Memorial Glenn was a poor apartment complex on the outskirts of the ever growing Humble, Texas. Humble is pronounced with a silent ‘H’, so you could always tell if someone was from around here or not, because if they weren’t, they’d pronounce it like it was in the Bible. The place was laid out like a horseshoe, and though we moved around a few times while living there, we eventually settled into a second story apartment in the center of the horseshoe. There were lots of other kids there my age, comin’ and goin’, comin’ and goin’. It seemed that no one stayed there very long.

Although poor by most people’s standards, we did have a swimming pool. It was only cleaned a couple of times a year at most, and usually come winter the water was a nice pine green, and only us kids would swim in it. But in the spring, when they cleaned it out, it was as nice as any pool you ever swam in. It had a kiddie pool and a big pool, a whopping five feet deep. I met Pat at the pool. Pat was a tall skinny college age kid from Minnesota. He used to throw his keys in the deep end and let us kids who could or wanted to learn how to swim dive in after them. He told me that in Minnesota nobody had a pool because it got too cold. He said winter lasted most of the year and the lakes froze over and people actually played on the ice. He said he moved to Texas because he was sick of being cold. He liked to sit in the pool with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other, talking and laughing with his friends, with the other parents, with us kids, with anyone. I liked Pat right away. He wasn’t a kid, but he wasn’t quite a grown up either.

There wasn’t much around the apartments except a few fields, the woods, and a large bayou surrounding three sides of the property. At the entrance to the complex there was a convenience store and a gas station. Hop across a field and there was a car wash. And across the street we had a Laundromat, or Washateria as they’re called in Texas, and the Arcade. Two places filled with machines that take quarters.

At the center of this world was six year old me, living with my Mom, my Dad, and my younger Brother, Little Randy. He was Little Randy because my dad was big Randy.

I’m not sure how or why my Dad’s leaving came about. I guess he and my mom just stopped being friends. Or maybe they never were. I remember hearing them arguing one night, shortly after we moved in there. Little Randy’s crib was in my room and the door was always open so they could hear him if he cried. I was in bed listening to my Mom and Dad fighting, being both scared and fascinated by the whole fiasco. I heard my Dad yelling at my Mom, “You won’t even let me see you naked anymore!” To which my Mom yelled back, “You don’t ever wanna see me naked anymore!” Next thing I know he was out and it was just the three of us.

I found out later that he’d tried to take my brother back with him to Arkansas, where he was from and where he’d met Mom, but she had no hard time convincing him that he couldn’t take care of a baby on his own. He didn’t try to take me back with him, and I’m glad of that.

Anyway Little Randy stayed and Big Randy went, and after a few years, when Mom and Dad were able to work things out a little bit, we’d go visit him for a month or so in the summer, when school was out, and every other Christmas. He lived and worked on a big farm in Arkansas, with Me-Maw and Pa-Paw, and I loved going there. I loved the Ten hour drive and I loved picking pecans out of the yard and loved many things about it. But that was later. For now, Memorial Glenn was my world.

19 May, 2017

ok folks- here's th' weather report from KR&B radio fort collins-

It was summer when i woke up this morning. May 2017. I got in my car and it was a time machine. I traveled back in time to December 2016. I went up a mountain for a vision. I asked myself why i was climbing a mountain in a snowstorm. There were rocks tumbling down. I saw a crow flying. There were more cars on th' side of th' road than when you used to be able to park in th' canyon at th' Mish. You locals know what i'm talkin about idn't. Thank God for those railings though. They saved a few people. I saw a Magpie, a snow crow. I was following a mini van riding on a spare tire. One of those little donut tires ya know, and i thought, who drives up a mountain in a blizzard on a donut. I wanted to stop that car and eat that donut, to go with my coffee. If i'da been driving that old VW van we used to have i'da been one with th' river. I saw an Elk th' size of Texas. One time i almost turned around, but going down was scarier than going up. I saw a car fishtail in front of me. It looked like a big ole carp. I slowed down. I didn't wanna catch that carp. I got to th' top of th' mountain. I got out of my car and realized i was still wearing sandals. I saw a deer standing in three feet of snow. Since it was now december i decided to pick up some pine cones and decorate a spruce tree. I turned around and looked at my car and it was a skunk. All black on th' sides with a white stripe down th' middle. I listened to th' songs of birds. One of them told me to drive back down th' mountain. I took a different route and i was the only one on th' road. Felt like i was the last person alive on earth. I got home and it was still december. Time machine musta broke on th' way up.

Well there you have it folks, this is KR&B radio signing off. Goodnight.

21 May, 2017

Ok folks- here’s another weather report from KR&B radio fort collins.

I got in my car this morning and when I turned th’ key a heron flew over me. That’s a good sign I thought. Everything’s a sign idn’t. I went back up th’ mountain. I finally put on those new windshield wipers and th’ sky opened up and all this blue stared down at me til I felt like I was underwater. Ah, I thought, today is a good day idn’t. Look at those clouds, see how they just sit on that mountain. I wanna be like those clouds. I wanna just sit down on a mountain. “Hey!” somebody yells, “what’re you doin sittin way up here on this mountain?” “Bein like those clouds” I tell them. “You don’t look like a cloud” they say, and so I get up and drift away. I go into town. Everything is closed except th’ bar and th’ liquor store. I see two eagles flying. I see a man stumbling out of th’ bar. “Tell me about th’ weather” I say. “Huh?” he says, “What weather? This ain’t no goddamn weather. Summer just decided to take a little nap is all.” Then he turned into a magpie and flew away. “Thanks” I said. I drove back down th’ mountain. Th’ sun was shining and I kept thinking someone hung Christmas lights in th' forest. I saw a tree in somebody’s window. It was decorated with a string of popcorn. There were still cars piled up on th’ side of th’ road. Thank God for th’ Moody Blues though. They sang everywhere love is all around, and you can never go home again, and I understood what they meant. Music is a gift idn’t?

