Repo Man

 

          The morning financial reports and his checkbook sat open on his desk, along with a fresh cup of hot coffee. The scene looked virtually unchanged from when he began his career almost five decades ago. Instead of updating his checkbook, double-checking his financial positions, and searching for other opportunistic investments, as was his morning routine, Ray stood in front of the large plate glass window in his office. Thirty three floors up and facing Boston Harbor, Ray stood blankly staring out the window, as tears welled up in his eyes. Although he stood quietly and stoically,  his thoughts and emotions were loud and running wildly. He blinked and the motion was enough to release a plump tear, which slid down his cheek and was quickly absorbed into his white button down dress shirt, which he had crisply pressed the night before. It was early, but the letter from his oncologist, lying on top of the morning reports, said it was late. The mass was large, growing, and his time was short. Very short. Suddenly, the numbers, which he had carefully watered, groomed, pruned, and replanted for so many years, were insignificant. Right on time, the morning sunlight exploded into his simple and elegantly posh office and bathed his long weary face in warm light. Granted, he inherited an enormous family fortune and figuratively began his career standing cleanly on 3rd base, but Ray was a worker. An all day, no lunch break, stay until it's done kind of man. He was a millionaire many many times over and had grown the family fortune immensely. Thirty three floors up on 225 Franklin Street in the State Street Bank Building, Ray gazed into the sunrise, as the city came to life, while he fought wave after wave of regret.

One particular wave hit him hardest and was like a line from a chilling horror scene, as he heard it over and over and over. "I could have bought the damn Celtics, but not once did I ever take my boys to see a Celtics game"!..... "They didn't want investment accounts or advice or even a new toy or car. They just wanted a share of ME and some of my undivided time, but I wouldn’t give it", Ray mumbled to himself. "It was FREE and I wouldn't even give it"! He walked to his desk and called the doctor's office, but hung up after just three rings then began slowly pacing around the office thinking about and recalculating it all. "How much.. how much... how much?", he wondered to himself. "How much do I have left"? He walked back to his desk and hit redial and just let it ring until voicemail at the doctor's office picked up. His tone fully conveying his urgency, "This is Ray O'Brien and..and...and I really need to talk with Dr. Buschbaum or his nurse right away. I mean RIGHT away. Please call my office as soon as you get this 617.786.3314." He picked up his coffee and walked back to the window. His heart was so heavy it was almost more than he could bare. He could scarcely contain his tears and emotions, as he waited. With over an hour left until the doctor's office opened, Ray decided to do something he rarely ever did. He found doctor Buschbaum's business card and texted his cell, which the doctor had written on the card. "This is Ray O'Brien. I got your letter. How much time? Please, just tell me." Ray returned to pacing his office. Minutes passed like days. "I'm dying over here!", Ray thought to himself. His hands shaking, as he set down his coffee and cell, grabbed his overcoat, then briskly walked out of his office and made a beeline for the elevator.  

.....to be continued.

Freedom's Sweet After Taste

      "Alli-Bubba!! You got your ears on out there"!? the radio blared. The sunset that evening was absolutely breathtaking. Too beautiful for Abad to ignore. In a vast field filled with corn stalks, as far as the eye could see in every direction, Abad sat with the John Deere harvester idling, as he soaked in the setting sun, which painted the tall Kansas sky. Then, as quickly as it unfolded, the sunset began packing up and preparing for sunrise on the other horizon. He flipped on the exterior lights, re-engaged the rotating header of the massive 16-row combine, then grabbed the radio. "Yes sir, Old MacDonald," Abad responded with a thick Arabic accent. "My friend, it is going to be a very long night, so I stopped for a minute to watch the show in the sky." Back at the farm, Mac was loading up supper for Abad and the rest of the harvesting help. Playfully he responded through his handheld with his typical boisterous down-home Southern Kansas twang, "Ya know, muh phone goes crazy every time you stop that dang thing, so keep it moving out there will ya? By the way, your wife has completely lost her mind. She's packed us them peeduh chips, salad, and that granola/yogurt crap you like for supper". There was a brief pause then you could hear the smile in Abad's voice, "You are not to worry Old MacDonald, ten truck loads of salad and yogurt could never take the red from your neck... HAHAHAHA." He laughed a good belly laugh into the radio. While maneuvering the behemoth piece of heavy equipment through the seemingly endless rows of corn stalks, Abad's thoughts drifted back, like they frequently did, to a sunset a few years ago. A sunset that he would recall in all-sensory high definition for the rest of his days.

