Impromptu, midnight auto race through the Lundeby Swamp in 1949. The race deteriorates to a tragic end, having a profound impact on the lives of the surviving participants.

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE  Thompson: The Uffdahls.

October 1949

I guess you can just call me Thompson. My parents, they give me a regular name when I was born, of course. But if I told you what it was, you would understand why I don’t use it now. Let’s just leave it at that. If you just say the name “Thompson” around here, they’ll know who you are talking about.
I’m not writing this about me anyway. You see, we got some pretty queer characters living up here. I figure if I don’t write about them, nobody will get around to it until it’s just too late.
I know that there guy down in Sauk Center, he got himself into all kinds of trouble when he wrote about his home. But I don’t have no axe to grind like he seemed to. I’m just going to stick to the plain truth. If there’s something I don’t know about, I’m not going to try to pull your leg or nothing.

Old Ivar Uffdahl, he finally died last week. They went and gave him a pretty strange funeral, at least for up here in this neck of the woods. You see, he was one of them old timers who swore never to set foot in the Trondheim Lutheran Church in there at Quisling. So we agreed it probably wouldn’t be too decent of us to carry him in there in a box neither.
Instead of having it in the church in there at town, they had it in the Arvid Town Hall out here. They got one of them Pentacostal holy roller preachers do the service. I guess you’d have to say things, they worked out pretty good in spite of everything.
Some of us, we thought they might try to bring Marvin up for it, but I guess they didn’t figure he was quite ready to get out yet. They asked me to be one of the pall bearers, but I had to turn them down because I’m still getting over this here hernia operation.
Sig Anderson, the editor of the QUISLING JOURNAL, he isn’t the greatest newspaper man in the world by a long shot. But he doesn’t do too bad when it comes to writing obituaries. I think this one he done on old Ivar might be just as good a place as any to start this here story.

IVAR UFFDAHL,
ARVID TOWNSHIP PIONEER,
LAID TO REST
The community was saddened to learn of the passing of Ivar Uffdahl on Tuesday, October 25, after bravely suffering over two months frominjuries in a farm equipment accident.
Ivar Karle Uffdahl was born near Trondheim, Norway on March 23, 1871. He was baptised and confirmed in the Lutheran faith, and grew to manhood before immigrating to America in 1893.
He was one of the original settlers in this area when he homesteaded on Section 22 of Arvid Township.  He was united in marriage to Ingeborg Kjelle at the Vaerness Lutheran Church at Norse Corner on June 15, 1897. Mrs. Uffdahl passed away in 1928.  To this union were born five children: Albert, who gave his life serving in France during WWI; Ella, Mrs. John Bratrud of Quisling; Blanda, Mrs. Edwin Molde of Varngeiga; Leona, Mrs. Harry Walker of Marmarth, North Dakota; and Charles, who died in infancy. He is also survived by one brother, Johann Karlson of Uffdahl, Norway; eight grand-children, and one great grandson.
He and Coya Trollson were married in 1936, and they have one son, Marvin, of Fergus Falls.
Mr. Uffdahl was one of the pioneer settlers of this region, and he played a key role in molding thewilderness into the progressive community that it is today. He was a charter member of the Vaerness Lutheran Church, served for years on the Arvid Township board, and had once been chairman of the Norse Corner school board.
Funeral services were held on Friday, October 28, at the Arvid Town Hall, with Pastor Stanley Johnson conducting the service. Pall bearers were his many long time friends and neighbors: Hans Gunvick, Swen Olson, Gust Trollson, Einar and Ole Swanson, and Emil Norgaard. Internment was made in the Vaerness Cemetery at Norse Corner.
The whole community extends to the sorrowing family its most sincere sympathy.

