Drive South! . . . Or Not.

By Michael L. Alumbaugh, © 2021

 Whizzing through the 37^th Street light, I came to an abrupt stop. It was 6:15 on Monday morning.  I had 15 minutes in which to clock in and here I sat stalled in traffic. We’d been on a refreshing weeklong vacation of “honey do’s”, picnics and family outings. Being late to work the first day back wasn’t on my agenda!

 But did I really care? The work, along with a decent salary was fine; gathering numbers, tracing productivity, daily meetings, the job itself was all good, stressful at times, but good. It was the general corporate atmosphere of “the swamp” that was taxing; those vying for position, power plays, manipulation of the facts (and numbers), the maneuvering for position by some, and shenanigans by others.

 It was politics to the max like some game to be played. Backstabbing was the order of the day. And all usually at the expense of others livelihoods. I’d had enough for a lifetime! All that pressure was returning as I drew closer to my destination. Why couldn’t we just do our jobs, enjoy the camaraderie and go home to relax at night?

 Surveying the immediate conditions, a mile-long line of taillights illuminated the dark inside lane of K-15 as it curved into the distance.  The next traffic light was on MacArthur where I had to make a left but the turn lanes were apparently blocked. Whether it was a malfunctioning light or an accident up ahead, I couldn’t discern.

 Occasionally, cars zipped by in the outside lane as I sat in my “mini-Corvette”, a fiery red ’90 Saturn.  Headlights started filling the rearview mirror as a string of cars collected behind me. I reached up to flip the mirror down to dim mode. As I did, I noticed a young lady in the car behind me squirming and wriggling in the driver’s seat as if getting into something. Then she paused, grabbed something from her lap and started putting on makeup and eyeliner.

 Holy cow! She was dressing! What had she done, left her place in her nightgown? What a crazy place to dress! I flipped the mirror tab down and fixed my gaze ahead. The car in front inched along now so I moved in concert with it.

 Cars in the outside lane kept flying by. I considered my options: I could stay in line or change lanes, go past the intersection to 47^th Street South, hang a left, backtrack another mile . . . and still end up late. Sigh! I was frustrated. The cars ahead continued their periodic advances. I proceeded forward like a link in a chain.

 As I sat there watching cars pass, my mind wandered. What was south of here anyway? There was Derby just a few miles down the road, then Arkansas City. Further down there was Ponca City, next Oklahoma City and then Fort Worth and Dallas. We’d visited that area a year or two before. The bronze mustangs in Las Colinas were fabulous. The kids loved them! My mind journeyed onward as traffic continued inching along.

 So, what was south of Dallas? I hadn’t travelled that far but remembered the map we’d studied for a trip. Ah, yes, there was Waco, then Austin, San Antonio, Corpus Christi and finally Padre Island. A few short years prior, my college art class had travelled to Padre Island for a painting skills project.  I didn’t think I could afford it and stayed home. A major mistake on my part! I recalled the stories my classmates had shared upon their return. How I longed to have gone and been a part of that life lesson. But I didn’t. And now, here I sat, stuck in traffic.

 But wait! I had an inspiration! Checking the gas gauge, the tank was full! This car was getting 26 mpg and the distance to Padre Island was only about 750 miles. That’s only 30 gallons. I could leave this rat race and make it there in no time! I could call my Bride and tell her I’d be back by the weekend, and enjoy the scenery. WOW!

 The fantasy enveloped me. I was entranced! I grabbed the steering wheel, checked for passing cars in my passenger side mirror, flipped on my right blinker, turned the wheels toward the outside lane and slowly pressed the gas pedal. Then, like a brick, sanity hit me!

 “What am I doing?” I exclaimed! I have a beautiful wife and five kids depending on me to provide for them. Who do I think I am anyway?

 I turned the steering wheel back correcting my direction, turned off the blinker and watched the traffic up ahead. It was moving faster now.

 As I moved forward I could see the intersection. There were flashing lights from a police vehicle in the distance. A local yokel was directing traffic toward the aircraft facility.  As I got closer I saw the holdup, an old pickup truck with the hood up in the left turn lane.

 By now I knew the outcome for me; I’d make it to work on time after all. I’d add value to my work team and moral, emotional, spiritual, financial and physical support to my family. Their bright eyes and beaming smiles beat hands down anything my imaginary escape could offer me. And I felt like a fully dedicated husband and father again, not some selfish moron on a mission to avoid responsibility.

 The words from Psalms 37:23 came to mind; “The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord: and he delighteth in his way.” Thank you Lord!

Blown Away!

 By Michael L. Alumbaugh, © 2021

Proverbs 15:13 says, “A glad heart makes a cheerful face, but . . .” in my case, “Frivolous foolery festers furious frowns!” It was late autumn and my sophomore year. College mid-term exams had mutated into end-of-semester finals. I’d taken a third shift stocker job at Green Hill Grocers which hadn’t worked well with my farm boy metabolism. I was frequently dozing off in classes which, consequently, plummeted my grades from those teetering middle C’s to the lower D’s!

As I entered our house that morning, the rooms echoed their emptiness as all were either at work or school. Passing through the living room, I headed toward my bedroom to grab a few winks before my first class at 11. There I noticed remnants of my little sister’s birthday party littering the floor; a napkin here, a ribbon there, and a solitary balloon slowly rolling across the carpet, stirred by the breeze of my steps.

On the stereo was an unused balloon waiting to be inflated. As I stepped to reach for it, my foot booted the filled one and lofted it upward into the air, bouncing it gently into the ceiling, lightly ricocheting off the wall and floated back toward me. I clenched a fist and hit it! It flew back into the ceiling and then the wall and lazily came to rest on Mom’s recliner. As I advanced to resend it, it lay motionless, and then gave a startling “POP!” I gathered the remains, grabbed the fresh balloon and headed for the kitchen trash can.

