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Santa and Sonny

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Halfway down, on top of haphazardly folded garland and lying under a box of battery lights I find him. He’s reclining on top of crushed greenery and grinning up at me as if to say, “been awhile, nice to see you again.” I pull him out of the green container, straighten his smoky white beard, and in answer to his silent greeting I tell him, “Hello, it’s good to see you, too. Looks like we made it to another year. Merry Christmas.“

***

To say my dad loved Christmas is an understatement. In movies, he’s the guy that brings home the too big freshly cut Balsam fir. The guy that singlehandedly carries it into the house and directly into the living room, its branches knocking delicate holiday decorations off each table it passes. Though sold several times since, I am sure my childhood home’s living room ceiling bears a hint of a scar attributed to too many tree jabs from a too tall tree. And I’ll wager that, if standing completely still under that part of the ceiling and listening with great concentration, one can still hear a wave of excuses: but the tree looked a lot smaller in the middle of that damn tree lot AND we needed a Christmas focal point. Mom’s reply was to cast a wilting stare in Dad’s direction with his response a shrug and tilt of his head as he innocently tried to gain her approval.

So, as due course would have it in our holiday household, it happened that one cold and snowflake filled night Dad walked in after work holding a gift wrapped package the size of a shoe box meant for very large shoes. As he handed it to my mom my dad smiled in a too broad grin. Although I was only about five at the time, his grin reminded me of childhood pictures of him proudly displayed at my grandmother’s house. His nickname was Sonny, he sported a headful of blonde hair, and always displayed that very same smile.

Mom was of a different temperament. Oh, she had a sense of humor; she enjoyed TV sitcoms, cracked jokes with her friends, and could cast a sarcastic dig with the best of any gagman. But she was also the mother of an everywhere-every minute toddler and a snarky, curious five year-old as well as the title holder of acting chief financial officer for the family. Always tired and always busy, she resonated a distinct no nonsense image. She didn’t grin when Dad handed her the package. Although she didn’t quite scowl either.

Her unenthusiastic response was lost on me and my brother. With wide eyed anticipation evidenced through our obnoxious jumping, we forced our mother into a predicament. She overcame her passivity and sat down on our red velvet couch to open the present. Upon opening the lid she sighed. I’m still not sure if she was pleased, overwhelmed, or questioning the cost. But upon reaching in and lifting the gift out of the box the trepidation was over. She lost. Because the minute we saw what it was, my brother and I stopped jumping up and down, stopped giggling and froze. After a beat, simple delight filled our eyes.

***

Mom and Dad are both gone now. My brother is happy in a new marriage and I don’t see him very often. I have a husband of almost fifty years and two grown daughters. With one daughter living far away and working non-traditional hours, our family celebrates the holidays on her terms, delighted to make Christmas Eve and Christmas Day whatever two days we can all get together, but always in December.

In this present day the responsibility to feel joy and merriment can weigh heavy at times. Growing older with each Christmas can bring about a breathtaking pause. The rush of time becomes overbearing, particularly at Christmas as a sudden urge to do a personal life-inventory becomes necessary and urgent.

But this feeling falls away when, just as Mom lifted him out of the package for the very first time, I hoist the grinning chubby and rosy cheeked Santa up and out of the green container. This old and scruffy Santa resumes his place once again on our entry side table, greeting holiday visitors with his chubby hand raised in a hello and his red velvet suit cast in a warmly lit glow.

If only for a short time, this Santa stops the clock for me and ushers in memories of a child jumping in exuberant glee with the inability to contain her wild abandon. This Santa guarantees that with each Christmas I bring up the holiday boxes he will be there providing anticipation and a sense of excitement that I can take into the new of each year.

But most of all, this Santa gives me back a part of my dad that I never met. This Santa gives me Sonny and makes me smile, year in and year out.  Merry Christmas Dad.