It all started on that Saturday, back in July. It was one of them hot, muggy days we get around that time of the year, when  nothing seems to go right. Some people, they call them the Dog Days.
I was over to Hans Gunvik’s place, fixing the axel bearing in his F-12 Farmall for him. I don’t usually do this. I rather they bring their machinery over to my shop here at Norse Corner where I got all my equipment. But since she froze up on him right then and there, that’s where I had to fix her. Still, I was going to have to charge him a couple of bucks extra for all the added bother.
It so happened she broke down in Hans’ south hay meadow, right over by the Uffdahl’s place. So I guess you could say I had a front row seat.
Little Jimmy, he’s Hans’ boy, he was sort of helping me. I guess I should tell you there’s something wrong with him, but nothing anybody put their finger on. He looks and acts pretty normal, but he don’t talk none. He only makes these here strange noises that don’t make no rhyme or reason, and he don’t understand what you say to him neither. But I know he isn’t deaf because he can hear when you bang something or yell at him.
They sent him to school for a couple of years but that didn’t work out. They also talked about putting him away at the asylum down there at Fergus Falls, but Hans’ missus wouldn’t let them. She can be kind of funny that way. I don’t mind having him around, though. He has a knack for machinery in spite of his problem, so he’s even kind of helpful sometimes.
Marvin, that twenty year old boy of Ivar’s, he was cultivating potatos in the field next to us with Ivar’s ‘B’ John Deere. I could tell that things wasn’t going too good for them that day. Of course, from the way Ivar had been running things these last few years, even a good day for him is bad enough to make any other farmer call it quits. It’s too bad too, because I can remember back when he was one of the better farmers we had around here.
Marvin, he was trying to show off for us or something by turning in off the end-row and dropping the cultivator without stopping. It’s a pretty fancy maneuver if you can do it, but he wasn’t doing so good. In fact, more often than not, he had to stop and raise up the cultivator and back up and start again. Most of the time he ended up digging up a bunch of potato plants to boot.
He would of been better off if he would of just gone slower and stopped each time to begin with. But that takes common horse sense, and most young guys come up on the short end of the stick in that department, this day and age. Sometimes it makes me wonder what this world is coming to.
Marvin, he kept up with that monkey business for most of the morning while old Ivar, he was over fixing something on their hay stacker. He was close enough to us that I could tell he was gettng madder by the minute. I can’t say I can blame him neither. I would have stopped and give that fool kid of his a talking to long before this. It wasn’t until Marvin hit a rock and broke a cultivator shank that he finally did.
A little breeze was blowing our way, so I could hear quite a bit of what they was saying, even over the racket of that John Deere sitting there idling and wasting fuel. What I couldn’t hear, me and Jimmy could pretty well tell from just seeing how they was acting.
Now old Ivar, you see, he never did learn to talk English too good. So it can be pretty entertaining to listen to him. And Ivar, he got rheumatism in his hips, so it took him a while to get over to where Marvin was. At least it took him longer than his patience was. He was still a several yards away from Marvin when they started their hollering and cussing at each other.
Old Ivar, he starts out the hollering in that raspy voice of his. “Gull dammit, Marvin! Vat da helll did you doo now? I tolt you to vatch out fer dem dere rock!”
Now I could hear old Ivar just fine, but Marvin, he was up front there by the motor, pawing around for something in the tool box, so he probably didn’t hear nothing. Old Ivar, if you really want to get under his skin, you just try ignoring him when he got something to say to you.
Marvin, he nearly jumps out of his skin when Ivar gets to just a few feet away and bellers “GULL DAMMIT, MARVIN, I VAS TALKINK TO YOO!” Marvin, he had just laid his hands on the monkey wrench he was looking for, and he looks up at old Ivar all of a sudden with that dumb look that he usually has. He just stands there until his hands remind him that there monkey wrench he’s holding is pretty hot. All of a sudden, he starts jumping around juggling that there monkey wrench like a hot potato, while he was trying to get that slow mind of his in gear, to work up some answer for that old man of his.
“But Pa!”, I could hear him holler back in that whining voice of his, “I WAS being careful! But lookit! You can’t even hardly SEE dat damn rock here!”
“Marvin, gull dammit! Yoo shoult know by now dere’s rock all over dis here field. Helll, yoo yust don’t vatch vhat yer doing, dat’s all! How many times do I got to tell yoo to slow dis damn t’ing down? Notting can get done when dis here machinery is all broke down, yoo know!”
“T’ell you say. Reason dis here machinery always breaks down, is because its damn near wore out in da first place!”
“Hunh!”, Ivar snorted and spat a stream of Rite-Cut juice down there at Marvin’s feet. “My stuff was okay until YOO started tearing da hell out uff it.” Marvin, he didn’t seem to have anything to say to that. He just squatted  down and started fiddling with something on the cultivator. “Vhat da hell do yoo t’ink yer doing now?” Ivar demanded.
“I got to get this here broke shank off, doncha tink?” More than that, I think he was trying to find some way to avoid another one of them dumb arguments that him and his old man have had running for so many years now.
Well, they was right up next to that tractor now, so I couldn’t hear too good what they was saying. We could tell, just from seeing the way they was acting, that it was a start of another one of them Uffdahl’s machinery-breakdown routines that I seen so often around here.
First, they take the part off - if they can find a wrench handy. Then they go and kill a good half hour looking for another part around that scrap heap they got next to the machine shed. Finally, the both of them, they get in the car and go to town to buy one.
Of course we never got to see what they done in town. But knowing old Ivar, how stingy he was, he’d piss away the rest of the morning running around from one implement dealer to another to save himself a measely dime.
Yep, I guessed right. It was nearly noon before they got back. That meant it would be sometime in the middle of the afternoon before they got things running again. That would be if things went good. But things wasn’t going good that day, so it had to be pretty near four o’clock before Marvin got rolling again.
That froze-up bearing went and messed up the race in there too, and she was a real bugger to get out. I wasn’t paying too much attention to them for a while until I hear Marvin head off back to their yard. I pulled out my watch and, sure enough, it was five-thirty on the dot. Yep, chore time at the Uffdahl’s, come rain or come shine.
Now any farmers who milk cows is more or less tied to the chore-time routine. Most of them have enough sense to have their cows freshen in the fall, so they are dry in the late summer. It makes a lot of sense, you know. Especially right around threshing season, when there’s better things to do than screw around milking a bunch of cows.
But not them Uffdahls. Old Ivar, he’d be damned if he’d dry up any of his cows as long as there was a few more quarts he could wring out of them. To make matters worse, he went and bought this bred heifer last spring, and she went and freshened on him right after the Fourth of July. So he was pretty well stuck with doing chores all year.
Here we got a good three hours of daylight yet, and they didn’t have no more chores than half a man could do. But here the both of them, they quit their field work anyway, just to cater to them worthless cows of theirs. Kind of a waste of time if you ask me. No wonder they don’t get nothing done around that place.
But as things turned out, the both of them they had their hands full, and then some, on that day.
I guess you might of figured it out by now that cows aren’t exactly my favorite creatures in this here world. I can’t really tell you why, I guess maybe I just milked a few too many of them out in a freezing barn when I was growing up.
But them milk cows, you know, they lead a pretty dreary existance. All they get to eat is just grass and hay. They gobble that down so fast they got to spend the rest of the day puking it up, chewing it again, and then swallowing the mess down a second time.
Their love lives, they aren’t much better. They’re in the ‘family way’ most of their lives from getting ‘it’ only once a year. That’s usually from some total stranger that they never even see again to boot.
Yah, sure, they got a lot of freedom to roam around out in the pasture. But up here, that’s only about half of the year. The rest of the year they spend chained in stalls where they got the choice to just stand there all day or else lay down in a pile of their own crap.
When you get right down to it, farmers keep them around for only two reasons. The first is so a pair of rough, cold hands can wring enough milk out of their tits to pay the bills. The second is to produce at least one calf a year. If she don’t cut the mustard in either job, she ends up facing a death sentence.
I got to admit, though, when you compare them with other farm animals, they do have some intelligence. They understand what fences are for, and each cow, she has a stall that she considers her very own. You never seen fury until you seen an old cow’s eyes if she finds one fo her sisters standing in her stall. Also, a herd has their own organization of a sort, with their own leaders you can pretty easily see if you pay much attention to them.
What I’m leading up to here, is what I call the annual Bovine Rebellion. I should know, I’ve seen enough of them over the years to be glad I don’t no longer own any of them animals.
Thank goodness, it usually only happens about once a year. But when it does, it usually hits the poor farmer as a total surprise. I think that’s because by the time its all over and done with, the farmer, he’s so outraged and tuckered out, he kind of gets a case of amuneshia from it. You know, a lot like how a woman forgets what the pain of child birth is enough to just go ahead and have another one.
But I’m not a farmer, so I get to see it all in a different light. For example, I seen over the years that the instigator is usually the boss cow. It’s usually when she’s pretty far along with the pregnancy business, so maybe a frisky calf inside of her has something to do with it too.
Uffdahl’s boss cow is this here scrawny old roan who’s got to be eight or ten years old by now, pretty old for a milk cow. Her eyes is set real wide apart so she looks like a frog when you look at her, and her hips stick out like a couple of fence posts. Her udder, it just hangs down there like a dirty gunny sack.
