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The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Paula was also having a difficult time talking. Her mouth was moving over Greg’s in a passionate kiss that kept his attention. He was hoping this was what she had meant when she sent Smitty away. He was tired of looking at John’s house anyway. But to make sure, he stopped her, and gently holding her shoulders, he asked her, “Are you sure you want to do this, Paula? I mean, last night you seemed like you wanted to wait.”

Paula pulled him off the couch onto the floor. She kissed his lips once again, and then sat up to talk. Greg sat up on the floor across from her.

“You’re right, Greg, we should wait.” He seemed disappointed. “But we don’t have to; because last night was about what I thought you were thinking about me. I’m so forward sometimes; I must seem like a tramp.”

Greg started to protest, but she wanted to continue, so she held one finger on his lips.

“Let me get this out all at once, and then, I think you’ll understand what I’m talking about,” she said. He took her finger and kissed it lightly, then sat back to listen.

“This is complicated, but I think I can sum it up quickly.” She tossed her blonde hair back with the confidence he liked so much about her. She was trying to give herself enough confidence to talk.

“I’m not old, but I feel like I’ve been through way too many painful relationships. It started in high school when I thought the strong silent type meant a man that would listen to me and protect me. What happened is most of those guys were just quiet when they hit me.”

Greg frowned. This was going to be difficult for Paula to get through. He wanted to reach out and hold her while she spoke, but her body language was saying she wanted to do this on her own, and get it over. There was a possibility of happiness, she seemed to be saying, and Greg wanted her to be happy most of all.

“I thought I was smarter once I got out of college, even though the men I was attracted to only wanted me for display, to impress their friends. I tried a couple of other relationships, but they were all the same. I was sacrificing myself and my life for them, and they were happy to use me.”

She paused and bit her lip. “The last guy almost killed me. He was strangling me when I kicked him where it counts, and ran into the street. He probably would have dragged me back into the house and finished the job if the guy up the street hadn’t been walking his dog at just the right time.”

Greg moved one hand to her shoulder and she nuzzled it. Then she put it back down on his leg.

“Almost done, I promise,” she whispered. “It was three years of therapy and a longer trial before he wound up in jail. When I met you, I knew I could wait until you were ready. Now I might be rushing things, so I guess you get to talk now and tell me…”

Her lip was trembling.

Greg said, “I hope I was worth the wait.” She looked long and hard into his eyes and smiled the smile he remembered from the first time they had met. Why she had chosen him, he would never understand. But right now was not the time to think of that. She rose up on her knees facing him, and as he sat up facing her, they kissed tenderly at first, and then gave in to the passion that had been building for two years.

This was not looking good. Another beat-up pick-up truck was coming down the road. “Looks like he invited the whole neighborhood,” said Ray to himself. If he was going to do anything, it would have to be soon. The old guy had probably called the cops, too. When Joe had gone into the house, he had borrowed what looked like a high-powered rifle with a scope. The guy pulling up had his own gun, which he took from the gun rack in the truck and joined the twosome leaning against Simon’s old truck.

But why did he wait so long to call them? Was this some kind of sadistic fun for the farmer? Maybe there was just not enough for these old guys to do around here, Ray mused. But then his mind started to clear, and he realized that this was about the money. The farmer had known Ray was wanted, so it made sense that he would know about the robbery. The old guy wanted some of the money! That’s why the cops hadn’t shown up.

Ray thought for a minute more, and made some decisions. If he was going to get out of here, it would have to be now.

Simon was surprised to see the crook coming out with his hands up. All three farmers raised their guns suspiciously, and they instinctively spread out around Ray. After about twenty steps Ray stopped with three guns pointing at him from various angles. He put his hands down.

Simon barked, “Put ‘em back up, Sonny. Lots of sharp stuff in the barn. Let’s see what’s in your pockets.” Ray almost smiled inside, expecting to be frisked, but then again, these guys weren’t cops. He pulled out his pants pockets to show they were empty. Except for a wad of bills.

“I figure this is what you’re after, since no cops have shown up.”

“Yet,” Simon added, not denying the money was a main interest.

“So, I figure, I give you what I have, and you’ll let me go get the rest.”

The three looked at each other with questions in their eyes, but they had learned the value of silence. Let the other guy talk, and he would often show you his whole hand while you hid yours.

Ray realized they didn’t understand and tried to explain. “Look, do you think I’d stick around here after I robbed a bank if I still had the money? Some jerk took the rest and left this as evidence with the police. I only have about $2500, but I figure if you three split it up…” Ray “accidentally” dropped the wad to the ground.

Joe went for the money since he was closest, and that was all Ray needed. As the tip of the gun dipped toward the dirt, he grabbed it and pushed Joe over. Running just enough to get both of the others in range, he spun and shouted.

“Throw the guns down or I shoot you now!!”

The other two lowered their weapons. “Now throw me your keys, old man,” Ray growled. Simon dug in his pockets and tossed them in the dirt in front of Ray. Picking them up, he scowled at Simon and said, “I should shoot you right now, after you made me crawl in the dirt, and look at the nice pattern you left on my forehead. But you may be worth more to me alive than dead, especially since you’ve probably already called the cops.”

Simon practiced being stone-faced. Ray wondered how long he had before they would have company. “Both of you lie down,” he said.

Simon broke the silence as then crawled to the ground. “The cops will be here any time, so if you’re going to go, now might be a good time.” It didn’t sound like cowardice, and it did make for some good advice. When Simon said it, it almost sounded calm and brave. He knew he had made the mistake of being greedy, and he was ready to pay with his life if it was needed. But Ray detected the note of urgency and interpreted that as confirmation that the police would be here soon.

But maybe he still had enough time to take care of the injuries that had been done to him.

Greg spoke first. He turned to Paula, and stroking her beautiful hair, asked her, “Why me?”

There was a puzzled look on her face. “Why not you? Is there something I should know?” she said smiling slightly.

“No, I have no deep dark secrets, except that I’m an idiot when it comes to romance,” he admitted freely. “I’m just surprised a great catch like you would be interested in small-fry like me.”

Now she was running her fingers through his hair. “That’s one of the most attractive things about you, Greg,” she said. She pulled him close for a long, tender kiss.

