A Place in Time

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Prologue: I watched an old movie called Cast Away staring Tom Hanks. In the movie Tom Hanks is marooned on a remote island after a plane crash. He learns to survive on the contents of FedEx packages that wash ashore from the crash. I fell asleep thinking about what I would want to have with me if I became stranded on a deserted island for an extended period of time.

The Dream: It was Sunday evening and we had enjoyed a family dinner together. I was slumped back on the living room couch with a contented full stomach and one of my grandsons on my lap. Laziness had already crept up my spine and I felt glued to the couch. The grandchildren were running in and out so the front door was open. Without knocking, a tall man dressed in a dark grey suit and sunglasses stepped through the door and into the foyer. He asked, “Is this the Grubbs home?” I said yes and asked who he was looking for. He didn’t answer my question but said, “I came to give you a message. Someone dear to you has been sentenced to spend three years on a deserted island. Anyone present in your home tonight can serve the sentence in this person’s place if they choose.” “Who is this person who is dear to me?” I asked. “You will not be given that information,” he replied. “What was the crime and what purpose will be served by someone spending three years on a remote island?” I asked. “The act may or may not have been intentional but whether a person falls or is pushed from a cliff, the resulting injury at the end of the fall is the same,” he said. “If no one comes forward and volunteers to meet our requirements, I will return in seven days to escort the guilty person to the island. Just remember, whoever you select to serve this sentence will have no contact with the outside world for three years.”

I must have decided in my heart that I would be the one to go because I handed my grandson to his mother and immediately went to my room and began gathering items for a survival pack to take with me. I selected a knife, a folding saw, two aluminum space blankets, a nylon rope and two watertight cases of matches. I packed my halogen headlamp and twenty-four fresh batteries along with a water purification pump. I gathered a complete change of clothes including a large brimmed hat and sunglasses. I went to the garden shed and put corn and tomato seeds into plastic Ziploc bags. Last of all I put six writing tablets along with pens and pencils into my backpack. I wanted to record my experiences on the island or at least let someone know what became of me.

Just one day prior to my scheduled departure I was told that I would be allowed to take one person chosen from those who had been present at the family dinner to stay on the island with me. My dad immediately volunteered but I knew his health would be compromised by such an ordeal. In reality I couldn’t ask him or any other person at the dinner to put their life on hold for three years. As much as I didn’t want to spend that time all alone, the idea of someone else making that sacrifice tore at my heartstrings. I was adamant that no one else would be going with me. On the outside I was standing brave. On the inside I revealed my personality flaws even if it was only to myself by wishing that someone would argue with my decision or suggest taking my place. I knew what my answer would be but it would have been nice for someone to offer. I chided myself for such childish and immature feelings. Everyone present that night knew that I was the best choice to make this sacrifice. My children were grown and I was healthy and willing.

The visitor to our home was true to his word. Just seven days after that visit it was time to leave for the island. Everyone present at the family dinner was invited to join me on a beautiful ocean yacht for the journey to the island. The yacht had every amenity you could imagine. Beautiful state rooms and a banquet style kitchen open from six in the morning until midnight was at our disposal. We lived in luxury those seven days it took for us to reach sight of the island where I would spend the next three years of my life. On the eighth day, with the yacht anchored some distance off shore, my family and friends gathered on the front deck to bid me farewell. A motorized dingy was lowered down to the water in preparation for my departure. With the hugs and well-wishes complete I told the man in the dark grey suit and sunglasses that I was ready to be taken to the island. He motioned for two large men to join him. With no warning they grabbed me and threw me to the deck of the yacht. They removed my backpack, hat, shoes, socks, belt and the items in my pockets. As the two men held me down on the deck the man in the sunglasses picked up my backpack and dumped its contents over the side of the ship, making sure that the Ziploc bags filled with corn and tomato seeds were torn, spilling the seeds into the ocean. My family and friends stood in shocked disbelief.

Without saying a word the two men lifted me off the deck of the ship and threw me over the side. I tried to prepare for the impact with the water below but only managed to flail in the air as I descended and hit the ocean in a slightly vertical position. The dingy was only a hundred feet away but as I began to swim toward it, the yacht put its engines in reverse and backed away from me with the dingy still tied to its hull. I was left all alone to swim a long distance to the island. I was frightened by what might be lurking in the water beneath me. Fear also gripped me just thinking about what else the man in the dark grey suit and sunglasses might not have told me about the island where I would spend the next three years of my life. True, he had not told me that I could take anything with me but he knew I had prepared a backpack and he had said nothing. As the yacht moved toward the distant horizon, I realized that my loved ones would not even know if I made it to the island. I began to swim.

Hours later, the waves lapped at my tired body as I lay exhausted on the beach. I was totally spent from the swim after I had been thrown from the yacht that carried my family and friends away. As my mental faculties returned, the first thing I noticed was my head being stroked in a familiar way by a gentle hand. Looking up with surprise I said, “What are you doing here?” “I came to be with you,” was the reply. “You can’t stay here,” I said. “I have to stay. My fate was sealed with yours when the yacht sailed away. I knew you would never agree with my decision to stay with you so I came to the island ahead of you. The man in the grey suit and sunglasses brought me over before sunrise. I have been waiting for you. I chose to do it this way so that there would not be an argument between us about my decision,” explained my island companion.

As I sat up in the wet sand and looked around, I noticed six cornels of corn seed that had washed ashore from my spilled backpack. I wondered if the salt water of the ocean had damaged the seeds. I quickly calculated that if I planted those six cornels and each grew and produced two ears of corn, in seventy-eight days I would have plenty of corn seed to plant and harvest in the future. I washed the seeds off in rain water that had collected in an upturned seashell and we went to look for a suitable place to plant them. Although it would require twice as much food to feed two people, I was glad I wasn’t alone. What would people say when the yacht returned in three years to pick us up? I decided to not worry about things I had no control over.

After planting the corn we explored part of the island. We scratched a mark on a large rock symbolizing day one with one thousand and ninety-four days remaining. Of course that didn’t take into account leap year. But what difference would one day make? We walked on the beach and were dazzled by a beautiful sunset. As night fell, we covered ourselves in sun-warmed sand to block the chill of the night breeze. Lying on my back and looking up at the stars that began to appear in the sky, I whispered a silent prayer of gratitude that I wasn’t alone. We called this island home A Place in Time.

Droplets of Diamonds

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

It was called Rattlesnake Canyon before a more inviting name was adopted. As I climbed the trail that crisscrossed the creek I encountered two rattlesnakes. No wonder this place was called Rattlesnake Canyon. Several times I started to turn back and find another place to do my hike and get my exercise. Something inside nudged me on. I wanted to make it to the top of the canyon and see the source of this stream. I pushed on until noon where I stopped by the creek and ate a sandwich from my daypack. After a brief rest I pushed on up the canyon.

In the early afternoon I came upon a third rattlesnake. This one was stretched out sunning in the middle of the trail. I found a long stick and poked the snake to encourage it to move out of my way. The snake refused to move. It would give a brief rattle of its tail to warn me off. Because of the steepness of the terrain I couldn't get around the snake. I felt like an intruder into the snake's territory but it was blocking me from my destination so I continued to agitate the snake in hopes it would move away and let me pass. Finally the snake moved into the heavy brush next to the trail. Now I had a worse situation. I could no longer see the snake or the threat it imposed. I had to decide whether I would take the chance to move on up the path in hopes that the snake had moved away or at least would let me pass unharmed.

Although it is difficult to explain now, at the time I felt compelled to go on. I crowded the far side of the trail and cautiously moved along, listening for the tale tale sign of those rattlers signaling a state of agitation by the snake. I passed by unharmed and proceeded on my journey. The trail became steeper and more difficult. The vegetation became denser. For a while the images of the snakes I encountered on my hike dominated my thoughts. Behind every log, nestled next to every bush that crowded the trail, my imagination saw another deadly rattlesnake lying in wait to plant it sharp fangs into my unprotected ankle.

