BS: The Writer's Corner

Subject: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 03 Aug 07 - 09:54 AM

We have many wonderful writers on the Cat. Over the years, I've enjoyed posts on almost every conceivable topic. Unfortunately, they're scattered all over the place and as things are set up, they have to be under a topic. I don't know what limitations Mudcat may have on length of a post (maybe we can get some guidance, here.) But, I thought it might be nice to have a corner where writers can post whatever they feel moved to write.

For the last few months, I've been going to a website: gather.com. It's supposedly primarily for writers, but the way that they've set it up discourages any on-going conversation. For starters, when somone posts a comment, it doesn't refresh the thread, so after a week, it becomes impossible to find the article, and it drops off the map. The best thing that the web site did for me was to make me appreciate Mudcat.

So, pending approval by the Mudcat Top Cats on length, I thought I'd start this thread with something reasonably short bout dogs. A favorite topic of mine. It also has song lyrics, but I wouldn't recommend that posts to this thread be limited to music.

I'm starting this for selfish reasons. I'd enjoy reading what others want to post.

Rosco

Back in the 40's, a dog's life wasn't all that bad. There were no leash laws, the streets were safer with fewer cars, and for the most part, dogs prospered through a certain amount of benign neglect. Dogs had their reason for existing (at least the ones that somebody owned,) because hunting was a regular weekend occupation for most men in town, and a dog helped to earn his keep. Of course, there were more disreputable dogs, like Rosco, too: dogs that were either strays, or were owned by a family that tolerated them as much as they loved them. Those dogs savored the night life of Janesville, for what there was, and had their regular rounds to make during the day. They commonly traveled in small groups (no pack, or anything that seemed threatening,) and they led a rather casual life. You would see them hanging around downtown or in the scruffier neighborhoods, looking for handouts or testing the lids of all the garbage cans along their route. They were generally friendly and good natured, and no one ever worried if they had rabies, or that they didn't have a good, loving home. No self-respecting dog would ever allow himself to be dressed in one those cute little doggie sweaters they sell these days, or be washed with no-tears doggie shampoo. On the rare occasion when they got to smelling so bad that they needed a bath, Ivory soap worked just fine. I don't ever remember having a leash for our dog (a rope was considered serviceable enough, if you had to tie up your dog for some reason, and dogs generally had the run of the house and the neighborhood.) On the whole, dogs were quite self-sufficient, street wise and capable of quick thinking on their four feet. I met dogs like Rosco all the time, although I'm not sure that I ever knew who owned them. They were the dogs you met down by the ice house or the railroad track who suddenly appeared, usually wet and dirty, with tongue hanging out and tail wagging. They happily accepted any sign of affection, and were full of enthusiasm for any of the games we would dream up (dogs are poison: if one touches you, you are out of the game.) They would play with you until they lost interest, and then wander off to see what was happening down the street. There was certainly no need of dog psychiatrists.
Nowadays, dogs, like Rosco would probably be rounded up by someone and taken to the Humane Society to stay there unclaimed for the required number of days, and then put to sleep.


ROSCO                            words and music by Jerry Rasmussen

Put another bowl on the floor, Mildred, I think Rosco's got a friend
Coming back home at all hours of the night, and he don't say where he's been
Walking kinda funny with his legs stuck out, and his tail's flying at half mast
And I don't think he's going to live to see another winter if he don't stop living so fast.

Only yesterday I saw Rosco's brother, he's the pride of the family
You'd never find him hanging 'roung the railroad yard, or keeping bad company
Everybody says he's just a family dog, and he's never known to harm a thing
And if you want to find him he'll be sleeping in the sunlight underneath the front porch swing

Every cat in town is going to sleep uneasy when Rosco's on the prowl
And if you got a bitch you better keep her tied up, 'cause if she hears Rosco's howl
She'll be off and running, to Hell and gone on a midnight rendevouz
And you can keep your back porch light burning all night, 'cause there's nothing else that you can do

Words and music by Jerry Rasmussen

As a writer and songwriter the two often converge. I've recorded this song on Back When I Was Young, and the writing is part of a book of memoires I'm working on.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: alanabit
Date: 03 Aug 07 - 05:27 PM

Forgive me Jerry, but I could not resist posting the following appalling song...

Rover's Got The Blues

They say a true love story is one which doesn't end
But how do you explain that to a man's best friend?
I've tried to cheer him up but it's all been no use
He's been howling like a pup since Rover got the blues

His passion stirred one day – by a stunning young Red Setter
My Rover sure ain't gay – he bounded off to get her
And every time he broke out he ran across the street
For Rover ain't cold blooded and she had come on heat

                Once they ran together
                But now she runs alone
                She doesn't want to sniff his bum
                Or even share his bone

They ran the fields together pursuing doggy habits
Rolling round in mud and dust and terrorising rabbits
But now he sits inside his kennel chewing my old shoes
There ain't no doubt about it – Rover's got the blues

        Dreams of setting up kennel
       Have run into a hitch
        He's sulking down a jennel            
       And calling her a BITCH!

Now Rover is all choked up that they aren't still a pair
She walks past with a pedigree dog - her nose up in the air
Whenever we walk past their house she just pretends to snooze
He's got his tail between his legs 'cos Rover's got the blues


Jennel - North English dialect word for a narrow street.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Stilly River Sage
Date: 03 Aug 07 - 06:31 PM

There was a thread that kind of did what you're doing here: Gallery of Mudcat Quotations. Meanwhile, here's a doozy. It's a Mudcat gem by BWL and it's about dogs!


Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Bee-dubya-ell - PM
Date: 02 Dec 04 - 03:25 PM

As some of you folks of above average deductive powers may have deduced, the "Zeke Floyd" posts made to this and other threads are totally bogus, spurious and fraudulent. Yes, I posted those messages! However, they are based upon fact. There really is a Zeke Floyd! I have actually met the man! I was so impressed, if that's the appropriate word, that I felt compelled to create a "Zeke Floyd" alter-ego and bring him to life here on the MOAB. Yet, as is often the case, truth is stranger than fiction and I am pleased to present the following true story of my experience with Zeke Floyd and his dogs.   

As I was returning from my latest road trip, I noticed two dogs, a yellow female and a black and tan male, on the shoulder of the road a few hundred feet north of our driveway. When I stopped to check the mailbox the dogs must have thought I had stopped to interact with them in some fashion because they came loping down the road and up to the van as if they were expecting something. Having no use for dogs, I told them to get the hell away. I then drove down my quarter-mile-long driveway to the house and began unloading a few things from the van. So, what should appear in a few moments, snooping around and scaring my cats? You guessed it, the very same two dogs. I again told them to scram, whereupon they ran about fifty feet away and lie down in the middle of the driveway.

Now, the road trip from which I had returned had been replete with dogs: my stepson's two exceedingly rambunctious half-grown Labradors, my parents' obsessive-compulsive dachshund, and my daughter's long-haired Chihuahua puppy which lives in her purse. I was completely dogged out and in the mood for feline companionship and these two strays had decided to take over my yard, sending my cats onto rooftops and into trees. It appeared that dogs had become part of my recent karma and that the karmic debt had not yet been paid in full.

I was actively bemoaning my apparent fate when I noticed that the yellow female was wearing a collar. "Aha!" I thought to myself, "A collar means an owner, so these are lost dogs, not strays. All I need to do is contact the owner and he'll come get 'em." So, I attempted to coax the collar-wearing bitch to me so I could see if the collar had a tag with the owner's name and phone number. She came within a few feet and I could see a brass nameplate on the collar, but she wouldn't come quite close enough for me to actually grab the collar and read the thing. We played the approach-avoidance game for about fifteen minutes until I was actually able to grab the collar and read the name "Zeke Floyd" followed by a phone number. So, I went inside, called Mr. Floyd, and told him where his dogs could be found.

Now, another thing I had done on that road trip from which I had just returned, in addition to visiting relatives with dogs, was to visit the Salvador Dali Museum in St. Petersburg, Florida. That brief but total immersion into the world of Surrealism couldn't hold a candle to the surreal scene that unfolded when Zeke Floyd came to get his dogs.

