Earning Wrinkles

Sigh.

Groan.

Imagine me plopping down hard into a soft chair and moaning.

“What’s going on, Gina?” you ask. Maybe you’re even wringing your hands. I know how much you fret over me.

“I’ll tell ya what’s going on. In three days, I’ll be fifty years old. 50! That’s right. A half a century.”

You’re thinking, right…cause you’re the only person who’s ever turned fifty.                  “Ah. So you’re depressed,” you respond, rolling your eyes.

“Depressed? Hell no. I’m tired! Didn’t you read the part about me being fifty?” Yeah. I know it’s not such a big accomplishment. You think I’m that self-absorbed? Shame on you!

It’s true. I’ve earned a wrinkle or two and my hair is only dark thanks to Clairol Medium Brown. Oh, I know I don’t look like the little lady at left, but maybe I’ll get that chance some day. I hope so.

More often than not, I run out of steam mid project. I start the day with grandiose ideas about all the things I’m going to accomplish, and then about mid-day my back begins to hurt. Or I twist the wrong way and pull a muscle, or a shooting pain goes up my arm or down my leg. But it’s really no big deal. It’s just the way things are now. My body has been schooling me on this fact for a few years now. Aging brings pains.

I remember when I first started having random aches or pains. I would think, “Oh my dear. Something’s very wrong. I’ll need to see a doctor about this!”

Now, I know it’s just todays discomfort and it will go away, and if it’s still here in a week, maybe it’s a real problem, but there’s no reason to get all excited about it right away. That’s one of the perks of aging. You get a little wiser, more patient, less excitable. And those are all good things.

I really do have to say this is one of the best times I’ve ever known in my life. Oh, I don’t turn heads with a pretty face or beautiful figure anymore. I don’t break any land-speed-records. I’m not as quick with witty remarks as I used to be. I forget words, and have no clue why I walked into a room. I’d be worried about these quirks, but most of my friends who are around this age seem to have the same issues. Still, I’m more content than I’ve ever been. I know who I am and I’m ok with that person. I like my friends and family. As far as I know, I’m healthy. I know I’m happy. Not giggle and jump up and down happy, but that’s mostly because I’ve never in my life been a giggler and seriously, jumping up seems like a waste of energy.

So, I’ll close by saying I’m very thankful to have reached this milestone in my life. Who knows what fun things will come my way in my middle-age! Life’s an adventure and I have fifty years experience, so I figure I’m qualified for the job. The longer I live, the more fodder I have for writing!

Nebraska Spring Things

Peach Blossoms

A few weeks ago the snow finally melted away and my young peach tree blossomed for the very first time. We planted a little orchard about five years ago and haven’t had any fruit from it yet, but I hold out hope this will be the year. We planted an orchard twelve years ago, but then bought goats and they got out and ate the trees. So, no goats anymore, and even though we had some kind of blight the last several years, this spring, things look promising. Even after there was a blizzard two days after these blossoms set on.

Rascally Raccoons

 

 

Last week, after May 10th, because all of the gardening sages told me to wait until the 10th or 15th of May—and they were right—I rushed up to the hardware store and rubbed elbows with all the other excited gardeners who were buying plants in the greenhouse. I bought flats full of flowers and oh, was I excited to put some plants in pots and finally have a deck and patio and porch that looked pretty! I played in the dirt all afternoon and watered and moved the pots around until everything looked just right. Then the next morning I woke up to the plants and dirt, dug out of the pots, and laying on the deck as the picture shows. Raccoons. Curses! They are my dreaded foes. So, I replanted, then created my ingenious plot. Now every night I lay tinfoil around the roots of the plants and the little masked devils have left them alone, since.

Katniss, the most relaxed cat in the world

Yesterday, a week after the blizzard and at least four days of perfect spring weather, came a day of temps over 100 degrees. Air conditioning. On. House cat. Passed out.

Schatzy, doing his job…mostly from in the house.

The dog phoned in sick for guard duty and just peeked out the door to bark at things that needed a good scolding. And the outdoor cats…well, it’s spring. You know what they were doing. Egad. I can’t watch. It’s sordid.

flowering bush

Today I mowed the lawn and enjoyed some new blooms on the yard. Not sure what this bush is, but it has a nice shape, blooms with these ivory flowers in the spring, and needs very little water. Plus, it does great on the west side of the yard with full blazing heat and sun. Notice the dead grass behind it? Grass, unlike this bush, does not, in fact, like full heat and sun.

Trellis swing and flowering crab trees

 

This picture at right is one of my favorite spots on the yard. A trellis swing and pretty crab trees. Yes…plenty of dead lawn here, too. But, still a nice place to rock and listen to the birds sing or take a break from weeding. 

See how pretty those blooms are!! I just love the color.

And now, last but not least, I’ll show you my apple blossoms. Then I’d better get back to work. This entire blog was nothing more than me stalling from washing my windows.