As time passed I began to look up more and enjoy the creations of nature around me. Eventually I came to the headwaters of the creek that fed this canyon. The crystal clear water came pouring out of the rocks from an underground source fed by snowmelt from higher mountains. It sparkled in the afternoon sun. Just below this feature was a natural pool about four feet deep. I slipped off my boots and cooled my feet in the water. I decided that more than just my feet would enjoy a refreshing soak so I slipped off my clothes and slid into the pool. I laid my head back on the bank and let my submerged body lap up the experience.

I must have dozed off because I awoke with a start. The noise that awakened me was a woman standing in the middle of the pool. She acted as though I wasn't even there. I assumed she stood with her back to me to safeguard my privacy. I covered myself with my hands and said nothing but continued to observe her. I watched in silence as she dipped her hair into the pool and let rivulets of water streaming from her hair cool her neck and back. She did this repeatedly, each time pushing her hair back out of her face. Droplets of water beaded on her shoulders and back and sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight. I felt so relaxed I forgot I was undressed. Then she looked over at me and smiled I knew her. When our eyes met, I awoke. I had been dreaming. The experience was so vivid I looked around to see where she had disappeared to. But she was gone. I closed my eyes and tried to will her back into my mind. It was no use.

I climbed out the pool and dried in the warmth of the afternoon sun. After dressing and lacing up my hiking boots, I gathered up my daypack and headed back down the canyon. I saw no rattlesnakes but maybe I wasn't looking for any. My eyes were looking up, not down.

This experience came to me on the 6th of August, 2004, almost three years ago, but it is as fresh in my mind today as it was then. I would paint you a picture if I were an artist and could convey on canvas what my dream showed me that day. But then, you are entitled to your own dreams and your own interpretations. I wouldn't spoil that for anything.

The Tree House

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

She was agile as a boy when she climbed up into the tree. This girl was the only female I had ever invited to my tree house. I didn't actually invite her; she just stepped into my mind as I slept. This girl, this dream girl appeared at the base of the tree and said, "I want to share your tree house." She didn't say, "I want to visit your tree house."

This was a girl. Could she even climb the rope? Pushing through all that mental fog I said, "Do you need some help getting up the tree?" Before she could respond I began climbing down to help her. She acted irritated that I would think she needed my help. Irritation wasn't a feeling I wanted there in my secluded world. "This girl better get a different attitude if she is going to share my tree house," I thought. From the moment she sat down on the elevated platform next to me she became a co-owner of all my building efforts. Every board hauled up the rope, every nail driven into the tree and every hour spent planning how I would build my hideaway gave way to a feeling that it had never felt complete until she sat there next to me.

Accepting her was like drinking a glass of refreshing cold milk. She wore all white: white shorts, white blouse, white canvas shoes. She was fair complexioned and had blondish brown hair. When she saw that I was barefoot she removed her shoes. The irritation she originally stirred in me from her independent attitude faded as I watched her remove her shoes. But what drew me in to her were her eyes and her smile. She told me that she was eleven.

Touching her with my eyes, she spilled into me and covered all my insides. Although I didn't realize it at that moment, I would soon learn that I would never feel alone again. She stayed with me in my mind as I journeyed through my life, not necessarily as a living personage but more as a feeling. Down in the woods up in that tree house I forged a relationship with her that would stand the test of time. The tree no longer stands. Development has overrun and obliterated the forest that grew just beyond the home of my youth.

Before leaving for college in 1964 I returned to the tree house and renewed the memories I had created there through the years. On a sunny Sunday afternoon, the 5th of September 1965, before leaving for my mission for the LDS Church, I went back to the tree house and spent some quiet time. It would be the last time I ever sat and dangled my feet off the edge of that platform and looked down on the world below. Four years to the day of that last visit high up in the tree house, I walked through the doors of the Salt Lake LDS Temple and was married to my wife Kaye. Although it has been forty-two years since that last day I climbed up into the tree house it continues to be a place I can go to in my mind and find peace in my heart and a renewed resolve to strive to love others unconditionally as the girl in my dreams loved me.

The Whistle Stop

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

The day had been long and hot. I was looking forward to stopping by the train station to buy a bottle of root beer as I walked home from work. Sometimes the electricity would be off at the station and the drinks would not be cold. I was hoping that was not the case today. My wish was granted. The drink box was ice cold and so was the bottle of root beer. I walked outside so I could enjoy the little breeze that stirred around the building. I settled into a chair, leaned back against the wall and began to let my mind wander as I sipped my root beer. I was startled out of my daydreaming by the blast of a train whistle.

I remember so clearly, leaning back in my chair that day as the train slowly approached and came to a stop. I knew that the train would only be there briefly for passengers to board. I wondered why the train had stopped because there were no passengers scurrying around, saying last goodbyes and arranging luggage. No one ever got off the train in our little town except locals returning home so I was quite surprised when a beautiful young lady stepped off the train. I brought my chair down and leaned forward to get a getter look. She wore a white blouse that buttoned down the front and her blue jeans were tight against her hips. She wasn’t married. At least she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

From the moment I saw her I knew I would talk to her and find out what brought her to our little town. I approached her with no clue of what I would say. Before I had a chance to gather my thoughts she said, “Do you know where I could get a cold root beer?” I fumbled in my pocket for another nickel and said, “I’ll be right back.” She thanked me for the root beer and offered to reimburse me but I declined. In her kind way she explained that she was on a long journey and had just stepped off the train to stretch her legs. I asked if I could walk with her and she cautiously agreed. Her words seemed reluctant but her eyes said, “Yes.” We walked in silence for a while and then it was as if I had known her all my life. I told her about my family and what it was like growing up in a small town. I even shared the feelings that washed over me when I saw her step down off the train. She blushed slightly but said nothing. My openness about my feelings probably made her a little uncomfortable but it was like she was a part of me and could sense what was going on inside of me regardless of whether I told her or not. I talked, she listened. I knew as we walked together along the train tracks that I would never forget that day: that I would carry a memory of her with me for the rest of my life.

The whistle blew signaling that the train would soon depart the station. I savored the last few moments we spent together and then she casually stepped back on the train and was gone. I strained to see if she would step back out of the doorway, wave, and acknowledge me in some small way. She didn’t. As the train pulled out of the station I hoped that by some miracle she had stepped off the train on the other side and would be standing there smiling at me. She wasn’t. Some people come into our lives and are soon gone. Others touch us in a way that we are never ever the same again. I cherish those moments spent with her.

As time passes and the sound of the train whistle grows dim, I still remember the feelings of that day. As I lean back in my chair against the clapboard wall of the train station, I close my eyes and wait for the sound of the whistle that will bring the memories of her flooding back. And along with those memories is a lingering hope that she might pass my way again. She hasn’t. Not at the train station anyway, but at other times and in other places.

Bringing me back to my senses the station clerk said, “You owe me a deposit for that pop bottle the young lady took.” I reached into my pocket, withdrew a penny and handed it to the clerk. It was the best penny I ever spent. For sometime thereafter, I carried a penny in my back pocket. When I thought of the young woman who stepped off that train and came into my life I would reach into my pocket, touch the penny, and instantly feel closer to her. I no longer carry the penny but I still have it. I no longer think I will dream of her stepping off that train again but I have the memory and that is enough. She looked straight ahead as she stepped back on the train. I still wish that she had looked back if only for a moment. Remember, the best memories are measured not in days, not in hours but in brief moments, moments that change our lives.

Where Dad Thrived

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Dad had gone home and the ranch was left unattended through the winter. I tried to get up there each week to check on the buildings and give an appearance of activity taking place. It was Sunday afternoon and as I thought about the busy schedule of the upcoming week, I decided that I would slip up to the ranch, spend the night and come home in the morning.

I normally flew a small plane to the ranch but there was a light snow falling so I decided to drive. I was looking forward to the solitude of the drive assuming the roads didn't become snow-packed and slick. Once I left the interstate the little towns I passed appeared deserted. It was a peaceful drive. I arrived at the gate to the ranch just as it was getting dark. I had not bothered to change my shoes and the fresh snow wetted my socks as I stepped from the cab of the truck. That wasn't very smart, I thought. Oh well, I had my boots in the truck and I could change when I got to the house.

