A Long Time Gone

Good Monday morning on this Martin Luther King Jr. Day! Yes, I must apologize for my long absence. The holidays came and went. I gave away the only present I received this past Christmas. (A little detour into crybaby land there.) December is usually a tough month for many people and I am no different. The short days tend to get us down as the winter solstice approaches and some of us have one of those days in the month too. Not just a run of the mill bad day, but an anniversary such as Tolkien wrote about in The Lord of the Rings. Frodo Baggins had a couple of days that tended to haunt him each year. I didn't understand this until life laid a couple of 'em on me. December 4th is the anniversary of a bad auto accident and at that time each year I tend to get depressed more easily than at other times. You probably have days or times like that too. If not, praise God!

Back to the self-publishing experience. Last week, the cover art was completed... and I haven't brought myself to look at it yet. Part of the reason for that is that I have not done my part in rewriting the novel yet. I have gone through another period of what Twain called 'having nothing in the tank'. Whether this comes from the post traumatic stress or from God's own timing I don't know, but I do tend to get impatient and frustrated with it. Now the middle of January is here and I hope and pray that it is time to get underway once more.

Of course, when I began this new path in life, I would not be subject to the career hazards of writers. You know, the writer's block, the down times, and others. I would crank out book after book, dominate the bestseller lists, and just generally be above all the things that other authors have to contend with. You can see the fall coming in that one a mile off! Yep, I have proved to be a human writer just like every other. There are times when I despair of publishing anything at all. Times when I am ready to write and times when nothing comes. Times when I trust in God, and the times when I want to shout, "Hey, are you up there? Remember me!" I know that writing takes practice, but days may pass with only reading and no writing accomplished. Is that my fault? Perhaps not, it may be that times such as these are simply part of the process of moving from one season in life to a totally different and new season. I worked for nearly twenty years in a big corporation where assignments and duties were given to me, deadlines were set by higher authority, and I was not the one calling the shots. Now I have the freedom of the self-employed writer... and the pitfalls as well.

Learning a new life is never easy. Things from the old life cling. Some need to be let go. Believe it or don't, I tried to use project management early on in this writing thing. Plan a schedule, stick to it, draft the charts, estimate the times, and all that crap. Phoo, none of that worked. I hated the project management stuff in my old job; so I drug it with me to inflict on myself in this new one. Every time I say or think that I want to have thus and such done by this date it is like turning off a switch. Like a recovering alcoholic, I have found that I just need to pray and then take it one day at a time. Interesting comparison there, but perhaps not so far off the mark. Coming out of Corporameia or Cubeville, to use the Dilbert term, requires a recovery period like, say, the rest of your life. I remember even today the dread of Monday morning that started on Sunday afternoon. I can't believe how long I worked under that stress too! Now when things get tough the temptation is to go back? Yikes!

Lest this be all about bad news, I did start an experiment before Christmas to work out six days per week. The experimental part is to see if this will help in writing. Certainly it will help my health in general. I'm no Tebow. He is a young and fit athlete; I am no longer young, haven't been fit for a while, and could never claim to be an athlete. However, I use an ad-libed step workout with a small ladder and a step. A couple episodes of Home Improvement are used to set a workout length and to take my mind off the dreadful boredom of exercising alone in the basement. While it's not exactly Pilates, I think the workout has done wonders for me already. I can't speak to the writing effects yet, the jury is still out on that one. Let me take a look at that book cover...

Yours in Christ,
Bucky

The Editor's Letter

Good Saturday to you! The edited manuscript arrived with a letter from the editor, as opposed to your normal letter to the editor from the local newspaper. This letter gave the editor's overall impression of my work and made suggestions about the plot lines, the characters, dialogue, and structure of the novel. I have some work to do, but again, as a first time author, this was expected. Other interesting problems that I carried throughout the book included: grammatical errors, punctuation, a lack of wases and wereses, and that dreaded passive voice.

The most interesting to me is how I learned through three years of college to avoid using 'was' or 'were' like they were some sort of transmittable disease. In academic writing this is a major rule, but the editor made liberal use of the two little words. The story is set in 1893 and narrated by one of the characters in 1958 so using wases and wereses does make it much easier. It seems such a small thing, but when telling a story don't you use was and were all the time? I know I do. Speaking of that college writing, I had at one time trained the passive voice out of my writing, but it crept back in somehow. I'll have to blame it on the blogging.

Larger issues have to do with my trying to write too much into the novel. Is the novel an epic journey as Ted is tossed out of England and ends up in the West, or is it the story of the coming together of the team to fight crime, or even a story about the changing West from Old West to the Industrial Age? Now that the editor kindly mentioned this, it does make clear the dilemma. I have so many ideas, but not all of them can fit in the first book. I wanted Ted in his home much more quickly, but added in more stories to the journey west. Some of it must wait for future novels, I'll get the team together in Sidney quickly and focus on the incidents that add up to someone trying to knock off my new state marshal. A major rewrite, but not an impossible task. I just need to give up some of my precious words. But I get to write new ones too!

Compliments on my dialogue and characters though, except for the overuse of he said/she said. Not a problem there, I had no idea how often that should be put in, so I went kind of whole hog on it. Time to go in and trim that porker down a bit! Good questions from the editor on the likelihood of some events in the story. If the editor is confused by something, no doubt readers would be as well. More work to do on explaining some things better. So where do I stand on getting the book to the reader? For that, I came up with one of those crude western analogies.

Imagine for a moment that I am a cattle rancher. I want to serve a nice steak, my novel, to a diner who is the reader. The diner comes into a restaurant some miles away, but I have no way to get the steer made into a steak on the plate. Through some stumbling about in the world of publishing, I have found a butcher for my steer. This butcher is the editor.

My first submission turned out to be three steers, but the butcher only needed one. I must decide which steer will be the first steak and store the other two carcasses for later use. The butcher then started trimming away the parts that don't belong on a steak. Too much fat is the redundant paragraphs, sentences, and phrases where I said the same thing too many times over and over again, redundantly, like hammering on the same nail until the wood is all dinged up, and pounding the same point home too many times, and you get the picture. Other parts were missing, like trying to serve up a steak with an odd hole in the center. As I rework the steer(novel), the future submissions will become a nice steak, the broiling of it, and the addition of the nice side dishes such as the book cover, descriptive blurb and so on to make a satisfying meal for the customer.

The story ideas are good and the characters are loveable. Learning can be difficult when a person is at that point of feeling pretty dern stupid. No, the editor's letter didn't make me feel that way. Like many new authors, I want my first work to be just by-golly, wow, perfect! The kind of skipping past the learning and getting better part we tend to want in this 'get it shipped the next day and pay for it later' world we live in. More good news: I can take much of this criticism and put it to use on the other book that is nearly complete as I have most likely made many of the same mistakes.

Enjoy the Thanksgiving Saturday! Bucky

The First Edit Impression

Good morning! The first copy of the copy edited manuscript arrived this morning. My first impression is pretty much as expected: a lot of marks and comments. That is good news. I would have been deeply suspicious had the editor simply said something like, "It seems okay to me." Like all writers I have read many books, and though I do not want mine to sound exactly the same as all other novels, if that is even possible, I can tell that from the reader's view the novel needs a lot of work before publication. Of course, part of me wants to get a 100 on the test, a slap on the back and a "good job", a new 'star' in the writing world comment, on my first try, even though the other part of my mind says that it ain't nearly there yet.

Now the work begins on my part. Accept or not to accept suggested changes, corrections of my grammar and syntax to be implemented, including that ol' dreaded passive voice, and then a review to hopefully read a novel that reads like a novel. I thought that I once had that passive voice thing fixed in my writing, but it seems that I've gotten sloppy again somewhere. Regarding grammar and syntax, I will never claim to be a pro in those areas. In college writing I depended heavily on Word's correction features. Note to self: check the settings in Word again, they must have reverted to the defaults at some point.

The edit took exactly the time quoted when I turned the manuscript in to CreateSpace. How long it will take for me to return it to the editors for a second round will be seen as I get started today and continue through the holiday weekend. I used to hate being on call or working through holidays back in the corporate world. This is different in that it's an 'I want to' instead of a duty that came to me through assignment or the short straw.

I am excited to have the manuscript back to see what a professional editor thinks. A quick glance at the comments section shows both likes and dislikes, and the occasional verbal head smack on my part. The "you know better than that" goes without explicit statement, but I'll take the hit! I read one comment wherein the editor confused who spoke to whom. That is my fault and needs to be fixed. I am glad to know those things before I attempt to publish. If I confuse a professional editor, I really have screwed it up!

Further impressions and notes as the manuscript review continues!

God bless you on this Thanksgiving weekend,
Bucky

Sticking to the End

A cool Saturday afternoon on the high plains, even colder (in a manner of speaking) out east where our Cornhuskers got stomped by Michigan this afternoon. No entry last Saturday, deer season began out here and I was out in the field. On the other hand, there has been nothing to report on the book publishing. The four weeks to edit my copy for the first time should be finished next week just before Thanksgiving. I expect that this first round of editing should look a lot like those tests that I didn't study for back in the day: lots of corrections and comments. The only difference will be that I never took a test 98,000 words long!

I have heard nothing on the book cover design yet, but that is not a concern at this point. The editing will probably take a few more months (multiple rounds at a month or so each) and the next book should go in soon. Whooee, that is one odd shade of lipstick! Sorry, watching an old Budd Boetticher western, Decision at Sundown. The actress was married to the director, so I suppose that explains how she can get away with orange lips in his movie.

