When Was America Great (Before)?

Speculation on my FaceBook page is that the Trumpster is thinking of pre Voting Rights Act, Pre Civil Rights Act when he thinks of the America he wants to take us back to. I tend to think it might specifically be the years 1956-1964. Those would have been very formative years for The Donald. Pre-civil rights, pre-womens’ liberation, pre-Vietnam War protests. you know, back when it was a White man’s world.

Consequently, I believe we should try to communicate with him and his Trumpsters via those images and appeals. They aren’t very good at doing the 21st Century. So, here’s my first appeal.

Eddie Cochran co-wrote and performed this song, originally released in August of 1958. I have only changed a little of it so as to not shock his system too drastically. Think of me as a pacemaker. He has been a little erratic lately, so I’m the pacemaker. Bzzt! Straighten up, Donald.

Feel free to play the Eddie Cochran video below and substitute the lyrics below. Kind of karaoke-style. If you play the guitar, make a video and I’ll link to it too.

I give you, Ain’t No Cure for the Trumpertime Blues.

I’m gonna raise a fuss, I’m gonna raise a holler
About a-workin’ all summer just to end up with the Donald.
Every time I call my baby, and ask him for a date
“No dice,” Trumpster said, “you need a lady mate.”
Sometimes I wonder what I’m a-gonna do,
But there ain’t no cure for the Trumpertime blues.

Well my mom and poppa told me, “Son, you gotta make some money,
“Cuz there’s no pensions left, now ain’t that funny?”
Well I didn’t go to work, I was too damned sick
“You’re fired!” Trumpster said, “cuz you didn’t work a lick.”
Sometimes I wonder what I’m a-gonna do
But there ain’t no cure for the Trumpertime blues

I’m gonna take two weeks, gonna learn me some knowledge
‘Bout the kinda damn fools in the ‘Lectoral College.
Well, I called my congressman and he said “Whoa!
“I’d like to help you son but you’re too broke to vote.”
Sometimes I wonder what I’m a-gonna do,
But there ain’t no cure for the Trumpertime blues.

Review–Light of the World by James Lee Burke

 

This is the twentieth novel in the Dave Robicheaux series. If you have read and enjoyed the earlier ones, you will enjoy this one too. And if you have not read any of the earlier efforts by Burke in the series, this is not the place to start. Start with Creole Belle. This series and this character have both grown over their career-long development. I do hope there is at least one more Robicheaux novel set in Louisiana.

All of our favorite characters are present and accounted for: Dave Robicheaux, Clete Purcell, Dave’s daughter Alafair Robicheaux, Clete’s daughter Gretchen Horowitz. And bad guys. No one paints better bad guys than Burke. In this case, Asa Surrette is an asshole, a first class asshole. He even stinks of shit, literally. Kidnapper, rapist, murderer, mass murderer, torturer. More. A deeply committed asshole…with skills.

The first third of the novel goes to great lengths to set up tension between Dave and Clete on one side and the official law enforcers of a rural Montana County on the other. That is what Clete is for. Everyone knows Clete just wants to get stuff done and he doesn’t care too much about the bright line of the law. He is a P.I. after all. Dave’s job is to keep Clete just on this side of legal. He often fails.

As usual, Burke’s general themes play out at length. What is the source of evil? What are “good” men to do about the problem of evil? Can we get in the ring with evil and get out without its stink clinging to us? Toward that purpose, we get passages like this: “The evil in our lives comes from men’s greed, and the manifestation of that greed is in the corporations that cause the wars.” (252)

At least we can agree on politics.

But what of mortality? How long should a man live in the face of evil? When have we had enough? Albert is a teacher of creative writing who has lived longer than he thought and longer than his wife. He also had Asa Surrette as a student at some time in the past. How does Robicheaux feel about Albert? “I loved Albert and felt bad for him. I hadn’t meant to hurt him or remind him of the loss of his wife or call up the feelings of loneliness and mortality that beset all of us when we live longer than perhaps we should.” (252) In short, Burke is reaching for an elusive thread that reveals that “good guys” and “bad guys,” if they live long enough, are not very clearly different from each other. Some pessimism, I suppose. But the older I get, the truer it feels to me.

And later, one more distinction to draw: malevolence as it relates to evil. There are lots of cruel people. But even in understanding that, Burke offers this apologia. Robicheaux says, “I have known many cruel people in my life. Their cruelty, in my opinion, was the mask for their fear. It’s as simple as that.” (280) I must concur. I’ve never known a bully who wasn’t a coward; I’ve never known a cruel person who wasn’t fearful of someone being cruel to them first. Can we still love humanity if we know these things?

If all of this existential dourness is true, what is the point of reading a Dave Robicheaux novel? Or reading at all? Or breathing?

“I have never set much store in psychological stability or what we refer to as normalcy. I don’t believe the world is a rational place; nor do I believe that either science or the study of metaphysics can explain any of the great mysteries. I have always fled the presence of those who claim they know the truth about anything. I agree with George Bernard Shaw’s statement that we learn little or nothing from rational people, because rational people adapt themselves to the world and, consequently, are seldom visionary.” (604)

And so, throughout history, the artists have thrown in with the crazy, the deluded, the drunkards, the addicts, the other artists.

Whether we like it or not, we are approaching the end of the life of Burke. He has written a shelf-full of fiction and what does a writer like that generate after a lifetime of examining the human condition? How about this pearl?

From the epilogue, Dave Robicheaux says:

“I have never bought into the notion that time is linear, in the same way I feel that straight lines are a superimposition on the natural world and contravene the impetus that drives it. All matter aspires to roundness and symmetry, in the same way that seasons are cyclical and that God in His way slays Himself with every leaf that flies. In other words, inside eternity, the alpha and omega meet and end at the same place. I guess a simpler way of saying it is that things are often not as they appear.” (627)

Thus it is with evil.

Open Letter to the White House

Trump,

I wanted to start this letter on the 100th day of your Presidency but I couldn’t wait. I fear I won’t recognize my country by then. I also wanted to start it with “Dear President Donald Trump,” but I couldn’t force myself to type those words. I’m not alone in that. Courtesy considered but not extended.

In addition, I wanted to avoid reference to specific policies. I might agree with your action on TPP and oppose your restrictions on immigration, but that is not the point. My objection is deeper. It is to the WAY you approach the office that I think is most damaging. Please consider a different approach in governance. Please consider “presiding” rather than “ruling.” I know Bannon will not agree with that offering. There is nothing about that man that is (small d) democratic. But your place in history depends on that simple choice.

America has survived several “bad” presidents. It has also failed to progress during periods governed by brilliant men who didn’t seem to have the knack for leadership. Which way will you want to be remembered? Today, going on only these few first days, it looks like you think a President issues edicts. There is something to be said for unilateral action by a President when faced with a recalcitrant congress or opposition. You certainly don’t have a recalcitrant Congress. This is a Republican majority Senate, House and, if they approve your recommendation for the Supreme Court, it will be a conservative majority court as well. In that situation, using the prescribed processes for legislation goes much further in creating an image of a President of the United States using the power of government, proving that elections have consequences. But twenty Executive Orders in ten days shows a different kind of personality. It seems you don’t trust your Senate or House. Do you fear they will turn on you? And you don’t seem to trust the Courts. I know, it takes a long time to have the courts review and rule. You appear to only trust the unilateral powers of the office of the President and you are apparently dedicated to the exercise and expansion of those powers.

In this way you appear to me to be very much like Nixon but far more impatient and less respectful of the legislative process of representative democracy. How else should I take it? That begins to look like disrespect for and assault on the state itself. And it’s not like Bannon hasn’t said exactly that kind of thing very recently in public. I’m open to a different interpretation, but I don’t find one. People are using the words “coup,” “war,” “shadow leader” and the like. No one is asserting this is a “military junta.” In many ways the military is as shocked over these actions as the rest of the American populace.

