Say What!!

   I use coupons occasionally, mostly those for  fifty-cents or a dollar , so I don't mind it when a store's cash register spews out a couple along with my receipt.  At Rite-Aid today, I got two coupons, one for $2.00 off and one for $4.00 off.  Both were for Incontinence products.  Certainly not based on past purchases, but what?  Age?  I think I'll file a lawsuit charging  elder abuse---of the emotional type.

Operation Mouse Eyes

   In the past several months, I have accumulated enough real-life forensic experience to form a valid conclusion:  the eyes of a dead mouse look just like the eyes of a live mouse.  It is a fact that of late I have seen more of the former, and mice eyes, though sightless, gleam bright and beady.
   A mouse was caught last night, in one of those classic wooden traps,of the powerful spring-loaded type.   I can't bear to touch them.  Thank heavens for the plastic grocery bags.  I slip my hand into bag one to pick up the trap and then drop trap and attached carcass into another bag which I usually throw into the trash can behind the house.  Because it was already dark outside, I didn't want to venture around back, so I deposited the little body-bag outside the front door.  This morning, when I went outside, the bag was gone.  I searched and, while the plastic bag may have blown away in the night wind, I located the trap about twenty feet away.  The trap with nothing in it.  This particular mouse had met its doom caught right in the center of its body, firmly wedged beneath the wire of execution.  The trap was clean as a whistle.

CAMPAIGN m. e..s.s.a.g.e.....

      Because we live in a split-level (party-enrollment-wise) household,we receive political messages from both major parties.  Yesterday we got a call from Dr. Ben Carson.  But his voice was so soft, and his message so lengthy, his words were mostly unintelligible------sounded something like he had tried to stab a relative who was robbing a Popeye's because their grain supply was too old.  Or something along those lines....

To Blog A Tale

   As the narrator of the Canterbury Tales explained to the diverse travelers he'd required to tell a tale: "If a tale has meaning for you take it and use it; if not, be entertained by it on the journey."

1969 House and Hearth

   We never lived, just the two of us, in the house.  When we moved in, so long ago now, we had a weeks-old  infant in arms, so the focus was never on how to make the plain and modest structure into a home.  Whatever happened, happened as it became first home to a child and a new family. 
    The hearth fires burned brightly for a time, but time is subject to change, must change.  What once seemed  permanent became only a space in time. 

Revenge of the Manuscript, Volume 1 Issue 2

                                    The Walking Wounded
     My name is Sinclair O'Reily.  I am a freelance reporter based in Richmond, Va.  I've been following various generals from the North during the whole Civil War.  Today I visit a Union hospital ward.
    I meet a doctor named Roger Flushing.  He was born in Vermont, relatively close to my birthplace in Connecticut.  We briefly speak of the scenery and the cities of the area.
    I follow Dr. Flushing into a tent.  Inside are some of the most sickening sights I have ever seen.  Men---not men but boys: dead, dying, sick, thirsty.  The sick air of death envelops me.  I almost speak but Dr. Flushing sees my struggle and says sternly, "This is the critical tent. The worst ones are brought here." He whispers to me, "All these will die soon."
   We leave that canvas of doom and enter another tent adjacent to the last.  Inside a few pristine beds are set in the corner.  Here the sounds of moans and coughs do not invade your ear with vicious swords as in the other tent.
    Dr. Flushing tells me this is the stable ward.  I peer around and notice a few soldiers are missing limbs. Others have broken bones or large gashes.  Dr. Flushing, looking around the room, says to me "These will live; some will even go back to the field."
    We retreat from that tent and I notice that two nurses are carrying a bag filled with the wasted lot of a boy soldier.  Amidst this death, however, there is a feeling of acceptance. The soldiers in these tents know their fate, and sleep with either the sweet or sour secret buried in their brains.
    As I leave Dr. Flushing, I notice he is bleeding.  I try to tell him but he melts into a solution of people.  I begin to leave when I am startled by a voice behind me.  The voice introduces himself as Pilgrim.  "Don't bother with titles, " he says. "Makes no difference, right? I'll show you out." I vaguely nod my head in agreement.
    As we exit the camp, I say, "Geez, it's awful in there."  I don't expect any response.  I only say it to fill an awkward void of conversation.
    He stares at me through a rough face; however, his eyes do have a softness to them.  Not an innocence but an introspectiveness.  We cut through a grove of apple trees and there, almost supernaturally, stands a legion of soldiers.  Pilgrim leads me toward them.
    He says, "These are the so-called lucky ones.  You see, Mr. O'Reily, the ones back there, they know they'll die, now or later.  Here, on the battleground. it is uncertain.  Look at them.  What do you see?"
    I see five perfect lines, about one-hundred fifty deep, of perfectly still soldiers.  Their shoulders strong.  Their confidence high. I tell Pilgrim this.
     "Let me show you something."  We walk to the soldiers.  They do not notice us, not even when I bump into a rather burly one.
     Pilgrim leads me to one soldier.  "See this one?"  Pilgrim points to the man's foot.  "He has a small cut on his big toe.  He will develop gangrene  in three weeks and die."
    Pilgrim points to the next soldier.  "He will develop a mental disorder after the war.  He will jump off a bridge in a terrible fit."
  We continue down the line and every single one of the men is wounded.  Some have infections while the others are already dead on the inside.
   "Mr. O'Reily, these are what we call the walking wounded.  There are thousands, millions, of them.  Most of the walking wounded haven't even been on a battlefield.  Their battleground is your town, your school, your churches and your country."
    I stop to ponder this for a minute.
    "Why don't we heal them?" I ask.
 He answers, "The walking wounded conceal their wounds under bandages and clothing and skin."
     I want to say more, but Pilgrim cuts my voice with a nod of his head.  I walk away, not stopping until I reach the apple grove.  I see that the apples,  moments ago bright and red, are now brown and decaying.  I want to look back but I know no one is there anymore.  I slowly walk back to the camp. I'll sleep well tonight.
 

In Dreams

    Dreams seem so real when you are in their moment, but so absurd when you wake up.  Lately, what happens in the dream state is more detailed and emotionally significant than the events that happen when I'm awake. Maybe because dreams bypass age and isolation.
   We were all getting ready to leave for Kingston, some of the family already in the car.  We remembered the dog at the last minute so I went back inside to feed Cosmo.  He was very hungry, and kept trying to eat the food before I could put it in his dish, so it took a little longer than expected.  Dorothy came in from the car, and told me she felt bad about bringing up the subject of Cosmo and making Dave sad over the loss of his dog.  I tried to reassure her, as I continued to put food in his bowl, that we knew the life expectancy was only about ten years.
   Dorothy went back out to the car, and before joining them I decided to wear not a parka, but a  really nice gray wool coat.  I knew it might be a little less comfortable to travel in than my usual jacket, but I compromised by leaving another article of clothing unhooked.