So, how can I help my neighbor? I don't refer to the persons living in the house next door, but the one out there like me. You may know him or her; a job lost to the recession a couple of years ago; the savings from bank accounts, IRA's, or 401k is about gone, and yet, like me, he or she hopes this new career will work out. Now the time has come to put our work out there, to see if we can make it without a big corporation paying us every two weeks. I'm there with them. Do I stumble at the end? Cave in to the temptation to seek work with an employer once more? These questions seem rather melodramatic to me, or maybe that should be, 'of me'. Trusting in what God has called me to do seems so much easier.

Using my retirement funds and savings to live on, risking my house, and paying to publish a couple of novels that I do not know will sell seems a bit like a poker player who hasn't looked at his cards going all in. Did I 'write' a straight flush or a hand full of junk cards? Actually, that's not a bad line; maybe I have learned something in these three or so years of working on this writing thing. Praise the Lord for this new life! The thought of going back to the old corporate job, no matter how good the pay, just makes the blood run cold.

Have a great week! I plan to write my first impressions of the editing job as soon as it arrives. Until then: trust in God, have a great Thanksgiving, and just believe!

Bucky

A Bit Slow This Week

The first work, The Rumble of Wheels, is going through the 4-week editing process. After what looked to be a nothing week, the promotional text and author bio arrived today, or perhaps yesterday. I don't recall checking the Member Dashboard yesterday though I try to do that on a daily basis. I will plead one small excuse. The roofers were here yesterday. My advice: do not try to write in your home office when the house is getting a new roof. The cats and I looked pretty much the same at the end of the day: hair standing on end, claws out, and big, staring eyeballs; you know, sort of like people do after the latest Paranormal movie.

Promotional text is a purchased package of descriptions for the novel and the author. The Createspace specialists make very short, short, and extended descriptions such as you might find on the dust jacket flaps for a book cover, or on the back book cover of paperbacks. I downloaded the descriptions and they did a far better job than I could manage to do in the questionnaires. The author bio even sounded interesting. The book description sounded like something I would buy at the bookstore. Hope they get it in sometime soon. I want to read this one! An odd feeling to be sure when I realize that I wrote the thing.

The work on the first of the Tribulation Warriors novels continues. I did not turn it in this week as I realized that through a bit of mucking around in it I had, well, mucked it up. The logical flow of events between Rome, Virginia, and Wyoming had become confusing even to the writer (oops, that's me!).

For your enjoyment, the promotional text for my first novel, and a bit about some fellow who thinks he can write.

Title: The Rumble of Wheels
Author: Bucky Denzil
This is a working draft of your promotional text. Please let us know what changes need to be made. Should you choose to revise on your own, please adhere to the character limitations next to each description. The sections that do not have a character limit included do not have a restricted word count.

Sentence Description (200 characters, including spaces) A unique work of Christian historical fiction, The Rumble of Wheels by Bucky Denzil relates the story of Toledo Ted, who becomes the new state marshal of western Nebraska.

Short Description (2,000 characters, including spaces) The Rumble of Wheels by Bucky Denzil tells the story of Theodore Lagenfells. When his English aristocratic father dies his elder brother becomes the titled heir, and with the help of four thugs, arranges for Ted’s passage to America to avoid any trouble. Just in time for the Panic of 1893, Ted lands in Boston and is recruited by Pinkerton’s Detective Agency, which has mysteriously been keeping track of him. Ted ventures out to explore the new country on horseback, but gets lost in the white birch forests of upstate New York. Exhausted, he promises his life to Jesus, and following the south shoreline of one of the Great Lakes, he arrives in Toledo, which is far short of his intended destination. From then on, he is dubbed Toledo Ted. Training for his job takes him to Chicago during the Columbian Exposition, and although posted to Denver, he never quite makes it to Colorado because of his habit of leaving the railroad to explore.

In Omaha, Governor Crounse arranges with the Pinkertons to hire Ted as the state marshal for western Nebraska, and sends him off to Sidney. Everyone seems to know Ted will be arriving in town, and Sam, a civil war veteran, preacher, teacher, and bounty hunter, gathers together some deputies. A team that includes Zeph De Beers, who is heir to a diamond fortune and originally from South Africa; Long Rain, a local farmer, farrier, and gunsmith who comes from the Nez Perce tribe in Idaho; and Bo, a farmer and blacksmith who tinkers with just about any machine or technology. However, the reader soon learns that someone wants Toledo Ted six feet under. Could it be the mastermind behind the recent train robberies? Or Jayne Crowe’s father, Big John, who is opposed to Ted’s interest in his daughter? Feelings can linger a long time in the West. Does the threat to Ted’s life have something to do with the Wyoming range war? Faith-filled and fun to read, this Western thriller is guaranteed to keep readers gripped until the very last page.

Extended Description

Narrated with a few anecdotes and comments by Long Rain, a member of the Nez Perce tribe, The Rumble of Wheels by Bucky Denzil tells the tale of Theodore “Toledo Ted” Lagenfells. Set in late nineteenth century America, the story opens with Toledo Ted, the new state marshal of western Nebraska, clinging precariously to a cliff face while he wonders how long it will be before Zeph, one of his deputies, doubles back to check on him. Birds are eating the seeds he gathered in his britches, and he can’t help but laugh—carefully. Following yet another stage robbery, Zeph had galloped after the crooks while Ted turned his horse, Artos, up the bluff to cut off the gang’s escape route. However, the dust from the prairie brought Artos to an abrupt halt, and after a short flight, Ted found himself in this predicament. Trying to swing a leg up only causes him to almost lose his grip several times, and he is sure it is only a matter of time before he drops into what he is certain is a vast ravine below. “Are you busy down there, marshal?” says a voice from above. Ted wonders if it might be God speaking to him, until he identifies an amused Long Rain, who happens to be another of his deputies. When Ted dares to look down, he discovers the ground is not too far away. A big ledge breaking up the cliff stands a mere foot higher than a fully outstretched Ted, who lets go with a grateful sigh, sending the birds fluttering in every direction. Flexing his hands to get some feeling back into them, Ted can see Zeph on the stage road below. The gang has made a successful getaway yet again. As Long Rain waits for his orders, Ted wonders what would happen if the quiet, yet capable Indian ever met up with his bombastic and inept brother in England, the new Lord Lagenfells, who is behind the very reason Ted landed in America in the first place. As time goes on, it’s obvious someone wants to end the new marshal’s life, but who could that be? The mastermind behind the robberies? Ted shows an interest in Jayne Crowe when he visits the Fair Breezes Ranch, a misnamed ranch if ever there was one. Does her father, Big John, want him killed? Ted doesn’t know, but when he finds out, it all has a lot to do with betrayal. “Toledo Ted is much like us,” says the author. “We pick up names we don’t like, are often wrong in our assumptions, and have friends and a God who cares about us.” Humorous, compelling, and full of dramatic action, The Rumble of Wheels is a fun and entertaining read.

Back Cover Text (250 words or less)
Everyone in Sidney seems to know that Toledo Ted will soon take over as the new state marshal for western Nebraska. He has quite a history. Born Theodore Lagenfells, he’s the second son of a late English lord. Unfortunately, with the help of a bunch of thugs, he was shipped off to America when his brother inherited the estate. Arriving in Boston in 1893, he was hired by Pinkerton’s Detective Agency, but on his way to Chicago to learn his job, he ended up in Toledo, completely lost, and turned to Jesus for guidance. Having a tendency to wander off, Ted eventually found himself in Omaha, and this is when Governor Crounse asked him to deal with the lawlessness in a town that has run rotten long enough. Meanwhile, a motley crew of deputies eagerly awaits Ted’s arrival, but it soon becomes apparent that someone wants the new marshal dead and buried. An action-packed thriller, The Rumble of Wheels shows God has a sense of humor, and will keep readers on the edge of their seats until the very last page.

Denzil “Bucky” Buckle served in the U.S. Marine Corps before joining the workforce as a dishwasher, cook, truck loader, dock foreman, security guard, cable installer, cabling systems designer, and finally a network administrator. Just before getting the boot after nearly twenty years with Cabela’s Inc., Bucky earned a BS in Information Technology. Raised in Nebraska, the author shares his life with two very particular and well-fed cats.

Author Biography (1,000 characters, including spaces) Raised in the panhandle of Nebraska, Denzil “Bucky” Buckle failed at studying nuclear engineering before he served in the U.S. Marine Corps in Grenada and Lebanon. He then joined the working world as a dishwasher, cook, truck loader, dock foreman, security guard, cable installer, cabling systems designer, and finally a network administrator. Just before getting the boot after nearly twenty years with Cabela’s Inc., Bucky earned a BS in Information Technology. He has written a Christian daily devotional for more than five years and is the author of The Rumble of Wheels, a Western thriller filled with faith, fun, and adventure. As long as the litter box and feeding duties are taken care of on a regular basis, Bucky is allowed to live with two cats.

First Person Author Biography (1,000 characters, including spaces) Raised in the panhandle of Nebraska, I failed at studying nuclear engineering before serving in the U.S. Marine Corps in Grenada and Lebanon. I then joined the working world as a dishwasher, cook, truck loader, dock foreman, security guard, cable installer, cabling systems designer, and finally a network administrator. Just before getting the boot after nearly twenty years with Cabela’s Inc., I earned a BS in Information Technology. I have written a Christian daily devotional for more than five years and am the author of The Rumble of Wheels, a Western thriller filled with faith, fun, and adventure. As long as the litter box and feeding duties are taken care of on a regular basis, I am allowed to live with two cats.

First Person Author Biography (140 characters, including spaces) Raised in Nebraska, I worked for 20 years with Cabela’s Inc. & earned a BS in Information Technology. The Rumble of Wheels is my first book.