This blitzkrieg of orders has me looking for historical counterparts. I can only find them in the worst possible scenarios. All of them fall variously into the term “regime change.” And I understand about how political thinking and action tends to run in cycles. It is often called a pendulum swing. But in this case, it feels like the clock fell off the wall and is bounding across the floor, spraying springs and gears with each overreaching new order. I think your approach most resembles Benito Mussolini’s rise to power, but others point to Hitler. I think Hitler is less like you, especially since, in the beginning, Hitler really admired Mussolini, even calling him a mentor. I don’t think you are working in admiration of anyone else, but the change in direction of our government might be more akin to other social and political revolutions. Lenin? Stalin? Mao? It may be too early to make those kinds of judgments. That is the purpose of this letter.

Please change the way you approach this job. You are not rescuing a failing company you just purchased at a discount. You can’t cut up its departments and sell off the ones that aren’t “producing.” It should be your goal to make them produce, not make them ineffective, weak and irrelevant. Government is very different from business. There should be no elite shareholders. We are all in this together. Think of us as customers.

I appeal to you today on a level I believe will have a chance of touching you. Your place in history is certain, now that you have ascended to the Presidency. The perception of your place in history is now up to how well you govern, how your hand holds the tiller of the ship of state. A tiller needs a steady hand with an eye on the safe passage of the ship. It does not need a hand looking for a chokehold, or a rapid change of course that can threaten to capsize us. I encourage you to reveal this kind of governance very soon. The waters are growing rougher each day. And the winds are dirty.

I have been an American for 66 years and I have never seen a fourteen-day span that has shaken my faith in leadership like these first two weeks of the days of Trump. Please consider moderating your approach. This might be my last polite appeal.

Sincerely,
Steve D. Marsh
American Citizen

Review: “Flaming London” (the second story in the volume Flaming Zeppelins, The Adventures of Ned the Seal) by Joe R. Lansdale

 

https://smile.amazon.com/Flaming-Zeppelins-Adventures-Ned-Seal/dp/1616960027/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1484674111&sr=8-1&keywords=Ned+the+Seal

If you are a cutting edge feminist of the 21st Century you will probably just want to skip this. There are almost no women characters in the story. The ones who are there, end up being pretty much about sex. There are a ton of dick jokes, big dongs, gigantic dongs, little dongs, average dongs, horse dongs, ape dongs, seal dongs, Native American dongs, old dongs, alien dongs, dongs from the future, pirate dongs, and double-assholed Martians. No, really. Just skip this one. Oh, and farts.

For the rest of us, probably mostly just the boys left now, I laughed a lot through this 150 page tale. Sometimes, just little chuckles, sometimes out loud guffaws. I’ll try to supply a couple of examples in the context of the following.

I had no way of knowing, but you will now, that the entire plot of this story is contained in a single paragraph before the story even starts. Turns out, that’s OK and me telling you isn’t even a spoiler.

PLOT
From the Autobiography of Ned the Seal, Adventurer Extraordinaire: “And I was there when the Martians came, and all the horrors that accompanied them. I was a companion of Samuel Clemens, otherwise known as the great novelist Mark Twain. I knew his friend, Jules Verne. I knew H. G. Wells. I knew the Lost Island. And I knew London when it was in flames. In my life, I have eaten many fish.”

SETTING
Well, various. Always on Earth (not all characters are so lucky). Always in the 19th Century (not all characters are so lucky). Mostly Europe although at least once on Mysterious Island and the coast of Africa (but that was an accident).

CHARACTERS
A bunch of boys with dongs, a sentient seal with a dong, a sentient giant red Ape from Mars with a giant dong, a forty foot mechanical man powered by steam with no dong. Passepartout (he’s about the same); The Flying Dutchman (about the same); pirates (particularly nasty, pyromaniacal and blood-thirsty ones); and more.

Ned the Seal. “I have thumbs, and I can do some things you wouldn’t imagine a seal might do, but the use of really fine motor skills in the area of grabbing and such is not a specialty. I can pull my dick. I do that well. But I’ve discovered that this isn’t an area of conversation that my companions wish to visit. They have, in fact, asked me not to do it while around them. I never learned that this whole yanking the tow line was a private matter… I’m a seal. I don’t wear britches. So, well, it’s out there when I get ready for it to be. I get the urge, it pokes out. I suppose, if I wore britches, I might not think about it as much.”

Twain.“…Twain noted that Jules’ depression…was passing. He was glad. Jules was a good man. A little more successful than himself…Well, a lot. But a good man. He just wished he were the one who was successful and Jules had a corn cob up his ass.”

Martians. (in conversation).
mine! ultu gets to kill.
no. mine. ultu can suck my asses
fatty.
smelly.

Rikwalk. “There was something different about the shape of (the ape’s) head, the very human eyes (which, later, in better light I saw to be green) the thin lips and full ears with lobes. He stood more upright, and unlike apes, who have small penises, this guy had a goober that looked like a four-foot switch handle hammer, testicles like grapefruits.”

Rikwalk is also from Mars but not the same Mars as the Martians…“a lush Mars, ripe as a nubile virgin in stretch pants.”

Jules Verne.  “Verne was on the second-floor landing, sitting with pen and paper, working on a dark novel about Paris, thinking about how old he felt, the loss of his wife and children, who had gone off to live somewhere in France with the explorer Phileas Fogg…He wished he had his children back, and his wife had a hot croissant up her ass, and Fogg had one too. Neither croissant buttered, and both day old and stiff.”

Herbert G. Wells. He says The Time Machine was not fiction but mere “reporting.”

POINT OF VIEW
Jumps around. And we forgive it. Some of it is written directly by Ned, the sentient seal in the first person. Sometimes it is in more conventional 3rd person. It’s OK, really. That part is probably written by Ned too. But once in a while it drifts over to 3rd person omniscient. See next paragraph.

There is also a frequent dissolution of the conceit that the reader is a passive voyeur of the story. Example:

“Passepartout, pushed upright, put a foot on the side of the basket, grabbed a cable, went up swift and nimble as a monkey this time. The basket shook like dice in an eager gambler’s hand. (Note these similes. I read a lot and am quite proud of it. I am, after all, a seal.)”

And, at one point, Lansdale knows he has overstepped the narrator’s place and he writes:

“Omniscient narrator is getting a headache, baby, so he’s gonna back off…”

All of this has to happen because Lansdale is also writing about the Multiverse. That’s just the kind of trouble a writer runs into writing about that stuff. I think he is ultimately saying that the Multiverse really does exist in our creative consciousness. It is the writer’s consciousness that allows us to hold multiple and sometimes contradictory realities in our minds at the same time.

THEME
Mmmm…adventure? Episodic? Picaresque? Yup, a lot like the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, except it was a helium balloon and not a raft, and we were escaping invading Martians not slave hunters, and finding H. G. Wells was the destination instead of Aunt Sally’s. And we are not traveling with Jim, the runaway slave, but rather, with Samuel Clemens himself. Pretty clever really. Nice homage…with dongs.

I can’t wait for this to become a movie series like Guardians of the Galaxy. Groot!

PS I also downloaded and read the 19th Century Dime Novel entitled The Huge Hunter, or The Steam Man of the Prairies by Edward S. Ellis. It is pretty horrible as you might imagine, but it gave me a sense of the kind of reading Lansdale did to get ready to write this story. Read about it here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Steam_Man_of_the_Prairies
And if you want, download it for free here: https://smile.amazon.com/Huge-Hunter-Steam-Man-Prairies-ebook/dp/B0084AS5WS/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1484673253&sr=8-2&keywords=Steam+Man+of+the+Prairies

Historically, it was the first US science fiction dime novel. So add a little history to your consciousness. Note that this was a series whose intended audience was boys as well and featured most of the elements of the age of invention.

If you have more than a passing interest in science fiction, you should not pass Ned’s story up. It is such an amazing homage to the genre’s early work. For that, I give it 5 stars…unless you’re a feminist. If that is the case, just skip this one.

Review: Zeppelins West, Joe R. Lansdale

For clarity, this volume contains two longish novellas. This review is of only one, the first: Zeppelins West. It is approximately half of the volume Flaming Zeppelins, The Adventures of Ned the Seal by Joe R. Lansdale.

https://smile.amazon.com/Flaming-Zeppelins-Adventures-Ned-Seal-ebook/dp/B01MQT5VKS/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1484083117&sr=1-1&keywords=flaming+zeppelins

If you come to Joe Lansdale via his Hap and Leonard series, as I did, you might not recognize this weird volume. It is the oddest and funniest thing of Lansdale’s that I have read.