Waiting for the Vaccine

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Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Calypso music permeates the theatre and glides through the night air landing at the feet of our beach chairs. Laughter springs from my friends’ lips while they sit sipping wine as we chatter about our days; both present and past. Dishes clink and clatter together in the kitchen of our favorite restaurant as we sit enjoying our meal while we cover our day, what we did—where we went. Our daughters’  chatter—light,  lively banter back and forth as we say good-bye for the day, then hug them, instantly taking in the scent of their hair, the largesse of their embraces.

I line up these thoughts like cut scenes from a movie. To disengage from the incessant loop, I move on, but only to a different loop. Scenes of a brighter tomorrow run through my mind’s projector. For almost a year, my husband and I have waited, so this cut is worn, the film delicate, but still viewable.

My husband and I are currently, and very impatiently, waiting for the vaccine. We are in our state’s Group 1B—Tier 2. Our group’s inoculations were to begin this week, but due to lack of supplies, we have been told to wait. Patiently wait.  As we wait, we watch the number of vaccinated increase. With unrelenting sadness, we also watch the daily deaths climb. It’s as if we’re reaching the climactic moment in a film, musical score ratcheting up our emotions, action in high gear, characters pressed into emotional cyclones. But this isn’t a movie, it’s real life playing out in real time changing lives forever and lending more definition to catastrophe than anything our modern world has ever faced.

So, this is what we do. I write queries and begin new tales, reread my Covid short stories, all ten of them. Edit some—laugh out loud at others. My husband calls his daughters, living vicariously through them occasionally, giving them advice on everything from creative budgeting to how to cook a pot roast.

I realize that each day we get closer. And as we wait, each day is growing longer, both figuratively and in reality. Spring will be here soon.

Our friends will sit with us and we will laugh again. We will hug our daughters. The cut scenes will need editing using additions of fragmented new scenes. Our action will resume, our stories will survive. We will all rush back to our lives, fragmented but together, envisioning embraces that right now we can only anticipate with great hope.

Let’s Take the Wheel!

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My last name is Freeland. I was born and raised in Independence, Missouri – recently moved but lived there my first 64 years. President Harry S Truman lived in Independence for 64 years as well, up to the day he died. Independence also boasts the start of the three trails to the west; the Oregon, California, and the Santa Fe Trails. My hometown is only 22 minutes by car away from Liberty, Missouri. This is the Midwest, the proclaimed ‘Heart of America.’

My dad served in the Navy during WWII on the USS North Carolina. He was then employed at the Independence Allis-Chalmers facility for many years, an assembly plant that built thousands of Gleaner tractor-combines during its 70 years of operation in Independence. Combines that were sold to thousands of farmers across the country.

You can’t get too much more American than that.

I love my country. I love it for what I believe it is capable of being. I love it for what it has been capable of. And I love it right now. I don’t wear flag t-shirts except on Independence Day. I don’t believe we need to make America great again because I believe it’s already great. And I don’t call French fries by the name American fries. Having said that, I believe I’m pretty damn patriotic.

However, at this point I’m scared for America. Let’s just say, for a visual picture I’ll explain by using the opening scene of  one my favorite movies, “Jaws.” The girl, Chrissie, is playfully running to the water from the beach. She’s with a boy who apparently is a little inebriated as he can’t even make it into the water without passing out. But Chrissie continues on without him. She dives in, splashing and having a great time until  something jerks her downward into the depths of the water. At first we as viewers don’t have a clue as to what is pulling her down into a watery grave but the slow and terrifying  conclusion is that a shark unlike any that has ever came within miles of this particular beach, will begin to terrorize everyone. This includes vacationers, townspeople, the politicians, and the authorities.

That’s how I view my country now. It seems like the largest creature we could ever imagine is eating away our very souls while it feeds on our freedoms, our integrity, our character. This creature loves to feast on its prey bit by bit, so like Chrissie, we don’t even know what the hell is going on, until we are consumed.