She’s been a ‘three-titter’ ever since she crashed her way through a barb wire fence when she led a flanking maneuver during the rebellion of ‘47. Now a problem like that would of sent your average cow straight to the slaughter house. But no, not her. You see, even with just three, she still out-milks most of their others, not that that says a lot.
Quite a while after I heard old Ivar’s cattle call, I looked up and seen Marvin hoofing it in that clumsy trot of his out to their far pasture.  Even from where I was at, I could see from the way them cows was standing around that they was up to something.
Before I get any further into this, I should probably tell you why it was Marvin who was the one hoofing it out to get them. Up to this spring that used to be old Shep’s job. Shep, you see, he was a twelve-year-old mongrel that was old Ivar’s pride and joy. Over the years he had took on a lot of Ivar’s personality, so I guess you can figure out from that that he was anything but a pet. If anybody who had children was visiting at the Uffdahl’s, they knew better than to let them play outside.
Now, old Shep, he was half blind and had rheumatism a lot like old Ivar, but he was still a working dog too. I think about the only time the two of them could forget their misery was when Ivar would holler “Shep, go and get da gull damned cows!” That old mutt, he would limp half a mile or more just to show them cows who was boss.
Old Shep, he liked to chase cars too, even after he couldn’t no longer see or move too good. Then one Saturday night this May, Marvin, he come home from town. It was pretty late, and maybe wasn’t driving too straight neither.
Marvin, he was telling me later, he said he didn’t even feel nothing, so he didn’t even know nothing happened. But I guess old Shep sure did, because he was still lying there kicking when Ivar found him the next morning. The surprising thing about it was, Ivar never even yelled at Marvin about it or nothing. But ever since then, Marvin went hoofing it without no questions or nothing whenever old Ivar says “Marvin, go and get da gull damned cows!”
Anyway, I could see from where me and Jimmy was at, that Marvin had almost gotten out to where the cows was, when only he would be dumb enough to pick up a rock and throw it at them. That was what set the whole thing off.
That old roan, she took off at a stiff-legged gallop with the whole herd in tow, but at a right angle from where they was supposed to be going. Then we could see them all stop way over at a far corner of the pasture where they all turned and give Marvin a defiant glare.
Marvin, he took off trotting in pursuit. He got to about fifty yards of them when they bolted again. This time they galloped along the fence line to another corner of the pasture, even further from the barnyard.
Marvin, he started jogging over toward that corner now. I could hear him cussing way over to where was. Then I heard some roaring sounds from their farmyard. Sure enough, it was that ‘42 Chevy of theirs with old Ivar, somewheres behind the wheel, heading towards the gate. His missus, she was making a mad dash towards the gate, trying to get it opened before he plowed right through it.
Old Ivar, you see, he was over forty before he learned to drive. That was with Model ‘T’ Fords. But Model ‘T’s with their planetary transmissions, were getting scarce in recent years. So Ivar had to finally trade up to a car with a regular stick shift. It took him three transmissions before he finally accepted what a clutch was for.
But now these modern cars with their colyum shifts, they threw him a another curve. That pulling the gearshift back, and then down into low, was just too much for him to handle. So he only used second and high now, and blamed Marvin for the the burned-out clutches.
His missus, she got the gate open just in time for him to go tearing on through. A cloud of white smoke was already billowing out from underneath that old Chevy. From the looks and smell of it, I knew I was going to have another clutch job on my hands next week. Its front end was bouncing like crazy as he flew over the ruts, rocks, and gopher mounds over to where Marvin was. I could hear him yelling to Marvin “Yoo get over to da sout’ fence over dere! and I vill stop dem up ahead!”
Then the enemy, they split ranks on them. The roan cow, she took a squad off to the right. One of her lieutenants, a spotted four year old, led a charge of her squad that managed to slip between that one-man infantry and the four-wheeled cavalry.
Ivar, he bent a front wheel on the Chevy when he glanced off a big rock, and took out two fence posts during a ‘U’-turn to get over to where they was regrouping, out there by that big rockpile in the middle of the pasture.
It was twenty minutes at least, and a whole mess of maneuvers, countermaneuvers, and encounters before the herd got confused and made an ill-fated retreat into the barnyard. Ivar’s missus, she got the gate shut on them before they could regroup.
But you could tell they wasn’t beat yet. It took Marvin and Ivar quite a while to hoof it back there. Enough time to give them cows a chance to rest up and plan their next tactics. By the way, Ivar and Marvin was walking because the Chevy, she ended up stranded out there. We could still see smoke coming out from where her clutch had been.
Well now, if the fences could hold up, the open field action was over. But they still had to deal with the enemy at close quarters - pitchfork to horn combat - to drive them critters back into the barn. Now with this here hernia, I couldn’t get around too fast, but I figured I better get over there and see what I could do to help anyways.
By the time I got over there, I could see that Ivar’s missus had got the barn doors open. Them three Uffdahls, they had the rebels pretty well cornered between the barn wall and the north fence.
Then that fresh heifer, she got pushed to a few feet of the open barn door where she could see inside. She mustn’t of liked what she seen in there because he give old Ivar an evil glare, and bolted straight toward him. He give an equally defiant battle cry and  jabbed of the pitchfork at her. She ignored both and run right by him. It took the rest of the herd less than a second to see the opportunity, and they all escaped out into the open.
Old Ivar, he had a look of fury blazing in his eyes, and he seen I was there too now. I think by now, he figured out that the roan was the leader of this here whole mess, so he had us all work on getting her cornered. I guess it wasn’t a bad plan, except the corner we ended up getting her into was over by the hog pen, fifty yards away from the barn. So now we had to get her steered along the north fence back to the barn, and that was when she decided to get pig-headed. She just wouldn’t budge. We tried all kinds of yelling, slapping, and tail twisting. But nothing doing.
That was when Ivar, he decided to give her a jab in the hinder with his pitchfork. That got her moving, all right. Marvin, he found himself standing in front of her and he probably didn’t even know how he was holding that three-tine pitchfork of his. Before he knew it he was jousting. I’ll bet he didn’t even know what jousting was until then.
You see, two of them tines, they got sunk into her shoulder just deep enough, so the pitchfork suddenly became the cow’s weapon instead of his. When she bolted, she ended up ramming the handle of that there pitchfork right back at Marvin. It sent him sprawling flat on his back in the mud. If you know what kind of mud there is in a barnyard, you know that isn’t none too pleasant. Then, with that fork still stuck in her shoulder, she veered right and managed to give old Ivar a good swat with it just before she went straight through them four strands of barb wire. Three others followed her through to freedom.
You would of thought Marvin would get right back up out of that crap. But that old cow, she must of hit him just right because he just laid there for a minute or two, trying to get some wind back. Old Ivar, I don’t think he even cared if Marvin would of stayed there all night, he was so disgusted by then.
The rest of the battle must of took another half of an hour or more, tore out at least a hundred feet of fence, and destroyed two more pitchfork handles. I figure it also poured out about six quarts of blood, sweat, and tears - or about the same amount as they got in milk that night. At least they had enough sense to just leave them cows in the barn that night. No point in repeating this same silliness again the next morning.
I still had my mind made up I was going to get that bearing back together on on Hans’ F-12 before the day was over. All that monkey business over there at Uffdahl’s, it put me behind some, so I was still working out there when Uffdahls got through with chores. I was just finishing up when I seen Marvin take a bucket out beside their house and strip down to give himself a bath. It didn’t surprise me none after what he fell into earlier.
What did surprise me, though, was to see him come out later with his good clothes on. I seen him start to fiddle around, cleaning some of the junk out from their Clunk, like he was getting ready to go somewheres. I figured that after a day like he had, he’d of gone straight to bed if he had any real sense. But then I guess I told you before, he’s a little short in that department.
Theis here Clunk, which was a good a name as any for her, was an old car the Uffdahl’s used for hauling stuff out to the fields. Ivar got her in the spring of ‘45 when he traded Swen Olson two yearling heifers for her, and I gave her a ring job last November in trade for a butcher hog. The only good thing about her is, her clutch seems to be indestructable.
She started out as a ‘35 Chevy Master coupe, and the Uffdahls, they are her fourth owners, now. It was 1942 when Swen had me tear her trunk out and bolt a pickup box into her back end. Old Ivar, he removed her driver’s door himself.
You could say that ‘35 might of been a landmark year for Chevrolet when they took a stab at streamlining their cars. If you ask me it didn’t turn out none too good. Just to make matters worse, they went ahead and ignored Ford’s mistake of ‘33, and put them backwards opening ’suicide’ doors on them.
The Clunk, I guess she lost her door like many of her sisters did. You see, old Ivar, he was driving home along the Ditch Road, and it was pretty late in the day. He probably wasn’t paying too much attention to things, like that chuckhole he hit square with both left wheels. It jarred that worn-out latch the rest of the way. It must of give the old man some real excitement then, when that big door flew back and hit the rear fender. The fender already had a pretty bad crack in it, and that bent it in to where it carved right through the tire, which wasn’t too good in the first place. I hear he swallowed a whole cud of Rite-Cut while he fought to keep her out of the ditch. They say his missus made him wash out his own underwear that night.
Well, anyway, it looked like Marvin had his heart set on going out that night, in spite of everything. I didn’t pay too much attention to him after that because it was getting pretty late. I knew if I didn’t get home pretty soon I’d end up with supper out of a sardine can again. My missus, she don’t like if I get home too late too often.