Naughty Little Things You Never Told Your Mother

When I was a kid, I loved to play dress up. It was an especially favorite past-time I, and my nieces, enjoyed. (I also had a nice collection of match-box cars, had a BB gun, a Honda 50 motorcycle, a horse, a pogo stick, and a bow and arrow, so I guess I never let the stereotypes suck me down.)

Down in our basement, my mom kept a big box of old clothes. This was back in the late 60s so keep in mind, most of the things were from the 50s, i.e. big twirly-skirted dresses and those little pointy-toed pumps, gloves, and hats, and such. There was one dress and pair of shoes in particular, which every little girl playing dress up in my basement, fought for. It was the coveted red dress and little black pumps.

This is very similar to how I remember the red dress, albeit buried at the bottom of the old clothes barrel and a little crinkly, but still…it was like movie-star attire to me.

Now, for the shoes. They were for tiny feet. Maybe a size five. Perfect for little girls who were destined for bigger feet as adults, such as myself.  The shoes were quite a bit like this.

You can, I’m sure, imagine a troop of little girls, clod-hopping up the stairs in our finery, to play pretend and put on little fashion shows for my mother. We were just whispers of the women we would be someday…under seven I’m sure. Learning about the superficial, simple things about being women, shielded yet from the lives we’d all face as adults. That wonderful simple time in life where a pretty dress and a pair of fancy shoes felt like all that was necessary to be a grown up.

Those shoes…they were the best of all because they were so tiny. By the age of seven, those shoes fit like they were made for me. I wore them all the time. I was the envy of all the other dress up players!

But then…the fateful day came when the shoes became to small for me. Well, that was not acceptable. I had to come up with a plan, because I wasn’t ready to let go of those glorious little shoes. I searched the basement and came across just the right thing. My mother’s huge flour canister. The picture shown is almost perfect except my mother’s wasn’t painted.

My mother was quite the baker and she would buy flour on sale and pour it into this big tin to keep out the bugs. One of my jobs as a little kid, was to take the flour container down to the basement and fill it with flour from the big tin. And that was her big mistake…letting me know there was a big tin of flour in the basement.

I wandered around looking for how to squeeze my big feet into those little gorgeous shoes and when I saw that tin, a virtual light bulb appeared above my head.

Lord knows, I ran barefooted all the time. In doors, out doors, in the shop with the oily floor, in the shed where there used to be chickens, to the feedlot to pet the horses and up and down the gravel driveway with my little calloused, bare feet. Regardless, I plunged those toes right into that big vat of silky flour and I’m here to tell you…not only did it make my feet slide right into those shoes, the flour felt wonderful between my toes! If I felt guilty, I sure don’t remember it. I think, instead, I was darn proud for thinking of such a slick idea in the first place!

Of course, I confessed to my mother about my dirty little secret, but not until she was quite old and I was a mother with my own children. Naturally her concern was about all the many rolls, and loaves of bread she’d made with the contaminated flour.

“How long did you do that?” She could barely form the words!

“Years.” I admitted, looking up sheepishly from under my eyelashes. I tried to look rueful, but I’m pretty sure I was stifling a laugh.

Poor woman. She might have laughed about it later, but she stayed in mother-mode while I was there, and  shook her head at me with a horrified look, gasped, and said, “Gina Marie!”

So this is my true confession. Do you have any naughty little things you never told your mother? Do share!

Porches, Mothering, and Writing

I’ve decided to blather on a bit today. I have three topics I’ve decided to address. Porches, mothering, and writing. Every one of these topic were inspired by things I’ve read this morning.

I just “liked” the Facebook page for the Porch Sitting Union of America. Go figure there even is such a thing. It appealed to me. I love my porch, my deck, my patio. Sitting outside is a joy and a reprieve from yard work or housework or desk-work. Especially when the weather is fine…and in Nebraska, it’s a rare thing. So when it’s a beautiful day, I make sure to find time to stop, sit a spell, and enjoy the moment. This April 19, I look out my living room window at white snow mottling the green grass. It seems the world wants to have a spring and the trees have buds and some hints of green, but then along comes another snow…a blizzard even…and it’s like someone hit rewind and took us back to winter. Somehow, beneath the snow, that bright green grass waits patiently. And so do we, although not so patiently. We gasp as we stare out our windows. “More snow!?” we say, exasperated, and for me, depressed. Dog gone it. I need me some sunshine already. I want to grill something. I want to plant things. And yes…I want to sit on my porch!! I mean, I did just join the Porch Sitting Union of America after all.

