_LTmD60IndxNGllt_jDLgySlVsJdiiugXY110Cw_SoV5KgZ0dwMNTzkTc/w197-h200/Father's%20Way%20Image.jpg" width="197" /></span></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Chest-deep snow and ice cling to Ricky’s coat, making movement difficult and penetrating him with a most unwelcome chill.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You keep watch. I’ll be back soon,” his father orders, anticipating a repeat of some previous lapse in judgment Ricky can’t recall. It is his father’s way. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Earlier they cleared one path down the driveway for the car and another for foot traffic leading to the backyard. Beyond that, mounded snow prevents access to the garage, the woodpile, and the corridors of pine trees at the rear of their property. Dusk lends the forested area a sinister demeanor, identical aisles of frosted limbs that lead into a blackened understory. Ricky thinks it’s a scary place.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Keep an eye on Momma and Sissy,” says Father, then pulls the front door hard. Ice on the jamb prevents tight closure and necessitates a second, harder slam. Pictures on the wall rattle from the force of his departure.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Ricky is saddened at his leaving. Father forgot it’s his birthday. Smoky bacon grease and a scented candle tinge the air with pungent odors that cause his nose to run and eyes to burn a bit as if they had been bathed in the bitter winter air.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> He collapses on the couch, melting and dripping, and knows what Momma will say, but comforts himself briefly in a quilt, wiping his runny nose on the filthy fabric.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “How many times have I told you not to do that Ricky?” asks Momma. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and go get a log for the fire. Go on, git!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s1500/natural%20selections.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s320/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br style="font-family: -webkit-standard;" /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-71886643163558637872022-10-25T17:55:00.005-07:002023-09-24T05:33:25.215-07:00Table for Two<div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinbZwiNQG49tq76PlOOoCw0RUNsdcmsRPvQaYNvJD0uZrCn3OwtmptIwWb0fSC4t3yjqbyUCZLGUDEqwtR8-J9zflJbGTTII7sClO-Xn0nufQ_WAAmNyUShbvINv2AsKbGXVib5c7Z2d3BivOFTRsQfsU-4Yswrg-lgA0rvMeaoVWltYVjEtVvsiFP/s491/Table%20for%20Two%20Image.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="491" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinbZwiNQG49tq76PlOOoCw0RUNsdcmsRPvQaYNvJD0uZrCn3OwtmptIwWb0fSC4t3yjqbyUCZLGUDEqwtR8-J9zflJbGTTII7sClO-Xn0nufQ_WAAmNyUShbvINv2AsKbGXVib5c7Z2d3BivOFTRsQfsU-4Yswrg-lgA0rvMeaoVWltYVjEtVvsiFP/w200-h133/Table%20for%20Two%20Image.png" width="200" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Kenny Savory waited tables when business was slow. He paid special attention to the town constables, never allowing their coffee to cool, especially on the coldest of winter nights. Officer Margaret Stenfield nursed her second steaming cup. Too much caffeine made her jittery, but ordering decaf sounded lame for someone paid to serve and protect.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Nothing like a jittery cop,” she laughed, waving Kenny off his latest attempt to refill.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The Savory Café was a favorite local spot. It sat at the intersection of two roads that converged in Le Sueur’s small downtown shopping district. One road entered from nearby farmland, then went uphill, across the river and on toward Henderson. The more heavily trafficked cross street was the primary access road up to Route 169 and onward to Minneapolis. Residents joked that the only way into town was downhill. That was a problem in an ice storm.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “How many so far, Marge?” asked Kenny, looking out the window of the café.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Four,” she said, then looked up with a start past a glittering string of white Christmas lights, wind-whipped almost to the point of breaking against the café window. The sickening thud and crunch of bumper on sheet metal had become far too familiar. She nervously fondled the badge under her coat, as if to engage her police persona in time of need.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Make that five,” Marge sighed. She stacked her pile of documents and slid out of the booth. The bell on the café door jangled as she stepped out into the bitter January wind and lowered the ear flaps on her hat.