In that short journey, young adult maturity resigned itself to more maniacal possibilities.  Tossing the ragged remains of the burst balloon into the bin, I proceeded to blow up the new one. Growing larger with each breath, I thought, “Just one more breath. Just one more. Then I’ll tie it off.” But before I finished that last breath, it exploded with a resounding “BANG!” The remaining mouth-piece and neck dangled from my lips. I gave it a disappointed final blow. It retorted with a “PPppppttttaaaattthhh!” The sound reminded me of someone with a serious head cold blowing their nose. I giggled.

That’s when it happened! That blathering balloon neck ignited latent adolescent juvenilian images long hidden deep within my artistic rational subconscious. I pondered a moment, “What if I hid this within a handkerchief or Kleenex? I could fain a cold, and blow my nose with reckless abandon!” I hurried to the bathroom, grabbed a tissue, laid it out on the sink, and strategically positioned that ragged mouthpiece on it. Then, I carefully picked up the now armed tissue, poised it over my nose, cleverly slipped the balloon end opening into my mouth, gazed into the mirror and gently, but firmly, gave it a blow. “PPPppppttttaaaattthhh!”  The sound it produced was disgustingly convincing! So much so, even a doctor would offer their professional assistance to comfort and relieve me.

Suddenly, an epiphany moment revealed itself: The library would soon be opening its doors to the studious and stalwart scholars preparing for their exams before semester holiday break. The opportunity of a lifetime!

I grabbed my jacket, my arsenal: the balloon end nestled into the Kleenex, and a couple more tissues for insurance, my class notebooks and my textbook,. Like a man on a mission, I shot out the front door and headed for my car. Speeding the five short miles to the college, I cleverly crafted my approach, playing through its diabolical intricacies. With the library floor plan in an L shape, I’d need to plan wisely.

Mentally prepared, I entered the hallowed halls of the library building, flew up the flight of stairs and stealthily infiltrated the confines through the metal entrance security doors. Next I surveyed the premises, locating the key players: the angelic and kind Miss Dickerson, a spinster and the head librarian, and her assistant, and a bit of a Grinch, Mr. Thompson. Next I identified key targets safely and comfortably nestled within the confines of study cubicles and tables.

Ah, yes. There was Miss Dickerson sandwiched between large bookshelves rearranging reference books. I slipped by her unnoticed. Next there sat Mr. Thompson just at the far end of the checkout area with his nose buried in the card catalog. He acknowledged my presence with a slight turn of the head and a twitch of the eye, grimaced and locked back into his indexing.  Then there was Bob the Fowler in the magazine area fulfilling his daily routine of newspapers, and probably secretly absorbing the comic sections.

Over in the far corner of the room was a couple studying each other, I assumed, while other students were rustling about incognito within the study cubbies. Then I saw her! There at a distant study table in an isolated area as far as could be found from view of the front desk was Cindy, a reclusive studious bookworm. She was obviously absorbed in research. The layout was perfect for my stratagem.

 I made my way past Mr. Thompson and turned the corner toward my first victim. She was positioned perfectly between the dull unchecked research manuals and reference catalogs. No one would be sneaking up behind me unnoticed here. At the opposite end of the long table, I removed my jacket, sat down, opened my study notes, placed an ink pen in close proximity and opened my textbook. She didn’t seem to notice.

The room was characteristically solemn with the occasional sound of page turning and position readjustment in seats, a bit of sighing or sniffles and the typical book replacement on shelves.

 Shuffling my papers as if delving deep into the study delirium, totally not my persona, I casually commandeered my secret weapon, carefully positioned the balloon equipped facial tissue within my hand and, resting it on my knee under the table, waited for the perfect opportunity.

With head slightly tilted downward and nose positioned close to the textbook in front of me, as if in deep concentration, I scanned the target area for potential breeches in security. Then, I fixed my gaze on Cindy. She was totally absorbed. I raised my hand to my face, covered my nose with the tissue, inserted the aerating arsenal into my mouth, inhaled, and gave a long steady exhale through the mouthpiece. “PPPTTTHHHHTTTPP!” It sounded satisfyingly snotty as it reverberated off the walls! 

Cindy’s head jerked up in surprise! She trained her eyes on me. I offered my discomforted puppy dog eyes look, pretended to wipe the residual mucus from my nose and resumed my studious downward gaze. She gave a sympathetic sigh, smiled tenderly and returned to her studies.

Savoring the deafening silence of the room, I waited anxiously for my next slobbering toot. Turning a few pages, I fumbled with my pen, repositioned my trigger finger under the table and waited for my next assault. Minutes seemed like hours. General sounds within the academic confines resumed with body movements and rustling of pages.

At last the moment had arrived! I cleverly scanned the horizon for any unusual movement. Everyone seemed to be in their proper places. I repositioned myself in my chair, shuffled a few more pages in the guise of studious research, raised my hand to my trusty schnozzola and blew, this time with gusto. “PPPPTTTHHHHTTTPPPPP!” The grotesque blast rattled the rafters! Heads rose freakishly, searching around the room desperately to discern what had just happened. Some wiggled restlessly in their seats while others just snickered. Cindy, on the other hand, gave me a ghastly gruesome glare. Her eyes pierced the deepest recesses of my silliness. “If looks could kill . . . “ You know the rest.

“Ah, yes!” I inwardly gloated, “What a gratifying response. Mission accomplished.”

“But wait! Why not bask in the glory of this moment of triumph?” I reasoned. “I’ve accomplished grand things here. And, as they say, Three’s the charm.”

Once again I waited, savoring each silent second with renewed delight. Resuming my copious study façade, I listened and casually surveyed my audience, but this time in reckless abandon. Again the perfect opportunity presented itself. I raised my weapon of mass mock slimy slathering, inhaled, and gave a bountifully hefty heave. It produced what only could be described as a solid sonic sloshy symphony!

At that, Cindy scowled viciously, gave a heartfelt ghoulish growl, began gathering her belongs and got up to relocate. But as she did, unnoticed by me, Mr. Thompson came storming toward me from behind and in one fell swoop grabbed me by the nap of the collar with one hand, my paraphernalia in the other and escorted me out the double door!