As I opened the gate that straddled the cattle guard at the entrance to the ranch I thought about dad and how much he loved this place. I wished he was here tonight. I would enjoy sitting by a warm fire and visiting with him and listening to the stories he had to tell about his adventures around the place. But he had gone south before the winter winds hit Wyoming. With snowdrifts four feet deep around the cabins I didn't blame him. The fact that dad wasn't here didn't stop the memories from flowing through me like clear water on a sunlit stream.

When dad first came to the ranch he said, "Mack, I'll take care of this place but I won't take any part in shooting the beavers that continue to dam up the culverts on the roads around the lake. I agreed that dad could deal peacefully with the beavers and any shooting that needed to be done, I would do. One day dad called and explained that he had spent five hours up to his waist in fifty degree water digging out a culvert plugged by a beaver. The next day dad called and told me that the beaver had plugged that same culvert again. He spent several hours in fifty degree water dragging out the limbs that chocked the culvert. The third day dad called and said, "Mack, I shot a beaver last night."

Skunks were also a serious problem for the ranch. They were nesting under one of the cabins and dad decided that he should trap them and remove the problem. The first skunk to end up in the trap created a new dilemma. How would dad get the skunk out of the trap without getting sprayed? Dad decided to shoot the skunk. He found out that shooting a skunk doesn't stop him from spraying. Not to be deterred, dad tied a twenty foot rope to the trap so the next skunk he caught, dad drug skunk, trap and all down to the lake and eased him into the water. I guess a skunk can't do two things at once: spray and drown.

The next group of creatures that came under the bead of dad's rifle was the raccoons. He would bate them with watermelon rinds and send them to the raccoon Promise Land with that rifle. Dad hadn't changed his tender feelings about the animals. He didn't enjoy taking their lives. But he loved the ranch and realized that sometimes difficult things have to be done to protect it. If a roof begins to leak and no one repairs it, nature will soon reclaim the entire cabin. Just as a nest of mice will destroy a sack of grain, beavers, skunks and raccoons will infest and wreak havoc on a ranch.

Dad taught me to respect life. He taught me that if I was going to take a life, I should be prepared to use that life for what it was created for.  Growing up, dad caught me shooting blue jays and said that I would have the opportunity to pluck and eat the next blue jay I killed. I never shot another blue jay or any other animal that I didn't eat. At least that is how it was until I came to the ranch and grew weary of trying to persuade the pesky creatures of Wyoming to go be a nuisance somewhere else. Just like dad, I didn't enjoy taking the life of the raccoons, the beavers, and the skunks. But I had grown to love the ranch and the special times dad and I spent together there during the previous summer.

These memories of dad washed across my mind during the few moments it took to open the gate that straddled the cattle guard at the entrance of the ranch. I felt lonely for dad's company. I was happy to be here in a place that is close to his heart even if he wasn't here now. Stepping back across the cattle guard, I slipped and fell. Extending my arms to catch my fall, my right arm slipped through the rails of the cattle guard and my forward motion caused a dislocation at my shoulder socket. I became dizzy with pain as I struggled to my feet. My arm hung limp and didn't obey the commands from my brain. I knew I was in trouble. It was almost dark and the snow was now coming down hard. I was a long way from help and I knew once my damaged shoulder began to swell I would not be able to get my arm back into the shoulder socket.

Just moments earlier all I needed to be content was a wealth of good memories swirling around in my head. But all the memories in the world wouldn't help relocate my shoulder. Where was dad when I needed him? I stumbled back to the truck and slid inside the warm cab to consider my options. The nearest town where medical help would be available was at least an hour's drive away but it was night and snowing hard. I decided that I needed to get my arm back into the shoulder socket before I did anything else.

Although my arm was almost useless I could still grip with my hand. I stepped out of the truck, closed the door and lifted my damaged arm with my other hand so I could grasp hold of the door handle of the truck. If I could hold on tight enough and jerk my body forward maybe the arm would slip back into place. Taking a deep breath and gripping the door handle, I jerked my body forward in hopes of forcing the shoulder joint back together. I crumpled to my knees in pain. Kneeling in the snow with my head against the side of the truck, I prayed out loud for help. Help didn't come. I struggled to my feet, took hold of the door handle once more and made a harder lunge to force my arm and shoulder back together. This time I cried out in pain as I sagged to my knees and slid down on my side until I lay in the snow cradling my injured arm.

I could feel my clothes becoming wet from the snow but I wasn't cold. Lying in the snow, I pleaded for help. There was no traffic on the road and I knew that what help I received would have to come from my own efforts. Once more I stood, took hold of the door handle and took a deep breath. I turned sideways, raised my left foot in the air and stepped forward like I was going to throw a rock as far as I could. As I gripped the door handle I let the full weight of my body carry me forward and this time I felt my arm pop back into place. Instantly the pain became less intense. I climbed back into the truck, reached over with my left hand and slipped the truck into reverse. As I backed out of the driveway to go to the hospital I noticed the open gate. I didn't want to leave the ranch unsecured nor did I want to walk across that slippery cattle guard again. I drove through the gate and up to the ranch house. Once inside, I took two strong painkillers that I carried in my bag just for occasions such as this. I stripped a spread off one of the beds and wrapped it around my chest and shoulder as tight as I could with my good arm.

I pulled the couch in the family room over by the fireplace and made a hot fire to warm my spirit. Lying on the couch I thought of all my blessings; of life, of family, of close friends, of the good times dad and I had here at the ranch. I would worry about my arm tomorrow when the sun would be bright upon the newly fallen snow and a fresh look at the world around me would make my problems a minor inconvenience. I slipped into the world of my dreams.

I recorded the dream I had that night. I still hold it close to my heart. Some dreams you share and some you tuck away. This dream I tucked away. I tucked the written words away but the dream is as alive in me today as when it filled my sleep filled mind. That night, amid the thoughts of dad at the ranch, the pain in my shoulder and the crackling fire that danced in my eyes and warmed my spirit, I made another memory even if it was only a dream. My grandpa told me to chase my dreams. He probably meant a different kind of dream. My grandpa is dead now but the dream lives on. I am thankful for all the men in my life who have helped shape and lift me when I was reaching out but couldn't quite touch my dream.

Dad and I still talk often and share fond memories of when I visited him at the ranch. I still dream of that ranch . . . where dad thrived.

The Cabin

By Jerry Mack Grubbs
 
Forward: Last week I was invited to spend some time at my sister-in-law, Diane's cabin. As I turned the corner and the cabin came into view, it was as though I had been there before in a dream. My dream took place three years ago and I recorded it in what I call my other journal. I'm like a packrat; I bury things that I'm not quite ready to get rid of but have no plans of sharing with others. I wanted to remember the details of that dream so I flew out to Fremont Island and dug up the plastic container that housed those pages of my experiences and dreams.

My son-in-law, Wade, told me that chronically depressed people are people who live in the past and anxiety prone people are those who constantly worry and fret over the future. He didn't have a definition for people who are chronic dreamers. Whether by curse or by blessing, I am of that category. I tell my family that I have a special cream I call my dream cream that I rub on my face and hands each night before falling asleep.

Prologue: It was the winter of our lives. I say winter because of the grey in our hair. Well, mostly the grey in my hair. How we came to live in this high mountain cabin or where it is located is a mystery to me. But a dream doesn't cry out for details of the past. You know how dreams are . . .

The Dream: Our cabin is so remote that our mail is dropped in by plane once every two weeks. But that is okay. We have no utility bills to pay because we have no utilities.  Our mail consists of letters from our children and an occasional catalogue informing us of all that we are missing in the latest fashions. Our provisions are meager but our garden supplemented by wild game keeps us a little larger around the middle than is needful.

We work hard but we work at what brings us pleasure. When the day is done we also rest hard. Our pastime is reading good books; taking long walks and sitting on the cabin porch watching the breeze disturb the aspen leaves of the trees that surround our little home.

After supper we sit on the porch and talk about what we did today although we did it together. We discuss the book we took turns reading out loud to one another. As we crawl between the sheets that sun-dried on the clothesline she draws her knee up over me and rests her arm on my chest. I fall asleep listening to her little puffs of restful breathing.