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s1500/natural%20selections.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s320/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br style="font-family: -webkit-standard;" /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p></p></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-19907801383641643892022-10-17T05:35:00.006-07:002023-10-02T17:50:52.441-07:00Paradise Lost<p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiYN-xG3PHs1m4TLHR0LserG2Rt3xZiUXVSnfcAmSAFzEUTZVzNgW1S0aDnq1DSP2Nm7n6ziuj34A8siEzNJQ0XCunMgrG4jraiiSw2pW_xjruNf8mmeFLFZwaf60tGikPl11gtAgPCbUvzlo5PaJc1Q4snKD7iJUoaXarqv_ZZ6uKwmluhWUAI6Da/s428/Screen%20Shot%202022-10-17%20at%208.19.04%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="428" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiYN-xG3PHs1m4TLHR0LserG2Rt3xZiUXVSnfcAmSAFzEUTZVzNgW1S0aDnq1DSP2Nm7n6ziuj34A8siEzNJQ0XCunMgrG4jraiiSw2pW_xjruNf8mmeFLFZwaf60tGikPl11gtAgPCbUvzlo5PaJc1Q4snKD7iJUoaXarqv_ZZ6uKwmluhWUAI6Da/s320/Screen%20Shot%202022-10-17%20at%208.19.04%20AM.png" width="320" /></span></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Residents of the Sunshine State frequently refer to Florida as “paradise.” Let’s dispel this myth. I reserve that designation for Hawaii, Fiji and other legitimately tropical wonderlands. I’ve been to a few. I know the difference. While trading skin-splitting cold winters for flesh-searing relentless summers makes some sense, there are downsides. Like constant traffic, legions of the elderly, revolting political ideologies, and hurricanes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> We are developing a post-traumatic response to the mention of names starting with “I” and the month of September. We have been assaulted twice in five years by that disturbing combination. I wrote about <a href="https://viclarson.blogspot.com/2017/09/the-51st-state-state-of-emergency.html" style="color: #954f72;">our encounter with Hurricane Irma in 2017</a>, hoping never to repeat the experience. And for the most part, we did not. The generator and portable air conditioner we bought immediately after that sweltering early September event went unused, and ironically, we sold the AC unit six months ago. Having chosen to become “snowbirds” earlier last year, we were able to watch from afar as Hurricane Ian approach day by day with almost purposeful malevolence.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> But our first concern was the path of the storm as it headed toward Cuba. Our son Eric was stationed near the U.S. Embassy in Havana. He was instructed to shelter in place in his house while the eye of the storm passed overhead at Category 2 strength. He did fine, but the island lost power and protests erupted to the west. Thank God for cell phones. We were able to receive updates before, during and after the storm.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> The turn Ian took in order to pass over Cuba sent it into the energizing hot Gulf water beyond. That’s when things really intensified and “spaghetti” computer models tried to pin down a landfall location. Over-reliance on the “cone of uncertainty” by local and federal officials began to factor into delayed or inappropriate evacuation orders for the coming debacle. The eventual wanderings of the developing system fell well within the cone. Forecasts of storm surge and wind speeds were also reasonably accurate. To watch the graphics on the Weather Channel or those displayed by other meteorologists, a little red weed-whacker icon deceptively led the public to believe that the hurricane would hit or miss with the precision of a bowling ball on a well-oiled alley. In reality, the growing storm was a monstrous three hundred and fifty miles across, with an intense eye-wall that spun with the cutting power of a Cuisinart and passed directly over our house. But just outside of the eye is where the real destructive power dwells.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> The period leading up to landfall was anxiety-provoking to the maximum. The storm crawled along at eight miles per hour for a week or more, changing course periodically and gaining strength to a Category 5 with winds in excess of 155mph. The plus side of that situation is that it granted residents time to prepare, stock up on supplies, board up windows…or leave. But in our increasingly “no one tells me what to do” society, people fought for supplies, ignored the warnings and suffered for it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Multiple storms over the years with the potential to strike the southern Florida peninsula have strayed into the Gulf or up to the Panhandle. These “cry wolf” scenarios now result in procrastination or complacency. Even finely tuned projections resulted, as in the case of 2004’s Hurricane Charley, in mass evacuations from the predicted area of landfall to the location where the storm unexpectedly turned and struck. Ian was predicted to make landfall in Tampa. It eventually behaved more like the 2004 storm, coming ashore at Cayo Costa, a little barrier island we’ve taken our boat to a couple of times. Sustained winds were in excess of 150mph.