Once at the stairwell, he gave me a firm shove and growled a stern warning. “If I ever hear you in here again, I will have you permanently barred from this college library! Do you hear me?”

And with a burning glare he turned, reopened the doors and pensively entered his collegiate domicile.

But as he did, his steps slowed. He turned slightly toward me as I headed down the stairs. Our eyes met.  I then saw an expression on his face I thought I’d never see. “Was it my imagination?” It was a look of remembrance, a fleeting memory of some past escapade, a similar stunt perhaps. He offered a consoling smile and disappeared within that academic abyss.

 With a combined sense of shame and camaraderie I wandered out the front doors. A feeling of remorse mixed with appreciation for his dedicated sensibility welled up within me. That day our boyish paths crossed, forming an invisible bond of mutual respect between us. The lesson he offered me then has lasted to present day. Since, I’ve cherished the phrase, “Practical jokes aren’t very practical.” Or as Will Rogers once said, “Everything is funny, as long as it’s happening to somebody else.”  I’ve mentally stored these lessons under “mucus_mem.brains.”

Stuffed!

            One morning, as was his routine, Mike was gathering eggs for Grandma. It was as he searched the regular nesting places for eggs that he realized he hadn’t checked the smaller A-frame house for a couple of days. “Grandma will skin me alive if she finds out!” he shuddered. Hearing a ruckus in the coop, he hurried to it, knelt down, unlatched the hutch door and was almost knocked down by the rush of fowls and feathers jettisoning from the hatch!

            “What in the world?” As the dust and feathers cleared he looked inside. Peering into the darkness, he detected movement at the opposite end. As his eyes adjusted, he saw it, a BIG Bull snake, and the biggest he’d ever seen!

            Oddly, the snake seemed in distress. Studying the situation, Mike saw the problem; the snake had swallowed an egg whole and was attempting to back out the way he’d come in. Unfortunately, with the egg lodged in his neck, escape was impossible. Mike sprang to his feet, turned and scurried to the other end of the henhouse. There he spied the remaining five feet of the snake as it wriggled and wiggled, recoiled and curled, struggling to retreat from the coop. But it couldn’t budge an inch and keep its treasured egg.

            “I’ve got to get Grandpa!” Mike thought.  He ran toward the farmhouse for help screaming for all he was worth, “Grandpa! Grandpa, come quick! There’s a snake in the henhouse! Hurry!”

            Grandpa and Grandma had just finished their breakfast. As they casually sipped their coffee while laying out plans for the day, Mike’s call to arms penetrated the walls of the house. Instinctively, his gangly Grandpa leapt to his feet, fetched his hat, ran to the woodstove, grabbed his axe, and scrambled out the kitchen door.

            Spotting Mike flying toward him, he yelled “Where is he?”

            “At the first henhouse!” Mike yelled.

             As they headed back toward the A-frame, Grandpa asked, “Is he inside?”

            Wide-eyed, Mike wasn’t sure how to answer, so, catching his breath, he blurted, “Just come and see! He’s swallowed an egg.”

            Arriving at the back of the henhouse, they stopped in their tracks. Quickly appraising the situation, Grandpa drew back and paused. With one hand on his hip, he rested the axe on his foot, cocked his hat back, and began scratching his head in amazement. After a moment, he smiled and exclaimed “Well, I’ll be. That feller is sure stuck. You see thar? That house has sunk down on him a little and is a squeezin’ him.” Then he let out a laugh.
     
            Setting the axe aside, Grandpa motioned to Mike to help him. “Now, you grab that corner thar and lift it up and we’ll see if we can help him out.” Bending over, he grabbed the snake’s body right next to the edge of the wooden base. Then, with the other  hand, together, he and Mike lifted the A-frame house up enough to pull the rest of the snake out. Dangling the writhing reptile into the air, he laughed again, then looked the snake in the eye and said, “Big feller, you got yourself in quite a pickle.” Then, turning to Mike, he said, “’Bout scared you to death I reckon!” Looking over to the henhouse, he picked up the axe and, with snake in hand, disappeared into the catalpa grove. The snake was never seen again . . . and neither was the egg.

By Michael Alumbaugh, © November 2017

OktoberPest

            The metal stairs groaned with each halting step. They sounded like the rusty hinges on an old coffin. The boys cautiously approached the entrance. Eerie music seeped out from under the thick black curtains flagging in the breeze. Those curtains were all that stood between the real world and the macabre one ahead of them.

            The “Barker” had convinced these adolescents that the Hollywood characters were as real as their roles in the movies but assured them that they wouldn’t touch the boys. Then, taking their change, he pointed them toward the gangway and stuffed the tickets in their hands. The admission fee was 50¢ each for an adventure they might never forget.  Cocking his straw hat off his forehead, the man turned and scanned the crowd for more customers . . . or suckers. The boys were having second thoughts. What lay on the other side of that partition?

            Earlier in the week cousins Bill and Mike had planned to hit the State Fair like a tsunami . . .  that is, if Bill’s dad, Uncle Al, would take them. Most of the summer, they’d saved up for just such an event by mowing lawns, running errands, collecting refunds on discarded pop bottles, and  whatever else they could find to do for money. Mike had $5 and Billy had $7 and Friday was free day for school kids! They were ready.

            Monday trudged by into Tuesday. Wednesday slithered in and out and still no word from Bill or his Dad. Thursday, Mike meandered home after school thinking he’d never hear now. It was too late. Walking in the door of the house, Mom spoke in her usual cheery voice, “Hi, how was your day?”

           He paused as he put down his books. “Pretty normal, I guess.” In a disappointed tone, he continued, “We didn’t get much homework from Mr. Eilerts. He wants us to enjoy Fair Day and write a paper on our experiences.” He shrugged a little and commented, “Haven’t heard from Billy so I guess we won’t be going tomorrow.”

            Sympathizing, she said, “I’m sorry. I have to work tomorrow or I’d take you both. Daddy will be leaving early or he would have helped, too.”

            “Oh, it’s OK, Mom. I’ve been plenty of times before. It’s just . . . well, me and Billy were going alone and,” boosting his voice with pent-up enthusiasm, “Man, would that be fun!”

