Friday, July 29, 2005
The Bridge
How about another story, huh? How about that? It shall be called "Upon the Bridge We Meet". I plan to write it this weekend. My hope is that it will be shorter than "Grazing the Dead", but I make no guarantees. I just got the idea for it as I was driving home from work not thirty minutes ago, so I don't know how the story might grow before I get it down on paper. And further more, this story will be written with an English accent. I don't know what region of England, so just read it with whatever your idea of an English accent is. The purpose of posting this story is to introduce you to an entirely different aspect of my writing. I don't know what that aspect is, precisely, but if you read "Grazing the Dead", you will notice that this story sounds completely different. However, those fundamental elements of my style will still be present. I hope you notice that, too.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Grazing the Dead - Part VII
copyright 2005 by Blake Lamar
“You alright, son,” Jim said, helping him to his feet. “That’s a bad bump.”
“I’m fine,” Benjamin said. “I’ll be fine.”
“I knew this was bound to happen sooner or later, teasing them cows like that with all this good grass. I told the office people to have them put a barbwire fence around this place when Mr. Reynolds started grazing this field out. A barbwire fence with maybe some hotwire running top and bottom. But, no. They said it was too gruesome in a place where kids might be, as if a cemetery aint already gruesome to a kid that aint old enough or smart enough not to be touching hotwire.”
He sat Benjamin into the cab of the truck and walked around to the other side. He continued to honk his horn as he drove over the fallen down part of the fence and on into the pasture.
“I been keeping a bag of cubes in the back for just this occasion,” he said. “That’ll keep em busy enough while I get that fence back up. You sure you don’t want me to run you home real quick. Let your momma have a look at that bump. I doubt the clinic’s still open.”
“No, it’s okay,” he said. “Just hurts a little is all.”
“Man, you really had a strangle hold on that baby calf,” Jim said. “Getting ready for the junior rodeo, I reckon.”
“I don’t rodeo.”
“I didn’t think so. Cemetery’s no place to be practicing your skills no how. And those calves they have you chase down are a might bigger than the one you was wrestling.”
“I wasn’t wrestling it.”
“Then what was you doing? If you wasn’t trying to take it down, you was being a might friendly. You wasn’t trying to rustle it was you? Tie it up in your backyard for a little while, waiting on some veal.”
Benjamin didn’t say anything.
“But you sure ticked momma off. Lucky a little bump on the head is all you came away with. Cows is docile mostly, but you go messing with their babies and they can be just as mean as anything. It’s a wonder that calf let you get so close. They’s usually skittisher’n a man with a million dollars sticking out his pockets.”
“I don’t know,” Benjamin said. “He just came up to me.”
“Maybe you just one of those people that’s got a way with animals,” he said. “A whisperer, like on that movie. You the cow whisperer or something. Oh, man, that’s a good one.”
Benjamin started laughing. It was the first time he’d felt good in a week. And his stomach let out a loud rumble to match his laughter.
He was hungry.
He was so hungry.
THE END
“You alright, son,” Jim said, helping him to his feet. “That’s a bad bump.”
“I’m fine,” Benjamin said. “I’ll be fine.”
“I knew this was bound to happen sooner or later, teasing them cows like that with all this good grass. I told the office people to have them put a barbwire fence around this place when Mr. Reynolds started grazing this field out. A barbwire fence with maybe some hotwire running top and bottom. But, no. They said it was too gruesome in a place where kids might be, as if a cemetery aint already gruesome to a kid that aint old enough or smart enough not to be touching hotwire.”
He sat Benjamin into the cab of the truck and walked around to the other side. He continued to honk his horn as he drove over the fallen down part of the fence and on into the pasture.
“I been keeping a bag of cubes in the back for just this occasion,” he said. “That’ll keep em busy enough while I get that fence back up. You sure you don’t want me to run you home real quick. Let your momma have a look at that bump. I doubt the clinic’s still open.”
“No, it’s okay,” he said. “Just hurts a little is all.”
“Man, you really had a strangle hold on that baby calf,” Jim said. “Getting ready for the junior rodeo, I reckon.”
“I don’t rodeo.”
“I didn’t think so. Cemetery’s no place to be practicing your skills no how. And those calves they have you chase down are a might bigger than the one you was wrestling.”
“I wasn’t wrestling it.”
“Then what was you doing? If you wasn’t trying to take it down, you was being a might friendly. You wasn’t trying to rustle it was you? Tie it up in your backyard for a little while, waiting on some veal.”
Benjamin didn’t say anything.
“But you sure ticked momma off. Lucky a little bump on the head is all you came away with. Cows is docile mostly, but you go messing with their babies and they can be just as mean as anything. It’s a wonder that calf let you get so close. They’s usually skittisher’n a man with a million dollars sticking out his pockets.”
