A Pleasant Surprise!

I was furiously searching through a trunk full of the flotsam and jetsam I have hoarded collected through the years...and I found this...a story written by my dad. I never did find the photo I was looking for.   I have no clue where it came from, why I have it, or how it survived the fire.  I don't remember the circumstances that led me to having this piece of paper.  I have a poem he wrote because I gave a copy to someone, but this is a complete surprise.  I want to record it here in case something happens to it.  I got a good laugh out of it, I thought you might too.

"Very early in my life, about age two, my father was in prison.  My mother was young, for the time, to be trying to be a single parent, and my grandmother went to court and won custody of me. So, until my twelfth birthday, I was raised by my Grandparents, and my Uncle. Mom would come to visit, but often, it was with a boyfriend, or to take me to a movie theater, when she would tell me to call her "sister" so the guys wouldn't know she had a child.  Well, I usually fixed that with a "Mommy, I mean, sister...".
Grandma was a strange person.  She used to say that grandpa raped her three times, and she had three children.  He should have walked.  She said that Jesus was her lover.  She prayed almost constantly. I remember her praying one time, and asked the Lord, "What should I do with Jimmie? How can I get him to mind? Well, she must have gotten a message from Hell, 'cause she started switching me some with limbs from the plum tree.
I washed a cat once.  Well, how does a kid under six know that a cat doesn't like water?  I just thought he wanted to be dirty. I remember him well, or was it a her?  Anyway, ti was a grey tiger, and just did fit into the bathroom sink.  Barley.  I found the cat in the alley.  It wasn't too hard to sneak it into the house and into the bathroom.  I sat it down on the toilet seat and petted it a little, just to get it to relax.  It curled up and lay down to  sleep.
That's when I went to work.  I plugged the sink, sprinkled in some bath powder, some flowery smelling stuff Grandma used, smelled like Lilly of the Valley or something, and began to fill the sink with hot water.  About that time, Grandma smelled a rat, or some flowers, and asked what I was doing in the bathroom.  Now, I ask you what kind of question is that? What would a four or five year old boy be doing int he bathroom?  I shut off the water, and said "Washing my hands, Grandma." She was curious, but not yet quite suspicious, "Hurry on, now."  That was how Grandma talked.  She was always saying "Be careful, now." or "Don't fall, now." Now? How about later? In any case, I had to hurry, very soon she'd be asking me again what was going on.
The cat was beginning to look a little strangely at me by now, knowing the door was shut and all.  As I reached for it, it seemed to sense something and just began to jump off the toilet when I caught it, both hands.  Head in left hand and bottom in right.  The legs safely extended between my fingers.  You see, cats were not my favorite friends.  I was a dog person.  Cats would bite me.  OR scratch, so, I'd learned how to hold a cat safely sometime before.  Safely for me that is.  Now, this cat was no dummy.  Just about now, it was figuring out I wasn't about t carry him to the kitchen or something. Squirm as it might, I had a good hold.  By the time I got to the sink, I had hold of a frantic, screaming mass of fur and points.  Sharp points!
Grandma was banging on the door, "Jimmie, Jimmie! What's going on in there?" What would you say? "Nothing Grandma. I'll be out in a minute." I had to hurry. I plunged the ball of hell through the clouds of suds, and into the scalding water, and started to scrub.  At that instant, time seemed to stand still. I saw the cat's face.  It looked surprised.  Well, more that surprised.  It was more like unbelief, shock, and frenetic all wrapped into one.  To say it's eyes were open would be an understatement.  Like saying the sky is blue. "Oh, really?"  This cat's eyes are OPEN.  I was holding with my left hand, the one with the head, and rubbing like crazy with my right, all over it's body, sudsing it really good.
Of a sudden, a sound began to radiate from the cat. It began at the level of a  fire siren, and went up from there.  The cat began to scratch.  Now, or sink was porcelain.  If you don't know what porcelain is, it is a glass-like finish, baked onto a cast-iron base.  These sinks were made to last a lifetime.  Well, apparently the cat was loosing one of it's lives.  That cat dug in with both front feet. and began to try to dig a hole in the sink to get out.  Chips of glass-like porcelain began to fly, and I let go.

Now, I've made mistakes in my life.  Really, I have.  This one was one of my first.  Don't ever let go of a wet cat in a small, closed, bathroom.  It never saw the floor.  The first stop was the door, head-on.  Then, a left turn sent him along the wall over the toilet.  Around the wall that cat went, screaming all the time.  The cat had so much momentum, he just kept going around and around, never slowing a bit.  Grandma got frantic.  "JIMMIE!!!" I tried to unlock the door, but with her pushing on it, and the cat making a round every half-second, it seemed like I just couldn't get it done.