Then she pushed his chest back a bit with her hand and said, “You don’t get it, but men who brag about themselves aren’t very interesting. You’re the right kind of strong but silent type. You don’t know your own strengths, so that’s why you are silent about it.”

Greg was now looking puzzled.

“Sorry,” she said. “I guess that doesn’t make much sense to you. But here’s one way I can explain it. Do you remember about the old boyfriend you helped arrest?”

Greg nodded.

“Well, I also said it took me another year to finally start paying attention to what a great man you really are. Do you remember a year after the car chase?”

Greg was searching, and usually not being very good at memory games, was about to give up. “The Dobson kidnapping!”

“Right”, she said. “You were up visiting Smitty and we ran into each other at the press briefing.”

Greg said he remembered.

“Well, do you remember what you did later that weekend?”

Greg did remember it, very vividly.

Greg was riding around with Smitty as the negotiations with the kidnapper were slowing up. Smitty mentioned something about the strange noises coming across the phone during the last call, and said something about the whistle.

“What did it sound like?” asked Greg.

“It was really strange,” said Smitty, “kind of a shrieking noise, but repeated several times. Not even really a whistle, but I can’t place it.”

Greg thought for a moment, and then asked, “Could it be train brakes in the background?”

Smitty smiled, slowly at first, and then it became full-faced and excited. “It did sound like train brakes!” He swerved the car around and they arrived at the train station in moments. As they drove closer to the main station house, they looked for warehouses with lights still on. Most of the workers should have gone home by this time of night.

Smitty got on the radio for back-up as they pulled next to a warehouse with office lights on. He was hoping this wasn’t a wild goose chase, and as he was talking on the phone, the station informed him the kidnapper was on the phone again. Smitty asked to have a microphone stuck by the speaker so they could hear.

As the train behind them squealed, the same sound came across the speaker in the car, and Harold Smith radioed back that they were in the exact area of the phone call. Unfortunately, the scanners at the news stations also picked this up, and suddenly there were dozens of police cars and news wagons showing up.

As the crowd increased, the kidnapper came out holding the little girl in front of him. Waving his gun and warning everyone to get back, he made his way to Smitty’s car. Greg could see the little girl had been crying, and she was looking truly terrified with all of the cars, lights and people staring at her.

Greg had walked slowly up to the kidnapper and softly said, “Let her go. If you need a hostage, take me instead. But don’t make her suffer anymore.”

He saw the gun pointed directly at his head, and waited while his offer sank in. The man loosed his hold on the girl and grabbed Greg by the arm. Sharpshooters nearby took the opening and fired only twice.

Greg heard the shots ring out, and scooped the little girl up to protect her from the sight of the blood-spattered body. Carrying her over to Smitty’s car, he tried to comfort her. Asking her name, where she went to school, and telling her that her mom and dad were on the way seemed to calm her enough, but by then the cameras were rolling. They captured a caring officer doing his best to protect the innocent.

A special citation from the governor had followed. But Greg had forgotten that Paula was standing right next to the cameraman, and it was her “Paula Jones exclusive” which had helped give Greg the most publicity.

“Do you remember what you said to that little girl, Greg?”

Although it had been on tape, he hadn’t watched it in over two years. But Paula kept a special copy near her video player at home. She gently took his chin in her hand and said softly to him, “You said, ‘Everything is going to be all right. I won’t let any bad men hurt you any more.’ And then you kissed her on the forehead.”

There was an awkward moment of silence, but Paula spoke again.

“I’ve played that tape a hundred times, Greg, she said softly. “It always makes me feel safe. And it reminds me exactly why I love you so much.”

Greg now leaned in and kissed Paula softly. “Thanks for waiting for me,” he said, and then he kissed her forehead.

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Lost or Stolen

I looked on the back of my debit card. It says, “If lost or stolen, please call 1-888-555-1212”. So let me think about that for a moment. If I lose my debit card, I’m supposed to have the number somewhere else so I can call and report it is missing? And if someone finds it, what are the chances they will call in and report they found it? Or would the normal everyday passerby be tempted to see if it worked?

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve used the card and entered the wrong pin, and then was told by the clerk to just run it as a credit. This means anyone else could do the same thing if they find my card. It doesn’t make me feel secure.

Some people feel like the world is a more dishonest place. I’ve had things stolen from me before, but usually it’s my fault. I remember how excited I was to get a class ring when I was in high school. It was really nice, and they are way too expensive, but what do we know when we are 17 years old? We just know we can’t live without it, so we sacrifice and get it or just have mom and dad buy it.

I was working one summer cutting pine poles, and stopped at a service station on the way to the stand of timber. I took off my ring to wash my hands in the bathroom and left my ring on the sink. I realized later in the day what I had done, and after a long day getting the chain saw to work, dodging falling trees, trimming limbs and hauling logs to the truck, I went back to the gas station later that night and surprise! no one had turned in a lost ring. Who would want a high school ring from another school? No one I went to high school with would have been even close to where I was. It wouldn’t be their school colors. But, nonetheless, the ring was gone and someone had a new trinket.

It wasn’t the last ring I had stolen, although technically, I lost my class ring before someone kept it. My wedding ring was stolen one night when I was in the middle of a performance. For those of you who know who Howard Ruff is, you may be surprised to know he like to sing opera. In fact, I got to help him put on a show called H.M.S. Pinafore by Gilbert and Sullivan. One of the scariest moments during rehearsals was when Howard had a kidney stone attack. I drove him home in his car and my wife followed me to his house. I knew he was in a lot of pain, but I didn’t know how much until I passed my first kidney stone about five years ago.

So when the performances were finally started, we were all singly mightily on stage while someone else was going through our stuff backstage. They waited until a scene where everyone was on stage. Howard lost a couple of hundred dollars, and they stole my wedding ring.

That’s right. A plain silver wedding ring. Well, really white gold, but I still can’t understand why anyone would want someone else’s old ring. I guess someone was supporting a drug habit and needed some cash. So think about this. Whoever stole my ring has to go to a pawn shop and claim they don’t want their wedding ring anymore. Or the person who usually buys their stolen goods knows better than to ask where the ring came from. Either way, it seems like way more work than getting a regular job.