We used to cling to our beliefs and principles as Americans like Chrissie did the ringing buoy. But we have been pulled away just like her, by the creature, which is another primitive force lurking in the dark. It’s tearing us apart, slowly but just the same, it’s happening.

So, yeah, I’m afraid for my country. I know it still stands for all the values that I hold dear. As Americans, we still believe in fairness, justice, welfare, freedom, and choice – words found in our Constitution. I’m just not sure we are representing those words that well right now.

I’m American. My father was American. Chief Brody was a fictional American. Chrissie was, I’m pretty sure, a fictional American.  Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez ,  Ayanna Pressley, Ilhan Omar, Rashida Tlaib are all real Americans. As Americans, all are accountable but if we don’t get it together we don’t stand a chance. And sorry, Chief Brody, we don’t need a bigger boat this time, we need to take the wheel, so that we can turn this boat around.

Winter is Coming, and Staying, and Staying…

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I am ready for warm weather. I’m ready for fried zucchini and grilled hamburgers. Eating cookie dough ice cream outside and drinking Pinot Grigio (outside or inside, doesn’t matter).

I’m usually one of those crazy people that enjoy the seasons. I like summer and winter. I love fall and spring. For instance, on any given day during winter months when it’s cloudy and dismal for others, I envelop myself in a warm sweater covering up with a blanket if at all possible and either write or I read a good book. I don’t discount the fact that I have the privilege of just reading or working at my computer at home. I used to be one of that larger percent that spent their days at work. I enjoyed dark and cloudy days even then. I know. Crazy.

But when it was time for spring and then summer I was ready for that, too. Spring means renewal. Spring means second chances. How could you not enjoy new growth? Daffodils? Lightweight jackets versus heavy coats? And then, shorts!

But I am convinced that spring has decided to take a leave of absence. Because,  I’ll tell ya, this winter has gone on way too long. It seems as if there is an ever-present weight in the air having nothing and everything to do with sleet and ice. Everyone in the Midwest is experiencing this heaviness. Our friends, family, and anyone we happen to converse with,  be it restaurant servers, cashiers, passers-by, just seem, well, kind of lethargic and non-committal – about anything!

I understand. And I am getting tired of this winter myself. There’s only so many days that even those that enjoy snow and cloudy days can endure. But in the general scheme of things, what can we do? I know the long-range remedies that pertain to climate change. Doing our part is very important. But right now, on gloomy, cloudy, snowy days how do we keep from eating stale, frozen old Christmas cookies while looping “Smilla’s Sense of Snow” on TV over and over again?

Here’s some suggestions:

  1. Watch “Baywatch” instead. Seriously. Not the recent “Baywatch” movie, but the original TV series. You know, with David Hasselhoff? You will wish you were on a beach at the same time you are glad it is winter 2019 and not anytime ever in the 1990’s.
  2. Make ‘Baked Alaska.’ That’s right. For those people born after 1990 that are familiar with “Baywatch,” but not Baked Alaska, this is a dessert that is frozen at the same time it is hot. Google it. It’s ice cream in the oven. Which is like Vin Diesel with a toupee or shooting golf balls through a basketball hoop, inconceivable and wonderful.
  3. Paint a scene like the one we in the Midwest have been looking at all winter. This will require only a canvas. No paint, paint brush or other medium. Believe me, if the canvas is white – that is all you need.  Hang the canvas in an appropriate place while you enjoy watching “Baywatch.”
  4. Follow friends on Facebook that are in sunny, beachy “Baywatch” places. Constantly check their status and then look up the locations. Find a live webcam of the place and put a blanket over you and your computer while watching so there is no way for you to acknowledge that you are not there yourself. If that doesn’t work start commenting on your beachy friends posts telling them that you prefer the cold. Let them know that warm air and sand are no longer trendy. As evidenced by the availability of “Smilla’s Sense of Snow” and “The Revenant.” Smilla or Hugh Glass wouldn’t be caught dead in warm sand and sun. No, they would rather be snuggled in a warm parka or inside a dead horse carcass. They wouldn’t be caught dead in swim trunks and flip flops either. That is so last year!