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> I’ve spoken to people who rode out the storm. As they describe the experience, their faces pale and elongate, a look similar to having eaten spoiled food. They describe the sound, “You know, the freight train sound they say tornadoes make? It was nine hours of that.” Terrifying. And as the front of the eye-wall passed, winds reversed and pummeled weakened objects from the opposite direction.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> We watched in Illinois from four angles on remote web cams until the power went out on September 28<sup>th</sup> at 2:40pm. The electricity always seems to go out before things are all that bad. Perhaps they cut power to avoid transformer explosions and downed live wires. But from that point forward we watched on the news, reliant on idiots like The Weather Channel’s Jim Cantore, who has made a name for himself and inspired others to stand outside in the worst available wind and rain. He was located in Punta Gorda, the town next to ours, where a strong sheltering building abutted a street suitable for a wide angle shot of him briefly exposing himself to the elements. One of these days a weather personality is going to take a stop sign to the head.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> About the wind. I’ve written this before, but imagine, if you’re familiar with batting cages, the speed at which a “major league” throw is shot out of a pitching machine. The ball hisses and is hard to follow. Now almost double that. This is why you stay inside, put up storm shutters, and also why there is so much damage from wind-borne projectiles.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> We returned to Florida more than a week after the storm to the ubiquitous sound of generators and chain saws. We live on a canal about thirteen feet above sea level. The predicted storm surge of 7-18 feet never materialized, but it is doubtful that the water would have reached levels anywhere near that by the time it reached us. The neighbor across the canal lost a section of sea wall perhaps thirty feet long. When water retreated due to the approaching storm (the tsunami effect) sixteen inches of rain came overland behind the wall, quickly eroded the supporting soil and undermined the concrete, collapsing it outward at the bottom. Their yard looks like a sinkhole.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Our new boat lift cover, a large blue vinyl canopy, was shredded and blown into and around the canal. People ask how our boat survived. It was fine, unlike the one submerged upside down a few houses away. The entire aluminum frame supporting the cover across the way detached and was wound like a twist tie around the wooden pilings at the base of our lift.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Unlike the Irma devastation I caused when I cut the screens from our pool cage to save the supporting metal frame, Ian took care of it for me. About half of the screens were blown out or shredded. As a result, the pool had a large brown stain where the uncirculated water allowed submerged leaves and branches to decompose. The fact that power was restored in ten days is a testament to the fleets of utility service trucks that swept the state. It was an organizational triumph.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> We went without Internet and TV for about three weeks. Oh the horror! We were reduced to watching DVD sets of <i>Combat</i> and <i>Gilligan’s Island.</i> The former was a gift Jeanne bought her dad when he was sick. The latter I can’t justify. You never want to watch TV so badly as when you’re not able to. I realize these are first-world problems, but it’s pretty eye opening how reliant on web access we’ve become. Open enrollment for health insurance was happening, a simple process if you can complete it online. Ditto, paying bills. This is a sudden return to the 1980s. If you’ve ever endured a lengthy power outage, you likely found yourself entering a room and flipping on a light switch. Oh yeah, no power. We reflexively picked up our phones to research, “How tall was Vic Morrow?” But without Google, I proclaimed, “I don’t know ANYTHING!