But this may be where most of us actually are dishonest without really thinking about it. On our job, our employers trust us to give an honest day’s labor for our wage, and if we don’t like the pay we can always go get another job. But as a society, we tend to think our employers owe us more somehow, and taking time off work to do our personal errands seems acceptable. Employers complain about employee theft, but is it really a big deal? The National Retail Security Survey estimated retailers lost $15.9 billion in 2008, and they expected 2009 to see an increase in employee theft. You want abundance?

Listen to what super salesman and marketing guru Joseph Sugarman says about honesty. “Each time you are honest and conduct yourself with honesty, a success force will drive you toward greater success. Each time you lie, even with a little white lie, there are strong forces pushing you toward failure.” Honesty can make us more successful. Dealing with the consequences of being dishonest take a much bigger toll. It may make you fail.

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The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Fifteen

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Paula joined the stakeout, over Smitty’s objections. She had offered to bring some food and cook, and Greg had been persuasive. He even reasoned having an imbedded reporter might make both of them look more efficient. They would have nothing to hide. Smitty was used to the two-man stake out, and didn’t want someone around “arranging doilies”. They were all watching the house across the street, waiting patiently for someone who might never come, but who at that moment was wondering how to get out of a barn without getting shot.

Paula decided to get some food ready. Greg was impressed that she had even offered to bring food, since both of the men were used to bringing in fast food during surveillance. It looked like they were going to get a home-cooked meal.

“This won’t take me long,” she insisted, “and since it’s not dark we can get it cooked without lights. If we wait to eat, then I’ll have to cook in the dark.”

Neither man was going to put up a fuss, but Smitty cautioned, “Just make sure you stay in the house, and that no one can see you from across the street.”

“Not a problem,” said Paula. “I brought everything I’ll need in with me. I won’t need to go out the car, and the kitchen is in the back. Don’t worry about me. Just don’t you two get caught peeking out the window.”

Greg smiled at Smitty, and Smitty smiled, too. Maybe this would be all right to have some female company.

Ray had cut the ropes on a nearby saw in less than a minute. He had grabbed the pitchfork and waited by the door. Then waited some more. Soon he was looking out the knotholes in the barn towards the house.

He saw the old man sitting in a rocking chair, rocking in the dirt in back of the house. Resting on his lap was the shotgun, and he didn’t look like he was going anywhere anytime soon.

“Damn.” It was all that Ray could think to say.

Ray thought about sneaking away through the back door and across the fields. But when he looked, he realized the front door was the only door. “Figures,” he said to no one.

There was a small window with some glass panes, but if he broke the glass or made noise getting out the window, the old man would be there before he could run even halfway across the bare field. Ray thought about the old man’s comment about the wide pattern of the shotgun.

It would be dark soon, though. Ray could wait, and then, in the dark, he would make his escape.

John had just spent a nearly perfect day at school. The students seemed to be truly interested in the intricacies of stage design, and had completed their worksheets in an acceptable manner. John had finished his money wish list, and truly felt like his life was blessed.

It was because John was really starting to believe he would get the money. He would be able to spend it as he wanted, and the problems they had faced as a family would disappear. His bliss was so complete, he didn’t even recognize that he was the only one in town spending an entirely perfect day.

His best friend was staked out across the street from his home, waiting for a homicidal maniac to come to John’s house to retrieve the money. His family was in mortal danger, and if they all survived without major incident, it would be a miracle.

John had the ignorance of bliss, truly clueless about what was really happening. Like most people who are surprised when the expected suddenly turns to the unexpected, John was like a deer eating peacefully by the side of the road unaware that the distant roar was an oncoming car. With headlights on bright.

John was so pleased with himself that he decided to treat himself on this most exceptional of days. Stopping by the convenience store on the way home from school, he bought a chocolate covered devil’s food cake donut and a large drink. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day, where the universe was ordered and everything was fine. John would feel much different about his universe in the morning.

Paula came back with food that had been tantalizing them for the last half-hour. The smells coming from the kitchen were so good, they were both tempted to leave their posts at the windows and get the first piece of food for themselves.

The fried chicken was perfect. Not too crisp, not too greasy, and just hot enough to warm them all over. Greg knew something about Paula’s cooking, since she had been slowly preparing him for this fate. That had included several home-cooked meals. Greg was beginning to wonder if he really was a bad detective. He should have seen what she was up to long ago.

“Not bad, huh, Harold?” Greg motioned to the spread.

“Sure beats cold pizza,” Smitty said grudgingly. Greg gave him a dumbfounded look, and even Paula looked insulted at the slim praise.

“Okay,” Smitty said, giving in. “This fried chicken is the best I have ever had.”

Now the other two were smiling. “Better than your wife’s?” asked Greg.

“Much better,” Smitty grinned. “And if you ever tell her this, I will lie like a rug and deny I ever said it.”

“Look across the street.” said Paula. The darkness was falling on the town, and John Graham was pulling his car into his garage. “He’s home.”

“The pigeon has returned to the roost,” said Smitty cryptically. Then he took another bite of the bird in his hand.

The sun was setting in the west, and the hills scattered the light across the farm. Some parts were already in the dusky twilight, but where Simon was sitting, it was still bright. Simon knew Ray would have an advantage when darkness fell. Then this old man would have to go into the house and call the local authorities, instead of getting some of the cash for himself first like he had planned.

This crook didn’t need all that money, and by God he sure didn’t deserve it. But since God had put him into Simon’s hands, well, there must be a reason for it. The guy must have spent some of the $100,000 by now, and if Simon skimmed a little off the top before the crook went to jail, well, that was the reward for being smart and old enough to know what to do when opportunity presents itself. “You’ve got to strike while the iron is hot,” Simon thought to himself. While he had a few more moments to contemplate actually going into the house to call the police, Simon thought back to what that stupid saying actually meant. Probably something about blacksmithing, which Simon had done a bit of when he was younger.

“Stupid city slickers probably think ‘iron’ means like an ironing board, and that you should iron your clothes while the iron was hot,” thought Simon. “Idiots. Way too many people in those big cities never got the chance to see what life and death was all about like farm people got to see” he muttered to himself.

That made Simon stop and think that there might be just one more thing he could do to get some money out of this fellow before the cops spoiled his fun. He rose from the chair and went into the kitchen.