CHAPTER TWO   Thompson: Norse Corner

This house we got is right next to my shop here at Norse Corner, so it’s pretty convenient sometimes. Then it can also be a real nuisance too, especially when some people think they can pester me with their problems any time of the day or night.
The missus, I think she kind of likes having me around, but she’s not bashful about letting me know about it when too much stuff gets piled up around the shop. I keep telling her it’s our bread and butter, so to speak. But then, you probably know what it’s like to reason with them women sometimes.
I don’t know what got into her that night. I know I got home late. But it was for a good reason, because of all the trouble I been having with Hans’ F-12, and then having to stop and help Uffdahls. Anyway, I was just pulling in and I seen her walking out to the car with her going-to-town dress on, and that walk she gets whenever she’s on the warpath. I was going to ask her what was eating her, except she was heading off down the road before I was even out of my truck. Well, since it had been a bad day for a lot of folks around here, I figured she’d maybe her’s wasn’t one of the best of days neither.
As I expected, she didn’t leave me much for supper. I ate what there was, and then decided to take a walk over to see what was going on at Olaf’s before I called it a day.
Norse Corner here, it got started by the three Bratrud brothers when they come over from the Old Country in 1887, and built a store here in this old grove of popple and willows. It wasn’t too long before a few houses and a school got built, and the Vaerness Lutheran Church got chartered in 1894. Yah, that’s right, because it was the year after my father started up his blacksmith shop here, which was in ‘93.
Anyway, like a lot of little communities back then, there was a lot of hope of making it into a town. That didn’t pan out, though, because the Soo Line railroad ended up getting built four miles east of here.
Norse Corner managed to survive quite a few years in spite of it all. Then the Model ‘T’ Fords come along, and more and more people started running into Quisling to do their shopping every chance they got. Even Gunvald and Einar Bratrud, they moved in to Quisling a few years before the War and opened up a store. So before you knew it, the only two business left here was Olaf Bratrud’s store and this here blacksmith shop.
I wasn’t around here when Prohibition come in, but I guess it’s got to be true what they say about Olaf and my father, Gotfred, about them building a little still back in the woods there. Yah, I know what they was doing probably wasn’t right, but it did help them get by when things was pretty tight.
The church, it burned down on Christmas Eve, back in 1932. I was there that night when it happened. You see, we must of had over a hundred candles on the tree. It was right at the end of the service when they was getting ready to sing “Silent Night” when one of them got away from them. Before they could get any water on it, the whole thing was going up. We called the fire department out here from Quisling, but it was just too late by the time they got out here.
That happened a couple years after the church teamed up with the Trondheim Lutheran in at Quisling, and they just couldn’t get up enough votes to rebuild her. Some of the older folks say the whole thing was a conspiracy, and they ended up getting pretty bitter over it. Some of them, like old Ivar, I don’t think they set foot in a church ever since. Maybe they got a point, or maybe they haven’t, I don’t know. I try to keep out of them things.
I don’t know if the church had anything to do with it or not, but Olaf, he turned the store into a tavern that next spring. That was the same year my father was fixing a muffler on Emil Norgaard’s Dodge, and she slipped off of the jack. I don’t think he even knew what hit him. The missus and me, we talked it over some, and decided to move back up from Fargo and wrap some things up with the shop. The missus, she ended up getting a teaching job, and somehow we been here ever since.
They went and consolidated the schools into Quisling three years ago, so that meant we lost our school out here too. But I guess there was only about a dozen or so kids going here at the end anyway. The schoolhouse, it still sits over there across the road, only now it’s the Arvid Town Hall. It’s used mainly for voting. The 4-H Club, they sometimes have their Christmas parties in it.
Me and the missus, we try to keep our place up pretty good and I wish I could say the same for Olaf. He don’t seem to give a damn about much since his wife moved into town to live with her sister a few years ago. I wish he did, though. Because the way it is now, he don’t attract the best customers from around here. In fact, I think if it wasn’t for his prices and his not being too fussy about checking ages, he probably wouldn’t get much business at all.
That tavern of his, what used to be the store, is kind of hid way back among them willows. They have gotten out of hand in recent years, so you can hardly even see the tavern until you’re almost to it. I guess it wasn’t the prettiest building even when it was new, but it’s getting pretty ramshackle now. On second thought, maybe them willows is doing it a favor by camouflaging it.
After dark, about the only way you can tell where it’s at is from the dim light of the two ceiling bulbs that manages to get out through them dirty front windows. Him and me, we put them lights up ourselves, about five years ago. You see, he bought a generator at an auction sale, and we set it up to run off of my Fairbanks-Morse stationary engine. We call it our ‘power co-op’ since him and me, we own it together. I use it some during the day to run my shop equipment, and he uses it after dark. The REA is supposed to be running electric power out here next year, but we haven’t decided if we’re going to sign up for it yet.
It wasn’t too dark yet, so I could recognise most of the cars and other clunkers that was parked over by Olaf’s. It was pretty muddy around there. Because of the mud, most of them was parked where their owners could find their way back out to them without getting too messed up. They also had to be careful where the other cars was, because some people, they don’t drive none too good by the time they end up leaving here.
That queer looking ‘36 Cord that Emil Norgaard’s boy brought up here from The Cities a few weeks earlier, it was sitting right along the north side of the building. I figured he must of got here pretty early to park there. Why he ever went and bought that piece of junk is more than I’ll ever be able to figure out. I hear he paid way too much for it in the first place. They say he had so many breakdowns, it took him three whole days to get it up here from The Cities. Them Cords, they never was any good in the first place, and you never could find parts for them. He had the nerve to come and want me to do some work on it after he got it up here, and I told him point blank what I thought of it.
Then there was what was left of this here ‘32 Ford Victoria, sitting so close to the front steps you nearly had to crawl over it. I knew that car good. I also knew the car’s owner good enough to know why nobody said nothing about where he parked it.
It had to be the worst looking car around this neck of the woods. To start with, Palmer rolled her back in June. Half the windows was busted out, and the windshield was so messed up he had to drive with his head out the window to see where he was going. It had three different sizes of wheels on it. The biggest one was on the right rear, so it looked like a big mangy dog that was getting ready to take a leak on Olaf’s front step.
Now I’ve been into Olaf’s more times that I can think of, but it still feels like you swatted me across the face with a rancid bar rag each time I step in the door. Sure, he’s got screen windows on the place, but with all them trees round there, the air just sits around and collects everything that gets put into it.
Them farmers who come around there, they have a lot to put into it. This here layer of smoke always hung about eye level from the low ceiling of the place. The smell of that was always mixed in with the sixteen years worth of spilled beer, tobacco juice, sweat, puke, and cowshit that was soaked into the woodwork. Even the mosquitoes got enough sense to stay out of there.
But there was something more to the place than just the aroma. It was the music. Now I never would of called it music until after I was away for a few years, but now music is the best word I can think of for it. It wasn’t from no jukebox or band or nothing like that. It was from the voices in there. You see, they was outside, North country voices, that had got that way from people doing a lot of hard work outside. From hollering at each other over the cold winds we got up here. These here were hearty voices, spoke straight from deep in the lungs, with a rhythm that I guess you would call a Scandinavian accent.
It wasn’t none of them ‘hoo-de-hoo-de-hoo’s you hear them trying to do in them cheap movies you see these days neither. No. You see, there is probably as many dialects in Norway alone as there is in this whole country here. So what you hear is a mixture of a whole bunch of accents from the Old Country. Of course, these here farmers aren’t too fussy about the words they use neither, so that adds some color to things too.
Of course I knew just about everyone around here anyway, so I didn’t really need for my eyes to adjust to see who was there. When they got adjusted, I seen Harry Norgaard sitting there in the second booth. He still looked like he did two years ago. With them big eyes and front teeth of his, he looks a lot like that there rabbit you see in the movie cartoons these days.
Now I told you already about Marvin Uffdahl, and how he seems to have a screw loose half the time. But Marvin, he’s a damn genius when you compare him with this here screwball cousin of his. Harry, he’s Emil’s boy, and I don’t know what I’d do if I was poor Emil. You see, the old Norgaard family, they was pretty well-to-do even back in the Old Country. When they came over here, they was either smart enough or lucky enough to settle on some pretty good land out west of here. They was always pretty good farmers, so they done well. I guess you could say they know it too, but they don’t try to rub it in or nothing.
But this Harry, I don’t know. For one thing, I think his folks, they ended up spoiling him pretty bad. They give him damn near anything he could want. He must have been nearly twelve or thirteen before they tried to get any real work out of him, and that don’t do nobody no good. I think things really went haywire when they bought him that there Model ‘A’ roadster when he turned fifteen. Then he wasn’t never home. They still talk about the hell raising he done that summer, until they found him in that ditch out south of here, all bunged up, and with a broken leg. Emil, he had me haul the wreck over here where I was supposed to fix up again. But Emil and me, we sort of agreed that I wouldn’t never find the time to get around to it.
Things was pretty normal with him for the next two or three years. Then he went and fell in love like you’d think it never happened to nobody before. It was with John Bratrud’s daughter, Harriet. They was going to get married that summer right after they got out of high school. Emil and his missus, they was all for it. They even started fixing up that old Olson place they bought for them out here.
Then Harriet, she decided to go down to The Cities with some of her friends to earn a little nest egg for them to get started on. It was only going to be a few weeks, but I could tell from the way everybody was acting that something wasn’t going right. Then one night, Harry, he steals twenty five bucks right out of Emil’s pocket book, sneaks into town, and catches the Soo Line Flyer down to The Cities. That’s the last anybody heard of him for the next two years or so. Yah, as a matter of fact, it was almost two years exactly before he suddenly showed up again with that worthless car of his.
They say he got down there and found her being courted by this here banker she ended up marrying. I understand Harry and her, they had it out pretty good. When she give him the engagement ring back, he went on a two day binge, and found himself sobering up on a train to Fort Leonard Wood. I hear the Army, they had him stationed overseas most of the time since then.
Like everyone else, I was glad to see him back here at first. I figured the Army might of kicked a little sense into him. But it didn’t take long for me to see he was just as big a screwball now as he was two years ago.
But I almost swallowed my false teeth when I seen who was sitting there with him. It was Palmer Trollson of all people!
Now don’t get me wrong, there wasn’t really nothing wrong with it or nothing. It sure was unusual, though. Now I already told you about the Norgaards. I guess you’d have to say the Trollsons, they are on the other end of the social ladder we got around here, even if it is a kind of short one.
Palmer, he’s the eleventh of Gust Trollson’s brood of fourteen. Gust, he raised them all in that shack he got on forty acres of scrub pasture, out there next to the Lundeby Swamp east of here.
Palmer, he quit school when he was fifteen or so, and I don’t think he ever did learn to read or write. Maybe he still could of made something of himself, but then before you know it, he went and married his cousin Erma. Now I kind of like Palmer, but I seemed to be the only one around here who thought he shouldn’t of got married like that. Then I didn’t know the baby was so far along neither. In a way, I guess you’d have to say his getting married was a step up for him, because most of his relations they don’t even bother to make nothing official, if you know what I mean.
Palmer, him and Erma and their kids, they lived in quite a few places during these last few years. They had just moved over to that old Olson place, so it started going to rack and ruin too. Broken windows, piles of trash, and a half dozen derelict cars is standard trademarks of a Trollson place.
I got to wonder sometimes what they lived on. Palmer, he’s a pretty good worker so he gets jobs from some farmers around here in the summer. He works with potatos during the fall and winter, of course. He’s a pretty fair mechanic too, so he helps me out too sometimes. But I watch him pretty close.
Palmer, he’s a big brute who’s always kind of hunched over. He just sort of squints at you through them little eyes he got right next to his nose. To look at him, well, I think even William Jennings Bryan might admit this here Darwin guy had a point afterall.
I could tell from where he was parked out in front that he must of got a pretty early start on the evening too. That meant somebody must of paid him today. Palmer, you see, he never drinks if he’s broke, and he never goes home if he’s got any money.
I got my usual bottle of Grain Belt and went over to where the Swanson boys was sitting in the third booth. I knew they was wanting to talk with me about threshing. Them Swanson boys, neither of them don’t say too much, so I probably overheard more of what was going on in the next booth than I should of.
I could already tell that Palmer and Harry they was pretty well plastered from the way they was talking. Harry, he was blabbing away in that high pitched voice of his, so I could hear him pretty good. He was telling Palmer, “Yep, they just don’t make ‘em like that in Detroit! So this here Cord guy decides to show ‘em how to do it right. Boy-oh-boy! I tell ya, I never knew what a real car was like ’til I got this here one. Come up here from The Cities, eighty miles an hour the whole way! An’ with that front wheel drive, why I hardly had to slow down for a curve th’ whole way up here! Just wait ’til I get some new tires on it! Why, they say you can cruise along all day at ninety or a hunnert!”
“Awwh, horseshit!” I could hear Palmer say back to him. That voice of his, it always sounds like it’s gurgling its way through a bubble of phlegm. “Thompson, he vas tellin’ me about it. He say dey wasn’t nuttin’ but a buncha damn lemons. Hell!” he snorted, “dey don’t even make dem no more!”
“Yeah, sure. They don’t make ‘em anymore. An’ ya know why? Cause they made ‘em too bloody good, that’s why!” That was Harry talking, of course. They say he ended up stationed over in England somewheres, and every now and then he tries to show off by using some of them strange expressions. He don’t impress nobody around here with that, though.
“Yeah!” I could hear Harry say, “They went an’ put all their money into ENGINEERING an’ QUALITY. Din’t have NOTHIN’ left over for profit! THAT’S why they stopped makin’ ‘em. They made ‘em just to BLOODY GOOD!”
Palmer, he says “Hell, nuttin is as good as a Ford, — only a Merc’ry. I should know, I got bote sitting right oustide here!” Now Palmer, he don’t have a lot to be proud of, so I guess it’s OK for him to have something to brag about sometimes.
I also figured Harry, he would pick right up on that. “Mercury? I didn’t see any Mercury out there. Just that ‘32 you been drivin’ around lately.”
“It’s unter da hood!”
“Whaddya mean?”
“Dat dere turdy-two out dere, it didn’t have no motor in it when I got it. Den I gone and put dis here ‘40 Merc’ry motor in it. I done it myself. It can beat da pants off of any damn t’ing….”
“Hey! Wait a minute! You said ‘40 Merc’ry! Where’dja get it from?”
“From dis here car Clarence had last winter. Den he went and rolled it and….”
“No, wait! Tell me, what’d this car of his look like?”
“Aw, it was a four door. Sorta blue. Used to be, anyways.”
“Hey! I bet that used to be my dad’s old car! The one he traded in last fall. Well I’ll be! Hey, ya know that thing ran like a SONOFABITCH!”
“Damn right dat ting run like a son uff a bitch.” said Palmer, “It still does too! Only it goes a hell of a lot faster now in dis here little turdy-two. Why, de udder night me an’ Clarence, we was out west of here. We was going along at a purty good clip when we sees dese here lights coming and….”
That little Victoria of Palmer’s, she showed up around here in that freak blizzard we had the spring before last. Somebody run her into the ditch just west of here and must of abandoned her. She had North Dakota license plates on her, and just sat there for almost a week before the sheriff, he asked if I’d haul her away. Any fool could tell she had a cracked block, so that’s probably why they just went off and left her there.
Anyway, she sat around my shop for that summer where she was pretty handy to get parts off of. So there wasn’t much left of her when fall rolled around. Me and the missus, we was trying to raise a few rabbits for eating then, and we used her for a rabbit hutch that next winter. Then the missus, she got up one day and decided she had become an eyesore, since we was having company over for Easter. That didn’t leave me much choice but to get rid of her. The Victoria, I mean.
Palmer, he was helping me out around then. I offered her to him, and he snapped her right up. Now I told you earlier how the sign of a Trollson home is at least a half dozen junk cars laying around the yard. So it didn’t surprise none of us that he scraped enough parts so he could tow her out of here the next day.
Now you’re probably wondering how Emil Norgaard fits into all this. Well, you see Emil, he had a pretty good crop these last few years. He had drove this here ‘40 Mercury all during the war, and she had way over a hundred thousand miles on her. He had been on the list for a new car ever since 1947. He could of got one last spring a year ago, but decided to wait until the fall, when them new body styles come out. I can’t say I blame him since these new body styles, they look pretty good in my opinion.
Anyway, Emil traded his ‘40 in last fall and Clarence, he’s Palmer’s older brother, he bought her from the Ford dealer for $165. He only paid fifty dollars down. For some dumb reason, the bank, they went and lent him the rest. As you would expect, they only saw about twenty bucks of that before they decided they better do something about it.
Read more about Arvid Township and Charlie Warnes HERE.

Copyright 2008 Charlie Warnes. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

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The unseen character of human nature, from the perspective of 30 years of being a psychotherapist and a patient (a learner) and a novelist.