            Mom nodded and turned back to the pot on the stove. “It will work out one way or another,” she commented. “Be patient. And just think, next year you boys can drive yourselves.” For Mike, driving wasn’t an option he would have warmly considered at the time. His last attempt behind the wheel landed him and his older brother in a ditch. He turned and headed for the front room.

            Just then, the phone rang. Mom called out, “Honey, can you answer that? My hands are messy.”

            “Sure.” He headed for the phone and picking up the receiver said, “Hello?”

            “Hey, Mikey! Guess what?” It was Cousin Bill! Mike’s heart pounded with excitement.

            “What? Are we going?”

            “You bet! Dad forgot about it, said he has to meet with some guy about a job and run some errands.”

            Hesitating, Mike wondered how that was good news. Apprehensively, he continued, “So . . . are we going or not?”

            Bill, almost shouting, replied, “Well, yeah! We’ll get you about 9 in the morning and he’ll drop us off around 10 at the front gate. Then pick us up at 2 around the pavilion. It’s gonna be a blast!”

            “Oh, wow!” was about all Mike could say. Visions of the Bumper cars, the Roller Coaster and Round-up flashed in his head. Beaming, he exclaimed, “Cool! See you tomorrow,” and slammed down the phone.

            “We’re going, Mom!” he said gleefully.

            Turning, she offered a loving smile and said, “See? You just needed to be patient.”

            That night, Mike wrestled under the bed covers imagining the day to come. Sleep finally overtook him. The night hours whisked by as the bright rays of morning sunlight peeked through the window. Realizing it was late, Mike jumped to his feet, threw on his clothes, stuffed the hoarded stash of coins and bills into his front jean pockets, bounced down the stairwell and headed for the kitchen. Mom was setting his plate on the table.

            “Good morning! You just about overslept, you know. Now sit down and eat.” She placed the steaming hot pancakes and eggs in front of him and continued, “Uncle Albert just called. He’ll be here in about ten minutes. Got your money?”

            “You bet!” he said, cramming the food down his throat.

            “How much are you taking?” she asked, with a glint in her eye.

            “Five dollars! And it’s free day!”

            “Well, you’re a rich man. And here I’d kept a couple dollars in my coin purse to get you through the gate. I guess you don’t need that now” she said laughingly. Then, pulling them from her coin purse, she slid them across the table. “Have fun! Love you.”

            Mike grabbed the cash, shoved them in his pockets, wolfed down the rest of his breakfast, hugged his Mom and ran toward the front door. And just in time. Uncle Al was pulling into the driveway honking the horn. Mike shot out the front porch door, skipped the steps, and hit the ground running. Jumping in the back seat with Bill, they sped off to the fair.

            As Uncle Albert pulled the car up to the front gate, he reminded the boys about being in front of the pavilion at 2 o’clock and then scooted them out. The boys slammed the car door and wiggled their way into the crowd.

            The events of the morning were a complete blur as the two rode all their favorite rides. Adventure was the name of the game but the Tilt-A-Whirl made them somewhat queasy. Before getting on, they’d loaded up on corny dogs, cotton candy and chocolate malts. They skipped the Farris Wheel. It was way too tame.  Seeking new thrills, our juveniles ambled into the sideshow area.

            The funhouse and house of mirrors were old hat, and the bearded lady at the Freak Show weirded them out just by the billing. As they wandered along, they watched people at the ring toss, the Duck Shooting Gallery and Penny Arcade. One guy maneuvering a silver ring with a metal claw was diverting, but they still needed something more.

            That’s when they saw it, The Monster Hall of Fame! In the midst of the noisy carnival clamor, Bill and Mike stopped as if star-struck. The sideshow semi-trailer had been fitted as a walk-thru museum featuring the scariest of them all: the Mummy, the Wolf Man, Frankenstein's Monster and Dracula!

            Mesmerized, they inched toward the ticket booth. Mike pushed his hand into his pocket. He had about a dollar left. Whatever they did next had to be good. He looked over to Bill. “What do you think?”

            Bill looked at his cash. “Well, why not?” Then he paused, “You know, they could be fakes. Not the real guys. What do you think?”

            Not about to show his fear, he looked at Bill and said, “Ah, let’s go! . . . You first.” And up the steps of the gangway they went.

            Second thoughts were cast aside as Bill flung the curtains open and stepped out of the bright sunshine into the dark inner sanctum. Mike followed in close pursuit. The curtains closed behind them enveloping them in blackness. They paused, allowing their eyes to adjust. 

            Pressing forward into the unknown darkness, the music subsided. Groans emerged just a few yards ahead. Slowly, they moved down the sloping sheet metal gang plank. The walkway was only wide enough to proceed in single file. The groans grew less believable as they approached the first “exhibit.”

            A couple more steps and a dim light flashed on. Suddenly, a dirty rag wrapped hand jabbed through some steels bars in a feeble attempt to grab one of the travelers. Startled, they veered sideways. It was a mummy, but not the Mummy, and a poor imitation at that.

            The momentary surprise subsided as they looked down toward a figure seated on a make-shift stool in the corner outside the cell. There, in a heap before them, was a dummy dressed as the Wolf Man. It was obviously a fake show. Phony costuming and fakery transformed Mike’s astonishment into annoyance. In a low voice, he whispered to Bill just inches away, “What a bunch of phony bologna!”

            Bill was equally disgusted. “Yeah, what a waste of money!”

            They turned left at the would-be Wolf Man and headed down the dimly lit corridor. As they walked, more confidently now, manufactured spider webs traced their faces accompanied by recorded creaky sounds, wolf howls, and banshee cries.

             Bill muttered, “Oh, brother.” Boldly, he marched on, picking up the pace. Mike followed in suit allowing the inches between them to expand into feet, but something didn’t feel right. He felt a presence, but couldn’t identify it in the darkness.

            Listening more intently, there seemed to be a shuffling sound coming from behind him and closing in. Shrouded by darkness, he glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, the Wolf Man had joined their solemn parade. It wasn’t a dummy at all, but a guy dressed in costume. He was inching toward the boys, providing a throaty huff and puff down Mike’s neck.