“I don’t know,” Benjamin said. “He just came up to me.”
“Maybe you just one of those people that’s got a way with animals,” he said. “A whisperer, like on that movie. You the cow whisperer or something. Oh, man, that’s a good one.”
Benjamin started laughing. It was the first time he’d felt good in a week. And his stomach let out a loud rumble to match his laughter.
He was hungry.
He was so hungry.
THE END
Saturday, July 23, 2005
Grazing the Dead - Part VI
copyright 2005 by Blake Lamar
He knew from what some of the kids said in school that there were people that believed you would come back in some form or fashion after you died. Reincarnation, they called it. You wouldn’t come back as the same person, though. Usually you would come back as somebody else. Some even believed that you would come back as an animal. He thought that was stupid though, coming back as an animal. A cow, even. One kid said that in India they thought you came back as a cow. Not everybody in India, just some segment of Hindu. Benjamin thought if he wanted to come back at all, he certainly wouldn’t be coming back as a cow. He’d end up in the supermarket wrapped in cellophane. But those people in India didn’t eat the cows, of course. They didn’t want to eat their relatives. They’d sit and starve while a cow walked right through their front yard.
Benjamin heard a loud moo right behind him. It startled him, his mind already thinking about cows like that. The cemetery was surrounded on three sides by pasture. The grass was near dead in the field and the cows would often saunter up by the cemetery and munch the fresh green grass near the fences edge where the sprinklers spilled over. But that moo had been too close. He turned around and saw several heifers and calves milling about the headstones, grazing the tall grass. He noticed that part of the fence in the corner was down, but he wondered if maybe Jim hadn’t left it down on purpose to recruit a little help from the cows to keep the grass down. But that didn’t make sense with Jim all the way on the other side and the front gates still open. He reckoned after staring at such plush, green grass for so long, the cows had finally put enough pressure on the fence to knock it down.
Benjamin tried to ignore the cows, but their incessant mooing at him was making it hard to think, much less reconcile his feelings about his grandpa. He had almost decided to give up on the idea when he heard a baby calf bawl. He turned around and saw a baby black baldy bull calf trundling towards him. The calf bawled again and stopped in front of him, reaching its head towards his hands.
His first reaction was to back off and try to shoo it away, but then he remembered the cows in India. He imagined if he lived there and a baby calf like this one, not more than a week old, came up to him and started bawling, he’d shout for joy.
“Grandpa,” Benjamin said, timidly at first. “Grandpa!”
He put his hand out and the baby calf licked it. Then he patted its nose and began to rub the fur between its eyes. Before he knew it, he had dropped to his knees and embraced the calf in a full hug, crying out, “Grandpa, Grandpa!”
Then he heard a disgruntled moo and felt something hard and heavy slam into his shoulder. His arms pulled free of the calf as he was thrown into the headstone of a neighboring grave. He bumped his head on the granite and fought hard not to pass out. He heard a vehicle drive up and start honking its horn. He thought it might be his mother, telling him to get home and eat something before he died of a broken heart. His heart was the least of his worries right now, however.
He knew from what some of the kids said in school that there were people that believed you would come back in some form or fashion after you died. Reincarnation, they called it. You wouldn’t come back as the same person, though. Usually you would come back as somebody else. Some even believed that you would come back as an animal. He thought that was stupid though, coming back as an animal. A cow, even. One kid said that in India they thought you came back as a cow. Not everybody in India, just some segment of Hindu. Benjamin thought if he wanted to come back at all, he certainly wouldn’t be coming back as a cow. He’d end up in the supermarket wrapped in cellophane. But those people in India didn’t eat the cows, of course. They didn’t want to eat their relatives. They’d sit and starve while a cow walked right through their front yard.
Benjamin heard a loud moo right behind him. It startled him, his mind already thinking about cows like that. The cemetery was surrounded on three sides by pasture. The grass was near dead in the field and the cows would often saunter up by the cemetery and munch the fresh green grass near the fences edge where the sprinklers spilled over. But that moo had been too close. He turned around and saw several heifers and calves milling about the headstones, grazing the tall grass. He noticed that part of the fence in the corner was down, but he wondered if maybe Jim hadn’t left it down on purpose to recruit a little help from the cows to keep the grass down. But that didn’t make sense with Jim all the way on the other side and the front gates still open. He reckoned after staring at such plush, green grass for so long, the cows had finally put enough pressure on the fence to knock it down.
Benjamin tried to ignore the cows, but their incessant mooing at him was making it hard to think, much less reconcile his feelings about his grandpa. He had almost decided to give up on the idea when he heard a baby calf bawl. He turned around and saw a baby black baldy bull calf trundling towards him. The calf bawled again and stopped in front of him, reaching its head towards his hands.