A Week of Questions

Top o' the morning to ya! All about questions this week. A questionnaire for the promotional text creation. Another for the copyediting, and still anther that I cannot recall the purpose of. The week became rather busy, so maybe there were only two questionnaires. The questions involved...wait for it... what is the book about? I did find it easier to write a summary, but still... Kind of hard to summarize a novel in only a few sentences or paragraphs. I guess the Cliff Notes version will have to be written up by someone who is a lot better at it. Other questions had to do with me. Aha, that was the other one - cover creation.

What does a person write about himself? Looking at the many novels I have in my library it becomes obvious that a 20-page biography is out of the question. There is so much to tell, but quite a bit may not be all that interesting to someone looking for a new book to purchase for that long flight back home. I tried, just for fun, to write up a paragraph in the manner that is seen on books in the store. I'm paying up front for this cover creation service; should I be trying to do their job for them?

Both numbers arrived this week. The ISBN assignments and the LCCN. A writer has the option of accepting the free ISBN assignment from Createspace or purchasing one through another service. The number can only be used for this publishing project. You cannot use the same number for a hardcover edition with Harper Collins for example. (Of course I'm hoping for a hardcover deal too!) I saw no reason not to simply accept the free ISBN. The LCCN has a fee and is not necessary for publishing. Of course I want the Library of Congress to catalog my first novel. A kind of vanity thing perhaps, but I paid the fee. Once assigned by Createspace, the writer simply acknowledges the number. It ain't like you can ask for a different one.

The link to upload the file became active this week too! This is the file, the novel, the ticket to fame and loot. Okay, so right now it isn't exactly a page-turner. A lot of copyediting will be needed first. My written voice will not make the bestseller lists without a lot of help from editors. Not a problem, just uploading the file seemed like a milestone in the process. No special formatting involved. Createspace accepts many formats and software. I used Microsoft Word 2010 and the docx file type, but the text is the main thing. After that, the wait begins. 4 weeks to edit a 98,000 word manuscript, and then back to work for me.

In the waiting time, I will be starting the process for the second novel, the first in a different series, and updating the blog on that as well. I wrote both novels at the same time simply because my mind seems to work that way. Some sort of attention-deficit thing perhaps, but I didn't do one novel in order and then start another as some writers do. To use an old-timey IT reference: you might say that some writers are serial printers and I am more of a parallel printer type.

Cover proofs, promotional text, and other things will probably arrive in the waiting time too. I did select a book size from the standard sizes. If a writer included photographs, I could see specifying a custom size (with a fee). As my work is simply the black text on the white (cream-colored actually) page novel, I looked on my bookshelf; found a size I liked that matched one of the choices, and selected the check box. There are many more options, some with fees and some at no cost. Look at books that caught your eye in the store or library. You may want to pay more to get exactly what you want.

At one of our local library's dead book sales, I discovered that a title on the spine makes a big difference too. If you don't have that big name to put on the spine like "Stephen King" or "James Patterson", the title becomes even more important. I don't recognize "Loewen", but Lies my Teacher Told Me, with the first word in big red letters over a scenic background grabs my attention. I use that book as an example because even on the shelf above my writing desk it stands out quickly. The little things are important.

Have a great week and God bless!

Bucky

Publishing the New Way

Three years and a bit in the making, I began the process to publish my first novel this week. Not the traditional process, mind you, but the self-published way. The more traditional method is to seek an agent or publisher, send a cover letter, wait, and hopefully an agent will respond wanting to see a full proposal. I visited many a website researching this method and couldn't help but feel pretty much unwanted. More than one literally said, "Don't call us; we'll call you!" I had thought that an old Hollywood cliche, but I now stand corrected.

Of course the first thing to note about self-publishing is that you don't have to literally print the book all by yourself. The publisher I selected offers many options for editing, describing, marketing, and illustrating books. One thing I did not see was an option to print my book in a nice hardcover format. As a first-time author, I may not have seen that going the traditional way either. Having not used this blog for too many postings yet, I decided yesterday that I would give you a week by week log (on a weblog no less!) of what goes on with this process.

On Tuesday, I signed up for an account with Createspace, the publisher mentioned earlier. The following day I received my first call. Bryan, led me through some initial setup on the web account and I created a horrendously difficult password that, alas, I had to write down - a major no-no from my days in the IT department. I'll get that memorized as soon as possible and destroy the paper copy. Later in the day the Createspace account notified me to take the next step and enter my personal or business account information for receiving royalty payments. Unfortunately, the payments won't begin until after the first book is published. There are no advances in the self-publishing world. I guess self-publishing means that I get to trust in God to take care of my "self" until the book starts selling copies.

During the initial consultation, Bryan asked a few questions and set up a meeting with the next level, the publishing consultant, who would call me. The phone meeting with Sarah took place on Friday and the first thing I discovered is that I am a bit of a disaster when it comes to verbally selling my own book. Listening to my verbal synopsis of the book, you might wonder whether I actually wrote the thing! I suppose that after using more than 98,000 words to write the novel, I am allowed to have a little trouble describing it in a few hundred words. In any case, Createspace offers services to take care of my shortcomings in that area as well.

Among the other services I selected, including cover design, interior layout, book description, marketing, Library of Congress Control Number, and others, one service stands out - copyediting. I had thought that traditional publishers would be all over this, but I read in one book that this is no longer the case. Strangely, the book listed something like seven different editors who apparently don't do the kind of editing a first-time novelist really needs. Remember the Jack Nicholson part in Wolf? Yeah, it kind of led me to believe that publishers did that kind of thing. Anyway, Createspace does offer basic and comprehensive copyediting. Although I believe that I have the talent to be the next bazillion-copy, best-selling novelist - just like every other first-time author - I can read my copy and tell that it needs something to make it read more like the great novels you can find in your bookstore.

Finally, I started two projects on the member dashboard. One for the first novel, The Rumble of Wheels: A Toledo Ted Adventure, and another for my second novel. As this process moves forward, I will do weekly updates each Saturday until the publishing date. Next week I am to expect contact from the design team assigned to my book. The damage thus far: just over $3,000 for the options mentioned above. A more experienced (or less verbally and graphically challenged) author might need to purchase less to get started. As a first-timer, I decided to risk more to get the professional help I need (pun intended).

The grace of God be with you this week!

Bucky

Rules for Recently Rib Racked

A few hours ago, I found out that my old high school chum, Jim, had cracked a rib while doing an Endo on his bicycle. This came as no small surprise to me as none of my memories from 30 years or so back had indicated that Jim would be one to become involved in full contact bicycle gymnastics as a hobby, or even as a serious sport. In thinking of his new condition, various dark and humorous thoughts immediately sprang to mind. As only the truly sadistic sod would try to make a friend laugh during such a time, I jotted down the following rules for the friends of those having suffered a recent rib or torso injury.

1. Under no circumstances should the patient’s friends, or soon to be former friends, gather to exchange jokes and laughs with the patient. Jokes are banned for the first six weeks of recovery. Patients may find friends who have never before shown a talent for joke telling to be suddenly overcome with an urge to share the latest joke, even to the point of making up new jokes on the spot. This should be strongly discouraged. As soon as I heard the bad news from Jim, I immediately thought of a joke about a fortune teller and a kumquat; never mind that I cannot recall jokes on a normal basis and have never made one up as far back as anyone can remember. As the patient nears recovery he or she may notice this strange condition among his former friends drying up to the point of vanishing entirely as soon as the first good belly laugh is observed. This is of course assuming that the patient hasn’t by this time evicted all but those friends possessed with the humorous demeanor of an undertaker or hanging judge.

2. Sneezing is out – as in all the way out. In fact this would be a good time to discuss with the patient’s primary physician the possibility of nose removal or of simply blocking up the sinus cavities with Jell-O or Silly Putty or some such substance. As the mere mention of sneezing can cause an urge to sneeze to start a tickle in the nasal passages, all talk or writing about sneezing, sniffles, allergies, pepper, talcum powder, dust, or pet dander should stop immediately.

3. Allergy season must be cancelled at once. No patient suffering from rib or torso injuries should be allowed to participate in allergy season.

4. Sneeze-causing pets must be shaved immediately or dipped in an industrial-strength depilatory. It is a well-known fact that pets will immediately shed at least one coat upon sensing a patient with rib injuries or torso sutures in the area.

5. If a sneeze has become inevitable, it is the responsibility of all of the patient’s friends to assist in gathering up all sutures, staples, and assorted body parts ejected by the blast. Children should be restrained from chasing down and playing with the bouncy parts if at all possible. The patient is excused from this as he or she will be, as the physicians like to say, “Holding on for dear life” with all available limbs and appendages.

6. A sack should be kept handy to prevent small children and those with weak constitutions from viewing the facial expression of the patient who must cough or sneeze while recovering from rib injuries. While the sack does little to prevent the ejection of various dangly body parts from unsuppressed sneezes, the expression of the suffering patient my cause others to “seize up” or have nightmares.

7. If possible, spouses should refrain from ‘cheering up’ the patient with various comedy routines and Three Stooges rip-offs until a later date.

8. Persons bringing old Bill Cosby tapes as get well gifts should be immediately clubbed. CD’s and DVD’s should be the minimum technology allowed. What century do they think this is anyway?

Denzil “Bucky” Buckle – by whatever name or derogatory term you knew him from his former life, served five weeks in Mercy Hospital in Dubuque, Iowa in late 1998, including one simply smashing week in the Intensive Care ward. His observations of recovery and hospital time have been published only in his blogs and fondest nightmares. He took up writing as a profession after getting the ax for nearly 20 years of mostly loyal service to Cabela’s Inc., a major outdoor sporting goods retailer. His first novel, The Rumble of Wheels: A Toledo Ted Adventure should be completed within the month.