At breakfast we talk about going to town. Town is a two day horseback ride. We go four or five times a year and spend a week in a local motel as we gather supplies, call the children who catch us up on their busy lives and always remind us of how crazy we are. I suppose we are crazy. By the end of the week we are lonesome for home and the beauties of nature that can only be appreciated when you sit still long enough to watch an ant crawl across the porch or a robin build a nest one twig at a time.

The hurry has been taken out of this phase of our lives. We move in a simple, natural way just like the garden by our cabin that only responds to the laws of nature. Just try to force a seed to spout and you'll soon discover how little power you really have. We are powerless to turn back the clock of time or see clearly what the future holds. With no one to keep the roof repaired our little cabin in the mountains will one day be gone just as each of us will be gone. But today we still repair the roof and plant the garden. We have agreed that should I die first, she will not try to stay here alone. Should she die first, I know I will not stay here alone. It wouldn't be the same without her. The snow wouldn't be as white in winter. The trees wouldn't be as green in spring. And the nights would be too lonely without her arm across my chest and the sound of her peaceful breathing.

We are told that the pine beetles are infesting and killing the trees but there will still be trees when we are gone. We see more contrails from jet aircraft crossing the blue sky carrying busy travelers to their destinations but the wind always blows them away. Occasionally we hear the report of a distant rifle from a big game hunt. But it is a rare occasion in deed for us to have an unexpected dinner guest. If someone finds us, they are most likely lost. She feeds them, makes them comfortable for the night and after a hearty breakfast, we send them on their way. They are usually in a hurry to get back to their real lives. They will miss the robin as she builds her nest for her future family. They will miss the golden eagle that soars above the ridge that overlooks our cabin each morning.  They may miss these things but they won't long for them. They will be content to lean back in a swivel chair and for a brief moment look up at a painting of a majestic scene framed and hanging on an office wall.

How fortunate they are to be where they want to be, doing what they want to do. How blessed I feel to be here where the stars are bright and the sky is blue; where she and I communicate more with a momentary glance than most say with a mouthful of words.

Too Weak to Fish

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Prologue to a Dream: On April 26th of this year I fell asleep reading a book about Mother Teresa called “The Simple Path.” A particular quote from the book caught my attention. At one time Mother Teresa was chastised for providing too much help to the poor. When she was reminded of the phrase, feed a man a fish and you have fed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you have fed him for a life time, she simply stated, “The people we feed are too weak to fish.” I fell asleep with her comment on my mind . . .

“I wish we had two fishing poles?” she complained. “I’m glad we have two hooks to put on our fishing line. It’s almost the same as having two poles,” I said. “Why can’t we have two poles?” she asked. “Because we have no money to buy another pole,” I answered. “I get tired of just sitting here watching you fish,” she said. “Here, you take the pole and fish for a while and I will just sit and watch you.” “Don’t you ever get tired of looking at me?” she asked. “Not yet,” I said. “What does that mean?” she asked. “It means, not yet.” “You’re going to drive me crazy with that kind of answer.” “I don’t want to drive you crazy but if you go crazy, I will still love you.”

“I wish we had a boat. If we had a boat we could paddle over to those reeds were the big fish hide,” she said. “I’m glad that old fisherman took pity on us and gave us this fishing pole. We have been able to catch enough fish for our needs each day. We are blessed,” I said. “Well, I don’t feel blessed,” came her reply. I just smiled. I knew she was just giving me a hard time. I knew her heart.

“We already have three fish, let’s go swimming,” she said. “It’s only spring and the water will be too cold; besides, we didn’t bring anything to swim in,” I said. “I don’t need anything if you don’t,” she teased. “We are not going swimming,” I said with clinched teeth to slam the door on the subject. “Why do you always have to get your way?” she whined. I didn’t answer her. But I wondered if she felt protected and safe with me or just bullied. I pulled the wire basket from the edge of the water that contained our catch of three fish. She would cook two fish for our dinner and we would share the third for tomorrow’s breakfast before we came back down to the river to fish again. I knew we couldn’t live on fish alone but fish was certainly better than nothing. Fish would have to do until we figured out something to go with it.

She was a good cook but I would have loved her even if she couldn’t cook. Thinking of her cooking, my mind went back to the time before our world turned upside down, money became worthless and the economy was in shambles. When I look at our life now I realize how simple it was before the change. Although it was simple, we were happy then and we are happy now.

After returning from the river we sat in front of our little home and she cleaned the fish while I straightened out the tangled fishing line and sharpened the two hooks against a smooth river stone. I thought of the nights we had gone to bed hungry before the old fisherman came by our home on his way to the river. She took a drink of water out to him and because it was getting late she invited him to have dinner with us. That’s how she was; it didn’t matter that all we had to eat was potatoes and rice. The old fisherman slept on our couch that night and before he left the next morning, he gave us one of his fishing poles. I protested the gift but he insisted, saying that he only carried two poles in case one broke. After he left I saw that he had tied two hooks about six feet apart to the fishing line. It was the next best thing to having two poles. She and I could now catch food at the river.

I rarely think of my life before I met her. And I didn’t want to think about life without her. She had been married before and her husband had died in a fiery accident. She seldom talked about him and when I asked questions, her answers were always short and the message she sent to me was I don’t want to talk about it. So we didn’t talk about him. The way she looked at me and touched me caused any shred of jealously about her former life to flee from my mind like a mouse being chased by a famished cat.

That’s how it was between us that day as we sat in front of our little home and cleaned fish, straightened out fishing lines and sharpened the two hooks for tomorrow. Just before it was time to go in for the evening a man came walking down the road. She reached over and touched my arm but I had already spotted him. He had a severe limp and was struggling to maintain his balance as he walked. She was sitting by my side but just a little back of me so I couldn’t see her expression but I knew what she was going to say before she said it, “Looks like that man could use some help. You suppose he likes fish?” I knew that there would be three fish cooked tonight and a guest would be spending the night on our couch with as much comfort as she could provide.

As the lame man grew close she made a small gasping sound. I turned to look at her but her expression caused me to return my attention to the man coming toward us. That was the first I noticed that he didn’t have any lips and his face and head were covered with scars and skin grafts. There were tiny sprigs of hair scattered here and there on his bald head like patches of weeds in an unkempt garden. He had no ears and one eye lid only partially closed when he blinked. My first thought was that this man needed far more help than just a fish to eat and a comfortable couch to spend a night on. But how could we help, we could barely feed ourselves?

“It’s so good to be home,” he said. Because he had no lips his words came out in a hissing sound but there was no question what he had said. She gasped again but didn’t say a word. He walked past us and started toward the front door and said once again, “It’s so good to be home.” I didn’t know what to say but I knew who he was. He was horribly burned. He was home. This had been their home before his accident. If he was alive then we weren’t legally married. I sat there in a stupor not knowing what to say or do. As he struggled to the door, a part of me wanted to jump up and help him but the other part felt frozen to my chair, not knowing what to do. While my mind was in turmoil my body went into motion and I ran to help him inside.

As he sat down on the edge of the bed I could tell that his feet were hurting so I asked if he would like for me to remove his shoes. He nodded, “Yes.” I knelt down before him and unlaced them. When I pulled off his shoes, the skin on his feet sloughed away also. The sight of his damaged feet caused me to throw up but I held it in my mouth and swallowed it back down. He told me not to worry; his body was rejecting the skin grafts on his feet. I carefully slid my arms under he legs and eased them down on the bed so he could rest.

All this time she stood behind me, watching every thing that took place. It was as though she was unable to speak, needing to assess her life, her future. That’s when it occurred to me that it wasn’t just my life that had changed. She would care for this man for as long as he lived, no matter what. I knew her. She couldn’t squash a bug on the floor but would carry it outside and let it go. She would care for her husband as long as he drew breath in the same tender way she had cared for me.

I couldn’t look at her. I knew if I looked at her I would break down and that wasn’t what she needed right now. I turned to leave and the first words she uttered to me since her husband had come back into her life were, “Will you be taking the fishing pole?” “No, it is as much yours as it is mine. You said this afternoon that you wanted your own pole. Be careful what you wish for.” “You should at least take one of the fishing hooks,” she said. “You keep them both; your husband is too weak to fish. Besides, I still have the rifle.” “But you don’t have any bullets,” she said. It didn’t matter. There was a time when she and I didn’t have a fishing pole and we were happy. There was a time when she invited a stranger to have a meager supper of potatoes and rice and spend the night. And we were happy.

