Light snowflakes were falling out of the evening sky as I crunched through the foot-deep snow covering the sidewalk in my hometown. This was something I looked forward to each year; walking the streets of homes in the historic part of town to look at Christmas decorations in their yards and the lights from their windows. Not only were the old homes elegant, but the trees lining the streets, the 100-year-old oaks which had long since lost their leaves, now shimmered with their white snowy coverings. Except for the occasional passing of a car, it was all very still and quiet.
The Glory train sat at the depot. Its black painted engine, with polished brass piping, head light, and bell, hissed with escaping steam while puffs of coal smoke drifted up through the forward stack. Eight first class passenger cars were attached to the engine and waiting to be loaded. Looking inside the cars, one could see elegant interiors and seating, with tables on which a gourmet meal would be served during the travel. I walked down to the train depot early that Saturday morning, wanting to see if there were passengers, I might know, who were leaving on their journey.
The depot, built many years before, was elevated with its wood planking platform, which surrounded the building, level with the passenger car steps. Streetlights on the platform illuminated the building and the walkways, giving the passengers the feeling of warmth and safety.
The Glory train had only one destination and would make its journey once a day, at noon. The single track, which the cars rolled on, went from the depot, directly into the valley between two high mountain ranges which were covered with timber from the valley upward some two thousand feet. Above that, snow covered the rocky ridges above. The rails in the valley followed the bank of the Crystal River which was fed by the cascading waterfalls flowing from the snowfields above.
Outside, on the passenger platform, groups of people were starting to gather. These groups surrounded a loved-one, whom they were seeing off. There was much hugging and tears, but there was also joy knowing that there would be a reunion again one day. Soon, getting close to the departure hour, the platform was full of family groups — full to the point that groups were now forced to stand in the parking lot in front of the depot. Sadly, it appeared that some passengers were leaving the station without the send-off of family or friends, and those individuals stood by themselves or with other solo travelers.
The passengers were not allowed to enter the cars until the stewards which worked each car, were given the order by the conductor, to open the doors. A half hour before departure, the engineer gave two short toots on the steam whistle and the stewards opened the passenger car doors for the riders. There were final hugs and kisses, and the passengers climbed the steps handing their tickets to the steward. I noticed that none of the passengers boarded the train with any baggage.
At noon, all passengers were seated in their assigned car, they waved through the windows to the friends and families on the platform. The engineer gave one long blast on the steam whistle and the Glory train slowly left the station and started its long journey up the mountain valley along the Crystal River. Its forward stack sent a cloud of black smoke skyward which partially obscured the passenger cars behind. Slowly, the family and friends’ groups left the depot. Many were still dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs.
The ticket for the Glory train can be purchased at any time in your life, but you do need a ticket to ride. I bought my ticket when I was eighteen years old. The interesting thing is, regardless of when you buy it, you can’t use it until you have been summoned. Which means you might buy your ticket and hold it for many years, or you may be told to immediately get on the train. I had been holding my ticket for 52 years and I had no idea when I would be summoned to use it. Then one day, I received a knock on my door.
When I opened it, there standing before me, was a tall young man dressed sharply in what looked like a chauffeur’s uniform. He removed his hat.
“Mr. T.L. Bottomsly?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
He reached into his formal jacket and produced an envelope which he handed to me. Opening it, I slid out a Deckle-edged, fine quality linen card. The print on it was embossed in gold and read:
“You are hereby summoned to ride the Glory train in two weeks on the 17th at noon. Please use this time to get your house in order.”
I thanked the man, and he replaced his hat, bowed, and returned to his car.
I must say that two feelings surged through my body. One, was joy. That the ride I had waited to take for so long, was now going to happen. The second, was the shock of having to get my house in order and tell my family and friends that I had been summoned.
The next two weeks were chaotic. Family and friends were contacted. I put my house and all my worldly belongings in order. There was no need to take anything of earthly value with me for the trip.
On the 17th, I locked and left my home for the last time, and with only the clothes on my back, I walked to the depot. I wanted to be early and when I arrived, there was only a small group on the platform. The train was there, and the cars were in place. The stewards were inside, busily touching up the interiors for the passengers. In one of the cars, I could smell the aroma of breakfast scones being baked and the strong smell of brewing coffee. I felt the tingle of apprehension knowing that I had waited for so long to ride this train, and once I left the depot, I would never come back to this place where I had lived for so many years.
Slowly, the platform began to fill, and soon a great many friends and family surrounded me, some with tears in their eyes but many with smiles. They all had memories they wanted to share and there were many hugs and kisses. I assured them that I would miss them, but I hoped to see them all again at some point. My final request of them was this: “Buy a ticket. Tell all your family and friends to buy a ticket and we will meet again someday.”
The engineer gave two short toots on the steam whistle and the stewards opened the passenger car doors. I reached into my pocket and produced the old worn ticket which I had held for 52 years. Climbing the steps, I handed it to him and entered the car to find a seat. Looking out the window, I waved to my group.
Inside of my car, the anxious passengers all found a seat. There was much chatter with hugs and handshakes. The seats were comfortable, and the stewards had the temperature adjusted to make sure that everyone was warm. Music played at a low volume through speakers mounted in the ceiling.
“Tea, coffee, and scones will be served after the train begins rolling,” our steward called out. “Please let me know if I can make your ride more comfortable.”