Go ahead, other lesser writers. Try to put a novel together that uses characters from history, embellishments from fiction and more than one homage to other writers of certain genres. You can’t do it like this.

Characters:
The head of Buffalo Bill Cody
Ned Buntline, author of dime novels about Wild Bill Hickok https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ned_Buntline
(of course) Wild Bill Hickok
Annie Oakley
Sitting Bull
Captain Jack Crawford, the poet scout https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Wallace_Crawford
Japanese biplane pilots
A fleet of zeppelins
A midget named Goober
Frank Reade (and his steam man) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frank_Reade
Takeda Sokaku https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Takeda_S%C5%8Dkaku

And a bunch of others all make appearances in the first ten pages of this story. As if trying to place all of these historical characters next to each other weren’t disjointing enough, later he sends in Dr. Moreau (Dr. Momo), Captain Nemo (Captain Bemo), Frankenstein’s monster (Bert), Tin the Wizard of Oz Tin Man and others.

All of them are in interaction with Ned the Seal who doesn’t speak but who writes notes in a notebook hung around his neck.

Plot:
A lot of things happen one after the other

Theme:
Kind of a love story???

Let me just give you a series of quotes:

Sitting Bull, in conversation with Wild Bill Hickok.

“Howdy, Bull,” Hickok said…the earth went by in black and green patches, the Pacific Ocean swelled into view, dark blue and forever.
“Been across big water many times,” Bull said. “Still fucks me over.”
“Me too,” Hickok said.
“Deep. Big fish with teeth. Makes Bull’s tent peg small.”

Performance poets, please consider this:

“Captain Jack Crawford, the poet scout, appeared on deck. He was dressed in his beaded buckskins and wore a tan hat, the brim of which snapped in the wind. He was seldom seen without his hat. What most didn’t know was that his hair, though long on the sides, was bald on top. Scalped by Cheyenne summer of ’76 was the story he told, but in actuality he had been held down after a poetry reading by some miners, and with the help of Oscar Wilde, who was touring the West at the time, they had scalped him as punishment for his poetry. Literary criticism at its most brutal.”

Later, Crawford says:

“Well, I doubt I’ll be doing any recitations in Japan,” Jack said. “They don’t speak English.”
“How bad of Japanese not speak English, “ Bull said. “Like dirty Indians who speak Indian words, not English.”
“Custer killer,” Captain Jack said.
“White eye motherfucker in wrong place at wrong time,” Bull said. “Know Custer your friend, Hickok, but Custer still a motherfucker.”

Later Tin and Bert, Frankenstein’s monster, fall in love and we are given peeks into their love life. In fact, the end of the story concludes with their romance as they are whisked away to a foreign world with two moons through the use of Dorothy’s (Dot) magic slippers. That’s why I think this is a love story.

“Tin and Bert live there.
Bert has fish and fruit to eat.
Tin uses oil made from plants and fish to keep himself functional.
All day they talk and walk and at night they lie together.
The sun comes up. The sun goes down.
The moons come up. The moons go down.
The Tin Man’s chest feels warm, as if a heart beats there.
Bert, the monster Frankenstein built of dead bodies, feels very much alive.
And the two of them together, feel rich and full of soul.”

Review: Prisoner 489 by Joe R. Lansdale

https://smile.amazon.com/Prisoner-489-Joe-R-Lansdale/dp/1626410739/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1483467699&sr=8-2&keywords=489

I asked my family for all the Joe Lansdale titles I had not yet collected for Christmas presents this year. They came through just fine!

Joe Lansdale is a master of modern writing. He does not pigeon-hole himself into one genre or another. Thrillers, sci-fi, fantasy, detectives, short stories, novellas, longer novels, series writing. This guy is a modern master. I look up to him.

This little novella is hardly more than a very long short story. It begins on page 11 and it finishes on page 82. It contains 8 pages of illustration inside that range. I’m certain it is intended to be read in a single sitting, although I ended up breaking it into two pieces. I’m kind of happy I finished it in the daylight. This is a creepy story.

It is written in third person past tense. Only four human characters engage in all the action. (There is, of course, the “other” dark force and, although it clearly has intent and will, it does not speak.) All characters are associated with a prison and all may be prisoners on special assignment. Or they may not. It doesn’t really matter since they all have some good in them and are just trying to do their jobs. I’m about 88% sure that good prevails at the end of this story.

The action all takes place on an island. Lansdale refers to actions which take place on a neighboring island where the prison is located. The use of an island is excellent because we know no one is coming to save the day. In fact, we know that the protagonist(s) cannot escape to save themselves. Pretty smart writing.

I won’t tell you the story; that wouldn’t be fair. I will tell you that there are passages of excellent horror and moments that, if read before bed, might induce some disturbing sleep images. Here’s a favorite.

“…Slowly, it lifted its head to the cloud-touched moon, and that howl, that dreadful howl, that sound that uncoiled from inside the (bad guy), came out. It was both frightening and depressing. It was like the howl of something or someone that had just realized it was missing something important, and that the lack of it was an awareness so dark and deep there was no crawling out of it. It was a sound that made Bernard feel all the evil in the world, all the futility and disappointment of life, of his own life. It was a howl that reached down deep inside of him and touched a hidden nerve so buried, causing it to throb. Bernard felt that his life and all the lives that were being lived, had lived or would be lived were nothing more than desperation personified.”

Nice.

One other thing that Lansdale does as well as anyone, and better than almost all, is the interjection of humor into the horror. I’m not sure how that happens in the mind of a horror writer but here’s how it looks on the page in dialog. The heroes have hatched a plan to stop the evil.

“Bernard and Wilson scrambled into the dozer. Bernard said, “You ever play cowboy?”
“What?”
“Ever roped a cow?”
“Of course not. But if you would like to take the time to explain it to me, nothing would please me more, except for that whole giant, bad-ass monster shit.”

N’yuck, n’yuck.

The most distressing part of this little publication (Dark Regions Press, 2014) is that it suffers from a few instances of poor editing. I kind of hate editing errors. There is no real excuse for them, but here’s a sampling of what I found. Do these set your grammar nerves on edge?

1. How about this three sentence set?
“Bernard moved through the split in the trees, walking back the way they had came. Wilson caught up with him obviously not wishing to be left alone.
“They came to where the trees broke and stood where the dozer had come.”

2. Or the reference to how one could “wreck vengeance?”

There are others, but I’ll leave them to your discerning eye. Anyway, typos and editorial errors aren’t really the fault of the writer.

Lastly, it is, as I indicated, an illustrated version of the story, and, while the illustrations are suitably gray and gloomy, I’m not convinced that they add that much to the publication. But they don’t really distract too much either. So, there’s that.

Overall, it gets a 4 star rating on Amazon but the sole 1 star review and one of two 2 star reviews admit that the readers don’t seem to like the horror genre very much. I would assign those readers low stars for buying a book about stuff they don’t like. You like horror? You like hints of the occult? Dig this one.

Burning Barns

Barns burn. It does not matter what materials are used to construct the barns because what is stored inside of them is combustible—spontaneously combustible sometimes. What virtually no one out in barn country ever really understands is, why some barns burn and others do not. Bad luck? Karma? Cheap wiring? I suppose that was the kind of question in everyone’s mind when Sam Combs’ barn burned up on the hill.

Our barn burned a year before. I was eleven.

“Musta been spontaneous combustion,“ my father had told the Fire Chief. If he could have, Dad would have winked at me. I could see the amusement on his face glowing through the sooty sweat and dancing in his eyes beneath the black smear across his forehead. The fire actually continued to smolder for almost two full days and nights but the smoky smells lasted even longer. It was in our hair, on our clothes, even in the air. It diminished with washing and time, but its unmistakable, persistent tinge remained on the edge of everything for days. I wondered if it hadn’t embedded itself right into our skin, tagging us with the crime of arson.

Earlier that day, even though I was probably supposed to overhear my father tell my mother that the barn might burn, I didn’t like the idea. Our barn, in a family that didn’t actually farm, was given over to children and to fantasy. There was no livestock, no expensive equipment, no feed to store, no harvest to tuck high up under its eaves. The barn belonged to fun and solitude and a few dozen sparrows and starlings. I had read my first real book in that barn—an old copy of The Wizard of Oz. And later, intending to read it again, I had lost it in the stale old hay in the loft. If the barn burned, so would that lost book.