She followed me across the room and as I opened the door to leave, she spoke in a whisper so as not to disturb her resting husband and said, “What do you wish?” Our eyes met as I turned to face her. It was the first time we had looked at each other since her husband had walked back into our lives. “You know the old saying,” I said. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” “You always say that. I hate that saying,” she said. I knew she wanted me to say that I wished he had died in the fire. I had never lied to her and I wouldn’t start now. I reached up and touched her cheek as I said, “What I wish is that we had swam in the river today when you only had eyes for me.” I turned, stepped through the doorway and didn’t look back. Walking down the crumbling asphalt road I avoided the cracks and repeated the phrase, “Step on a crack, break your back, step on a crack, break your back.” Dodging the cracks in the asphalt and saying those words helped me shut out the other feelings trying to peal me like an onion and expose my pain. I didn’t look back. I was afraid she wouldn’t be standing in the doorway with tear filled eyes watching me walk away.

Mohair & More

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Prologue: I wish I could say this article was a creation of my active imagination but it actually transpired. The year was 1962 and I was a junior in high school. The article is taken from my writings under the category called Pathetic. I would share something from my writings titled Hero, but you would probably doubt their authenticity. The clock turns back and the story begins . . .

I hated geometry. I'm not sure exactly why; maybe it was because of all the formulas we had to memorize. Memorizing wasn't difficult for me, I just wasn't motivated. I couldn't figure out for the life of me why I would ever need to know geometry. It is comical how some things turn out. Years later, as I became involved in the construction industry, I would use geometry more than any other math I was exposed to in my education. But I was sixteen at the time and more interested in what was being served at the school lunch cafeteria than memorizing formulas. Who cared how much square area was in a triangle or how many gallons of water would fit in a pyramid?

Just before class started I glanced at my watch and noticed I had fifty seconds before the tardy bell rang. I dashed out of the classroom to get a drink of water before having to endure the next hour of sheer boredom. As I hurriedly stepped into the hallway and turned to my left toward the drinking fountain, I was hit by a midget running down the hall trying to get to his class before the bell rang. He wasn't really a midget; I could have just as easily referred to him as a runt. He was just shorter than I was. In high school it was SOP (standard operating procedure) to use derogatory labels on people. His forehead hit me right in the nose. We both went sprawling to the floor. I was knocked out cold and would later discover at the doctor's office that my nose had been broken.

Needless to say, I missed geometry class and lunch. The next day as I slid into my seat for another day of A-squared plus B-squared equals C-squared, Judy handed me a copy of the previous day's homework assignment. Judy was the girl who sat next to me in class. As I looked down at the paper she handed me, I noticed that it was all filled out; the geometry problems were already solved.  I looked up at Judy and her smile said, "You're welcome." Without a sound coming from my lips I mouthed the words, "Thank you."

A beautiful friendship developed from Judy's smile and her act of kindness. I say beautiful because from that day on, Judy did my geometry homework. A little chit chat before class each day was all she required in return for her services. It wasn't hard duty. She was easy to talk to and pleasant to be with so this arrangement was made in heaven. Notice I didn't capitalize the word heaven. I knew that cheating on homework wasn't pointing me in the direction of that heaven that you spell with a capital H but what the heck, I was only sixteen and I had plenty of time to make better choices later.

Our homework was kept in a folder that we turned in at the end of each term. There were three terms in each semester. I had earned a B- first term and we were just starting the second term. Before long, Judy was keeping my completed homework assignments and placing them in a folder. Her little smile each day at the beginning of geometry class told me not to worry, my homework folder was in good hands. Having my homework in good hand was important because it constituted one third of my term grade. My actual grade for the first term had been an A- but the teacher took ten points of my total grade because I turned my homework folder in two weeks late. It was two weeks late because it took the teacher a week to convince me that I was going to fail geometry if I didn't turn in a homework folder. How could you turn in something that didn't exist? Well, it existed but it just wasn't very current. I had sixteen missing assignments and she wouldn't accept the folder until it was complete. It took me another week of staying up late at night to get the back assignments completed. But with Judy on my team, this term would be a cake walk. I don't know where that term "cake walk" came from because it doesn't make sense but it made sense to keep smiling back at Judy and asking her those innocent questions like, "What did you do last period?"

Judy would always ask me how my nose was healing. My nose was fine and we both knew it. That was just an easy, safe subject to start our daily conversation. My only regret about our relationship was that I didn't have more classes with Judy. I could sure use her to do my English homework. But that wouldn't have worked out too well because Karen was in my English class. Karen was my steady. In fact she was the only steady I ever had in high school. Karen would have thought it disgraceful for me to let someone do my homework so I did the appropriate thing and promptly asked Judy to stop doing my homework assignments. Just kidding. I did the wise thing and didn't tell Karen about Judy doing my geometry homework.

I know I should have felt guilty letting Judy do my homework and concealing my relationship with her from Karen. But there really wasn't any relationship to conceal. I was just being friendly with the girl who sat next to me in geometry. When the teacher passed out the mimeographed pages of geometry problems for the next homework assignment each day, I would lift the papers to my nose and smell the chemical residue left on the paper before slipping them over to Judy for her to complete that evening.

For those of you old enough to remember the old duplicating machines before photo copiers, the ink was a faded bluish purple color and the chemicals from the duplicating process remained with the paper for hours after the copies were made. I loved that smell until I volunteered to operate the duplicating machine for my Spanish teacher. Too much of a good thing can spoil the experience. Enjoying the smell of the fumes from the mimeographed homework pages wasn't the only thing about to be spoiled in my life.

It started out like any other day in geometry. Judy wore her usual soft smile as I came down the isle toward her. As I leaned over to slide my books into the shelf below the seat of my desk, Judy turned toward me and said, "How do you like my new sweater?" "It looks great," I said. "It's made of real mohair," Judy said. "What's mohair?" I asked. "I don't know but if feels real smooth against my skin." When Judy said the word skin, my attention was drawn to those two pyramids hidden under her sweater. I couldn't remember the formula for figuring out the volume of a pyramid but there was a lot of volume under that mohair sweater. I don't know how long I stared, maybe only seconds, but suddenly I realized that Judy was looking at me as I stared at her gifts from Heaven. When our eyes met she was still smiling. That was a good sign. I felt my face go red with embarrassment and for some reason I didn't quite understand, I knew our relationship had changed.

Getting caught staring at a girl's pyramids isn't what you do if you just want to remain friends. That boy-girl stuff complicates friendships. What had that mohair sweater done to us? I had certainly seen girls in sweaters before. If a girl's sweater fit tight it drew attention to her parts. It the sweater fit loose it was just another sweater. But Judy's sweater was so tight it could have belonged to her little sister if she had one. I didn't even know if Judy had a little sister. I realized I didn't know anything about Judy except that she smiled a lot, made pleasant conversation in geometry class and she did my homework. I felt strange inside. Like I was in trouble but not certain what I had done wrong. It was like being on a rollercoaster ride and seeing the dip or curve up ahead and not being able to do anything about it: no steering wheel to grab hold of and no brake pedal to press. You had no control . . . you gave up control when you paid your twenty-five cents and strapped yourself into the seat of the rollercoaster. The ticket taker strolled by to make sure your lap belt was secure, took your ticket and said, "Have a great ride." I had a feeling that my friendship with Judy was going to turn into an emotional rollercoaster ride that wasn't going to be so great. I hoped I was just imagining things.

The bell rang and I bolted from my chair and headed for the door as quickly as possible. I didn't look back. As soon as I entered the hallway I was lost in the crowd of students moving to their next class. I wondered if I had blown our homework arrangement but the next day Judy acted as though nothing had happened. When the mimeographed homework assignments were passed back down the rows she made sure that I saw she had taken two copies: one for her and one for me. She had never done that before so this was a good sign that getting caught staring at her pyramids the day before hadn't damaged our friendship. With two copies of the assignment already in her hand we wouldn't have to go through the awkward moment of trying to slip my papers to her without being noticed. All of that worrying yesterday was for nothing. Life was good.   