Finally, i got the latch pulled, and Grandma opened the door, just in time to make acquaintance with my new friend "wetcat".  He hit her with all fours, right on the chest, took one look at her, and she at him, then off again to find some means of egress.  Ol' Trigger, my street mutt was on the dining room and was hardly touched, but up he came!  Tail up, ears up, and off he went, in hot pursuit!  This was just too much.  That cat went straight for the screen door, and went right through it. 
IT wasn't often that Grandma was at a loss for words, but this was one of those times.  She stood there, int he doorway, staring at me.  Never being a child to miss an opportunity, I slowly inched by her and went hell-bent for the closet.  We had an interesting arrangement with the closets in our bedrooms.  It was possible to pass from one bedroom to another without leaving the closet.  When I was in trouble, I'd head for the closet, and listen or watch Grandma looking for me.  As soon as she would look under the table and start for her bedroom, I'd scoot under the table.  She never thought to look under the table again.  I learned a lot about leaf-table construction in this manner before I was six." -J. Ridenour

I love this story.  It just goes to show that Miah and I come by our mischieviousness honestly.
I want to say that I typed this exactly the way it was written, and though the first paragraph could have been cut, I didn't.  I don't think that it was really important to the story, but censoring my dad is not something I an interested in doing.  Everyone in this story has passed away, so there is absolutely no reason that anyone should be offended on their behalf.  I leave it as he wrote it, fairly sure that his memory was accurate, and he said what he said for a reason.  I hope you enjoyed his story.

Before I post Jay's essay, I wanted to clarify a couple of things.  Jay stated that the girls wrote letters that we never sent, but in actuality, I let them post those letters here, and here.  The woman that wanted her dog back was more more crazy than he lets on also, leaving comments about my bad parenting, and sending facebook messages and emails that were above and beyond what any normal person would do.  I hate to think about these couple of days because as good people, we were truly torn.  Honestly in the end, the only reason I let Ben go back to his original home (where they are still in city code violation and by the way I did not call the city, though I should have.) was because I did not want to wake up some morning to find a crazy lady camped out on my porch.  Visions of past experiences with Jay's mother come to mind. There are a couple of other minor details that he fudged to make the essay "nicer" for his teacher, but I can let those go.  

The Decision

All parents are forced to make tough decisions.  Amongst many other decisions, parents must choose which foods their children will eat, what music their children may listen to, and what types of television and movies their children are allowed to watch.  While these decisions may provide structure and protection, perhaps more important are the morals we espouse and the behaviors we display.  My wife and I were recently forced to demonstrate our values with such a decision.

            Having recently lost a beloved black lab almost a year before, I was hesitant at first when my wife mentioned getting another dog.  Due to my wife’s great powers of persuasion, soon after our first discussion she began looking online for a puppy.  She found a few options, but it did not take us long to settle on a golden retriever mix named Bentley.  His owners were giving him away because they owned more animals than the city allowed.  We were glad to help them out with that problem.  A few days later, we drove over to their house.  They were a very friendly couple.

Bentley was a good fit for us. He was a very friendly and curious animal, and warmed to us instantly.  Our chihuahua, named Dobby, even liked the puppy.  That was the sign we were looking for, as Dobby rarely encountered another dog that she didn’t try to eat.  We thanked the couple profusely for the gift they were giving us.  In retrospect the tears the woman shed were a sign of what was to come, but I think our joy prevented us from noticing the abnormality of the tears.

            We took Bentley home and spent two days with him.  Both my daughters were completely smitten with the dog.  My wife and I gave in and let him sleep in the bed with us for the first night, telling ourselves that it was temporary and just to help him adjust.  We were happy; he was happy; life was good.  Our family had fallen in love with this dog far quicker than I would have believed possible.

            Then the telephone rang. 

The number listed on the caller ID belonged to the couple that had given us Bentley.  Wondering what they could want, I answered the phone.  After I answered, it took a moment for me to understand what this woman was asking of me.  She wanted Bentley back.  She was crying, claiming that she couldn’t stand to be apart from her puppy any longer.  At first glance, this may not seem like such a dilemma.  We had just received the dog, and hadn’t really had time to integrate him into the family.  At the time of the first phone call, my children were in school.  My wife and I talked about what the right thing to do would be.  We decided that we would tell our children that we had to give the dog back.  It might hurt, but it was morally right.