And last of all, my best suggestion is to sit and read “The Long Winter” by Laura Ingalls Wilder. While drinking a glass of red wine. You will be so glad that you don’t have to use twisted hay for fuel and eat stale wheat cakes that you will make a toast to winter weather with all its snow and cloud-filled days. And then make another toast to the fact that summer is inevitably on its way, believe it or not. Before too long we will all be wishing for cold weather again. And watching another 1990’s treasure, “Northern Exposure.”  

I Ghosted Facebook

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I guess you could say I broke up with Facebook, or as I refer to my longtime companion, FB. But, to be completely honest, I’m not sure how long this break-up will last.

Let me just say that it all started about three weeks ago when my husband and I went on a trip. We began in Boston, spending about four days there. Having never seen this city, we walked the Freedom Trail – Paul Revere’s house – Old North Church – intriguing old cemeteries. We toured Samuel Adams Brewery (go if can – the tour is great – the samples are way too generous). Then we cruised out of Boston up the coast for seven days.

A standard rule for me is to leave all social media behind when I’m on vacation. So, I left FB behind for eleven days.  Taking in gorgeous scenery – lighthouses- old fishing villages – beautiful shorelines and eating delicious seafood everywhere, I didn’t miss FB at all. I felt more guilty about the couple of pounds I gained then I did about leaving Facebook.

The next morning after we got home, as is my routine, I checked my email, checked the news and then proceeded to open FB. I paused. I thought about it for a nanosecond and then I shut my I-Pad. I realized I didn’t miss FB. I left like that and I didn’t look back.

Yep, I ghosted Facebook. Without so much as a word I left my steady partner of probably about a decade. I disappeared off the Facebook planet. No long good-byes, no tears, no post-its. I just left.

They say ‘ghosted’ also means that the relationship buster is trying to avoid conflict. Yeah, that also fits. Totally. I definitely don’t want to be on FB’s bad side.

It’s been exactly three weeks since I last checked in. Currently, the indicator next to the FB app displays 28 notifications. Really, I guess that’s not that many. I’m sure lots of people have more. But, because I have 28 I have received emails from FB notifying me of well, my notifications. FB keeps trying to get back together. As of today, I’m still not ready.

To explain how this relationship drain started, I guess you could say it may have began with the Russians. And the Hillary bashing. Consequently, FB had some explaining to do. And, it wasn’t done well. FB tried to tell me the Russian shenanigans didn’t mean anything. That it was over. I’m not so sure. And Hillary? Can we say a jealous control freak? FB not Hillary.

You see, I guess I’m just over it for now. I’m tired of FB’s constant neediness. I’m tired of the whining, too. There is always someone posting about this politician or that celebrity. And not always in a good way. Well, most of the time, not in a good way. At all.

So, FB can be mean. There is a constant rush to judgment. With someone calling out a situation or person, then going into a gigantic rant. FB can be quite resentful and requires constant attention. That can get tiresome. Sometimes I just want to be left alone. FB wouldn’t allow that. It constantly called. It got quite annoying. At what point does a person finally get fed up with videos of dancing turtles and posts that state “That was just awful!” and then leave it at that. FB can be a drama queen.

And then there are the posts that I am supposed to like. And the sad thing is that I enjoy most posts about my friends, their babies and grandbabies, dogs, trips, foods they eat, friends they’re with, so geez, why do I have to ‘like’ this stuff, too! I do! Hitting a thumbs-up icon doesn’t make me like it any more. It shouldn’t make any difference to the poster either. But it does. FB is needy. And whiney.

So, I’m done. As I stated earlier, I’m done at least for now. I haven’t severed my relationship by deleting the app nor have I deleted my account. That would be too harsh. Our relationship meant too much for way too long.