His first reaction was to back off and try to shoo it away, but then he remembered the cows in India. He imagined if he lived there and a baby calf like this one, not more than a week old, came up to him and started bawling, he’d shout for joy.
“Grandpa,” Benjamin said, timidly at first. “Grandpa!”
He put his hand out and the baby calf licked it. Then he patted its nose and began to rub the fur between its eyes. Before he knew it, he had dropped to his knees and embraced the calf in a full hug, crying out, “Grandpa, Grandpa!”
Then he heard a disgruntled moo and felt something hard and heavy slam into his shoulder. His arms pulled free of the calf as he was thrown into the headstone of a neighboring grave. He bumped his head on the granite and fought hard not to pass out. He heard a vehicle drive up and start honking its horn. He thought it might be his mother, telling him to get home and eat something before he died of a broken heart. His heart was the least of his worries right now, however.
Friday, July 22, 2005
Grazing the Dead - Part V
copyright 2005 by Blake Lamar
When he finally made it to the cemetery entrance, he didn’t want to go in, but he knew he must. There was something he had to do, but he didn’t understand what.
The gates were still open. Jim, the cemetery’s caretaker, didn’t shut and lock the gates until six o’clock or later, but any person on foot could just slip through the bars if they wanted to. The cemetery was larger than he thought it would be before the funeral. He didn’t remember much about Grandma’s funeral, except that it was cold and it had rained. It just seemed amazing to him a few days ago how such small town could have such a large cemetery. But the dead didn’t go anywhere. A lot of kids grew up and went off to college and never came back, but some people got stuck in this town until it swallowed them up. He imagined there were as many graves as people in town. The exponential growth factor didn’t hold in small towns like it did in the city.
Nobody else was in the cemetery except for Jim, who was weed-eating around the headstones on the far side. During the spring and summer and on into the fall, Jim could be seen out here most days trying his hardest to keep the grass cut down enough so that people wouldn’t complain. There was an underground sprinkler system that came on automatically at night to keep the grass looking nice and green all summer long. It had been so hot and dry the last month that the cemetery would have become a giant dead brown patch without it. Benjamin didn’t see how it made much sense to keep a place of the dead looking so fresh and alive. The cemetery only ever looked right in the winter. Right now the grass was so tall where he was that he could hear it whisper as it swayed in the wind.
When he saw the mound of dirt still looking freshly turned at his grandpa’s grave towards the back of the cemetery, fresh tears began to spill down his cheeks. He wanted to turn and run away. Run all the way back to the house and shut himself back in his room. But he knew that he needed to be here. He needed to face this one last time by himself so that maybe he could let it go. Not so that he could forget. That could never happen, but so that he could let those emotions drain out of him so he could feel hungry again.
He noticed that the headstone had been removed from his grandma’s grave. They were supposed to be bringing a joint headstone in sometime that had both their names and dates on them. He didn’t know what they were going to do with the old headstone. Perhaps grind the engravings off the front and sell it to someone else. He would hate to think he had someone else’s headstone. But by that point, he probably wouldn’t know or care. Instead there were two metal plates in front of each grave detailing the basic information while they waited on the new headstone. They were surrounded by wilted, dying flowers from the funeral.
He placed his hand on the mound of dirt as he continued to sob. He knew Grandpa’s spirit had soared to heaven, but on the off chance that his spirit had decided to return to his body, Benjamin was prepared to dig him back up if he thought he could feel something pressing up against this mound of dirt.
He felt nothing.
When he finally made it to the cemetery entrance, he didn’t want to go in, but he knew he must. There was something he had to do, but he didn’t understand what.
The gates were still open. Jim, the cemetery’s caretaker, didn’t shut and lock the gates until six o’clock or later, but any person on foot could just slip through the bars if they wanted to. The cemetery was larger than he thought it would be before the funeral. He didn’t remember much about Grandma’s funeral, except that it was cold and it had rained. It just seemed amazing to him a few days ago how such small town could have such a large cemetery. But the dead didn’t go anywhere. A lot of kids grew up and went off to college and never came back, but some people got stuck in this town until it swallowed them up. He imagined there were as many graves as people in town. The exponential growth factor didn’t hold in small towns like it did in the city.
Nobody else was in the cemetery except for Jim, who was weed-eating around the headstones on the far side. During the spring and summer and on into the fall, Jim could be seen out here most days trying his hardest to keep the grass cut down enough so that people wouldn’t complain. There was an underground sprinkler system that came on automatically at night to keep the grass looking nice and green all summer long. It had been so hot and dry the last month that the cemetery would have become a giant dead brown patch without it. Benjamin didn’t see how it made much sense to keep a place of the dead looking so fresh and alive. The cemetery only ever looked right in the winter. Right now the grass was so tall where he was that he could hear it whisper as it swayed in the wind.