Now, on mothering. Not everyone is a good mother. I for instance think encouraging beer and cigarettes at 14 months is wrong…but that’s just me. I’m sure the picture at left is supposed to be funny. Everyone has a different sense of humor, I guess. Anyway, I read an article this morning about a woman who regretted having children. Why she decided to write a post about how her children ruined her life, is beyond me. I guess controversy gets attention. Certainly, her name in out there now, albeit for an unsavory reason. The article has begun a backlash of comments, and you can imagine what they’re like. There are those who are furious with her, and those who respect her honesty. I certainly don’t regret having children. They’ve been my greatest joy and are generally my greatest worry, but…I do look back and wonder if maybe I wasn’t cut out for mothering. I certainly wish I would have been a better mother. I look at some women and feel they’re just born for it. It was hard work for me and I took it so seriously. I’m high-strung and a nervous type. I see mothers who are relaxed and joyful in their roles as parents. I wish I’d have been like that. But, I am who I am and so, no, I certainly don’t regret having children, but I regret not being calm and happy while I was raising them. I wonder if this woman who wrote the article isn’t really trying to address her own shortcoming, instead of essentially saying, Hey, my kids were parasites and they sucked the lifeblood out of me. But, you know, we all say things in different ways.

This thought leads me to another thing I read this morning. It was an honest admission by a writer. This writer posted a thread about how he’s tired of all the rules in writing and has every intention of writing the way he wants to write because, you know…he’s got to be who he is. (That link is a song from way back in the hip, happening 60s, by Sammy Davis, Jr. Groovy, Man!) I think we all come to a point in our writing where we wonder how far we’ve strayed from our own “voice” to submit to the many rules of writing. There are many, as most writers will attest. I know learning and being reminded of these rules have honed my writing skills, and yet, I hear what he’s saying. Has it stifled my voice…or improved it? I don’t know. And that’s what’s bad about regret…about looking back and blaming things instead of embracing what is. So, persevere writers. Get through it. Know the rules, know what works best, then figure out how to use the rules of grammar and writings and genre and what everyone tells you, to your advantage, while maintaining your own style. I think writing is something we grow into. It’s a matter of being confident in our own thoughts and words and ideas. We will always get critiques and advice. Humans are problem solvers by nature. And sometimes, advice comes from people who shouldn’t give it. For instance, the mother who wrote the story above public telling her children they are her biggest regret…admonishes other mothers. So, take advice with a grain of salt…especially if the critique comes from a reader who posts online reviews. As far as we know, those reviews can come from a pedophile in a prison cell, or a skanky politician or worse yet…a hipster in skinny yellow jeans with  dark rimmed glasses and a wierd mustaches and a little black hat, typing out their elitist review at a Starbucks while sipping a latte with skim milk while judging everyone around them!

So, porch sitters…I’m coming. God willing, spring will force on through and I too will have a glass of lemonade in hand and I’ll smell the sweet warm air and smile at the freshly mowed lawn as I shake the dirt from my gardening gloves. Mothers…unless your children are murderers or terrorists…you probably weren’t so bad at the job. And hang in there. My thinking is to look forward, not back. I can keep trying to be a better mother. I can learn from my mistakes and improve with age like a fine wine or a pair of Levis. I can also choose to look at the bright side. There’s quite enough tragedy in the world without me adding to it. And writers: just write. Very, very few of us will be big stars someday. Write because you love to do it. Write to say the things you think need saying. Write to tell the stories in your head. Find the joy in the things you choose to do, or just don’t do them. It really is as simple as that.

 

Googling Myself

I Googled myself this morning and came across this biography I wrote for Book Junkies last year. I have no memory of writing it, but I kind of enjoyed reading it. I have less and less memory the older I get, so even though I wrote it, I read it with fresh eyes. Kind of a fun discovery for me. Thought I’d share it.

Why I write 
Oh, I’m just one of those creative types. I have some kind of deep-seeded need to produce something. I’ve painted, sewn, done photography, sung, played guitar, gardened, and have a real passion for cooking. I’m sure I’ll keep creating till I’m all used up. I think cooking and writing have many similarities. Both endeavors create something new from parts. With cooking, those parts are seasonings, flour, eggs, pasta, meat, spices. Writing a book uses parts of our memories, dashes of ideas, images from other books and movies, things we hear in conversations or on the news, as well as age-old memories from childhood of aunts or cousins or an old man at a grocery store or an old woman at church. These flashes of memory bouncing around my brain turn into characters, and every character has a story just waiting to be told.

I Tend to Write General Fiction
Why? Because I hate pigeonholes. Don’t like rules much either. Been a rule breaker since birth. So, for me, writing in a specific genre isn’t something I think about. I write a book, and when it’s done, I wonder what genre it is. It doesn’t usually fit neatly into any specific category (like me: always a square peg in a round hole), and so by default, what I write becomes “general fiction.” In my writing philosophy, the story writes itself, and I have no idea exactly how it will turn out. There will be suspense in parts, possibly the unthinkable in other parts (horror), a little smoochy smooch here – but no lusty sex there – and a little transgression and consequence in-between.