The sun had gone down and darkness was upon the face of the homestead. I was outside with a flashlight so I could make sure Zeke's dogs didn't decide to go visit some other fool's place now that their owner was on his way to relieve me of them. I heard a vehicle in the driveway, saw headlights coming around the final curve and was greeted by the sight, sound and smell of a mid-1960's Dodge pickup truck with rattling body panels and clattering valve lifters emitting a cloud of noxious oily blue smoke. The driver didn't turn the engine off, presumably because he wasn't sure the thing would crank back up if he did so. The driver's side door creaked open and Zeke Floyd himself stepped out into the oil-smoke-impregnated atmosphere, carrying a ten-foot length of manilla rope in his right hand. If you want to know what Zeke looks like, just go to the "Kenny Tague" post below, click on the picture link, and imagine what Kenny would look like if he were sixty-five years old and had no teeth. "Howdy!" I said to Zeke in my best attempt at neighborliness, only to be totally ignored as he lunged for the yellow dog which skillfully squirmed away from his grasp. If I had been entertaining visions of some kind of happy reunion between adoring, trusting canines and their loving master, they were quickly put to rest. It was obvious that the dogs liked Zeke a lot less than they liked me, which was none at all. "Dammit, dawg!" Zeke hollered as he watched both his missed target and its companion run off down the driveway. He then climbed back into his smoking truck, nearly backed it into my own much newer and non-smoking Dodge pickup, and roared off down the driveway, never having acknowledged my existence in any fashion.      

Well, I thought I'd seen the last of Zeke and his dogs at that point, but almost as soon as I had walked into the house I heard Zeke's truck heading back up the driveway. I stepped back outside, popped the flashlight back on, and there were the dogs again, having doubled back and given Zeke the slip. So a few seconds later the old Dodge slid back into the yard, Zeke jumped out and lunged for the yellow bitch again and, this time, snagged her by the collar. He proceeded to drag the whining dog to the back of the truck where he opened the tailgate and attempted to open the door of a plastic pet-carrier he had brought along. Since he couldn't let go of the struggling dog, I volunteered to get the carrier door open for him and, as soon as it was open, Zeke began trying to stuff the Labrador-sized dog into a the Spaniel-sized carrier. The entire operation was complicated by the fact that, during the time we'd been struggling with the pet-carrier door, the male dog had been overcome by a bout of lust and was busily screwing the bitch for all he was worth. Dogs! There he was, in a noisy, smoke-filled, tumultuous atmosphere, being recaptured by someone he obviously despised, and instead of hauling ass off into the woods where freedom was his for the taking, he decided to take the opportunity to knock off a piece while ol' Zeke held it by the collar. Talk about thinking with your dick!

Anyway, Zeke separated the two dogs, stuffed the female into the undersized carrier, and grabbed the black and tan male by the scruff of the neck. I was expecting him to tie the second dog to the truck in some fashion or, maybe, put it up front in the cab with himself. But, no, he opened the pet-carrier door again and began stuffing the second dog into the already overstuffed plastic box. He got the critter in there somehow and closed the door, but sardines in a tin have never been packed tighter than those two dogs were. Then Zeke got back into his truck, nearly backed into my own truck again, and roared off down the driveway, never having spoken to me, made eye contact, nor uttered a word other than "dammit" and "dawg" the entire time he'd been there.

And ya'll know this story's gotta be the truth 'cause I don't have a vivid enough imagination to make this kinda shit up.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 03 Aug 07 - 09:20 PM

Woof! You can't go wrong with shaggy dog stories. I enjoyed the song and the story. The Zeke story sounded a little fishy, but it was very entertaining. Sometimes you have to stretch things in order to tell the truth.

I've written a lot of songs with dogs in them, over the years. This being a writer's corner, they're all fair game and I may add another one. I have no idea whether this thread is a workeable idea or not.
We'll find out.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 03 Aug 07 - 09:25 PM

From dogs to roosters. This is a true story. Essentially.

How Earl Got Herbert

I got Herbert as a throw-in when I bought my friend Earl's Harley Davidson 125 for $90. Herbert was a Banty rooster. How Earl came about getting Herbert is an interesting story. Actually, it's two interesting stories, each of them kinda true.

Back in 1953, when Earl and I graduated from High School, Earl headed out to go to college at the University of Oregon, and because they frowned on Banty roosters in their dormitories, Earl reluctantly gave Herbert to me as a going away present. This is the way I remember Earl telling me how he came to have Herbert in the first place. Over the last fifty-some years, the story has become much more ornate.

According to what I remember, Earl was out in his front yard one Summer's day, when a car drove by and a Banty rooster came flying out of the rear window. The rooster immediately made a bee-line toward Earl's house and the man jumped out of the car and hit the road, running. The rooster, later to be named Herbert, was running, Hell Bent for Leather when he spotted an unsuspecting squirrel running across the yard. Even though Herbert was running for dear life, he couldn't ignore the challenge of the squirrel, and took off after it. As Herbert came skidding around the corner in hot pursuit of the squirrel, he almost ran into Earl and Earl, being quick of mind and sure-handed reached down and caught the rooster. When the man came around the corner puffing like a steam engine and saw Earl, he hit the brakes and asked Earl for his rooster. Now Earl, being a real slick talker, managed to convince the man that what he really wanted to do was give the rooster to Earl. So, Earl kept the rooster and named him Herbert and when he went away to college in the Fall, he gave Herbert to me. As I said. And that's the way I remember Earl telling it.

Here is what actually happened, according to Earl in 2006. The rooster did indeed escape from a passing car, but it was someone else who lived across the street who caught it. When he couldn't keep it, he gave it to Earl. Earl has no idea how the rooster came to be called Herbert. There was no hot pursuit of a squirrel, or any slick-talking done by Earl.

As I tell Earl, he remembers what happened. I remember how it should have happened. I like my story a lot better. I even had Herbert riding in a Cadillac when I wrote a song about him. Nothing was too good for Herbert.


   "He came a' riding in to town in a great big Cadillac
    With the windows all rolled down, tied in a gunny sack
    But the sack was for potatoes, and not for Herbert's kind
    And with his spurs as sharp as razors, he cut the ties that bind"

So, how did the squirrel get in the story? When I owned Herbert, he was one of the first "Free-range" chickens in the country. Earl kept him tied to a pole with a stout string around one leg. I let Herbert have the run of the yard, and because it wasn't fenced in, he had the run of the whole neighborhood.

   "When Herbert strolled the neighborhood, the squirrels stayed in their nests
    The dogs all looked the other way, and the cats would genuflect"

Herbert found squirrels to be a personal affront, and he made life Hell for the neighbor's cat and the pigeons I raised in our garage. Early on, the cat made the mistake of stalking Herbert, and when he pounced for the attack, Herbert had mysteriously disappeared. He reappeared just as mysteriously on the cat's back with his spurs dug in as firmly as a rodeo cowboy. Herbert took the cat for a little ride, and it was the last time the cat came within one hundred yards of him.

   "And Herbert was the terror of the local countryside
    Sometimes he'd flag the neighbor's cat and he'd take him for a ride
    And the pigeons in my Dad's garage got up to bar the door
   For those who messed with Herbert, were never seen no more"

So you see, my memory of how Earl got Herbert was about 90% wrong, but it was 100% Herbert. If Earl HAD been the one to catch Herbert, he WOULD have smooth-talked the guy out of his rooster. For something that never happened, I got the story just about right.

The next year, when I went away to college, I took Herbert out to my Uncle Jim's farm. But the song tells the rest of the story.

"I took him to my Uncle's farm when I had to move away
The Roosters met him at the gate, just to have a little play
But when he rode them 'round the farm, their enthusiasm waned
And I swear he'd jump them through a hoop. he had them so well trained

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Charley Noble
Date: 03 Aug 07 - 10:38 PM

I like a good rooster story!

It just might spur me on to contribute something as well.

Cheerily,
Charley Noble

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: autolycus
Date: 04 Aug 07 - 07:00 PM

I will return - it's bedtime.




      Ivor

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 04 Aug 07 - 07:25 PM

I'll be waiting, Charlie..

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Peace
Date: 04 Aug 07 - 07:27 PM

I've bookmarked the thread to be able to return to read it. Ya done another, Jerry.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 04 Aug 07 - 10:55 PM

Thanks for posting that, SRS. Now I see what I've been missing on MOAB.