Beaten and Thumped!

You might think that Nebraska was playing the Cornhuskers today so much damage did the team do to itself, but you would be wrong. Texas beat Nebraska as well, and the officiating crew did its part to help.

Of course when 'your' team loses, it seems that all close calls go against your side, but one catch ruled as out-of-bounds did prove to be a blown call. Unfortunately, that one catch was one of the few that Nebraska receivers could hang onto this afternoon. The Nebraska Stonehanders gave away 8 dropped passes, no less than 4 of which could have been touchdown catches. This is one that not only got away, but was given away wholesale.

Texas played a great game and probably should be ranked in the top 25 again in this week's polls. Nebraska will fall quite a ways down in the polls as the team proved quite unable to sustain its number 5 ranking. A Cornhusker team chant of "We're unworthy!" might be appropriate as the losing was a team effort all the way. Fumbles continue to plague the team, along with the dropped passes, which might point to an all-around stone hands problem team wide. On a 5° day that might be understandable, but the weather laid out a fine football climate in Lincoln on this day. The Nebraska Cornhuskers simply blew it.

As an armchair coach and analyst, I naturally have all of the answers. As my old frosh team football coaches would be glad to tell you: It's because the Nebraska team played just like I used to...poorly.

Bucky

Corporameia, the Land of Corporate Silliness

I will be out of the office today and returning someday. Just kidding, my office is in my home, so I am not out of it very much… except for when I am just plain “out of it” as they say. An errant out of the office message from a friend serving his time in Corporameia brought back memories of my days in that land of corporate silliness.

Back in the day, we had to send the ubiquitous Out of the Office or OOTO message every time we left the corporate headquarters to work in another location, or simply to be out of the office for vacation or illness or even feigned death. To my knowledge, I was the first one in our company to use the acronym, OOTO, to save typing time. That little grape is one that should never have rolled out of the wine press. Had I realized the ugly little raisin that misplaced grape would become, I would have tossed it back in to be smashed.

As with all well-intentioned, but ill-advised acronyms, this one grew completely out of hand, or OOH, you might say to save words. Little OOTO soon unleashed the cruel and twisted creative spirit of acronymitis within the company. Out of the Office messages with OOO for Out of Office; OOT for Out of Town, OFTD for Out for the Day, and even OOFSA for Out of freakin’ stupid Acronyms began to circulate in a perfect maelstrom of acronym inflation. Now in most cases the resulting stream, or is that scream, of creativity would be fun to watch. But the lowly OOTO message became automated.

As the company progressed through the various software packages such as Groupwise and Outlook, the ability to place an automatic OOTO response on every incoming message turned the monster loose. While it became one of those corporate requirements from on high to have an automatic OOTO response, no one thought of what might happen if a few people all left for a conference at the same time. All that was needed was one innocent message to one of the absent group, and a whirlwind of automatic OOTO responses would bounce endlessly between e-mail accounts until the server shutdown or all inboxes were filled.

To combat this menace of OOTO reproduction, the e-mail recipients would create Out of the Office folders and rules to place all incoming OOTO messages safely away from any useful notice. As the department grew to an unwieldy size as with many corporate IT departments, the OOTO folders came to be checked less and less. Soon, bosses could be found wandering the halls of Corporameia, that land of corporate silliness many of us have come to find ourselves in, asking such amusing questions as: “Where are all my people?” A corporate Good Samaritan would stop from time to time and ask them, “Have you checked your group’s OOTO folder?” The boss would then retreat to his or her office to wade through the countless OOTO messages to find out that the entire department had scheduled an offsite team-building session to discuss better communication with the boss.

Ah, I’m glad the endless days in Corporameia are behind me now!

Bucky

The Physical Danger of Writing

My former employer caused my first mid-life crisis by becoming... my former employer. There's nothing quite like the loss of a long held job in your 40's to cause a good, full-blown mid-life crisis. The second crisis came not so much from that sad event, but from what I decided to do with it. Who knew that taking up writing for a living, at least I hope the 'making a living' part starts soon, could be so hard on the body?

After a year and a half of reading, researching and writing, I have got into the wrong shape. The shape of a pear or cantaloupe is generally not considered to be "in shape" for fitness purposes. As the aches and pains of the sedentary lifestyle had started to weigh on me, literally, I figured that I might as well trade them for the aches and pains of starting a workout program. Time to dust off the old Bowflex and exercise bike in the basement!

First discovery: pedaling a stationary bike in my unfinished basement is dreadfully dull; not quite as dull as writer's block is, but pretty dull just the same. The second workout was simply grabbing some old A/V components off the basement shelves and getting something to watch and listen to while pedaling away.

Second discovery: getting past the second workout is a victory. Almost anyone can do that first workout. The couch-potato body is taken by surprise; plenty of energy is available from all the stored carbs; and the most serious ache waits in the future. The next day of course, the invoice from that first workout comes due. Getting out of bed, walking, and other simple tasks become agonizing as the body complains about the unexpected exertion from the day before. That second workout, usually two days later, is the one where you truly get started on the program. Waiting longer than two days runs the risk of having another "first workout" and going through that same agonizing "day after". It is before the second workout that many of us decide to stop the program before it really gets started.

Third discovery: computer games are of dubious value to the body in taking a break from writing. The mind gets a chance to relax, but the body stays in front of the computer in that same ergonomically erroneous position as it does when writing. The cat is of no help in this at all. He sleeps for hours beside the computer monitor, gets up, stretches and takes off at the run. I sit for hours at the computer, get up, try to stretch, and fall over from sitting in one spot too long. My breaks must be frequent and involve some sort of activity. Filling the pet dish or cleaning the litter box are both cat-approved break activities.

Fourth discovery: The cat is of no help in working out in the basement either. The look he gives me is that same blank stare you might give your brother if he were to park his brand new Ford Fiesta* in the monkey cage at the zoo... and walk away leaving the doors open. If I had six cats, I could only imagine them calling to each other,

"Hey Felix, come check this out! Our liter box maintenance staff is pedaling for all he's worth and getting nowhere at all!"

"Why do you suppose he does that, Mort?"

"Dunno, but I think we need to stare at him until he stops."

Cats, I've noticed, feel no social pressure to workout or stay in shape, but are fascinated by my efforts for as long as it takes me to workout, or about fifteen minutes at my present fitness level.

Bucky

*Ford Fiesta chosen at random for its alliterative value. Not a shameless plug to get a giant corporation to sponsor my blog!

I Lost My Job Yesterday!

Good morning! Today is the first day of a new life for me! What happened yesterday still hurts, that will heal with time and a good dose of listening to the Holy Spirit. I have sat up and laid awake trying to think of the reason why I was selected to be among those let go, but that is a useless exercise; I may never find out the true reason or reasons. I have read and reread the company announcements and compared what was said with those I know lost their jobs and just cannot reconcile any one set of criteria, other than the number. Those of us let go are "honored" to be one-third of ten percent, usually I don't do that well in raffles and prize drawings. If a raffle awards 3.3 percent prizes, I usually don't get anything!

Today, I start anew. I slept in, though that will not continue, I read the Omaha World-Herald, and I studied the Bible for longer than I usually do in the mornings. At 0724, when I am usually on the way to work, I am just sitting down with a cup of coffee to start writing. Today, I plan to list my writing projects for at least the next 3 months, some will take longer than that, but starting them is the main thing; I am going to work on some cabling down in the basement to get ready for my new Internet service, and work on some cleanup. I also need to make a trip to the bank, which unlike most days, I can do at any time. As I move forward, and past this perceived humiliation (heavy emphasis on perceived), I will no doubt find many advantages to self-employment. While I don't enjoy the golden parachute of the CEO's and other executives, you may note in the article that a severance package has been offered. I have a parachute, even if not a golden one! However, one of my first thoughts about that is ... God is my strength and shield! I will not of course refuse the severance, but I will trust in God first.

How God works in seemingly quiet ways! During my cold about a week ago, I rebuilt my office in another room. A lot of work for a sick person, though a cold is by no means incapacitating. The good thing is that now I am set up with a lot of desk space, two pc's, and a couple of printers. I did mess up on one printer though. I thought only of the advantage of having the power switch on a strip near at hand... and then plugged the power strip into my little UPS. Needless to say, the first time I fired up the laser printer last night, the UPS gave an angry "squeep!" and started to shut down. That will be another little project for today.

Did I mope about last night? You bet... while making chocolate chip cookies. There is something very comforting about baking or cooking something after a traumatic event, and that activity really helped me last night. Oh, boy! Talk about the outpouring of support! We all hate to see this happen to anyone, and I only hope that I can respond as well when someone else needs this kind of support. I pray that no one else loses their job at Cabela's or any other employer. Sidney will no doubt see some very serious conversations around the water coolers, bakeries, and coffee shops today. Today, my recovery begins, the town and others may take a bit more time, and I will do my best to write supportive and encouraging words for all. I want to thank all of you for the notes of support, and all of those who stopped by yesterday to lend a helping ear.

A note on the "perceived" humiliation. We are taught from early in our lives that a job is the thing to have. A grown man, and now grown women too, support their families and themselves through having a job. A job loss was then, and is now, a traumatic event for a family and for a man (this one in particular) or woman. However, I did nothing wrong and this was not a firing for some cause. While it seems humiliating to be singled out in this way, I need to get past that and see this for the wonderful opportunity and message from God that it is. Not that long ago, I did ask God to show me beyond any doubt when He wanted me to start writing. The sign may be painful and unexpected at the time of my receiving it, but there is no doubt in my mind that it has arrived and cannot be missed. Ouch! Yes, Lord, I hear you loud and clear!

