The Hinges of Hell

My neighbor has a saying for everything. I’m a fan of fun sayings so I thought I’d start a collection. My favorite, spoken frequently by author and radio show host Garrison Keillor is, “The desire to perform is no indicator of talent.”

I’ve repeated that line so many times and in so many places I can no longer categorize its use. It’s a great one for school variety shows, amateur theater productions and chorales, church choirs, political debates and even sporting events. Put me in coach. No, you stay on the bench!

It’s another way of saying, “Just because your head is shaped like a hubcap doesn’t mean you’re a big wheel.” That one belongs to neighbor Jim. I look forward to capturing more of his folksy wisdom. Now that he knows I’m taking notes they’re flying fast and furious.

My grandmother had favorite phrases for lots of occasions. I only wish I’d written them down instead of relying on my memory.

One of hers was, “What falls to the floor comes to the door.” I guess saying this is a nice distraction for clumsy types to get observers thinking about something other than picking errant silverware off of the kitchen floor. Is a knife a man, a spoon a woman? How does that work? Does it ever work? I mean, “I was born at night, but not last night.” Don’t expect me to stand by the front door and await guests every time you lose your grip on a fork.

Another of Grandma’s favorites was, “Friday night dreams come true.” I’ve never tested this, but feel free to keep a notepad on your nightstand and tape your nocturnal imaginings to the refrigerator for future reference. How long does it take for these dreams to materialize? If I master lucid dreaming can I take advantage of this cause and effect?

I’ll be updating this from time to time. Summer is a good time for inside activities like this. To go outside is foolish when it’s “Hotter than the hinges of Hell.” One interesting note: Hell’s Hinges is a 1916 silent film featuring William S. Hart and Clara Williams. Now you know.

I’ll end with a classic line by my favorite humorist, Mark Twain. He said, “It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.”

With that, I will close my mouth and suppress my desire to perform further.

 

😎

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Packing for a Trip to the Third World

Drafted mentally at 3am on a sleepless night at the Hotel Bambu in Santiago, Guatemala. Completed in a traffic jam on a hill outside of Panajachel after a particularly bouncy boat ride.

I begin this essay with the observation that I’ve never known a rooster to crow exclusively at sunrise. At least three confused cocks interrupted my sleep with what can best be compared to “The Midnight Howl” from the movie 101 Dalmatians. Gallo Frito (fried rooster) is my dish of choice should I decide to hold them accountable.

Eight months of planning afforded this compulsive worrier plenty of time to prepare for the horrors of our descent into the heart of darkness. My Third World checklist resulted from ruminations of car-jackings, robberies, machete assaults, pick-pocketing, volcanoes, earthquakes, cliff-falls and other random surprises over which I have no control. That left me to focus on exchange rates, parasites and a variety of possible rashes. And, yes, I know that it’s never the things you expect or prepare for that deliver your undoing.

My packing list became quite specific. If I can catch jock-itch and athlete’s foot at a health club two blocks from my home, then the devilish Tinea twins can easily stage a third world Cincoanera in my nether regions without an ample supply of Tinactin and Lotrimin. Check.

Hydrocortisone seems an appropriate addition for a variety of potential skin eruptions, not the least of which might be the result of exotic plant scratches and insect stings. And speaking of eruptions, I think it only logical when surrounded by volcanoes and water borne parasites to have a well considered, shall we say, exit strategy.

Seriously, the metaphor of magma exiting my body, jet propelled by an assortment of unaccustomed foods, laced with picante, pico de gallo and hot peppers is a short stretch given my propensity to suffer digestively in travels to my only previous Third World destinations like Round Lake Beach and Peoria. Compounding this is a lifetime aversion to objects falling from my body that harkens back to my toilet training resistance as a child, continuing into middle age with a diet high in beef and output that more closely resembles an Arabian foal. Wet wipes and lidocaine cream applied as needed. Check.