      Violence and unrest were all he'd ever known in his homeland, but the frequency and severity had noticeably increased over the past twelve months. In an effort to solidify Islamic law throughout all of Libya, heavily armed radical muslim thugs routinely rolled through his hometown of Misrata on the way to Tripoli in search of Christians and Christian sympathizers. Occasionally, they would grab someone, anyone, but typically it was someone they knew would put up little resistance. They would savagely beat them, drag them to the market, then demonstrate the depth of their blood lust. Although raised in a Muslim family, Abad's disdain for violence and hatred had moved him to pray to the "God with no name", the God of peace and kindness. Unlike most of his friends, Abad wasn't remotely afraid of these disturbing incidents, but he was furious at what was becoming of his homeland. Abad was a hard-working man known for his generosity and kindness; a husband, father, and owner of a thriving fishing business. When Abad wasn't out to sea working his nets, he could be found at the dock maintaining his 45' fishing trawler.

    As the situation in Misrata deteriorated, his hopes of one day living a normal life in his homeland faded. He would never speak of these thoughts with anyone, he would often lament to himself, "What good has my country and my people ever brought to this world? Nothing! We grow and spread hate and violence, that is all"? He'd heard stories of people working and living in peace in America and Western Europe, but to Abad, these stories sounded like delusional ramblings of a dehydrated old nomad. Moreover, neither he nor anyone he knew had ever seen nor felt peace, so it was too difficult for him to believe.

     In the weeks following the dramatic government upheaval in Cairo, matters grew even increasingly worse in Misrata. General order eroded to the extent that decency and civility was rare. His home town began to swell with hordes of the hungry and desperate, who were seeking to escape North, across the sea, in hopes of changing the quality of their lives. Abad joined many other captains and used his own vessel to ferry pilgrims across the Mediterranean to Italy or Greece. These travelers were from all over Northern and Western Africa and converged on the docks of Misrata like ants. They would cram onto any boat headed out to sea. A number of boats capsized off the coast due to overcrowding and Abad had also heard horror stories of hardcore fundamentalist muslim passengers killing or tossing overboard all other passengers who they did not believe were adhering to the strictest of Islamic law

      It was during one of Abad's Mediterranean crossings, that he encountered Alya, a woman from his own town, who he'd known about for years. She told him with tears on her cheeks of her oppression, daily misery, and her dream of finding and living in peace. She had a friend, who had discovered safety and work in Switzerland. She had written Alya to report that although it was cold, sophisticated, and rather unwelcoming in the small seaside town of Ascona, it was an incredible improvement over her last few years in Libya. Alya was headed North in hopes of finding her friend, and to also work and live in peace. Her gut-wrenching sincerity captivated Abad and he listened intently, as he felt the sparkle of hope in her words. He thought to himself on the return voyage, as the boat slowly trudged through the gentle swells of the Mediterranean, "This young woman from his very own town has thrown clothes and a blanket in a bag and is on her way towards her dream". His head swam in thoughts of how or where he might go, how long the journey would take, how much it would cost, and whether or not his wife would be willing to go.