At noon, the engineer gave one long pull of the whistle and the engine slowly started chugging forward. Immediately, the passengers looked out the windows to the depot platform and found their group of family and friends. Everyone waved and blew kisses. There were tears in the cars as well as on the platform.
Once the cars had pulled away from the depot and began rolling up the valley, the thoughts of those who had been left behind, and the life you had before, began to fade away. There was new excitement now – the excitement of what awaited us at the end of the journey.
The stewards, who now took on the look of heavenly beings, began serving the warm drinks and blueberry scones, with as much butter as we wanted. It was also announced that our mid-afternoon meal was being prepared and would be served at 2:00 pm. The seats in the cars were loungers which reclined. The steward announced that there were pillows, slippers, and blankets in the overhead storage bins, should we choose to nap instead of watching our journey outside of the windows. I chose to watch the scenery go by.
As we went up the valley, the tracks travelled over many bridges which crossed the winding, Crystal River. As we crossed, the sun shone brightly on the swiftly flowing current which splashed wildly over the rocks on its journey down the valley. Ducks and migrating geese could be seen in some of the pools. At one point, we passed a spot where the river was cascading over a boulder wall into a pool, and there, we saw four bears who were easily catching salmon who were jumping to get upstream to spawn.
On both sides of the valley, waterfalls could be seen as silver ribbons cascading down the sides of the mountains from the snow fields above. The afternoon sun shone brightly on the snow-covered mountain tops and the sky was a brilliant blue above. Soon, the train began to climb, and it left the Crystal River valley. We slowed as the engine worked hard to climb the grade. It was a daily trip, so I was certain that the engine could do it and not leave us to walk the remainder of the way.
Levelling out again, the train rolled through a mountain meadow. Elk, and moose, grazed in the tall grasses and drank from the ponds. They must have been accustomed to the Glory train passing through, for not one of them were spooked.
At 2:00 pm, the stewards began serving the mid-afternoon meal. Silver platters were brought into each car, each covered with a cloche to keep the food warm. Upon removing the domed covers, we were surprised to find elegantly prepared plates of roast beef, potatoes, beans and Yorkshire pudding, all covered in gravy. Salad and a finely baked dessert were also included. This was indeed a first-class trip.
After we had finished our meals, and the stewards removed our trays, I noticed that the train was continuing to climb higher up into the hills. The trees were thinning, and low blueberry and huckleberry bushes were replacing the Fir forests. I also noticed that we were not far from the base of the snowline. Boulder fields were also replacing the mossy, fern-covered floor of the dark forest. A Hind and a Roe bounded up the mountain side easily leaping from rock to rock.
It was at this time that I heard the engineer pull the steam whistle twice. I asked our steward what that meant.
“It means that we are about to enter the tunnel, sir. It alerts us to make sure that the interior lights are on.”
I looked out my window as far up the tracks as I could see, and sure enough, the engine was about to enter a tunnel. The steward turned up the interior lights at almost the same time that the outside world went black. We were in the tunnel.
“Please take your seats,” the steward called out. “Feel free to recline your seats and get comfortable. Remember that pillows and blankets are available. I will be turning down the lights when you are ready.” When he had seen that we were all seated, he dimmed the lights.
On the upper walls of the tunnel, fluorescent lights were mounted every 100 feet down the length. As our cars rolled under them, the interiors where we sat flashed. Because the train engine wasn’t moving fast when it entered the tunnel, the flashes would happen every five seconds, but soon, the flashes came at four, three, two, and one second until we couldn’t tell that the lights were spaced at all – which was interesting because I could not tell that the engine had increased its speed at all.
I do not know if it was the flashing lights, or my heavy meal, but I found myself drifting into a deep sleep. Talking to other passengers later, I learned that this was true for them also. We slept, traveling through the tunnel, for I don’t know how long, but at some point, as quickly as the train went dark when we entered the tunnel, we burst through into the light as we left it. The passengers started to wake – yawning and stretching their arms and backs.
Now, I cannot aptly describe the land that the Glory train was rolling through. As far as the eye could see on both sides, there were lush farmlands with cattle, horses, pigs, chickens, dogs, and cats. Farmers out working their fields, stopped and waved as the train passed. Rolling past farmhouses and barns, children could be seen playing, and women setting picnic tables for dinner. The children jumped up and down, waving wildly at the train. On a country road following the tracks, two boys on bicycles tried to keep up with the passenger cars – laughing and waving as they pedaled as fast as they could.
The landscape had rolling hills, many of which were planted with all types of fruit and nut trees. There were acres of strawberry, raspberry, and blueberry fields – all of which had pickers in them, filling their baskets. Birds of every type sat in the passing trees and floated in the ponds and lakes, which were clearly stocked with jumping fish. There were even birds and animals which I had never seen before, except in drawings, for they had only been dug up as fossils in different parts of the world.
The flowers were brilliant with colors never seen on the other side of the tunnel, but I must note, that on the other side, I had bad color vision. Others in the car, put their hands over their ears because immediately, they could hear loud and clear. Some, with macular degeneration, cataracts and total blindness, suddenly could see with clarity. They pressed their faces against the window glass unable to speak of the beauty they were seeing. One older man who walked aboard the railcar with such a pronounced stoop, stood up straight and tall with no issues of the back at all. As a matter of fact, we all appeared to have perfect bodies and though we entered the tunnel aged and wrinkled, we appeared now to be young and vital.