Excerpt

We are almost completely unaware of the evolution of psychic function.  We believe that the people of ancient times were exactly like us, as if human nature, psychically, was born, like Paul Bunyan, in its present form, without any need for psychic leaps of understanding, perhaps most of which haven’t yet happened.
The human psyche is our spirit.  It doesn’t belong to God.  It’s ours, who we are, a transcendental entity.  It gifts us with the vision of a god, joining that god at the hip to a flighty, unpredictable and vulnerable heart, making a maddening marriage.
We alone, abandoned by wisdom, must bring peace to these usually warring disparate parts of our nature.
The term “spirit” refers to the psychic whole of a single human with all of its parts, thinking, feeling, intuition, imagination, etc.  Spirit is that intangible, abstracted ethereal core of human nature that we know almost nothing about, which deeply intimidates us, and which we avoid owning as our true center.
Its intangibility is the rub.  Instead of occupying our spirituality, we cling fearfully to our physical nature to explain all things human, most specifically our psychic dysfunction, we say our problem is genetically biochemical.  We study the “brain” as if doing so meant to study the human psyche.  What’s more, we’d rather physically possess the mechanical power of a techno-hu-machine, the he-man of current Hollywood movies, than occupy our incorporeal, still largely undeveloped psychic identity, in spite of the fact that, at least potentially, it’s much more powerful.

Read more about The God Child-Abandoned and Don Fenn HERE.

Copyright 2008 Don Fenn. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

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A light-hearted, heavy-handed and devoutly devastating swipe at traditions about how God and Son go about their business on planet earth.

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Preface: BUY THIS BOOK!

I believe I am qualified to write this book about God and Son. I have lived with them for over seventy years-
as a boy and a man, a layman in the pew and a priest in the pulpit, a celibate and a married man (with church permission), a man with authority and a man opposed to authority, a man who once gloried in the right answers (I have a doctorate in Sacred Theology) and a man whose final comfort is in his questions (I have this book as evidence).

From 1950 to 1970 I was a seminary student and a priest. From 1970 to 1980 I was an anti-poverty and anti-war activist. (I remember those years as “my life on the road” with Jesus). From 1980 to 2000 I taught Religious Studies in a Roman Catholic College and in 2000 I retired as Professor Emeritus.  From 2000 until God knows when I have been pondering.

My pondering led to questions and doubts which I came to call “Rude Awakenings”. I called them “Awakenings” because only now was I becoming aware that I could escape the fear of hell and the image of God as the almighty white guy with a beard, making threats and promising rewards. I called my questions “Rude” because they were offensive to pious ears, and, at times, even to mine.

God help me if I give the impression I am writing to you from high moral ground when I write about my ten years as an activist against war and for the poor. I gave only a decade of my life trying to put down the mighty by living with and working with the lowly. And I did so on the cheap. I just happened to be an angry celibate forty year old man at a time when my anger could be harnessed to religious and political movements that dominated the 1970’s in North and South America. I was always on the fringe of this mighty saga. But the saga did not remain on the fringe of me. Thus this book about God and Son.

Where am I taking you? Why am I taking you there? How am I going to take you there? What kind of rude questions am I asking?

Where am I taking you?
I am taking you where pious believers fear to tread, where peace and justice mean more than heaven and hell; where God as “the mystery” means more than God as “the almighty”; where questions about God and Son are revered more than the so-called answers.

The questions are rude:
1. Why is God not an almighty presence on our planet?
2. Why is the Son so unlike the Father?
3. Why always with the creeds when we worship?
Why not “Lord, we believe, help our unbelief”?
4. Why do we not sing “Nobody knows God’s name”?

Why am I taking you there?
Planet earth will not be well served by Christianity in the cliff-hanging third millennium of the Christian calendar if Christians continue to live mostly by what John 3:16 says about God and Son at the expense of what Luke 4:18 tells us.

In 3:16 John quotes himself. He would have us believe God so loved the world that he sent Jesus to save only those who believed in Jesus.
In 4:18 Luke quotes Jesus who would have us believe that God so loved the world that he sent Jesus to serve those for whom life is a bitch and then it ends.

You should know that bible quotes are part of a sacred story not of a precise history. Thus the difference in what Jesus supposedly said about his mission and what John supposedly said about Jesus’ mission.

The world in the third millennium needs more Luke 4:18 Christians than it does John 3:16 Christians. It needs Christians who believe Jesus was sent to do something wonderful for planet earth not to save only those who believe in him and let the others and the planet go to hell. It needs Christians who believe it is by living the Luke text that a follower of Jesus takes up the cross of Jesus. It needs more Jesus believers who take seriously the last parable of Jesus: depart from me you accursed sinner for when I was hungry you did not see the hungry one as me.

Jesus’ parable on judgment is not a proof of the existence of hell but proof that Jesus was madder than hell when about to be crucified. He had been knocking himself out for the least and they were still not being treated as if they were Jesus.  Worse yet, his mission to them was about to be stopped. The feet that took him to the least and the hands that fed and healed them were soon to be nailed to two planks of wood. That’s when he lost his temper and told the parable about hell. Christianity needs believers who believe Jesus is still madder than hell that the least on planet earth are not treated as if they were Jesus.

The community of Jesus has always and everywhere lacked the ardor and tenacity of the ministry of Jesus to the wretched and huddling masses.  Belief in treating them as if they were Jesus is not a belief included in any of the Christian creeds. A Christian must believe in God as almighty, in Jesus as divine, in the resurrection of the dead but not in treating the least as if they were Jesus.
The words of Jesus have been about as effective as those of the Statue of Liberty: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

If things have not been going well for humanity on planet earth you can figure it out for yourselves.

How will I take you to where I want to take you?
I write as a friend talking to friends. But I do not rely on the day to day language I use with friends. Writing a book is like writing in another language. One must use words and put sentences together in a way that will hold the attention of countless readers. My words and sentences add up to a light hearted, heavy-handed, and devoutly devastating swipe at long held traditions about God and Son. That should hold your attention.

I rely heavily on stories about my personal experiences with God and Son. There is nothing more powerful than a story to make a point. That is why the bible is so popular.
It is a book of stories based on the religious experiences of two communities who have earned the respect and reverence of countless millions down through the centuries.

What kind of rude questions am I asking?
1.  When reciting the creed at Sunday worship should I profess my faith in God only as “the Father” and only as “the Almighty”?
Look where this restriction has taken us. We have come to imagine God mostly as an all-powerful white man with a beard who knows when we’ve been good or bad and who has prepared a cruel and unforgiving punishment for those who are bad. That’s as almighty as almighty can get!

There is something unseemly about God as proclaiming “power is my name, power is my game.” That belief reminds me of a cartoon in The New Yorker. It shows an elderly white man with a beard about to hurl a bolt of lightning from heaven. Three females, “the Zeusettes”, are singing: “He’s got a fist full of lightnin’ and he’s gonna cut loose! He’s the man with a plan! He’s the cat they call Zeus.”

As a nation under the image of God as the Almighty we anointed “˜the bomb’ as our almighty prince of peace: “We got a fist full of lightnin’ and we are ready to cut loose”. But now the Prince has lost its power to protect us. Now we are more vulnerable than ever.
Other nations under God as the Almighty are waging war more and more in the name of God and less and less in the name of national sovereignty. It had wrongly been assumed that the modern world had put an end to that nonsense.

2. Must I imagine God as almost always angry about something or other?  Should I relate to God as being “touchy” about what my Church insists are wrong beliefs and bad behavior?  Don’t these hurt us more than they hurt God? Shouldn’t God feel anguish and concern about our “sins” rather than anger? Why should masturbation, missing mass, or membership in the wrong community of faith send anyone to hell? Have we fashioned an image of a God who has such poor self esteem, such a fragile ego that “He” so easily feels “offended” by what we do or fail to do? Being that touchy would make life as miserable for God as it is for us.

Being quick to anger and harsh in punishment sounds like bad parenting to me. That image of God calls to mind the sign I saw posted in a diner in Maine: “The beatings will continue until morale improves.”

3. Is it wrong to imagine God as “Love Unstoppable”? Any public attempt to do that has always been condemned as a heresy. And yet, even given free will, is it not a pious probing to imagine divine love as a weapon of mass seduction? Is it not true piety to imagine that the power of divine love is the mystery? Is it not an act of faith and hope to imagine that God has a way of taking care of justice without resorting to eternal unforgiveness and everlasting pain? Just because there was a Hitler does not mean there has to be a hell.

4. Does justice without hell sound too wishy-washy? Would you say then that the only thing that keeps belief in heaven from being wishy-washy is the belief that you get there and I don’t, or vice-versa? Should we thank God for our belief in hell since it helps us believe in heaven without being seen as being wishy-washy?  Now there’s a worrisome thought.
Here’s a scary thought. If hell was first populated by angels who were kicked out of heaven what security do we have in heaven?
This is even scarier. If God is an all-loving Father and if hell is as advertised then God as the architect and CEO of hell must be the most miserable S.O.B. who ever lived. Why would the CEO of hell insist that we call him “Father”?

5. Does God as advertised, have a list of hell-worthy sins? Why do not all faiths follow the same list?  Suppose two women, one catholic and the other protestant, both practicing birth control, are both killed instantly in a car accident. Does the catholic go to hell while the protestant goes to heaven? Or do they both go to hell but only the protestant is surprised?

6. Why does Christian preaching and teaching on hell not feature Jesus’ last parable, told shortly before his death? It was Jesus’ final version of what to expect at judgment time. Jesus was a man about to die, and not merely posing as a man about to die. His parable was for himself as well as his listeners: “I am ready to face my father in heaven. I treated the least as if they were me.”
How can his last parable count for so little?

In asking these very rude questions I am reminded of the cartoon showing a preacher in the pulpit announcing to the congregation: “No sermon for you today. You are all going to hell anyway.”