Ray thought that his chance had finally arrived. The old guy was going into the house, and it was getting dark enough to sneak out of his self-imposed trap. He was thinking about running around to the front, and just jumping in the truck, but the keys would probably not be there. Besides, after eating dirt from the road, Ray was ready for some payback.

He edged slowly to the door, hoping the moon wasn’t bright enough to light him from behind. He looked toward the back of the barn, and felt comfortable that the moon wouldn’t outline him in the door. As he slowly opened the door, he could see Simon on the phone in the kitchen. Simon was still looking out at the barn and he was talking to someone, but Ray couldn’t hear the words. Ray decided being tied to a phone which still had a cord hooked to the wall was as good as chance as any, and he pulled the door open slowly.

Apparently Simon could see him well enough to sight in his gun, because a shot roared from the kitchen. Ray jumped back as he saw, heard, and was hit in the forehead by tiny shot pellets. It felt like someone had poked him in the face with a porcupine. He jumped back into the barn and fell to the dirt floor. He ran his fingers across his forehead, and the blood covered his hand.

He swore and wiped the blood with his shirt. His hands were still around the pitchfork, and he was furious. Ray began to shake as he thought about this old man holding him hostage in an old barn. Ray vowed that when the time was right, the old man would pay.

Simon was chuckling to himself in the kitchen. He would have to replace the window pane in the kitchen, but he had replaced plenty of window panes in his life, and had never had the fun of shooting one out at close range. He was also amused to see Ray hop back in the barn, and as he loaded another shell, he reminded himself to get another box of these. They sure had a nice spread.

Then Simon picked up the phone again. Still watching the barn, he called his other neighbor to the south.

Smitty was talking into his radio. Signing off, he walked up to Greg and started packing up his briefcase. “We just got a call about Raymond Johnson. He’s stuck in a barn about 40 miles from here,” he explained. “Some old guy recognized him from the television report and walked him back to his house.”

Greg and Paula looked at each other. “So you’re going to pick him up?”

“Well,” said Harold Smith, snapping the strap over his revolver which hung from his shoulder, “if it were only that easy. Seems he’s pinned down in the barn because he ran from the old guy. This Simon Green is waiting outside the barn with his shotgun.”

“But it’s getting dark,” Paula said. “He’ll probably just wait until it’s too dark to see him and sneak back here.”

“He’ll probably try to do that, so why don’t you two stay here while I go out to the farm with some reinforcements” said Smitty, as he walked out the door. “You don’t even have to stay here if you don’t want to, and I can call you if there is any trouble.”

Paula spoke up before Greg could agree to go. “Well, you’ve rented the place for the night, haven’t you? No sense just packing up now and leaving,” she said, looking at Greg in a way that made him not want to protest. “We’ll just wait here for your call and when you have him safely in custody, we’ll come find you.”

Greg coughed. This was a bit uncomfortable for him, but he was an adult, and he really did want to stay with Paula. Technically, he could go with Smitty, but given the choice, he spoke up. “Yeah, we don’t want to endanger John by deserting our post. You never know what can happen with one man trapped in a barn surrounded by a dozen state police.” He grinned.

Smitty laughed and waved his hand back at them. He didn’t need the help. But apparently, Paula needed this time alone with Greg. It really wasn’t necessary to say anything, so he just left.

Simon’s friends began showing up just as Ray was planning to come out of the barn again. It was fully dark now, and Ray doubted even Simon could find him fast enough in the dark to get off a shot. But when he saw a tractor pull up, he knew this was not going to be as easy as he thought.

Simon motioned for Joe to pull around the back. But Joe had got the plan on the phone, and pulled around the back perfectly, parking a respectable 15 feet from the barn door. The bright lights of the tractor shone through the cracks, and Ray had to crouch down. Simon got up from the rocking chair and walked toward Joe. He handed him the shotgun and said, “Shoot him if he comes out. I’ll go pull my truck around from the front.”

Joe took the gun and took aim at the barn. Ray crouched down further, and swore into the dust. He was still holding the pitchfork, and wanted nothing more than to stab those two old guys like bales of hay.

Simon’s truck appeared and his headlights were trained on the door to the barn. He got out of the truck and walked over to take the gun back.. He then walked over and leaned against the front of the truck. Joe walked over and whispered something in Simon’s ear. Simon motioned to the house with his thumb.

“Now what?” was all Ray could say.

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Change a Man

Change a Man

There’s an old joke about not trying to change a man, unless he is in diapers. Reforming ourselves may be just as difficult. Especially if the change involves food.

I complained last week about not getting my au jus with my French Dip sandwich, and I guess it has been bothering me so much I got another one today. But before I pulled out of the Arby’s parking lot, I checked to see if I had my hot, meaty au jus. It was there, and the sandwich was delicious. So eating habits can be hard to change, and I have found the fewer things I am actually allowed to eat the more weight I gain. I was okay with cutting out broccoli and spinach, but it has to be replaced by something, and today that was curly fries. At least they are in the vegetable group. The fried vegetable group, but at least at one point they were vegetables.

I had the same problem with soda. As a dedicated Coca-cola drinker for the first 21 years of my life, I had a problem when we moved to California. The water at the Coke bottling plant was nasty, and I could taste it in the drink. I switched to Pepsi, and have never gone back. I’ve now been drinking Pepsi longer than I drank Coke, by about 10 years. I’ve teased my mother about weaning me with “Num-num”, one of my first words for the nectar of the Gods we call cola. But there always was a bottle around, and I got used to having caffeine whenever I wanted it.

For those of you who are caffeine purists, I do have to state for the record that caffeine is my drug of choice. I even like it when it comes to my pain medication, and probably so do you. No, you scoff? Well, contemplate this little detail. If you like Excedrin as your drug of choice to get rid of headaches, pains and other life complaints, you may be one of my caffeinated friends. Each tablet contains 65 milligrams of caffeine along with the other ingredients. That’s the same amount of caffeine in four 12 ounce Cokes, or three 12 ounce Pepsis. No wonder I like Pepsi better. More caffeine per cup.