A week went by and it was evident that our friendship had not been damaged by that boy-girl stuff. At least that was what I thought until Judy showed up in the mohair sweater again. I started to say, "I see you're wearing your real mohair sweater again," but I didn't. Judy didn't mention the sweater either but she did show me the folder that contained my homework assignments. We smiled at each other and she said, "Would you like to take a look at your homework folder after school?" I can't, I work after school," I said. "Maybe you could come over and look at it when you get off work?" she said. "I don't get off work until midnight," I responded. I suggested that she just slip the folder to me as we left the classroom but she didn't think that was a good idea. I'm not totally naive. I had just dodged the big bullet. Judy was hinting in a polite way that she would like for our friendship to extend beyond the classroom. I liked things the way they were and I wanted to keep it that way, tight fitting mohair sweater or not.

I knew I was nearing a dangerous curve on this emotional rollercoaster ride with Judy. If I didn't do the right thing, Judy could get hurt. I didn't care so much about the homework. If she didn't want to make a duplicate of her homework assignment and put it in my folder anymore, that was okay with me. I never asked her to do my homework. She just started doing it when I got my nose broken by the guy who ran into me in the hallway. Although I had not asked her to do the work, my quiet acceptance of her efforts signaled that I was in agreement with her actions. But I wasn't stupid. For me to have asked her to stop doing my homework would be like having my mother come into my room and say, "Mack, I've been washing and ironing your clothes but if you would rather do it yourself, I can stop anytime." Now who's going to say, "Oh mother, I've missed a great opportunity by not doing my own laundry." Give me a break! If Judy was willing to do my homework why should I disrupt a good thing? I know what some of you are thinking about now . . . why didn't this guy's mother find something better to do with her time than give birth to this guy? I'm not claiming to be innocent, just content.

The following Friday Judy was wearing that tight mohair sweater again. I kept thinking about what she had said about how smooth and soft if felt against her skin. I was a little uneasy because I already had two uncomfortable experiences when Judy was in that sweater. It was like the sweater made her into a different person. Just before the bell rang for geometry class to be over, Judy slipped me a note and got up and was gone from the room before I had a chance to open the note and read what she had written. This note was not a hastily scribbled "enjoyed talking with you today" kind of note. As I opened the carefully folded paper and began to read her words, my emotional rollercoaster took a sharp curve and steep drop at the same time. My stomach was in my throat and I felt sick all over.

"Would you go to the Girl's Preference dance with me?" the note said. What was she doing to me? She knew I had a steady girlfriend. Besides, the dance was two months away. I hadn't heard of anyone even talking about that stupid dance yet. My weekend was ruined. I now knew why she had left the classroom so quickly. She wanted me to have to think about this all weekend. I couldn't go to the dance with her. And I wasn't about to let my girlfriend Karen know that Judy had even asked me. I could just see her reaction. "What have you been doing or saying that would cause Judy to ask you on a date?" Why is it always the guy's fault? I made classroom conversation, let her do my homework and admired her sweater. How could I have been so stupid to get caught looking at those pyramids? Why did I make "I had to work" excuses when she invited me over to her home? I wouldn't be in this mess if I had told her the truth at that time.

I wanted Monday morning to never come. I wanted to change schools, join the army or fake my own death. Monday did come. In fact it came screaming around the corner and before I knew it, second period was over and I was dragging myself down the hall to geometry class. "Maybe she changed her mind," I thought. Are you dreaming? Wake up, Idiot. I could see the headlines of the school paper. Student strangled with mohair sweater for turning down date to Girl's Preference . . . see page two for the rest of the story. If I didn't already have three unexcused absences I would have skipped class. Avoid, avoid, avoid had been my method of operation and now it would be my downfall. It was time to face the music.

I looked in Judy's direction as I entered the classroom. Yes she was there and she was wearing that blasted tight mohair sweater again. What had she done with the rest of her clothes? The sweater had become a bad omen for me. I confess; I took the chicken-way-out and during my previous class I constructed what I thought was a well written note thanking her for wanting to spend that evening with me but . . . there is always a "but" in this kind of note. After reading the note Judy looked straight ahead and didn't say a word. I thought, "Now that went well. Why was I so worried all weekend? And besides, she has plenty of time to ask someone else to the dance." Toward the end of the class when homework assignments were being passed back down the rows as usual, I was surprised that Judy took two sets of the homework papers. Apparently my emotional rollercoaster ride was over. At least that was what I thought until the bell rang and Judy jumped up and followed me out the door. She stuck right next to me as we left the classroom. I could almost feel her mohair sweater against my back. I'm certain I wasn't just imagining her breath on my neck.

As we entered the hallway Judy tugged at my arm and like an obedient puppy I turned to face her and prepared myself for whatever punishment she had planned for me. Breathing so heavy I could see her chest moving in and out, she stared right into my cowering brown eyes and said, "What does that skinny, toothpick of a figure blond you are dating have that I don't have?" I was taken back by the anger in her voice. It must have been a subconscious reaction. I momentarily glanced down at those pyramids covered by her tight mohair sweater, thought about that skinny blond she was talking about and quietly said, "Plenty." I didn't actually say the word, "Plenty." I just thought it. Some questions are better left unanswered.

Epilogue: I wish the story ended here but fat chance of that. We learn from the things we experience and it was evident I had a lot more to learn about girls.

Mohair & More (Part Two)   by Jerry Mack Grubbs

Prologue: I keep three journals. The first journal captures the events, feelings, highlights, regrets and things I am grateful for in my daily life. The second journal catches glimpses of my mistakes, my successes, my pathetic choices, and my dreams. The third journal details the secrets buried in the deepest chamber of my heart. Last week I shared with you the first portion of an article taken from the category called pathetic choices. Today's continuation of that article will not make sense unless you have read Mohair & More (Part One).  My purpose in sharing this story with you is two fold.  First, I desire to put a smile on your face as I share my experience and secondly, I hope to unlock your memories and encourage you to reflect upon some of the choices you made in your youth.

To refresh your memory, last week the story ended with me pinned against the wall by Judy's pyramids and her glaring gaze as she took the opportunity to point out a few of my weaknesses. You might as well know from the start that I never saw Judy in that mohair sweater again. So, if your sole purpose in reading this article is to learn more about tight fitting sweaters and pyramids you will be disappointed.  Although Judy never wore the mohair sweater again I did get the courage to ask her what happened to it.  

My story continues . . .

If Judy had been a guy instead of a girl when she said those hateful things about my girlfriend Karen, my response would have been quite different. When she made those accusations it just helped me realize how lucky I was to have someone in my life like Karen. When Judy asked me what Karen had that she didn't have and my answer was, "Plenty," I wasn't referring to how she filled out a sweater. She was skinny. I made the mistake once of calling her a toothpick. For you guys still in the learning curve, that kind of comment won't get you to first base. But this all happened before I understood that dating was like a baseball game; first base, second base, etc. Karen may have been thin but she had plenty to offer. She played varsity volleyball and basketball, rode a horse like she was born on one and won many awards competing in rodeo events on her horse called King, but most important of all, she was willing to spend her high school years wearing my ring around her neck. Well, she wore my ring except for the times she took it off when I did stupid things like allowing Judy to do my geometry homework.

Actually Karen didn't find out about my deal with Judy until much later. After Judy confronted me in the hallway I was certain that my homework arrangement with her was terminated. She probably went home that night and burned my homework folder. But there was several weeks left in the term so I could still make up all those assignments if I had to. The optimum thing would be for Judy to just hand my homework over to me and tell me that she wasn't going to do the assignments anymore. Was I surprised! The next day when the teacher passed out the homework pages, Judy took two sets of homework just like before. She made sure that I saw what she had done. I guess we were going to be friends whether I went to the Girl's Preference dance with her or not. Like I said before, she had plenty of time to ask someone else to the dance. Judy even passed me a note and apologized for what she had said about Karen. This was turning out sweeter than I could have ever imagined. After a couple of weeks I was even beginning to wonder if I would ever get to see her in that mohair sweater again. No one ever went blind or got their fingers broken for just looking.