Influences
I like to think of myself as slightly under the influence all of the time. Oh…we’re talking reading. Right. Regarding what I read, I tend to enjoy – wait for it – General Fiction. Go figure. My want-ad for books would read: Reader seeking great stories with wonderful characters, human emotions, and real, meaty, heartfelt issues I can contemplate. 

I loved John Irving (Cider House Rules), Jodi Picoult (Perfect Match), Grisham (A Time to Kill), and let’s not forget the classics: Cather (My Antonia), Poe (everything), Steinbeck (Grapes of Wrath), Vonnegut (Slaughterhouse-Five). Seriously, Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird, or Steinbeck’s The Pearl are old friends I never tire of visiting. And yet…I enjoy Kava, King, Tolkien, Brown…and who can resist those Hunger Game books or the Twilightseries?! Hey, I just like a good book. Art should be a love that allows for a wandering eye. There are just too many beautiful stories out there to ignore. 

I remember reading A Prayer For Owen Meany by John Irving. It’s still one of the best stories I’ve ever read. It really moved me like no other book ever has. I love Irving’s writing because he is a master at bringing the reader to tears one minute and then making them laugh out loud the next. For me, that is storytelling at its best, and my goal is to achieve it as flawlessly as he does some day. I think that ability is about talent, of course, but it also comes with practice and confidence. He trusts himself. You can hear self-assurance in an author’s words. That poise helps a reader trust that the author will deliver a solid, worthwhile tale. Irving loves a Christ-like figure in his books. I enjoyed Cider House Rules as much as I enjoyed any of his work and for the same reason. It’s his portrait of selfless giving for the good of the whole which draws me in. His characters are also so rich and unique – the peculiar few. I especially love this aspect of his writing because it shows us how we are not so different from the oddballs of the world. We indeed, are oddballs, too!

The Pearl, by Steinbeck is a novella about, essentially, greed. It’s a simple tale about a poor (but not unhappy) diver who finds a great pearl. I never tire of reading it. What would we all do for wealth? What can we lose when we give in to our own desires? The reader’s heart aches as greed turns into violence. This deadly sin brings out the worst in everyone. The Pearl is a classic for a reason. And I think what I like about it most is the moral message, which doesn’t beat us about the head and neck, but is laid out beautifully for us to absorb.

Consider my brain picked.

A STORY BY MY SON

I’m putting up a short story on my blog today. It’s not my own. It was written by my twenty-two year old son, Jesse. I know I’m biased, but I think it’s very good. I know he worked hard on it, and hard work is what it’s all about. I hope you’ll read it, and I think you will appreciate it, if you do.

The War, The Boy, The Battle

“Shhhhhh,” Milo whispered to the men hiding in the foliage behind him.  His index finger touched his lips as he crouched up to his knees in mud.  Without making a sound he motioned at the enemies walking slowly along the side of the mucky creek, oblivious to the danger laying just beyond their earshot.  Turning to his troops, Milo signaled the men with his mud-covered hands.  The enemy was so close now Milo could hear their conversation.  Their language was unfamiliar to the camouflaged boys, yet they could understand what was said.

“I can’t believe you held his hand the whole time!” their battalion’s leader giggled. “What was it like?”

What an odd conversation to have in the middle of a war.

Brothers Richard and Devin Todd held back laughter as Devin stuck out his tongue and pointed into his mouth with a grimace on his face. The Todd brothers, only a year apart, were often mistaken for twins and were inseparable. Milo shot back a sharp glare and the two regained their bearings.  Only fifteen more feet before they made their move.  His breathing heavy, Milo motioned to his squad to ready their arms.  Ten feet now, and the men were getting antsy.  Crouching on the banks of the creek, Kenny, a wiry young man with mud smeared across his face, shifted his weight and the atomic boom of a twig snapping below him echoed across the wilderness.  Milo’s troops froze.  He silently begged the opposition had not heard the noise.  But alas, the leader halted their progress, slowly looking around.

Please just let them keep moving.  Milo’s mind raced.  The enemy was only five paces away from the point of attack.  Don’t panic, Milo tried to telepathically communicate to his men.  Finally dismissing the noise, the enemy marched on.  Milo raised a hand to his troops, counting down from five with his mud caked fingers.  Five, four, three. . .

“Kowabungaaa!” Trash boyishly screamed as he jumped from behind their hiding spot hurling mud at the unsuspecting group of preteen girls.  Caught off guard, the rest of the boys sprang from behind their cover, bellowing their own battle cries and raining down mud on the now panicked group of girls.

“GETTUM!” Devin and Ricky Todd shouted in unison as the group of girls ran their gangly, undeveloped bodies further down the creek after only a few failed attempts at retaliation.

“You throw like girls.” Milo muttered, catching his breath.  “Trash! Dang it, where’s Trash?” Turning in the direction of the girls, Milo found Trash, kicking up mud in pursuit.  Trash never was one for patience.  In the distance they could hear the babes squeal and scream as Trash caught up to them.