A barn is a living community of itself, independent of what humans might place inside. Mice and rats, cats, thousands of insects, sometimes a coon, sparrows by the hundred visit and roost, grackles, starlings, swallows and barn owls. It was in that barn I had first taken life–a blue-gray pigeon struck neatly between the eyes by a BB from my Daisy. It had fallen from the rafters, dead before it struck the dusty, worn floorboards. It bounced a little when it landed, raising a little of that dust which rose in long streaks of sunlight slanting through holes in the roof.

It was in this barn I first felt the sulfurous presence of unanticipated death. While my BBs delivered death with stinging purpose, it was on a Sunday summer morning the realer truth was revealed. I had found five kittens in a nest attended by a cat I had never seen before. They were tucked deep in the granary, wrapped in old hay and straw. The next morning there were only four. I knew that newborns sometimes die and I reasoned that the mother cat had discovered her dead kitten and had removed it from the nest. But the next morning, when I pulled back the straw surrounding them, the four tiny bodies lay still. In the night, a weasel had chewed their heads off. The nest was nearly bloodless. I did not know until that moment that animals sometimes kill for sport as well.

A rope hung from the ridgepole of our barn. Once there had been a pulley mounted by hardware up there, but when my family had arrived and the barn had stopped functioning as a barn, the pulley was gone and the inch-thick manila rope had hung from a giant knot since we bought the property four years before. My younger sisters and I would swing out on the rope over the empty floor. At the far end of the arc, for that brief moment of motionlessness, we could look down at the old brown, wide floor boards, twist our bodies in mid-air with the trick of scissoring the lower legs, then rush back to the opposite side of the open bay and land with feet on top of the old chute used for feeding cattle in the lower level during some previous incarnation.

We held contests. Swing farthest? Swing longest? Climb highest? Swing one handed, no feet, upside down? I won most of the contests because I was the oldest and the strongest. Older brothers are not out-done by younger sisters in the world of swinging on ropes. The contests I lost, we argued about until I won the argument.

Only once did one of my sisters fall. Karla had tried to swing with one hand and even before she had reached the full arc of the swing, she had dropped off. It seemed as though the rope had shed itself of her annoying little weight in its struggle against gravity and angular momentum. She landed on the planked floor about the way the dead pigeon had landed. Not one of the three of us moved, but dust rose in the bars of sunlight. When she sat up, we all laughed.

I’m sure I did not recall these scenes when my father spoke of burning the barn. But, I’m also sure that somewhere within me I knew if the barn burned so would all of these things. It sounded even then like my dad had decided to render a large piece of my childhood to ash and memory.

Dad and I prepared for the burn. What would a man and a boy need to render an eighty year old barn to ash? We hauled a broom, two rakes and the garden hose over to the barn in a wheelbarrow at about mid-day. That was the extent of our fire suppression equipment and our entire plan. Dad leaned over and flicked the striker wheel of his Zippo and held the tiny yellow and blue flame in a moldering pile of straw. The fire caught but spread very slowly in the dampness. Thick, wet, yellow clots of smoke roped out of the pile and lay heavily on top, but very gradually the fire spread. The hapless mound of straw burned almost completely but failed to ignite any part of the old barn. It just stood there, like it had for decades, squatting indifferently on its cut rock foundation.

“Go get the wastepaper.”

We piled the paper trash next to an old weather beaten wall. The windows had been out of the milking parlor years before we arrived. We piled a few loose boards and an old wooden box on top and lit it again. This time it did not take long before flames began to creep up the dry barn wood, marking its trails sooty black.

Occasionally my father would wet down a wall or a beam with the garden hose, but only enough to control the fire to the point where we could stand nearby. Flames began to curl out of the basement door and a column of gray smoke wound its way into the cloudless sky. It became a silent signal visible for miles.

Hank Pruden, who rented the farm next to us from Sam Combs came running down the hill.  He was an older man than my father, perhaps fifty-five with gray burr cut hair and a perpetual three-day stubble of white whiskers. He always wore the same aging cloth hat with a stained sweatband. He carried an old blanket in front of him. The corners flapped as he ran and I expected him to trip and fall in the dust with each lanky stride. He did not.

Hank loped up to us winded.

“I called the fire department, Harold.” But when he saw my father’s face, Hank’s expression changed from concern, near panic, to confusion. And then, as his face revealed the first scratch of understanding, he asked, “What the hell you doin’?”

“Burnin’ the barn.” Dad’s voice was calm. His gaze was level and expressionless as he looked through the blackening doorway into the fire. A fine mist of water drifted up into the air a few feet from a slightly defective repair of the old hose. By now rushing smoke was visible through the windows on the main floor of the barn. “Gonna get pretty hot,” he added.

“Ya gone crazy, man?” Hank stared back and forth between the fire, my father’s face, which he saw in profile, and the hose which my father held but did not apply to the fire. The blanket he had brought with him, presumably to help smother and beat out any small element, hung forgotten in Hank’s right hand.

The fire was very large now. We stepped back several yards from the heat. I still wanted to shade my eyes with my hand, but neither one of the men did, so I didn’t either. Flames rose out of the windows above. The barn was filled with a furious noise. Swallows flew wildly near the large open doors. A loud cracking, like the firing of a gun, came from somewhere in the basement and I thought I saw the barn settle into itself a little. My father squirted a few ineffectual gallons of water into the doorway which did nothing to the furious intensity of the flames. We stepped back a few more paces and Dad sent me back to the house to turn off the hose. It wouldn’t be needed for the rest of the way. From the greater distance I could see huge billows of white-gray smoke roll out of every opening and stretch out against the blue of the June sky. Two and a half miles away, in town, I heard the first sirens of the volunteer fire department begin to scream. The first pumper was on its way.

In less than five minutes that pumper and the volunteers on board came rolling into our driveway and across the open space toward the barn, stirring up a great brown cloud of dust which hung in the windless air and mixed with the light gray smoke. Hoses unrolled, connected to the high pressure pumps. White arcs of water joined the smoke and dust in the blue, June sky and landed on the old shake shingles. Almost simultaneously, the first wisps of flame peeked out from beneath them.

Everyone knew no amount of fireman effort would save the building. It was only a matter of controlling the blaze now so that it wouldn’t spread to the other out-buildings or our home. That’s what Fire Chief Ellis told my father. I had met him two months before on a trip to the fire station with the Boy Scouts.

“Let it spread,” my father said. “They’ll have to come down anyway. Save me some work.”

It must have been my father’s lucky day. When the barn’s walls and roof collapsed in on itself, one wall fell outward, so the corn crib and the chicken coop burned too. We had no corn and no chickens so it was no bigger loss than the barn. It took the firefighters until dusk to be sure the fire was under control.

The sun slipped slowly over the horizon in the west. As clear as the day had been, the sunset was a wash of gold and orange, probably from the smoke in the immediate area. But the sunset show wasn’t nearly as spectacular as it could have been after the day we had had. Darkness finally gained a footing and everything around the remains of the fire wavered in and out of a dull, red iron glow, almost as though seen from underwater. Faces seemed full of lines and wrinkles. The skin on my own face felt dry and tight and smooth. Apparent textures and patterns were not to be trusted.

That’s when my father suggested spontaneous combustion to the fire chief. I’m sure Chief Ellis didn’t believe him, but that’s what he wrote down on the fire report, without comment.

In fact, of course, spontaneous combustion was the most unlikely of causes. If Dad meant to imply that the hay had combusted, the Chief knew it was completely unlikely. The remnants of hay in the barn were pretty low. No one had stored hay in the barn for more than a decade. The hay was as dry as possible and only damp hay is likely to spontaneously combust. We had no wet hay and it hadn’t rained in days. It wasn’t oily paint rags either. No linseed oil in the barn, no paint, no stain. The barn itself hadn’t been painted or stained or oiled in at least forty years. An electrical arc? The barn was wired primitively, but the source of power had been severed before we took over the property. Chief knew. Dad knew the Chief knew. I knew they both knew. And that is what he wrote down.