And so there you have it folks. There wasn’t any weather today. Summer just decided to take a little nap is all. And don’t worry, it’s not Christmas. This snow will melt away faster than a trout runnin from a grizzly, and all we have to do is clean up th’ mess. See you next time, and thanks for tuning in to KR&B radio fort collins.

End of May-

I was at th' tea shop and it was raining. People were walking around dressed for summer. Being loud. Laughing. Yelling. I was trying to write a story. Th' lady sitting at th' table next to me did some research on Wal-Mart. Apparently they have a lot of crime. They're open 24 hours for one thing. And they let people park in their parking lot overnight and sleep in their cars. And (she lowered her voice for this part), they're in kind of a bad part of town. That's just askin for trouble idn't? I mean, giving homeless people a place to sleep is bad news. And then, this lady told her friend, they don't even have their own security. They just call th' local law enforcement to deal with their problems. So us taxpayers are actually paying for Wal-Mart's stupidity. I mean, there were like, 294 crimes committed in 2016 alone. And that's just at one Wal-Mart. One guy was stabbed and killed in th' make-up section. One guy had a heart attack in th' customer service line. I mean, that's not actually a crime, but it happened. One girl got abducted and raped repeatedly. An old lady got ran over because she was taking too long to cross th' street. Some guy kept yelling at her but she had this walker and couldn't go any faster. He got fed up and drove right over her. Th' cops arrested him three miles down th' road. I mean, this is where our tax dollars are going. It's ridiculous. Wal-Mart needs to deal with their own problems idn't? Me i'm sittin there tryin to write a story, tryin to ignore them. And i did write a story, but my mind kept wandering. I was in Wal-Mart just the other day. I like Wal-Mart. Most people from Texas do. I was walking through th' parking lot and i saw a bag still in a cart. I opened it up and it was a package of 36 hot dogs. They were still cold. I like hot dogs. I almost took it but i thought about someone coming back to look for them, so i left it there. I went inside and saw all these people wandering around, filling up shopping carts, filling up empty spaces on shelves. Most of them pale, sick looking. Everybody looks sick in Wal-Mart. It's all those florescent lights they got. I probly looked sick too. Probly am sick. Everybody's sick these days idn't? I didn't hate Wal-Mart then, I loved it. I thought about all these people and what their lives are like. I thought about how hard life can be, and how sometimes a place like Wal-Mart can make it a little bit easier. I thought about how my oldest son hates Wal-Mart, and goes crazy everytime he comes in here. I thought about how Me-Maw used to take us to Wal-Mart sometimes. She'd give me and my brother five dollars and turn us loose. I thought about how sick my brother is now, and how he wasn't sick back then. Then someone bumped into my cart and told me to watch where i was going. I bought a pack of sunflower seeds for 20 cents, and a box of cookies. I went outside and th' sun was shining and it was raining. I saw a lady with a cardboard sign that read Homeless with Three Kids. I gave her all th' change in my ash tray. As if change can feed three kids. Storm clouds loomed over th' mountains, threatening rain. Been raining a lot lately. Been hot and cold. I heard a train whistle. I saw a heron fly. I drove home and told my wife and kids i loved them.

And that's th' weather report for today. Thanks for tuning in to KR&B radio fort collins.

5 June, 2017

I went into town today- to th’ tea shop, as usual. I sat outside and looked up at th’ sky. It was hot and cold and wet and dry. It was clear and there were storm clouds. Crows were flying, and I thought about hurricanes. ‘You want my prediction?’ A guy at th’ next table says, pointing up at th’ sky- Yes, I tell him- Whatchu think about that weather- ‘Oh I don’t think, I know’ – Ok I say, tell me what happened- tell me what’s going to happen- ‘It’s gonna rain, that’s what’s gonna happen’ - and he was right- it did rain. Again. And then he walked off and a crow landed on his table and ate his crumbs. I thought about predictions- and how they are like crumbs, just sitting there waiting for crows to pick up- and then I thought about that Nostradamus guy- That’s one creepy dude idn’t? I mean, they say he was impossible to kill. That he died three or four times and was alive again. That’s more times than Jesus- He might even still be alive today- what do I know?- I saw some dude on th’ bike trail recently that looked just like Nostradamus. Not that I know what Nostradamus looks like- but if he looks anything like my imagination of him then he’s still alive and well right here in Ft. Collins. Then somebody wanted to sit at th’ table with th’ crow, but th’ crow gave him th’ stink eye and with a mighty leap rose up into the air, taking a piece of scone with him. That’s a lucky crow, I thought. He gets to eat jasmine green tea infused scones everyday- me I gotta pay three and a half dollars for ‘em. I’ll bet he’s thankful. Anyway I went home and looked up that Nostradamus dude on wikipedia and it just made him sound like a regular old dude- like th’ world knows all about him and there’s no mystery- but I like mystery- I decided to ignore wikipedia and listen to that song someone wrote about him in th’ seventies. Th’ seventies are also a mystery to me- Maybe i’ll look that up on wikipedia too- it’s amazing idn’t? That we can know so much and yet so little at th’ same time. We’re like that crow idn’t?- just pickin up random crumbs of information to fill our empty bellies. Maybe if we get enough crumbs, we can put ‘em all together and have ourselves a jasmine green tea infused scone of information. Well, it’s dark now, and th’ Moon is hanging out with Mars and Jupiter, and i’m gonna leave you with that Nostradamus song- you can look it up on youtube- it's by Justin Hayward. Good night and thanks for tuning in to KR&B radio Ft. Collins.

When I was a kid we used to go to Arkansas every summer to visit Daddy and Me-Maw and Pa-Paw and Uncle Jimbo. Uncle Jimbo was a fisherman. He went fishin every mornin of his life. Said he'd been doing it since he was ten years old. He knew every fish that lived anywhere near his house. Every frog toad snake turtle bird or fish that lived. When he went fishin, he knew exactly what he was going to catch.