Behind Milo, the two malnourished blurs now rolling in the mud and shouting about which one could throw further, were Devin and Ricky. The Todd boys had a rough upbringing, and the easiest way to tell them apart was the “birth mark” on the back of Devin’s neck, given to him with a curling iron by his mother for knocking over a trashcan while she was getting ready. They didn’t like to talk about it. Other than being together constantly, the Todd’s were known for their burnt orange hair and foul mouths.

All right, where the heck did Trash go?

His name wasn’t really Trash, but rather Travis Fisher.  Up until the third grade a lisp and a mumbling problem caused him to mispronounce his own name.  There is only so many times a goofy, freckled little boy with a mischievous grin can introduce himself as Travsh before the name sticks, and in Trash’s case it seemed to fit.  Complete with a mop of unkempt Hershey’s brown hair and a tongue that was always wiggling out the side of his mouth, a young Trash could have easily been a character in a wholesome black and white sitcom.  His appearance didn’t hurt him with the ladies either as it seemed girls in his class began noticing him at least a year before any of the other boys.  Trash was the most athletic of them, always excelling in P.E. class.  He could always do the most sit-ups and pull-ups, climb the rope the fastest, and every year he just barely beat Milo in the mile run.

Milo didn’t mind. He was comfortable with second place.  At least he finished, unlike Ricky and Devin who, every year, seemed to wind up wrestling in the middle of the sidewalk.

Trash may have been the strongest, but Milo was the brains of their crew.  When he was born, his eccentric parents named him Mileaux, using the French-Canadian spelling.  It was spelled like that for approximately twenty minutes before his grandmother arrived at the hospital and nearly snapped her knitting needles after hearing the name.

“We are Italian!” she exclaimed, raising her hands above her head.  The name was changed.

* * *

Milo walked in a daze down the cracked streets of the hometown he had escaped from. College hadn’t come fast enough, but now the warm July sun beat down on his black hair.  Still, he hugged his jacket close and shivered. The weight of his friend’s death froze his bones to a degree even Nebraska heat and humidity couldn’t fight.

He wandered into the barbershop around two p.m. to grab a haircut. Joe the barber was telling the fat guy in the chair a raunchy joke. It would have normally made Milo smile.

“Be with you in a few minutes,” Joe peered at Milo over the top of his glasses.

Milo nodded. Whatever, he thought. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

He stared at the hair clippings scattered on the floor of the shop and wondered how many heads had contributed to the pile. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His friend would never sit in a barber chair again, and yet Milo’s life went on. Why?

“Next,” Joe called.

“See ya,” the fat guy hollered as he left, the bell on the door ringing. It all seemed so damn stupid. There they were joking and happy. How could they? Didn’t they know?

Milo dropped into the seat with a heavy sigh. “Buzz cut,” he said.

Joe turned the chair and faced him. “What? You never get a buzz cut. You want me to cut off all that purdy hair of yours?” Joe joked, but the scowl on Milo’s face made him go serious. “In tribute?” he asked.

Milo nodded.

Joe didn’t chatter anymore. There really wasn’t anything to say. Travis Fischer was gone. Put a bullet in his head and left this world behind. What words could make that better?

* * *

An hour later Milo was still wandering around the streets of the town. He had a beer in the tavern, bought some gum at the dollar store and wasted time walking up and down the aisles of the hardware store. He didn’t know what else to do. He wasn’t ready to go home and face his parents. They’d want to talk. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to think…yet that’s all he was doing now. Thinking.

The sun was still high when he walked out onto the sidewalk. Harsh sunlight glinted off his friend Ricky’s black Ford pickup. Ricky saw him, pulled up in the parking space, and hung out his window.

“Hey. Whatrya doin cue ball?” His hair hung down into his eyes and it looked like he’d been drinking.

“Waiting for someone like you to find me.” Milo said and almost smiled knowing he’d have a beer in his hand soon.

“Hop in.”

* * *

“I wonder what ever happened to old Kenny,” Milo pondered aloud in between drags on a Camel Turkish Silver cigarette.  Milo leaned up against the side of Ricky Todd’s pickup, took another puff and looked up, holding his arm in front of his eyes to block out the sun.  “Have you heard from him at all?”

Before responding Ricky kicked at the small pile of Old Milwaukee cans beginning to accumulate by the rear tire of the beat up old Ford F250.  “Sheeeeit, I don’t know where he’s at.  Prolly built himself one of them survival shelters an’ is livin’ in it, always was a puss.”

Milo chuckled to himself. He barely came home these days because it just never felt natural, but if there was one thing that put him at ease it was the constant stream of obscenities a Todd could weave into any conversation. Now at the university, Milo hadn’t been home since Christmas, and if being in Brainard, Nebraska was dull in high school, it was a coma now.  Just like then, they were parked in a pasture drinking crappy beer and bullshitting with each other.  The only difference was at least then they had the excitement of being too young to drink.  Now it was just sad.