Before the train rolled into the tunnel, the sun had set behind the mountains and there was little light outside. As we came out of the tunnel, the light was bright and glorious, and though I scanned the sky, I could not see its source. There were no airplanes above, but besides the birds, there appeared to be what only I can imagine to be angels with their broad white wings stretched out, moving over the skyline of this new land.
As the train continued, we left the farmlands and began passing through residential areas. Here, were lovely cottages, as well as mansions. Each yard was meticulously maintained. The hedges were trimmed, and the lawns mowed. The streets out in front were paved with what looked like gold. People walking the sidewalks waved. Some shouted, “Welcome!”
Finally, the train began to slow. The steward stood and announced, “We are shortly arriving at the Kingdom. Our trip is over.”
The final mile of the travel took us through what might be thought of as the business district. There were many small shops which sold much the same things that we could buy on the other side of the tunnel. The sidewalks on those streets were busy with people carrying purchases. They all waved at the train with a smile.
The train ended its run in what appeared to be a large park. It was the depot where we all were to disembark. It too was beautiful in every way which I have ever seen a park. As the engine applied brakes to the cars, I heard a roar, not unlike being in a large football stadium. Looking outside the windows, we saw thousands of people standing on the lawns and surrounding fields. Many of them held up signs with names on them.
The cars were now stopped at the platform and the passengers stood, unsure of what to do next.
The steward announced, “As I call your name, please step up to me and I will direct you to your group.
“Sadie Clark!”
Sadie walked forward and the steward bent forward and looked out the window.
“Over there, Sadie,” he said pointing.
She looked out and saw her name on a sign far out in the crowd.
“Welcome.” The steward smiled and helped her down the steps.
The crowd on the ground cheered and let her walk through them like a rock star at a concert. The closer she got to her sign, the louder the cheering grew. This happened with every passenger in the car.
“Ted Bottomsly!”
“Right here,” I said, raising my hand. I walked up to him, but had already spotted a sign in the field which read, T.L. Bottomsly.
“I think that I know where I am going,” I said.
Thanking him, I stepped from the car onto the platform into the sea of smiling faces. It was a bit of a struggle at first. Like a salmon swimming upstream, but soon I was within a short distance of my sign. When they saw me, they came at me as a mob, yelling my name, arms in the air.
I could not believe it. There was my mom and dad who had convinced me at an early age to buy my ticket. I saw my grandparents on both sides. I recognized aunts, uncles, and cousins. There were many of my high school friends and of course people I recognized from church, including my Sunday School teachers who also encouraged me greatly to buy my ticket for the train. People I didn’t expect to see were also there, as well as people who said they knew me during my life and bought a ticket because they wanted what I had and knew the ticket would give them that.
It was very, very, noisy with much joy, weeping, hugging and kissing, and then the park grew quiet. I looked at my mom who stood beside me and I wondered what was happening.
“It’s the King. The King is coming to welcome you into his Kingdom.” She pointed outside of the park.
Following her finger, I saw up on a hill, a majestic palace with light radiating from it which must have been the source of this daylight. It had high walls surrounding it made of jasper and the palace itself was made of pure gold, as pure as glass. The foundations of the palace were made of precious stone and the gates were made of pearl.
Coming out of the main gate, I saw a white horse, and on that horse, a rider. Those who were close to the gate dropped to their knees and bowed, and as the rider got closer to the park, everyone began dropping to their knees. I noticed that he wore a white robe and on that robe was written the words, “King of Kings, and Lord of Lords,” As he entered the park, the crowd began singing the words, exactly as Handel had written them for the Hallelujah Chorus. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Handel was somewhere in the crowd directing it himself.
The King walked his horse to an elevated bandstand, and it climbed a ramp and stood in the center of the stage so that all in the park could see him. It was the Jesus that I had imagined, with long flowing hair which didn’t cover all the scars on his forehead. His hands which held the horse’s reins, were nail scarred, as were his feet which hung from the saddleless horse. He wore a broad smile and his face shone with love. Holding up his right hand, the crowd quieted.
“I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End. Welcome, you have entered the dwelling place of God, the Kingdom of Heaven. There will be no more death, mourning, crying, or pain, and I will wipe away every tear from your eyes, for the old order of things has passed away. To him who is thirsty, I will give you drink from the spring of the water of life. Your names are written in the Lamb’s book of life. Be assured that I will meet you and welcome you personally. Until then, come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom which has been prepared for you since the creation of the world.” (Matt 25:34)
With a long toot from the steam whistle, the Glory train backed slowly from the park for its long journey back to the Crystal River depot, to be in place the next morning for a new group of passengers called to the Kingdom.
So, I, T.L. Bottomsly, began my eternal life in the Kingdom of Heaven. But this was only day one. I had eternity to talk with mom and dad and all my family. They were eager to show me the place the King had prepared for me. I would soon be given a tour of the great Kingdom and told of the Kingdom’s ways. I would at some point be given a job to do, and I would be taken to lectures held by the heroes of the Bible and hear concerts given by performers who shared their God-given gifts here now. Lastly, I would be able to talk with Jesus himself to ask him all the “Why” questions I had on the other side of the tunnel.
And to think, none of this would have been mine, had I not purchased my ticket for the Glory train.
I could hear Cheryl in our bedroom closet. She was finding dress shirts for me.