We loved to ask him “Whatchu gonna catch Uncle Jimbo?”

“Crappie and blue gills” He'd say. Or Bass, or Catfish, or a Snappin Turtle for miss Lossie. Or nothing. Or whatever. That or he'd say “we'll see”.

And he was always right. I know this because I went fishin with him lots of times. He'd drive past our house every morning around 4:30, and if I wanted to go fishin with him all I had to do was be sittin there on th' porch waitin for him. If I was there he'd pull in th' driveway and i'd jump in th' truck and off we'd go. And if I wasn't he'd drive on by, no hard feelings.

It's not easy to up and be ready to go somewhere at four thirty. But every now and then i'd meet him out there and he'd take me to these little ponds, and we'd float around and catch fish and watch th' sun rise. It was a magical time, watching th' world wake up. Watching th' sun move slowly across the sky and earth, chasing shadows. I'd see these same ponds later on in th' day and they never looked liked they did early in th' morning.

So one day he picked me up and said we were going somewhere new today. The dashboard lights were shining on his face. He had a look about him that told me this was a special day. I asked him where we were going. And he said somewhere we've never been before.

As we drove off he said he doesn't usually take people to places he's never been before. Said he likes to go and check 'em out by himself first, but since I was out there and waitin for him, well he couldn't just leave me hangin. I was getting excited. He smiled and handed me a thermos of coffee. Said there was a cup on th' floorboard over there somewhere. I picked up an old cup that used to be white and filled it with th' steaming brew. I loved coffee. Drinkin it made me feel grown up, even though I couldn't stand th' taste of it.

We pulled up near th' pond and Uncle Jimbo cut the engine and we just sat in th' truck for a long time. I managed a few sips of coffee, and after what seemed like forever asked if we were gonna go fishin. Yep he said, and got out of th' truck and put th' boat in th' water and we both climbed in. He pushed off from th' shore and then laid the oar down as we drifted out into th' pond.

“Hey Uncle Jimbo” I said after a while, “we forgot our poles”.

“Nope. You forgot your pole. I left mine on purpose. ”

I gave him a confused look but he just sat there, lookin out over th' water, moving his head real slow. I wanted to look like I knew what he was talking about, so I shut up. And for th' next two hours neither of us said a word. Barely moved a muscle. We let th' boat drift where it wanted. The sunlight slanted into th' water so you could see a good five or six feet down. We were so still th' fish weren't even scared of us. They just swam right on by, like we weren't there. I remember thinkin “wow, this pond's only twenty feet deep- and most of th' fish in here are eating right now. And they're right here where I can see them. It was at that moment that I realized Uncle Jimbo was th' best fisherman that I knew. Everyone else was just guessin. But Jimbo knew what he was doin. He could catch anything he wanted.

We stayed that way for what seemed like two hours. I saw more animals in that time than i've seen in half my lifetime.

Finally he picked up the oar and shoved us back towards th' dock. I felt a sense of accomplishment that I couldn't quite relate to. I mean, we hadn't done anything. Didn't catch any fish. Didn't even try to catch a fish.

“This is my favorite kind of fishin” he said. “You never know what you're gonna find. You saw that snapping turtle didn't you- th' big one?”

“Yes” I said.

“That was an old turtle. She's been here for twenty five years or more. This is her home. She came right up to our boat. Checkin us out just like we were checkin her out. She looked me right in the eyes. And I looked her right back. Hell TJ, I know it sounds crazy but we made friends, me and that turtle. She looked at me, she was telling me something... ”

We got to th' shore and he tied th' boat back onto th' truck and we went home.

“But Jimbo,” I said on th' way home, “we didn't even go fishin”

“Yes we did.” He told me, and that's all he said.

It took me years to realize what he meant. To realize that much more than just catching fish was going on those mornings when Jimbo was out there. He was watching the world wake up, every day. He was part of it all. He had found his place, no matter what happened throughout th' day.

Some days he'd come home with fish. Some days not. But he never came home th' same as when he'd left. He saw new things everyday. A new beginning. He was born anew every morning. Th' changes were subtle, I'm not sure if anyone ever really noticed them. But after that day I noticed. I noticed them in him, and I noticed them in myself. And while i've never been good at getting up early, those pre-dawn hours have always been my favorite time of day. Th' time when anything is possible. When there is no difference between waking and dreaming. When you get another chance. When there's nothing unusual about a turtle talking to you. Or loving a cup of coffee that you can't stand th' taste of. Of being who you are, and not who you try to be.

    Every once in a while I come across a memory that’s hard to make sense of. Like the time my mom put her face through a windshield. She was driving drunk in the rain at fifty-five miles an hour and swerved off the road to avoid hitting what she thought was a dog. She hit a tree instead. She wasn’t wearing a seat belt and her head slammed into the windshield. Not bursting through it, thanks to modern shatter proof glass, but leaving the shape of her head forever imprinted in my mind. I can see it now. Just above the steering wheel. It bubbled out like someone threw a bowling ball at it from inside the car. There were thousands of broken pieces held together by an invisible film. There were rays of light radiating from it like a starburst.

    I was in the backseat of the car, strapped into my car seat. Only two or three years old. I don’t remember the crash. What I remember is red and blue lights, flashing through a haze or rain and broken glass. What I remember is my mom’s head slumped over the steering wheel for a long time. What I remember is her turning around and looking at me, her face all busted up and covered in blood. What I remember is her smiling, and telling me everything was going to be OK. I remember her being helped out of the car and taken away. I remember her being placed on a stretcher and rolled to an ambulance and put in the back. I remember the doors closing and the ambulance driving away.

    I remember seeing her in the hospital, lying in a bed with tubes and wires attached to her. She is wearing a hospital gown that made her look no bigger than a child herself. I remember it being cold in there, and lots of buzzing and beeping noises that made me want to get out of there. I remember her trembling hand, reaching out to me. I remember seeing the bones in her wrist and being afraid. And as always, I remember her face, smiling at me, and telling me that everything was going to be OK. Everything was going to be alright.