“Do you remember 4-H camp, Ricky?”

Finishing a deep puff, “Yeah,” puff.  “Those were the days.  I remember us using armpit-fart-noise-charm on that group of little babes. And creek stomping!”  He exclaimed pointing at Milo.  “That was the year Devin broke my damn nose.  Asshole.”

“How late does Devin work tonight?” Milo asked.  Devin worked the night shift at Timpte, a semi trailer manufacturer in nearby David City, a town of less than 3,000, but a booming metropolis compared to Brainard.

“He gets off at five,” Ricky said, flicking his cigarette at the pile of empties.  “But he’ll be at Immanuel in the morning.”

Trash’s funeral started at ten o’clock at the Immanuel Lutheran Church the following morning. Milo dreaded the following day like nothing he had ever experienced. The last few days had been a blur of tears and anger. Every atom in his being wanted to get into his Monte Carlo and drive away from this town. Maybe if he drove far enough fast enough it would all go away? Drive in the opposite direction than the Earth is spinning and turn back time.  Superman did it, why can’t I?

Earlier that week, Trash parked his car on the side of the road and took his own life using his beloved Springfield 1911 pistol.

What could he have possibly been thinking? Or was he thinking?  After all, that kind of was how Trash thought.  Always acting before thinking.  No situation was too heavy to ponder much about.  He was perfect for the military.  If you gave him an order he would do it.  If there were something terrifying up ahead Trash would just keep walking to it with out over thinking it.

Milo knew Trash was going to be a marine. He’d said so since he was sixteen.  It all made so much sense to him, he’d said.  While other boys in the class planned to go to college, or take over the family farm, Trash practiced his shooting.  On Saturday mornings when the rest of the crew slept in late, Trash was running the four-mile section his family lived on.  In his eyes, it was his duty as a man and an American to join the military.  Yet he never held it against anyone else for not doing the same.

“Remember when we went and saw that GI Joe movie and we all thought it was pretty cool, but Trash was obsessed?  Kept talking about how he would be a super soldier,” Milo asked.

“Our own good ole’ Captain-fuckin-America!” Ricky saluted, reaching for another smoke.

Trash had signed up for the United States Marine Corp before the end of his junior year of high school.  He didn’t even hesitate.  On the day the Marine recruiter set up his booth outside of the cafeteria, Trash’s seat at the lunch table was vacant.  Upon leaving the cafeteria Milo and the gang found him practicing his salute with the recruiter.  Milo remembered seeing him salute and thinking it was as natural as any other movement Trash’s muscled body had ever made.

Six months ago Travis L. Fisher walked down the long incoming area at Eppley Airport in Omaha with his head held high.  How could it not be?  He was wearing his military gear and his welcome home crowd was clapping and whistling for him.  Random strangers were shaking his hand and giving him thanks.  His niece, barely able to walk when he left for Afghanistan ten months earlier, waddled up to his leg and latched on.  He was a hero if Milo had ever seen one, and the GI Joe from the movie didn’t hold a candle to this man.  After hugging his mother and picking up his niece, Trash turned to his three best friends.  Milo stepped forward and extended his hand with a grin on his face, and without taking it Trash slowly set down his niece.  Standing to attention, his face blank and serious, he had stared down Milo. There was something different about his eyes.

Something’s wrong. 

The old glisten they had was gone, and in its place was a deep sadness, full of burden.

Did I not write enough?  Milo thought.  The silence lasted more than a few moments before Devin broke it.

“Well, sheeeit . . . “ He said, and that was all it took.  Trash’s face cracked and he flashed that same old mischievous smile.  Jumping forward to hug Milo and letting out a mammoth fit of laughter.  The Todd boys moved closer, jockeying for the next position in line to embrace what might as well have been their other brother.

* * *

“You okay man?” Ricky nudged him, bringing him out of his thoughts. “I asked you what time you were planning on getting to the funeral.”

“Nine,” Milo mumbled.  Milo had been trapped in his mind a lot since hearing of Trash’s death.  Each day seemed to blur into the next.  If Milo wasn’t dreaming, he was daydreaming.  He preferred it that way right now.  He was desperately clinging to the hope that maybe he would wake up from this nightmare.  “I’ll show up around nine, make sure they don’t need my help with anything. “

“Alright man, well I think I’m gonna head home and get some sleep.” Ricky sighed before tipping back the rest of his beer.  “Are you alright?  You good to drive?”

“I’ve been better.” Milo muttered before punting his last Old Milwaukee, still a third of the way full.  With a wave to Ricky he climbed into his Monte Carlo and pulled out of the pasture, pointing his car down the gravel road toward his parent’s house.  Again, the urge to drive away circled his mind like a vulture, waiting for him to give up.  After a couple minutes Milo’s parent’s house appeared on the left side of the gravel road, and although he slowed down, he did not stop.  Continuing to the next intersection Milo took another left and drove his thoughts in a four-mile loop around the section.  Coming back up to his parents house again he did the same thing, this time not slowing down.  One night haunted his memory.