Besides, I still use messenger.

The March

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I come from a long line of independent women. My Grandma Berry had my mom. My mom had me. I had two daughters, most definitely independent. Depending upon that moment in time, all of us were or are strong women.

My Grandma Cherry was also a strong woman. Her husband was an alcoholic and to hear stories, a pretty mean one when he was drinking. I think she put up with a lot. Quite a lot. More than I probably will ever know. Through it all she kept a clean house, cooked many a meal, and yet remained a very kindhearted and quietly courageous woman. And she raised two children that respected her; my dad being one of them. My Grandma Cherry believed in equality, gentleness, and affability. My Grandma Cherry stood for what she believed in.

My Grandma Berry raised her three children alone. That is, she raised them alone after her husband left her to ‘see the world.’ She took in laundry, babysat, and cleaned houses. This was during the depression in a small town in southern Missouri. And she raised three children that respected her. My Grandma Berry believed in hard work, most definitely equal pay, and impartiality. My Grandma Berry stood for what she believed in.

My mom was outspoken and stubborn, sometimes too much so. Or so I believed. I don’t recall her ever complimenting my outward appearance. Instead she would say “pretty is as pretty does.” She valued truth, sincerity, and didn’t suffer fools. She worked outside the home before any of my friends’ mothers did. She worked long hours at a stressful job. Oftentimes, she would come home irritable and annoyed at the least little thing because she was just plain tired. But as a teenager I didn’t really care. We had terrible arguments and harsh disagreements. There were times I even thought I  hated her. But, I always respected her. My mom believed in truth, ability, and candidness.  And most undoubtedly, my mom stood for what she believed in.

I’m not quite sure that I could measure up to those that came before me; my grandmas, my mom. I didn’t have to raise my daughters on my own nor with an abusive, alcoholic husband. I worked outside the home but for the most part really enjoyed the jobs I had. In addition, my husband is a very caring man that worked very hard and helped out a lot around the house while our daughters were small. All that notwithstanding I could still be a tyrant, a dictator, and hardcore. But I am sure of one thing, my daughters respect me. And I immensely respect them.  I believe in equality, honesty, and openness as do my daughters. And we stand for what we believe in.

The Women’s March was a year ago. When my friends and I first started planning on going to the March we planned on going by car. We didn’t know what to expect nor were we certain what we would find when we got there. We weren’t sure how many others there would be, would there be only a couple of hundred or so or would there be thousands?

Not too long after we started planning, we found out that plans were underway in our community to take a bus…then two buses. On the Friday before the March as we traveled through Illinois, then Indiana, then Ohio to D.C. many more buses started appearing. Close in to D.C. as we pulled in to a rest stop to freshen up buses were stacked three deep in the parking lot. In D.C. as we disembarked from the bus we saw throngs of people not only getting off buses but getting out of cars and walking. Bands of people became crowds then as we got closer to the center of the March; the crowds became throngs, then just a sea of pink hats, signs, and people. 

I felt an overpowering sense of unity. My friends and I weren’t alone. My bus full of new friends from my community weren’t alone. We were half a million strong.  We gathered for the same purpose. To march against prejudice, racism, and gender based violence and abuse. To march against oppression, divisiveness, and disrespect for those that deserve our respect.

To march for something we believed in.

Later, during the days after I got home I discussed that day with my husband and my daughters. I packed away my Women’s March I.D. sign, my armband, my ‘be kind’ button, and my bus information pamphlet in a keepsake box. I added duties of calling my legislators and participating in political groups. I went back to my part-time job, my friends, and my committee work.  In other words, including a few additional tasks, I went about my life.