Great stories, folks! I'll see what I can dig up later.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 05 Aug 07 - 08:24 AM

Just to cover the range of writing I'm encouraging, here's a family memory:

The Father Of Invention

Alright! I know it's supposed to be the Mother, but who says only mothers can be inventive.

Like most kids, it took me a long time to fully appreciate my parents: not my Mother, so much, because there were so many qualities in her that I admired and tried to emulate. My father was another story. He took longer to understand.   Through the years I came to realize that my father had a real knack for taking whatever was lying around the house and creating something marvelous. Let me tell you a story.

Back when I was a teenager and was raising racing pigeons, I had an ageing, matronly blue-bar female. One of the older members of the Janesville Racing Pigeon club gave her to me, and I felt like someone had just given me Old Dan Patch. Like all racing pigeons, she had a band on her leg, that gave the date of her birth. From what I remember, she was over 20 years old: near the record for racing pigeons. But, this story isn't about her. It's about my father.

Because of her advanced years and her unsteadiness in flight, I didn't normally let her out when my other pigeons went out for exercise. It wasn't so much that I worried that she wouldn't come back. She was a racing pigeon and they don't call them homing pigeons for nothing.   If she had flown any distance, she would have gotten too tired to fly, and she might have been too far away for her to walk back. But for some reason long since forgotten, I relented and released her with the rest of my small flock. At the time, they were building a house in an empty lot across the street and had laid the forms for pouring the foundation. They were made of metal plates, bolted together, and stood about ten feet high. When my pigeon took wing, she set off, looking like Woodstock, in the Peanuts strip, wobbling her way about ten feet off the ground until she made it to the forms for the foundation. She landed with great relief on the top of the frame, and then tumbled head-first into the space between the plates. By the time I got there, all that I could do was peer down into the dark, to see her looking up at me, puzzled. Because there was only a 12 inch space between the plates, there was no way for her to fly out, even if she had any strength left to do it. And, with metal rods criss-crossing the space, there was no way for me to climb down in to get her out. I hadn't been standing there for more than a couple of minutes, trying to figure out what to do when I heard the rumble of the cement truck coming down the street. By then, I was in a state of panic, because I couldn't see any way to get her out. It seemed to be a rather ignominious end for her. Instead of being enshrined in a case at the Smithsonian as the longest living racing pigeon, she'd be entombed in concrete, peering out through the wall into the rumpus room in the basement. And so, I raced home to get my Dad.

When I explained the situation to him, he didn't seem particularly flustered. He went down into the basement and grabbed a long coil of clothes line and an old bamboo fishing pole and marched over to the framework for the foundation. By then, the men with the cement truck were ready to pour, and they didn't want to hear anything about an old pigeon stuck in the framework. Not to worry. My dad asked them to hold on for a minute, and he'd get the pigeon out. At that point, I thought his calm assurance was as out of place as if he'd been asked to part the Red Sea. My father calmly unwound the coil of clothesline and quickly fashioned a noose. Then, he carefully lowered the noose between the metal plates, weaving its way between the metal bars until it rested on the ground. Once the noose was in place, he told me to use the pole to shoo my pigeon over to the noose. When she stepped into the noose, he quickly jerked on the clothesline and the noose tightened securely around one of her legs. It was just a matter then of hauling her up. Through all of this, my father was as matter-of-fact about it as if he rescued ageing racing pigeons every day of the week. He thanked the men who were watching in amazement, and told them that they could go ahead and pour the foundation, and I took my errant pigeon home where she died in peace and comfort in her nest, not long after.

The more I think about it, my father had a great resourcefulness that he never made a big deal about. He just took whatever was at hand and made something that despite all odds, worked just fine.
He never seemed surprised that it did. Sixty years later, several years after it was too late to call my dad to come and rescue me, I found myself in a tight space, just like my old pigeon.

The first fall after we bought our house here in Derby, Connecticut, I thought that it was time to turn off the outside faucets before the first frost. When they built our house, they constructed a second wall, about 12 inches in from the concrete foundation. While we appreciated the finished basement, we discovered that there were unexpected adventures awaiting us when we needed to gain access to the plumbing. In order to shut off the lines, I had to remove a crudely cut-out section of wall board, and then squeeze between the two by four studs in order to get over to turn off the water. Squeezing my way in between the walls, I started to panic for fear that I'd get wedged between the walls, just like my old pigeon. And sure enough, I did. My wife Ruth was upstairs and at the far end of the house, and I didn't think she'd hear me if I started yelling. Not even considering what it would have done to my image. When I finally calmed down, I made one last, desperate push and popped out from between the stud and the concrete wall. And then it dawned on me. I had turned off the water, and only realized after I'd done it, that it was the line to the bathroom sink. If we ever intended to use that sink again, I'd have to gird my loins and go back between the walls. Actually, girding my loins wasn't going to do the trick. The phrase "What Would Jesus Do?" is a wonderful guide for living. But in this case, it was more like "What would dad do?" And then the answer came to me. I walked calmly into the garage, got my saber saw and an extension cord and marched back to that dark, threatening opening in the wall. I eyed up the profile of my stomach (which was what really required girding) and sketched it on to the stud at the appropriate height. With my saber saw, I cut
out the shape of my stomach so that I could pass between the stud
and the wall with ease. If it worked for Alfred Hitchcock, why not for me? And sure enough, it did. I was able to calmly slip between
the wall, reach back and turn the water back on.

Dad would have been proud of me.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 07 Aug 07 - 03:32 PM

Got Writing?

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 12 Aug 07 - 01:33 PM

Well, if no one else is going to do it...

The Invasion Of The Teenagers

That sounds like the title of a terrifying science fiction movie starring Richard Carlson. For restaurants and ice cream fountains, the reality of a teenage invasion was far more frightening than science fiction could ever imagine.In the forties and fifties, teenage hangouts changed as quickly as skirt lengths. And if you're talking about teenage hangouts, you have to talk about music. Music and teenagers have always been joined at the hip. I became a teenager on June 14, 1948, but that's only a technicality. Nobody who is sixteen or seventeen years old would consider a 13 year old kid brother a real teenager. By the time I became a teenager, my oldest sister Marilyn was dangerously close to becoming an adult, as she is 5 and a half years older than I am. My sister Helen was hot on her heels, being 4 years older than me. That meant that their music and teenage hangouts had already become passé by the time I was 15 or 16. When Marilyn was a teenager, it was the bobby sox, angora sweater era. Marilyn had a hopeless crush on Mel Torme, the Velvet Fog. She and her friends hung out at a place called Homseys, on Milwaukee Street up near the Jeffries Theater. The songs in those days were dreamy and romantic: the afterwash of the romantic songs of World War II. Frank Sinatra was the dreamboat back then, long before he became Chairman of the Board. I always pictured Homsey's as looking like the soda fountain in the movie Good News with Hep Cats cutting a rug.   Helen's tastes ran more toward country music and by the time she was 16 or 17, the crowd had moved down the street to Adamany's. Russ Morgan and his orchestra were Cruising Down The River and Perry Como sang of "far away places, with strange sounding names. By the time I was a certified teenager, the crowd had moved down to Charlie's Chatterbox on Main Street and a major sea-change in music was just starting. Johnny Ray was wailing on the juke box, telling us to go on and cry and Down Howard was singing about a Happy Day, strumming his guitar and sounding a little wobbly because he'd cut the record in a Record Your Own Voice booth. The first rumblings of rhythm and blues were heard too, with the Orioles Crying In The Chapel.

There was a reason why teenage hangouts were constantly moving. For starters, teenagers didn't spend a whole lot of money. Becoming "The Place To Meet" was the kiss of death for an ice cream parlor or restaurant. Kids could nurse a ten cent cherry coke for three hours, and when teenagers descended into an unsuspecting restaurant and made it their hangout, the adult, spending customers headed out the back door. It took about two years for teenagers to reduce a thriving restaurant or ice cream parlor to the brink of bankruptcy. Fortunately, that was about the time it took for the next onslaught of teenagers to decide the place was no longer cool, and to pick a new place to hang out. No one wanted to hang out in a place where an older brother or sister hung out. And so, the next wave of teenagers moved on, like a plague of locusts leaving a trail of devastated restaurants in their wake.