All of this brings me to our painful ride on Lake Attitlan, a water filled collapsed caldera between three volcanoes, in a rustic flat bottom boat not meant for even light chop. Halfway through the slamming ordeal, tossed like our luggage and seat cushions I shouted “No mas testiculares” in a plea for mercy on my gonads and an attempt to sound Spanish. I fully expected to be hurled from a volcanic vent on a Mayan altar like James Mason and Pat Boone after their Journey to the Center of the Earth, but had no such luck. Where is Arne Saknussemm when you need him?

Respectfully submitted should the mosquito bite I suffered on the last day of the trip result in Dengue Fever or something equally awful and untreatable.

But of course it didn’t. Like most vacations, it was extremely enjoyable and utterly amazing – in hindsight.

😎

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Shaman Bob

 

Introduction:

 

 

Allow me to introduce a story that can best be characterized as imaginative nonfiction. As the first authorized biography to be written about its subject, much literary tuck-pointing was required to fill gaps in a previously unknown but amazing story. By agreement, no sources are cited, and any legal records that might support the legitimacy of the story have been expunged. But it is mostly the truth, and we leave it to you to decide where that gets in the way of fabrication.

Shaman Bob is a prophet among prophets. He is in human form while he traverses the world through place and time, but suspects himself to be of otherworldly origin. He is a blissful being with a personality too codependent to become angry or vengeful. His influence spans generations and continents. He is wise and all-knowing, though he remains humble and without pretense. In fact, his magniloquence has left others with the impression that he is somewhat obtuse. He claims to be God’s best friend.

Emerging from the ritual purification of Temazcal after consuming numerous Ginkgo-infused Long Island Ice Teas, Bob experienced a series of visions that led him to embrace his destiny as a Shaman. But more about that later. It is important for you only to understand that Shamanism is not a birthright, certification, or online degree from the University of Phoenix. It is a mindset and lifestyle choice adopted infrequently but consistently across human cultures and throughout history. Shaman Bob decided he was a Shaman and that was that.

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Worlds at War

The red planet burned in the evening sky and the in dreams of Edward Walter Maunder. He stood in the garden of his London home gazing skyward as he did frequently on clear and moonless summer evenings, mired in a debate over his opinion regarding the true nature of Martian canals. His obsession with the red orb, the most masculine of planets, tested the limits of his scientific knowledge, and he inevitably turned in frustration to the telescope in his greenhouse. It remained there, equilibrated to the outdoor temperature to reduce fogging of its highly polished lenses.

 

It was at one of the early meetings of the British Astronomical Association that Edward crossed paths with Herbert Wells, fifteen years his junior, but a decidedly deeper thinker and consummate debater. Wells and Maunder shared tea frequently over the course of several years as neighbors, developing a deep and intellectually satisfying friendship.

To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

😎

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Nothing Good

“Don’t ask,” grunts my contact as he swings open a chain link gate and motions me inside.

Of course, I never ask. To do so would be unprofessional, and if my fledgling business needs anything at this point, it’s a profound level of trust, and a track record that will get me other jobs by word of mouth.

The unsavory nature of my growing list of clientele speaks to my competence, both as a security analyst and as a tight-lipped confidant among night-dwellers in the underground economy. I am generally paid in cash. Hundreds only.

We’ll call my contact Vinnie. Yeah, Vinnie. He ushers me into the compound and promptly chains and locks the gate behind me. We head to the first of a series of storage sheds. Barn sized and windowless metal structures, allegedly protected by “Fang,” an ancient Doberman Pincer who looks up and woofs in our general direction, then licks his balls before lying back down in the dust near shed one. The Beware of Dog sign on the fence has done far more to guard the area than Fang for quite some time. I guess that’s why they need me.

Inside shed one, Vinnie flips on a series of incandescent hummers, caged steel contraptions that immediately attract moths and illuminate airborne dust. 