This was an excellent decision until we actually talked to our children.  No parent wants to hurt his or her child.  My resolve weakened when the tears started flowing from my children's eyes.  The choice became much simpler, either hurt some woman I didn’t really know, or hurt my children.  I called the couple back and told them that we were sorry, but we couldn’t take this puppy back from our daughters.  From the telephone came more crying, a little begging, and an offer of money.  She hung up in tears.  After just a few moments her husband called us back and explained that he was worried that his wife might hurt herself over this animal.  It was then that I broke.  I could not let a human, who appeared to be mentally disturbed, to hurt herself for my family’s happiness.  Although it hurt my children, we tearfully gave the dog back. 

To help with the grieving process we allowed our children to write angry letters that we never sent.  We felt this would allow them to release their anger in a constructive, yet peaceful way.  We soon found another dog to adopt. She had been abused and needed a home as much as we wanted a companion. The happy ending makes it easier to know we made the right decision, and hopefully made the lesson easier for our children to learn.

The Hangar

By SSG Jeremiah La Forest

No single event has caused more anticipation in my life than my reunion with my family after my first deployment to Iraq.  Unlike some soldiers during that first tour, I was fortunate enough to have received a mid-tour leave, but that did not lessen my eagerness to get off that airplane and find my wife and children.  The memory of the helicopter maintenance hangar where our reunion occurred will never fade from my mind.

                The Army as an institution often takes itself far too seriously.  After our commanding general greeted us over the plane's intercom system, he allowed us to file slowly out of the jet that had carried us home.  The reunion that every soldier on that plane ached for was not to come so easily, however.  Some bright soldier had decided that it would be far more impressive if we marched into the hangar in formation, so our next step was to muster into one.  When the First Sergeant received his cue, he ordered us to begin marching.  I could immediately tell that this had been rehearsed prior to our arrival; the hangar doors opened just in time to allow our first rank access.

                  The sound of nearly a thousand families cheering our entrance deafened me.  Only my years of training kept me marching as my mind tried to understand what my ears were hearing.  Soon, some trick of acoustics amplified the sound of our marching feet, the impossibly synchronized footfalls almost becoming louder than the families.  I came back to myself when our First Sergeant commanded us to halt.

                After coming to a halt, my eyes caught up to my ears.  Although my discipline urged me to keep my head and eyes forward, as I should at the position of attention, my eagerness to find my family in the crowd overcame me.  All these years later my only consolation is that my searching eyes caught many other heads moving as well.  Only a brief moment passed while we each looked, before the general began to speak.

                The tension mounted with his every word.  He talked on for minutes that felt like hours, as though he were the only person in the hangar oblivious to this tension.  His words were of little use anyway, I believe that very few people can remember what he said.  I know that he welcomed us home, thanked our families, mentioned our fallen brothers and sisters, and bragged about his unit.  No one concentrated on him; all were only waiting for him to stop.

                When the general released us from formation, the sound was riotous.  Families called out for their soldiers, soldiers called out for their families, and feet pounded on the concrete of the hangar floor.  No less anxious than anyone else in the crowd, I called for my family trying to be the loudest in the hangar as well.  I found my wife and children quickly and we pushed through the press of bodies to find a corner for a little privacy.  For an indefinable time all we could do was embrace.

                Slowly the babble of thousands of voices came back to my attention.  I remember realizing again just how many people were seeing their loved ones for the first time in many months.  As this realization came to me, the general was calling to us again.  Our time had expired.  He ordered us to get back into formation.  All the soldiers reluctantly pulled themselves out of their families’ arms and returned to our places.  The last trick played on us was the order to march back out of the hangar, our footfalls causing another round of thunderous cheering.  We would have to return our weapons and gear to our units before we could spend any more time with our families.

                I have deployed twice since then, each time a unique situation.  My second and third reunions were joyous occasions, both highly anticipated and desired.  The ceremonies were nearly identical to my first redeployment, but somehow they seemed to lack the magic of that first march into the hangar.