    And I believed her, because my mom was born of Love. She was like a weed growing up from a crack in the sidewalk. A crack not even big enough for a seed to fall into. She could smile at me through a smashed up windshield, or a broken nose and a black eye from an angry lover. She could smile at me from a hospital bed, with her head all wrapped in bandages. She could smile at me from sixty five year old eyes, full of nothing but pain and loneliness, and sadness, and tell me that everything would be OK. That everything would be alright. And I’d believe her. Because she was always right. Like I said, my mom was born of love.

I remember one time, when i was eight or nine, it was early november, one of those cold grey days when all th' grass was golden and crunched under your feet as you walked. We saw a great blue heron stalking along th' bayou. My friend Catfish pointed him out to me. The heron was stalking along the edge of th' ditch, taking slow, long strides, pausing for sometimes minutes in between steps. Catfish said he wanted to follow him. We walked as slowly as we could towards th' bird. I tried to tell Catfish about th' time me and Henry hid in th' bushes waiting for a raccoon to step into a trap we'd set. We weren't very still or quiet. But Catfish hushed me with a simple "shh." He didn't even turn and look at me, didn't break his slow steady stride, just silenced me with a whisper that sounded like th' wind. That's when i realized this guy was not me or Henry. He was still, his mind focused and at peace. I felt like a clumsy student beside him, sniffling in th' cold, every step i took sounding like i was stepping on bubble wrap. Catfish walked like a deer, fluid, with no sudden moves, and he hardly made a sound. We got to within ten or fifteen yards of th' heron. I'd never seen one up close before. He was beautiful. We moved when he moved, and stopped when he stopped. We watched him eat a crawdad. He stepped on it and ripped each one of it's claws off with a single swift swipe of his beak. We watched him catch and eat a fish. He looked at us a few times, but didn't seem threatened. If we got too close he'd fly ahead a few yards and land again, and we'd stalk right back up to him. Eventually i heard my mom yelling for me. "I gotta go" i told Catfish. Th' heron flew off. We watched it fly over th' woods and out of sight. "Me too" Catfish said, and we parted ways. When i got home it was dinner time and mom was worried about me and upset. We'd been out there for almost three hours. We never talked about that time, me and Catfish, either to each other or anyone else. It was an experience we had together. I don't know what it meant to Catfish, or even to me for that matter, but i do know that however different our perceptions of it, it left a lasting impression on us both. And every once in a while, when i see a true master at work, someone at peace with themself, a great musician, a skilled artist or craftsman, a person who can do something so well they don't have to think about it, i see that same look in their eyes that Catfish had in his eyes that day we were stalking that heron. Where ever you are, Catfish ole buddy, i hope that glint is still there in your eyes- and for those of you reading this, go do what you love, with those you love- life is too short not to.

Memory lane for me right now is a two lane highway winding through the backwoods of eastern Arkansas. It passes through a little town named Clarkedale, population 62. It's so small it only takes up one side of the road. On the other side are the train tracks and cotton fields. Or corn fields, or soybeans, wheat, or what ever it is that happens to be growing at th' time. I remember them all, at one time or another.

Th' first thing I come to on this trip is a little red brick church, the Mt. Zion M&B. It used to be a small white wooden building, but was torn down by a tornado at some point. Somehow the few parishioners, mostly poor black folks, got together enough money to rebuild it in brick. Out back of the church, in between the yard and the field, is the graveyard, with about thirty or so tombstones in it. In eastern Arkansas everything is between something and the field. I always thought about the people who were buried in that graveyard as we drove past it.

I used to play this game where I'd look out the window and the rows of crops going past would look like a person with really long legs running fast. I'd pretend that person was me and I'd have to jump over all the obstacles, ya know, trees and ditches and houses and stuff like that. That graveyard was one of th' things I always jumped over. I'd always heard it was bad luck to step on someone else's grave and that made sense to me, so even when I was pretending I'd jump over the graveyard. It's disrespectful not to.

A few miles down memory lane, which for me right now is AR-77, you get to the town of Jericho, Arkansas, a much larger town with nearly a hundred and twenty people in it, but still not enough to take over two sides of the highway. There's a few trailer houses here but they're nice, well kept with American flags on poles and gardens and such. There's a pond tucked back in th' woods where me and Uncle Jimbo used to go fishin. There's a liquor store, which ain't much bigger than a closet, and just up th' road from there brings me to th' point of this little trip- the Jericho Grocery, which we all simply called Jericho, 'cause what else was there in this town.

Jericho Grocery was th' hub of activity around here. It had one gas pump out front, and inside to your right you had your old timey cash register with the cigarettes and chew behind it. Just to your left along th' wall was th' cooler full of coke. In Arkansas every pop is a coke. What kinda coke you want, someone would ask, and you'd say Coca-Cola, or Dr. Pepper, or Squirt, or grape soda, or whatever. Beyond th' coke cooler was th' beer cooler, and on around th' wall th' little grocery cooler with milk and sour cream and stuff like that in it. Then you had your freezer with th' pop-sicles and bags of ice and th' like. On th' far wall, straight across from th' door was th' deli counter. That's where you could get your cold cuts sliced to whatever thickness you liked. That's where you went to order one of their famous bar-b-que sandwiches with homemade cole-slaw on top. Th' man behind th' register'd walk over and put on a dirty white apron and make your sandwich and talk to you like he was your best friend, then he'd wrap up your sandwich, take off his apron and walk back over to th' register and ring it up. Right in th' middle of this forgotten grocery was th' one single shelf with th' chips and canned goods on one side and th' motor oil and diapers and toys on the other. On th' side facing th' register, first thing you saw when you walked in, were th' Twinkies and donuts and Snowballs and all that. My favorite thing to get from here were th' chili flavored Beanie Weenies, nowhere else seemed to have 'em. My brother always went for th' Vienna sausages or potted meat. I still can't believe people ate that stuff, and I imagine some people still do.