😎

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The Look – The Eyes Have It

Have you ventured out yet to a store while wearing a protective facemask? We’ve done it enough times to know that they’re far from comfortable, make it difficult to breath and can cause your eyeglasses to fog up. And then there’s…the look. 

You know the one. You’re obediently proceeding one way, and only one way, down the snack aisle at the grocery store when you approach another customer, one who’s not wearing a mask, confident in their biological Covid-resistant superiority. Or maybe one who is wearing a face covering, but who appears to be ticking off criteria on a mental list of mask specifications. The look you get when your own naked face is assessed differently, kind of like, you insolent predator, how dare you defy the rules? Their eyes hint at feelings of disdain, insult and disrespect.

If you happen to leave your cart and go back a few steps the wrong way down a one-way aisle, well, don’t even get me going on that look. It’s similar to the impatiently waiting glare worn by cart-pushers who struggle with the challenge of passing a slow moving shopper while still maintaining six feet of separation. Ah, angst in the age of social distancing.

If you have some sort of Niqab fetish, your time has arrived. We have all been suddenly thrust into the realm of Sharia Law when it comes to face covering. And it is ironic, given all the racism and anti Muslim discrimination in the time before the year 2020. Eyes peering out Salome-like from behind cloth-coverings hint seductively at hidden smiles and frowns. Which is it? Is that person angry or joking with me? Fortunately eyes tend to smile, crinkling up when laughing, and thankfully the haters with their flashing, piercing glances cannot demand our heads on a platter.

There are forty-three muscles in the human face. We are masking many of the ones most expressive of our emotions and reactions. We are quickly learning to communicate differently and will never again underestimate the power of a wink, a nod or the sweeping extension of a hand that can so graciously gesture, “No, please, after me.”

😎

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Eat Your Feelings, But Not All of Them

I’ve been seeking moments of bliss in my pandemic lifestyle. My go-to seems to be a combination of sedentary behavior and comfort found in food. I’m not entirely sacrificing my health. I still exercise daily and eat the necessary fiber and protein. But I think the window of self-pity needs to slam shut.

We supposedly live in an era of acceptance and tolerance, in which body shaming is unacceptable. But we also have adipose baggage from times prior to Covid. I feel sorry for recently married college freshmen. They’re simultaneously dealing with the “Married 10,” the “Freshman 15,” and the “Covid 20.” My gosh, the potential for gaining 45 pounds is real and upon us. And by the end of this seemingly endless sequestration I may be right on target if I’m not careful, having summited the first two peaks years ago. I guess this is the point at which I correctly state, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” But there is.

Obesity is unhealthy. It is correlated with type 2 diabetes, coronary artery disease, hypertension, stroke, gallbladder disease, sleep apnea, mental illness, many types of cancer, osteoarthritis, body pain and shortened life span. Not listed here are poor self-image, fatigue and a plethora of other daily epiphanies, some of which arise in the “mirror of truth” installed in clothing store changing rooms everywhere.

A BMI (Body Mass Index) of 30 or more qualifies you as obese. A recent visit to the doctor brought this home for me when my doctor rather incautiously said that my perfect chemistry and lipid panel results were “Excellent. But you don’t see many FAT 90 year olds.” And he wasn’t concerned with appearance. Thanks Doc. I guess I either need to lose weight or grow taller. (You can calculate your BMI here.)

I actually appreciate my current doctor’s candor. Jerk. I’ve gone through my life with primary care physicians who routinely weighed and tested me at my annual physical exam without once suggesting I diet or reduce weight. “See you in a year! Would you like a statin?” And of course I realize I’m dodging accountability in blaming them.

This reminds me of some advice I imparted to a personal trainer at a local health club a few years ago. The trainer’s name was Don. That’s his real name. It doesn’t matter. A few of you knew him. He was ripped. He was young and attractive, and he knew it. One evening after a general toning class that was much too vigorous for a person in their late fifties I slunk into the locker room with my tail between my legs, a perspirational approximation of a potato in a sweat suit, only to find Don flexing in front of a full length mirror. I paused and couldn’t help but admire his physique. He looked better than I did almost forty years earlier, but not much.