These days, my wife and I have been going on a river walk every morning, and once in awhile, we walk over to the Mcdonald's for a Sausage egg McMuffin with cheese, or a Sausage biscuit. McDonald's throughout the country are a hangout during the breakfast hour. If you ever wondered where those teenagers of the forties and fifties ended up, they're having Mcbreakfast at the local McDonald's. And just as it was when they were fifteen and going to a dance at the "Y" all the "girls" are sitting in one area, and the guys in another. The guys sit close enough to the girls so that they can flirt with the girls by occasionally saying something funny loud enough so that the girls can hear it and respond.

Life comes full circle.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Peter T.
Date: 12 Aug 07 - 05:08 PM

Returning to dogs off the leash, the situation is much worse with today's children. Thanks to paranoia about abduction (the statistics are clear that virtually all abductions are family related) and the craze for insurance for everything (Marx says somewhere that the essential characteristic of the bourgeousie is fear), as well as the drying up of natural spaces, children are not allowed to go anywhere and just play. The result is that computers and TV have taken over their lives.

yours,

Peter T.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Amos
Date: 12 Aug 07 - 05:17 PM

PT! How very fine to see a remark from you again in these hallowed stomping grounds.


A

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: GUEST,sinky
Date: 13 Aug 07 - 04:45 AM

I ATE AN APPLE TODAY,AND THREW THE PIPS AWAY, i thank you

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: wysiwyg
Date: 13 Aug 07 - 10:46 AM

My dog story is in the Pets Favorite Things thread, just posted it this AM.

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 14 Aug 07 - 01:04 PM

Just had a chance to read your story in the Pet's Favorite Things thread. It's delightful, and very well written...

Thanks for mentioning it in here.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: SharonA
Date: 14 Aug 07 - 11:04 PM

Jerry, you looking for poetry too, or just prose?

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 09:19 AM

Poetry, definitely. Song lyrics, too. I'm doubtful that this thread will have much of a shelf life, though. Seems like most threads thrive on two or three sentence "one-liners.." I'd hoped to see other writers contributing more. Maybe this just isn't the forum for it.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: John Hardly
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 09:51 AM

There's more writing around this forum than you could shake a very long, very heavy stick at. It's just that most people seem to prefer to keep their writing relative to the topic at hand.

The other, "writing for writing's sake", creative stuff is a bit dicier and fewer people are inclined to post much of it because, though there are usually a few good souls -- Amos, Ebbie -- who will praise and acknowledge it, after that, it usually drops off the front page as though tied to fishing sinkers.

And because of that, most people are a bit gun shy at pointing out their own writing.

When invited -- as in the ongoing group stories of mudcat history -- it's not unlike a song circle/guitar pull. People are more than happy to participate.

As presented as in this thread, however, rather than a guitar pull/song circle, I picture a room full of talking people and a guitar in a stand in the corner. Even if everyone in the room plays the guitar, few will ever pick up the guitar to "show off" when they know that nobody is listening and that they are more likely to come off as just a bit pathetic -- a bit like a kid shouting "look at me!".

If you want to compile the best of mudcat writing, have at it. Everyone's archive is open to all. I suggest mining here and here and here and here and here and here.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Bert
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 10:12 AM

I had this idea for a song but no matter how I tried it just wouldn't work. It sounded too mushy and trite every time I put some rhyme or rhytm to it.

After a while I just gave up and left it as a story.

And no, it isn't true.

-----------------------------------------------------

It was dark and it was raining.

It was one of those days when you go to work in the dark and work all day, and when you come home it's dark again, and you wonder where the day went.

My wife was complaining, she was complaining about the rain, and complaining about the dark, and complaining about the young un keeping us awake half the night, and complaining that we were late for work.

I said "Well I'm gonna make us a bit later 'cos I've got to stop for gas".

She said "Why didn't you stop for gas last night, you know we never have time in the morning", you're always doing that.
I said "Because I was tired and I didn't think of it. If you're so perfect, why didn't YOU get gas last night?"

Well, I filled up with gas and went in to pay. I just got out my wallet when I saw her tail lights disappear down the road.

The Manager grinned and said "You're in big trouble now boy". I said, as casual as I could, "Oh she'll be back" adding to myself "I hope".

I said "can I use your phone" he said sure for a local call. So I called the boss and asked if I could have the day off. He said "OK; without pay!"

I got myself a cup of coffee and one of those plastic poncho things and I said to the guy "You'd better give me one of those red roses that you've got in that bucket there".

I went outside to wait in the rain, taking a sip of coffee now and then to keep warm. I looked like a sack of garbage in that plastic poncho, and pretty much felt like one too.

After a while she came back and pulled up alongside. She pushed open the door and said, "I got you a six pack of beer, lets go home and waste what's left of the day" I handed her the rose, and by the look on her face I could see that the day wasn't going to be wasted after all.

Well that was a long time ago now and we've just seen the little un off to college. But we still get a laugh now and then when we pass that gas station.

I'll say "You know the best present I ever had was a six pack of beer, how about you?"
and she'll say "Oh! Just a little ol red rose"

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 10:26 AM

Well, sorry it has taken me so long to get back in here. John Hardly, thanks for that! One could say the same for your writing.

Jerrydarlin'...I think part of the reason I haven't posted anything is because I haven't written much, lately, and what I already have is mostly going into a book or two, so I don't really want to much floating around in cyberspace.:-)

Bert, lovely!

Here is the rough draft, very short prologue & first chapter of a book I am working on about living out on the prairie where we had all kinds of critters, had only the water we could haul, and during the last winter we lived there, only wood/coal in a stove for heat. It was a lotta fun!

"Prologue

"The past month had been an emotional roller coaster for us all. Roger, my husband of three years had gone ahead to his new job in New England while the children and I stayed in Wyoming packing up our belongings, finishing my job and selling off various members of our pet menagerie, as well as our little patch of "heaven:" what was left of our original twenty-five acres of Wyoming prairie and the first home we had known together, as a family.

"As I drove away from the ranch for the last time, my throat constricted and the tears began to fall. Knowing it was the final time, drinking in every last scene of prairie, was just too much. My eyes filled again as I was unable to stifle the sobs. I knew I needed to "be brave" for my children, but this was home. Although I was leaving willingly, a part of my heart would always be there, on the Wyoming prairie with the mariposa lilies, sagebrush, bald eagles and antelope. Stopping at the end of the mile long washboard driveway, we looked back once more at our prairie home and said goodbye.

"Chapter One

    "The first time I saw the ranch my eyes were full of tears. I had driven out there to store an old car of mine. My new boyfriend, Roger, had owned and lived on the ranch for nearly five years when I met him. My ex-husband had just been to town to leave my car and my emotions were still in turmoil when I sat down beside Roger just outside his house.

"It was a clear May day with billowy white clouds high in the sky. The ranch overlooked the old Oregon Trail on a small hill facing southeast towards Casper Mountain. As I looked around me, I saw eagles soaring high, piercing the air with their haunting whistles; heard the cheerful trill of meadowlarks. Nature, in her "Earth Mother" way was soothing my heart and mind as Roger quietly offered the comfort of his sheltering arms.

      "When I was a young girl and upset, I'd always had a dog, cat or horse offer up their soft coat of fur to bury my tears and wail my sorrows. In my adult years there'd been my old faithful dog and loving cats but no warm, coarse horse mane to soak away the tears. That day at the ranch, I returned to those soothing days when Roger's sorrel gelding came up behind me and snuffled in my ear. When I turned my head to look at "Fleet", the tears streamed down my face as I threw my arms around his neck. Just the scent of his dusty mane took me back to my childhood and the solace I'd found so often with my horse companion. When no one else understood or listened, the animals were always there for me.

"I fell in love with the ranch and its wide open spaces, panoramic views of the prairie and mountains, wildlife and historic settings. I was also falling in love with Roger who'd fled the congestion and traffic of his native New England for the solitude of twenty-five acres of alfalfa and prairie in Wyoming.

"About a month later, Roger came to visit me at the little house I rented in town. It was a small two bedroom set behind the larger house of the landlord. I was crying, again, talking to my girlfriend about my landlord who'd just told me I had to move out. After a tough and lonely divorce, I had just started a new job two months before where I'd met Roger on the first day. I thought moving was the last thing my children or I needed, financially or emotionally.