May God strengthen those who need Him on this day,

Bucky

Running on and on today

Good Saturday morning to you! Wow, the prices at the retail stores are really biting hard these days. It doesn't seem to matter which store; they are all biting the wallet hard. The question that must come to mind is: if the prices of many things continues to rise, will my paycheck see a similar rise? Probably not. We will get some letter from one of the company officers about how we must control costs in order to stay competitive in this tough economy. The number one cost they are referring to will of course be employee pay raises. However, we cannot give out pay raises and price increases all willy-nilly or you could get a boom town kind of thing going where everyone earns a lot, but everything costs a lot too. As you can tell, I don't have the answers to the economic troubles. My understanding of economics and how it all works is not going to win any prize. Like you, I read the news and magazine articles and trust those with titles and/or letters behind their names to explain things to me. Is there a possibility that some or all of them are misleading me, deliberately or otherwise? Yes, that is one of the reasons why my faith is in God. When a person is among what some would call the "little" people, or others might call the middle or working class, we simply don't have a lot of personal knowledge of the large institutions that we hope are managing the even larger things well, like the economy, for example. Now hold up a sec, isn't God even larger, or more powerful, or more unknowable than any human institution or activity? Yes and no. Certainly God is all-powerful, but unknowable? Imagine if the federal government had a direct message pipeline to your heart or mind, a pipeline that you knew was trustworthy, wouldn't it be easier to know the workings of that institution? We come to trust God with everything that we have, and He accepts us just as we are when we first believe in His Son. The institutions of this world do not know our thoughts, and would probably want to change some of them if they did know. While the powers of this world seek to control us as a population, the real power in the universe wants to have a personal relationship with each of us... on an individual basis. How incredible and wonderful is that?

I am going off the deep end today. I read about the passage of the rescue or bailout package through our government, and like many am left wondering what it all means for me. The fact that a new car loan might be easier in a month or so doesn't mean that I should run out and buy one. While I ponder the potential effects of the latest move by our government, I wonder if there is a book that I can read to better understand the institutions and bureaucracies of the government. God gave us a wonderful handbook into His desires for us, His love for us, and His Son, who came to save us. The Bible is a fairly imposing book for length and complexity, and yet is also short and simple. Compare that with the Code of Federal Regulations, the rules our government and its citizens are supposed to abide by. Don't run out to buy one, Title 47 covering telecommunications is more than twice the size of the Bible and comprises only a small part of the CFR. God's handbook looks much simpler when compared to the rules handed down by our government, and for content the Bible is hands down much more valuable.

Actually, if everyone obeyed the Bible, we wouldn't need the CFR at all! A person who loved everyone else would not try to drive a truckload of hazardous material through a town. A person who loves doesn't try to embezzle from an institution. A government wouldn't need extensive rules to govern if all of us faithfully obeyed the two important commandments as stated by Jesus: love God with all of your heart, your mind, and your strength. And equally important, love your neighbor as yourself. That is not an exact quote, but you will recognize the words from your reading in the Gospels.

What other news do we have today, since I am going on at such length this morning. My cold is finally letting me live again, though a sniffle and hack or two remains today. Our favorite football team, the Huskers, stands a good chance of breaking another long streak as the 5th-ranked Missouri Tigers come to Lincoln. Missouri's team has not won at Lincoln for like, 30 years, but the decline of our college team may be evident today. Even with a new coach, it will take some time for Nebraska to regain a place among the top teams in the nation. So which is more important, the news about the economy or the football team. In most households in Nebraska, the football game will take precedence until sometime on Monday, after the game is well discussed of course. Perhaps in this case, a sports diversion is good for us, the news about the economy will take a lot of explanation and pondering. I haven't had the courage to check my 401K balance in the past two weeks; call me a coward if you will, but I figure there isn't much that I can do about it anyway. The time to move money out of stocks would have been about a month ago, long before I had any knowledge of the "panic". The worries of today are more than enough for me; trying to gaze into the economic crystal ball only leaves me with a headache.

Alright then! I think I have rambled on enough for one day. Let us think on the glory of God today!

Bucky

1st Essay - American Literature Class 2007

The Nature of American Literature
American literature is a form of writing that in its early form records the thoughts and experiences of the explorers and inhabitants of the New World and especially the parts which later came to be known as the United States. The two distinct groups of people, one which discovered the New World and the other who lived there already, met each other in the various ways one might expect. At times the groups met peaceably and established a relationship where each learned from the other; at other times the meeting produced exploitation or immediate hostility. The root works of American Literature set the stage for later works from those authors with the leisure to write more than journal entries or reports of their activities. Defined by the meeting of two quite different cultures, the early American literature uniquely records a period of history where heroic figures behaved both courageously and despicably, causing a great nation to form, and destroying, by intent or accident, many tribes of native peoples.
The first recorded arrival of explorers in the New World from Europe in 1492 comes from the accounts of Christopher Columbus (1492) and those in his fleet. The descriptions of wonderful lands and beautiful inhabitants begin from the first meeting.
“All that I saw were young men, none of them more than 30 years old, very well built, of very handsome bodies and very fine faces…” (p. 39)
The descriptions of the native peoples continued later with the arrival of other explorers
The pastoral descriptions of Giovanni da Verrazano (1524) tell of a beautiful and generous people:
“Among them were two kings, who were as beautiful of stature and build as I can possible describe.” (p. 32)
Verrazano may have unwittingly set the tone for modern advertising in his narrative of meeting a friendly people in the region of Newport, Rhode Island.
The explorers often described great beauty while at the same time enslaving or destroying the objects of their description. Much of the destruction came through accident as the discovery and study of communicable disease would not occur for some time. Sadly, other destruction and enslavement happened quite intentionally through the dehumanization of the native tribes. Those who would endeavor to communicate with the natives began the evolution of the hero figure from domination and destruction to coexistence and even acceptance.
One of the first larger than life heroes established the first English colony at Jamestown in what would be known as Virginia. Capt. John Smith lived a life of adventure worthy of the epic heroes in later romantic works of fiction such as James Fennimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans and The Deerslayer. Some of the events in Smith’s life, such as the tale of Pocahontas, have come under scrutiny in later years as perhaps embellished or fictional works designed to lure more colonists to America. However, the independent and self-reliant hero character, which many view as personified in John Smith, reappears countless times in American Literature to this day. The educational importance of these works is in the background descriptions of settlements, indigenous tribes, and even actual historical characters included in the settings of the stories. The well-researched works of literature record conditions of history in an agreeable fashion for the reader to learn, in contrast to the dry, academic tomes of historians, anthropologists, and archeologists which may confirm or refute the descriptions of literature.
Too much credit has perhaps been given to the pioneers pushing the frontier back from the first coastal settlements. Accounts of a fictional nature have served at times to demonize individuals, tribes, or an entire race by portraying them as villains. Accounts of explorer’s and settlers attitudes and actions in some cases cast a different light on the tales of the brave, but struggling settler or explorer in constant danger of life and limb.
“You will do well to try to inoculate the Indians by means of blankets in which smallpox patients have slept, as well as by every other method that can serve to extirpate this execrable race. I should be very glad if your scheme of hunting them down by dogs could take effect.” (Amherst, 1732, p. 232)

This quote, taken out of context, seems shocking in both its hatred and underhanded means. The reasons behind the attitude are not clear; perhaps vengeance for loss or hostility may have brought General Amherst to such a hardness of heart. Compare the suggested use of biological warfare then with our horror of the potential for biological terrorism, or the use of weapons of mass destruction, in the present time. The reader of American Literature does not like to see both sides display the same vile methods; one side, the hero, must be above the perception of evil, though he or she may employ devious methods in a good cause.
The roots of American Literature illustrate how differences between groups of people can turn to hatred and violence. However, the heroic figure of another type emerges in early American Literature. This heroic figure does not stand against the tide, but swims through and emerges on top of it. A very real person, Samson Occom, a Mohican, learned English and Christianity through the efforts of missionaries in the colonial time. Occom learned the language and doctrine of Christianity so well that, upon being called to minister at the hanging of a fellow Mohican convicted of murder, he spoke a sermon which became a colonial bestseller. Samson Occom founded what became Dartmouth College.
Two types of heroic figure, one who encounters obstacles and stands or fights with courage, skill, and daring, and another who does not fight, but rises through acceptance and education. Both types of hero will be seen many times in American Literature. In what might be seen as a spirit of atonement, the heroic figure, male or female, may have a dark past or commit an act of sin or evil of which he or she repents. The heroic figure will then strive to learn or fight, perhaps both, to emerge victorious to gain independence over the evil in the world. The heroic figure in the form of a real person, such as Christopher Columbus and Capt. John Smith, gives way later to the fictional heroes of Cooper, Irving, and Hawthorne. The hero figure becomes one of skill in the wilderness, acceptance and savoir faire among both colonists and Indians, strength in moral dilemmas, and respected by all.

Saddam

A major figure in our lives has passed from the scene today, Saddam Hussein. Whether you loved, hated, admired or were disgusted by him or his actions, he is no longer upon the earth with us. Of course, the world, that is the non-Muslim world, and especially the U.S. and Israel will be threatened with jihad because of this. However, since we have been living under jihad for the past 50 years or more, we may not notice the difference. Millions will take to the streets in the Arab world to make noise and burn effigies of whomever they feel (or have been told) has caused their problems. The appropriate response is probably a state funeral since, like it or not, he was the leader of a country. To commemorate his passing, I suggest buying and reading a copy of Nonie Darwish's Now They Call Me Infidel at Amazon or your favorite bookstore.