            “How old are you, Don?” I asked.

He glanced away from the mirror, a bit irritated, as if he might miss something.

            “Twenty-four,” he replied.

I took a few slow steps for dramatic effect, so that he might possibly take in my full sweaty splendor behind his image in the mirror, then said,

            “One pound a year, Don. One pound a year, and you’re ME!”

It was hurtful, I know. But it was the truth, and I hope he took it to heart. The reality is, I can gain three pounds in a weekend! The fact that I have gained only one pound a year since I was Don-like is a testament to the GOOD behaviors I’ve demanded of myself over the decades. “This took work!” I like to say, when I search beyond my gut for my shoelaces.

So I briefly took Don on a ride down a dark street of dreams and left him standing at the corner of Revulsion and Horror. I didn’t charge him for the consultation. That’s more than I can say for him. Forty dollars per session? Be serious! I need that money for snacks!

😎

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Morning Person

There are lots of ways to buy donuts. If you’re not an early riser you can even buy them at a grocery store’s bakery the day before and with any luck they won’t be stale the next morning. Last night I promised my family I would bring donuts home in the morning. Abbe’s donuts. And I vowed to get up early to ensure the best possible selection.

I arrive at the Port Charlotte location at 6am, the only car in the parking lot. Oh no! Could they be closed? I usually wander in around 9am, so this is undiscovered country for me. But not so for the hard working staff at Abbe’s. I can’t even imagine what time they need to start readying the day’s assortment of freshly prepared treats. But there they are. As I fight off the swarming Love Bugs (it’s May) at the front door, I encounter the store as I’ve never seen it before.

There before me is a display case filled to overflowing in every tray, every donut sized space occupied by the range of offerings that is usually full of gaps by my usual arrival time. But not today!

I normally have to adjust my order and the expectations of my family on the fly based on product availability. But to parody Chief Brody in Jaws, I simply say, “I’m gonna need a bigger box!”

Row upon row of cake and colored glazes glistens under fluorescent lighting, beckoning to be selected and given a home like puppies at a doggie orphanage. It’s what donuts live for. And once in a while, it’s what I live for. I love donuts!

There they are, crunchy peanut fragments sprinkled generously on a bed of chocolate frosting, and nearby a vanilla iced sister decorated similarly. Row upon row of long johns, filled to bursting with delectable yellow custard ready to escape at first bite, and slathered with brown or white frosting as desired. Pink frosted donuts, sprinkles issued forth from an extravagant rainbow, coffee rolls wound tight and large, a veritable discus of glazed pastry.

The selection threatens to confuse and overwhelm me, but I stick to the script I was handed hours earlier. To go rogue requires that I bring home a stack of boxes in a fit of madness for which I am financially ill equipped. The apple fritters call to me–they are on the list. Each drizzled sugary mountain of deep fried wonder contains a cinnamon apple surprise, fresh and flavorful, and undoubtedly healthy, yes they must be! I’ll take four please! And now, more chocolate!

At last there is but room for one more delight from this heavenly cakery, and the pot of coffee I left brewing at home demands that I satisfy a classic craving. The purist among donut aficionados understands the understated elegance of the simple, brown plain cake creation that lines rows of a single rack on the lowest shelf. One will do, but please make it two!

My hostess this morning calls me “Sweetie” as I pay. I leave my change and then some in the humble tip jar next to the cash register. Be sure you do likewise. These dear hearts work hard and long, much harder than I ever did in forty years behind a desk. Thank goodness Abbe’s appears to be surviving these challenging times. I’ll be back soon, and hope that you’ll visit too.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

In The Woods

I still cringe a bit when I recall my first trip to the Canadian Boundary Waters in August of 1987. I was thirty-two years old, recently married and eager to fit into my new extended family. In those days there was no Internet for research, photos to examine, or procedures to learn online that might allay my fears. As the novice in the family, asking a series of questions was beneath my dignity. It would expose me as a fraud, an unskilled indoor guy in the company of outdoorsmen. I headed into the adventure blind and minimally prepared, either mentally or physically.