In retrospect, it doesn’t really matter what caused the fire. It was the result my dad was after. Even as a child, I understood that it made good sense to spend a day burning the barn down rather than to use weeks in tearing it down; a simple matter of economy of labor. Risks were high both ways. But the barn was old and a hazard, an attractive one. We didn’t farm; we had no livestock or farm equipment to house. A barn is not the kind of structure that can be easily moved, so it had to burn. It was a marvelous show with all the elements necessary to be regarded as a success by an eleven year old boy. And sitting here, more than fifty years later, I can still see those glowing embers after sunset. Still sense the heat on my face.

But when Sam Comb’s barn burned, it wasn’t spontaneous combustion–planned or otherwise. I knew it and  so did Jimmy Kirkland.

Jimmy was Hank Pruden’s nephew. He visited his uncle often enough that I had met him several times. We were tossed together because we were boys about the same age. Everyone was sure we would be best friends. I had formed an opinion of Jimmy. But living in the country, a boy doesn’t have much choice in playmates. Besides, other than my sisters, the only other kid within a mile was Estelle Rivers. And, at twelve, I didn’t want anything to do with her. At school there were stories. And I could still remember what Mrs. Blanchard did to Donny Murphy and me when she caught us watching Estelle climb the monkey bars in third grade. Donnie had bet her his milk money that she didn’t dare to take off her underwear and climb to the top while he and I sat on the ground and watched. Donny lost his milk money, and both of us nearly lost an ear to Mrs. Blanchard on the trip to the principal’s office.

Jimmy wasn’t much better than Donny though. He swore. It wasn’t the swearing that bothered me. I had heard plenty from my father. It was the fact that Jimmy was more than a year younger than me and I wouldn’t dare say the things he said. And he stole chewing tobacco and cigarettes from Hank. He offered me a chew once saying I was chicken if I didn’t try it. I was sick for a day. Jimmy never got sick. More important, Jimmy was a better athlete than me. He climbed around the rafters of the barn like an old barn rat. He could climb a rope hand-over-hand while I was still on the ground with the thought of going so high.

One crisp Saturday morning in late Spring, I saw Jimmy’s family car pull into Hank’s driveway and make the slow crawl in first gear up to the house. I was burning the papers. It was one of my twice a week family chores. My mother saw the car too.

“Why don’t you go up to Hank’s and play with Jimmy?” she asked when I returned to the house.

“I don’t really want to, Mom.” But I couldn’t think of an excuse to stay home.

“With your sisters at Grandma’s for the weekend, there’s nothing for you to do around here. You took out the trash?”

“Yes.”

“Is your room picked up?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“Then off you go. Here’s your jacket.”

I was outdoors and trudging up the hill to Hank’s house before I could make an excuse. The strong April wind pushed me and, reluctantly, I let it carry me up the hill.

Jimmy met me in the doorway to the barn.

“C’mon. I’ll race you up to the loft.” He turned and disappeared inside the dusty interior.

Half-heartedly, I followed him inside. The wind slammed the door behind me. As my eyes adjusted to the relative dimness within, I could see Jimmy scrambling up the old wooden ladder nailed to the side of the granary. He vaulted the top rung and landed in the loft before I had reached the bottom of the ladder.

“C’mon,” he bellowed down to me. “Goddammit, you’re slow.”

When my eyes cleared the top of the ladder, I saw Jimmy rummaging through a pile of hay in the furthest corner of the loft. He dug like a dog, both hands throwing tufts of hay backward through his legs at me. The dust, which rose in sharp angular shafts of light, also permeated my nostrils and set up a little itch in the back of my throat.

I stood up uneasily. The floor of the loft felt spongy beneath my feet and I took a quick glance backward to the floor of the barn some fifteen feet below. The wind pushed against the side of the barn; old timbers complained a little at the strain.

“What’re you doing?” I asked.

“I got something for ya. Look!” Jimmy held up something concealed in a football-sized bundle of hay. I walked closer.

He was peeling off pieces of hay, revealing a little book and a long necked beer bottle. “What’s that?”

“Applejack.” Uncle Hank’s got about a hundred of ‘em in his fruit cellar.” He dug into his pocket and produced an old jack knife with a bottle opener. I heard a little hiss when he flipped the cap off. He tipped the bottle to his lips.

“Oooh…here.” He offered me the bottle.

“What is it?”

“I already told ya. It’s applejack.” I had nothing to say. The liquid looked dark with small pulpy specks through the brown glass. “It’s kinda like cider,” Jimmy offered.

I took a small swallow. It wasn’t cider. It was bitter like beer and it was warm. But it did taste like apples a little bit. At least it smelled a little like apples. After I swallowed, it tasted like apples might have tasted last fall, if you mixed that taste with the way Hank’s fruit cellar smelled. I handed the bottle back.

“Where’d you get it?”

“Man, you don’t even try to listen. I told you that too. In the fruit cellar. Goddammit, you’re dumb.”

“Well, I mean, did he just give it to you?”

“Nah, I just took it. It was easy. He won’t miss it. There’s a ton of bottles down there.” He took another drink and handed the bottle back to me. I made myself swallow some more and was surprised that it didn’t taste as bad the second time. It made my tongue a little warm and that warmth spread naturally and slowly down my throat into my stomach.

Jimmy sat down with the bottle of applejack between his legs. He opened the book. I stood, looking over his shoulder for a moment, then, I too sat, cross-legged. It looks like a comic book only the pictures had no color. It was old too. The leaves had yellowed and the edges of each page were dirty as though it had been paged through many times before.

“What’s the comic book for?”

“This ain’t a comic book, dummy.” He handed it to me. “It’s got pictures of people doin’ it.”

“Doing what?” I asked, even though, dimly, I thought I knew what he was talking about.

“Goddammit! Doing IT…IT!”

The book about doing IT was called, “Driving Her Home” and was the story of a young black chauffeur whose employer was a beautiful white woman who apparently loved doing IT. But they didn’t just do IT, they did all of IT in exaggerated detail, in line drawings suitable to offset printing. They even did it with a cop who caught them parking in the limousine. The cartoon balloons were filled with words but you didn’t need to read them to follow the plot. They said things like, “Oooh, Honey, don’t that feel goooood?” and “Give me all of it.” It wasn’t the dialogue that kept my interest though. Sometimes, I ran into a term or a picture I didn’t understand, but as we drank the applejack, Jimmy explained each one. He also reminded me of my ignorance each time. For about twenty minutes Jimmy’s favorite line was “I can’t believe you don’t know that; you’re older than me and you don’t know THAT?”

We read the book three times and each time we came to the end I was more amazed at what the three of them did to each other. Eventually, the applejack was gone and there didn’t seem to be any point to giving the story a fourth reading.

“Where’d you find that book?”

“In my dad’s dresser drawer.”

“What’ll he do if he catches you with it?”

“Ah, he won’t miss it. He’s got about a hundred of ‘em. There’s even one about a fat lady in the circus. You oughta see that one. An’ one about a teacher who keeps bending over in class with these really short skirts, and all the guys get hard-ons, an’ stuff.”

The image of Miss Swain bending over in a really short skirt brought new unanswerable questions to mind.

“Can I get one of these?” I asked.

“You can have this one if you got anything to trade.”

I knew I didn’t have anything even close in value. I rummaged through my pockets anyway. It was all junk: the applejack bottle cap, a book of matches left over from burning the papers, seven cents.

Jimmy took the book from me and started to place it back in the loose pile of hay in the corner of the loft. “Maybe next time you’ll have something. Besides, maybe I’ll go get Estelle and show her later on.”

I looked at my watch; it was nearly time for lunch. “I gotta go eat, but I’ll be back this afternoon with something for you.”

“How ‘bout your watch? All that other junk and your watch.”

The watch was a Christmas present from my grandmother. It was off my wrist in a second and added to the pile.

“And you gotta promise not to tell anyone where you got it if you get caught.”

“I promise.”

“I still don’t know. You’re so goddam dumb, you’d prob’ly run home and ask yer mom to explain something you didn’t understand.”

“I would not! You know I wouldn’t. She’d kill me.” The deal still wasn’t done and I was out of bargaining chips.