“Ah nope, ah nope, ah nope, ah nope.”
“What is the problem?” I asked.
“You haven’t got one shirt that doesn’t have ball point pen ink stains on the pocket,” she answered.
I have a theory. The makers of dress shirts and the manufacturers of ball point pens are owned by the same corporation. The pens are designed to leak, leaving an ink stain on the shirt pocket thereby requiring me to go to JCPenney. Four new dress shirts had to be purchased. We were going on a cruise.
It has been quite a few years since I have been to the mall, and I believe that it’s safe to go back since the statute of limitations has run out. For a while there, my photo was on the wall as a wanted fugitive in the mall cop’s office. Well, the only photographic evidence is of a man looking like Daddy Warbucks running through the crowd.
Mr. Alan Watts was an English teacher at Bellingham High School during the 70s. He was a timid and fun-loving man who was not at all like the coach-teachers who would sharpen axes on their grinding wheels and thump their chests during class. The requirements for Mr. Watts’ Class included your pencil, a notebook, the English book, and a tetanus shot.
It all started one afternoon while I was preparing to mow the back field. I have a Craftsman Commercial riding mower which I use to keep the grass level of the half acre down to a two-inch height. The mowed area borders five acres of cow field which pastures six cows, six calves, and a bull named Melvin. It was a typical polygamous family relationship with Melvin; all the cows and calves vying for his attention while he hides in the back of the barn drinking fermented cider.
Ricky Dandelion stood in the fullness of his shop admiring his treasures. Hand tools were piled high on his work benches, and every square inch of wall space was covered by treasures hanging from nails. He walked sideways through the narrow passageways between old lawnmowers, car ramps, coffee cans full of nails, nuts and bolts, and everything else that couldn’t hang from the wall or lay on the workbench. You see, Ricky is a garage sale junkie — a purchaser of interesting tools, camping and fishing gear, and nick-nacks which he may need someday.
Every Saturday in the spring through summer, for the last 45 years, Ricky, with the classified newspaper in his hand and his lovely wife Venice by his side, gets up at the crack of dawn to jump into the old Subaru to be the first couple at a garage sale to find the best bargains. It is not uncommon for him to be told, “It says in the paper, no early birds!”
Methodically, he looks over each item for sale, picks up what looks interesting, and ignoring the price sticker, goes to the owner and asks if he or she will take less for it. Venice shakes her head and mouths the word, “Sorry” to the homeowner. Then it is quickly off to the next garage sale in the classifies.
The problem with Ricky’s treasures being all second hand, is that most of them don’t work or must be fixed to work properly. This is how he occupies his time during the mid-week: repairing a switch on one tool, sharpening the blade on another, fixing the short in a cut-up extension cord.
“There’s nothing the matter with this that I can’t fix,” he says to Venice as she tries desperately to pull a plated brass chandelier from his hands to give back to the seller. His shop of burgeoning junk and his insatiable addiction to garage sale bargains has created more than one heated argument between the two.
“If you die before me, do you know how much it is going to cost me to pack all this junk to the dump?” she asked.
“Now, now, Venice. I find your tone a little bit offensive,” he answered. “Let me just remind you that it was at a garage sale that I was able to find the 12-foot fiberglass open-top lake boat, trailer, and outboard trolling motor.
“Which you can’t fit into the shop and has to sit out under the fruit trees in the cow field,” she bellowed.
“And I will be pulling it out of the field because Vern called me just yesterday with the news that he has reserved a week at the lake for this year’s fishing trip, so you need to start stocking the RV while I prepare the boat and trailer.”
“You didn’t ask me if I wanted to go again this year. You are assuming a lot, Ricky.”
She stormed off into the living room and sat in her recliner. Pulling her Walkman earphones onto her head, she listened to her CD of the melodious songs of Marvelous Hollis Quince and the Yodel Aires, while reading the romance novel entitled, He Wore A Yellow Rose On His Polka Vest.
It was an annual event for Ricky, Venice, and several other friends to travel the day-long journey in their RVs up the Canadian Highways and unmaintained gravel roads to the lake and the private ranch which allowed them to group park in the field by the water. This fishing trip was always a delight to Ricky and was tolerated by Venice only because having Ricky out on the lake all day allowed her to take long undisturbed soaks in the wood heated, cow trough hot tub.
Ricky looked through the kitchen window at his boat and trailer out under the fruit trees in the cow field.
I’d better go get it cleaned up and ready to go, he thought. I’m sure that the tires need air, and the motor hasn’t run for eleven months.
One side of the fiberglass bow had the oxidation buffed from it by the cows who were rubbing the flies off their backsides all summer. The rest of the boat body was heavily oxidized and some of the canvas was fading badly. The trailer, which Ricky had planned to repaint, was rusting in spots and there was an inch of rainwater which needed to be bailed from under the floorboards. He went back to the shop to find a rag and the can of oxidation remover he had negotiated for at a garage sale a few weeks back. He would work on the boat in the field since there was no great hurry to pull it out right away.
As luck would have it, the national weather service forecasted strong wind warnings for that night through the next day. Lying in bed that night, Ricky listened to the wind whistle through his unsealed bedroom window, which always sounded different than the air which whistled through Venice’s nostrils. He could also hear the metal on the shop roof lifting and slapping back down which caused him to worry.