When he saw the mound of dirt still looking freshly turned at his grandpa’s grave towards the back of the cemetery, fresh tears began to spill down his cheeks. He wanted to turn and run away. Run all the way back to the house and shut himself back in his room. But he knew that he needed to be here. He needed to face this one last time by himself so that maybe he could let it go. Not so that he could forget. That could never happen, but so that he could let those emotions drain out of him so he could feel hungry again.
He noticed that the headstone had been removed from his grandma’s grave. They were supposed to be bringing a joint headstone in sometime that had both their names and dates on them. He didn’t know what they were going to do with the old headstone. Perhaps grind the engravings off the front and sell it to someone else. He would hate to think he had someone else’s headstone. But by that point, he probably wouldn’t know or care. Instead there were two metal plates in front of each grave detailing the basic information while they waited on the new headstone. They were surrounded by wilted, dying flowers from the funeral.
He placed his hand on the mound of dirt as he continued to sob. He knew Grandpa’s spirit had soared to heaven, but on the off chance that his spirit had decided to return to his body, Benjamin was prepared to dig him back up if he thought he could feel something pressing up against this mound of dirt.
He felt nothing.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Grazing the Dead - Part IV
copyright 2005 by Blake Lamar
He sat in his room for a while longer, but he kept glancing at the door, thinking his mother might poke her head in and try to make him be strong again. Finally he ran from the house and headed up the street. He didn’t know where he might go. Everywhere he went there were people milling about. Mostly kids, some of them his classmates.
“Hey, Benny,” his best friend Christopher said from across the street.
Chris was standing on his front lawn with a football tucked under one arm. Any normal evening he would be right there with him, tossing the ball back and forth, wondering if they would have enough players to have their own seventh grade team, or if they would have to play up with the junior high and most likely ride the bench all season. But nothing had been normal for the last week.
Benjamin gave Chris a small wave and continued past him. Chris stood and watched him for a moment before tossing the ball back up into the air and catching it.
The houses began to thin until he was walking past Mrs. Simpson’s house at the edge of town. He could see the fields beyond and just kept walking, ignoring Mrs. Simpson’s toy poodle as he growled and barked and nipped at Benjamin’s heels.
When he could see the arched stone gateways and the American flag flapping in the breeze, it didn’t come as any surprise to realize that his body had instinctively led him towards the cemetery. It was the last place that he ever thought he would want to go. This was the place where those men had lowered his grandpa’s casket into the ground and made it final. There was no turning back once they lowered the casket to the bottom of the grave and pushed that impossibly large mound of red dirt over the top of it. During the viewing and later as he walked by the open casket at the end of the funeral before the pallbearers loaded it into that old, black hearse, he kept thinking his grandpa’s body might suddenly come to life. Benjamin could see him sitting up and staring at the astonished crowd before letting out a long gale of hearty laughter. Like his mother said, Grandpa was a quiet type and not one for telling or playing jokes, but if he ever had the perfect chance to pull a fast one, this was it. Benjamin didn’t cry during the funeral until the tractor was dumping it’s first load of dirt over the casket. Until that point he had been preparing himself to laugh with his grandpa when the jig was up. He tried to hide his smile behind a handkerchief, pretending to wipe his nose or daub his eyes. He couldn’t imagine what someone would think if they saw him smiling at his grandpa’s funeral. They would think the wrong things, like maybe there was a giant inheritance waiting for him and maybe it wasn’t a heart attack that had made him fall off that ladder. Maybe the heart attack came later after someone pushed him off or shook him off. It was horrible the way people thought about these things, but he had to hide his smile. He couldn’t give them a chance to think it.
He sat in his room for a while longer, but he kept glancing at the door, thinking his mother might poke her head in and try to make him be strong again. Finally he ran from the house and headed up the street. He didn’t know where he might go. Everywhere he went there were people milling about. Mostly kids, some of them his classmates.
“Hey, Benny,” his best friend Christopher said from across the street.
Chris was standing on his front lawn with a football tucked under one arm. Any normal evening he would be right there with him, tossing the ball back and forth, wondering if they would have enough players to have their own seventh grade team, or if they would have to play up with the junior high and most likely ride the bench all season. But nothing had been normal for the last week.
Benjamin gave Chris a small wave and continued past him. Chris stood and watched him for a moment before tossing the ball back up into the air and catching it.