Bucky

The Comfort of Losing

The Comfort of Losing

On an overlook atop the cliff, a man sat on the edge, staring into the distance. He gazed upon distant mountain peaks, beautiful in the evening light with occasional thunderstorms moving through the mountain passes, little juggernauts dominated by the peaks they slipped around. The random flash of lightning would from time to time light the shaded side of peaks, providing a show of God’s majesty on Earth.
What he couldn’t see lay in shadow below him. Not far below, but far enough for someone to die from the fall. The remains of two bodies lay tangled in the underbrush, their parts scattered by wild animals, scavengers from the forest. The man could not see the bodies, but he knew because he had caused them to be there.
“It was just too easy!”
Emerson Simmons shouted out his confession of guilt into an ignorant wilderness. Son of a successful immigrant, product of an Ivy League education, and beloved of his parents, he should have stood over the gulf of opportunity; instead he stood over a cliff with the two bodies of his own guilt staring back at him from below.
Standing a bit over six feet and considered attractive by women, he should never have come to this decision. His father had preached to his children about sin, condemnation, and judgment; he should have spoken more on grace and forgiveness. Emerson knew only the heavy burden of atonement for his own great sin; he prepared to make that sacrifice.

Laura Santangeline ran the steep trail to the overlook, breathing hard from the good exertion, and running with the confidence of experience… and ignorance of what stood in her way atop the cliff ahead of her. Laura enjoyed the freedom from a loneliness shoved aside whenever it chose to intrude upon her bliss. Like the man at the midpoint of her weekly trail run, she too enjoyed a good education, physical beauty, and what the world considers a successful life. Money had not purchased happiness for her; she found only temporary satisfaction at the spending end of her debit card.
Something about the man on the overlook platform caused her to slow. His attitude appeared out of alignment with the panorama behind the viewing platform. The ocean behind the mountain peaks glowed in the setting sun, now half obscured by the horizon. Laura noticed the slim, white needle of the Rangel’s Point lighthouse and watched as the light shone dimly at first, and then growing to a bright point before fading once again. A few scattered rain showers glided solemnly around the mountains; lighting the valleys below with the awe inspiring tongues of lightning.
This she took in at a glance while noticing the posture of a man prepared to end his life. The speed of reaction leaves no time for conscious decisions; as the man began his final run, Laura jumped on his back. The commitment made; both would fall or both would live; the sudden attack surprised the man and caused him to stumble, for a moment he almost carried both of them over the edge, but fell prostrate with Laura on top of him, just feet short of the edge.
“Will you talk for a while?” she panted, still winded from the climb.
“Yea, if you’ll get off me,” he appeared more surprised and impatient than anything else; as though she had interrupted a job he needed to finish.
The natural question came as she rolled off him, “Why are you trying to kill yourself?”
“I deserve death,” rising to stride about the platform, he left her lying on the ground.
“Usually I’m the one who decides that.” She had to keep him occupied. If he tried for the cliff again, she wouldn’t have the element of surprise and the man looked quite capable of throwing her aside in his quest to end his own life.
“You?” this with raised eyebrows and a slight smile brightening his face, “why not God?”
A religious nut, she thought, seeking punishment for some crime.
“I’m the county prosecutor; I get to decide what punishment based on the crime committed and how it was carried out.” More talk, and he appeared to be responding, ready to debate her.
“Not a religious nut, just a long tutelage from my father and mother. Exodus tells me I deserve death.”
She had him engaged now and hurried to keep him so, wondering if he had read her mind.
“Matthew’s Gospel tells you that all sins have been paid for, you deserve death but Jesus paid the price for it.” Her eyebrow went up this time; she could not help but be struck by the incongruity of an unbeliever, an atheist, such as herself speaking the very words a Christian might use to convert someone.
“Very good, my dad never emphasized the New Testament, always the Law, something you should be familiar with...”
She had him now; her study of the ancient laws had earned her special commendations in Law School.
“Your dad quoted you ‘an eye for an eye’ but did he also remind you of Isaiah 1:18, that verse should put a different light on your unforgivable sin.” She winced a bit; getting him back on the reason for his suicide wasn’t what she wanted to do.
“I enjoy reasoning together! There was a professor at Dartmouth who spoke on reasoning and used that verse to open his lecture; unfortunately it went downhill from there, no amount of coffee could keep the class awake.” This time a wider smile as he remembered the long ago lecture.
“Dr. Felton McSchwegle, that man could have cured insomnia with one lecture! You didn’t know I was in that same class did you?” They had a connection; no matter how remote or that neither knew the other had been there at the time. She could establish a rapport.
“No! All this time and you arrive just in time to witness my execution.” He turned toward the cliff.
She watched his face settle into that calm resignation, and then made one last attempt. “You do realize that God didn’t exempt the individual when he commanded, Thou shalt not commit murder. Murdering yourself will only add to your debt.”
He stopped and turned, apparently at a loss for words. Retreating from the edge; he looked at his hands, and the words finally came.
“It shouldn’t have been that easy, I didn’t plan it, never even thought about it. They stood right there holding each other and looking at the ring. The moment held a beauty I could not stand. And I pushed them, not hard… they went over without a sound. It shouldn’t be so easy…” he trailed off, “to kill someone…”
Their positions had shifted; the last rays of the sun caught him with her shadow. The monster stood right in line with her and the cliff edge, she thought suddenly. Her hair stood on end and her breathing quickened at the realization. Time really did slow at moments of heightened awareness, her clients had been right, but now what? From trying to save him, she now felt disgust, a desire to cleanse herself, and also a need to give him a clear lane to the edge. No need for a lengthy trial, he had just confessed, why not let him fulfill his intent.
“I cannot kill anymore.”
“Why stop now? Who did you kill and why not kill me too? No witnesses!” she yelled at him, losing control in her reaction to the near touch of that grim spectre. Shaking and sweating, she angrily swore at her body’s reaction to danger. She felt an urgent desire to relieve herself, but wasn’t about to drop her trousers in front of this man. How odd that she had begun to feel an affinity, even an attraction, for him just moments ago.
The target of her anger and hatred robbed her of the chance for retribution; he sobbed into his hands, crouched down with the pain of his emotions. Twilight fell at last, and she could no longer hate him, realizing that he really didn’t understand why he had committed the act.
Speaking tenderly, she led him over to a natural stone bench, kindly set there by Providence, seemingly just for the purpose of comforting the lost.

Pastor Bob #2

This one seems to end too soon, but again I'll go ahead and throw it out there. One good exercise after the writing class would be to take these first two stories and give them an update based on what I have learned.

Bucky

Pastor Bob

Somewhere back in the dim ages of time, Pastor Bob had taken up shooting to relax before his Sunday morning sermon. We often asked Pastor Bob how it was that someone so given to stage jitters would become a minister of a fairly large church. He would always say the same thing,
“We’re just called to it, we can’t stop,” he would intone.
The shooting group had never figured out which “we” the pastor was referring to, but this particular “we” would nod our heads gravely, just as though Pastor Bob had imparted some gem of wisdom to us and we had fully understood. Pastor Bob would then launch into some tale of hunting legerdemain, complete with stalking skill, camouflage and concealment, and racks. We cheerfully listened to his tales, each of us having a store of our own. However, we had one problem with Pastor Bob. His tales were the truth. If he stalked and shot a doe, it didn’t grow antlers over the years; it never ghosted through the woods, or shook leaves from the trees with its snorting. The pastor’s deer, remained deer and his skills were real. We just couldn’t compete with that. If a fellow added a point or two to his rack, or his deer grew in size and stealth over the years, we could compete on those grounds. But if a doe remained a doe over the years of retelling, how could a guy compete with that?
Pastor Bob was weird in other ways too; his house did not sport so much as a single antler. Our houses sprouted little antlers on the shed, a bit larger ones in the den, sometimes a truly magnificent set in the living room. Usually the truly magnificent set was found on the cover of the Cabela’s catalog, much as we would have liked to have it on the wall. There were no dead things in Pastor Bob’s house either. Stuffed deer heads, shiny dead fish, a former resident of the African plains; none of these manly decorations were to be found in the parsonage. Yet despite his lack of the manly characteristics of your normal hunter, Pastor Bob’s hunting skills stood head and shoulders above our own.
This of course led to more than a few jokes about the ‘homicidal’ tendencies of the clergy. Pastor Bob took these well, often laughing along, for the first 473 times. After that a pained expression could sometimes be seen on the pastor’s face as though he were engaged in another battle for his soul with the powers of darkness. Sometimes he got this same expression after dinner at our favorite roadside diner, but we put that down to coincidence. Somehow the rumor spread that the pastor, a Marine Recon combat veteran, had several confirmed kills on his service record. The pastor for his part neither confirmed nor denied the rumors, but seemed pleased when the homicidal jokes suddenly died out.
Another fine day at the shooting range dawned and Ed Monson and I met Pastor Bob at the range. Ed, short for Edmund, possessed a rather sarcastic sense of humor that could be fun at times but was mostly just irritating. Ed was the wisest of the wiseacres and the smartest of the smart-aleks. Taking him to a fine restaurant was a sure way to cut your stay short and experience at least one embarrassing apology. Ed had a smart mouth and he couldn’t keep it shut.
“Morning pastor, killed anything yet today?” Ed asked in place of a pleasant greeting.
Alarmed, I reached over to remind Ed of his manners with a playful tap to the back of his head.
“Easy brother, you don’t know your own strength at times,” Pastor Bob gently scolded me, “You might apologize for that, his eyes are still crossed.”
“Sorry Pastor, please forgive me, but don’t worry about his eyes they always look that way,” I replied.
“No doubt after one of your ‘playful taps’. However, sometimes it is better to apologize to the victim and not the bystander, Brother Buck”
Ouch, I checked to see if Ed had said that, but it seemed to have come from the Pastor.
“Sorry Ed, please forgive me!” I said to Ed who had recovered enough to have both eyes focused somewhere in the distance. Perhaps I had over-reacted a bit. I gently removed Ed’s rifle from his hands, just as a precaution.
“Generally the good Lord would have us wait until the victim is fully conscious to apologize,” Pastor Bob said gently.
“Yes, Pastor,” I responded meekly, fingering a scorch mark somewhere around my ear. I could see that Ed was a rank amateur in the verbal skewering arts. I wouldn’t want to catch Pastor Bob on a day he was feeling mean.