            The warm breaths increased as the werewolf pressed closer. Mike was becoming agitated.  He thought, “This guy is pushing the limits! Boy, if I could only stomp his foot or something.” Then, an idea flashed through his brain.

            Looking ahead, he could make out one last costumed character, a guy in a black cape. Light leaking through the Exit illuminated the final bend. He saw his chance. Leaning forward, he whispered in Bill’s ear, “When I say run, RUN!”

            Perplexed, Bill responded, “What? . . . Why?”

            By now the werewolf had Mike pretty peeved. He hissed back, “Just do it! We have a tag-along and I’m ditching him, so get ready.”

            “OK!”

            The Wolf Man kept in stride, step for step, just inches from Mike’s back. He felt a nudge on the back of his head. It must have been the mask the man wore. It was probably bumping into his hair. That did it!

            The trio had reached the last corner. The warm autumn breeze allowed daylight to break through the Exit curtains on their left. That was Mike’s cue. “RUN!” he shouted, and, mustering his courage, he turned, grabbed the Wolf Man’s rubber masked nose between his fingers and gave it a firm yank! The mask stretched and snapped into the face of the faker with a resounding “Whhhaaack!”

            Breaking out of character, the hairy nuisance let out a hearty “Oooowww!” Without even a glance at the caped creature, the boys accelerated into full gallop, and shot out the Exit door. Like shells from a cannon, they exploded into the daylight, barely grazed the top of the exit ramp, flew over the Exit steps and went airborne, hitting the ground running a  couple yards past the metal gangway.

            Howls and curses echoed from inside the sideshow trailer followed by an angry, “You kids come back here!” Panting, the boys disappeared into the crowd. Glancing back to make sure no one was in hot pursuit, Mike puffed, “All clear. We can stop running.”

            Half laughing, Bill blurted, “WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

            Catching his breath, Mike retorted, “That guy was a real pest! I mean, breathing down my neck like that, so I twisted his nose. I might have undone his costume I suppose . . . but he deserved it!” The boys burst into laughter and headed for the pavilion to meet up with Bill’s Dad.

            It had been a grand, memorable day, and they would never look at the State Fair Sideshows in the same way again.

By Michael Alumbaugh, © October 2017

Nudged Into Autumn

            With potholder in hand, Grandma ladled the last of the thickening sand plum jelly into the small Mason jar. The red-amber syrup steamed as it filled the glass container. Mike’s mouth watered in anticipation. There was nothing better than that sweet nectar spread across a warm slice of her fresh baked bread.

            She was a small roundish woman of few words; kind but firm and what she said was gospel! Lovingly placing her weathered hands on his small shoulders, she aimed him at the backdoor. Giving him a gentle shove, she quipped, “Now you skedaddle. Grandpa will be finishing milking in a while and I need to fix supper. I’ll call when it’s ready.” Smiling, he ambled out the door onto the porch. Calling after him, she continued, “And don’t forget, your Mom and Dad are coming out tonight.” That would end his summer vacation. He’d be starting the 6th grade in a week or so. He shuddered at the thought.

            The slap of the closing screen door reinforced his “Ok, Grandma!” The noise of the door and his shoes on the porch planks unsettled Teddy, the small golden brown terrier who lived under the porch. Tottering out on his short legs, he stuck his wet nose up in Mike’s direction, panted a pant, and gruffed a happy “Ruff!” His dark brown eyes glistened in the late afternoon sun. Turning back to the opening, he shook his body, rearranged his fur, wagged his fluffy tail, and yelped once more as if to say, “Just checking. Now, go about your business.” And with that, he returned to his shady resting spot down under.

            Mike jumped from the porch landing in the pathway below. Pausing, he looked left, then right and thought, “Now, which way to go. I can head toward the outhouse or I can check for eggs in the hen house.” He pondered his next move carefully, considering every option. “I know,” he thought, “I’ll explore the west woods. I’ve never done that!” With that, he exited out the front gate into the barnyard.

            Turning south, he tromped toward the grove at the top of the hill. As he walked, he adjusted the bib of his overalls and knocked the sand out of his pant cuffs. Passing the woodshed and the saw cradle, he reviewed his week on the farm. It had been a long one. He’d helped Grandpa with milking in the mornings and slopping the hogs up on that same hill. Then, he’d carried logs for the cook stove, cleared old walnuts from under the front tree, gathered eggs both morning and evening, and even gone sand plum picking with Grandma. While she got the good ones cooking, he helped her cull out the bad ones and occasionally stirred the pot for her. By nightfall he was one weary waif.

            As he reached the crest of the hill, he turned westward toward the woods. In the waking hours of each morning he’d stand at the edge of the garden listening to the dawn chorus ushering in a new day. Just as the first rays of morning light hit that bank of trees he would hear the quail call. Their song would echo back and forth through the trees sparking a whimsical sense of mystery and fantasy in the boy. They’d sing “Bob White . . . Bob White . . . I’m Bob White!”
            The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow along the top of the tree line. Passing abandoned farm implements and rusty old trucks, he came upon a convenient entrance. He hesitated. He’d never been in this section of the woods and wasn’t sure what awaited him. But curiosity won out.

            Squeezing between fence posts, he stepped around barbed wire to embark on his adventure. The only sounds to be heard were the crunch and crackle of leaves under his steps. Slowly, he made his way through the first fifty feet of trees and underbrush. As he moved, darkness gradually encompassed him. He paused to take it all in. The woods seemed steeped in tranquility.

            Ahead he could see stray rays of sunlight piercing through the dense foliage. They beckoned him onward. Pressing forward, the darkness began to recede. Presently, he came upon a clearing. Leaves from previous seasons covered the ground like a thick mantle. There was no hint of any previous explorer. He thought, “I might be the first person to ever walk here.”