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> The next week was a series of Groundhog Days, cleaning up layers of debris on our property until the near-90-degree heat reduced us to staggering, drenched noodles. Four large pine trees along our southern border were stripped of almost all branches. Trees have a surprising number of branches as it turns out. They mostly fell on our yard, mixed with three colors of shingle fragments from roofs unknown, and had to be dragged to a growing brush pile the size of two minivans, near the street. Similarly, our large prickly pear cactus was just begging to be taken down by a hurricane. It tended to grow along a single plane, like a sail. I cut it down to a creature we now call “Stumpy McStumperton.” More vegetative matter for the pile.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Two trees were uprooted, and two of Jeanne’s favorite Queen Palms were pushed to a 45-degree angle. We attempted to upright, support and save them, losing one. God save the Queen!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> We were blessed with a mostly dry house inside, though sections of soffit and a number of shingles were torn away and something heavy struck the roof, cracking the underlying plywood. The roof had to be replaced. Insurance claims mounted like blocks in a game of Jenga, an exercise that teaches patience…and disappointment. Hemorrhaging money flowed faster than our canal.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> All of the above is for the benefit of those who have been asking how we fared. Incredibly well is the honest answer. A neighbor’s aged father got frightened and drove away from the relative safety of their house and died in flood water. Pool cages are destroyed, roofs ripped off and ceilings collapsed. If you watch the news, the people of Fort Myers Beach, Pine Island and other areas suffered death, isolation and catastrophic destruction resulting in total loss of property and homelessness that will take many years to recover from, if ever. An art-inspired little town called Matlacha (Matt La Shay) that was once featured on <i>Beachfront Bargain Hunt</i> is gone, just swept away.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> So back to that paradise delusion. Why do we live here, rebuild and continue to sleep on train tracks that have an unpredictable schedule? I frequently cite the day after I came down to close on our house. The wind chill in Chicago was 25 below zero. I sat outside with a cup of coffee at a perfect 75 degrees, looking out over the sparkling blue pool at a flock of white migratory tropical birds winging down the canal. Jimmy Buffet played in the background. I nearly cried when it was time to go home. So, this isn’t paradise, but it’s only occasionally Hell.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-72376491926670290862022-09-28T12:42:00.004-07:002023-10-02T18:02:57.139-07:00 In The Early Evening Pain<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi05entnYVO3r4KDJvPT4olMl440sHeJkqVlzHCl4vDiO5mbWCbCeehXQlxcynRpVoTdbdvuwHiiBG-MZ2QI_OubWNFZoGCkrYOf2a-tYzEjEGeeZICLBV4UvI4WhXvFIlehrfapdy8i15oLa2Zz-HDQbaQIbsOCURi2Pg7My7YU7tD9sOvPEtc81Ol/s4032/Gord.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi05entnYVO3r4KDJvPT4olMl440sHeJkqVlzHCl4vDiO5mbWCbCeehXQlxcynRpVoTdbdvuwHiiBG-MZ2QI_OubWNFZoGCkrYOf2a-tYzEjEGeeZICLBV4UvI4WhXvFIlehrfapdy8i15oLa2Zz-HDQbaQIbsOCURi2Pg7My7YU7tD9sOvPEtc81Ol/w200-h150/Gord.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><i>Author's Note: This turned out to be the last time we enjoyed an evening with Gordon. I'm so glad he traveled to Peoria while we were in town.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> What a lucky happenstance, my favorite performer making a stop just minutes from our summer home near Peoria, Illinois. How could I pass it up? I pleaded for it to be a birthday gift and was granted the company of my wife and old-soul daughter to the September 27<sup>th</sup> Gordon Lightfoot show at the Civic Center.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> We waited through a very capable opening act, something new to us as a Lightfoot audience. Nashville’s Jack Schneider sang a handful of original songs, demonstrated his guitar chops and even strapped on a harmonica a few times. I wondered if perhaps Gordon found him slightly reminiscent of his old friend Bob Dylan. It was quite enjoyable.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> Finally, the frail looking legend himself strolled confidently out on stage, settled quickly in behind the mic and began to strum and sing <i>Sweet Guinevere</i>. After the initial shock at the raspy remnants of his once beautiful voice, our expectations were adjusted for the evening. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> At age sixty-eight, my knees complained after we walked up to the second balcony. But I don’t have to perform with my knees. Gord’s voice seems to be going into retirement against his will. After all, Paul McCartney is eighty years old, and Tony Bennett released an album at ninety-five.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> But literally “with an achin’ in his heart” – a triple aortic aneurysm nearly took his life in 2002, leaving him to recover from a six-week coma and a tracheotomy that would have sidelined most mortals. That he is alive is amazing, touring twenty years later, astounding. He subsequently suffered a stroke, and most recently a broken arm. The man is no stranger to pain.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> His faithful fans are in love with this troubadour, a songwriter with no equal, and a band that could perform with a cardboard cutout of the Canadian national treasure and still hold a crowd’s interest in tribute to their hero. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> And then it happened. Just as some random drunk at another show started shouting at the top of his lungs, one dimwit felt the need to yell “GORDON” during every song. Dude, he knows his name, and no matter how many times you yell, “RAINY DAY PEOPLE,” he is not taking requests. The raucous idiot should have been thrown out like the one at the Pabst Theater in 2013. If you’re reading this, you embarrassing asshat, you’re not a fan, stop pretending. Fans don’t do that.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> As the show proceeded, Gord’s voice warmed up a bit. At one point he paused to use a nasal spray, then got a laugh when he offered it to lead guitarist Carter Lancaster. It made a noticeable difference, but by that time we were used to his limits and I was openly crying during <i>If You Could Read My Mind.</i> I looked over at the face of my thirty-year-old daughter, a Speech Language Pathologist sitting in rapt attention to the haunting melody written in 1970. We danced to <i>Inspiration Lady</i> at her wedding. Sadly, that song wasn’t included in the evening’s set list, but perhaps more crying would have just been excessive.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"> She commented that Gordon had difficulty clearing saliva from his vocal-chords and lacked the necessary lung power to propel sounds without difficulty. But far from having pockets full of sand, he continued to pull out hit after hit, some shortened a bit to “tighten up the show.” He spoke of the band performing nine shows in twelve days and the desire to sleep in their own beds. Perhaps after the show he jumped a jet plane, and to thunderous applause was eventually on his way – in the early evening pain.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-69773550574863747942022-09-18T17:37:00.007-07:002023-09-24T05:33:40.067-07:00Family Feud<p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdVwsaG5_Bw691pJB5i1_cPUjHQF9aP3ebx6MliVsGNXnn_JSVN9qtHK3NiULhFUEv6Ztys3Pnbpo-GlQFfiquuY5tGIzAKohrsoGS48rbCurhCZFeF71KSPhoB1QANEbM5Hyt0qNuDgAl5nejdmTiOWiNl98kyhNHRxhfeKnOGnHhow-N15n-YBuG/s299/Family%20Feud%20Image.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="199" data-original-width="299" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdVwsaG5_Bw691pJB5i1_cPUjHQF9aP3ebx6MliVsGNXnn_JSVN9qtHK3NiULhFUEv6Ztys3Pnbpo-GlQFfiquuY5tGIzAKohrsoGS48rbCurhCZFeF71KSPhoB1QANEbM5Hyt0qNuDgAl5nejdmTiOWiNl98kyhNHRxhfeKnOGnHhow-N15n-YBuG/w200-h133/Family%20Feud%20Image.png" width="200" /></a></span></div><p></p><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> There are few houses on Cook Road, but the two at Numbers 23 and 25 are unusually close to each other and oddly situated. Relations between neighbors at these two homes have varied depending on the occupants. The shared boundary tests the better natures of those who dwell on either side.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> A fence might seem to be in order. But a wall of any design along the dovetailed property line would be a mutually detrimental eyesore to both owners, and has thus been avoided.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> Sarah and Jerry’s dog Rusty at Number 23 is a former farmyard mongrel adopted out of sympathy for its plight, and relentless requests by eight-year-old Bekka. Rusty routinely loitered by the back door, awaiting a breach in security by the normally vigilant family. The shaggy little opportunist was an escape artist who seemed to love being chased.