Quick Sand and Zombies

As a kid I remember one of my biggest fears was falling in quick sand. There were many movies that showed people being swallowed up into the earth because they stepped in this dangerous sand. The belief was that this sand could be anywhere but disguised, which made it even more dangerous.
     Well it turned out that quick sand was not as prevalent as I believed, which was good news. My realization of this irrational fear was gradual, but now we have Zombies.
      It seems like many movies and shows have stories about Zombies. What’s the fascination? I don’t get it. It’s true, they travel in large groups relentlessly chasing people but at a snails pace and their body parts fall off. It seems like it would fairly easy to escape from a Zombie. Quick sand seems much scarier.
     I guess if you were running from a Zombie and stepped in quick sand that could ruin your day. “Just Saying. . .”

Lost

            The yearly trip to the mountains invigorated our spirit. My wife and I enjoyed the solitude and simplicity of life untethered to technology. The cold crisp air of January left a cool burn in our throats. This year we were welcomed by fresh snowfall that covered the marred ground left by the summer fire.

            A wood stove heated our cabin. This cabin brought back memories of happier times. My father died many years ago, and mom ran off with some slick willy. Never heard from her again. This cabin was the only inheritance I received. It took two long summers to fix it up.

Logs were stacked in the yard by the old barn. Not enough to keep us warm for the week. Cutting firewood was a necessity, not a chore. Felled trees lay near the trailhead. It was a simple task to split logs but physically demanding, something I needed and enjoyed. A perfect opportunity to show my son what hard work was all about. This trip was his first in three years. He couldn't come up with a good excuse to avoid it. At seventeen, he always had a reason to bow out of a family activity. This time I vetoed all of those.

            My son, Jason, was sleeping on the pull out couch in the family room. I woke him earlier than he liked. It couldn’t be helped. We needed to split firewood to keep us warm through the week. My wife, Mary, would have breakfast for us when we returned.

            He moaned and groaned like most teenagers when you mentioned physical labor. I told him to grab the chainsaw, ax and a few wedges. I would get the wheelbarrow from the barn. No surprise he didn’t hear, with the earbuds.

            “Hey, no electronics. That’s the rule.” I yanked them out of his ears.

            “It’s just pre-recorded music,” He smirked. “so I’m not on the Internet.”

            “I don’t care. You need to be focused when chopping firewood.”

            I went to the barn to get the wheelbarrow and told Jason to take the tools over to the oak tree lying on the ground. That would be enough wood to carry us through the week.

            He was sitting on the log when I returned, quickly pulling his earbuds out before I did. It took over an hour to chop and split what we needed. We hauled it back in the wheelbarrow. We made two trips. After the second trip, I told Jason to take the wheelbarrow back to the barn then hustle back for breakfast.

           My wife and I chatted as we sipped coffee and enjoyed bacon, eggs, and hash browns with a side of honey buttered biscuits. We came out here so many times, just the two of us, that for a few minutes we hadn’t noticed Jason didn’t return. When it dawned on me that he hadn’t come back, I grew agitated. 

            “Where the hell is he?” 

            Mary shrugged her shoulders. “You know him. He probably found something interesting in the barn." She pointed her fork at me then shook it. “Go get him before his food gets cold . . . but be nice.”

            “I’m always nice.”

            “Oil and water – that’s you two.”

            I put my jacket on, walked out to the chilled air and headed toward the barn. I expected to meet him walking back — no such luck. The only footprints in the snow were mine when I first went to pick up the wheelbarrow, nothing in the direction of the cabin. The barn door was partially open, so I entered yelling Jason's name. There was no response. I looked around, expecting to see him lounging while listening to some hip-hop music, but he wasn't there, and neither was the wheelbarrow. 

 I rushed out of the barn and ran back to where we had chopped wood.  The wheelbarrow was leaning up against a tree at the trailhead. I could see footprints in the snow that lead on to the trail. Jason wore a pair of high-end running shoes with the word marathon on the soles. Those were the footprints I saw. It had to be him, but there were two other sets of prints, less distinctive but still fresh. I followed them to the trail. Once the path entered the forest, the footsteps disappeared.

            Oh, his shoes had a built-in tracker. It was used to track the miles logged, but it also recorded location. I ran back to the cabin to check his iPad.  

My wife saw the worried look on my face. “What’s up?”

“It’s Jason. He’s disappeared.” I held my hand up to ward off more questions. “Hold on! I’ll tell you in a minute. First, I have to look this up.”