            Moving toward the center of the clearing, the tree branches and leaves formed a vaulted cathedral-like canopy. Each edge appeared gilded in a kaleidoscope of colors; oranges, greens, browns, crimsons and golds. The woodland floor was textured with a blended palette of burnt sienna and raw umber with striking white-gold highlights.  The tree trunks were mere silhouettes casting lengthening shadows whose finger-like branches reached out for him as the sun continued its descent.  This wooded sanctuary seemed to foster a golden glow as if he had entered an undisturbed mystical fairyland.

            Then, an eerie stillness seemed to engulf him. Imagination took over as he pondered the whereabouts of trolls, elves and fairies. Thoughts of hidden treasure or an undiscovered cabin hiding a mad ogre grazed his mind. The crunching sound of leaves amplified his fears within this golden chamber. Delving deeper into the woodland, an ominous foreboding invaded him. Something had definitely disturbed the stillness. He felt, momentarily, as if he were being watched. Surveying the area he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Mustering his courage, each step diminished his apprehensions as the aura of lights, darks, colors, and sounds enfolded him. The serenity and beauty of his newly discovered “secret place” mesmerized him.

            Suddenly, he felt a firm thump on his right shoulder. He stood frozen. His skin seemed to crawl as fear flooded in. His heart raced as his breath halted. “Who . . . who’s there?” he thought, but dare he make a sound? Slowly, cautiously, he ventured to peek over his shoulder. There was no one there, only trees. He felt a perplexing trepidation. “I DID feel something against my shoulder,” he reasoned.

            Returning a forward gaze, his eyes set upon an elusive shadow. Fear gripped him . . . but wait. The dark figure glided gracefully through the lower limbs of the trees and, then, with a single flap of its broad wings, evaporated into the distance. It was a large barred owl beginning its evening flight through the twilight. Mike let out a huge sigh of relief as he watched the creature soar into the evening light.

            It was a moment of awakening for our young wayfarer. As he wandered back toward the farmhouse Teddy bounded from the bushes to escort him back. At first he didn’t notice his four-legged friend. The majestic beauty of one of God’s creatures had enchanted him. It was as if the touch of the owl’s wing was urging him to embrace a new season. It was a nudge into autumn. Bending down, Mike patted the perky pooch and, together, they meandered back to the house.

By Michael Alumbaugh, © September 2017

The Rooster Got Your Goat!

            The morning sun rose over the catalpa grove as the overall-clad boy finished scattering the grain. Opening the hen house doors, the flock scrambled out into the open yard like starving beggars grappling for any stray morsel of food in sight.

            Squawks and cackles filled the chicken yard as he stepped out of range of the squabbling fowls. It was a chaotic blanket of reddish-brown and yellowish white feathers. Mike enjoyed watching the frenzied feeders as they vied for dominance and their share of the food. That would soon end when “Red” appeared. A shiver went down the boy’s spine at the thought.

            That Rhode Island Red rooster was big and mean. With his red comb, those fiery red eyes, a cocky strut, reddish-brown and black feathers, and his yellow legs equipped with 2 inch spurs, he was not a rooster to rouse. He always looked ready for a fight. This eight year old pushed those thoughts aside. It was time to gather the eggs while the hens were preoccupied with their breakfast.

            He’d collected the last egg about the time that cranky cock appeared. Red was too busy pecking grain to give any thought to this potential intruder. Quietly, Mike slipped out the area unnoticed.

            As he approached the farmhouse, Cousin Bill came running toward him all excited. “Hey, Mike! Give Grandma those eggs and come on.” Bill was a year younger than Mike and full of energy. If Bill had an idea, it was usually fun and a bit unconventional. They’d both gotten Grandma’s “switchin’s” for those kinds of notions more than once.

            Puzzled, Mike responded “Why? What’s going on?”

            With brightening eyes he exclaimed, “We heard Grandpa say the herd was in the south pasture up by the hog pen. And Billy’s up there!”

            Billy! We hadn’t seen that kid goat since Uncle Louie brought him to the farm last spring. He was a little white ram that was fun to play with and to play tricks on. All the cousins had spent time teasing, touching and taunting that little feller. But Billy always took it in stride and rutted his head back at them as a way of affirmation, affection, or retaliation. Regardless, he was always entertaining for the clan.

            Mike hurried to the kitchen, set the basket of eggs on the counter, and ran back out the door. By this time most of the other cousins were running up the hill toward the hog pen. He saw Bill at the yard gate prancing impatiently as he waited. Catching sight of Mike, Bill shouted “Come on. They’re getting ahead of us!”

            Rejoining Bill, Mike chirped, “Let’s go!” and off they raced to catch up with the others.

            The pasture was uphill about a quarter mile from the farm house. As the two boys ran, they passed the old grinding wheel for sharpening axes.  Then came the metal wood shed, the belt-driven sawmill blade (about 4 feet in diameter), the old John Deere Model B tractor and a large pile of firewood. The boys had carried their share of arm loads to the house. Without electricity in the area, it kept the cook stove going year round for baking and warmth on those frigid winter nights.

            Just past the woodpile were the Banty hens and roosters. They were about half the size of the Rhode Island Reds in height but twice as cranky as old Red ever thought of being. Grandma took care of their needs. Mike and Bill slipped past them without even a cheep from the brood.

            Finally they approached the tree line where the old Model T’s retired. The boys had enjoyed numerous adventures there; chasing mice and lizards while pretending to be treasure hunters, but not today. The hog pen was just a bit further up the road on the other side of the trees and then the pasture. “Billy” was waiting.

            As they passed between the trees the Hereford herd came into view, about 20 head. In the middle was a large white animal. At first the clutch of cousins were mystified. “What is that?” they wondered.

            Then Sharon, the oldest girl proclaimed, “That’s Billy! Boy has he grown!”

            The children carefully pressed against the barbed wire fence for a closer look. Whispers and giggles mingled as all stood in wonder at the transformation of their pet kid goat.

            Munching on grass amongst the herd, Billy raised his head in response to the unfamiliar sounds. Recognizing his old playmates, he ambled toward the small congregation of admirers. He’d gained about 40 pounds and two feet in height along with a long pair of horns.