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> In remote or less populated areas, sewage is often disposed of by septic systems that must be regularly pumped out. One late April day several years earlier, the septic tank cover was removed for pumping at Number 25 and remained open while the tanker truck went to unload its contents. The back yard was perfumed with the yearly crop of blue perennials that only partially masked the stench emanating from the open system.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> This was one of the days Rusty got away from Jerry. Not an athletic man, he nevertheless took off like Hermes after the bounding dog. Around the side of the house they ran, leaping the flowering blue boundary without regard for a minor trespass. Relations had been good since Susan and Frank had moved in. In fact, Susan was outside, her face toward the sun until a somewhat surreal event turned her attention.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s1500/natural%20selections.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s320/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br style="font-family: -webkit-standard;" /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p></p></div>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-68871341378510317262022-09-16T12:09:00.005-07:002023-09-24T05:33:56.758-07:00A Fistful of Nothing<div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSeTN3zLbc9OVkmsKw3eCGsNU3qdKFcRHzoeclycTbJP0W3DgRloOQGh93DhDNTeOyBx2OXiuMM7zZOk_mdP4Ed6KjTpjHioh3ppH1Lbo5J2bIhrmjgafPUC_9_HvI5YYD8DnjGI1YzA-86RtEA8ZyYzDBumes5_1nBerwVaCHTSIzZnYKCCT-8Lkz/s510/Fistful%20of%20Nothing%20Image.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="510" height="129" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSeTN3zLbc9OVkmsKw3eCGsNU3qdKFcRHzoeclycTbJP0W3DgRloOQGh93DhDNTeOyBx2OXiuMM7zZOk_mdP4Ed6KjTpjHioh3ppH1Lbo5J2bIhrmjgafPUC_9_HvI5YYD8DnjGI1YzA-86RtEA8ZyYzDBumes5_1nBerwVaCHTSIzZnYKCCT-8Lkz/w200-h129/Fistful%20of%20Nothing%20Image.png" width="200" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> Imagine that your child has access to only five television channels. That’s enough to grapple with. We won’t discuss the absence of video games, internet or smart phones. This seemingly barren media landscape represents the entertainment of my childhood. Yeah, I’m that old.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> Now you may be able to understand how a portly middle-aged man in a light blue jacket festooned with epaulets, service ribbons and colorful planchets could play the part of Prime Minister to a fictional goose, the self-proclaimed King of the United States, and succeed as the host of a children’s show that featured only puppets and cartoons. He was Frazier Thomas, and the show was the long running <i>Garfield Goose and Friends</i>. It took <i>Sesame Street</i> to break its on-air endurance record of 1955 to 1976.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> WGN Television in Chicago had a habit of cultivating beloved overweight spokesmen. Norbert “Ned” Locke was another, ringmaster of Bozo’s Circus for fifteen years, but that’s another story. It was a great time to be a kid.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> When I came home from grammar school, our black and white television helped me wind down while my mom made dinner and ignored me for a while. I’d sit on the couch and eat pretzel sticks while Garfield Goose had imaginary conversations with his Prime Minister.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>To read the rest of this story and more than seventy others, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/s320/Book.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div></div></div>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-80327777444957756642022-09-11T12:52:00.003-07:002023-09-24T05:34:09.215-07:00Days of Our Lives<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOT3HxZ5EdrY2bwmJL07g8T87gFH5rpY9nTqeTGFPpV9kHufJ1Z224GAv8UoSDl9SHu5pEbELCGte5Sn8IM3cZoScfcEt28h7tREdh8821MLaH2PIw-iixtAacm38E9NvFbQQOVDhRtdS1PObTSWmf-ulluLr_22iCAopU9K6lLnNoYq-5VLm3CCEl/s324/Days%20of%20Our%20Lives%20Image.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="290" data-original-width="324" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOT3HxZ5EdrY2bwmJL07g8T87gFH5rpY9nTqeTGFPpV9kHufJ1Z224GAv8UoSDl9SHu5pEbELCGte5Sn8IM3cZoScfcEt28h7tREdh8821MLaH2PIw-iixtAacm38E9NvFbQQOVDhRtdS1PObTSWmf-ulluLr_22iCAopU9K6lLnNoYq-5VLm3CCEl/w200-h179/Days%20of%20Our%20Lives%20Image.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> They pulled into a choice spot at the drive-in, central but with easy egress for when the movie ended and a mad dash began to empty the lot.