She hated to be hushed. “You know that doesn’t work with me!”

“He wasn’t in the barn. His footprints disappeared into the woods with two other sets.” I rubbed my beard. “I need to check his tracker.”

“You missed something. I’ll check.” She ran out of the cabin before I had a chance to stop her.

Mary always believed she knew best.

I found the app. It shows Jason or his shoes on the trail about two miles in. I took a photo of the map with my phone and grabbed a shotgun, shells, Mary’s hat and gloves as I headed out the door. I scanned the yard but didn’t see Mary, so I ran to the barn. I knew she had to be inside. I pulled the door back and called her name. No response. I searched everywhere to no avail.

Back outside, I rushed down to the trail, thinking she was there. Maybe I wasn’t able to see her from the cabin. As I ran down the path, I spotted Mary's shoe, Italian leather chestnut Tieks with a distinctive blue sole. I reached down and picked it up. Dammit, she should have waited for me. I could see by the patterns in the snow that there had been a scuffle. I knew Mary fought her attacker.

Now I was searching for Mary and Jason. My son could be at least another half mile deeper in the woods and for Mary. Well! I had no idea. The photo I took guided me to the spot where the tracker last recorded Jason’s shoes. That was a half-hour ago. My cell phone didn't show any signal. I couldn’t call for help. It was up to me. I’ll try to get a signal later. 

I walked about another quarter mile when I saw drag marks on the left. It could be nothing, but I couldn’t be ignored. All of a sudden the drag marks abruptly ended. Dead end? I stopped to listen carefully and do a visual survey of the area. Something wasn't right. When I saw Mary's second shoe hanging from a bush, I knew they were close. My military training kicked in when I spotted two booby traps. They weren't animal traps. More like traps to protect from intruders. It made no sense. 

Off to the right there was a derelict hunter's cabin. You couldn't even call it a cabin, just a wall, and part of a floor. I checked my phone, one bar. I was able to get a GPS signal. I pinned my location and messaged the sheriff. The chance it would get through was slim. Fingers crossed.

I crept closer to the cabin, taking a wide berth around the traps, and sat listening for sounds that didn't fit the forest. As I was about to move in closer, I saw a camouflaged cellar door open then a bone-chilling scream. A guy crawled out of the cellar looking for something, probably Mary's shoe. He needed to retrieve it because it was too close to his hideout.

All I had was the element of surprise. I couldn't use the shotgun. I knew there was another person down in the cellar waiting for his return. He didn't know where the shoe had fallen off, and the only way to find it was to retrace his steps. When he passed near one of the booby traps, I lunged forward and hit him with the stock of the shotgun knocking him into his own trap. I heard a menacing groan as the stakes he placed in the hole pierced his body.

I picked up the shoe and made my way to the cellar entrance. I still had the advantage of surprise, but I had to act quickly. His partner would get suspicious if he were gone too long. The door creaked when I opened it. Thankfully, it went unnoticed. The cellar was damp and dark. A lantern lit the path to the end of a hall. Sounds were coming from that direction. Voices . . . Mary’s was the one I recognized. I hoped there was only one person to deal with.

As I moved down the hall I tried to get a visual of the guy holding my family. I could see Jason. He looked unconscious. I didn’t see Mary or her captor. Then as I crept around the corner, I saw a woman with a gun standing over Mary. She was mumbling to herself, maybe concerned about her missing partner. I needed to act quickly before she did something drastic. I threw Mary’s shoe into the room to distract the gun-toting woman.

She turned and said, “It’s about time, you lazy piece of . . . “

Boom! I didn’t give her time to finish the sentence. “ . . . MOM . . . ?” She slumped over a chair then fell dead to the ground.

Shocked was an understatement. Mary and Jason were safe, but mom was dead. A mom I never truly knew.

Minutes later we heard quad runners. The sheriff and two deputies climbed down the ladder into the cellar. 

“We’ve been looking for these two,” The sheriff rubbed his chin. “What happened?”

“My son and wife were kidnapped this morning by this woman and the guy outside in the hole.” I looked down at my shotgun. “She’s my m-mom . . . but I haven’t seen her in three years.” Hands covering my face, I dropped to the ground.

            Mary looked at the sheriff, “He didn’t know it was her. She changed. None of us recognized her.”

            “You’re not to blame. I’m sorry you had to be the one to find her.” The sheriff continued. "Sometimes, justice is a hard pill to swallow."