            Reuniting with familiar faces, he gave out a “Baaaaaahhh” and cantered merrily toward the children. His tuft of beard swayed in the breeze as he loped. Hands reached through the wire to get their first touch of the white wayfarer. Mike and Bill just watched as the rest enjoyed the reunion.

            Squeals from little piggy’s wafted across the air amongst the moos of the cattle. The two boys wandered toward the pen to get a closer look. Suddenly, frightful screams of alarm broke out from the cousins. As a playful antic, one of the boys had grabbed Billy’s horns and held his head against a fence post. Underestimating his new size and strength, Billy butted the child backward, reared on his hind legs and jumped the fence. Cousins fled in all directions.

            With horns lowered like a white charger, Billy began challenging his presumed adversaries.  Cousin Bill jumped up onto a fence railing at the pig pen and Mike rocketed back down the hill to the farm house. The other cousins scattered through the woods.

            Billy targeted Mike and, with head down, came charging after him. Scrambling as fast as his little legs could carry him, he passed the cars, the Banty henhouse, dodged the tractors’ rear tires, and flew by the woodshed, constantly zigging and zagging to avoid those powerful prongs. It all was a blur. His frenzied pace combined with the occasional backward glance created an awkward sense of balance. Any misstep and he’d be gored by a goat.

            The peaceful serenity of the country morning was shattered by yells for help as the duo crashed into the barnyard. Mike kept just a few steps ahead of those pointed horns. Billy jerked his head from side to side and jabbed his horns forward hoping to snag the boy’s backside.

            With his attentions to the rear, Mike stumbled into the flock of now disconcerted hens . . . and collided with Red! That cock, on a good day, didn’t like to be interfered with let alone run over and kicked. He retaliated in kind. Out came the spurs and the flogging commenced.

            Being stuck in the middle of the mayhem, Mike became frantic! On one side was a maniac goat rearing and rutting, and on the other was a rabid rooster with his hackles up ready for war. Wings wacked as claws and spurs spiked Mike’s legs. Hooves and horns bruised his backside. Squawks, screams, crows and bleats rose through the ruckus.

            The commotion penetrated the farmhouse unnerving its guests. In moments the porch was filled with spectators.  Aunts and Uncles clamored like a crowd at the Roman Coliseum when the lions were winning. Improperly appraising the situation, one of the uncles shouted, “Grab a stick!” (There was little time for Mike to search for a stick, being preoccupied with other things).

            Finally, Dad and the gentle giant, Uncle Marion, stormed the front gate, chased off Red and harnessed the goat. Mother grabbed Mike and consoled him while inspecting for damages. There was little to none short of scars from damaged pride.

            So began an early August summer day on Grandpa’s farm.

By Michael Alumbaugh, © August 2017

BOOMERS!

            The wipers squeaked and squalled as they slid across the damp windshield. There wasn’t enough rain in this summer shower to make them glide freely, yet there was just enough moisture and dust to obscure my vision.

            Placing the gear lever in reverse, I glanced at the driver-side mirror making sure all was clear. The wipers uttered a loud stuttering noise and dull thump as the windshield cleared. Rolling backward, I pressed the gas petal and glanced forward. All too late, my peripheral vision caught a glimpse of a parked vehicle in the passenger mirror. It was a huge rusty old farm truck with a missing headlight. Panicking, I slammed on the brake and . . . BOOM!

            Jolting, I sprang into a sitting position! “WOW!! What was that?” I spouted in a half dreaming stammer. The thunder clap rumbled off into the distance. Rolling over to her side of the bed, my wife groaned a gentle “Go back to sleep, it’s just a rainstorm.”

            I looked around the bedroom. Lightning multi-flashed like paparazzi at a celebrity ball. A brilliant crackling lightning bolt hit close to the house. I counted the seconds to determine the storms distance. Finally the thunder resounded.  Groggily I commented, “Seven seconds. That’s about seven miles to center.” The lightning was as intense as the reverberating thunder. Focusing, my eyes caught the red LED glow of the clock on the nightstand. I thought, “Oh man, 3:35 in the morning!”

            Returning to a reclining position, what may have been seconds felt like hours before I fell asleep, but this time it was no dream. Rather, it was a recollection of my younger days. My older brother Ron had shipped out with the troops for their tour in Viet Nam. Dad was at work and Mom was house cleaning. I was a fifteen year old rummaging around the back porch cabinets looking for some illusive item.

            Moving things around on the shelf, I spied a vaguely familiar pasteboard box in the very back of the cabinet. Rearranging a few items, I freed the container from its confines. To my surprise and pleasure I’d found the remains of a gross of Ron’s M-80’s he’d purchased for last years’ Fourth celebration. Of the two boxes only a half gross box survived.

            As I gazed upon the find, I felt like a beggar who’d uncovered a king’s ransom. Yet, this newly discovered treasure trove presented a rather awkward moral dilemma; should I push them back on the shelf or “borrow” a few? I mean, who would know if a few went missing. And they ARE in the family, just not mine personally. Besides, he’d never miss them.

            My adolescent mind rationalized with my reasoning side. “It’s almost the 4th of July. You should see if they are still good.” Suddenly, my shoulder devil protagonist butted in, “I bet they aren’t as loud as they were when he was still here. You should try one. Ron won’t care.” Then my right shoulder angel appeared. Without hesitation he firmly stated, “They aren’t yours. It would be stealing. Put them back.” I knew he was right but my weaker side gave in and I commandeered a half dozen.

            With the select six in my greedy grasp, I still struggled. “What will Mom say if she finds out?” But like all shoulder devil protagonists, justification for acquiring the ill-gotten booty only needed a simple nudge to win its’ case. Miraculously, a couple left over firework punks materialized.

            The hook was set as was my mind. Clutching them in my fist, I exited out the back door and headed for the barn about 60 feet from the house. I entered the workshop and found dad’s brass blow torch. He always kept a few matches with it so I was set.