Class Trip

I'd really been looking forward to our class trip. I know I'd gone there before, but I can't get enough of the Center City Science Museum. I could tell that the rest of the kids were ready, too. Everyone was full of energy when we walked into class. That's when I saw him. "Oh no," I groaned, "not Mr. Peggler."
"Phooey," Dale said. He curled his nose and sniffed like he'd smelled something bad.
You'd think a classy private school like Wolfson Academy could afford to hire good substitutes. And, to be honest, I guess I'd have to say that most of the time they did. But Mr. Peggler was terrible. He thought he was great with kids, but he had no idea what we really liked.
This is going to ruin the trip, I thought. I'd been looking forward to going to the museum with Ms. Howell. She was such a great teacher.
"Listen up," Mr. Peggler said. "Your teacher is out today. But don't worry, we're still going on the class trip. Isn't that wonderful?"
There was silence in the room.
"Well," Mr. Peggler said, "I'm looking forward to it. So, let's go get on that bus and have a great time."
We got on the bus. I took a nap. Morning isn't my best part of the day. When we reached the museum, Mr. Peggler led us into the lobby.
"We always go to the Hall of Mammals," I told him. "That's our favorite place." I loved seeing the bunnies and the squirrels and the other small creatures.
"Well," he said, looking around at the signs on the wall, "it's no good to get into a rut. You need to experience new things. Otherwise you'll all become creatures of habit. Ah, this is perfect," he said, pointing to one of the signs. "There's a show about to start in the planetarium."
I shook my head. "I don't think that's such a good idea."
"It's a wonderful idea," he said.
Then I saw the name of the show and a chill ran across my scalp. "I really don't think it's a good idea at all."
"What's wrong, afraid of the dark?" Mr. Peggler asked.
"Hardly," I said.
Before I could argue any further, he was leading everyone into the planetarium. We took our seats. The room grew dark. Mr. Peggler was sitting right next to me. "See," he said as the stars appeared projected on the ceiling. "This is wonderful. You should just relax and enjoy the show."
"Welcome to the planetarium," the taped voice of the announcer said over the loudspeaker.
"I really think we should leave," I told Mr. Peggler.
He shushed me. Okay, I thought. That's it. I'd tried. There was nothing more I could do except sit and listen to the announcer.
"Our show is called Phases of the Moon. If you look toward the eastern horizon, you'll see a spectacular full moon rising."
It was a fake, of course. I wasn't really sure if it would work. But it certainly did the trick. By the time the whole moon was visible over the horizon, we'd all changed. I'd tried to tell Mr. Peggler it was a bad idea taking us to the planetarium. Maybe I should have told him our secret. But what use is a secret if it gets out? And even if I'd told him we were all werewolves, he'd never have believed me. But it's true. When the full moon rises, we turn into wolves. All of us. I don't mean those pretty wolves you see in nature shows on TV -- I mean snarling, raging, howling monsters.
The school should have known better than to hire him. I guess good substitutes are hard to find. Of course, by the time we get through with Mr. Peggler, he's going to be pretty hard to find, too. 
-Laurel

"The Bus" Laurel La Forest, For Fifth Period Class Assignment

( I thought some of you would like to read what goes on in the imagination of Laurel. Posted with permission!)

               

The inspiration?  Laurel calls this the "creepy" bus because it's always sitting there. I think she's been reading too much Stephen King!

     The bus stood upon the blackened cement in total tranquility.  It greeted the weeds in its engine as a cactus welcomes rain.  Signs and stickers were stuck upon the peeling paint; they showed worlds of other times and places.  The tires were flat, and the windows were streaked with dirt.  If you looked at this monstrosity from the road, you would expect a man in rags to come stumbling out of it.  The children of the town know better.  This bus, this place, is a bad place.  It reeks of rotting flesh and the screams of nightmares.  Its presence fills the air and is a knife in the back of the otherwise pretty town.

                Paige walked towards the dirty, yellow bus.  Her heart was pounding as she remembered the story of the monster in front of her.  She had grown up with the story; as a matter of fact, she was dead scared of Emily Johnson, the ghost of bus 1349.  According to rumor, her boyfriend had brutally killed Emily after she caught him cheating.  She now haunted the bus, and killed anyone who dared to enter.

                Paige glanced at Chase, her best friend, then looked over his shoulder to Olivia and Norman.  It was important that she got on that bus.  If she didn't, she'd never be popular.  This was so important, in fact, that she must put aside all the fears that had been drilled into her very being.  In order to be an insider, she thought, I must do this.

                They finally reached the edge of the pavement that was the old buses kingdom.  It seemed to glare at Paige as she came closer.  She looked again at Chase.

                "Don't go in," he pleaded.  "You don't need to."

                "You don't understand."  Paige pulled her jacket closer to her and tucked her hands in her pocket.  "I need to do this.  I need to be known and popular.  If I do this, I get into the group and-"

                A groaning noise floated past them like a midsummer breeze, chilling them to the bone.  Chase looked at Paige.  It was an are-you-sure sort of look.  Paige balled up her fists; she was absolutely sure.

                Paige stepped onto the pavement and everything seemed to freeze.  The birds stopped singing, holding their breath for some unspoken future.  Paige, scared half to death, closed her eyes as she walked toward the bus.  She thought that not seeing the bus would make her fear go away.  After what seemed like hours, Paige finally ran into it.  Her head made a thud against the metal and the four of them started laughing nervously.  Paige laughed the fear away, thinking it was just a silly story now.  A story for curious toddlers.