My Cub Scout Memory

If you’re wondering how I could have entirely missed out on the almost universally enjoyed childhood experience of camping, allow me to provide a bit of background. When my mother eventually realized that I would not succumb to the deadly effects of seasonal allergies or anaphylactic death by mold-filled tent, and finally allowed me to join a local Cub Scout troop, my chance for adventure swiftly came to an end. It was just bad timing. I barely had a chance to do a simple craft and begin to know the other boys before finding out it was the den mother’s last meeting. There was no attempt to find another group or later enroll me in Boy Scouts. As a result I never got the chance to go camping, but I do recall the delicious chocolate cupcake we had as a snack.

And sure, I technically slept in a tent with college friends over a Spring Break weekend in Florida at John Pennekamp State Park, but that was in order to save money. And it was also the weekend I suddenly developed the worst case of influenza in my life. All I remember is lying in a tent with a near hallucinatory 104-degree fever, gazing up into the blue eyes of a friend’s angelic girlfriend as she wiped my forehead with a cool damp cloth. That weekend I learned about the dangers of camping and the kindness of strangers.

But the family trip recounted here included four of my wife’s siblings, one brother-in-law and my father-in-law. We headed to a place called Quetico that I’d never heard of. It was near Ely Minnesota, a state I’d never been through and a long car ride from the north side of Chicago. Any arrangements for permits or connections to the outfitter we used were handled by one of my wife’s brothers. They seemed to know what they were doing, which made it that much more anxiety provoking to be a complete novice. The outfitter equipped us with tents, food and four canoes. Oh yeah. It was a canoe trip. What could possibly go wrong?

We had the misfortune of scheduling our trip following several weeks of rain that left campgrounds soggy, lake levels high, mosquitoes dancing in the moonlight, and whatever you call those areas between campgrounds where you have to carry your canoe, under water. The word for that task I soon learned is “portage.” That’s pronounced poor-tahj. I think it’s important to at least say the word right.

The first paddle was quite pleasant. My bride and I balanced our backpack in the center of our canoe and glided across a small lake to the island where we would make our first camp. We quickly learned to synchronize our strokes and keep the splashing to a minimum. Now, camping dork that I am, I had proudly brought with me an early version of the multi-tool. It was a souvenir knife I bought in San Francisco over the protests of my mother when I was twelve. It had a knife, fork, spoon, can opener, well, you get it. It had a faux wood carved handle and weighed about two pounds. It had been in the garage for twenty years. I also recall packing a small collection of pulleys, carabiners and rope, you know, in case of bears. You can never be safe enough!

My Precious

So, we grounded the canoe on the shore with the scritching sound of sand and gravel under the metal hull and prepared to disembark. By this I mean my wife jumped out of the unbalanced vessel, catching me off guard and causing it to dump me into the drink, my knife sinking to the bottom of the lake. Granted, the bottom was a foot away, so my precious was quickly recovered. But I was soaking wet. This was great practice for the remainder of the trip. It was our driest day. It was also great marital practice, being newlyweds.

The first night of camping is a novelty. Locating high ground, setting up your damp tent for the first time, trying to ignite damp kindling, hanging out damp clothes, realizing that Mom is not along to do the cooking, and getting generally grumpy with a group of people where emotions need not be hidden for long. And the next day, you get to portage.

Did I mention mosquitoes? Boundary Waters mosquitoes? Honestly, I’m not sure why we needed to carry our canoes. They could have lofted them, being in sufficient numbers and of Jurassic proportions. For the record, OFF does not faze mosquitoes in the wild. You need concentrated napalm (DEET) that can’t be purchased at Dick’s sporting goods, no matter what they tell you. When you have an inverted canoe over your head, resting on your shoulders, and you’re trudging through thigh-deep mud, it’s hard to swat a bug. We were not in tears. Family rules require that you cry only when everyone else does.