            Walking out to the gravel drive in front of the barn door, I laid out my arsenal; six M-80’s, two punks and the small book of matches. I stuffed five of the mini-dynamite sticks in my front jean pocket, slid the second punk to one side away from the remaining incendiary and, grasping the other punk, removed a match from the book.

          With match in hand, I recalled seeing some actor in a movie position the match between the cover and the sandpaper striker pad. Then, with one hand, he pressed the flammable sandwich together and quickly jerked out the match with the other hand. With the elements of friction and combustible materials, Poof! The match head exploded into glowing flame, just like in the movie!

            Pleased with my newly perfected technique in flameography, I lit the punk. Smoke ascended momentarily like a smudge pot but soon revealed the hot orange glowing embers of the punk tip.  Now for the detonation.

            Approaching cautiously, I crouched before the solitary stub. The green twisted fuse glistened in the mid-morning light as it filtered through the overhanging trees. The red casing with black printing “M-80” begged enticingly for attention. Slowly, methodically, I glanced over my shoulder to plan my escape route for viewing distance. Returning my vision to the sole candidate, I cautiously extended the glowing punk tip toward the fuse.

             At first nothing happened, no smoke, no sizzle, no nothing! I moved it closer. Instantly sparks flew. The wick was lit! I jumped into running stance, turned on my heels and bolted for the clearing a few feet away.

            Arriving at my pre-planned viewing spot I turned and stared. A little smoke, a few sparks, a small flame, and then nothing. Standing stock still while holding my breath I gazed on and . . . BBOOOOOOMMMM!!

            Windows rattled on neighboring houses, birds scatted in every directions, leaves waved, and, as the smoke cleared, I noticed all the sand within five feet of the detonation spot had vanished. The war zone was now like a silent tomb. The concussion made my ears ring like tornado sirens.

            I remained motionless as if in shock for an undetermined amount of time. Suddenly the silence was broken with voices coming from behind. The ringing in my ears obscured any reasonable attempts at voice recognition. I turned and looked. There stood a couple of our next-door-neighbor’s children, Sammy, age 10 and Ruth Ann, age 13.

            The arriving itinerant chorus proclaimed, “What are you doing?”

            Still stunned, I proudly retorted “I just set off one of Ronnie’s M-80’s!”

            Ruth Ann, eyes wide and glistening with excitement, squealed “Do another one!”

            “Yeah!” echoed Sammy.

            “Sure.” I replied, embracing my newly acquired celebrity status. Expertly, I instructed my audience, “We’ll need to step back a lot further. I was standing way to close and my ears are still ringing.”

            With bolder confidence we retreated another twenty feet away from my current observation post. “There, this should do it.” I explained. “Now, wait here and I’ll light the next one.”

            Cooperatively, they replied “OK.”

            I trotted back to the detonation location and set up my next firework. As before, I measured my escape route from over my shoulder, extended the lit punk to the fuse and watched till it sizzled. As a spark flew, so did I. But I had a surprise waiting. My young admirers had been overcome by curiosity and, with my attentions elsewhere, I stumbled into Sam and Ruth. Chaos ensued!

            “RUN!” I screamed.

            In a mad scramble we retreated to our new location.  Just as we turned, “BBOOOOMMM!”

            Again, the windows shook and leaves settled.  The residual concussion swept our hair back. Then, once again, silence mastered the moment. I looked down at my protégés. Eyes were wide and mouths gaped as their jaws dropped. Even with our hands over our ears, the ringing continued.

            Slowly, Sammy commented, “Wow! That was really loud.”

            At this point, Ruth Ann turned to me with ebbing tears in her blue eyes and burbled a somber “Bye.” Then she scurried back to her house like a rat abandoning a sinking ship.

          Wisdom shouted “That’s all folks!” but where two boys reside . . . there’s only half a brain and it proclaimed “Just one more!”

            As if a telepathic connection had occurred, Sammy and my eyes met. “One more?” I asked.

            Unhesitatingly, he responded “Oh, yea! You bet!”

            “OK, but let’s do it different this time.” I studied the topography, and distance. With all the data in, I threw caution to the wind and confidently stated, “I’ll light it here facing that direction and throw it behind me over my shoulder. It will fly that way and we will run this way.”

            It seemed logical to his 10 year old brain. And with my newly gained vast knowledge and experience base of such things as these, I proceeded. I grasped the lit punk, searched my pocket for one of the four remaining mini-bombs and positioned it in my hand. Then, lit the fuse, tossed it with a hearty backward “over –the-shoulder” lunge and headed away from the presumed not-so-distant target area with lightning speed.

            Thinking we’d adequately distanced ourselves, we simultaneously stopped and turned. But no sparks or smoke was in sight.

            “Where’d it go?” Sammy asked.

            “I don’t know” I replied, quickly scanning the horizon. “It must have gone out.”

            As the words drifted innocently from my lips, we heard a sizzle and thud just inches from our feet. The “boomer” I had presumably launched to the target zone was intercepted by a nearby over-hanging tree branch and was returned post haste. We had become the detonation zone!

            With no time to run we stood our ground, braced ourselves and . . .  “KKKAAAA-BBBOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!

            The tornado siren effect on our ears had been morphed into intense Air Raid Sirens! As the smoke and dust clear a sullen silence fell over the terrain. Even the ants and earthworms had run for cover.

            A gentle breeze carried small bits of leave and debris away as the red casing fragments of the M-80 twirled at our feet. Wordlessly, Sammy, covered in smoke, sand and disgrace, turned and retreated to his house.

            As for my overzealous shoulder devil protagonist, the tumbling red paper fragments were all that remained of him. It would be a long time before I would hold counsel with his insights. As for my right shoulder angel, he remained the silent gentleman. The lesson would be forever etched in my memory. And as for Mom, she was probably hunkered down in the cellar armed with her Bible praying that Armageddon would soon pass.

            Dutifully, and bearing a measure of chagrin, I quietly returned the remaining ordinances to their rightful half-gross box in the back of the cupboard. Nothing was ever mentioned of the incident again. At least, that is, until now.

            And so I half dream . . . smiling.

By Michael Alumbaugh, © July 2017