"Like a mythical knight in shining armour, Rog walked in, opened his heart and home to me and my children. Not two weeks later, we unloaded the last box, one dog, two cats and three children and began to call the ranch our home."




© K. LaFrance 2001

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 11:40 AM

Thanks, all. I believe that you're right, John. I realize and appreciate that there is a lot of wonderful writing on the Cat, which is why I started this thread. And why I acknowledged it in the opening post. We've all done our share of posting lengthier writing that was relevant to a particular topic. I thought that maybe there'd be some interest in posting things we've been writing that don't relate to any particular topic. I started a thread on bus stories, which I thoroughly enjoyed reading, and have contributed dog stories as WYSIWYG has. What about a story about my childhood friend Tommy, who was an alcoholic French Horn player and rented half of our house with his wife? I don't feel like starting an Alcoholic French Horn player thread. I know there are stories to be shared from many Catters, and I was curious to see whether there was a place for them. I enjoyed Bert and Kat's writings, and don't see that they'd necessarily fit into a thread, other than a general one like this. Lots of stories have been told around the kitchen table, and maybe that's a better place for them to appear.

Interestingly, I joined an internet community called gather.com just looking for a place where people could share their writing, and everyday stories. Supposedly, the site is for writers, but I found it too frustrating. People would post something that they'd written, and unlike the threads here, they don't move up into current topics when others post comments. A big response is 8 or 9 three sentence one-liners, and then they slip off into cyberspace.

I'd never wanted this to be a thread about things that I'm writing. I can share them with a group of friends who also share what they're doing. There's no desire to make oneself look good.. just the basic human desire to share something that you enjoy with others of a similar interest.

I've since left gather.com because I was tired of the endless deluge of ultra brief comments. No discussion ever flowed, because the site isn't set up to encourage that. I really enjoy conversations, and am sincerely interested in what other people are thinking. If I only wanted to know what I am thinking, there'd be no need to come on the internet. I already know what I'm thinking. I just enjoy hearing from others.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: John Hardly
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 11:52 AM

Oh, I understand and sympathize, Jerry. Here is a thread I started years ago for close to the same idea -- to get some of the "best of" or favorites from some of the writers.

As you can see, my thread got even fewer responses than yours. Mine got...

...I lost count after 0.

I've posted threads that had no connection to the mudcat several times in the past -- at least two that I can count this year (kilns, and animal art). I'll continue to do it because the mudcat is a great place to archive stuff.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 01:26 PM

Good to see that we are of the same mind, John. I know that there are many of us who enjoy a good story, whatever the topic. I'll be leading a workshop at NOMAD this fall, with Sandy & Caroline Paton and Barbara and Frank Shaw titled "Sing Me A Story." Stories are just songs that haven't yet been put to music.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 01:27 PM

Jerry,

It's a lovely idea to have a thread with writing such as this in it. I'm sure that there are many folks out there who would contribute, but August is kinda quiet....perhaps when the evenings draw in a bit there might be more contributions.....

Perhaps some-one might know how this story ended...I've been stuck for a while now!

Regrets? Oh yes, I've had a few. Mainly the regrets that come from having a short temper. So I've learned to keep my temper in check. More or less. But sitting in that parish council meeting I could feel my dander rising. I loved the quaint expression, but was never quite sure what a dander was. So I looked it up. Angry passion. Yes, that's what I felt. Angry passion. The parish councillors were holding a public session to hear the villagers' views on vandalism. The local police sergeant was there and what he was saying, when all the flummery of political language was shaved away, was, "Sorry guys but there's only six of us."

So my dander was up. But I sat quiet and listened. I'm getting better at it. Some folks say about time too.

The trouble always came overnight. We would wake up to windows broken, a car scratched, swings cut through with bolt cutters; the list seemed endless. No-one knew why, no-one knew who it was and everyone thought someone else should be doing something about it.

So when I went out into the night I was cross. Everyone knew it was a village where things happened at night, but no-one wanted to venture out into the night to see for themselves. Especially now most of the street lamps had had a make-over. I went home and changed. Black T-shirt, black trousers, black coat and a black bobble hat that one of the kids had bought me last winter. Wear something white at night. It would be just my luck to be run over by a truck! My luck held as I walked in the darkest shadows with ears straining to hear the slightest sound.

My village was very still. You could hear the occasional car on the main road about a quarter of a mile away. I stood under a tree in a dark corner of the churchyard and waited. Not a sound. After returning my heart to its usual spot following an unexpected visit from a village cat and cursing myself for having an overactive imagination, I was just about to give up and go home when I heard voices. I waited. The voices got nearer and heard the sound of bike tyres and the unmistakable noise the chain makes. I waited. I edged towards the sound of breaking glass. The telephone box was suffering. The light inside was one of the last things they broke. The Marsh Twins. I now had the culprits, but what was I to do? If I used my phone, they'd hear me, besides I didn't have a lot of confidence in the police. I could walk up to them and punch them I suppose, but that's best left to TV and film. They'd probably vandalize me as well.

It was then that my eye was caught by a glint by the churchyard gate. The moon had come from behind its blanket of cloud to have a look around before going back for a nap. On its way it reflected off the chrome on the bike lying in the gateway. Being careful not to make a noise I eased over to the bike, picked it up and wheeled it back through the gate and round behind the dark bulk of the church. As I stood in the darkness a plan began to form.

Best wishes,

Peter

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 01:53 PM

Well, geez, Pete, ya really left us hanging! Well-done! Now, let's hear the rest of it!**bg**

There are a few others by several catters in an old thread: Tell A Story.

John, I don't know what I was doing in Jan. of 01, sorry I missed your thread.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 03:10 PM

Kat....I would finish it if I could only think how! Stuck as fast as a bear in a honey tree!

Best wishes,

Peter

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 03:32 PM

I*'m waitin', I'm waitin'. You got me hooked, Peter. I've written songs that way... starting out with a few lines with no idea what the song was about. An example:

I started singing:

"It was a nice night, at least I thought it was nice
Amd then, for filler..
"It was the right time, at least I thought it was right"

I just kept singing those two lines over and over again with no clue where the song was leading me. The two lines had a sense that something really wasn't all that nice about the night, but I had no idea what. After awhile, the next two lines came:

"All I wanted was a taste of sin
But when I started, the roof caved in"

Still no idea what was going to happen.

Then a few more lines:

"If they only had told me, if I only had known
I would have have changed my whole way of thinkin'
A long time ago"

Talk about stalling for inspiration.

So, what happened?

The rest of the song revolved around a poodle.

Go figure.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 03:39 PM

LOL!

Well, Pete, could you use your cell phone behind the church? Puncture the tires so they couldn't make a fast getaway while you go get the police? Oops, the cops aren't that available...how about climbing into the bell tower and ringing an alarum? Tie something to the back of the bike rim to trace their nefarious ramblings? Like a rope or something that would leave behind an impression. Or, how about you just ride off on the bike to the safety of home and ring the constable? Find the church gardener's shed, get the shovel/spade, hit them over their heads, then cut the rope to the bell and bind them whilst calling the constable? Jump into a phone booth and change into your superhero outfit and start singing, "Here I come to save the day!"**bg**

Just finish it! We want more! (Well, don't mean to be bossy...just when you feel like it, okay?)

all the best,

kat

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Waddon Pete
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 05:26 PM

Jerry....heard the song and love it! I guess some songs and stories come easily...all of a piece, and others take forever. I'll have to finish that story off now, it's been a year in the waiting after all...only one problem, Kat...who was the superhero who said, "Here I come to save the day?" Was it Mighty Mouse?

I thought he might steal the bike wheel and do something nefarious with it. Got to be some poetic justice in there somewhere, too!

Best wishes,

Peter

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 15 Aug 07 - 08:06 PM

Yep, it was Mighty Mouse!**bg**

Hmmm...what could you do with a bike wheel; bend the spokes and bring it down around their heads and pin their arms to their bodies? But you'd have to have the tools to get it off and to bend the spokes, and catch two twins with one wheel, so to speak, and you've probably have to work fast. Maybe you could bowl them over with it?