Our First Campsite

I don’t recall when I first asked about the location of the bathrooms, but it got a good laugh. Pretty much everyone made an arm motion like half of the Y in the song YMCA in the direction of the forest. I had been peeing regularly without a problem, but at this point I asked, “Yeah, but what about the, um, other?”

That resulted in the other half of the Y that pointed to a shovel and toilet paper.

“No way. I’ll hold it,” I said.

“For a week?” someone responded.

For the record, I made it until Wednesday. I searched for an area private enough to be comforting but not so distant as to get lost. I noticed tufts of white toilet paper sticking out of the ground everywhere. Even at the time I knew that this was poor form by previous campers. It resembled the bleached bones of a thousand cattle on the Oregon Trail. And that’s when, relieved as I haven’t been since, I learned about another camping truism. Things roll down hill. Gravity requires that you park yourself on a slope to the rear or in a flat area, not on a scenic overlook facing the lake. Duh.

We had a map

Toward the end of our week, consumed by mosquitoes, wet and chilled to the bone, tired from lack of sleep and some fairly exhausting effort during the day, the sun came out. For several hours our clothes began to dry, our bodies warmed and it occurred to me that this was what camping was supposed to feel like. We lounged on large, smooth boulders overlooking the lake, breathed the tangy scent of pines, snacked in the sun and enjoyed pleasant familial fellowship for a while. That is when a vicious black bug flew straight at my left bicep and stung me in a particularly hostile manner. I had nothing in my toolkit to remedy this, but was rather impressed by the size of my reddened muscle after it swelled. Then the clouds rolled in, the wind picked up and my youngest sister-in-law and I formed an alliance, lobbying to end the trip a little early. This was all pre-Survivor days, but we wanted to vote ourselves off the island. Everyone else had thought it, but we dared to speak it. And it was a good thing too. Winds were the precursor to some fairly nasty weather, and our final paddle back was through challenging white-capped waves. Our pride in overcoming adversity was amplified by our feeling of gratitude for having survived that last leg of the journey.

Dad in the middle

I have camped many times since, with our kids, as a leader (imagine that) at my son's Boy Scout summer camp and with great friends on group sites. We have been evacuated due to midnight storms in the Wisconsin Dells, sweltered in hundred-degree heat under deafening nocturnal tree frogs in Hannibal, MO and ate more S'Mores than is probably healthy. But the Boundary Water trip in 1987 stands out because it was my first and most difficult. And it's also the kind of experience that makes for great family stories and unrivaled memories.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

Kill Bill

Bill is dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. And with this paraphrase of Dickens’ opening line from A Christmas Carol, I will tell a tale for which it is important to understand how surprising, how unfortunate and how utterly predictable it may be that Bill died fourteen years ago. You see, at one time or another every one of his friends vowed to kill him. He never learned and he frequently took risks that got him in trouble.

Having said all of that, Bill was a friend. He was part of a group of college buddies that I joined later than the rest. But I was quickly included in escapades that included, among other things, several weekend trips to a lake house in Wisconsin not far from the Dells and its active bar scene. And it was there, fueled with alcohol, that Bill’s normally outgoing personality became energized and singularly focused to the exclusion of all else. But I’ll come back to that.

Bill was a good-looking guy. He had piercing blue eyes, a disarming smile and a personality that my grandmother labeled, “A worm.” Grandma saw right through the act he employed to disarm younger women. Bill could talk the bark off a tree, the bark being pants and trees being college aged girls. If you had a girlfriend you dared not turn your back, for there would go said girlfriend having forgotten from whence she came. If confronted about such a dalliance, Bill referred to his own ten commandments of girlfriendhood. These commandments often amounted to, “Yeah, but…”

Bill could also be playfully, aggravatingly combative. Another in our circle of friends once argued with him beyond exhaustion, finally issuing the ultimatum, “Bill, if you say one more word…”
Bill, grinned, shuffled his feet, glanced from side to side at those around him and said, “Word!” For that he was throttled, and undoubtedly his attacker yelled, “I’m gonna kill you!”