My questions are not expressions of disdain for mother Church. I would be a liar if I said I am not proud of her vigorous intellectual life and am not moved by her ancient rituals- especially her liturgical chants (words by King David and music by Pope Gregory). And I would be an ungrateful wretch if I did not confess that without mother Church I would not have had my long and rewarding life with God. She made it possible for me to become a devout believer in a divine presence and a divine good will at work in my life. Indeed, it may be that I can write this book only because my church raised me in a way that makes writing this book possible. As a wise philosopher once noted: “One repays a teacher badly if one always remains a pupil.”

I am not a religious idealist. I know the sins of my church as well as her enemies. But I do not sing their song: “‘Tis a pity she’s a whore.”  I can live with the sins of my mother, even those of the fetid fourteenth century when she was more an agent of corruption than of sanctification. I have even learned to live with her centuries of harping that she was the only true Church.

I can live with the weaknesses of my mother the church, except the one lamented in this book: “˜Tis a pity her doctrines and rituals give so much to God as all mighty and so little to God as all mystery, and so much to Jesus as “the Christ” and so little to Jesus as “the Nazarene”.

I am not a rationalist bigot. In questioning the reverence given to God as an almighty presence I do not suggest that God never cures a cancer. I do say cures will almost never, if ever, be done by God as an almighty show-off. There are no Divine “Ta-dahs!” No restoring legs blasted to bits by roadside bombs. That is not going to happen. I am at peace with my belief that it is not an almighty presence but a hidden godly presence we should revere, love and cherish, day in and day out. I believe it is the holy will of God not to be present to us as “the almighty”.

I am not a flaming liberal. I know that our stories and beliefs about the risen and glorified Christ have given and are giving peace and joy to countless millions. I was one of them for most of my life. I too lived my life of faith revering the Christ for what he can do for me. For me, the good that Jesus did in his road ministry had been interred with his bones.

I am not an ex-Catholic or former Catholic. I am a retired Roman Catholic. The meager pension that keeps my faith alive is provided by the Nazarene’s road ministry to the kingdom on earth.

I am a man of faith who in good faith reveres his questions and doubts. They reflect my determination to make my faith as honest, straightforward, and personal as possible.
Believe me; I can understand if you do not want to go where my “Rude Awakenings” take you. I was in my fifties before I dared to go there and decided to stay there. Only in my seventies was I ready to publish the story of my religious experience of God and Son.

I almost did not publish this book because of the fear of going to hell if I shared my questions and doubts with others. I decided not to give into that fear. That decision may seem foolish. It is foolish. Where eternal damnation is at stake it seems best to play it safe, as is the custom among pious and not so pious believers.
But I have no choice. Like any serious believer I am moved not just to keep the faith but share it, even more so having been a priest and professor. It will not be too long before I meet God. If God is all-knowing, as advertised, “He” already knows what is in my heart, what I have put in writing, what I am determined to publish. When we meet, face to face so to speak, I have no choice but to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Faking it before God will do me no good whatsoever.

There is no use moaning and groaning or quaking and shaking about the rude questions I am asking. In fact, I take great comfort in the two gospel accounts which have Jesus dying with a very rude question on his lips: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Yes, rude questions can be prayers). I am no Jesus but as a follower I cannot be faulted for taking heart in these two gospel accounts of the very last words of Jesus.

Permission to publish:
I would not give myself permission to publish this book about God if I believed God had written a book about God. Or if I believed God had an obviously godly hand in the biblical books about God, as in the kind of hand that could make two instant adults. I believe God was behind the making of the bible as much as he was behind the making of the universe, way behind.

Nor would I write this book about God if I felt obligated to refer to God, a pure spirit, always and only as a male. I usually refer to God as “He” only because it is customary. Even today, in our progressive culture, it is still not O.K. to refer to God as “She.” I personally believe that in referring to the incomprehensible divine presence in our life “mother” is as good as “father”, “breast” is as good as “rock”, “tears” are as good as “fire”, “womb” is as good as “fortress”- and yes, “pubic triangle” is as good as the “traditional triangle” that for far too long has highlighted God as a masculine presence among us.

We should not reinforce the decisions of the men who run our church even though we obey them for the common good.

Some practical matters:
1. PRAYER:
While at prayer, should we not try harder to love our enemies? Should we ever ask for God’s help in killing them when things have gotten out of hand and the killing machine has been unleashed?
While at prayer, should we not try harder to be practical? Does it not make sense to pray for leaders here and abroad who do not talk and act like a Louis L’Amour cowboy, leaders who are quick to boast: “I’ll handle the shovel that puts dirt on your grave and the gun that puts you there”? Now more than ever do we not need leaders who are not trigger-happy?
Google “The War Prayer” by Mark Twain. That should help you in your prayers.

2. WAR:
In the Big Picture, Warriors go into battle willing to die for the defense of the nation that sent them there.
In the Little Picture, those in the field of fire do not always have such noble sentiments. They die in self-defense and in defense of their comrades, especially in a war that is suspect and controversial.
In my lifetime our country fought in two wars that were vastly unpopular with many if not most of its citizens. Both were fought because of over zealous and misguided reactions by our leaders due mostly to wrongly placed threats to national security. And that is putting it kindly. What kind of a democracy is this if that dire situation continues?
Our country no longer professes to believe that slavery, segregation, and sexism are OK with God and Son. When will it bite the bullet on militarism? It is time to take a closer look at war, at the way we assume war is inevitable, at the way we fight our wars, at the reasons we go to war. Have we been O.K. with God on all counts? It is time to begin to imagine a world without war. It is time to confess that even mother earth suffers our violence. Is it not true that in this we are without shame?

3. JESUS:
Why has Jesus’ birthday hymn “Peace on earth” not put an end to war? What could the angels at Bethlehem have been thinking? Silly song! What do angels know about life on planet earth?
Why has Jesus’ kingdom prayer for “daily bread” not put an end to hunger? What could Jesus have been thinking in praying for food for all, food worthy of Our Father’s table? Silly man! Or was he? Did he believe something we have not yet learned to believe?

4. OUR TROOPS:
Does “Support our troops” only and always mean “Support our war”? Is such a claim a graceless deception? Most likely many of our troops would prefer we get them out of this war. No doubt, the Support Slogan, though it may serve to kill more troops, gives comfort to those who want to be assured that a loved one’s body or some of its parts were not given “in vain”. This kind of pain killer reminds me of the oft-used pain killer given to parents when a child dies “in vain”, as in a five year old girl run over by a cement truck while riding her new birthday bicycle: “It is the will of God.”
Not that there is anything wrong with these pain killers. Any piety that can help anyone get through the dark night of despair is O.K. by me, even if it prolongs a war or puts God’s good name in a bad light. But to take one pain killer as patriotism and the other as theology is an abomination before God and country. I would suggest that the “Patriots” who chant “Support our Troops” read Walt Whitman on the Civil War:

“I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them”¦.
But I saw they were not as was thought,
They themselves were fully at rest, they suffer’d not,
“¦ the armies that remain’d suffer’d.”

4. OUR WORSHIP:
While at worship, whether we worship on Friday, Saturday or Sunday, should we not try to be humble? When the going gets tough have not each of the three great Revelation Religions given good reason for doubting their boasts about being highly favored by God?  Israel and Islam have made the land of milk and honey a land of blood and gore. Christianity has long been divided against itself and has helped shape a nation that is much better at bombing nations than baptizing them. What’s that all about?

5. THE ALMIGHTY:
Should we revere God as “The Almighty” if God is clearly determined to let the chips fall where they may?  No Rabbi was sent by God to threaten Hitler as in the story of Moses threatening Pharaoh: “Let my people go, or else.” Our post 9/11 nation, still struggling with racism and sexism, will not be blessed with an African-American devout Muslim immigrant woman sent by God to be our unifying president. Such mighty signs would make the case that God wants to be revered as “The Almighty”. That case has yet to be made, except, of course, in our sacred stories.

6. GOOD FRIDAY:
Why is the Friday on which Jesus was crucified called “Good”? Is it because we favor the story that tells us that while Friday was bad for Jesus it was good for us, that the whips and nails which opened his body at that very moment opened the gates of heaven, saved sinners?
Another story suggests Jesus died fighting for the little guys against the big guys, suggesting that Friday should be called BAD Friday because the big guys won that battle and because that Friday was bad both for Jesus and for us.
7. GRANDCHILDREN:
While talking to your grandchildren about religion, try to be cautious, especially after reading this book. While writing it I was very cautious when my eight year old granddaughter called me on the phone.
Grandpa Jim, how did religion get started?

She still believed in Adam, Eve, and Santa. I could not tell her all three were fictional. So I shared with her a word-picture that went something like this:

Imagine yourself in a world with very few people, and everyone lives out in the open, almost like animals. It is a lonely world. You hardly know how to talk and there are very few people to talk to and they are scattered all over the place. It is a hard world to live in. You know very little about getting food or making clothes or building shelter. It is a scary world to live in. You are afraid of the dark, the cold, floods, fire, lightning, earthquakes, wild animals and dreams. It is an awesome world to look at, with its sun, moon, stars, mountains and oceans. It is a mysterious world to live in, for it gives freely and takes away just as freely. Who or what is behind this giving and this taking?  How powerful they or it must be. How can we get their help and appease their anger?  Eventually “help from above” was called God and belief in that help was called religion. God loving us and our loving God as well as one another was believed to be the highest form of
religion.
Some day my granddaughter will, I trust, learn to see the Adam and Eve story in light of my explanation. Hopefully, it will not be too rude of an awakening for her, that she will learn to read the bible as a book of stories not of facts.

Now, on to the story of my life with God and Son.
This is my story and I’m sticking to it.

Read more about Escape from Hell and the Almighty White Guy with a Beard and James La Croce HERE.

Copyright 2008 James La Croce. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

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One out of every two American men and one out of every three American women will get cancer over the course of their lifetimes. This book tells you how to avoid it.