Tell you Inner Editor to take a hike and see what comes up. It's liberating! Oh, and thanks for letting us play around with it, too.:-)

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Bert
Date: 16 Aug 07 - 11:50 PM

I think that I would have just loosened the front wheel nuts a tad.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: katlaughing
Date: 17 Aug 07 - 01:11 AM

Now that's wicked, Bert!**bg**

Could raise the seat so their feet can't reach the pedals... or cut the brakes? If there was a pond nearby on a downhill slope, they could wind up in the drink.

Or, I know, I know, a Morris side could show up and surround them, batting them and all!

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 17 Aug 07 - 03:11 AM

This is one of my recent 'shorts' called "Just the two of us"
Hope it meets your criteria Jerry. Best wishes, Mike.

Working as a full time personal assistant to the boss of a huge company can provide a laborious but perhaps lucrative lifestyle for some. I use the term lifestyle unreservedly as my position puts me into situations where I have to spend several days at a time overseas with the boss and weekends where I have to work, when others are out having fun. It is always good to get home!
I felt really stressed that day as it had been such a hard day at work. I could not wait to get home to my lovely studio flat to relax for an hour before having my usual Friday night out, which is always full of anticipation as to who I will meet and what will transpire.
It was a freezing November night when I took that long, hot, refreshing shower, before donning my gladrags to go out on the town. Not sure where to go, I telephoned for a taxi and demanded to be taken to the centre of town where a surprised taxi driver set me down….surprised because the fare was only £5.50 and I told him to keep the change from a £10 note. Little did he know that I had won £3000 on the lottery and I was feeling sort of flush. I believe this to be the largest amount of money I have owned in my whole twenty seven years on this sad earth.
I sauntered through the town centre, fully aware of how good I felt to have finished work for a whole fortnight, yes, two whole weeks of rest and relaxation and maybe renewing of old friendships as well as catching up with household chores.
I quickly became aware of someone, paying me more than just an average amount of attention, in a reflection from a shop window. He was over six feet tall and was wearing a silk shirt, open at the collar, a quality black pin striped suit, with prick stitching around the collar and knife edge creases in the trousers which were so neatly pressed and a pair of shiny black and very expensive looking patent leather boots . He was perhaps one of the most attractive men I have ever encountered, having a suave, sophisticated look about him. I was sure I had seen him on previous occasions doing exactly the same thing…looking at me in the reflection of a shop window…. but never had he looked so well dressed and attractive. I made the sort of pretence of not giving back the attention, which seemed to make him even more interested. He walked along beside me making comments about the weather and the way the town was changing day by day, which are subjects on which I am quite knowledgable . I actually quite enjoyed his company so I invited him to a favourite haunt of mine, The Dog and Duck, for a drink or maybe two. I was feeling flush with the lottery win so I offered to buy all the drinks, which I believe pleased him. We sat there for at least two hours, totally engrossed in conversation but for some reason, people were giving us such strange looks that we eventually decided to leave. Some people don't seem to have the ability to mind their own business and at times it can be quite soul destroying.
We stepped out into the freezing night air together, with me never before having felt so close to someone on such short acquaintance. I was not feeling too confident but I shyly asked him if he wished to come home with me to spend the night and he replied that he would with an air of great anticipation. We walked slowly along the road, engrossed in deep conversation and often his hand would brush against my leg, sending shivers down my spine and causing me to fantasize about what would actually happen when we reached my home.
We arrived at the flat and I poured him a large whisky, which I guessed was his favourite tipple, before inviting him upstairs to the bedroom. He sat with me on the edge of the bed, nervously fingering his whisky glass so I took it from him and placed it on the pine bedside table, encouraging him at the same time to stand in front of the antique mahogany wardrobe.
I slowly undressed him in front of the mirror, gently caressing each part of his body as I did so, and then I went to my bed for yet another lonely night on my own.
                              
I find my schizophrenia to be such a strange affliction.


Mike Hill.
March 2007

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: John Hardly
Date: 17 Aug 07 - 10:10 AM

Did you just see Butler upset Louisville to move to the sweet 16?! Young Darnell Archey pops 8 (yup eight!) trays in proper Hoosier fashion - we love our shooting guards!

Oscar Robertson (greatest player of all times -- averaged triple doubles for a whole season)
Billy Keller
Rick Mount (greatest pure shooter of all times)
Kyle Macy
Steve Alford

Those names represent the Hoosier pantheon of great guards (we make Havlicek and West honorary Hoosiers).

Anyway, today's game was a trip down memory lane for me 'cause, sitting on Butler's bench (and I wasn't previously aware of this) was Coach Todd Lickliter.

Todd was a kid from my side of town and, had I not gone to private school, would have been my classmate....
....but that's not the whole story.

My best friend (didn't we all grow up with one of those? --we shared our friendship from the 4th grade 'til we went our separate ways to college)) topped the city scoring charts both our junior and senior years...

...but we didn't play any of the public school competition. So, though my friend's name almost always topped the list of the top scorers in the city every Sunday in the Indianapolis Star, it was as though there was this annoying "asterisk" applied to it. His place as scoring champion was made illegitimate by the apples-to-oranges of our competition -- my friend being the "apples" to Todd's "oranges".   See, Todd sometimes traded places with my friend at the top of the scoring list.

The summer between our Junior and Senior years, my friend and I got wind of a regular game at the high school Todd attended -- at that time it was the biggest high school in Indiana. One hot Saturday morning we made our way over to the high school gym to check it out.

Remember those first summers of freedom? My friend had pooled his summer earnings with a bit of help from his pop and bought a ten-year-old Pontiac Tempest that was our ticket to any game in town. We'd go see ABA Pacer Games "The Coliseum" – a facility so run down that we could buy cheap seats for $2 and steal our way down to the usually empty good seats and worship at the feet of Roger Brown -- the greatest player nobody but a Hoosier knew.

Anyway, back then they didn't air condition the schools in the summer -- certainly not the gyms. So the gym was as hot as the outdoors when we entered its doors (doors that were wide open in a vain attempt to ventilate the stale gym air), but I felt the chill of excitement....and dread. I was always the playground player -- great with the guys I knew, but too tentative in my game when it came time to prove myself before strangers. My friend obviously didn't suffer the same affliction.

After a long wait through "winner keeps the court" games, we were finally able to put together a team to take to the court and challenge the current winners.

I was, as I anticipated, my usual cautious self who played utterly unremarkably -- just trying not to screw up. But my friend led our team to a VERY unexpected victory.

Suddenly the gym was abuzz with, "Who IS that guy?".

As it had taken so long to actually get into the game, by the time we actually finished our game, most of the rest of the group was breaking up to call it a day....

...until my friend and I were stopped in our tracks near the exit.

"Hey, Foyer! (my friend's name) Let's go one on one!"

The fellow who shouted the challenge across the emptying gym was Todd, who by that point had realized that the gym ringer that day was the very same guy against whom he'd competed for city top scoring honors throughout the past year.

Apples and oranges......same crate.

Suddenly the mass exit of kids halted and every last kid returned to the gym and stood riveted to the sidelines, entranced by the competition. By then the whispers had made their way 'round the gym and everyone in attendance knew the stakes.

My friend was not exactly your typical jock type. He was an acne-faced homely kid with a vertical jump that made it appear as though he was trying to break the gravitational bonds of Jupiter. His shoulders were merely the narrowest of detours between a pin-head, a long skinny neck, and a surprisingly wide-assed stance. It gave him a sorta "Baby Huey" look. He sported a buzz-cut head at a time (remember the early 70's?) when hair couldn't have been more of a statement of "cool"...

...and my friend was even known to wear black socks in his Chuck Taylor's. That was DEFINITELY not cool back then. Never has been on a lily-white Caucasian.

The assembled crowd's snickering derision about his appearance was not lost on my friend. It never was. He had long since learned to get use it.

Todd, on the other hand, was the son of the coach of that high school -- he was the well dressed, well connected, country club, cheerleader-for-a-girlfriend type.

What my friend did have was brains (he was our class valedictorian), very quick hands, and the ability to psych his opponent better than anyone I've ever played with. And he could shoot the lights out.