Things couldn't be better. The school term was ending and it was time to take the geometry final. The teacher's method for computing our class grade was simple. One third of our grade was an average of the midterm and final test scores. Another third of the grade was the average of our pop quizzes. I don't know why the teacher called them pop quizzes. We had a quiz every Monday and Thursday. These quizzes weren't just randomly popping up. The quiz might come at the first of class or toward the end but bet-your bottom-dollar you weren't leaving her class on those two days without being quizzed. Our homework folder constituted the last third of our grade. As I said before, things were looking good. I had a B+ average on my quizzes and I had an A- on my midterm.

As the teacher passed out the papers for our geometry final, Judy slipped me a note. On the front of the note were the words, Read this before you start your test. Opening the note it said, I thought you should know before you take your test that I threw your homework folder away last night.   I looked over at her in hopes of seeing that familiar smile on her lips to let me know that she was just playing a joke on me. Her head was down and she had already begun taking her test. I quickly looked away for fear that the teacher might think I was trying to cheat by looking at her test answers. As I tried to concentrate on my test I kept telling myself that she must be kidding.

I finished my final before Judy did but I stayed at my desk and waited for her to complete her test. I was in hopes that we could talk about the true whereabouts of my homework folder. As she gathered up her books and turned in her test papers along with her homework folder, I followed her out of the classroom. The teacher called after me and asked where my homework folder was. I turned back momentarily and told the teacher that I had an urgent matter to take care of and I continued out the door. Lucky for me the teacher didn't say anything else.

Looking down the hall both ways I spotted Judy. I ran and caught up with her. "I need my homework folder," I said. The moment she opened her mouth I knew I was dead. Well, not actually dead dead but when mom got my geometry report card I might as well be dead. I would be grounded for life: no car privileges, no dates, and no life for me except school, church and chores. I never did anything bad enough to get grounded from church. I wonder how bad I would have to be for mom to say, "Mack, you can't attend church for three months." Mom and I once had a discussion about that very subject. She informed me that the only way I would get out of my church meetings was to be dead. Well, I wasn't going to kill myself over a bad grade in geometry.

I won't bore you with the details of what Judy shared with me there in the hallway about my shortcomings as a human being but her words are still etched on the wall of my brain like an ancient pictograph. Suffice it to say she made it abundantly clear that I would never see that homework folder much less use it to obtain a grade I did not earn and did not deserve. Her choice of words, earn or deserve, were puzzling to me. If I had agreed to go to the Girl's Preference dance with her, would I have earned and deserved my homework folder? If I had gone to her home after school and checked out my folder, would I have earned and deserved my folder?

Shake it off, let it go, get on with finding a solution to my problem, I thought. The solution certainly wasn't going to come from Judy. I went back to the teacher and told her I had misplaced my folder and would need some time to find it. She said I had one day to get that folder on her desk or I would fail the term. I failed the term. It was the first "F" of my school career. I couldn't imagine all the changes that were going to occur in my life over this one tiny "F". Why is it that something so unimportant to one person can be so catastrophic to another? Maybe mother was faking and pretending to be more upset about my past grades than she really was in hopes of motivating me to do better. No, her face got too red for her to be faking.    

Our grades came out on three by five cards printed by the school. The front of the card was divided into the three terms of the semester and this is where the teacher recorded our term grades. The back of the card was for a parent's signature indicating that the grade had been reviewed. We had three days to return the report cards to the teachers. I tucked my report cards in my shirt pocked and headed home dreading the look on mom's face when she saw that "F". I had to do something. Mother didn't deserve the unhappiness my geometry grade was going to cause.

A beautiful thought entered my mind. I pulled the cards back out of my pocket and studied how the teacher had formed the letter "F" in the grade column. Sure enough, I could take a black pen and by just adding one line to that letter "F" it would transform into an "A". My problem was solved. You know the saying: what mom doesn't know won't hurt me. Mother signed the back of my report card and I promptly threw it away and told the teacher that I lost it. Lucky for me the teacher didn't call mom to verify that she had seen my report card.

I knew from a previous experience when I really did loose a report card that the teacher would not take the time to re-write all the information of previous term grades. With a B+ for the first term and an F for second term, I figured I could still pass the semester. There wasn't anything to get too excited about. Lying to the teacher and lying to mom by changing my grade was painful but not as painful as the truth would have been. If mom wasn't so strict I could afford to be more honest. My plan worked like an accomplished musician playing a precision instrument. Mom was happy. I was happy.

Epilogue: Happy endings are sometimes not an ending at all but just a momentary euphoria. I didn't realize it at the time but I had merely postponed a battle that could have easily escalated into my personal Armageddon, that final battle spoken of in the Book of Revelations in the Bible. Mom had an unbelievable memory. At the end of the semester she wanted to know how I could end up with a "C" in geometry when my three term grades had been B+, A and A. I decided enough time had passed that it wouldn't be a big deal for her to know what I had done so I told the truth. Boy, was that a mistake. I thought she would be proud of the way I buckled down and saved my geometry grade. Talk about a big deal! You would have thought I carved my initials in my little sister's arm the way mother acted. I have forgotten now how many things I was grounded from but I do remember that church wasn't one of them.   

I continued to sit next to Judy and in time we became friends again. I once asked her why she never wore the mohair sweater anymore. "Are you stupid? It's hot out side. Besides, mother said it was too small and made me give it to my little sister." I missed that mohair sweater but I never mentioned it to Karen. Some things are better left unsaid, especially if you are trying to get to second base.

No Talking Allowed

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Peering down from my hiding place I see far below a gentle surf lapping against the white sandy beach. The receding waves act like the tongues of thirsty dogs licking at the sand. As each wave releases its energy and slides back into the sea it carries with it part of this beach that is the front door to my view of the world.

But it isn’t just sand being drawn into the ocean that alters the view from my front door. Everything around me is in constant change if I just stand still long enough to notice. Maybe the fact that I have to stay very still and I am not allowed to speak to anyone gives me more time to watch the events taking place before me. Sometimes I feel like a spy looking down on the lives of people way down there on the beach. I can see them but they have no idea my eyes are upon them so they do things that they otherwise might not do.

As the sun was breaking over the distant horizon this morning I strained to bring into focus a jogger coming down the beach. Running alongside of him was a large black dog. The dog wasn’t on a leash although this beach had a strict leash-law. Occasionally the jogger would stop, pick up a piece of drift wood and toss it into the surf for the dog to chase after. The jogger and his dog were having a great time.

Almost right down in front of my hiding place the dog stopped and eliminated the remains of what must have been a large meal from the previous evening. What the dog did was perfectly normal behavior for a dog. The jogger stood patiently by as the dog finished his business. I saw that the man had a plastic bag tucked inside the waist band of his jogging shorts. That plastic bag was for the purpose of complying with another beach law, “scoop it up and pack it out” so the beach can remain clean and beautiful for other visitors to the sand of the seashore.

The dog completed his task and returned to his playful manner, coaxing his master to chase and play in the surf once more. The jogger looked down at the soiled beach but instead of retrieving his dog’s “beach present,” I noticed that he looked one way and then the next, searching for what I could only guess was to see if someone else on the beach might have seen what transpired. I can’t judge what was in his mind; I can only observe his actions. I looked both ways down the beach also and saw that it was deserted all except for me hiding way up above out of the jogger’s view. When he side-stepped the mess his dog left on the beach I wanted to shout down and tell him to clean up after his dog but I remained silent. I remembered one of the rules of my hiding place, no talking allowed. No one asked or wanted me to be the “Beach Gestapo” or “Poop Patrol.” I was only allowed to silently observe and there were many things to notice.

That huge orange ball we call the sun quickly pulled itself free of the horizon and began its steady climb into the sky, bringing with it the warmth of another beautiful summer day at the beach. I wondered what visitors would come to my front door of the world today. I had been so intent upon watching the jogger with his dog I had forgotten to turn off my lamp. I had left my light burning all night because I love to watch the light chase away the darkness. Some would call leaving my light on a waste of energy but I don’t tell others what to do with their light just like I didn’t remind the jogger of the “scoop-it-up and pack-it-out” rule of the beach.

I was anxious to see more visitors to the beach but I knew I would have to be patient. They didn’t come to entertain me; they didn’t even notice me. But not noticing me was okay. If visitors to the beach didn’t notice me, they would be themselves, acting just like the jogger who didn’t clean up after his dog because no one was looking.