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> “Let them wait in line to go home,” said Ray. “What’s the hurry, baby?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> It was summer, they were twenty and it was the weekend. She couldn’t disagree. There was no hurry. How could she know about time at an age when life stretches ahead like an endless highway, when wasted moments are always replaced by a new supply of moments to be wasted?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> Momma dragged her to the nursing home a week ago to visit great Uncle Otto.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> “Vicky, you never know when it might be the last time. He’s 93, honey. I know he must be awful lonely.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> “I know, I know, he’s so sweet, it’s just,”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> “Just what?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> “It smells kinda bad Momma. And it makes me sad.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s1500/natural%20selections.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s320/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><br style="font-family: -webkit-standard;" /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-20317626551170351982022-09-09T18:15:00.003-07:002023-09-24T05:34:29.402-07:00Bad Behavior<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjndaELvYfSaEc5ygPiGpGN8oV82VCEoqZ6jYB3dJPOVXyhSDrREQ-d1cCOnOMEfItCnGFq3ufCRjMTXM0XzJOyKCknDypvRGqvut3DgdRJ58RnJKdusxwdofeK2ZEo-YsnO406HaP8AObp6C27c99pb2wlCUE8MdWv59VfxifkCD2nEqH9poKJQtHU/s354/Bad%20Behavior%20Image.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="267" data-original-width="354" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjndaELvYfSaEc5ygPiGpGN8oV82VCEoqZ6jYB3dJPOVXyhSDrREQ-d1cCOnOMEfItCnGFq3ufCRjMTXM0XzJOyKCknDypvRGqvut3DgdRJ58RnJKdusxwdofeK2ZEo-YsnO406HaP8AObp6C27c99pb2wlCUE8MdWv59VfxifkCD2nEqH9poKJQtHU/w200-h151/Bad%20Behavior%20Image.png" width="200" /></span></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> Folks in Brimfield, Massachusetts talk much of the year about little other than their legendary summer flea markets. When a quarter of a million people leave the area, returning the local population to under 4000, the general state of exhaustion and silence is akin to that following the end of Woodstock, only more so.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> And then winter sets in and Emma Walther goes ice fishing. She becomes the subject of frequent conversations as she walks by the local diner. Imagine, a girl.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> Emma works on weekends in nearby Sturbridge Village as an actress in a living history museum. It is generally frowned upon to express frustration with tourists and their occasionally bad behavior, but bumper stickers that state, “We’re not on your vacation” can be seen on the outskirts of town. Eyes secretly roll at the sound of a Chicagoan asking how to get to <i>Wore-Chester</i>. Emma has been told not to make corrections, but finds it difficult to let it go. “Oh, <i>Woostah</i>, here, let me get you a map.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> “Dad, I’m goin’ fishing!” Emma yells on her way out the back door.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> The garage stores too much stuff to also fit a car, and she struggles around collections of treasures for next summer’s flea, trying not to upset anything breakable. A bucket, makeshift pole and small tackle box are wedged between tables and trinkets, lanterns and pewter milk jugs. Tourists just love milk jugs.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> Emma slides down the icy driveway with her gear, turns toward town and then down Brookfield Road to the Lake Sherman conservation area. The small lake is one of several in the area, stocked with trout and bass in the spring, and fishable during the short, frigid ice fishing season. She passes the police department, the cemetery and her old elementary school.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> “Hey, school,” she says, her frosty breath trailing behind her, and then yells “Hey Stube!” to a friend across the street.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"> “McKay!” shouts Doug Stuben. Eliza McKay is the fictional character Emma plays in Sturbridge, churning imaginary butter and sweeping floors in the refurbished “original” home of the town pastor. The hourly rate is decent, but the work is pure drudgery. Sitting on a frozen lake with a line in the water is more to her liking.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s1500/natural%20selections.