Thinking about the relative ease of my access to caffeine in my youth makes me wonder what restrictions on goodies does to us. I know my wife has a great sweet tooth, and her parents worked on the principal of the equally divided candy bar. Since she was in a larger family, they didn’t buy each kid a candy bar, but split up the delicious treat equally, so each kid would get about a fifth each.

When we married, I was used to eating a whole candy bar, and she wasn’t. When I told her to pick her own candy bar, she kept insisting on having part of mine, and I don’t like to share all that much. She told me recently, after more than 30 years of marriage, that she thought I was incredibly wasteful and greedy to want to eat a whole candy bar myself, instead of sharing one. She’s over it now, and doesn’t hesitate to get whatever she wants, but I bet it still makes her feel guilty.

Here’s one food reform which has worked for me. Since I’m basically a lazy person, I have found a couple of foods I like to eat for breakfast and lunch. I keep them both at work, and use the microwave I brought from home to prepare these incredibly bland, boring and mostly tasteless meals. I cook oatmeal for a couple of minutes each morning and dump a bit of real maple syrup on it. Then I start cooking some brown rice for lunch, and I’ve only burned the rice four or five times of the hundreds of times I’ve prepared it. That’s right. I eat rice for lunch every day and oatmeal for breakfast every day.

It’s probably more healthy than the stuff I used to eat, which was mostly pre-packaged. It is bland, and it is boring, and people ask me how I can stand to eat the same thing every day. I’m not sure how to answer. I like to drink Pepsi every day, and no one asks why I drink the same drink all the time. They know I’m addicted and they know better than to ask. But can you get addicted to oatmeal, maple syrup, rice and sugar? Probably.

At least my body knows what it is going to get most days. I guess the process of reformation starts with the recognition change is needed, and then the willingness to change.

Tomorrow maybe I’ll have rice for breakfast and oatmeal for lunch.

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A New Path

A New Path

Habits can dull us to the real question many people ask at some time in their lives. When we stop and think, we ought to consider why we are here. Is there a reason for you to be here on this planet at this particular time? Have you thought about what it is you are here to do? Do you have a higher purpose? Is there a nagging suspicion in the back of your mind telling you there has to be more? Perhaps it is time to explore the unexplored part of ourselves.

Henry David Thoreau once said “When it's time to die, let us not discover that we have never lived.” Reforming our lives is not an easy thing. Apparently, I am supposed to attend more wedding receptions, since twice in two days I have been reprimanded the chaotic forces of my life.

Yesterday, one of my former students again invited me to attend her wedding reception. On a campus of thousands of people, she and her sister found me in my car and reminded me about the wedding. She even turned to her sister and insisted I never attend receptions. It’s true. I am a little anti-social when it comes to keeping in touch with former students. I usually have so much to do with my current students that I tend to lose track of the old ones. I also have church responsibilities which would normally include attending an unusual number of wedding receptions. So let’s just say I have probably been avoiding one of my social duties.

When we talk of reforming ourselves, going to social functions may not be at the top of the list. But someone or something is trying to get me a message about honoring the norms of our society, and that includes celebrating the fact that people want to spend their lives together. People came to my wedding reception. Why am I so stubborn? Some of these social customs are the glue that hold our society together, and with so many disctractions in our lives, it’s easy to neglect the things that make us a society.

While I’m on the subject, I have been reading some of the writings of Eric Hoffer this week, and he believed we joined mass movements because of the emptiness we feel in life. In his book “The True Believer” he tried to help us understand why people would support Nazi policies, and he concluded most people would rather be told what to do, than use the freedom we have to find out what we really want to do. He also said that when people are left to do as they please, they usually imitate each other.

I hope you take this opportunity to really examine your life and see if you are doing something that makes a difference in your life and the lives of others. When we get outside our prejudices, hatreds and envy, we are really able to do those things we were meant to do. As Eric Hoffer, observed, people hate those who remind them of their inadaquacies, of their own shortcomings. We need to examine the causes we so vehemently support and wonder out loud just what that energy could be better spent doing. You know what it is. No one else can tell you what you need to be doing. You know what would be a better use of your time. The real question is whether or not you are going to get up off the couch and do it.

It doesn’t have to be a thermonuclear reaction. It may be you just need to attend more wedding receptions and affirm the urge of most in this world to try and make the world a better place for themselves, but also for someone else. We all sacrifice something to exist in this human sphere, and that might be paying more taxes than we want so the roads will be better. It might be getting paid less than we want for a more satisfying job. It may be using our millions to make the lives of others better.

There really is something about being excited about our own causes. We don’t need the direction of someone else, we don’t need marching orders. We won’t have to say someone gave us an order we were just following. We will be focused on what is right, and what is wrong, and we will be clear about what we can do about it. If what we think we need to do involves tearing down someone else, then we probably need to ponder our true purpose some more.

There’s today’s challenge. Can we find out what it is we really want to be doing, and not just be following someone else? Good luck. It’s harder than it sounds. But you should still invite me to your wedding reception.

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Walt Whitman -- Biography Out Loud

Welcome to Biography Out Loud. I am your host, Dane Allred.

Second of nine children, he was born in 1819. He had brothers named George Washington, Andrew Jackson and Thomas Jefferson, but he had the same name as his father. When he was six, he recalled being lifted up and given kiss on the cheek by the Marquis de Lafayette at a fourth of July celebration. Some of his earliest poetry was published in the New York Mirror. He started a newspaper in New York, sold it and then worked for many different newspapers, also working as a schoolmaster. When the “Free Soil Party” was founded in 1848, he was a delegate to the first convention. Who was this American poet born on Long Island, and often called the “father of free verse”?

We’ll find out in a moment on:

Biography Out Loud

By 1855, Walt Whitman had printed his first version of “Leaves of Grass”, a poem he continued to work to perfect throughout his entire life. No name is listed as author on this first edition, but in the text Whitman describes himself as "Walt Whitman, an American, one of the roughs, a kosmos, disorderly, fleshly, and sensual, no sentimentalist, no stander above men or women or apart from them, no more modest than immodest”. He paid for this first printing himself, publishing 795 copies. Ralph Waldo Emerson approved of the book, writing a five page letter to Walt Whitman praising the poem.