During this last year I have thought about the March quite often. I think about the friendships I have made. The speeches I heard that day. The huge throngs of people. And then sometimes when I think about the March I can’t help but imagine my mom and my grandmas there marching with me. I know they would have been there if they could have. Because they stood for what they believed in. As my daughters and I stand for what we believe in.  As over five millions people, on that day, a year ago, around the world stood for what they believed in. And we will continue to stand for what we believe in. And we will march to prove it.

Solar Eclipse – Dancing in the Dark

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DSC04150I’m not much on nature. I don’t camp. I don’t float (well, I didn’t float until this year and I’m sixty-two years old), and I’m not crazy about certain vegetables. But I do love the sun. It seems to me that the sun connects us all. It gives us light, creates shadows that you can use to dance in, and in most instances the sun when shining guarantees the absence of rain.

And I love the moon. Probably equal to if not more than the sun. I think it has something to do with the dark, which I am partial to. The dark is where you can make stuff up. Creativity begins in the dark – beginnings come oftentimes during the blackest hours. And besides, the moon is ours. It belongs to our earth. Whereas the sun has to be shared with a lot of others; planets, atmospheres, and fellow stars.

So when our moon takes on such an admirable and respecting move like going for blocking the largest star in our solar system (a star that’s heat can reach 17 million degrees Fahrenheit by the way), you have to agree, our moon has major nerve. Yeah, sure, the sun is basically a gazillion miles away, but just as I wouldn’t go close to one of Daenerys Targaryen’s dragons, I know I wouldn’t take on the sun, no matter how far away I was. Dragon fire or huge burning orbs, take your pick, I choose to stay away.

Far away from both the sun and moon, I stood in my backyard as millions of others did yesterday to witness a showdown of sorts. A miraculous confrontation. The moon did what it does best. It gave us an exhilarating glance into darkness. I stood there watching as every fiber of my being was telling me it wasn’t time for darkness, yet it descended anyway. And it was glorious!

In that minute and forty seconds the moon prevailed proving that darkness can’t be avoided. There are times when it comes as a night sky with a shining orb giving off enough light to give direction. Or as in the eclipse, it comes during the brightest of times, giving us the opportunity to dance in its shadow.

As mentioned earlier, I don’t like a lot of things about nature, but I do like the knowledge that she brings, and along with it sometimes the organized upside-downs. The moon is brave enough to initiate night on a sunlit day allowing us a different perspective. It gives us pause, a fresh outlook and a common cause, if only for a brief minute and forty seconds.

My Daily Routine – Now Vs. Then

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I haven’t written a post for awhile. There are a lot of reasons. Been busy. Traveled a bit. Oh, and then there’s this – we have a new president. From the get-go please allow me to tell you, I have never been a fan of our new president. I didn’t like him from the minute he started making news – way back in the good ol’ days before he REALLY started making news.

This guy really scares me and a lot of people, as he should. He hasn’t a clue about running a hotel business, university, whatnot – let alone a country. He’s impulsive, manipulative, narcissistic, and really not very bright. If he is presidential material then I am in charge of the entire universe as I consider myself of very slightly above average intelligence thus defined as a brilliant genius in Trump terms.

So, to give you an idea of my daily life now versus my daily life before November 8, 2016 I have below a comparison of the two. If you see even a glimpse of a comparison to your life now, please let me know. I believe we are in good company. In good company, and lots of it.

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My daily routine before President Trump:

6:30 am – Wake up to birds chirping outside.

6:40 am – Workout on elliptical while watching Bloodline on Netflix.

7:10 am – Stretching and firming exercises while listening to “Shut Up and Dance”.

8:30 am – Drink coffee and read the comics in the newspaper for my morning laugh.

10:00 am – Work outside in the yard among my flowers and lush green lawn.

Noon – Eat lunch on my patio.

2:00 pm – Write and work on my stories.

5:30 pm – Hubby and I meeting friends for dinner.

7:30 pm – Settle in and watch a few tv shows like Big Bang Theory and Fixer Upper.

10:00 pm – Watch The Daily Show for my political laughs and updates.