       As he tied up his fishing boat at his home dock, he was told that his wife, Nasim, had been taken by a small group of armed thugs, who were last seen dragging her by her hair towards the market. This very scenario had played out in his head many times and he immediately knew what he must do. He also knew that once he did what must be done that he would have to leave with his family forever. He stopped by his small house, grabbed his machete, his bag full of dinar, his eleven-year-old daughter, Samira, and sprinted towards the market. Along the way, he realized that regardless of what was about to happen, he did not want Samira to witness it. He stopped, knelt down and looked into her eyes, and told her to run all the way to see Captain Rahim. "Tell him that I changed my mind and that I will sell my boat to him today and at exactly the same price he offered me just last week." Samira kissed her daddy on the cheek then turned and took off back down the road.  Abad was not prone to violence, however, he was quickly provoked to action when he caught a glimpse of Nasim on the ground dripping blood from her nose and mouth. Machete at his side, Abad pushed his way through the crowd and walked with purpose directly towards the man hovering over and spewing hatred at his wife. What had always been a tool, was now a weapon and in one swift motion, he swung wide and low and then up and through the bare neck of the aggressor, then pushed him away from Nasim so he wouldn't fall or bleed on his wife. He spun around and found himself eye to eye with the other Islamic enforcer, who was obviously startled and clumsily wrestling to get his AK47 (automatic rifle) aimed at Abad. Without hesitation, Abad abruptly pushed his weapon through the man's Adam's Apple, and he instantly fell limp in the square. Abad turned, dropped his machete, scooped Nasim into his arms, and a small cheer rose from some people in the crowd. He noticed a nearby man sitting on a scooter, promptly handed $20 to the man, which was a very generous sum. "Please! You will find your scooter down at Captain Rahim's dock". The man stood up, took Abad's money, then Nasim and Abad sat down on the scooter. She wrapped her arms around Abad's torso, and they raced towards the sea. She squeezed him tightly, thankful he'd arrived just in time.


     Samira had told Captain Rahim what was happening, but as Abad pulled up to the dock, the look on his face and his bloody hands and clothes spoke volumes. Rahim's wife emerged from her house and handed Nasim a wet cloth to clean up her cuts. Rahim calmed Abad, as he paid for the boat in US dollars. He then handed Abad a bag of baked bread, a large flask of water, and some olives. Even for life-long friends, it was the best he could do on such short notice. They two of them shared many fond memories and Abad struggled to contain his emotions. They both knew that this was truly goodbye. "Please. No words my friend. You must go," Rahim said to Abad, as he motioned towards one of his fishing boats at the end of the dock. Abad took the money, food, and water, embraced Rahim, then led Nasim and his daughter towards the boat. His mind poured over thousands of thoughts, as he slowly walked towards the boat. Earlier that very day he had been taking desperate pilgrims across the sea and now he was a desperate pilgrim himself! As they drew near to the boat, Abad got a closer look at who they would cross the sea with and it was disturbing. Six women sat in a tight circle in the center of the boat wearing dark veils, long black loose fitting dresses, and their heads hung in subservience. He quickly identified a few travelers from other places, but the majority of the passengers on this trip were appeared to be from Southern Egypt or possibly Northern Sudan. Nasim hadn't worn her veil in a very long time, which is probably what led to her being beaten that afternoon. She was still bleeding from her nose and mouth, as she slowly and casually pulled her veil over her face, then she gently slid her hand in Abad's hand. Abad knew the men in this group had noticed Nasim not wearing her veil and now they openly walked in public while holding hands.  One of the men took a step towards them as they came aboard. The greeting from the man was in Abad's native language of Arabic, "Hello", but as soon as they stepped onto the boat this same man turned and spoke to the other men in their group in a tribal language. Abad did not like the idea of setting out to sea with these people, but taking his chances in Misrata was certainly out of the question. Abad intentionally sat his wife and daughter next to a man, who he felt might share his way of thinking. Sure enough, the man leaned over to Abad's ear and said, "They will be first".  "I do not understand what it is you are saying to me", Abad said to the man. "There will soon be trouble. The man who greeted you, as you came aboard, then turned to the other men in his group, nodded towards you and your wife, and spoke in the tribal language, Najdi, "They will be first".