Whitman wrote “Leaves of Grass” as an attempt to make an American epic poem, using some of the cadence in the Bible and writing in free verse. Others condemned the book as overtly sexual, and the second edition was delayed due to the controversy. “Leaves of Grass” was reprinted many times, with Whitman revising it several times.

At the beginning of the Civil War, Whitman wrote the patriotic poem “Beat! Beat! Drums!” to help rally the North. Walt Whitman feared his brother had been injured in fighting and went to find him. He walked day and night, had his wallet stolen and after finding his brother with only a superficial cheek wound. But seeing the wounded and dead changed his course forever, and he left for Washington to serve as a part-time pay clerk and to volunteer as a nurse in the army hospitals. William Douglas O’Conner helped Whitman get a better job, and later defended the poet in a pamphlet call “The Good Grey Poet”, which would become Walt Whitman’s nickname. Whitman also published one of his most famous poems at this time, “Captain, O My Captain”, which was written to mark the death of Abraham Lincoln.

Modernist poet Ezra Pound called Whitman "America's poet... He is America”. For the 150^th anniversary of “Leaves of Grass”, the literary critic, Harold Bloom wrote:

“You can nominate a fair number of literary works as candidates for the secular Scripture of the United States. They might include Melville's Moby-Dick, Twain's Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and Emerson's two series of Essays and The Conduct of Life. None of those, not even Emerson's, are as central as the first edition of Leaves of Grass.”

Whitman died in 1892, suffering from bronchial pneumonia the last years of his life. It is estimated he had only one-eighth of normal breathing capacity, and an autopsy revealed a large abscess on his chest. At his public viewing, the casket was almost hidden from the quantity of flowers.

Beat! Beat! Drums!

by Walt Whitman

Beat! beat! drums! Blow! bugles! blow! Through the windows—through the doors—burst like a force of armed men, Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation; Into the school where the scholar is studying; Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride; Nor the peaceful farmer any peace plowing his field or gathering his grain; So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums—so shrill you bugles blow. Beat! beat! drums! Blow! bugles! blow! Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets; Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses?       No sleepers must sleep in those beds; No bargainers' bargains by day—no brokers or speculators. Would they continue? Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing? Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge? Then rattle quicker, heavier, drums—and bugles wilder blow.

Beat! beat! drums! Blow! bugles! blow! Make no parley—stop for no expostulation; Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer; Mind not the old man beseeching the young man; Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's       entreaties. Recruit! recruit? Make the very trestles shake under the dead, where       they lie in their shrouds awaiting the hearses. So strong you thump, O terrible drums—so loud you       bugles blow.

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Abundance Names Jun 20

This is the complete episode from June 20th.

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Chapter Fourteen -- The Plodder's Mile

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Paula was sitting in the corner of Greg’s front room crying. Greg had done his best to try to comfort her, but this time it wasn’t about him, and he wasn’t making much headway.

“I’m hurting people, Greg”, she wept. “Just like when you got shot. Now people are watching over their shoulders for this Raymond Johnson guy, and who knows who he’ll shoot next. The last words out of their mouths will be ‘You’re that guy Paula Rogers was talking about on the news...,’” and she began crying again.

“Come on, Paula,” said Greg, “where’s that tough blonde I saw interview that serial killer? And how about that child pornographer – those were harder than this case.”

Paula shook her head. “The serial killer didn’t kill anyone I knew. I led this Ray guy to this city, and now Larry is dead and you’ve been shot.”

Greg was finally beginning to get that this was more than just being about the violence against people she had known, but that Paula was feeling personally responsible – like an accessory to the crime.

Greg had been trained about what to do when witnesses began to feel guilt by association, so he kicked it into high gear. “Look at me Paula.” She stopped whimpering and sniffed. She looked up. “You didn’t do this. He did. If you had told me you didn’t want to do the story, I would have called until I found someone who would do it.”

“Plus,” he said as soothingly as he could, “there is no way we can control what others do – we can only control what we do.”

This was probably the wrong thing to say to her.

She pushed up her sleeves, squared her shoulders and said directly to his face without hesitation, “That’s why I’m going to quit the broadcasting business. Then I won’t be hurting anyone else.”

John was back to making lists. He was feeling so confident that his luck would hold he had decided to prioritize his wish list. Just a few things for himself, like a jet-ski, or a motorcycle; then a few things for Reba, like the hot-tub she was always talking about. Maybe a diamond bracelet, or an Alaskan cruise. It didn’t hurt that he could also use Reba’s gifts, except the bracelet. He almost crossed it off. College tuition for the kids, maybe a cabin, maybe the rest in savings. One hundred thousand dollars didn’t go as far as John hoped it would.

As John was scribbling away on his list, his principal came and tapped on the open door. “Could we talk for a minute, John?”

“Sure, Scott.” He cleared a space for his boss to sit. “Sorry for the mess.” John’s office was always cluttered with scripts, assignments, and books.

Scott always got right to the point. “Everything all right? I mean is this shooting and murder thing interfering with your classes?”

John smiled. “I have become the celebrity of the day, and everyone wants to hear the story. It mostly interfered with my lunch today.”

Scott chuckled. “So much for duty-free lunch, huh? Everyone wants to hear all the details?”

“Yeah, and the kids keep trying to get me to talk about it,” John said.

“Well, you look like hell, but keep up the good work,” Scott said. “I know you won’t let this stuff affect your work.”

And that was that. Scott was all business, and hadn’t even asked anything about the gory details that were spreading around town, especially the rumor about Ray and some kind of ice pick. Scott trusted John.

John trusted himself, and went back to making his list, thinking for a minute he really should get back to grading those papers. But maybe he would jot down just a few items more for the kids while he still remembered them.

Ray didn’t like being tied up. But here he was on the ground, eating the dust from the dirt road, and Simon was hog-tying him. Literally. Just when Ray thought he might be able to knock the gun from Simon’s hands, he was already tied.

“Nice knot, huh?” said Simon. “I was the all around cowboy champion, mostly because I could tie off a doggie in less than two seconds.”

“Who the hell cares how you tie up your dogs,” Ray spat out, also spitting out mud.

Simon just laughed. “A doggie is a calf. You jump off a horse and knock it to the ground, then tie up its legs. Just like you’re tied up now. Now, get on your feet and start walking down the road.”