The houses began to thin until he was walking past Mrs. Simpson’s house at the edge of town. He could see the fields beyond and just kept walking, ignoring Mrs. Simpson’s toy poodle as he growled and barked and nipped at Benjamin’s heels.
When he could see the arched stone gateways and the American flag flapping in the breeze, it didn’t come as any surprise to realize that his body had instinctively led him towards the cemetery. It was the last place that he ever thought he would want to go. This was the place where those men had lowered his grandpa’s casket into the ground and made it final. There was no turning back once they lowered the casket to the bottom of the grave and pushed that impossibly large mound of red dirt over the top of it. During the viewing and later as he walked by the open casket at the end of the funeral before the pallbearers loaded it into that old, black hearse, he kept thinking his grandpa’s body might suddenly come to life. Benjamin could see him sitting up and staring at the astonished crowd before letting out a long gale of hearty laughter. Like his mother said, Grandpa was a quiet type and not one for telling or playing jokes, but if he ever had the perfect chance to pull a fast one, this was it. Benjamin didn’t cry during the funeral until the tractor was dumping it’s first load of dirt over the casket. Until that point he had been preparing himself to laugh with his grandpa when the jig was up. He tried to hide his smile behind a handkerchief, pretending to wipe his nose or daub his eyes. He couldn’t imagine what someone would think if they saw him smiling at his grandpa’s funeral. They would think the wrong things, like maybe there was a giant inheritance waiting for him and maybe it wasn’t a heart attack that had made him fall off that ladder. Maybe the heart attack came later after someone pushed him off or shook him off. It was horrible the way people thought about these things, but he had to hide his smile. He couldn’t give them a chance to think it.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Grazing the Dead - Part III
copyright 2005 by Blake Lamar
“Grandpa told me once that he wondered if Jesus looked anything like any of those pictures people put on their walls. I guess he can see for himself now.”
“I don’t think we can begin to imagine what Jesus looks like in His glory at the right hand of the Father. I imagine an angel so bright you can’t look upon Him with human eyes, even at a distance. But you rest assured that Grandpa can see Him now, and perhaps shining almost as bright. Now it will do you good to eat some of those eggs before they get too cold.”
Benjamin ate a few bites and sipped his milk, but it wasn’t long before he was back in his room, crying fresh tears and secretly begging God to let Grandpa come back, if only for a few more days, so he could hug him one more time and say goodbye.
“Lunch is ready,” his mother said, peeking through his bedroom door. “I made chicken and cheese soup, heavy on the cheese the way you like it.”
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
“This is what I was telling you about earlier, Benny,” she said. “Grandpa wouldn’t want you dying for his sake. You’re too young for your heart to break like that. And I know I haven’t made you work too hard for it to wear out just yet.”
“I don’t want to,” he said. “Can’t you just let me be sad for little while. I don’t feel like trying to force food down my throat right now.”
“Just have a taste, and I’ll bet you’ll want more.”
“I don’t want a taste. I don’t want more.”
“Darling, I thought after our talk this morning you would be okay with things.”
“Well, I’m not. And I don’t see how you’re so calm about the situation, either.”
“Don’t you dare say that. I feel like a million shattered pieces inside just like you do, but one of us has to be strong. And I can’t let that fall on you.”
“Then I’m weak and you’re strong. Can’t it just be okay for things to stay that way right now.”
She sighed deep and heavy. “It’ll be in the fridge if you want to heat some up later.”
“Grandpa told me once that he wondered if Jesus looked anything like any of those pictures people put on their walls. I guess he can see for himself now.”
“I don’t think we can begin to imagine what Jesus looks like in His glory at the right hand of the Father. I imagine an angel so bright you can’t look upon Him with human eyes, even at a distance. But you rest assured that Grandpa can see Him now, and perhaps shining almost as bright. Now it will do you good to eat some of those eggs before they get too cold.”
Benjamin ate a few bites and sipped his milk, but it wasn’t long before he was back in his room, crying fresh tears and secretly begging God to let Grandpa come back, if only for a few more days, so he could hug him one more time and say goodbye.
“Lunch is ready,” his mother said, peeking through his bedroom door. “I made chicken and cheese soup, heavy on the cheese the way you like it.”
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
“This is what I was telling you about earlier, Benny,” she said. “Grandpa wouldn’t want you dying for his sake. You’re too young for your heart to break like that. And I know I haven’t made you work too hard for it to wear out just yet.”
“I don’t want to,” he said. “Can’t you just let me be sad for little while. I don’t feel like trying to force food down my throat right now.”
“Just have a taste, and I’ll bet you’ll want more.”
“I don’t want a taste. I don’t want more.”
“Darling, I thought after our talk this morning you would be okay with things.”