The next morning, wearing his barn boots and wool coat, he walked the perimeter of the property to assess the wind damage. The house and the shop appeared to be fine, but looking out at the boat he was shocked to see that in the night a large limb had broken from the apple tree and was now lying on top of his boat.
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” he muttered. Walking out to the boat to survey the damage, he was relieved to see that the limb had not damaged the fiberglass, but it was too heavy to lift off and would have to be cut into pieces.
This was indeed a boil on his bottom of happiness, but he had the necessary equipment in his shop to do the job.
During one of his garage sale expeditions, Ricky found an electric chain saw which he purchased so he would never have to mix gasoline for a gas chainsaw again. He had plenty of long lengths of repaired extension cords which he could plug in, end to end to reach almost anywhere on the property and this was exactly the tool he needed to remove the limb.
Going to the shop, Ricky located the chain saw under a pile of shop rags. He also removed three extension cords from nails hanging on the shop walls. He then began laying the cord from the shop, out to the boat in the field. The wind was still blowing quite strongly as Ricky climbed into the boat with the chainsaw in hand. Taking and plugging the extension cord into the saw, he pulled on the trigger. Nothing happened.
The wind quickly carried the words coming from his mouth in a direction away from the house which saved him from Venice hearing, but at the same time, may have caused the chickens to quit laying.
Now the question was, “Does this chain saw not work, or does one of my repaired extension cords still have a short?”
Muttering to himself, he carried the chainsaw back to the shop. Unplugging the long extension cord from the outlet, he took a shorter cord, plugged it in to the outlet and into the saw. Pulling the trigger, nothing happened. The trigger switch on his bargain garage sale chain saw was broken.
But this is where Ricky really shined. He would just replace the switch and although he did not have a trigger switch made for the saw, he did have some toggle switches which came off the instrument panel of a junk yard Cessna airplane. A switch is a switch, he thought.
Only a mere half hour had passed before Ricky had jury-rigged a toggle switch onto his electric chain saw. He had a smile as he admired his workmanship.
“Try to get the best of Ricky Dandelion,” he muttered, and he carried the saw out through the field to the boat again. After again climbing inside, he plugged the extension cord into the plug on the chain saw and holding the blade of the saw into the air, he flipped the toggle power switch.
Nothing happened.
“What the heck?” he yelled, and he flipped the switch back and forth. “It’s got to be one of these extension cords.”
He tried once again to lift the limb off the boat but the length and weight of it made it too heavy for a man of 82 to move. He laid the saw down with the chain bar resting on the floor of the boat.
“Dag nabbit. Stupid chainsaw!” he yelled with such volume that Venice heard it through the Walkman headphones. She looked out the kitchen window just in time to see Ricky climbing out of the boat. He had one boot on the ground and one boot hanging from the gunwale. His pants had dropped far below his hips, and he appeared to be mooning the neighborhood. Cussing up a storm, he followed the extension cord back across the field to the shop and upon entering, he realized that after he had used the shorter extension cord to test the toggle power switch on the chain saw, he had forgotten to reattach the cords going out to the boat.
“Well dog-gonnit, Dandelion! Use your brain,” he grumbled as he plugged the cord into the outlet again.
Heading back out of the shop, Venice opened the back door of the house and yelled, “Lunch is ready, Ricky. Come and eat while it’s warm.”
She stood in her cotton farm dress with knit green socks, wearing yellow Crocs. The bonnet on her head added to her outfit giving her the look of an Amish housewife. Still grumbling and hot under the collar, Ricky entered the back door and sat down for lunch at the breakfast table.
Somewhere in the neighborhood, the hum of a motor could be heard.
“Sounds like one of the neighbors is using a weed eater today,” she commented.
“A weed eater, or maybe a chain saw,” he mumbled. And then with his fork halfway to his mouth, he stopped eating and jumped up from the table. Running to the kitchen window, he looked out at his boat. The bar of his chain saw was hanging straight down from the bottom of the boat and was shaking back and forth sending fiberglass dust into the air.
“My boat!” he yelled, and he ran out the back door to unplug the extension cord.
To summarize the damage: In the process of flipping the toggle switch on the chain saw back and forth, he left it in the “On” position. Upon plugging the extension cord in at the shop, the motor started the cutting chain and because the chain bar was resting on the floorboards of the boat, the saw cut through the floor and the hull, leaving an eight-inch gash next to the keel.
“Gol-darnit, Venice,” he moaned.
Venice couldn’t help but giggle.
In the days following, Ricky was able to find some fiberglass patching material in his shop which he had purchased from a garage sale and lying under the boat, he covered over the eight-inch slash making it almost invisible and almost a waterproof seal.
Ricky and Venice were able to pull the boat up to the lake in Canada for a week of fishing with Vern and the other friends. Venice spent her mid-day hours lying in the wood heated, cow trough hot tub listening to her Howard Quince CDs through her Walkman headphones while Ricky sat in his boat out on the lake bailing water from the bilge while he watched his bobber float on the surface.
Terror. The feeling of helplessness or hopelessness. It causes some people to freeze, unable to make decisions. In others, who have the tendency to panic, it activates their “fight or flight” response, not necessarily reacting in actions which make any sense. This is sometimes described as mental dysregulation.