Excerpt

Introduction

The overall mortality rate from cancer hasn’t changed in 60 years despite the billions invested to find a cure. Combining their experience in family medicine and epidemiology with their passion for disease prevention, the authors provide the most up to date and effective advice for preventing cancer from developing in ourselves and our loved ones. Many “how to” examples for preventing cancer by being environmentally aware, avoiding infections, living the proper lifestyle and getting the proper nutrition are provided.

Chapter by chapter summaries and listings of the latest cancer prevention web sites are great references. Highlights of Chapter 8 include ways to get 5-9 servings of fruit & vegetables per day, when to purchase organically grown food and a carefully researched list of super-foods that have been shown to reduce the risk of cancer. Worksheets assist readers in implementing the advice in very tangible ways, and the recipe collection of cancer avoiding meals is a winner!

This book is designed to provide practical, and in many cases simple, ideas to decrease your risk of developing cancer.  Most of the recommendations are based on review of solid studies published in credible journals, presented in an empowering, easy-to-read and sometimes humorous fashion.

What Are We Doing To Prevent Cancer

Why, despite the billions of dollars spent on research to find a cure, have we failed to make a dent in the overall mortality from cancer for over sixty years? Although the age-adjusted death rate from 1950 until now has halved for heart disease and pneumonia and nearly quartered for strokes, it has not budged for cancer. The reason is not because we are living longer. This is what “age adjusted” means in this statement. It would be easy to cast the evil eye at tobacco, but smoking during this time in the U.S. decreased from nearly 50 percent of adults to less than 25 percent. The incidence of cancer has risen steadily; however, in 2006 in the United States, it appears the incidence may be declining slightly. Unfortunately, the same experts who celebrate this exceptionally modest decline are not hopeful it will continue as the baby boom generation hits peak cancer time. According to the World Health Organization (WHO), global cancer rates could increase by 50 percent to 1
5 million by 2020.

Despite this, the five year survival rate for cancers overall has not changed significantly since 1950. Only about 50 percent of people diagnosed with cancer live longer than five years.

So what are we doing wrong? Why has the mortality from heart disease dropped dramatically, while that from cancer has remained essentially unchanged?

We believe a significant factor is that our society is driven by money, and that far more money is allocated to treating rather than preventing cancer. There is great potential for financial gain in developing and marketing an effective chemotherapy agent. There is little financial incentive in preventing the tumor the drug would treat. There is clear financial incentive in treating animals and crops with hormones, pesticides and antibiotics in order to raise production and increase crop yield. There is little financial reward in evaluating what these substances do to our bodies once we ingest them.

What Causes Cancer

Tobacco - 25-40 percent - one third of all cancer deaths, almost 90 percent of deaths from lung cancer are due to smoking.

Diet And Obesity - 25-30 percent - obesity, or being overweight, alone accounts for 14 percent of cancer deaths in men and 20 percent of cancer deaths in women in the United States. According to the International Agency for Research on Cancer (IARC), as many as 375,000 cases of cancer could be prevented each year in the U.S. through healthy dietary choices. In a person of normal weight, dietary changes can also play a significant role in decreasing the risk of cancer and are discussed in detail in chapters Six and Eight.

Infection - 10-25 percent - it is estimated that around 10 percent of cancer deaths are related to infection, whereas infections cause 25 percent of cases worldwide. The leading culprits in the U.S. include human immunodeficiency virus (HIV), giving rise to multiple cancers, human papillomavirus (HPV); which causes cervical, anal, vaginal, penile, and oral cancers, hepatitis B; associated with liver cancer, hepatitis C; associated with liver cancer and lymphomas, and H. pylori; associated with stomach cancer.

Ionizing/UV Radiation - 2-7 percent. UV radiation causes 90 percent of skin cancers. Radon is the second leading cause of lung cancer.

Occupational - 2-8 percent are due to exposure to occupational hazards, accounting for around 5 percent (6-10 percent in men and 1 percent in women) of cancer deaths, especially those involving cancers of the lung, bladder, and bone marrow.

Alcohol - 3 percent. Alcohol has been shown to have a causal link with the development of cancers of the breast, liver, mouth, esophagus, pharynx, larynx, colon, and rectum. Alcohol is currently felt to be responsible for 3.6 percent of all cancers; 5.2 percent of cancers in men, and 1.7 percent of cancers in women.

Pollution And Environmental Chemicals - less than 1 to 5 percent in the United States, chemicals and pollutants account for roughly 1 to 5 percent of cancers. In other regions of the world, for example Chernobyl, Ukraine, pollution accounts for a much higher percentage of cancer.

Copyright 2008 Lynne Eldridge and David Borgeson. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

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A jobless 18 year old farm boy struggles to find a proper girl to marry and otherwise  improve his life. His troubled family, scheming females and the law threatens all.

Excerpt

Heck sat down next to Mr. Meade who led off with the lively, “Bile Them Cabbage Down.” The party was on. Rebel yells and feet stamping in time with the music got everyone’s blood flowing. Heck felt himself being lifted up and carried into another world.
Grandad Tennel fell in with them on the bass fiddle, and those still outside came in to watch and listen, occasionally glancing at Early who kept rhythm by beating his left leg stub against the box. Their expressions said they had been transformed as well.
What Mr. Meade’s fiddling lacked in smoothness was made up by gusto, and he never played a short version of anything, or in any key except “D.” He finally ended his first selection and began “Chicken Reel.” At that point Ubis Sproggs sprang out of the back room, grabbed his heavy wife, letting out with a big “Eee haaa!” as he swung her around with the abandon of a man under the influence. In spite of enthusiasm for the dance, however, he kept watch on the serving room so as not to miss a sale. Heck believed the only reason Ubis hadn’t hit him up for his share of the day’s sales in town was because his dad had already paid him.
Ending the second number, Mr. Meade paused for a swallow of whiskey from silver flask he pulled from his pocket. Slick and Shorty McLean took advantage of the break to follow Ubis into the back room. Mr. Meade began “Westphalia Waltz” and halfway through it, Slick reappeared and began dancing with Beulah Mae.
The new girl moved closer to watch her friend swing around the room with Slick, and for the first time, Heck got a look at her in full light. The glistening brown hair was curled on the ends, framing a smooth, round face and a turned-up nose that didn’t have a single freckle on it. Her wide mouth wouldn’t win any beauty contests, but her overall features formed a feminine quality he had never seen in Willa. Her eyes met his, she smiled and held his gaze without turning away, a look that told Heck she hadn’t come along with Beulah Mae just to be stimulated by a   ride in the night air. Her obvious boldness caused him to drag rhythm with his guitar for a few bars, a mistake he seldom made.
The McLeans joined Slick and Beulah Mae on the dance floor, and by the time Mr. Meade had to stop to rest his arms, everybody seemed caught up in the spirit of the party. Early didn’t care that nobody had dropped any coins in his hat, thanks to Ubis slipping him a snuff glass full of shine. With his manhood restored and some good moonshine under his belt, he’d become a changed man.
His stepmother’s reaction to her own renewal was more subdued. She sat between Marna and Elsie on a bench against the back wall quietly observing their guests with an expression of detached contentment. She appeared unconcerned that she was, as usual, being shunned by her women neighbors.
Mr. Meade pulled out the flask again, saying with unaccustomed loudness, “Another shot or two of this, folks, and I’ll be ready to play “˜Orange Blossom Special.’ How about you, Ibsen?”
Grandpa Tennel nodded and said something that got drowned out by shouts of approval and applause from around the room. He had the voice of a sober man, always respected but seldom heard. Although no longer a churchgoer, he remained a devout Baptist at heart, never drinking whiskey except for medicinal purposes.
“I want to hear Heck sing,” Willa shouted.
“Yeah, Heck,” Slick said loudly. “Show Ruby what you can do.”
Heck looked at the tall city girl and she smiled. “All right,” he said, beginning a song he’d heard Jimmy Rodgers sing over the radio at Mr. Slater’s. A few bars into “Nobody’s Darling,” he took his eyes off Ruby for fear of becoming distracted and forgetting the lyrics. Even a glance at her during the chorus threatened his concentration, so he looked instead at the familiar faces in the room until he was finished. When he looked at her again, her gaze told him she was surprised a country boy could sing at all.
Willa shot Ruby another threatening look, causing Heck to suspect she might lunge across the room at any time and tear into the city girl, who up to that point had not sensed the danger she was in. Heck told himself to warn Ruby at the earliest opportunity.
Seeing the smiles and hearing the applause that followed his songs lifted Heck up like nothing else he had ever done. It made him feel important, appreciated and for a time, in charge of his life, which could be beautiful in spite of poverty.
He sang “When the Work’s All Done This Fall,” “Good-bye, My Little Darling” and “She’s My Curly Headed Baby.” Each number won him a vigorous round of applause, whistles and foot stampings, and it caused Ruby to move up so close he caught a whiff of her perfume. If Mr. Meade hadn’t swung out on “Arkansas Traveler,” Willa might have jumped her. Instead, she remained by the door, staring angrily at Heck and her new competition.
After the fiddle tune, Heck announced he was going to sing another song dedicated to Mr. Meade. At the start of “Pistol Packin’ Mama,” everyone loudly applauded, and his old friend smiled and saluted. When Heck was through, Mr. Meade began “Devil’s Dream,” which his audience clapped in time to.
Mr. Meade had barely got rolling good when he looked through the door of Ubis’s concession stand and abruptly stopped playing. Heck and his granddad gave him confused looks as they, too, stopped. All heads turned to the partition door, and an excited murmur ran through the room when they saw Sheriff Emmet Sloan standing there, so tall his black hat touched the top of the opening. Heck had never seen him look so big and threatening.
Ubis Sproggs stomped his foot so hard it made the floor shake. “Damn! Where’n hell did you come from?”
“Through the back door, Ubis. The one you always ran out of to hide this stuff when I came in the front.” The sheriff held up a half empty jar of whiskey.
A hush fell over the room as everybody waited to see what the sheriff’s next move would be. Calm and sure of himself in his customary black suit, white shirt and black string tie, he was a sight to put fear in the hearts of the worst of men.
Heck completely forgot about Ruby and their anticipated trip to the dark side of the yard. Damn. The sheriff’s come to arrest me.
“I’d haul you in, Ubis, if I wasn’t here on more important business,” he said.
I’m going to jail for sure. Heck almost pissed in his pants.
Sheriff Sloan looked slowly around the room as if expecting to see a face he      hadn’t seen before. When his cold eyes stopped, Heck felt a fresh wave of panic sweep over him. He was unable to look at the fearsome man who had spoiled his musical, and might now put him in jail and spoil his life. To make matters worse, he sensed the big lawman was reading his every thought.
When the sheriff started walking toward him, Heck suddenly recalled a song he had sung at so many musicals, “I’m In the Jailhouse Now.” Taking on a whole new meaning, the lyrics pounded in his head like thunder before a storm.