A few more miles down this road and there's an old white house that we lived in for a while, and for now that's where memory lane stops. My dad would find duck nests while ploughing the fields, usually too late to save them, but every time he'd get down off th' tractor and see if there were any ducklings still alive. When there were, which was often, he'd bring 'em home and raise 'em up till they were big enough to fly. We kept them in a pen so th' coons couldn't get 'em, and they had a little plastic pool in there that we'd put grass and bugs in so they could practice swimming and hunting and whatnot. Often times we'd get in th' pool with them, it was hot down there in summer. When they got big enough they simply flew away. We never saw them again.

So if ya'll wonder why I'm so strange just remember that I grew up in places like this. There was nothing to do and all th' time in th' world to do it. And sure I got bored at times, but for th' most part I absolutely loved it. I learned how to drive on this road, and a few others. Pa-Paw would sit me on his lap and let me turn the steering wheel, since I was still too small to reach the pedals. He had this little blue Ford Ranger for most of my life. When I was ten or eleven I was finally big enough to reach the pedals myself and he moved on over and sat in th' passenger seat. I learned how to tell time by th' sun. How to stay out all day long with no water and only a pocketful of snacks and make it back in time for supper. I learned that quiet could either drive a man crazy or be his best friend, depending on who that man was. I learned that John Deere tractors and Ford trucks were th' best, no two ways about it. I learned early on that I didn't need a babysitter and that I could pretty much do what ever I wanted, as long as I set my mind to it. I learned that you could have a dad living in one state and a mom in another and still have a good life. I learned that a gun is to be both feared and respected, that it could save a life or take a life. I learned that Me-Maw could wash anything out of my clothes. I learned that you could sell a snapping turtle you caught in a sewer for five dollars. And I learned that you don't have to agree on much to be friends with people, you mostly just had to be nice to them.

I'd like to say that you can still go there and see it for yourself, order one of them pulled pork and slaw sandwiches, and taste what kept us all coming back, but most of it's gone now, save for th' church and a few houses. It saddens me a bit to think that no kid will ever again walk into Jericho and get himself a can of chili Beanie Weenies, or one of those wooden paddles with th' rubber ball attached to it by a rubber band that could drive a kid bonkers. But I am glad that right after I got married I was able to take my wife down there and show it to her, introduce her to th' people and places America forgot, even though the accent down there was so thick she couldn't understand a word anyone said. I'm glad that I got to be a part of something so real, so real that I can't believe it's gone now. I keep thinking that one day I'll go back and there it'll all be, well, just as I remember it, like stepping into a time machine. But I know that's not true. It exists mostly in my imagination, and a little bit in my memory as well, but we all know how reliable that is. But still, I'd like to think that Miss Lossie is still out there somewhere, maybe older and greyer, but that one day I'll walk through th' kitchen door and she'll be sittin there at th' table shellin peas with one hand and foldin laundry with the other, and she'll smile real big at me and say boy you look hungry, why don't you get yourself a coke and sit on down here a while and help me shell these peas for supper, and I'll make you a nice ham sandwich. And of course that's exactly what I'll do.

George Kooneman shook himself awake. He had a terrible headache and one of his eyes was swollen shut. The world was still spinning through the other. But it was slowing down, he noted gratefully. “Thank you God that I’m still alive” he muttered. “Now where am I?”

George never knew where he was gonna wake up in the morning, and many times he’d found himself in places he’d rather not linger. So the first thing he did every morning, which for him really could be any time of day, was to thank God for his life and then get his bearings. More than once he’d had to make a hasty retreat.

One time he woke to find himself inside a dumpster. Not too bad, he thought, at least it’s soft, if a bit smelly. But then he heard a loud noise which he couldn’t quite place over the pounding in his head. He felt himself being shaken and lifted. “No! No!” he yelled as the dumpster he was in was raised and dumped into the back of a garbage truck, with all the trash he’d been sleeping on now on top of him. He tried to climb his way out of the truck before it closed on him, but he was too slow, all went dark and he felt the world crushing in on him. For a moment he started to panic, claustrophobia taking over him, but when he let go and gave in to the panic he felt the pressure all around him like a warm hug. Such are my blessings he thought to himself, and he thanked God again when he felt the compactor receding and found he was still able to move. He crawled out of the truck between the gaze of two horrified workers yelling “Stop the truck!”

One time he found himself at the bottom of an overpass, sprawled out amongst the large stones. He was lying on his side and he felt like the arm underneath him was on fire. He tried to move it and felt like he’d been shot. He looked up and saw how far he’d fallen and marveled that he was still alive.

One time he found himself stretched out on a nice plush couch, wearing clean clothes that he’d never seen before. There could be worse ways to wake up, he thought. He said Thank you out loud, as he always did, and not God’s but a woman’s voice answered him saying “Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?” “I don’t know” he slowly replied, then ran for the door before she could call the cops.

But on this morning, the eve of Christmas, he woke up in his own house, which was really just a stall in an old barn that some friends let him use. He kept it warm with a small ceramic space heater, which everyone knew was going to burn the place to the ground eventually. But for all his forgetting, he was very careful with his little heater, one of his few prized possessions. The room was piled floor to ceiling with boxes full of dirty clothes and stuff that he’d collected but never used. There were more empty cans and bottles in there than there was anything else, and he often wondered how he could afford so much alcohol. I must be a thief, he thought, but he didn’t feel like a thief.

His breath smelled like something had been drowned in whiskey and died, and it was filling up the little room, choking him with it’s fumes. He opened the door to let the morning sunlight and fresh air in. The world outside was frozen and sparkling. He loved it when he was able to wake up in the morning. He put on his boots and walked over to the ditch next to the stable to relieve himself. He felt oddly refreshed today, and the cold air sobered him up. I have a new lease on life, he thought. Today is a new day.