“Well, I’m not. And I don’t see how you’re so calm about the situation, either.”
“Don’t you dare say that. I feel like a million shattered pieces inside just like you do, but one of us has to be strong. And I can’t let that fall on you.”
“Then I’m weak and you’re strong. Can’t it just be okay for things to stay that way right now.”
She sighed deep and heavy. “It’ll be in the fridge if you want to heat some up later.”
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Grazing the Dead - Part II
copyright 2005 by Blake Lamar
“Your father would never take you to the river,” his mother had told him that morning. “He’d be sitting here watching the early news or reading the paper and yelling at you not to bug him anymore about it. It took me a long time to see it, but it’s a good thing he left before you could get to know him too well. This way you’re nothing like him. You’re just like your Grandpa, instead. A little too quiet, but it’s not such a bad thing to keep your mouth shut. Keeps you outta trouble.”
“But I didn’t want him to go,” Benjamin said, leaving his breakfast untouched before him on the kitchen table. “Couldn’t he have waited a little longer. At least long enough to teach me how to drive.”
“I’m sure he wanted to wait. I’m sure he would have liked to see you all the way through college and see his great grandkids, but when God wants to you come home and be with Him, you can’t say no. You don’t want to say no, really. There’s some great things here on this Earth and it’s hard to leave your family behind, but Heaven is so much better. And I’m sure he was looking forward to seeing Grandma Elsie again. I think if he didn’t have you in his life, he woulda died of a broken heart six years ago.”
“You can really die from that?”
“In a way. When your heart gets broken like that, you just kind of stop caring about living and stop doing all those little things we do to keep ourselves alive. You stop eating right. Maybe you don’t take your blood pressure medication. You sit in the house until your muscles start to atrophy. Things like that. But Grandpa still had you to look forward to. You filled that empty space left when Grandma died. You kept his heart from breaking.”
“But Grandpa’s heart did break,” Benjamin said. “It was attacked.”
“But that’s a different kind of broken heart,” his mother said. “Grandpa had a hard life. He had to work hard everyday just to have food to eat and someplace to stay. His family lost the farm in the depression and there just wasn’t much a man could do with a third-grade education. He made it through when a lot of people didn’t, but those kinds of things catch up to you when you get old. Every time he came home tired and worn out from picking cotton all day or plowing for some farmer, it was just building up to last Wednesday. Then when he was climbing up that ladder to adjust the antenna because the TV was all fuzzy, his heart finally gave out with that last bit of effort.”
“He was gonna miss the weather,” Benjamin said. “He thought it might rain.”
“Everybody’s been hoping for it.”
“But it didn’t.”
“No, it didn’t.”
“Why couldn’t he have that last wish,” Benjamin said. “To feel the rain one more time. He always smiled when it rained. Even though he didn’t have a farm or crops anymore. It made him feel good to know other peoples’ crops were getting the water they needed.”
“He can feel the rain now everyday if he wants to. No one knows exactly what Heaven is like, but I think it’s going to be every good feeling you ever had plus all those you didn’t, wrapped into one multiplied by a billion.”
“Your father would never take you to the river,” his mother had told him that morning. “He’d be sitting here watching the early news or reading the paper and yelling at you not to bug him anymore about it. It took me a long time to see it, but it’s a good thing he left before you could get to know him too well. This way you’re nothing like him. You’re just like your Grandpa, instead. A little too quiet, but it’s not such a bad thing to keep your mouth shut. Keeps you outta trouble.”
“But I didn’t want him to go,” Benjamin said, leaving his breakfast untouched before him on the kitchen table. “Couldn’t he have waited a little longer. At least long enough to teach me how to drive.”
“I’m sure he wanted to wait. I’m sure he would have liked to see you all the way through college and see his great grandkids, but when God wants to you come home and be with Him, you can’t say no. You don’t want to say no, really. There’s some great things here on this Earth and it’s hard to leave your family behind, but Heaven is so much better. And I’m sure he was looking forward to seeing Grandma Elsie again. I think if he didn’t have you in his life, he woulda died of a broken heart six years ago.”
“You can really die from that?”
“In a way. When your heart gets broken like that, you just kind of stop caring about living and stop doing all those little things we do to keep ourselves alive. You stop eating right. Maybe you don’t take your blood pressure medication. You sit in the house until your muscles start to atrophy. Things like that. But Grandpa still had you to look forward to. You filled that empty space left when Grandma died. You kept his heart from breaking.”
“But Grandpa’s heart did break,” Benjamin said. “It was attacked.”