“What makes you think I’ll stay anywhere close to where you tell me to go?” insisted Ray. “What’s to stop me from just running into the woods?”

Simon spat some tobacco onto the ground. “Well, Bertha, that’s my shotgun here, makes a pretty wide spread, so I don’t have to shoot so exact as you and your fancy pistol here.” Simon crammed Larry’s gun into his overalls. “Plus, you can run through the woods if you want, but that’s just the kind of noise a deer makes, and the black bears come running when they hear that.”

Simon decided to let some of this sink in. Ray decided to be quiet, too, but was now looking nervously into the nearby trees.

“So start walking, and I’m going drive your car behind you,” said Simon. “I’ll have my gun poked out the window, and yes, I do shoot left-handed. You can stop when you get to my house, about one mile straight ahead.”

Ray looked back at the old man who was now sitting behind the wheel, with the barrel resting on the doorframe, pointed straight at Ray. The car started up, and Ray recognized that it was time for a strategic retreat, like when he let his brothers think he was really hurt in a fight. When they came up to get him to stop crying, he would jam his knee in their groin.

This old farmer would get his own wake-up call soon.

Smitty was thinking out loud, trying to help Greg tie up all the loose ends that didn’t make sense. They had both been blindsided by Larry’s murder, never anticipating that robbery would turn so deadly.

“So, the guy gives up his dim-witted friend so he can keep the money,” Smitty said. “Then he makes up a fake bundle to throw under the train, which is found and turned into you.”

Greg grimaced. “It just doesn’t make sense, does it? I mean, why kill Larry for his key and shoot me just to get the last $1800?”

Smitty waited while Greg connected the dots.

“Unless he didn’t keep the rest of the money,” muttered Greg. “Unless the rest of the money is still somewhere here in town.”

Smitty was nodding, but still said nothing.

Greg’s eyes got wide. “John Graham has the rest of the money?”

Smitty finally spoke. “I suspected it the first time you called, but since he’s a close friend, I didn’t want to alert you to the possibility. But remember I did tell you to get some surveillance on him.”

Greg slapped his forehead. “Because you thought Ray Johnson might connect the dots, too. He would be here in town to get the money from John. He would be here to get it anyway he could, including killing one of my friends.”

Smitty jumped in, “And I think he’ll be back as soon as he finds out the package is a little light. Is there somewhere we can set up and watch John Graham’s house without us knowing?” This time Greg was nodding.

“There’s an old house across the street that has been empty for the past year. I can talk to the owner and we can camp out there,” Greg said. Then he began shaking his head.

“What?” said Smitty.

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it. Just because it’s someone I’ve known practically my whole life. It’s a rookie mistake. I should have seen it,” Greg said.

“But it wouldn’t have made any difference, and if you had known,” said Smitty, “who knows if you would have waited for the bad guy to come to town. The bank might get their money back earlier, but we would have lost Raymond Johnson forever.”

Raymond Johnson was lost somewhere out in the country. Simon knew where he was going, but following Ray in the car wasn’t the same as leading him to the house. So Ray just kept walking, hoping that sometime soon they would get there, and that Ray could kill this stupid bastard and then go get his money.

Simon could guess where Ray’s thoughts were going. “Hell,” he thought to himself, “if someone came up to me and stuck me in the ribs with a gun, hog tied me and then made me march up the road; I’d want to kill him, too.” The old farmer had dealt with plenty of angry animals in his life, including those who hadn’t especially wanted to be castrated at that moment. Simon wondered if this guy would scream like those little pigs used to.

Then Ray saw the house. The car was slowing behind him, and Ray could tell that Simon was planning on parking out by the front door, which gave him the opportunity to play dumb. He kept walking, and Simon shouted out, “That’s far enough. Stay right there.” Ray waited to hear the brakes applied, and figuring that stopping the car and shooting at the same time wouldn’t be so easy if you were as old as the hills, he ran around the side of the house. A shot rang out just behind him as he turned the corner, and Ray heard Simon curse as buckshot peppered the side of his house. Ray ran into the barn just behind house, and tried quickly to find something to cut the ropes on his wrists.

Simon was out of the car and just around the corner when he saw Ray go in the barn. “This is getting fun,” he thought to himself, but then he remembered the pitchfork, the saw and the other sharp tools he usually kept stored back there in the barn. Ray would want him to run into the barn so he could stab him, he reasoned, so the best thing to do was to wait. The entire barn was visible from the back of the house, and unless this crook ran straight back from the barn, Simon would be able to see him come out. So Simon pulled out the rocker from the back porch and settled in. It was still an hour before it would get dark, and he could always call the police anytime he wanted.

There was no back door to the barn and only a small window, and if this youngster wanted to take on old Bertha by running from the front door to the back of the barn, Simone was ready to oblige. But Simon figured he hadn’t lived more than seventy years and not learned a trick or two, and learned to be especially patient. He figured Ray would be coming out eventually.

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Chapter Thirteen -- The Plodder's Mile

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Smitty met Greg at the station. The plan had worked too well, and now the bad guy knew he had been conned, and probably wouldn’t be too happy about the fact. Instead of catching him in the act, now the best they could do was to get an all-points out on the still from the video camera in the station. Greg had enough sense to set the camera up right after the money had been locked away, but neither of them thought any of this would go down so fast.

“Sorry, buddy,” he began. “I didn’t think you’d have to take a bullet for my stupid idea. I just thought he would show up and try to be discreet about the whole deal. The worst news is that we haven’t heard from your deputy, and this guy obviously had both keys. We better go check on him now.”

Greg sat silent for a moment and realized he hadn’t even thought about Larry in all the commotion. He remembered seeing Larry’s car at his house, but that had been the last time he thought about it. Greg suddenly had a very bad feeling.

When they got to Larry’s house, they were surprised to see the front door open, and so both officers went in with guns drawn. They didn’t have to go far. As soon as they followed each other through that first door, Larry’s body on the floor told the whole story. The pool of blood around his head had started to coagulate. Greg found he had to go back out the front door and gulp in some fresh air.

Smitty was right behind him. He muttered some words of comfort and then walked over to his car and called in the homicide. He hadn’t looked closely, but the wounds looked very similar to Mike Shepherd’s. That meant they weren’t just dealing with a robbery. This thief wasn’t afraid to kill anyone to get his money back.