Pastor Bob #1

The Pastor Bob stories are also in their infancy. I decided to go ahead and post the first two, written before the creative writing class, to illustrate a before and after. The third will come later this month and I will leave it up to you to decide if the creative writing class was worth my time.

Bucky

Breakfast with Pastor Bob

One Saturday morning as the dawn’s breaking was still an hour or so away, I felt the whispers of memory begin tugging at my consciousness. Something about pheasants and hunting in the countryside, hours of hiking through thick weeds, dogs barking excitedly ahead of us. Sore aching joints and muscles, why had I ever agreed to such insanity? Oh, yes… Pastor Bob, the rugged, outdoorsy pastor of our little church in town was coming over to breakfast before the usual misfits headed out to the overgrown weed patches we called our hunting grounds.
I looked to see if the dawn had yet cracked and suddenly noticed that the floor was a lot closer than it had been when I went to bed last night. What in the…? I rolled all the way over to the armoire, still in my pajamas, with the blankets now wound around me like a modern day mummy.
“IT’S TIME TO RISE AND SHINE, MARINES! LET’S ENJOY ANOTHER DAY IN THE CORPS!”
The mad pastor was in my very bedroom! Not only that, he had thrown me out of my own bed, for goodness sakes! Where was my faithful guard dog? Where was the treacherous wife who had no doubt let the fiend into my home? Was nothing sacred in my own house?!
“Good morning, Pastor Bob. What brings you here so early in the morning?” was all that I could think of to say.
“Your lovely wife invited me to breakfast before we head out to the fields,” he said, while upending a chair, putting the mattress back on the bed and dumping my clothes on top of me. I noticed that he touched none of my wife’s stuff, proving once again that wisdom grows from serving the Lord.
“Lovely? You should see her first thing in the morning,” I shot back, knowing that I would pay dearly for that remark as the lovely creature had come to the bedroom door just then.
“Oh, I did, but she was too quick for me to dump out of the sack, unlike your laggardly arse!”
Did the fiend have no shame? In our very bedroom without knocking, I was definitely getting a new guard dog; the shameless beast was there even now, licking Pastor Bob’s hand.
“Breakfast is ready Pastor, let’s leave my prince to get himself sorted out… and clean up my bedroom before his breakfast,” my wife said.
“I shall rush to do your bidding my princess,” I tried to reverse the damage.
“Too late there mummified one, I heard the first remark, which we will discuss later,” my morning flower said in return. I winced, our “discussions” were usually one sided and only occurred after I had shot off my mouth without the proper safety precautions.
“Oho, may I stay for that? I could use some new material for my sermons!” The fiend known as Pastor Bob asked the Rose of my life as he picked me up, blankets and all and heaved me into the shower room. I wouldn’t have minded so much if he hadn’t turned all the shower heads on full cold as he walked away to his breakfast with my wife.
I dumped the sopping mess of our bed covers into the laundry room, Saturday was wash day anyway. Whatever else I thought about my rude awakening, I was fully awake now. Pastor Bob was sipping coffee in my chair and chatting with my lovely and radiant wife about my shortcomings, hunting, fishing, news around the town, and the economy. None of which was any worse than usual, with the possible exception of my shortcomings.
“You’re going to pay for that Pastor Bob,” I joked, trying to regain some of my lost dignity.
“I’m sure, a little light workout to get the blood flowing would be a good way to start the day,” Pastor Bob joked back.
Oh, well, I had never enjoyed much dignity anyway. I sat down across from my wife and dug into a wonderful breakfast, remembering to tell her so.
“That will help a little; you can almost make up for that first remark by getting our shotguns and hunting gear ready to go.
“I did last night, it’s all in the truck and ready to go!” I said, hoping to regain my lost points in one fell swoop. No such luck, she was ready for any underhanded attempts on my part.
“You forgot the shells and the dog kennel, but you can get them after breakfast,” my morning cactus blossom replied.
No question about it, I would need to get up a lot earlier to get one over on these two.

Bucky

Hunting the Perfect Group

This story was my first official rejection. I sent this to our company newsletter, expanded when the individual department newsletters were sucked into the central newsletter. Perhaps the departments were showing too much creativity in some instances...

The rejection reason was that alcohol was in the story. "Eh?" was my first reaction. A quick review of my story showed that I had mentioned a tavern a few times. This involves a certain irony in that back in the day the company grew up in the bars and taverns of our various locations. Many job interviews were informally held in not a few taverns. Perhaps that part didn't make the official company history DVD!