“What will happen now?” Mary asked.

“The deputy will take you back to your cabin. You’re safe now.” The sheriff waved his hand around. “This will be buried.”

“Oh! The evidence?”

“The evidence, the bodies . . . everything. This never happened. We handle things our own way in the country. No cameras or news media needed."

The Test Results are In

If you believe in a higher power then you might believe that this is all a test. The virus, riots, racism, natural disasters. A test to see how we can get along together and solve the world problems. Well! We’re failing, miserably.
     One brain can solve a problem, but a collaboration of many brains working together can do amazing things. On the other hand if those same brains are working to destroy something, they have an equal amount of power but it is being used in a negative way.
     Two wrongs don’t make a right is a saying that’s been around for many years, but it’s being ignored. It’s fair to punish the offender, but instead we are punishing the nation. We are making bad decisions and being influenced by the self serving.
     People are looking to God for help, but he’s already given us this earth, life and free will. He might be sitting back watching to see how we deal with these crisis. Maybe he’s saying, “I gave them everything they need to succeed, but if they choose to fail it’s on them.”
     He might not be coming to help us this time. “Just Saying . . . “

Teaching Fear

Are you teaching your children to fear police or life in general? People react differently when they’re fearful. If you have a bad experience you may develop a fear, but there’s other ways to develop fear. Small children are not born to fear, it’s learned. If a child is constantly told to fear something or someone, they learn to be fearful. This could be a justifiable fear or a manufactured one.

     People run from fear or situations they believe to be dangerous. So if you fear police you may choose to run even if good sense tells you to stay put. Situations become volatile when poor decisions are made. I imagine police become fearful as well. They learn fear in the same way as others. Would you walk down a dark alley in a bad neighborhood without fear? Not likely. What would you do as a police officer if you felt your life was in danger? 

     It’s not hard to imagine that young people learn fear from the news. Kids see news about police brutality and they learn to fear. The interpretation that this is common is implied by the news media, because the media is fueled by bad news. No rational person can justify the death of an innocent man by the hands of the police, but we don’t always have the full story. The news media blinds us with facts that do not always tell the whole story, because it’s seems to be more important to be the first to break the story. Once the public is wrapped up in the breaking story their opinion is already formed. The additional facts presented may not be considered.

     If you pile one fear on top of the other, a person will eventually learn to fear life itself. Maybe instead of teaching fear we can teach compassion. “Just Saying . . . “

Kitchen Snake Wrangler

Each morning repeats itself with the same pattern until it doesn't. Last Tuesday started out the same as every other day. I had already made coffee and was casually reading the daily news while sipping the morning brew when I heard my wife's footsteps on the stairs. 

            I'm always up before her with fresh coffee made. Just what a husband does. A jolt of caffeine always awakes the senses, but today her senses surged to DEFCON 1.

             I heard her shriek. "What's that? What's that?" She gasped for air.

            "Huh! You talkin to me?"

            She repeated her question with a siren scream. "What's that? What's that?" Contorting her face she pointed her finger towards the kitchen counter below the coffee maker. 

            I jumped out of my chair and crept over to take a look expecting to find a spider or large bug on the floor. No. not a spider, or bug nor a frog, but a SNAKE, a living breathing cold-blooded REPTILE coiled up on the floor next to the refrigerator.

            “Stand back,” I warned. "I’ll take care of this."

            My wife still standing on the stairs said. "Yes, do it quickly. . . and we're selling the house."

            "Really, and why would anyone want to buy a snake-infested house?” I peeked over my glasses at her and shrugged. "Okay, I'll get my work gloves. . . Keep an eye on him."

            I rushed to the garage and brought back a pair of leather work gloves. I felt it was adequate protection for this creature. I approached the serpent from behind with caution. With my lightning-speed reflexes, I grabbed the viper and fell to the floor grappling with the intruder until I gained control. Well, not exactly. That’s how I see myself portrayed in the movie, the Brad Pitt version. Actually, I picked him up with two fingers then tossed him in the backyard. He did have his mouth open in an aggressive way, but that’s no big deal for a snake wrangler. I felt confident. My work here is done.

             When I came back in the house my wife asked, “What did you do with it?”

             “I threw it in the backyard, and before you ask they’re good for the environment. They eat mice.”

             “Good for the OUTSIDE environment.” She shivered. ”How big was it?”

             I threw my shoulders back. “It was every bit of two feet, with the girth of my pinky.”

            “What kind?” she asked.