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s320/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; line-height: 32px; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><br style="font-family: -webkit-standard;" /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4903009259705672437.post-10193056410229373612022-08-08T18:32:00.006-07:002023-09-24T05:34:41.530-07:00Ocean View<p><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYqVd1nSdUOxCCzb_0MwGfX7tMP0_ecKzHAqJZRLxcUMu2qHDbksM8IzM9YqJjZla-FUzW-3jgj7D-Q1ndHQ9ZRVWvosdgZKBuJ1Yg5fChhwvlfdvLjrV1gpTlF8Zahlefh8FgsNcCRJ8_gLlU_wnN6qGs39HVBt9eKDd2OohqeBLEPE2Le3CJE3GK/s471/ocean%20view.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="356" data-original-width="471" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYqVd1nSdUOxCCzb_0MwGfX7tMP0_ecKzHAqJZRLxcUMu2qHDbksM8IzM9YqJjZla-FUzW-3jgj7D-Q1ndHQ9ZRVWvosdgZKBuJ1Yg5fChhwvlfdvLjrV1gpTlF8Zahlefh8FgsNcCRJ8_gLlU_wnN6qGs39HVBt9eKDd2OohqeBLEPE2Le3CJE3GK/w200-h151/ocean%20view.png" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial;"><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div>Mary Lindwahl put her husband Kurt in charge of researching their summer vacation. This abandonment of logic reflected her desperation to be anywhere but “here.” In the days before the Internet, this meant phone calls to resorts featured in glossy magazines, or queries to addresses on matchbook covers.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “The Ocean Vista Resort,” said Kurt. “That sounds lovely.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Yes it does Kurt, but you should request a brochure.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “I already did, Mary. It should come in about a week.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> When the much-anticipated trifold piece arrived, Kurt spread it out on the kitchen table.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Look, honey, there’s the ocean! Palm trees, sand and waves, right out in back. Let’s go there!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “I don’t know Kurt, that looks kind of like a drawing,” said Mary<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “It’s what they call an artist’s rendering, Mary,” said Kurt with the expert tone of a travel agent.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> The Ocean Vista Resort was in California, home to movie stars and perfect “beachy” weather. Mary dreamed of lounging on the sand.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “There’s a swimming pool too, Mary!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “We’ll go to the beach,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> A taxi dropped them in the secluded driveway of the Ocean Vista. More of an alley really. Kurt breathed in the moist, warm Los Angeles air.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “You smell that, Mary?” asked Kurt. I can almost hear the waves.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> “Mary glanced at the hotel dumpster and out at the street. The odor and noise she perceived were decidedly less magical.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s1500/natural%20selections.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/s320/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">😎</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying </i></span><i style="font-family: arial;">"<a href="https://a.co/d/ajLL4ql" target="_blank">Natural Selections</a>," at Amazon.com.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 32px; margin: 0in; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3U7WnwW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdYJlEPi0GDWROa860BZcDGYovKg9AAuL4kxuZ9nxv7p4fYEMPch80M4ueAArVA12SvDaxxH2nyiaty6xI7VtEg_hoyoyjDjKgWPuLPkR6FeKjjwWeGpYdtNTP_MgsSNRSqtKZn4JjK9GH6aeWljVGzck3d3Mawtj8B-KbKvuRmSqL1-oW8yj6fE8qj7I/w145-h218/natural%20selections.jpeg" width="145" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying <a href="https://a.co/d/gMtMvgN" target="_blank">Park Ridge Memories</a> also on Amazon. Click on the image below.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://a.co/d/3LMc9V6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1000" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-dP7invdI0kOq1v3A4bAY_nszfwSYdXkmQrW1Qqv-YX5kpv1RrOgvsxftKP5uhWflDBT8cFq7soa2ufgafCgyFt1EH8j5QOLQ_9wnw4I5ikk9ELMQZhKg3qgDU6iwdQYgvTkiRLoAALGlefhK4bAqbJX02NbAgunN7IZWFHWLcPyWTW5B1wHwRtm7khc/w149-h224/Book.jpeg" width="149" /></a></div></div></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br style="font-family: -webkit-standard;" /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></span></p><p></p>V C Larsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05558748559136237608noreply@blogger.com