“But that’s a different kind of broken heart,” his mother said. “Grandpa had a hard life. He had to work hard everyday just to have food to eat and someplace to stay. His family lost the farm in the depression and there just wasn’t much a man could do with a third-grade education. He made it through when a lot of people didn’t, but those kinds of things catch up to you when you get old. Every time he came home tired and worn out from picking cotton all day or plowing for some farmer, it was just building up to last Wednesday. Then when he was climbing up that ladder to adjust the antenna because the TV was all fuzzy, his heart finally gave out with that last bit of effort.”
“He was gonna miss the weather,” Benjamin said. “He thought it might rain.”
“Everybody’s been hoping for it.”
“But it didn’t.”
“No, it didn’t.”
“Why couldn’t he have that last wish,” Benjamin said. “To feel the rain one more time. He always smiled when it rained. Even though he didn’t have a farm or crops anymore. It made him feel good to know other peoples’ crops were getting the water they needed.”
“He can feel the rain now everyday if he wants to. No one knows exactly what Heaven is like, but I think it’s going to be every good feeling you ever had plus all those you didn’t, wrapped into one multiplied by a billion.”
Monday, July 18, 2005
Grazing the Dead - Part I
copyright 2005 by Blake Lamar
Grandpa was old. Old people die. Benjamin was supposed to understand that. He didn’t understand it when he was four years old and his father left, but now he was twelve and he knew that after you’ve been on this Earth a long while, some important part of you would wear down and fail. And you would die.
But Ben wasn’t ready for Grandpa to die. Grandpa was going to take him down to the river and show him how to catch a real catfish with his bare hands.
“It’s like petting a baby kitten,” his grandpa had told him. “Be real gentle and caress its belly. Let it think your hand is a soft bit of mud. Then when you feel a gentle current of water brush against your skin like a warm breath, plunge your hand into the gills behind his head and pull him out. But you have to feel him first. If you think he’s too big, just let him be. No since letting him drag you under the water with him. Kids older than you have drowned in this river. And don’t listen to their friends who say they were just having a swim. The river’s too shallow most of the year that any normal kid couldn’t stand on his own two feet, and too raging the rest of the year to be dumb enough to try and swim in it.”
He had been excited to go noodling with Grandpa in the river, but he also had nightmares of being taken under the water by some giant catfish. And he was afraid of losing his hand inside them. But Grandpa used to do it all the time when he was a kid. So it must be okay.
He was sitting in his room crying, now. The funeral was three days ago and he still woke up each morning wondering if Grandpa would be sitting in the living room asking if he was ready to go. It was summertime and he didn’t have to worry about school so they could spend all day at the river. Even if he was too afraid to stick his hand into the deep holes underneath the bank, Grandpa could teach him how to weave a net from the tall grass that grew beside the river, and they could seine minnows or try to scoop up some crawdads. Above all they could sit there and Benjamin would get a glimpse of what it was like to have a father around to do things with.
Disclaimer: This is a rough draft with a quick brush up. Normally my rough drafts don't end up this clean, so you are witnessing something quite rare, dear reader. I've never gone noodling before, so I could be quite wrong on the mechanics of it. My apologies.
Grandpa was old. Old people die. Benjamin was supposed to understand that. He didn’t understand it when he was four years old and his father left, but now he was twelve and he knew that after you’ve been on this Earth a long while, some important part of you would wear down and fail. And you would die.
But Ben wasn’t ready for Grandpa to die. Grandpa was going to take him down to the river and show him how to catch a real catfish with his bare hands.
“It’s like petting a baby kitten,” his grandpa had told him. “Be real gentle and caress its belly. Let it think your hand is a soft bit of mud. Then when you feel a gentle current of water brush against your skin like a warm breath, plunge your hand into the gills behind his head and pull him out. But you have to feel him first. If you think he’s too big, just let him be. No since letting him drag you under the water with him. Kids older than you have drowned in this river. And don’t listen to their friends who say they were just having a swim. The river’s too shallow most of the year that any normal kid couldn’t stand on his own two feet, and too raging the rest of the year to be dumb enough to try and swim in it.”
He had been excited to go noodling with Grandpa in the river, but he also had nightmares of being taken under the water by some giant catfish. And he was afraid of losing his hand inside them. But Grandpa used to do it all the time when he was a kid. So it must be okay.
He was sitting in his room crying, now. The funeral was three days ago and he still woke up each morning wondering if Grandpa would be sitting in the living room asking if he was ready to go. It was summertime and he didn’t have to worry about school so they could spend all day at the river. Even if he was too afraid to stick his hand into the deep holes underneath the bank, Grandpa could teach him how to weave a net from the tall grass that grew beside the river, and they could seine minnows or try to scoop up some crawdads. Above all they could sit there and Benjamin would get a glimpse of what it was like to have a father around to do things with.