Turn on the TV news any day or read it from the feed on your phone. Somewhere in the world, someone or some large population group is experiencing the feeling of terror. In recent years, the stock market has crashed, there have been wars, fires, floods, active shooters in churches, schools, and malls. When you are involved, your stress hormones such as adrenaline and cortisol are released into the body which will determine how you specifically will react. Though, during my lifetime, I have reacted many ways to the feeling of terror, both personal and mass, my wife and I were not prepared for the note that my daughter brought home from her second-grade class teacher at elementary school. It stated very clearly in large block letters: Head Lice Infestation In Your Child’s Classroom.
As I read the flyer, my beautiful daughter stood at my feet looking up into my eyes. I gazed down at her thick long head of hair as the adrenaline and cortisol shot through my body and the first thought that came into my mind was, “Oh, icky.” As she reached up for a hug, I reacted like any dad who was just handed a baby with a poopy diaper, I gave her a long-arm hug.
Naturally, like any parent, I was in denial. “Not my daughter! We live in a very clean home. She showers regularly. Cheryl, would you come in here for a moment!”
As my wife came into the kitchen seeing me holding my daughter at arm’s length she asked, “What’s going on? I haven’t seen you hold her off like that since she had poopy diapers.”
“Could you get the flashlight and check Kalene’s hair for head lice?”
“Oh my gosh,” she exclaimed, the adrenaline and cortisol shooting through her body. “Let me put my shower cap on first.”
She ran into the bathroom and emerged with a shower cap on. To anyone driving by looking into our kitchen window, it now looked like both of Kalene’s parents were bald. She took the flashlight and began spreading Kalene’s hair apart to see the scalp.
“Oh no! No, no, no!” she moaned.
“Does this mean, no lice?” I asked.
So now we reacted in our own ways to terror. I stood dumbfounded not knowing what to do and Cheryl spun in circles with her hands flailing above her head.
“She has nit eggs all through her hair and I can see the adult lice on her scalp. What do we do? What does the paper tell us to do?”
I read down the page.
“Well, it says that there are many lice treatment shampoos on the market, or we could shave her head bald.”
“Always the funny guy in an emergency,” she growled.
“Dad. I don’t want you to shave my hair off.” Kalene started to cry.
“Your dad is being funny again, Kalene. We would never do that.”
“That would be a kick having three bald people in the house. We could just tell everyone that we have temporary alopecia. Let’s see what else the paper says. Hmm, bedding, clothing and hats should be laundered in very hot water on the same day that your child is treated. Nits should be removed from the hair shafts with a nit comb. Boil all combs and brushes that might possibly be shared with other family members. Do not share hats. All members of the household need to be checked when there is one case of head lice in the family.”
Isn’t it weird that just the thought of head lice in your hair makes your scalp itch? Cheryl started scratching her shower cap.
“OK, you go to the drug store and get some of that lice killer and I will start stripping her bed. I’m going to have to put her pillows in plastic garbage bags to starve out any lice that are on them.
Hopping into the car, I drove into town to the drug store. The line of parents stretched out into the parking lot. The pharmacist inside was busily emptying lice killing remedies off his shelves. Luckily, I was able to return home with a kit of the name brand lice killer. Inside of the house, the washing machine was running.
“Okay. Here is the lice killer. It says to put it all through her hair while she is standing in the shower and let it sit, then rinse it out. When the rinsing is done, use the nit comb and remove the nits from the hair.”
While the process was going on, I went to Kalene’s bedroom and scanned it for other possible lice nests. There at the head of the bed lay her two favorite companions which she had slept with since she was a baby, Mr. Monkey and the Wolley Bear. Mr. Monkey was a handmade sock monkey given to her by her aunt. Her uncle forever complained that he was now one sock short. The Wolley Bear, was a collectable store bought bear which was given to her by one of the relatives as a baby gift. His long brown hair and the look on his face, like Poo or Paddington, made him extra snuggly. Both of her bedmates slept next to her head at night.
“Going to have to do something with these,” I thought. I put them both into a plastic bag.
The shower being over, I said through the bathroom door, “How’s it going in there?”
“I left the chemical in her hair for the suggested amount of time, but it’s not killing the lice,” Cheryl called back. “They are still running all over her scalp.”
“Okay, I’ll get the hair clippers,” I said. There was more crying inside the bathroom followed by, “Would you stop saying that. It’s not funny!”
When the two girls left the bathroom, they were both worse for wear. Kalene stood in a bathrobe with her hair making her look like a troll doll. Cheryl was frustrated because this was not the type of trauma she wanted to face this late in the day. I parted the hair on Kalene’s scalp and could see that the store-bought chemical had done nothing. Not only were the lice still moving and biting her scalp, but soon the nits would hatch and there would be twice as many on her head. Instead of trying again, and putting more chemical into her hair, an idea came to mind. We had been using “Dr. Bronner’s 18-in-1 Pure Castile liquid Peppermint Magic Soap” in the shower lately because Cheryl said it wouldn’t leave a scum in the tub like bar soap.
Dr. Bronner’s is a concentrated peppermint oil that we put in a pump bottle. One pump into the palm will lather up a good portion of your body and leave you smelling like a Life Saver mint. I can attest to the fact that it leaves no soap residue in the tub. I can also attest to the fact that you do not want to get it into your eyes because it stings like acid. I thought about it for a moment. If it stings the eyes so bad, I wonder if it would kill the lice. Besides, it’s made to go on the skin and isn’t an insecticide.
“Oh, Kalene. Let’s try something new at the shower.”