My next visitors were two women taking a morning stroll. I imagined them to be vacationers who had grown tired of the novels they were reading back at their beach house and the sound of the surf had invited them to take a leisure walk. They looked happy and were enjoying one another’s company. They carried their sandals in their hands and walked barefoot in the wet sand letting the dying energy of the waves wash over their feet. I could see their lips moving and I strained to hear what they were saying but the sound of the surf muffled their voices. I knew I was too far away to hear what was being said so I just made up pleasant words and placed them on their lips.

The lady closest to the water was wearing a white swimsuit with blue markings. She had on a white blouse unbuttoned down the front that shielded her shoulders from the morning sun. Her shirttails flapped in the coastal breeze like the wings of a seagull taking flight. She had blonde hair and a smile that would melt your heart. She looked familiar but I was sure I had not seen her pass this way before or I would have remembered her. Her figure was filling out in places she would probably rather ignore but that didn’t matter to me. I am old enough to understand that a soft glance and a gentle touch are remembered by the senses long after the footprints in the sand are washed away by the incoming tide. And as long as I have been watching this beach, the tide has ebbed and flowed, washing away any evidence of trespassers on nature. I decided to name this lady Soft & Gentle for how she made me feel as I touched her with my eyes.

The other lady, the one closest to me, was much thinner and walked as though she wanted someone to notice her. She looked like she could go the distance . . . like a runner or an aerobics instructor. Her swimsuit was color coordinated in cream and copper to match a perfectly tanned body. I instantly nicknamed her Tanned & Toned. Here I was watching Soft & Gentle walking with Tanned & Toned as they strolled along the beach of life. I felt somewhat guilty tucked away in my hiding place and observing their every move. I wasn’t trying to deprive these two ladies of their privacy, I just enjoyed watching them as they leisurely strolled along the beach in what I called the front door to my world. I knew the pleasure of their company wouldn’t last long. They would soon be out of sight and I could only hope that they would pass by me on their return to their beach house. I wanted to run down to the beach before they came by again and remove the dropping left by the jogger’s dog but I couldn’t. I wasn’t on beach patrol; besides I wasn’t allowed to leave my hiding place.

I loose track of the days here in the cliff above the beach below. Today is either a holiday or the weekend because people began to show up just after lunch and stake out their own private spot of beach. They plopped down coolers, lawn chairs, towels and food baskets of all shapes and sizes. A volleyball net was set up for afternoon entertainment. This was turning into a wonderful way to pass the hours that can be sheer boredom when the beach is deserted. I’m not saying that I don’t enjoy the private solitude that a quiet beach can invite. I’m just suggesting that there can be a healthy balance between solitude and life-in-motion. With the erection of that volleyball net I knew instantly that there would be a lot of life in motion today. There would be young women in smaller than practical bikinis revealing enough of their assets to distract their male counterparts in the volleyball game. I wasn’t disappointed as the afternoon crowd gathered and the flirtation games began. Remember, disappointment comes from unmet expectations. Although the scenery was pleasant I felt a little saddened that so much emphasis is placed on physical appearance. But looking beyond the physical appearance is easier for an older generation where there have been too many cookies and milkshakes to tuck into a bikini or a Speedo.

I didn’t learn too much from this festive party because they were too busy worrying about how they looked to their friends. If you want to discover who someone really is, watch them when they think no one is looking. Like the little boy looking to make sure his mother wasn’t watching before he picked his nose. The only person who would chastise him was his mother, consequently; she was the only person who counted as he turned his back to her and performed his nasal ritual. Ten years from now when he would be one of the young men playing sand volleyball, wearing his Speedo and flexing his budding muscles, he wouldn’t dare put his finger anywhere near his nose for fear someone would have the slightest suspicion he was digging in that direction. Oh, the things we do when we think no one is looking. But today I was looking from my hiding place high up in the rocks above this happy crowd.

As afternoon burned into evening and most of the beach goers had retreated to their cars and headed for home, some lingered and built a campfire to roast marshmallows and hot dogs. From high up in my hiding place above the beach they became dancing shadows against the flames of the fire. I could still see their faces in the flickering light. One couple in particular stood out to me as I watched their eyes meet and lock on one another for long moments. I played a game in my mind and chose them to be the last hangers-on. In other words, no matter how long it took or how late it got these two would be the last ones to leave so that they could enjoy the quiet peaceful darkness together. I did not know what would happen once they were alone but I did know that there would be an expression of their feelings for one another.

I was right about the couple, not because I am smart but because I have observed visitors to the beach on other occasions. The pattern is the same. Once they are alone, they begin to explore each other physically or mentally or both. Tonight it was physical. The couple first sat by the dying fire and held each other close. Gradually as the fire turned to nothing more than glowing embers, they slid off the log they were sitting on and laid next to one another in the damp sand. It was only by a sliver of moon that I was able to see that things were taking place down on that beach that were meant for their eyes only. I know that a better one than I would have turned away and given them their privacy but instead, I turned on my light and let it shine down upon them. You see, I am a lighthouse and I am not allowed to talk. But I can turn on my light and chase away the darkness.

That is what I do each evening as I try to help others find their way on the darkest of nights. Some are caught in the unsuspected light, surprised and possibly embarrassed like the couple lying in the sand below. Others are grateful for that beacon that can guide them safely home. I could not leave the light off to accommodate the couple on the beach for fear that someone else was lost and floundering in a dark unfriendly sea. I started to name this article “If Lighthouses Could Talk,” but then it would have given away my hiding place. If a lighthouse could talk, think of the stories it would have to tell. If it could write, think of the pages of journals that a lighthouse could fill. If a lighthouse had a heart, imagine all the romantic sunsets it would experience.

A Soft Presence

By Jerry Mack Grubbs

Taking the stairs two at a time I sidestepped around a middle aged woman as I made my way up the stairwell to level 5 of the parking lot. As I climbed the stairs above her, I looked back and saw that her blonde hair revealed graying roots. There was a bounce in my step. My youthful exuberance was from holding my newest grandson Campbell as I visited with his parents at the hospital. Just as I opened the door to exit the stairwell I looked back and the lady I had passed was lumbering up the last flight of stairs not far behind me. I decided to wait and hold the door for her. She looked up and smiled a thank you as she passed through the doorway.

As the door began to close I glanced back into the stairwell and suddenly an old familiar feeling gripped me. I felt the presence of an unseen person in that stairwell. I have experienced similar feelings in the past; of sensing the presence of someone who I could not see. The feeling is usually the same. I am emotionally drawn to her and I want to protect her and keep her from harm. Who is this person? Where is this feeling coming from? Why am I so concerned about her safety? She isn’t my mother, my wife, my daughters, or my daughters-in-law. She is apart from them but I have an emotional attachment to her. As I try to put definition on those emotions I can’t even decide whether I feel responsible for her or responsible to her.

I hope that someday I will understand these feelings. I know there is someone lingering near me, reaching out to me. It isn’t a ghost but a soft presence of someone near. It is like my heart knows more than my brain and my heart isn’t willing to tell my brain who is standing there and what it all means. Although this experience has repeated itself on other occasions, prior to today my most recent feeling that her soft presence was near me came in September of last year. While my wife and I were having dinner at the home of friends I felt this lady standing right next to my chair.

Some would say that I am crazy, that it is all a figment of my imagination. Maybe it is my imagination and maybe it isn’t. But to me she is real and I look forward to understanding the meaning of it all. I know a little more than I am telling but not much more; not enough for you to make any sense out of what floods over me when I feel her soft presence near me.

I have heard stories of other people having similar experiences when they have lost a loved one through accident or illness. These people often struggle in frustration as they strive to put into words that a soft presence was felt and a comforting feeling was experienced. I have never felt that my experiences are coming form someone deceased nor have I thought that this soft presence I feel near me is trying to bring me a message from beyond this world. She is just there . . . unseen but felt. And the feeling remains with me for days and I want to hold her, shield her and protect her from anyone who would harm her in any way. She was in the parking lot stairwell today. Why? I do not know. But I was flooded with warmth by her soft presence.