“Awright. But say it again.”

“Say what?”

“Say you won’t tell.”

“I won’t, I swear.”

“Spit.”

I spat.

Jimmy picked up his pile of trinkets and I slid the book inside my shirt next to my flesh. It felt cool and promising. Jimmy strapped his new watch to his wrist and looked at it. He put the money in his pocket and threw the bottle cap the length of the barn. “That’s just junk. Why’d you put that in your pocket?”

“I don’t know. I just did.”

He opened the book of matches and pulled out two. “Let’s play chicken.”

“How do you do that?”

“You’re so goddam dumb. Watch.”

He held two matches together as though they were only one match and  struck them. They flared. The double strong cloud of blue-gray sulfur smoke lifted into my nose and made my eyes water. He handed one burning match to me.

“You gotta see who can hold onto the match the longest.”

The flames slowly ate their way down the shafts of the matches. We didn’t say anything. The wind made the rafters creak again as it squeezed flat against the outside of the old barn. We heard a strong gust and the flap of a pigeon’s wings in the very peak. I walked the tips of my finger and thumb down to the very end and away from the first taste of heat. I stole a quick glance at Jimmy’s match. I was sure it was shorter than mine. I had him. I could be better than him at something. Again I felt the heat begin to eat at my thumb. I moved my hand slowly back and forth, horizontally, to draft the heat away from my fingertips.

“That’s cheating!” shouted Jimmy. “Ahh!” and he flipped his match away. “You cheated. You tried to blow out the match.”

“Did not.” I showed him the still burning match and then blew it out, acting like my thumb didn’t hurt. I put the burnt match in my shirt pocket and then hid my thumb behind my back.

Jimmy’s match had fallen into the hay near the empty applejack bottle and we both saw the smoke at the same moment.

“Shit! Get it out!”

The fire was only as big around as a record album and we both began to stomp at it with out feet. As each foot fell, the ensuing puff of air scattered tiny sparks and bits of burning hay to surrounding areas.

“Hurry up! Hurry up! Somewhere, just on the other side of Jimmy’s voice, I could hear fear, clear and cold. I cannot now explain what happened but knowing that Jimmy was fearful had produced a new calm in me. I didn’t feel so “goddamn dumb” any more. Even though I could see the fire was larger now, I knew I could control the situation. I kicked hay away from the fire in a doughnut shaped circle until only about enough hay to fill a bushel basked remained afire in the middle of the firebreak.

“Piss,” I said. The word felt deliciously dirty coming out of my mouth as a command. Jimmy looked at me and then back at the fire.

“Piss!” I said louder.

We pissed. The hay hissed. Then quietened. The fire was out, leaving that distinctive odor in the air that only pissing on a fire can produce.

“You won’t tell anyone, will ya?” Jimmy looked at me with pleading eyes, for the first time ever.

“I can’t,” I said, showing him the blister on my thumb. “Evidence is against me.” The blister was not large; it arced just over the curve from my thumbnail.

We covered the bare spot on the floor with more hay and arranged it so that nothing appeared unusual. I led the way down the ladder from the loft, jumping from the third rung. Jimmy climbed each step carefully all the way to the floor.

“You coming back up after lunch?” he asked me as I started to walk down the hill toward my home.

“Nah. I’ve got some reading to do,” I said, patting the book beneath my shirt.

Later that afternoon, after lunch, I pulled the book from beneath my mattress where I had hidden it. I read it again and once more, wishing I had asked more questions. I fell asleep with the book and dreamed about barn swallows catching mosquitoes at dusk.

Sirens woke me. In a move, I hid the book beneath my mattress again. The sirens were the first fire trucks coming for Sam Comb’s barn. It was a total loss as well as several pieces of stored equipment. The April winds worked the fire like a blast furnace, blowing bits of burning debris and showers of sparks toward Hank’s house. It was a difficult fire to contain. The barn was very near the driveway and the house sat directly across from it. At one point the firemen told Hank to start hauling furniture and personal belongings out of the house through the parlor door on the front of the house. A small pile of old furniture and clothing began to accumulate a hundred yards down the hill. As it turned out, the house didn’t burn but the asphalt shingles on the barn side of the roof melted. My father and I helped Hank re-shingle later that Spring.

Darkness made it way up the hill while we stood around the last dying parts of the barn fire, shifting our weight silently from one foot to the other. Chief Ellis had already started questioning everyone at the beginning of his investigation. This investigation was all business. There would be a big insurance claim, there could be criminal charges. His entire body approached these questions differently, more stern, less likely to take foolishness. It didn’t take the Chief long to get around to my father.

“‘Another fire out here, Harold.” Not exactly a question.

“Yup.”

“Know anything about it?”

“Got pretty hot…most of the afternoon.”

“What do you s’pose caused it?”

“Well, if I knew that they’d make me fire chief.”

“No green hay stored in this one, was there?”

“Couldn’t say. Better ask Hank.”

“Wasn’t any green hay stored in your barn last year, was there?”

“Hard to recall so long ago. What’s that got to do with this fire?”

“Nothing. Maybe.”

Ellis asked others about what they knew. Did anyone see anything suspicious? Any strangers around the barn? What about kids? That’s when Ellis began to focus his questioning on Jimmy Kirkland and me.

Ellis asked, “Were you boys in the barn today?”

It was futile to lie about that. Everyone knew we had been. Our silence was an admission.

“Where ‘bouts in the barn were you?”

“Up in the loft,” Jimmy answered. I heard the same fear in his voice that I had heard earlier in the day.

Ellis pressed. “What were you doing up there?”

“Just messing around,” Jimmy’s body literally squirmed as he said this.

“‘Just messing around’ with what?” Ellis had made his voice sound a little like a pathetic kid’s voice.

“Just talking and stuff.” Jimmy couldn’t make eye contact with the Chief.

“Were you supposed to be up there?”

“It’s OK. Uncle Hank says it’s OK.”

“Is that right, Hank? OK if these boys go up in the barn without anyone around?”

“Yup, these boys been up there a hundred times. Never been no trouble. “ Smoke streaked Hank’s face. He looked older.

Ellis came back at Jimmy. “Did you boys set fire to the barn?”

Jimmy started crying. I had never seen Jimmy cry. He was crying like a baby. The chief looked at me. I looked at Jimmy and promised myself I wouldn’t cry like that.

“No, sir,” I said. And that was true, I thought. We had put the fire out.

“What did you do in the barn this morning?”

I hesitated again and looked at Jimmy wiping the tears, leaving triangles of clean on his smoky face. “We drank a bottle of applejack,” I said in a quiet voice. Jimmy looked at his uncle.

“Where’d you get applejack?”

Hank interrupted. “Jimmy got it out of my cellar. I saw him take it out to the barn ‘bout as soon as he got here this morning.”

“Are you in the habit of providing alcoholic beverages for young boys. Why didn’t you stop him?”

“‘Cuz I remember stealing applejack off’n my granpaw when I was ’bout Jimmy’s age.”

My mother had stood through everything silently but now she gave me that raised eyebrow that in our family meant, “we’ll talk later.”

“So, you boys went up in the loft and drank the applejack, right? The chief was back on us.

Jimmy didn’t look up. He nodded.

“Did you boys set fire to the barn?”

“No,” I asserted again. I tried to sound strong.

The chief paused a moment, pushed his Chief’s hat further back on his head and asked, “When did you leave the barn?”

“Lunchtime,” I said.

“That’s true,” my mother vouched. “He was home in time for lunch. Then he went to his room and fell asleep.”

“Prob’ly the applejack,” offered Hank.

“I checked on him around two,” said my mother. A quick flare of fear and guilt rose up the back of my neck as I hoped she had not seen the book.

Ellis turned back to Jimmy. “What about you, Jimmy? What did you do this afternoon?

“Ate lunch.”

“And after lunch?”

“Went for a walk.”

“Anybody go with you?

“No,” Jimmy’s voice was small and high again.

“Where’d you go?”

“The pond.”

“What pond?”

“Over there.” Jimmy pointed east, past the smoldering ruins of the barn to an old worked out gravel pit which lay between Hank’s house and Estelle Rivers’.

The chief looked at Hank and Hank nodded.