He went back inside and found a half full bottle of beer, chugged it with a grimace and changed into something that smelled like it’d only been worn a week instead of a month. He rolled himself a cigarette, with stable hands, he was happy to note, and sat down on a bucket to breathe in the morning air. “Merry Christmas” he said to himself, “Merry Christmas” he replied.

*

Natalie Tindale woke up every morning and said her prayers too. She also had a formula, a ritual. Like George she said the same words everyday, but her prayers went well into the ten to fifteen minute range. She lived alone, in a nice house left to her by the passing of her father a few years before. After he died she became so steeped in the rules of religion that it consumed her. God was righteous and Holy, and she had to be that way too, if she wanted to spend eternity in Heaven with her Heavenly Father. She knew her dad wouldn’t be there, sinner that he was when he died.

Natalie hated Christmas with a passion that bordered on insanity. It was a pagan holiday, and the people who celebrated it were worse than pagans, especially the Christians, who were fooled into thinking it had something to do with Jesus.

Natalie woke up Christmas Eve with a sour taste in her mouth. It was ten o’clock in the morning. She’d stayed up late last night with a group of friends. They were out walking around old town praying for people, and trying to convict the people coming out of the bars at two am of their sins. Someone had to do it, after all. But the taste in Natalie’s mouth wasn’t from alcohol, it was from knowing that when this day was over, just about everyone she knew would be celebrating a pagan holiday, or, essentially, worshiping satan. She found a half empty cup of water and chugged it with a grimace. Merry Christmas, she thought with disgust.

*

George spent the day cutting spruce branches and tying them into neat little bundles with scraps of leather. He loaded them into a bike trailer and pinned a cardboard sign to it that said Christmas decorations, $5. He rode into town and parked his bike in front of Ten Thousand Villages. He went inside and helped himself to a cup of their free sample coffee, offering them a swag bundle in exchange, which they politely refused. George went in there often to fill a large, handmade mug that someone had given him a long time ago, and was only once turned away. Outside he set up his trailer with the bundles of swag neatly displayed on an old sheepskin and sat down to enjoy his coffee. He wrapped his gloved hands around the mug and admired the steam. After about an hour or so he'd made $20. Not bad for a day's work. He took a little break and went and bought himself a bottle of cheap vodka and a deli sandwich.

*

Natalie went into town to meet up with some friends and pass out tracts explaining why Christians should not celebrate Christmas. During her morning prayers she'd gotten the distinct impression that God told her to expect a miracle today, and she was a bit distracted as she kept looking for it everywhere she went. So it was that she didn't notice George as Micheal, her brother and one of her only true friends in the world, handed him a $5 bill in exchange for a beautiful swag bundle.

“Wait!” she grabbed Micheal's hand just as George reached out to take the money. “You can't give him money!” and then she whispered loud enough for everyone to hear “He'll buy alcohol with it.”

Micheal was taken aback, “Uhh...” he started, and pulled his hand back just before George could grab the money.

“He's an alcoholic. A sinner. The Bible says drunks shall not enter the Kingdom of Heaven” Natalie was clearly upset, “If you give him money you're just helping him sin. You're condemning him to hell. He's drunk already, look at him. We have to go.”

“She's right” George said, pulling the Vodka out of his pocket and taking a drink. He screwed up his face and then offered the bottle to Natalie with a smile?

“I don't think so” she scowled.

“Well, I like to give people a chance” said Micheal, “What if he promises to only buy food with this money?” he asked no one in particular.

“What I do with my money is none of your business” George told him.

“No he can't promise it” Natalie interrupted, “He's a liar and a thief. You need to repent George, and you need to do it now. Come on, let's go.”

“Merry Christmash!” George bellowed out as they walked off.

*

“We should stop and pray for guidance” Natalie said, after they'd left. It was dark now and all the trees were covered in white lights, like stars come down to Earth. There was a group of carolers dressed in Victorian outfits standing in front of the fountain singing Oh Holy Night. She wouldn't admit it but she liked this song, and this frustrated her. “This is not the night Christ was born” she said, “He was probably born in summer, while the sheep were out in their fields.” She pulled Micheal under the overhang of a Tibetan store that'd closed for the night and they bowed their heads and prayed. “Heavenly Father please guide us to the miracle you promised, lead us to where You want us to go. I know You're faithful to keep Your promises. If there's anyone who needs healing, let us walk right up to them. Thank-you.”

“I got nothing” said Micheal, “what about you?”

“I clearly heard the word Aggie.” Natalie said.

“Well, there's Aggie Liquor and Aggie Theatre.”

“Aggie Theatre,” Natalie thought out loud, “let's go there.”

“Ok.” said Micheal, and off they went, passing out tracts along the way.

*

George, upset now and feeling the cold and the vodka, packed up his last remaining Christmas bundle and started off towards the liquor store for a bottle of wine and a pouch of Prince Albert. While the clerk was turned around getting the tobacco George deftly slipped a pocket sized bottle of Gin into his coat and withdrew his money all in the same motion. His rational mind didn't even see him do it, and he paid for the wine and tobacco with a clear conscience.

He went outside and sat down on a bench and rolled himself a cigarette. Cracking open the bottle of Gin he took a couple of sips and felt the warmth roll down his throat, into his belly. He could hear a Salvation Army bell ringing from the Safeway just down the way. With his cigarette rolled and lit he got up and walked down the block to the Aggie, an old theatre with live music playing every night. The Aggie was an old brick building with no insulation and if you sat close enough to it you could hear the bands playing pretty well. There was always a group of hobo's and people who couldn't afford tickets sitting out front of the theatre listening and having their own little party. Maybe they'll let me in, George thought, it’s Christmas Eve.