* * *

            Trash flew in to Omaha on a windy December 23^rd.  After initially spending some time with his family, it was the boys’ turn to take him out.  Milo picked up Trash and the diesel-smelling Todd brothers and they headed to the bar.  From the backseat, Devin pretended to scratch an imaginary turntable on Trash’s freshly buzzed hair.  Trash chortled, but not much.  Pulling up to the bar Milo was reminded just how small of a town Brainard was.

“What a dump. . . “ Ricky said.

“My kinda’ damn dump!” Devin exclaimed, knocking Ricky’s hat off and jabbing him in the ribs.  Milo and Trash headed into the tavern with a burnt out sign and blue, tin siding.

“Sometimes you just have to let the children release their wiggles,” Milo joked, motioning to the Todd boys still wrestling in the back seat of his car.

“Send ‘em to Afghanistan . . .” Trash muttered.  Milo waited for him to smile.  It never came.

An hour later the beer was flowing and spirits seemed high as Trash told stories of his bunk mates over seas, and Ricky and Devin bellowed an impromptu performance of ‘Man! I Feel Like A Woman!” all the while, fighting over the curled up bill of Ricky’s hat which was being used as a makeshift microphone.  As the Todd’s finished the song Milo and Trash moved over to the dusty pool table and started a game of eight ball.  Milo watched as Trash broke, and noticed his shaking hands.  “So what was it like over there?” he asked.

Trash shrugged off the question before quietly stating, “not like G.I. Joe. . . “  Milo took his shot, distracted, and knocked in the cue ball.  He was about to pursue the question when Devin and Ricky stumbled over with pool cue’s pretending to shoot at each other.

“Pew, Pew!” Devin shouted, “Show us how its done Private Fisher!”

Trash’s face lowered to the floor before shaking his head and excusing himself to the bathroom.

“Seriously?” Milo chided, following Trash.  The Todd brothers exchanged a defeated glance and shrugged.

Knocking on the door of the bathroom Milo waited for a response from inside.  When it didn’t come he went in anyway.  Trash stood at the sink with his combat calloused hands gripping the sides of the dirty porcelain.  Milo thought he was crying, but looking in the mirror he saw no tears, just a vast expanse of pain.  “You good dude?”

Through a clenched jaw Trash growled, “yeah, I’m alright, just forget it.” It appeared even he felt his tone was unnecessary.  “Sorry man, I’m good.”

“Well . . . if you need to talk I’m here.”

He didn’t.  They should have.

* * *

As the summer thunderheads opened up above him, Milo’s cheeks matched the rain-streaked windshield. He put in a CD full of youth defining crummy punk rock.  I’m Money by Zebrahead came alive in the Monte’s speakers and every time he drove by his parent’s house he would go a little faster, the last time he looked down at the neon blue clock on his stereo it was four in the morning. It was finally time to go home.

* * *

A ray of sunlight pierced through the blinds of his childhood bedroom, blasting Milo’s eyelids.  Jolting upright Milo took a moment to steady his head and let his vision clear.  Instantly the weight of depression was upon him as he realized what day it was, and he slumped back down to his pillow.  Turning on his side his eyes focused on his alarm clock.  10:04.

“What!” Milo yelped, flinging the blankets off.  “How could I not wake up for this?” As quick as possible Milo threw on his suit and tie.  He jammed his feet into his dress shoes.  Shouldering the weight of it all, he burst from the front door, reaching his car before the white, paint chipped screen door could bang shut. For a brief moment, he was in too much of a hurry to realize his sorrow. Backing out of the driveway and stomping on the accelerator, Milo couldn’t help but cry.

“I’m so sorry Trash,” he coughed as his speedometer reached one hundred miles per hour.  Trash was never late.  Always early.

The cars lined the side of the gravel road nearly a half-mile from the church and Milo realized this was where he would have to park.  No.  He didn’t care.  He was supposed to give a eulogy for his best friend and he could not take the time to walk. Skidding to a stop in the street directly in front of the church doors, Milo ripped his keys from the ignition.

Attempting to dry his eyes, he marched up the steps. He was not ready for this, and that weight he had began to know so well , pulled his mind anywhere but inside the church.  Grabbing the handles Milo swung open the doors leading into the little sanctuary.  He was not ready for this, at all.  A choir sung in the balcony above him and not a seat was open.  Stunned, Milo looked from face to face as the funeral goers turned to see who had arrived late.  Looking straight ahead to the front of the church, Milo saw the casket, closed and blanketed by an American flag.  His knees began to shake as he tried to steady himself on the doorframe at the back of the sanctuary.  He had nothing left.  He was again sobbing as from somewhere nearby the Todd boys put his arms around their necks and together they walked down the aisle.  There wasn’t an eye in the church that wasn’t on him now, including the preacher’s.  Milo was making a scene, but he didn’t care.  Did no one else realize how devastating this was?