Hunting the Perfect Group

A late fall afternoon, just after a great football game brought out the competitive spirits in the crowd at Jimmy’s Tavern. One of the guys from work, it was said, knew everything about deer hunting. Now since work was Cabela’s, this is certainly possible even though the odds that the world’s best deer hunter would be watching a football game at Jimmy’s as opposed to being out hunting seemed a bit unlikely. The resident expert also worked in the computer department. The odds grew a little steeper. The master, his status now in question, held forth that the perfect group was the ultimate aim of every true sportsman. I was inclined to listen more closely. Everyone knew from reading the gun magazines that groups were very important, though the gun mags didn’t often divulge just how these miraculous groups were to be obtained from the stock rifles our little mob of hunters could afford.
The master began to expound upon his theories of the perfect group and its relationship to hunting deer.
“I once shot a group that you could put a dime over at 250 paces!” he exclaimed.
Some of the hunters drifted back towards the bar.
“Paces?” someone asked, “Which range measures their shooting lanes in paces?”
“I have my own range, you can’t trust those commercial ranges, they want to keep you coming back so they change the range just a little every time,” the master fired back.
I had been on a few ranges in my time and the benches and butts appeared to be fairly solid. Moving either end of the range seemed to me a bit cost prohibitive from an economic standpoint, but I let the “expert” continue. A few more of the hunters had moved over to the bar. I noticed some that went so far as to leave during the master’s discourse.
“Finally, using your own range isn’t quite enough, you must hand load each and every round,” the master proclaimed. This was actually true; I had read it in one of the loading manuals. Every good buyer of hand loading components knew this because all the loading manuals said so. Some of the drifters moseyed back over.
“I work up loads during the same afternoon, that way the barometric pressure is the same during my workup,” the master confided to us his own special secret, giving us the impression we were supplicants honored to learn at his feet.
One of the slightly less green supplicants humbly asked if the master had not meant humidity perhaps.
“No humidity don’t matter none to the loads, humidity only matters when it’s so bad the sweat runs down into your eyes! Then you know its time to quit and head to the tavern.” The master corrected. No one could argue with that bit of faultless logic. We moved a bit closer so as not to miss any more nuggets of wisdom from the master. Some of us looked askance at each other, not really believing the barometric pressure nugget; we probably were not worthy to be in the group.
“Let’s go to my range and I’ll show you what the perfect group looks like, then we can go get us a deer!” our master said. We all looked around at each other, had he actually meant what he said? We asked each other with our eyes. The tavern expert had left his throne and was headed towards the door. He really did mean to leave the peanuts and go to the field!
I had not purchased a deer permit that year, a sin at Cabela’s and one that would haunt me at the company Christmas party, so I volunteered to act as spotter for the great one’s hunt. A few of the tavern regulars, perhaps shamed by the master’s willingness to put his wisdom on paper, so to speak, got up and fired up their spotless 4x4 hunting rigs.
The trip to the range of the master took only 20 minutes, which was a good thing as some of the rig owners were beginning to glance nervously at their fuel gauges. We arrived to find a concrete shooting bench equipped with a Craftsman shop vice, sitting on a range that looked to be about 250 paces, if you took 3-4 paces to the yard. I thought from my cabling experience that 150 feet might be closer to the mark. One of the unworthy supplicants noticed the discrepancy also and casually mentioned it to the master.
“Oh no, my dime group was shot at a tournament, this here range measures almost 100 yards,” the master informed us.
Now I didn’t have my laser rangefinder out yet, but this ‘almost’ seemed kind of subjective, as in subject to the whims of the proclaimer. In my experience ‘almost’ changes to fit the intended usage. Most times almost meant something ‘really close’ or ‘not quite’, actual measurements were not needed in these cases. Once in a while you ran into the case where almost seemed more like ‘not even close’, measurements could be helpful in this case. Sometimes you ran into the ‘almost’ that you could port a small ocean liner between the ‘all’ and the ‘most’ with a little slip left over for your yacht. This looked to be one of those times. Measurements were completely unnecessary in these cases and would only serve to embarrass the almoster.
The master removed a fine target grade rifle from a plush case in the back of his new Wunderburban, a hunting rig large enough to hold a six person hunting party and a herd of deer. This rifle made all of the supplicants green with envy, we coveted so far as to try touching the master’s rifle, but he would have none of it, rudely slapping our hands away. He then pulled out a velvet lined ammo case with gleaming brass cartridges nestled inside; the crown jewels had never been kept so well. The master carefully clamped his rifle into the vice, with plenty of soft velvet padding on either side so as not to mar the finish of the rifle. Why didn’t we all have shooting rigs like that, how could we ever hold our heads up on the hunt again?
Still green, we settled in to take a grouping lesson from the master. Carefully blowing on each round, in case any of our western Nebraska dust had the gall to settle on his cartridges, the master loaded his rifle with the chosen 3 rounds for his group. The honored cartridges settled into the rifle, no doubt ready to give their best for the master.
“Blam!” the first round hit the target. Practicing my spotting for the hunt with the master, I noticed it was a bit out of the 10 ring, but didn’t have the courage to doubt the master. That would come later. The second round was close to the first, but was probably not world class. Perhaps the master didn’t want to show us up too badly on the first demonstration. The third round followed the other two into the target; the entire group wouldn’t fit under a quarter, but perhaps under a half-dollar.
“There, now that isn’t my best, but it should do for our deer hunt,” the master happily proclaimed. Some of us looked at each other, ashamed to admit our doubts relating to the master’s skill. Perhaps on a good day we would have seen his perfect group. Surely the thousands spent on his target rig were matched or even exceeded by his hunting rifle. We saw the case in the back of the Wunderburban, our anticipation mounted what kind of rifle sat in the fine leather case? We ran to our vehicles to continue on the trip with the master.
The line at Ernie’s Gasem and Fleecem moved slowly, every hunting rig requiring 30-40 gallons of precious fuel. You could tell it was precious by the expression on the rig owners faces. Inside Ernie’s the soft clatter of plastic leaves falling on the linoleum countertop made a musical soundtrack to the theatrical whining going on, with the occasional “pish” of a soda can to provide rhythm. No one faulted Ernie; the papers all said it wasn’t his fault that gas prices were so high.
Some of the hunting rig owners used the pit stop to make their escape; probably to save themselves the wrath of the wife at home. Some few of us were left, the master, two of his more promising supplicants, a couple of old codgers with nothing better to do, and me. The diminished group piled into the Wunderburban, each of us choosing a leather captain’s chair complete with personal DVD viewing station and satellite radio, and headed out with the master to learn again the art of deer hunting.
About an hour and 2 fuel stations later, the master turned off the highway and drove about 300 yards down a gravel road and stopped. Everyone threw on orange safety vests and caps, checked their deer permits – except for me, I would man the spotting scope – and tramped to the master’s favorite hunting spot. Along the way we had the opportunity to admire the master’s hunting rifle. It gleamed in the setting sun, the scope polished to a bright, nickel finish. Fully two feet long, the scope appeared capable of targeting the space shuttle. The first of many doubts to come snuck into my mind. I pushed it aside, confident in the master and firmly proving once again what my grade school teachers had said about me in the lounge.
The master stopped on a hilltop and unslung the cream of hunting rifles, still gleaming in self-satisfied magnificence, and pulled out a few rounds of ammo. He unfolded the bipod, locked it into place and flopped on the ground in a reasonable imitation of a prone position. Expecting a short dissertation on the art of field positions, not unlike my Marine marksmanship instructor, I was caught off guard. The two old codgers just sniggered a bit to each other. The supplicants were still awaiting the proof by fire of the master. Another small doubt moseyed through my mind, but I set up the spotting scope and tripod and prepared to be worthy of the master.
“Deer!” rang out through the afternoon stillness, I looked around, nothing. I looked at the master for guidance. He was glued to his riflescope and pointing frantically towards the east. Still nothing. I bent to the spotting scope and sure enough, highlighted in the setting sun was a herd of deer some six or seven hundred yards distant.
“Blam,” this followed by some muted moaning… mine. Not thinking the master would engage a target so far out; I had not pulled my hearing protection into place. Correcting my oversight, I bent again to the spotting scope, nothing, the deer continued placidly grazing. I turned to the ‘master’.
“Just a warm-up shot,” he said, “Now I’ll need a ranging round, look towards that big buck on the left.”
I looked again, sure enough there was a nice 6x6 buck on the left.
“Blam” the master fired his ranging round, and nothing… a twig fell near the buck, but I saw no evidence of a bullet. The doubts no longer moseyed by, they were marching in parade formation. I dialed the spotting scope out a few powers to get a wider field of view.
The master called me a few unkind names then fired again. This time I did indeed see the ranging round, about 10 feet above the buck it clipped a branch from a tree and went winging on its merry way.
“You’re about 10 feet high and 3 feet to the right,” I informed the ‘master’, now resolved to take any of the master’s wisdom with a little salt on the side.
The master spun the knobs on his scope, he must really know his scope to make such a large adjustment, I thought a little sarcastically. The two old codgers were beside themselves, making for a party of four furiously giggling old men behind us.
The master finished his adjustments and fired again. This time I was ready and knowing what to expect I saw the dirt fly up about 10 yards in front of the deer and just for good measure, about 6 feet to the left. One or two deer looked up from their grazing; perhaps wondering what the ruckus on the hill over yonder was all about.
I reported the results to the ‘master’ who called me a few more unkind names. The messenger picked his head up and set it firmly back in place. A few more adjustments and another shot rang out. This time a squirrel fell out of the tree. Dead? No upon closer examination through the spotting scope, it appeared to be rolling on the ground laughing. The ‘master’ did not take the news of this critique well.
The messenger replaced his head once again and bent to his assigned task. The ‘master’ loaded the rest of his ammo box into his magazine. Box? I looked again, thinking that I had seen “Federal” on the box, surely I had been mistaken. The master only used hand loaded ammunition, he had said so himself!
The ‘master’ had apparently finished his adjustments because this time he cut loose with a barrage. Bullets clipped twigs, mowed grass, trimmed hedges, and dug a few shallow trenches. Nothing the deer were worried about though, as not one bullet passed within ten feet of the happily browsing deer. The ‘master shooter’ began savagely cursing the rifle and scope, much to the relief of the messenger I might add. He waxed eloquent regarding the gunsmith, the scope technicians, barometric pressure and deer in general. Apparently forgetting his earlier ‘lessons’ the master even took the Federal Cartridge company to task, the bullets didn’t fly right, the powder was too this, the primers too that.
We moseyed on back to the Wunderburban, the master may not shoot worth a darn, but he was a master of something alright. Hunters everywhere could learn a bit about complaining and excuse making right at the feet of the master.

Myrtle n' Mabel

These stories begin as character studies, to use a high falutin' term from the craft of writing, and involve two friends of those names. The stories will be set in the 1950's to put it back to a simpler time before the Internet and cell phones. I was not alive at this time so it will be good for me to do some research into the time and place. Anyway, the first character, who is in the first person in this small scene, is Myrtle. She appears slow and uneducated, you might say the classic blonde. However, it is my intention to keep her mechanically inept, but give hints that here cluelessness is only skin deep so to speak. Her friend Mabel on the the other hand is quite obviously not dumb. Universite educated to the Ph.D level, she is seen from the first with an office of her own, although Myrtle feigns ignorance of what exactly her friend does for a living. Both women are the hot women of their town; single with Myrtle mentioning a friend, Herb. We will see where these characters go in further stories. Here is Scene 1 if you will...

Mabel n’ Myrtle Take a Drive

A few days ago I took a drive on the county highway with my friend Mabel; we needed some groceries or other piddly household stuff, nothing to it really. Now Mabel never let me get away with my more ornery thoughts about other drivers and this drive proved no exception. We traveled down a steep hill with my car making its usual whining; when the most beautiful low ridin’ sports car came up the hill, the man inside matching the car, all sleek and sexy like.
“Why he must be doin’ ninety, my heavens!” I blurted out to Mabel, just in case she had dozed off again in the passenger seat, “Not only that he’s drivin’ in the passing lane when there ain’t no one in the driving lane, someone oughta stop him and give him a good talkin’ too.”
“Why you hypocritical legalist,” Mabel shot back, “I do think a glance at your own gauges would show a woman speeding AND drivin’ with her tach over the red line; why don’t you shift up before we burn up this car!”
I didn’t think there would be another gear, but Mabel was right, somehow that happened way too often, and we enjoyed the most lovely and smooth ride down that hill. The engine even stopped whining and it almost never did that.
To tell the truth, I felt mighty stupid just then; no wonder Herb always called it a “four on the floor” shifter. Liking the smoothness of the ride so much, I decided to always use that gear from now on. We stopped at the town red light, so named because it was always red when you wanted to get someplace, and took off as soon as it turned green. Of course, that old car lurched a couple of times and died right there in the town’s main intersection. Me and Mabel just a sittin’ there.
“Myrtle, I realize our Lord said never to call someone an idiot, but you do tempt me somethin’ fierce!” Mabel didn’t hold back, letting me have the whole cartful of her loving kindness, “I haven’t seen anyone do that since my 12-year old cousin learned to drive last month, and you at the ripe old age of 23 stalling this fine car like some kid driver. You know that greasy Clive Barker will be a comin’ over here to give us a hand even though he knows darn well that you’se jes’ stupid.”
When Mabel got embarrassed or angry, or in this case, both; her accent got worse, some thing she had worked at losing during her 6 years at that school. The sign on her office said Dr. something-or-other, I kept fergettin’ her last name since I jest called her Mabel. Sure enough the town mechanic strode across from the soda shop where he managed to waste most of each day. Six foot three and lanky, Clive Barker kept as far away from any cleaning or grooming supplies as was humanly possible. This torqued off Mabel something terrible, an’ he had a crush on her that wouldn’t quit. I knew that I had screwed up bad.


Bucky