There was a band inside doing hip-hop renditions of Christmas songs. I think I’ll stay outside, George thought, and he sat down on a bench outside the theatre and had another sip of Gin. He sat next to an old American Indian lady chanting in another language with her head bent down, praying maybe. She finished her chant by lifting her head and saying to everyone, “we are here, there, and everywhere.” Her voice sounded like she ate gravel and washed it down with gasoline. Underneath the bench was a man he'd never met before, snoring peacefully.

There were a few other people he recognized sitting around. One of them was a little round man in a Santa hat pounding on the sidewalk with a pair of drum sticks and singing loudly. He kept switching back and forth between the choruses of classic rock songs and popular Christmas carols. Jukebox Jones, George knew him well.

George took out his bottle of wine, opened it and had himself a nice long drink. “Merry Christians everybody” he said, and passed the bottle around.

Jukebox Jones looked up with a smile and switched to Jingle Bells.

*

Natalie and Micheal were just about to round the corner of the Aggie when they heard someone yelling, and saying over and over “he won't wake up, he won't wake up.” Natalie’s eyes lit up, this must be the miracle God promised, she thought. She rounded the corner and saw the Indian lady bent over the man under the bench. “Help, Somebody help. He won't wake up.” Jukebox Jones and the other guys were standing clumsily around, not knowing what to do. George had gone off to get another bottle of wine.

“Did anyone call an ambulance?” Micheal asked. Everyone looked around, shaking their heads, confused and concerned looks on their faces.

“What happened?” Natalie asked.

“He was sinner” somebody yelled “He was a sinner and God punished him. Just like He’s gonna do to all of us!”

“Have some respect you idiot. Another man yelled.

“He was snoring real loud” Jukebox Jones told her, “then he just stopped.”

“He's not breathing. Wake up damnit wake up.” The Indian lady sobbed and dropped her head onto his chest, then let out a howl like a coyote. “He's dead. Oh my God he's dead.”

Natalie bent down with her and grabbed his wrist to check for a pulse. She felt nothing. She tried the neck, but felt nothing their either. “It's gonna be ok” she told the Indian lady, “God told me to expect a miracle today. I'm gonna pray for his healing. Micheal, come here.” she said.

Micheal knelt down with her and the Indian lady pushed him away.

“Please” Natalie said, “we need to lay our hands on him to pray for him.”

The Indian lady seemed to accept this and Let Micheal and Natalie put their hands on the dead man's chest and pray for him.

“Father God” Natalie prayed “Heal this man. In the name of your Son Jesus bring this man back from the dead.” And to the dead man she said “In the name of Jesus I command you rise up from the dead. Rise up now. In the name of Jesus stand. Stand now. Satan release your hold on this man. In the name of Jesus.” Natalie's voice was rising with each command. She didn't understand. This was supposed to be working. God had clearly told her to expect a miracle.

All at once there was a sound of breaking glass and lights flashing. “Wash happening?” a voice said. It was George, he'd seen the ambulance pulling up and heard Natalie commanding someone to rise up at the same time. Naturally he dropped the wine.

“Get out of here!” Natalie yelled when she saw him.

*

After that it was all one big mass of confusion for awhile. The paramedics asked what happened and everybody started talking at once. The Indian kept howling like a wolf. Natalie kept saying she was a healer and everything would be ok. George bumped heads with one of the paramedics as they both bent down to check on the man, and in the process spilled the rest of the bottle of Gin on Natalie.

Micheal seemed to be the only sober one there and he grabbed Natalie and pulled her back so the paramedics could do their work. She was shaking and confused. “This is your fault” she accused George. “You gave him alcohol. You killed him. You're going to Hell.”

The paramedics pronounced him dead and went to get a blanket to cover him up. They said no one was to move the body until the police arrived. At the mention of police a few of the guys quietly dispersed. Only Jukebox Jones, George, Natalie and Micheal stayed.

“This is bullshit!” George bellowed out, his face red with tears, “It's Christmas Eve.” He fell down next to the man, shoving one of the medics out of the way in the process. “It's Chrishmas!” he yelled up at the sky. “How can you let a man die on Chrishmas!”

Natalie watched with loathing as a tear fell from George's face and landed on the man's uncovered cheek. George's head slumped onto the man's chest and he sobbed. One of the paramedics went to move him but the other held him back. “Give him a moment.” he said. George calmed down and placed his hand over the dead man's heart. He looked up to the sky and muttered something no one could hear.

“He's alive!” Jukebox Jones yelled. “Hallelujah he's alive!”

Everyone stared and sure enough, warm breath came out of his mouth and he started coughing. The paramedics quickly rolled him over on his side and Natalie whispered “No, it can't be. Sinners can not perform miracles. Drunks do not raise the dead.”

The man sat up and looked around. “What happened?” he mumbled. George jumped up like he'd seen a ghost and backed right into Natalie and Micheal, who steadied him. The Indian lady came out from some bushes she'd been hiding in and fell on the man, weeping loudly and hugging him. It seemed no one could stand up. The paramedics were as confused as the rest of them, they just knelt there where they were, looking at the man. “Do you have somewhere warm to go tonight?” one of them asked him. “Of course I do” he snapped. “What happened? Why is everybody crying?”

“You were dead” Jukebox Jones yelled, “That man raised you from the dead!” Jukebox's faces was pure light as he pointed at George with his drumstick. “Wha? I uh...” George stammered.

“He didn't do anything but get this man drunk” Natalie yelled, “God healed him. Praise God. This man had nothing to do with it.”

Micheal laid a calm hand on her arm “We saw what we saw” he told her, “You got your miracle. Come on, let's go home.” Natalie stared at George for just a moment. When George smiled at her she turned around and walked off. “Merry Christmas” he called out.

Just then the group of carolers came by, carrying a tray full of steaming mugs. “We saw the whole thing!” one of them said, “Hot chocolate for everyone!” and another passed out the steaming mugs. Jukebox Jones knelt down and tapped out a few beats on the sidewalk, and soon the police walked up to find a crowd of people, paramedics included, singing God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.