When the Todd’s finally had helped him to his seat near the front of the church the preacher came down from the altar and stopped them.

“Would you like to say a few words about Travis, Milo?” he asked.

Are you kidding me? Milo thought as he found what little bit of composure he had left.  Dragging himself to the front of the church Milo leaned against the podium.  Turning around, he looked at the casket for a few moments before addressing the audience.

“So a fish is swimming along in a big lake and he runs into a wall . . . ‘Dam!’“ No one laughed.  Pointing at the casket, no longer able to look at the people before him he croaked,  “Tra-, Trash loved that one. It always made him laugh.  He was my best friend.  And this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

These words were all he could manage.  Beginning to cry again Milo shook his head and stumbled to his seat.  No one seemed to mind his short eulogy.  He didn’t care.

After the burial, as people meandered through the tombstones on their way back to their cars, Milo walked alone.  As he passed by each stone he let his hand drag across the tops of the marble, some smooth, some old and weathered.  The hair on the back of his neck still stood on end from the 21-gun salute moments ago.

The rain from the night before had created puddles all around the cemetery and the air was now cool and crisp.  Drying his eyes successfully for the first time since waking up, Milo leaned up against a tall old white marble statue memorializing fallen veterans.  The inscription on the front read, ‘And we will fall, so you may rise.’  Milo crouched down in the grass in front of the marble and picked up a small handful of moist dirt.  Packing it in his hands the dirt hardened.  Milo looked up across the expanse of tombstones and a familiar scene caught his eye.  A little boy with shaggy brown hair chased after his sister attempting to splash her by jumping in puddles.  She squealed in her attempted escape.

Milo smiled.

Thank You!

Last week on Thursday and Friday, I used Amazon’s KDP promotion tool to give away my latest book, Dead Blow. Over the course of two days, the book achieved rating ranks of #15 in Free Kindle Fiction and #4 in Psychological Thrillers. Throughout the two days, I enjoyed seeing people from the UK, Denmark, Canada and Spain download a copy of my book. 13,963 copies to an audience of new readers I wouldn’t have normally reached.

After a free give-away, one normally sees increased sales, which I have. I am grateful. When you’re a little fishy swimming in the big ocean of books available to read, competing with the big, big sharks who have large publishing budgets behind them, it’s nice to use whatever publicity you can.

Today, Dead Blow‘s Kindle edition is ranked at 2,608, and #49 in Psychological Thrillers (right below James Patterson!) This means every time someone goes to purchase a psychological thriller on Amazon and they begin to look through what’s popular…my book will be the 49th book they see. Hey, that’s a lot better than 298,787th! I’ve been there, too, and will be again, I’m sure. So. I’ll take whatever I can get for now and thank God for it.

With give-aways come reviews. Not all good…people can get kind of mouthy over the free books they download. Hey, “So sorry I gave you a free book and you didn’t love it. My bad!” Regardless of whatever bad reviews may come…and we all get bad reviews, so I’m in the same boat as every other writer…I have been blessed to get some really nice new reviews since the give-away and hope to get some more. Here are three positive reviews I may not have received if I had not done the give-away.

5.0 out of 5 stars Very good read, April 8, 2013 By dwhit - See all my reviews This review is from: Dead Blow (Kindle Edition) Great suspense, lots of twists and turns. The human mind can be a very dark, scary place when it breaks. Great writing, Mrs. Barlean,wished it had been longer, but I don’t know if I could have handled any more? So it was just right. Keep it up! Help other customers find the most helpful reviews Was this review helpful to you? Yes No Report abuse | Permalink Comment Comment 5.0 out of 5 stars I LOVE THIS BOOK !!, April 7, 2013 By Mary J. Lee - See all my reviews Amazon Verified Purchase(What’s this?) This review is from: Dead Blow (Kindle Edition) Because I read a lot, mostly contemporary fiction, I look forward to reading something that is a little different. I enjoy mysteries, thrillers, etc., and am happy to find a book where I’m unable to predict the twists or the ending. I echo the many positive comments of other readers. I LOVE THIS BOOK !! Help other customers find the most helpful reviews Was this review helpful to you? Yes No Report abuse | Permalink Comment Comment 4.0 out of 5 stars Dead Blow ‘Whats-the-right-tool?’ Society, April 6, 2013 By Nona B. Carpenter - See all my reviews This review is from: Dead Blow (Kindle Edition) A suspenseful story, with wicked characters and evil revenge… contrasted with wholesome good. The author pulls you into the madness and delivers out to the other side.

So, thank you to readers, thank you to kind reviewers, and thank you Amazon and KDP for giving me the opportunity to jump in the ring with the heavy hitters. It’s been a fun round of sparring and I have only come away with small bruises. Whew!