11:00 pm – Drift off to sleep dreaming of travel to distant lands.

My daily routine now:

6:30 am – Wake up from a nightmare about big orange birds tweeting (not chirping)           maniacally while eating fat juicy earthworms.

6:40 am – Workout on elliptical while crying and watching Bloodline – I mean yesterday’s White House Press Conference.

7:10 am – Stretching and firming exercises while listening to CNN’s broadcast of Trump’s speech “Shut Up America, I Know What’s Best”.

8:30 am – Drink coffee and read the comics in the newspaper. Comics being every single thing said and done by Trump. Only I don’t laugh as hard. Sometimes these comics just aren’t funny.

10:00 am – Stay in. Afraid to go outside. The big orange birds are tweeting like crazy and have started to attack random people.

Noon – Eat lunch inside. The birds are building little hotel nests in my trees and giving their fat juicy worms to some vultures I’ve never seen before.

2:00 pm – Sit inside at my computer. Can’t stop reading news stories about new Trump shenanigans. Or go to a protest rally.

5:30 pm – Hubby and I eat at home alone. Either our friends have left the country or they are at a protest rally.

7:30 pm – Watch CNN and cry.

10:00 pm – Watch The Daily Show and cry.

11:00 pm – Take a Valium so that I can sleep. Drift off to a nightmare about big orange birds tweeting (not chirping) maniacally while eating fat juicy earthworms.

Well, that’s about it. They say things can change in a heartbeat. I guess I understand that. I know things have changed a lot lately. I guess it’s time for lunch. And time to see what the big orange bird is tweeting about – and what he is having for his lunch – he’s running out of worms.

Ghost Stories

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I have a ghost story book that is very dear to my heart. It’s called “The Fireside Book of Ghost Stories” and is edited by Edward Wagenknecht and published by Grosset & Dunlap, New York in 1947. I believe this book is the partner book to “The Fireside Book of Christmas Stories.” Most of the stories are based in England and on the habitats therein.

Each October as tradition would have it I take the time to read as many stories as time will allow. I begin the first day of the month and end on Halloween. I then put the book back on my book shelf until next year. There is no possible way I would think of reading it any other time and yet I always hate putting it back up. It’s like I am saying good-bye to a very dear friend knowing I won’t see them again for a very long time.

The stories are written by well-known and established authors such as Daphne Du Maurier, Henry James, Mark Twain, and Edith Wharton. There is also a story by the book’s editor and also a story from the First Book of Samuel in the Bible. The stories are distributed into ten sections. For instance, there is a section called “Missioned Spirits”. According to the text, missioned spirits are those that “may be trying to right a wrong, or “bring some benefit to the living.” The story, The Corner Shop by Cynthia Asquith gives us a story dealing about a man that accidentally comes across a “curiosity shop”, a shop that deals in antiques, collections, and all kinds of used items.

The customer makes a transaction with the shopkeeper only to come back to the store a few days later to find out that the shopkeeper had died several years ago. His son tells the customer that his father, although deceased, has been reported to occasionally come back to sell items or make a deal with those that venture in. The son tells the customer that transactions with the deceased shopkeeper always went well for the customer, financially speaking, as in the case of this particular customer. This was because the shopkeeper was paying pittance for what he considered crimes he had committed many years ago.

“The Green Scarf” by A.M. Barrage is one of my favorites. It has to do with an old country house and it’s past. Apparently a long ago owner of the house was a Royalist after the fact (his side lost). He had to leave his house and stay in hiding most of the time occasionally returning if his servants sent words deeming safety at home.

However, one of his servants betrayed him. This servant through prior words with the now in favor troops waved a green scarf at an upstairs bedroom window indicating his master was home. Consequently, the troops stormed the house, captured the Royalist and executed him.