    “I’m going back.” Gunnen said, “I’m gonna stay long enough to refuel, then I’m going back. There’s nothing on Earth for me. No friends, no family- except for you, and you usually live in a different state than I do.”

    “That’s nuts” Yay told him, “You’ll die up there. You’ll run out of food and water and oxygen and die. You can’t live on an asteroid.”

    “I’ve thought about all that- But Old Jim lives up there- the Chronicler lives there, so why can’t I live there?”

    “Because you'll die.”

    “We didn’t need our suits while we were there! Remember that!”

    “Yes I remember that- what about it.”

    “I’ll tell you what about it- I mean, Old Jim had that chest of beer, so there’s got to be sustenance. Besides, if I’m gonna die a lonely old man I may as well be exploring the universe while I’m at it. Maybe I’ll go on from there, explore other worlds- Gannymede. Europa. Triton. Pluto. Charon. I’ll keep a record of everything I find- I’ll have a rocket ready for a timed launch back to Earth, Just in case anything should happen to me. I’ll set you up a phone app that’ll let you know when the rocket leaves, and GPS coordinates so you can find it when it lands.”

    “You can’t do this Gunnen, you’re my best friend. I’m ok with you living in a different state, but another planet? I don't think so. I need you here. We’re gonna land, and everything’s gonna be destroyed, and we just went on this crazy journey that I can’t talk to anyone else about, and you’re just gonna up and leave?”

Gunnen looked at his feet, he had nothing else to say.

    “We found life on another planet for Pete's sake. And you're gonna leave me alone with that?”

    “You could come too, ya know.”

    Yay went back into his room and would’ve slammed the door, if electronically assisted sliding doors could be slammed. He lay on his bed and fell fast asleep. They were less than three hours from landing.

I was a kid with a vivid imagination. I remember many times, going outside at night, making up all these stories in my head about what lurks in th' darkness til i was paralyzed with fear. If someone told me a story I could see it in my head as though I was watching a movie-

There was this one time, when i was eleven years old- Me and David had built a lean to shelter in th' woods and we wanted to spend th' night in it. Our parents said we could as long as Davids two older brothers stayed out there with us. Davids brothers agreed and so th' four of us went into th' woods at sunset and built a fire next to our hut and cooked a fish and a can of beans for dinner. Th' whole time we were cooking and eating Davids two older brothers were telling ghost stories, all of them happened to be set in th' woods. When dinner was over it was dark and they went home. Said we didn't need them to spend th' night. We crawled into our lean to and tried to go to sleep while th' fire died out. But we were both way too scared from all th' ghost stories they told us. I kept imagining wild boars charging through our camp and chasing us up a tree. Every leaf rattle and stick fall we heard was a wild boar coming towards us. And every kid knows that once a wild boar chases you up a tree it doesn't leave, they'll just wait there till you get so hungry or thirsty that you fall down. Then they eat you. So all these scenes were playing in my head like a cheap horror movie as we lay in our sleeping bags trying to be brave. We heard a crunch, and without any discussion me and David both jumped out of our sleeping bags and ran home. I slept on my own front porch because th' front door was locked. I was mad at my mom for locking th' door on a night that i was sleeping in th' woods. She came out in th' morning and found me asleep on th' wicker bench. Asked me what I was doing, and why didn't I knock on th' door and come inside. I told her we woke up early and I just got home and took a little nap. I'm sure she didn't believe me but she just smiled and left me my dignity, went inside and made me some hot oatmeal. Davids brothers laughed at us but we still told everyone that we stayed out all night and only came home in the morning.

   1985 was a good year. I'd just moved to Colorado. A little college town called Fort Collins. Their football team was suffering and they had high hopes that I could bring them back from the dust. As if I had a chance. Sure, I was good, one of the best out of high school that year, scholarships all the way. But one man can't carry a team.

   So you see, I was doomed from the beginning.

    Not long after that I had a dream. A nightmare, or a vision maybe, whatever you want to call it. I don't know. I don't question these things. All I know is that it happened, and things like that don't happen to me. Usually.

   I'm a light sleeper. I wake up at the slightest fright. I've never slept long enough to have any nightmares, but I had this one. I went to sleep one night and in that space between waking and dreaming I felt a presence behind me. I was paralyzed with fear. I couldn't move.

   There was a window above my bed and I could feel someone looking at me. I felt a probing of my soul, like someone was looking into me. Like I was made of glass.

   I tried to get up, to look out the window and tell who, or what, ever it was to get the hell away from me- to leave me alone. I was ready to grab my baseball bat and have some midnight practice swings. But I couldn't move. Couldn't even turn my head. That was the first time I knew true fear.

   I lay in my bed, shaking, staring at the inside of my sheets, when I rose up out of my body. I turned around and I could see myself there in bed, under the covers, still as a stone. I pitied myself, so helpless and weak. So stricken with fright. I'd never thought of myself that way, and it was a shame.

   Then I looked out the window. And standing there, fogging up the glass with it's breath, looking down on me there in bed, was a man. A leprechaun maybe, I don't know. A shadow of all that is good. He wore a dark green fedora, and had the stature of a midget, even though he must've been a good six feet off the ground to see in my window like that.

   Who are you, I wanted to yell, go away! But I couldn't. All I could do was watch. And then it happened. He shifted his gaze from the me under the covers to the real me, standing at the foot of my own bed watching myself. He looked right at me, and smiled. I felt myself being sucked into his gaze but I was powerless to resist. I mustered up one last bit of strength and let out a yell and woke up in a pool of sweat, shivering like a leaf on a tree in December.

   The sun was coming up and I was alone in my bed. I pulled back the covers and looked up at the window but there was no one there. I went outside to look for footprints but all I found was a four leaf clover in the clover patch.

Like I said, I was doomed.