Hoosier kids don't play "make it take it". We play one-on-one the hard way -- even taking the ball back to the free-throw line between possessions. And I gotta tell you, that was one hard-fought contest. To his credit, my friend remained ice. Todd was getting hot -- he had SO much more to lose.....AND.....he was in front of his "home crowd".   It took a few "overtimes" (Hoosier's also play by the God-given rule that real men win by (at least) two points)...

My friend beat Todd.   

And that day my friend walked out of that gym, asterisk settled in his mind.

Epilogue:

Well, so I found out what happened to Lickliter. He coaches division I NCAA basketball.

And, on the other hand, my friend got very deeply into conspiracy theories -- Illegitimacy of government -- illegitimacy of the IRS. He disappeared. Went underground. I hear some of my Naptown friends mention seeing him pop up now and again but nobody I know even knows where he lives.

Guess I should have left the story with the happy ending? If it had been fiction, maybe I would have.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 17 Aug 07 - 12:57 PM

Now, this is more like it. Two fine pieces of writing. I want to go back and read them again at leisure after lunch. I started writing something titled Don't Mess With Phil the other day, John. It's about my best friend from the age of about 10 to 13. Haven't finished it, but maybe I'll post what I've done so far...

Thanks for sharing..

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 17 Aug 07 - 07:10 PM

Great thread Jerry...thanks to you.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 17 Aug 07 - 08:22 PM

If this thread turns out to be great, it will be because of everyone who contributes to it.. you as much as anyone, Mike.

This is the beginning of something I'm working on about my "Best" friend. I thought of this because of John's story. I know where I'm going with this story, but probably won't post it on here. I try not to get folks all uncomfortable, talking about my faith. There are other places to do that. Just as a hint, though, the rest of the story will be based upon the lines of a hymn that blew me away the first time I heard it ten years ago.

"The battle is not yours but mine, said the Lord."

Thems the kind a words I needed back when I was a skinny kid. I needed all the help I could get. Still do.

Don't Mess With Phil

Back in the days when friends were numbered, Phil McDonald was my Best Friend. For a period of two or three years, we were inseparable. Whether we were building rafts on a small pond at the gravel pit, raising pigeons or playing stick ball, we did everything together. But, the time that cemented our friendship was the week that we spent at Camp Rotomer. Phil and I were ten years old at the time, and for me it was the first time I spent away from home.
No matter how much my parents tried to convince me that I'd have a good time, and that the experience would be "good for me," I didn't want to go. For starters, I resisted anything that was characterized as "good for me." Those were code words for "You're not going to like this, but you'd better do it." On the other hand, Phil was all excited about it. That had a lot to do with who Phil was. And, who I was. Phil was confident, strong, athletic and fearless. I was none of those. On a scale of one to ten, Phil was all nines and tens. I was mostly threes and fours. My only comfort when I reluctantly agreed to go was that Phil was going, too. I figured that if I stuck with him, I'd make it through the week.

Kids have an innate sense of who is weak. It didn't take long before someone started messing with me. We were wading in the water on the edge of the lake when a big kid started shoving me around and ducking me under water. I was starting to panic, when Phil saw what was going on and came over. Phil wasn't any bigger than me on the outside. But on the inside, he was ten feet tall. It didn't take a lot of thinking for the kid who was hassling me to sense that Phil was someone he didn't want to mess with, and after a few shoves, he got away as fast as he could. After that, camp was just fine. The word quickly spread. You mess with Jerry, you mess with Phil. And nobody wanted to mess with Phil. He was the next best thing to a guardian angel.

By the time that Phil and I moved on to Junior High School, we were heading down different paths. Phil took the road more traveled, and his natural good looks and confidence led him into a group of kids I didn't fit into. I found my own friends and got by on my wits. Just as well. Phil had retired from the guardian angel business. Shortly after that, he moved out to California, and I never heard from him again.
Don't Mess With Phil

Back in the days when friends were numbered, Phil McDonald was my Best Friend. For a period of two or three years, we were inseparable. Whether we were building rafts on a small pond at the gravel pit, raising pigeons or playing stick ball, we did everything together. But, the time that cemented our friendship was the week that we spent at Camp Rotomer. Phil and I were ten years old at the time, and for me it was the first time I spent away from home.
No matter how much my parents tried to convince me that I'd have a good time, and that the experience would be "good for me," I didn't want to go. For starters, I resisted anything that was characterized as "good for me." Those were code words for "You're not going to like this, but you'd better do it." On the other hand, Phil was all excited about it. That had a lot to do with who Phil was. And, who I was. Phil was confident, strong, athletic and fearless. I was none of those. On a scale of one to ten, Phil was all nines and tens. I was mostly threes and fours. My only comfort when I reluctantly agreed to go was that Phil was going, too. I figured that if I stuck with him, I'd make it through the week.

Kids have an innate sense of who is weak. It didn't take long before someone started messing with me. We were wading in the water on the edge of the lake when a big kid started shoving me around and ducking me under water. I was starting to panic, when Phil saw what was going on and came over. Phil wasn't any bigger than me on the outside. But on the inside, he was ten feet tall. It didn't take a lot of thinking for the kid who was hassling me to sense that Phil was someone he didn't want to mess with, and after a few shoves, he got away as fast as he could. After that, camp was just fine. The word quickly spread. You mess with Jerry, you mess with Phil. And nobody wanted to mess with Phil. He was the next best thing to a guardian angel.

By the time that Phil and I moved on to Junior High School, we were heading down different paths. Phil took the road more traveled, and his natural good looks and confidence led him into a group of kids I didn't fit into. I found my own friends and got by on my wits. Just as well. Phil had retired from the guardian angel business. Shortly after that, he moved out to California, and I never heard from him again.

Don't Mess With Phil

Back in the days when friends were numbered, Phil McDonald was my Best Friend. For a period of two or three years, we were inseparable. Whether we were building rafts on a small pond at the gravel pit, raising pigeons or playing stick ball, we did everything together. But, the time that cemented our friendship was the week that we spent at Camp Rotomer. Phil and I were ten years old at the time, and for me it was the first time I spent away from home.
No matter how much my parents tried to convince me that I'd have a good time, and that the experience would be "good for me," I didn't want to go. For starters, I resisted anything that was characterized as "good for me." Those were code words for "You're not going to like this, but you'd better do it." On the other hand, Phil was all excited about it. That had a lot to do with who Phil was. And, who I was. Phil was confident, strong, athletic and fearless. I was none of those. On a scale of one to ten, Phil was all nines and tens. I was mostly threes and fours. My only comfort when I reluctantly agreed to go was that Phil was going, too. I figured that if I stuck with him, I'd make it through the week.

Kids have an innate sense of who is weak. It didn't take long before someone started messing with me. We were wading in the water on the edge of the lake when a big kid started shoving me around and ducking me under water. I was starting to panic, when Phil saw what was going on and came over. Phil wasn't any bigger than me on the outside. But on the inside, he was ten feet tall. It didn't take a lot of thinking for the kid who was hassling me to sense that Phil was someone he didn't want to mess with, and after a few shoves, he got away as fast as he could. After that, camp was just fine. The word quickly spread. You mess with Jerry, you mess with Phil. And nobody wanted to mess with Phil. He was the next best thing to a guardian angel.

By the time that Phil and I moved on to Junior High School, we were heading down different paths. Phil took the road more traveled, and his natural good looks and confidence led him into a group of kids I didn't fit into. I found my own friends and got by on my wits. Just as well. Phil had retired from the guardian angel business. Shortly after that, he moved out to California, and I never heard from him again.

Don't Mess With Phil

Back in the days when friends were numbered, Phil McDonald was my Best Friend. For a period of two or three years, we were inseparable. Whether we were building rafts on a small pond at the gravel pit, raising pigeons or playing stick ball, we did everything together. But, the time that cemented our friendship was the week that we spent at Camp Rotomer. Phil and I were ten years old at the time, and for me it was the first time I spent away from home.
No matter how much my parents tried to convince me that I'd have a good time, and that the experience would be "good for me," I didn't want to go. For starters, I resisted anything that was characterized as "good for me." Those were code words for "You're not going to like this, but you'd better do it." On the other hand, Phil was all excited about it. That had a lot to do with who Phil was. And, who I was. Phil was confident, strong, athletic and fearless. I was none of those. On a scale of one to ten, Phil was all nines and tens. I was mostly threes and fours. My only comfort when I reluctantly agreed to go was that Phil was going, too. I figured that if I stuck with him, I'd make it through the week.