Chapter XI

Sheriff Sloan loomed over Heck like Goliath over David, exuding such an air of absolute authority that it made him tremble. He tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry. He wondered what Ruby thought of him now, cowering like a whipped puppy in front of his guests.
“I have good information that tells me the man who hustled you out of town this afternoon was Clyde Barrow’s driver,” the sheriff boomed.

Copyright 2008 Calvin Bowden. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

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The Joy of Kinky and Spicy Sex is very entertaining, funny and informative with real life experiences on how-to take everyday things and turn them into adventurous fun.

Excerpt
Chapter 1
Why Kinky Sex?
Why kinky sex?  Because it’s just plain fun.  The heat and passion that can be generated from some of the simplest, silliest and craziest things can be scorching-hot and exciting.  The adrenaline gets pumping, the heart starts thumping, and the rush that comes over you when you engage in something that is so exhilarating is indescribable.
I know from firsthand experience that the above is true.  If you’re lucky, as I am, to be blessed with a man who is not only a willing partner but a masterful initiator (but even if this is not your situation) kinky sex can bring some of the most intense pleasure you will ever experience.
Kinky sex has enhanced my life and sex life and added loads of fun to everyday things.  While I have had the pleasure of kinky sex in my life for many years, it wasn’t until I fully embraced it that I realized what powerful heat and passion it could bring.  It gives me a sense of living on the edge, and it makes me feel adventurous and daring.  It’s just an awesome feeling for both you and your partner.
Kinky sex takes sex to a level where sex should be.  It allows you to take a journey that could last from minutes to hours to days and when you really get the concept of kinky sex, you’ll realize it’s more about the journey than the end.
The journey consists of a variety of things.  Some things are just playful and fun, while others can be hot, intense, and daring.
Sometimes the journey can be over in a matter of minutes, and sometimes it’s extended over a period of time where you push it to be edge and back multiple times culminating in an explosive, passionate ending.  As stated above, it is more about the journey than the end, but the end ain’t bad either.
Kinky sex is something that can be done anytime, anywhere, and often in such a subtle way that only you and your partner know about it.  It just adds spice to life.
I can give you many reasons for why you should enjoy kinky sex, but I find it very difficult, if not impossible, to come up with a single reason as to why one would not participate in something that has the ability to make a relationship more fulfilling than it would have been without it.
If you’ll open up your mind and let creative thoughts in, I believe, you will find the rewards to be well worth it.

Read more about The Joy of Kinky and Spicy Sex by Alana Grey HERE.

Copyright 2008 Alana Grey. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

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This book continues the adventures of Toby, Gina, Jayne, and Little Robin as they face even more perils than in the first book!

Excerpt

The adventures continue in this story with more of the events that plague the ‘crew’.
Having returned home to Pittsburgh, after months on the road, Toby learns that his mother and sisters had had to move downriver to stay with his aunt, -which again leaves Toby homeless. And now with four other mouths to feed! Old problems resurface, as do enemies, and Toby is again on the run to keep him and the others out of harm’s way.

There is no escaping as events unfold, separating Toby and Jayne from the others and they are forced to find ways to survive on their own. Each of the characters face their own problems -some life threatening, as deathly sicknesses, revenge driven enemies, and unforeseen tragedies fill the pages and lives of your favorite characters. Love and shame, friendship, and the need for others, makes this Toby sequel something you won’t want to miss!

New immigrants -and pure dumb luck, add to Toby’s arsenal of friends, and begin the setting of something big in the future of the “River Folk”. So why not join the crew?

Copyright 2008 Thom Rogers. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

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Siblings fend for themselves when mother goes missing.

Excerpt

Chapter One

It had been nine months and three days since my Dad had died.
God, I was tired of life. The afternoon was heavy with heat, and I had just walked home from my babysitting job to find my Mom with a map spread out on the kitchen table. How strange she looked, sitting there, with an almost cheerful expression-a relief to me. I could smell dinner cooking. This was also a relief to me and most likely to all of us kids. Mom really couldn’t cope right after the news about Dad, so I had taken over the cooking. Neighbors and friends had given us casseroles at first, but after a while, people went back to their own lives, and we had to fend for ourselves in the meal department. Many of my culinary efforts had been scraped into the garbage disposal with nothing left but a lingering hunger and a bunch of dirty dishes.
Looking out the window past my Mom, I could see my little brother Jake in the backyard. He was tinkering with the broken lawnmower. Everything seemed to be broken. Jake was totally absorbed in his repair project, and I must say I felt a tinge of envy. Must be nice to be able to escape that way. Jake was only twelve but had unusual patience for his age. I would have bet all of my babysitting money that he’d have the thing running by the end of the day, but I seriously doubted he’d ever mow the lawn. Before my Dad was sent to Iraq, Jake was always begging to cut the lawn but after Dad left, he kind of lost interest. It was only the second day of July and the lawn was up to my knees. It was my hope that someone besides me would give in and handle it because the yard looked like crap!
It used to be that house beautiful was the major theme around here. On weekends Mom and Dad would go to The Home Depot and return with flats of flowers and bags of mulch. Then they’d dig and weed and mulch and mow. It was amazing to watch them because they seemed to be actually having fun. I remember them cleaning up the garage one Saturday- laughing and working,  drinking beer, and listening to country music. A perfectly awful way to spend a Saturday in my opinion, but that was their idea of a good time. Go figure.
After Dad died, yard work, cooking, washing, eating and laughing all moved to the back burner at our house. The front burner was reserved for getting through the day. Instead of bringing us together, Dad’s death sent each of us into our own world. Everyone scattered. Mom went to bed and just stayed there for weeks. Jenny was all drama, tears, and outbursts, then she just bailed and went to her best friend Katelin Fisher’s house where she would stay for days on end. The Fishers are big-time Christian folk and Jenny has fallen totally into the fold. She went over to the Fishers’ a normal girl one day and returned home a Jesus freak the next. She wore a Jesus necklace and a WWJD bracelet and always listened to the praise station.
Mom and Dad used to bring us to church when we were little, but my Dad got fed up one Sunday after the good people of the congregation got too pushy fighting their way out of the parking lot after the service. That was the first time I remember hearing the word ‘hypocrisy’.
I can’t say I really missed going to church. I thought it was boring and found it nearly impossible to pay attention to the sermons. I refused to go to Sunday school. Instead I sat quietly next to my parents, contemplating other great mysteries, like how many people were wearing glasses, or maybe the number of bald men, or how many women were with bald men. Sometimes I would count beams in the church ceiling, or more likely how many minutes ‘til it would all be over and I could go home and try to salvage the end of my weekend. Anyway, we’d never been a real churchy family. To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure if we’re any specific religion. I guess the Jesus thing gave Jenny some kind of comfort but I really didn’t get it.
Once school got out, things got a little easier. It was so embarrassing, having your Dad die. How else can I put it? I wanted to disappear. You could feel everyone whispering and watching. I guess to see if we would fall apart or whatever. Maybe it was just curiosity. The teachers and kids felt bad for us, I know, but most of their condolences made me want to yell at them. It was all I could do to be polite. I found myself going around all day with my fists clenched. I would consciously will myself to relax my hands, but before I knew it they would be back in a fist. It felt as if my insides were crying while the outside of me went on almost normally.
Now, the sadness had turned to madness. Why did my Dad have to join the stupid Army Reserve? What was he thinking? Was it for the extra money? I know that he made extra money being in the Reserve. And why did the President have to start a war? I HATED the President. Mom told me never to say that, but I didn’t care. I hated anyone who thought it a good idea to blow people up for profit or entertainment, or religion, or even democracy. It was too stupid. Too ugly and it didn’t make sense. The world was insane and it all made me sick, sick, sick.
There were only two things that keep me from jumping off a bridge. The first; my guitar. I bought my guitar with my own money saved up from many hours of torturous babysitting. A Taylor, model 510. I bought it second hand, though in excellent condition, at Guitar Warehouse. I’d stay in my room and practice for hours on end. It was the only time I’d feel kind of o.k. All the crap seemed to disappear when I was learning a new song. I’d even begun to write songs. It came naturally. Maybe that was the up side to feeling like an emotional wreck. Maybe someday I could write a song that would change the world!
Jana was the other “thing” that kept me from killing myself. She was my little sister and even though she could be a flake (and couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it) she had always been kind of like my baby. I was six years old when she was born, so it was like I was her ‘little mother’. Jana, unlike Jake and Jenny, needed me. She was only eight and was a Daddy’s girl. With Mom being so unlike Mom, and the whole house being so sad, I just fell into the role of Jana’s comforter. In a way it helped me, because I had to stay on the positive side for her. I had to “do” for her, which kept me moving, because I must admit the temptation to stay in bed was overwhelming at times. Anyway, I loved Jana, who had gotten kind