             “Well, I’m not an expert but I think it was a garter snake, but I’ll check with Google.”

            “I can’t believe you didn’t see him when you made the coffee.” she continued her line of questioning.

            “He might have come in after me. Maybe he’s got his own key.” I gave her a devilish grin. ”I had just gotten up, so I wasn’t fully awake.”

            “That’s it, I’m going to call someone to check our house for the rest of the snake family.”

            My wife made a few phone calls and chose Humane Wildlife Solutions as the company to come over and wrangle the remaining snake population, but the appointment was a week away. So for the next week every time we opened a drawer or cabinet, we looked for an uninvited guest but found none.

            On Tuesday the snake guy came and checked the premises inside and out but found no snakes. He explained where we could seal up spots in our siding to keep mice and snakes out of the house. Snakes only come in the house in search of their prey or to get a hot cup of coffee. Ha! 

            He said based on the size of the snake I described, it was a juvenile. 

“Well, of course. It’s always a juvenile causing problems,” I said. “and that also explains the snake graffiti on the cabinet toe kick.”

It’s a Trap

Some people say offensive things on a daily basis. They want you to be offended. If you become upset and have a negative response, they win. Their day is now complete while your day is ruined because you chose to be offended. The more this happens the more sensitive you become towards offensive words.
     Then there are others that unintentionally say something that you take as an offensive comment. The words they used were not said to offend anyone. It was just an opinion or comment, but your hyped up sensitivity has made you react negatively.
     Don’t fall into this trap. You have a choice. Walk away, ignore what you might believe as offensive words. Choose not to be offended. Yes, you can do that. If the words used were intended to offend you, but chose to ignore them, you win.. Arguing with a person who is trying to offend you is a no win situation. They won’t listen to you. Their mind won’t be changed. Life is challenging as it is, so why not eliminate problems by choosing not to be offended.
     Be a winner, smile and walk away. “Just Saying . . .”

A Dream Ride

Surprise! Today’s my birthday . . . my fortieth, but to me it was just another day.

It was a busy week, like most, but my boss let me off early for my birthday. That was a shock, but the real surprise came when I arrived home. 

I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but I could see by the decorations on the garage my wife did. A big red ribbon with a bow dressed the door. 

As I flung open the garage door, my wife stood dangling a set of keys – taunting me.  Behind her was a candy apple red sports car. “Let’s go for a ride.”

My mouth hung open, and the words came slowly. "Are you kidding me?"

“It’s all yours.“ She smiled and jingle jangled the keys. “I rented it for the day.” 

A day was more than I expected and all that I needed. Not a new model with all the latest electronic options but a classic 1963 Austin Healey convertible roadster. Twenty-four hours was all the time I had with this beauty.

I didn’t bother to eat or change clothes. I couldn’t wait to experience the ride of a lifetime. We jumped in the car, and I cranked over the engine. It had a full throaty rumble when the engine fired up.

To some renting a classic sports car may sound frivolous, just a waste of money. We all have different hobbies that make life exciting, and this was mine. 

“Where do you want to go?” 

I responded without hesitation. “Let’s ride out toward Augusta in wine country and grab dinner.”

“Excellent idea! The winding roads were like a dragon’s tail . . . perfect for this car.”

I pulled out of the driveway then glanced at my wife sitting next to me. “Roads beware,” I said with a grin.

The chromed spoke wheels glistened in the sunlight as we cruised down the highway, music blaring, no worries just a day of fun. Birds gliding effortlessly on thermals were a beautiful sight. They swooped up and down twisting and turning through the blue skies, flying to a low altitude overhead, then . . . splat–splat–splat, like machine gun fire. Instantly, my head was covered with bird poop, dripping on my glasses. 

“What the hell?” I yelled.

My wife put her hand in front of her face, unable to control her laughter.

"It's not funny," I said.

She handed me a Kleenex. “It is from where I’m sitting.” 

“What am I supposed to do with this perfumed tissue? I’m going to need a bath towel.”

“They say it’s a sign of luck.”

“Lucky for you sitting in the passenger seat. You don’t have a speck of bird poop on you.” 

Pointing to the left my, wife said. “Pull into that gas station, so we can clean you up.”

I wheeled the shiny candy apple red sports car into the Shell station. Classic sport cars get attention everywhere, especially when the driver is splattered with bird poop. 

As I pulled into a parking spot, a guy getting into his truck turned and said. “Nice car . . . might want to put the top up, lots of birds out today.” He laughed heartily as he climbed into his pickup.