Kids have an innate sense of who is weak. It didn't take long before someone started messing with me. We were wading in the water on the edge of the lake when a big kid started shoving me around and ducking me under water. I was starting to panic, when Phil saw what was going on and came over. Phil wasn't any bigger than me on the outside. But on the inside, he was ten feet tall. It didn't take a lot of thinking for the kid who was hassling me to sense that Phil was someone he didn't want to mess with, and after a few shoves, he got away as fast as he could. After that, camp was just fine. The word quickly spread. You mess with Jerry, you mess with Phil. And nobody wanted to mess with Phil. He was the next best thing to a guardian angel.

By the time that Phil and I moved on to Junior High School, we were heading down different paths. Phil took the road more traveled, and his natural good looks and confidence led him into a group of kids I didn't fit into. I found my own friends and got by on my wits. Just as well. Phil had retired from the guardian angel business. Shortly after that, he moved out to California, and I never heard from him again.



But, that was a long time ago.
    "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child
      I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things"                                                                      1st Corinthians 13:11
Phil, like many other people I would meet in my life, was there for me when I needed him. But even the best of friends can't be there forever. I needed a friend who would always be by my side: someone I could turn to when I needed guidance, or protection.


Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 18 Aug 07 - 07:30 AM

And you have that friend now...even unto the end of the world....

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 18 Aug 07 - 10:03 AM

Don't know what happened on my last post. My computer must have had the hickups.

Sorry I can't delet the repetitions.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: John Hardly
Date: 18 Aug 07 - 11:41 AM

Yeah, likely story. I've seen that ploy before. You thought you were being paid by the word, didn't you?

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 18 Aug 07 - 12:40 PM

Paid? What's that, John? It's like my answer when someone asks me how long I'm going to keep playing folk music. My stock answer is "As long as I can afford to lose money." I like to think I write for purer motives, and will stick with that explanation until someone is foolish enough to pay me.

I've recently started to post at the Blindman's Blues Forum and perhaps the greatest single thing about it is that you can edit your post, after you've posted it. I need it.

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: John Hardly
Date: 18 Aug 07 - 12:49 PM

"and perhaps the greatest single thing about it is that you can edit your post, after you've posted it. I need it."

ME TOO!!!!

I've said it before and I'll keep on saying it. It's the single most frustrating thing about the mudcat -- that we cannot edit our own posts.

Yeah, I know...

bitch, bitch, bitch.


(I have come to conclude that Word's auto spell check will sometimes pick an embarrassing choice of words to correct to. For instance, I know the difference between "there" and "their". I can't even think of a reason why I would make the typo of exchanging one for the other because, in my mind they are not the same word. Then I realized that if I typo "therr" it will correct to the "their" even if I mean "there". Since one of the hardest things to do while proof-reading is to pick out words that are words but are misplaced (as opposed to picking out simple misspelled words, those Word-corrected typos tend to remain...

...until I see them after I've already hit the "submit" button.)

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Janie
Date: 19 Aug 07 - 01:13 AM

I mostly write essays,, and most of them, I'm sad to say, are on another computer that no longer is in commission. I saved them to removable disks when I got a new computer, but the files were corrupted and wouldn't open.

So I'm going to cheat a little and cut and paste a passage from a fiction thread here on the 'Cat that I have been posting to off and on for the past year. I don't think very many people open that thread, even when I'm actively working on the story, so I'm hopeful this won't be something many people have seen before.

Subject: RE: Fiction:The Woman in the Holler
From: Janie - PM
Date: 07 Apr 07 - 11:08 PM

Aunt Kathy sat in the front passenger seat of Big Bill's car, Moljnir curled in his usual place on her lap. Bill didn't drive the old Galaxy often, but the big bench seat would allow his mother to keep her leg elevated on the drive home. Little Billy parked himself in the middle of the back seat where he could lean forward and rest his arms and chin on the front backrest, seatbelts be damned. The three of them chatted easily, talking about work the boys had done to the old house while Kathy was in the nursing home, pointing out landmarks to one another along the way, and sharing what little gossip they had about the goings-on in the hollers. Now and then one of them would start a song and the other two would join in, their voices sliding around each other with the ease that only a life time of singing together brings.

"Do you want to plan songs we'll sing up at the graveyard tomorrow morning, or just wait and and do as the spirit moves?" asked Bill, his voice matter-of-fact, eyes straight ahead on the highway.

Kathy started. "I thought you said...."

Bill turned his head and looked at his mother, a wide smile on his face. "Your neighbors have missed you, and wanted to do something to welcome you back," he said. "Elmer Johnson 'borrowed' his bulldozer from the State Rd. Commission last week and ran it up the track to the top of the ridge. Louie got his grandpaw's old dodge truck runnin', the one with the mule gear? I'm not sure even it could make it to the top on slick mud, so I didn't want to say anything until I was sure the weather was going to stay dry. But it hasn't rained in a week. We'll be on top of the mountain for Easter sunrise."

Bill waited, but Kathy didn't speak. He turned his eyes from the road again to look at her. She was staring straight ahead out the window, tears running down her cheeks.





                o---------------o---------------o---------------o

They had come to the graveyard on the ridge just as the eastern sky began to lighten. Louie and Billie lifted the kitchen chairs from the bed of the truck while Big Bill helped Kathy out of the cab. It had been a bit of a rougher ride than Kathy had expected, but now she was here it was worth it. Sharon wanted to rush her into a seat, ready to wrap Kathy in a blanket against the chill April air, but Kathy waved the blanket away irritably.

"If you want to be useful child, give me your arm and walk me over to Cassie's grave. There. Now. Go away and give me a little space."

Sharon backed away, and turned to join the others. They quietly arranged the chairs, facing east, keeping their voices low. They left the baskets with the food in the back of the truck for now.

Kathy stood directly on Cassie's grave. It was still too dark to make out the words carved into the granite, but she could detect the faint gleam of the daffodils that encircled the stone. She closed her eyes and breathed in deep, taking in the sharp smell of the wild onions she had trampled underfoot. With her heel, she dug shallowly at the ground, hoping for a whiff of the new earth and something more, the clean, chlorophyll smell of chickweed, or the peppery scent of the tiny winter cress. "It will come." She opened her eyes. The sky was growing lighter. It was time to join the others.

"OK. We're ready." she called.

This time it was Big Bill who offered his arm. He escorted his mother to her chair and helped her situate the blanket. Kathy looked back toward the grave, her eyes following the trail they had left on the dew-covered grass and spring weeds. "There will be more smells once we get to stirring around up here," she thought with satisfaction. She turned her face back toward the east, straightening her shoulders. The new day was afoot now, the sky lightening rapidly as the sun approached the horizon. As the first bright rays broached the edge of the facing ridge, the bells of the many little churches tucked away in the hollers below began to ring.   Up here on the ridge at the head of this furthest of hollers, The sound was faint and muted, as if the sound had been made almost mournful by the journey through these old mountains.

They waited expectantly, straining to be sure to hear. There it was, even fainter than the bells, but joyous, lively, piping in the rebirth that is spring. The notes of the flute coming from the direction of Cassie's grave danced over, around and through them, playing the first measure of the song. The rim of the sun appeared across the mountain, and they began to sing.


Beautiful morning! Day of hope,
Dawn of a better life;
Now in thy peaceful hours we rest,
Far from earth's noise and strife.

Morning of resurrection joy,
Day when the Savior rose,
Singing shall greet thy opening hour,
Singing shall mark thy close.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 20 Aug 07 - 06:35 AM

Great and love the song.

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Jerry Rasmussen
Date: 20 Aug 07 - 08:31 PM

A wonderful, evocative piece of writing, Janie. I hope that you will record the song as well. It's a song of great comfort and joy. (Now, where have I heard that line before?)

Jerry

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Janie
Date: 20 Aug 07 - 08:58 PM

The hymn is not mine. (The italics were lost in the cut and paste.)

The full lyrics and a midi are here, in the Cyberhymnal.

Janie

Subject: RE: BS: The Writer's Corner
From: Amos
Date: 20 Aug 07 - 09:44 PM

Janie,

Beautifully told tale. You have It.

A.