“I seen him headed that way right after lunch.”

“When’d you come back?”

“When I heard the sirens.” Jimmy’s voice was starting to grow a little confidence again and I believed him.

I kept envisioning the fire we had had in the loft that morning. I saw us pissing on it until the fire was dead. But my mind’s eye, like a microscopic camera, wandered down into the hay on the floor, through the dust and dimness into a crack in the floorboards of the loft. Deep inside the space between the planks I saw a tiny red ember glowing in the gray-brown dust as Jimmy and I spread a layer of dry hay over the top to conceal signs of the fire. I saw us leaving the barn and, like a pull away shot in the movies, I watched how, from the ceiling of the barn, a thread thin wisp of smoke reached tentatively above the hay and dissipated in the still air of the  barn. I saw the smallest of flames lick up out of the hay and spread across the floor of the loft and up the walls until the whole structure was enveloped in the conflagration while firetrucks roared heavily into the driveway.

“…else in the barn?” I wasn’t sure what the question was nor to whom it was addressed.

“Answer the man,” my father said to me.

“What?” I didn’t have anything else to say.

“Did you see anything else or anyone else in the barn today?”

“No, sir.” My voice was low. I looked at the ground.

“All right.” Ellis pulled his fire hat down over his forehead again. “I’m going to ask you boys one more time. And this time I want the truth. If you’re lying, I’ll find out sooner or later and there’s big trouble for anybody lying to the Fire Chief during the course of an official investigation.” I looked at my father.

“Did you boys set fire to this barn today?” He looked only at me and the look was hard.

Then the tears welled up. I blinked. I didn’t feel as guilty as I felt angry at myself for almost crying after I promised myself I wouldn’t. Ellis kept looking directly into my eyes. He didn’t blink or waver. I couldn’t force an answer.

“I said, did you boys set fire to this barn today?”

My father interrupted. “You asked that before, Ellis.”

The Chief’s eyes broke off mine and went to my father. “All right. I’m not trying to be too hard on them. It’s just that they’re the only ones we know were in that barn before the fire.” Then to us, “You boys go wait in the house while I ask some other people what’s going on around here.”

We both looked at the ground now as we walked toward Hank’s house, me in front, Jimmy right behind. We didn’t say a word until we were inside.

“Did you do it?” I asked.

Jimmy looked at me and his face seemed all stretched flat like a toad. His eyes bore no expression and his mouth was a straight line, just a slit in the bottom of his face.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered. “Goddammit I’m dumb sometimes.” He struck his thigh with his fist, hard.

“What’d you do?”

“I went down to the pond, just like I said, but when I got down there, I got bored, just throwing rocks and stuff, so I went down to Estelle’s.” And then he stopped. He was waiting for me to ask what happened next. I waited. Jimmy swallowed.

“So, anyways, she came back up here with me and we were messing’ around in the chicken coop.” He stopped again. I waited again. Jimmy’s eyes were avoiding me. He looked randomly at the door to the back porch instead.

His eyes returned to mine and expression flooded back into his face. “We were gonna DO it.” Jimmy’s voice still stayed very quiet.

“We were taking off our clothes and she just got her underpants off an’ she sees this big ol’ rat. I didn’t even see him at first, not till she said something and, Jesus, he was big. And so Estelle gets all scared and puts her pants back on and takes off an’ tells me to forget about it an’ everything.” Jimmy was still whispering. So I was kinda mad at the rat and I finally cornered him and he’s trying’ to bite me and so I kept hittin’ him and squeezin’ him an’ he keeps tryin to bite.” Jimmy stopped talking, as though this string of events was supposed to make it perfectly clear how all of this made the barn burn down. It didn’t at all.

“You gotta promise not to tell ‘em.“

“I didn’t tell anybody anything yet, did I?”

“The applejack. You told about the applejack.”

“I had to. They had to think we were up to something out there. It’s better to get in trouble of that than for burning the barn down, isn’t it?” I was sort of hissing at him.

“I guess.”

“What about the rat?”

“Well, I put him under a bucket an’ put a rock on top and I got some gas outta the tractor and put it all over the bucket and lit it on fire with the matches you gave me. And pretty soon I could hear him screeching’ under the bucket and bouncing off the sides and everything and so I knocked it over. He was under there on fire! And that dumb bastard ran right into the barn, right inside the granary. I chased him in there but the fire got big fast. I tried to piss on it but I didn’t have none. So I took off out the back and then I saw the chicken coop was on fire too and I got scared and ran out to the pond and waited for the fire trucks to get here.”

We both waited.

“You can’t tell ‘em anything.”

“I told you, I won’t. Now quit saying’ it.”

Jimmy grabbed my arm. “You can’t tell ‘em.”

I answered louder. “I’m not gonna. I’m not gonna!”

“’Not gonna’ what, son?” Chief Ellis walked through the back door.

“Nothing.”

“I wanna know what you two were talking about.”

“Nothing, I’m going home now.”

“You’re not going anywhere until I say so. I think you know something and you’re gonna tell me.”

“Let go of me,” I said as I tried to jerk my elbow away from the man and the tears spilled over.

Hank walked in from outside and then Ellis let go of my elbow.

“I’m going home now, “ I said. “I told you what I know and I don’t have anything else to say.” I started to walk out into the smoky night. The Chief thought about stopping me again, but my parents stood on either side of me and we all turned and walked slowly down the driveway. The fire truck lights behind us threw long flashing shadows of ourselves before us. We walked past the furniture and clothes piled beside the driveway in the semi-darkness. Finally, even the shadows were swallowed up but the smell of smoke followed us strongly all the way home.

Just as we hit our porch, my father asked me, “ What did you do with the matches I gave you to burn the trash?”

“I gave them to Jimmy,” I said, reaching for the doorknob.

When Fire Chief Ellis’ investigation was complete it listed the fire as being “of unknown origin.” It contained the name of no suspects. No one ever asked me about it again.

After the barn burning, I often saw Jimmy’s family’s car pull into Hank’s driveway, but I didn’t go up to visit him any more.  Neither Hank nor my father ever tried to push Jimmy and me together again. He waved to me once from up on the hill. Estelle was standing next to him. She waved too. I acted like I didn’t see them and went inside our house.

I kept the book I had gotten from Jimmy for about a month, stashing it first under the mattress, then in the bottom of a drawer, but finally, one time when I was taking the trash out to the burning barrel, I put the book into the pile; I couldn’t stand the idea of getting caught with it. I fed it, page by page, into the fire. That’s the way I read it for the last time. I was still amazed by the ending.

Now what?

Retirement has arrived. I’m slowly learning the role those who are not in the workforce uphold in this culture. (Not very much.)

It will be my intent to add an article or some kind of writing to this document each week. More often if there is enough juice in an idea.

My favorites? Reading. Music (mostly the older stuff). Politics. Writing (sometimes writing about reading), Wine and Winemaking. I have no topics I’m not interested in. Follow along.

It just occurred to me that I must be pretty typical of a kind of person. I am a child of the 20th Century retiring in the 21st Century. I’m just a little off the line. Probably not too odd for anyone at this odd new age of 65.

I’m working on a piece about the Doobie Brothers. Remember those guys?  Was a weird time to be young.  Just listening to their old album Minute by Minute, 1978. I turned 28 that year and was just about at the end of my association with Doobies of any kind. Anyway, look for that pretty soon.

Maybe tomorrow I can get this weird kind of critique of  a Stephen King novel I just finished.  BTW I don’t do this for any gain. These are just prompts for my writing. I intend to attribute any original material other than my own. I guess you would have to consider this “academic” use.

See you soon. Stay tuned.

The Ten Books Challenge

Recently many of my literate friends have been listing the ten books that influenced them most. Some think it is a favorite book list. I suspect some think it is an opportunity to show others which classics they have read, or how avant garde their tastes are. I don’t need to judge.

Here is my list with a little comment about each title I selected. I have to say that I have loved hundreds of books and making this list is very difficult. (You can see how I cheated.)

The List:

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

1. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum. This is the first hardcover book I read all the way through, by myself, because I wanted to. My grandmother Marsh bought me a series of young reader books. They came in the mail once a month. I had collected a few before I picked this one off the shelf on lazy, hot summer day. I took it outside to read and the world of literature opened up. That is why it is posted at number 1. Not because it is the best book I ever read, but because it did a magic number on my brain.