                Paige pried open the glass doors and, taking one last look at her friends, leaped inside.  The overpowering smell of rust and bad meat came off the inside of the bus in waves.  Carcasses lined the floor; she couldn't tell whether they were animal or human.  Paige told herself they were all huge rats that had been raccoon feed over the years and continued to walk forward.  She stepped down on something greasy, and she looked down to find a pretty sky-colored sundress.  Something dark covered the front of it.  Paige looked away, unsure of what it was.

                She took another step and slipped.  Bones scattered everywhere and something large, yet light, fell on her chest.  She lifted her head to see something white and blurry.  Her glasses had fallen off.  Frantically searching, she could find them nowhere near her.  She lifted the object off her chest and brought it closer to her face.  She was confronted with a skull; a human skull.  She screamed and ran farther into the bus.

                At the very moment Paige started running, Chase strode into the bus.  He had decided to go with Paige, to keep her safe from any wary rodents or homeless men.  He saw Paige running in her blue dress, towards the back of the bus.

                He ran after her, calling her name.  "Paige?  P-Paige?"  The bus frightened him, and Chase had a stone in the pit of his stomach.  As he followed Paige, the bus seemed to stretch out and become thin.  It went on forever it looked like, and Chase started sweating as he ran faster.

                In front of him, so far away, Paige screamed his name.  He pushed his legs to go faster and faster.  The bones in the front of the bus were now turning to full corpses.  That bad meat smell was now definitely decomposing flesh.  Through all of this, Chase took no notice.  All that mattered now was saving Paige from whatever demon had her.

                When Chase finally reached Paige, she was sitting on a black, sticky, unidentified substance.  The dress she had on seemed to be covered in the same goo.  She turned, hearing Chase's pounding steps, and he realized that it really wasn't Paige at all.

                This girl was sickly pale.  Her blackened hair cascaded down her shoulders in pretty little curls.    Her puffy red eyes were a shot of color across her white skin.  To Chase, she was beautiful.  He leaned toward her.

                The girl stood up and pushed Chase.  "You jerk," she cried.  "You no good, cheating, lying jerk!"  Chase looked at her in awe as color flushed on her cheeks.  He was in a trance; he already believed he was in love with this girl.

                All of a sudden, Paige, the real Paige, ran into Chase.  "What are you doing here?  We need to get out, and now.  There's something going on in here, and I'm so scared."  She started to cry, then noticed the girl in front of them.

                The girl reached out to Paige.  Her ocean eyes were full of pain and misery as she touched the side of Paige's face.  "You, too?  Men are horrible, aren't they?  Come live with me Paige.  All the others did."

                Paige glanced at the dead girls surrounding them.  These were fresh kills for whoever lived in this bus, too.  Chase could practically feel their body heat still slipping away from them.  This was the first time he had noticed his surroundings, and he was now just as scared as Paige appeared to be.

                "What?  No.  No, no, no.  I can't 'live' with you.  I-I-uh have a house already."  Paige had a feeling about this girl; it was a feeling she didn't quite know the name of.  She thought about it for a minute, and her eyes flashed with knowledge.  "Emily?"

                The girl smiled.  "Yes, I'm Emily.  Now, Paige, help me.  You don't need any man.  They all turn out to be cheaters.  You can live with the girls and me.  Now, let me take care of Chase for you."

                Paige looked up at Chase.  "Take care of him?"

                "Kill him, of course.  We can't have him roaming the world and doing this," Emily held out her hand again.  There was a scream from Paige, and she became a crumpled mess on the floor.  Her hands were held over her head as another piercing scream lifted from her mouth.

                "What did you do to her?" Chase screamed.  He reached down for Paige, but she slapped his hand away.

                "I'm showing her what Alex Elliot did to me 50 years ago."  Emily stared at Chase, as if he should have been taught this fact in school.

                "Oh, god, what kind of man was he?" Paige stood up and looked at Emily.

                "He was my knight in shining armor.  That is, until I found him kissing another girl," Emily sighed.  "Alright, now its Chase's turn."

                "No," Paige screamed.  "He's not like other guys.  He won't do to any girl what Alex did to you.  Please, take me instead."  Chase looked at Paige, astounded, but could not seem to speak.

                Emily turned toward Chase.  "Fine.  Don't make me regret this."  There was a flash of light, and Paige screamed again.  Chase was pulled toward the front of the yellow metal cage.  He was thrown out the doors, and into the night.

                Olivia and Norman seemed to have left hours ago.  Chase got up and dusted himself off, crying.  He had just lost his best friend, the love of his life, and it had all been to get into a stupid group.