She came into the bathroom in her robe. “Does this have anything to do with clippers?” she asked.
“Silly girl,” I laughed. “I want to try something. Get down on your knees and hang your head out over the tub. Keep your eyes closed tight and I am going to put this peppermint soap all through your hair and scalp and we’ll let it sit for a moment to see what it does to the lice. Keep your eyes closed tight.”
Reluctantly, she got on her knees on the bathmat and hung her head over the tub. I poured some of the Dr. Bronner’s into my palm and began running it through her hair and over her scalp. The concentrated liquid matted her hair and I made sure that every hair shaft was coated. Cheryl came to watch.
As I parted the hair, we could see the lice writhing from the burn of the peppermint oil. The oil was also going into the nit larva and frying them too. I was pleasantly surprised that her hair was not coming out in my hands also.
“Let’s give this a minute and then you get back in the shower and rinse the soap out of your hair really good. Then we will see how your head looks. Make sure to keep your eyes closed tight. Mom will help you with the water.”
Five minutes later, I heard the shower come on and Cheryl helped Kalene rinse the soap out of her hair completely. The bottom of the tub was covered with dead lice and nits. It worked and made her smell like a Life Saver mint.
Knowing that she would have a hard time sleeping the night without her two bedmates, I came up with another brilliant idea: I’ll coat Mr. Monkey and the Wooley Bear with Dr. Bronner’s which will kill any lice and then I’ll throw them in the washing machine. Oh, Mr. Mitchell, your brilliance amazes me!
With the monkey and bear lathered up, I tossed them into the wash. When they came out, the sock monkey was no worse for wear. The bears long fluffy coat was matted. Perhaps, I should have let them air dry, but bedtime was near, so I tossed them into the dryer. In thirty minutes, I pulled out the sock monkey who had the same smile on his face letting me know that he was just fine. Mr. Wooley Bear came out looking like a sheep. This shouldn’t have surprised me since I have also made many of Cheryl’s wool sweaters into doll clothes.
Now in a panic. I wondered if Kalene would believe me if I told her that I gave Wooley Bear a perm.
She is now 37 years old and has moved multiple times across the country with her husband. They have no children or pets, but they do have Mr. Monkey and the Wooley Bear who will follow her forever. And for guests who ask if Wooley is a sheep, she answers with, “No, he is a bear with a perm. I can thank my dad for that.”
The year was 1949. The town was Davenport, the center of wheat production in Eastern Washington and the second largest wheat producing county in the world. My dad, Paul Mitchell, having just been released as an Army Air Corps pilot went to work as an airplane crop duster spraying thousands of wheat field acres for weeds.
They were the best of mimes; they were the worst of mimes. Having seen enough, we decided to leave the Arts Festival and go on a bike ride.
My wife, Cheryl, and I had just purchased E-bikes — Aventon bikes to be exact. Since having recently retired, we were using every opportunity possible to ride 15-to-35-mile day trips. Out of Anacortes, Washington we had taken ferries to ride Guemes, San Juan, and Lopez Islands. These were all nice day-rides capable of being done without exhausting the batteries.
Sitting in the “Lab for Creative Ideas,” I had just hung up the phone after talking to my Patent attorney, Butch Cassidy whom, like his historical namesake, was trying to rob me blind. Apparently, ideas #407, the stick gum dispenser, and #408, the “Sleepy Sling” baby carrier had proven to be unpatentable in his findings during patent searches.
It was the third time the airport manager had caught us riding our motorcycles on the old taxiways at the airport. This time he meant business as he accelerated the airport pickup, gradually gaining on our two bikes. If we could just make it to the old logging trail and cut into the woods, we could lose him. My best friend Chuck looked over at me with a worried look on his face, the high pitched whine of his two stroke Suzuki 90 made my step-through Honda 50 sound like the voice of a 12 year old boy going through puberty.
My best friend, Chuck, walked down from his house to mine to borrow my impact driver. Apparently, he hadn’t completed his set of all my tools. He found me in my back half-acre with two of my fishing poles.
“What’s up with the two fishing poles,” he asked.
“I’m finishing up my final preparations for river fishing tomorrow and I wanted to see which of these poles will cast a 2-ounce sinker the furthest since I want the lure to make it at least into the middle of the river.”
Chuck looked at both poles closely.
“They are the same length. They both have spinning reels with approximately the same amount of line on the spools. The eyes on the poles are made for a spinning reel.”
He took one and waved the tip up and down rapidly. Then he took the second and did the same with it.
“Very close in the flex of the poles. I think that they will both cast your sinker about the same distance.”
Chuck and I spent many a day fishing when we were growing up, both in lakes and rivers. We would even take our sleeping bags and hike up into the hills to sleep overnight next to a pond or a creek we wanted to spend time fishing in. I valued his opinion of my fishing gear.
“It’s 125 feet from this fence line, across to the other fence line on the far end. I have an unobstructed mowed field, and the only obstacle is that 100-year-old apple tree off to the right side. The poles are labelled ‘A’ and ‘B’, and the 2-ounce lead sinker is attached to ‘A’. I’ll just cast the sinker and pace off the feet where it lands.”
Flipping the bale over, I brought the pole back over my head and gave the sinker a mighty cast, keeping the pole parallel to the fence line on my left side. The sinker arced high into the air, curved to the right and landed in the top of the apple tree.