Another time I went to visit Bill at his dorm when he somehow got into medical school. Doctor Bill. That irked us. Now he didn’t have to talk women out of their clothes, he could just demand it. I washed my bright yellow Corvette that morning and drove it down Chicago’s South Lake Shore Drive to Hyde Park, locating it safely where I could see it from his window. When it came time to return home, I exited the elevator, crossed the lobby and walked toward my car. From far above me came a shout, “Bomb’s away!”

Leaning from his 18th-floor window, Bill tossed a moderately large red water balloon that tumbled end over end, arcing outward from the brick building toward the ground as I ran toward my car, unable to prevent whatever was about to happen. I swear, the missile whistled as it flew. As the projectile approached terminal velocity it became clear that it was not going to hit me or my car, but upon impact with the rain-soaked, mostly dead spring turf, it exploded in a shower of brown thatch and mud that left a shallow crater and covered the side of my pristine fiberglass. Had it landed on the hood it most likely would have splintered it into yellow toothpicks. Relief turned to anger as I looked up and shouted, “I’m gonna kill you!” This is not something you should normally shout in Hyde Park. Bill was laughing hysterically two hundred feet above.

To read the rest of this story and more than seventy others, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

Dead Wake

Retiring to a property on a canal in Florida has paid off in an unexpected way. During the pandemic our few remaining diversions include kayaking and taking our pontoon boat out for a cruise. 

Now that it’s alligator mating season, a quarter inch thick plastic hull continues to offer resistance to water, but those beer bottle eyes that bend the water’s surface as they watch us paddle past lend haunted house apprehension to our journeys. So far the gators have been small, but we know of at least one Jurassic monster in our waterway that could flip us with a yawn and a snicker. As a general rule, the distance between an alligator’s eyes and the end of its snout, in inches, translates roughly to its length in feet. The animal we’ve seen measures perhaps ten inches. And with the aid of its powerful tail, the creature can swim up to twenty miles per hour. An Olympic swimmer can manage only about five. So you definitely want to stay in your kayak.

But such is not the case with a sunset cruise on our pontoon. During these tranquil outings our only predators are human, the ones for whom no speed is slow enough in no-wake zones.

As new boaters we continue to learn about the physics of propelling a populated platform through water and the etiquette associated with doing so in tight or heavily trafficked areas. A boat wake is the area of recirculating water behind a vessel under power. Depending on hull design, speed, weight, and power, a boat’s wake can range from a minimal flow of water and rippling chop to swelling waves of significant, potentially damaging size. Homeowner’s along canals that are perhaps ninety feet in width are justified in demanding that passing boats respect the “100 foot rule” used as a reference for determining if a given area falls under “no wake” jurisdiction. But if you’ve ever tried to go 15 miles per hour through a school zone in a car, you can imagine the crawling lack of progress experienced in a boat going five or less.

The issue is that significant or constant wakes can cause property damage. Yours is not the only boat motoring down the canal. Docked vessels, shoreline habitation, waterfront property, unpowered vessels (such as kayaks, canoes, sailboats, small fishing boats,) marine life, and swimmers are all affected by the sudden power and force of wakes.

I don’t like being yelled at. Does anyone? So it bothers me when we return from the harbor, reduce speed to minimum wake, and then innocently forget to reduce again once we’re in a residential no-wake canal. It seems like every time we go out lately, someone is standing on shore watching, reminding. They are usually polite but always perturbed. I quickly comply, often to the point at which we would need oars to prevent drift if taken any slower.