Simon was sitting in his favorite chair. It was one of those Barcolounger chairs with the handle on side and the legs support that would flip up from the front. Several years ago it has sprung a leak and some of the padding had started to sneak out. Now it was mostly torn and ripped with padding appearing more than what was once the blue material covering it. Simon didn’t care, since he lived alone and was the only one who had to look at it. No one ever came to visit either, so he never even really thought about replacing it. Simon just thought it was comfortable.

He was watching his equally ancient television, which surprisingly was not black and white, but mostly color. Some of the colors weren’t quite right, but that didn’t bother him either. As long as he had a cold beer in his hand and his shotgun by his side, Simon felt all was right with the world. Then the news report came on the television. It was that lovely Paula Rogers again. One of Simon’s favorite television people.

Just because he was slightly over seventy, there was no reason not to entertain the thought that this attractive young lady might see Simon as a desirable mate. He knew she was single, and with the wide-eyed optimism every man carries as standard equipment, Simon imagined himself a proper and eligible bachelor to any good looking woman who had not yet turned him down. He knew he would probably not get the chance to propose, but it did make watching the television that much more interesting.

At least he wasn’t as fanatical about television as the wife had been. She was dead and gone now for over 15 years. While she was alive, she had actually developed relationships with the people on the television, going so far as to tell Simon that if she didn’t watch this show or that, then those poor people on the television would be insulted that she wasn’t at her usual post. She had been whacky.

Paula Rogers was moving her mouth, and Simon was not really listening, but when the picture of Ray came on the screen, Simon sat up and turned up the volume. Apparently, Paula Rogers was reporting from just over the county line, still in Ridgeway.

“Police are asking anyone who has information about Raymond Johnson to contact Harold Smith with the state police,” she was saying. “He is considered armed and dangerous, and is wanted in connection with the $100,000 robbery which happened in our state capital recently. This is another Paula Rogers exclusive for WBHH.”

Simon recognized that guy’s face. It was the man who Simon had seen earlier that day on the dirt road. The same guy who had driven out to the lake was wanted for armed robbery. Simon wasn’t sure if there was a reward available, but to a man used to hunting crows and jackrabbits, the idea of bagging a bad guy who was just up the road was very appealing. Patting the shotgun by his side, Simon muttered, “Time to go to work, Bertha.” Simon had named the shotgun after his dead wife years ago.

John had finished his run, and felt the marathon metaphor fit in very well with what was going on. He got in the house just in time to see the most recent “Paula Rogers exclusive”.

“So that’s what the guy looks like,” John said to himself, not realizing Reba was standing in the kitchen nearby.

She walked into the front room and turned to John, “You’ve heard of this guy before?”

John stopped to think about what he could invent on the spur of the moment. “Yeah, this is the guy they think robbed that bank two days ago.”

Reba looked at his face and it made John nervous. “He was right here in our town?” she said.

“This is the guy who shot Greg, and probably the guy who murdered Larry,” said John. “He also has Larry’s car, and probably his gun.”

“Why didn’t they mention that in the story?” Reba wondered out loud, and John was happy to answer.

“They probably don’t want to panic the locals. He could still be in town, you know.” Reba just chuckled.

“Right, where you gonna hide Larry’s car in a small town like this?” she smirked. “I can see straight across town from our back door.”

John nodded his head and smiled. “Yeah, he’s long gone.” At least that is what John was hoping.

Ray sat sleeping peacefully in his car, enjoying the fresh country air and the gentle lapping of the waves on the shore. Next to the lake he had found a perfect place, which hid the car from anyone on the dirt road. It was practically impossible to find unless you were walking along the road and went around the turn. Parked under three massive trees, the car sat in the cool of the late afternoon.

He was feeling quite lucky to have found such an ideal location and even considered staying an extra day. If he wasn’t getting so hungry, he probably would have been able to stay. But that was the nice thing about sleeping. Unless you were famished, sleep hid the growling stomach pains. And Ray hadn’t slept at all last night.

The lucid dreams he had as he rested by the side of the lake were also peaceful. Ray could see himself playing happily with his brothers in one of the few moments during their childhood when they weren’t punching each other.

It was one of the days Grandpa had come up the coast to visit, and they were all sitting at the corner ice cream parlor trying to decide among 31 flavors. Grandpa had told them they could have anything on the menu, which to adults, means the most expensive, but to children means the biggest. As in three or four scoops stacked high.

But which flavors to stack next to each other, and in which order? The favorite flavor first? Or last, so you could enjoy it after the others? Grandpa was very patient, and it always made Ray wonder how a patient and kind man like Grandpa could have such angry kids. That was how Ray always thought of his father – angry. Angry enough to beat the boys regularly. Angry enough to leave scars.

Thinking of his father led him to another dream, and it was at least as painful to leave the wonderful ice cream dream as it was to recall the pain inflicted on him by his father. Ray could see the belt being drawn quickly through the belt loops, which signified impending pain. This beating was one of the last Ray had suffered at his father’s hands. It was so vivid that Ray was flinching in his sleep as the belt flashed across his back and buttocks. Then Ray could see his own back in his dream, with blood oozing through his shirt. Time slowed down as the blood crawled across his back, and a close-up of the material from his shirt turned from yellow to a dark brownish red. Ray could see his father dropping the belt to his side, looking at the blood on Ray’s back, and then more slow motion as his mother ran into the picture, grabbing Ray from his father.

It had been the next week they were all placed in a foster home. Ray had always thought it was his fault his family was broken up. If he had only been good enough not to deserve the beating, then there would have been no evidence to damn his parents.

His dreams moved from one foster home to another. Some good, some bad. The memories washed over him as he seemed to float farther and farther away from his family. He remembered fondly when Mrs. Anderson had sat home with him when he was sick, sitting by the bed comforting him, stroking his hair and pulling up the covers. Ray could feel the blankets getting tucked in around his waist. But this time Mrs. Anderson kept adjusting the blankets, and it felt like she was poking him in the side now.

Simon was poking him in the side. With the shotgun. Ray slowly awakened to feel something much harder than blankets pushed against his ribs.

“Get out of the car,” said Simon, “real slow.”

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