Disclaimer: This is a rough draft with a quick brush up. Normally my rough drafts don't end up this clean, so you are witnessing something quite rare, dear reader. I've never gone noodling before, so I could be quite wrong on the mechanics of it. My apologies.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Intro to the Dead
Alas, the original story I was going to post wasn't working out like I wanted it to. So I wrote a different story from an idea that has been bouncing around my head for three months or so. This story isn't about me at all. Well, maybe a little. It's almost impossible for some deep part of myself not to show up in everything I write. This story is called "Grazing the Dead", and it's about a boy trying to cope with his grandfather's sudden death. It's a common enough theme, but hopefully I've been able to put a unique perspective on it. Truly, my hope is that you'll get to see my style of writing. Like most styles, it was developed accidentally, but I can't seem to part from it. No matter how I tell the story, whether it be third person or first person or any other variance, and no matter what character I develop to give the first person account, whether they be intelligent or not or male or female, it just seems that this particular style, this particular way of going about the story, is forever present. At first I thought it was a bad thing. I couldn't imagine that any style that I could call my own could possibly be any good. I'm still unsure on that matter. I'm sure there are other writers who perhaps write in a similar style, but like everything else, God made each of us different, even identical twins. There's nothing wrong with trying to copy someone else's style as you're learning to write and put the words together that become the story, but inevitably, you will find your own unique way of doing things. Usually, as I have done, by accident. And I'm sure that it will continue to change as I become older and more mature, but the part of it that points at me and says, "Yes, that is you," is becoming more clear. And that core part will probably never go away. As I feared, I will have to do a touch of research for the story, so it will probably be Monday evening before I can post Part I. I'm not sure how many parts there will be. The story ended up being 11 double-spaced pages, so it would make sense to post a single page at a time, but I want to see if I can find any lines of demarcation so I can make each piece seem as whole as possible. Again, stay tuned...
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Great News!
Yes, absolutely ecstatic news! Just kidding. Inspired by fellow blogger Carol, I'm going to post small pieces of a short story I've been working on. I’m thinking five or six installments. Then you can read a piece of my writing for yourself and decide if I'm any good or if I've just been blowing a lot of smoke. I'm a humble person and I don't think that my writing is all that good, so in my own mind I've been blowing smoke. Sorry about that. The story is really quite short for my normally long-winded self. What usually happens is a story starts out in my mind as maybe five or six pages and the next thing I know I'm on page twelve and not even halfway done. Currently, I'm near what I believe is the end of this story and I'm only on like page three. So let's cross our fingers and hope another page or two will wrap things up. I'd hate to take up too much of your time. I don't have a title for it yet. Maybe by the time I'm finished with it a title will come to me. If not, I'll post the story anyways and see if you, yes, you, my fellow blogger, can think of one for me. Sorry, there's no prize for the winning entry. I'm thinking Sunday morning part one should be up. That depends if I have to do any research, which I shouldn't since the story is mostly about me and nothing really happens in the story that would warrant any extensive research. But I just never know where the story might take me, so I can't be sure. So stay tuned...
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Harvest of Souls
Well, potatoes actually. I think I let some of them sit in the ground too long. It's been so dry and hot lately causing the ground to heat up that perhaps some of them towards the surface were beginning to bake in the dirt. They got all wrinkly and squishy feeling. But overall it was a good crop. I'm estimating around 240 to 300 lbs worth. All of that from a few small sacks of seed potatoes sliced up and planted in the spring. I've had people tell me that you have to plant the seed potatoes whole. Like the plants somehow need all the life-giving power contained in the complex sugars of the starch inside. But I'm looking at these seed potatoes and seeing how small some of them are and how big the others are and thinking if these tiny ones can produce a plant that will later grow its own nice sized potatoes, there's no reason that a segment of the larger ones can't do the same. Just as long as they've got an eye that will spring forth a new plant. Besides, my dad, who learned this from his granddad, had always halved and quartered his seed potatoes to make more plants. I remember one year, perhaps when I was in high school or junior high, that my dad basically peeled the potatoes, paying close attention to the eyes, and planted those thin slivers that still produced a nice crop. It's no different than plucking the seeds from an apple or a watermelon. You don't have to plant the whole watermelon to get a vine. You just need one tiny seed. They key is fertile soil. And plenty of water. Though when the potato plant has flowered and begins to die, it's wise to stop watering. If the potatoes stay wet in the ground for very long they'll begin to rot. We lost almost a whole crop like that one year. It just rained and rained and rained and we finally had to dig through the mud and salvage what few potatoes we could. So is there a lesson in all of this? Yeah, probably, but I’ll let you figure it out for yourself. I don’t have the energy today for deep thought and probable wisdom.
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