The present day owner and his visitor found the old worn out green scarf inside a long closed window seat. Upon retrieving the scarf the two began to come down with a serious illness, chills – fever – the gamut. Then they started to hallucinate or so the story goes, seeing men dressed in very old military garb carrying muskets and lanterns lit up all around the property. In their delirious state they crawled up into the attic of the old house staying there all night, scared out of their wits and feverish.

The next day they retrieved the scarf putting it back in its place. They instantly felt better physically and never witnessed those terrifying images of musket fire and ghostly lanterns coming at them again. It’s a story that is fun to read at night sitting in my comfortable present day living room, especially if the fireplace is lit.

I’m not entirely sure what draws me to this book each year. I believe it may have something to do with the fact that most of the stories are about people living in peaceful picturesque villages in the English countryside and what awaits them. Or it is possibly the way that most of the stories are told, slowly building in suspense and yet sharing some type of thought provoking message. Many of the stories seem to question what is real, what is important, and although about the dead, what gives us the strength to face future dilemmas and problems.

So, if you get a chance to find a copy of the book and you enjoy ghost stories, particularly philosophical and whimsical ones, I guarantee you will enjoy this book. Don’t pass it up, buy it. And if it is sold to you by an old kind gentleman with an English accent, don’t question and don’t try to go back to speak with him about the stories. He may not be available.

The Myth of Uncle Bill

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I had an Uncle Bill. I didn’t really know him that well. I only knew that he scared the crap out of me.

My uncle lived in California. Los Angeles to be exact. Of all the relatives coming from my maternal grandmother’s family tree, Uncle Bill was the most glamourous to those of us back in southern Missouri, at least while I was growing up. In the 1960’s California was still that elusive, mystical place you only knew of from the movies and television. No one went there. It seemed that no one left here at all.

Oh, I guess my parents left for Kansas City. But that was still in the state. A few relatives went to join the Army or Navy, but they came back eventually, to farm or run the family store.

But Bill left. He did join a military branch, the Army. He was stationed in California. And he didn’t come back . Given, he did come back for the bi-yearly visits to see his mother and occasionally my mom and aunt. But he never stayed. He always went back. He had a wife and a daughter. That was home, for him.

He became a California Highway Patrolman. Then later, he achieved the position of a State Highway Patrol Inspector, one of four in the state. When he came back into town my mom, his sister, would always say, “the prodigal son is back.” “Billie.” That was his name to my grandma and to all that knew him back when. After he left for California, my grandma was the only one that still got away with calling him that.

He didn’t say much. But when he spoke he had a deep voice and it seemed as if his conversation was always in a certain tone. He wasn’t much of a talker. If he asked how you were doing you responded truthfully, not by just saying fine.

As a teenager, when we visited my grandma I would be the designated point person to pick up dinner from our favorite hamburger joint. If Uncle Bill was in town and involved in the order, I made sure I got it right. The funny thing now when I think about it is that I’m sure he would have just laughed if I forgot the onions or his burger had mustard not mayonnaise. But at the time I would have been devastated. Huh.

He died at the age of seventy-nine about ten years ago. After he lost both his wife and daughter within months of each other. My mom had passed away a couple of years earlier so I made the trip to the funeral with my husband, to the same small town that he left.

There were several people there and many accompanied us to the graveside ceremony. As an Army veteran, the family requested full military honors. The honor guard ceremonial folding of the flag, the sound of Taps playing as we sat, and the photo depicting him as a family man – wife and daughter in happier days on a small table, all these are deeply felt memories for me of that day. Memories involving a complicated, complex man that I never really did get to know.

I believe in not knowing him I made him into a mythical creature. Something we are all prone to do with those we don’t know but are somehow connected to. I suppose in some sense it brings us closer together.

I’m really sorry I only had the myth. I am pretty sure that if I knew the real Uncle Bill I would have really liked him.

Makes you wonder how many people are out there that we build myths around? How much better off would we be if we just got to know those people? I’m sure most of us, like me, can say we may never know.