“Nasty slice, Mitchell,” Chuck snarked. “It’s almost like the sinker was magnetically attracted to the tree.”
Looking at the sinker dangling high up in the old dead limbs and realizing that it would be a lost cause to try to retrieve it, I growled to myself.
“I’m going to have to work on my follow-through. That sinker is a goner. I’ll cut the line and use another 2-ounce sinker on pole ‘B’.”
Clipping another sinker onto the line of pole “B”, I took a slow practice cast without opening the bale. Watching the tip of the pole go over my head, I pointed it directly at the far fence line.
“Perfecto,” I said, and opening the bale, I brought the tip of the pole over my head and gave the sinker a mighty cast. It too arced to the right and landed in the high branches of the apple tree.
“Cripes!” I muttered.
“I’d say that both poles are about the same and they really aren’t the problem,” Chuck said. “It’s the same problem you had in elementary school when you were pitching in a baseball game. You were aiming for home plate, but the ball went consistently between home and third base. It was always an easy walk for the batter.”
“Yah, I think my right shoulder is a little tight. I’ll have Cheryl massage the muscles.”
“It all depends on what you were trying to accomplish, Mitchell old boy. If you were trying to land the sinkers in the top of the apple tree, you were spot-on accurate. Now, about that impact driver.”
Those sinkers still hang from the apple tree like ornaments on a Christmas Tree.
Fishing is an addiction for me. Once I get started, it’s hard for me to stop until I catch my fill of fish. Sadly enough, it is like someone who goes to the casino regularly because they are so close to winning the big one. It ruins them financially. This, I’m afraid is also the case with a fish-o-holic.
It’s not all my fault of course. I ride my bike on the dike over the river and I see other fisherman out on the sand bar, and I know that this year there is going to be a great run of Pink Salmon and Coho. The little demon on my left shoulder whispers in my ear, “You want to go fishing, don’t you?”
My guardian angel, who is on my right shoulder, slaps me on the side of the head and reminds me of the toll it will take on me and that I better get that thought right out of my mind.
But when I go home and tell Cheryl that I saw fishermen out on the sandbar, she says, “I think you ought to go fishing. What else do you have to do with your day? You can’t sit at your computer all day writing stories.”
“But it’s addicting,” I remind her.
“You will be able to control your urges,” she assures me. “Go fishing.”
So, you see. It’s Cheryl’s fault. She’s an enabler.
And actually, this year was the reason I started fishing again because I am 70 years old, and my fishing license is free – which was the only thing free for me about fishing. I went to the local sporting goods stores and began buying lures at six to eight dollars apiece. Adding to that, sinkers, barrel clips and shrimp oil. I also grabbed a Washington State Fishing Rules magazine so I would clearly know the type and number of salmon I could catch in the Nooksack River. Included inside are photos and descriptions of the salmon so that if on a long shot, I did catch one, I would know what it was. Once on a deer hunting trip, I accidentally shot a rabbit. A clear misidentification issue.
Putting all the newly purchased gear in my tackle box, I chose pole “B”, and placed everything in the back of my SUV for an early morning start the next day. This also was not something that I was used to – getting up at 6 a.m. The desire to fish is greatly diminished when the alarm goes off at that hour. But with a shove from Cheryl’s foot, I was out of bed and onto the floor, ready for my first day of fishing.
Here is where the similarities between fishing and sitting at a slot machine begin. Standing on the riverbank in a secluded area, I began to lose lures at an average of $7.00 a piece and not just the lure, but the barrel swivels and the lead sinkers too. All this was happening without me ever getting a fish to strike. The lures were hooking up on debris in the water. And being that I was sitting under the low hanging branches of a tree on the bank, I was constantly swatting the limbs with the tip of my pole which greatly reduced the distance a lure would land out in the river.
Here is where fish-o-holism takes over. The fisherman cannot stop from taking another lure out of his tackle box after he has lost the previous one. He doesn’t know when to say enough is enough. I would go home at the end of the day embarrassed that I had a $30.00 day on the river, but not only did I lose that much, I also stopped by the sporting goods store and replaced what I had lost. I was beginning to see that I needed help.
Then, on my third day out, I was sitting on the riverbank in the sunshine. My lure was not in the water. From totally out of nowhere I heard someone say, “Good morning, sir.” Startled, I turned and stared directly into the face of Fish and Game Warden, Steve Michaels. I immediately wondered if I had remembered to hang my Discovery Vehicle Pass on my rearview mirror. From stories I have heard from other fishermen and hunters, these Wardens can be ornery, but Steve was very cordial.
“Can I see your fishing license and salmon catch record card?” he asked.
Reaching into my wallet, I handed him the fresh pieces of paper.
“You haven’t been logging your catches on the record card,” he noted.
“If I ever catch a salmon, I will be sure to do just that,” I assured him. “I consider a good day of fishing, not going home after losing $30.00 worth of lures.”
Steve and I chatted about fifteen minutes on easy ways to properly identify a variety of salmon and then he turned to leave, but only five steps away he again turned to ask me a question.
“I’m just curious, how long have you been trying to get your lure out of that tree? You’re never going to fill your catch card if the lure isn’t in the water.”
“Thank you, Officer Steve. By the way, do you know if there is a fishermens-anonymous meeting anywhere in the county?”
** Title photo salmon was caught by Braydn Kruger.