 

The Man by Irving Wallace
The Man by Irving Wallace

2. The Man by Irving Wallace. This is a book about presidential politics. It was a good read in 1964. It is still a good story, not a great book, perhaps, but very significant in that it was an “adult” story that my young teen friend, Carl Sumerix had begun to read. I taunted him that he couldn’t read an 800 page book and he challenged me to read it with him. So, we were boys, and we raced. (I won.) I already knew that books were pretty wonderful. This was when I discovered long books were particularly wonderful. Nope, no assignment. Not for class or school. Just a long delicious read by a 14 year old who was gaining interest in politics.

 

41UQrc0TaRL3. The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. This became a kind of holy book for me in my late teens. When I read it now, I blush a little at the saccharine elements, but it was perfect for the end of high school and a burgeoning awareness of how large life was.

 

Siddhartha by Herman Hesse
Siddhartha by Herman Hesse

4. I went from very conservative politico to hippie to Marine in less than 4 years. It was the mid-to-late 60s. Everything was in transition. Nothing provided sound moral footing. This book was perfect for me at the time. I read all the Hesse I could get my hands in while I was stationed at Camp Pendleton, California. I remember a particularly prickish Captain who saw this (or was it Magister Ludi?) on my desk and remarked how that was “pretty heavy reading for an enlisted man.” Making a decision not to re-enlist was so easy after that.

 

Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien
Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien

5. Lord of the Rings Trilogy by J.R.R. Tokien. I know, this is another cheat because it is not just one book. But I cannot separate the impact of one part of this story from any other part. It is a whole. It also fits into that burgeoning love of big books and series books. No, I did not read this in high school like lots of others. I read this in the Marine Corps. Believe me, when you are under arms and reading about invading hoards of orcs in the middle of high-minded discussions of the value of home, security, bravery, nobility of purpose…It was a pretty freakin’ good read in those circumstances.

 

Sound and Sense by Lawrence Perrine
Sound and Sense by Lawrence Perrine

6. Sound and Sense by Lawrence Perrine. This image is of the 12th Edition. Mine was in the very small numbers. Again, in the Marine Corps I had the opportunity to take a couple of college courses on base. I took a literature course about poetry. I had been reading Gibran pretty hard and chose well. What had been a loosey-goosey exercise in self-expression until then, suddenly became a craft with suggested guidelines, and parts and pieces that could be explored. Perrine’s work has been fundamental to all the other readings and teachings I have done about poetry since. At the time, I thought it was a nice, clean organization with excellent examples. Now I know it to have been profound in my development.

 

1984 by George Orwell
1984 by George Orwell

7. I read this in high school and I don’t know if I wasn’t ready for it or if my high school teacher didn’t give this much relevance. I didn’t care very much. But I have re-read it several times since then. Each time I am am taken even more by how Orwell understood the way modern governments encroach into totalitarianism. He was absolutely accurate as a prophet of the never-ending wars, the group hating process, the fear that a neighbor might turn you in for some misguided “patriotic” value. And torture. You know, torture.

 

Hotel New Hampshire by John Irving
Hotel New Hampshire by John Irving

8.  Just because this book is number 8 on my list, doesn’t mean it was the 8th greatest influence on me. I had tried to read Irving before. The World According to Garp was where I tried. Thee times I started and gave up before getting 50 pages in. On a whim, I picked this up and couldn’t put it down. This book shaped the standards by which I measure all of literature. I cared about these characters. I laughed with them, wept with them and only after this book did I go back and read everything Mr. Irving has ever written and follow him like he was a guru through everything he has written since. (And, even though I hated A Son of the Circus, I read every word.)

 

The River Why by James David Duncan
The River Why by James David Duncan

9. I had divorced three times. I had reached the lowest point in my life. I was broken. My soon to be ex-wife had gone off with my boss for the weekend and when she came back she gave me a copy of this book. This book is very much like my life at that point, it was full of love and passion, pain and fury and the end is seriously flawed. But it was the right book at the right time. So very much like the Universe to have it delivered to me by what I perceived to be the source of my pain. I have given copies of this book to a dozen or so others who I thought could benefit from it. I don’t think anyone had the visceral reaction I did. This book is on this list not because it is the best literature in the English language. It is here because it saved my life.

 

The Holy Bible
The Holy Bible

10. I know this looks like a cop out. It isn’t. I’m 64 years old at the end of this month. I was raised in a non-secular home with a fundamentalist Grandmother whom I loved and who had a profound belief that she could save my soul. I have read around in this book since I was about 10. But I read it all the way through in the 80s for the first time. I have read it in about 4 different translations since. I keep a copy on my Kindle. I do not do that because I am a Jew or a Christian. I do it so that I can try to understand Jews and Christians. It also is fun when the Jehovah’s Witnesses come around.

 

That is supposed to be the end of the challenge, but it cannot be for any true bibliophile. I am now adding to a list of Honorable Mentions.

 

In no particular order:

Against Forgetting by Carolyn Forché
Against Forgetting by Carolyn Forché

This book opened my eyes to the power of poetry as a voice for the voiceless. While I was writing poetry, as much as anyone else, Forché’s work kept me focused.

 

Geek Love by Katherine Dunn
Geek Love by Katherine Dunn

What a beautiful and horrifying set of characters here! I wanted to teach this in high school because my classes were full of broken humans, underdeveloped creatures, sad bent little children. I also wanted to show the 1932 film, Freaks. Plymouth-Canton was having none of that.

A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole
A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole

Oh, Ignatious! You have left us too soon. I have now read this book three times. Each time it is deeper and more nuanced. If you have never read it, just go do it now. No, really. Just go read this now.

 

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain

I know. I read this in high school too. I thought it was horrid. The dialect, the hundred year old sensibilities. It wasn’t until I had to teach it in my own high school classes that it started having a real impact on me. It was the beginning of a kind of education I had never seen before. There was a moment when I was reading aloud the description of a thunderstorm passing through the rolling hills of forest when I became so overwhelmed with the genius of this writing and the strength of the message that I grew speechless of several moments. Kids were convinced I was weird. I was too.

 

Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides

Just when a straight white man gets comfortable with himself, along comes a book like this. It provided me with insight into a lifestyle that I had no emotional or intellectual experience with but because it is set in Detroit, it did so in the most familiar of surroundings. It was a powerful juxtaposition for me. One of a few Pulitzer Prize winners I agree with and the only one I predicted before it was awarded.

 

The Stand by Stephen King
The Stand by Stephen King

I hear you snickering. Seriously, this is the best book King ever wrote. It was gloriously crafted. It was wonderfully edited. Please DO NOT buy the unedited version. It adds nothing and it detracts much. This was the first time I thought of Stephen King as an artist. I’ve been able to see it often since then.

The Entire Aubrey-Maturin Series by Patrick O'Brian
The Entire Aubrey-Maturin Series by Patrick O’Brian

This is the cover of Master & Commander, the first in a 20 book series of sea tales set in the British Navy during the Napoleonic Wars. This is the very BEST series about the ocean and sailing ever. The language is crude, juicy, succulent, frightening, obscene, grotesque, beautiful and so very, very original. There were one or two of the books which didn’t do what the others did. But the relationship between the two main characters grows over decades, through tragedies, despite differences. Don’t let Russel Crowe’s movie spoil it for you. Read these in order.

 

Sarah Marries

Labor Day Weekend 2014
Labor Day Weekend 2014

 

My second daughter, Sarah, got married last weekend in a very small but very emotional ceremony. Only immediate family was invited; even the officiant was a family member, my son. While I have to admit that the way we got to marrying Sarah off was not the smoothest transition in the world, I am happy for her and for her husband, Dan Smith. They are just about perfect for each other. And it’s not about how I feel anyway.

 

My sister, Karla, helped me get over an ego-blindness about it all. In so many ways, although she is my baby sister, she is an older soul than I.

 

Suffice it to say that legally, Sarah is my step-daughter, but in my heart she and Dan are as much a part of my family as any natural (or un-natural) relation. I wish long life and long happiness to the new married couple.

 

 

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