After I faked a laugh at all the lame jokes from the unemployed comedians at the gas station, I cleaned up, then we headed back down the road. Getting some driving time in the Austin was important to me, so we passed a few of the closer wineries and drove over to Montelle Winery. They have a nice deck with magnificent scenery, and the food wasexcellent.

“I guess I’m pretty lucky after all,” I quipped.

Raising her glass of white wine in a toast. "Yes, I would say so. Happy Birthday, dear."

Just then an announcement came over the P.A. “Will the owner of the Austin Healey please come to the tasting room?”

I looked at my wife. “Is this another birthday surprise?”

“Nothing I know about. They probably just want to get a few pictures of you and your classic car, you know, to post on the wall.”

“That’s true. They do have a lot of cool photos they put on Facebook.”

I jumped up and headed toward the tasting room excited as a three year-old getting a prize from a kid’s meal.

As I walked into the room, I held up my hand and said. "You were looking for the owner of the Austin Healey?” Puffing my chest out. “ That's me."

“We wanted to let you know you have a flat tire.”

“What?” My shoulders drooped, deflated just like the tire. “Are you kidding me?”

“No sir, it’s the right rear. We can call AAA if you like?”

“Yes, I’d appreciate that. Let me know when they get here?” Bird poop! Sign of luck?. . . bad luck. I walked to the parking lot, not because I didn't believe, but I needed to see for myself. It was just as he said. I bent over to get a closer look and put my hand on the tire looking for a visible hole. Why I thought this important is beyond me. When I stood up, I scraped the back of my hand on the inside of the fender. Blood droplets started to form around the cut. Fabulous. What's next?

As I re-entered the winery, the owner noticed my injury and stopped to assist. He had an employee bring some bandages and gauze and helped me wrap my hand. I thanked him and went back to check on my wife. 

“Where have you been? They brought the sandwiches about ten minutes ago. Yours is getting cold.”

“Perfect. It’s a long story.”

“What happened to your hand?”

“I cut it on the fender. Let me eat first, then I’ll tell you how lucky I am.”

After I finished my slightly cold sandwich, I briefed my wife on what transpired. She giggled but not in a supportive way. The waiter approached the table and told us AAA had arrived. 

My wife got up to go with the waiter. "Sit and relax. I'll take care of this."

I waved as she walked away, “Thanks, Sweetie, you’re the best.”

***

About twenty minutes later my wife came back to the table. “AAA fixed the tire. It cost forty-five dollars. It was a roofing nail. See.” She opened her hand and displayed a two-inch nail with an orange washer.

“Yep, that’s a roofing nail . . . not lucky.”

“Do you want to keep it?” she taunted.

“No! Why would I keep it?”

“Souvenir?”

“No thanks, funny lady.” I shook my head. “It’ll be dark in a half hour, let’s pay and head back. We still have time to stop by my brother’s house. I want to show him my birthday present.”

Sunset driving was the best especially in a classic convertible. The air was cool and crisp, and the sun painted colorful orange designs on the muted clouds. Despite a few minor complications, this had been a great day. 

Tooling down the winding roads was exhilarating. The tires hugged the road like a cougar climbs a tree. Nothing could ruin this moment. Boom! Crack! Rumble!

My wife looked over at me as she put her hood up. “Looks like it might rain. . . pop up thunderstorm. Don’t you love this St. Louis weather?” 

Before she finished her last word, the skies opened up and it poured. We were a mile or so from the nearest gas station. When we finally pulled in to the Shell station, I was soaked. My wife was damp. She had a hooded jacket. She always had a jacket. I was never prepared like she.

It seemed pointless to put the top up now, since I was drenched from head to toe, but I did it anyway. As I pulled the top from the boot, the puddled water cascaded on to me like Niagara Falls. Just when I thought I’d been through it all.

We drove home in silence. My wife picked up her phone to listen to messages. I tried to ignore everything and enjoy the last few minutes of our drive home.

As we pulled into the driveway, I looked at my wife with a somewhat disappointed look, knowing the car was going back to tomorrow, “What time do we have to return the Austin?”

She turned to me, her lip pursed in a frown, which changed to a bright cheery smile. “The rental agency left a message on my phone. They have a problem.”

I grumbled. “Really, what now?”

“They had a small fire at the garage and can’t take the car back until Monday morning. They asked us to keep it until then . . . no extra charge.”