Of course, there are extreme examples, in boats and on shore. A rather direct homeowner nearby has a sign that says, “Slow Means No Wake Asshole.” That just makes me want to see how fast my boat can go. And perhaps that’s what motivated a recent bunch of yahoos to throttle up on their way home. They were going twice as fast as any boat we’ve ever seen on our canal. When our very nice British neighbor told them to slow down they simply yelled, “F*** You Old Man!” I apologized to him on behalf of America, and in particular, Florida.

One time I was given an arm gesture from a neck deep fellow in a swimming pool. It looked like he was challenging me to an arm wrestling contest or imitating a stapler. Then I realized that his palm moving toward the ground equaled pressing my foot on the brake. Of course, the analogy is incorrect. Backing off on the throttle should be gestured with a raising arm, but I eventually understood and began to crawl.

Last night, a splendidly mild, dry and bug-free evening, we wandered down a canal more off the beaten path. We were exploring. A woman with a fishing pole somewhat softly said, “You’re going kinda fast.” In fact, we weren’t. We were going 4 miles per hour. As luck would have it this canal was a dead end. We shortly had to turn around and pass her again, which we did at 3 miles per hour. This made our awkward moments passing her property take that much longer. In my subsequent fantasy I stare at her and sternly say, “You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said!” And then, with a dramatic pause, “I’m sorry.”

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

Trumped

Kurt and Mary stood in a luxurious hotel lobby with two friends and four overnight bags. The building had large letters emblazoned on the side about half way up its 98 floors. It was 2014 and the name had not yet taken on new significance.

“Welcome to Trump Tower Mr. Lindwahl,” said the bellman. Should you require ANYTHING during your stay, please don’t hesitate to ask.” His emphasis on “anything” hinted at an endless list of possibilities. Tantalizing, or…

Well that’s creepy, Kurt thought, but said only,

“Anything?”

The bellman appeared utterly indifferent to Kurt’s question as he handed Kurt a wood-grained plastic card.

“Your key, sir,”

Kurt turned to Mary with a devilish smile as he noticed the clerk’s nametag. “Jethro.”

“Kurt, don’t,” said Mary. She knew the smile all too well.

“We’ve got the bags,” said Kurt as he quickly walked toward the elevators.

As the doors slid closed, Kurt faced the usual panel of round buttons along with some oblong ovals that represented special destinations. Kurt pushed the button for fourteen, but the light immediately went off. He pushed again. Someone at the back of the car said,

“You have to swipe your room card, then push the button.” And after a brief pause, “I’m not sure why, but it’s pretty cool.”

“That’s it, I feel like Jed Clampett, Kurt chuckled,  “Hold tight Ellie Mae!”

The elevator ride was swift and amazingly smooth. Popping in their ears was the only indication they had actually moved, unlike the coalmine ride at the museum that deliberately shakes and sways as it slowly descends 12 feet into a nearly “bottomless” shaft.

The Lindwahl’s room was beyond ostentatious. Slippers and robes, a yoga DVD and mat, Sharper Image dumbbells and heated aromatic eye pillows. Kurt stood in the bathroom puzzling over the presence of an unexplained remote control. He pointed it first at the shower, then at the toilet. No response. A darkened area in the mirror caught his eye. A TV came to life in the mirror’s glass.

“Well, doggies,” Kurt laughed. “Who in the world feels they deserve this?”

He picked up the room phone and called the front desk. Anything.

“Yes, can you tell me how to get to the Cement Pond?”

“Beg pardon sir?” It was Jethro.

“Swimmin’ pools, movie stars…” Mary rolled her eyes.

“The SPA is on the fifteenth floor sir.” That’s one floor up from fourteen.” He said with a slightly sarcastic edge. He had Kurt’s number.

“Thanks, buddy!”  Kurt said and turned to Mary. “Let’s go work out.”

They arranged to meet their friends at the fifteenth floor spa in five minutes. Mary suggested they walk up.

To read the rest of this story and more than seventy others, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.