   More pilgrims piled on and soon the boat pushed away from the dock and the ship's propellers pushed the boat North. Abad's heart was very heavy, as he looked to his left and watched as the sun which was setting on what had already been a tumultuous day. He thought about Alya. How she was doing, how far had she had made it since she stepped off his boat earlier that day.  Unlike those he would soon fight, Abad knew his way around Rahim's boats and could handle himself quite well at hand fighting. His confidence that he would set foot on dry land again was completely unwavering. Abad slowly stood and watched the sun slip away. Soon it would be dark, very dark and Abad was not looking forward to doing what he knew must be done. "Pappa, why are you crying"? Samira said, as she gently wiped water away from his eyes. "I'm not crying sweety, it's just splashing water from the sea or something". The boats exterior deck lights came on and pierced the darkness. Soon three of the men in the large group stood up and Abad knew it was about to go down. Like the lights on the fishing boat that night, the lights on the combine kept the darkness away, but they were an eery reminder of that dreadful melee on the Mediterranean that night. Abad deeply loved America and his new found freedom and would do it all over again a hundred times if that's what it took to get back to his new life.

People

With the feel of Christmas morning, he turned off the alarm, threw back the covers, and jumped into his clothes. He arrived at the bus stop just in time to catch the East-West campus connector. His heart raced with excitement, as he found himself in a lecture hall filled with other over-eager students patiently waiting to fill their new college rule notebooks with crisp Cornell notes.

Edge? No, she doesn't have an edge. But she does have a very nasty watch dog that guards her scars and scares away most everyone. But if you can hold steady and not flinch in the face of all her growling and barking, then, and only then, will she let you in.

With the same vigor and venom of a guard in a Soviet Gulag, the expressionless librarian took demented pleasure in patrolling the rows of reading material in search of latchkey kids to oust from her self-made prison of books.


Yea, they made a big fuss about it, but the rising flood waters didn't scare me a bit! If you ask me, they were a welcome change from weeks and months of long lonely days in this nursing home. Then, right smack-dab in front of me, the nurse said she didn't even think I'd make it. Thank God! Just in the nick of time, this strapping young man in uniform came out of nowhere, scooped me up, held me very close in his arms, and helped me escape that place into his helicopter.


Alone in his tent, the Marine Captain sipped what very well might be his last cup of coffee, while methodically drawing up the battle plan. There were no fighting holes, no rally points, and no reinforcements. He thought to himself, "Today is the day that we'll simply move forward until what must be done, is done".


He road rail cars and answered only to his whims, but he was anything but homeless. As both collector and curator for his private gallery of unspeakably exquisite frozen moments, home was an ever-present feeling for him, not a place.

Thaddeus and The Labor Pains of a New Nation

                                     

  The Early Spring of 1774 had been very good for Thaddeus. An avid hunter, trapper, fisherman, and outdoorsman. He'd sold enough pelts over the past few months that he began staying near town to monitor the situation more closely. Animosity between the British and the colonists, especially the good people in Suffolk County, Massachusetts had become so heated that the British deemed Suffolk County as "rebel territory". Most of the ordinarily hard working men in Lexington now spent much of their mornings gathered together exchanging heated notions about what "they" should do next. The atmosphere was highly charged, and general belly aching was rapidly bubbling up into to some sort of collective colonial call to action. The ongoing and escalating overreach of England's distant King, Parliament, and their oppressive laws and decrees was pushing them to the breaking point. Thaddeus had read a number of pamphlets and publications himself and listened to twice as many men moaning "We're not going to stand for it anymore", but it all sounded like words and empty talk to Thaddeus. Although he'd grown up knowing every man and woman in and around Lexington, the only one he genuinely trusted was his childhood friend and now leader of the newly formed Minutemen, Captain John Parker. Upon hearing that he was in town, Captain Parker paid Thaddeus a visit in hopes of convincing him to join their growing ranks. The rebels were secretly stockpiling gunpowder, weapons, and other fighting materials over in Concorde. A confrontation with the Red Coats was imminent, and along with everyone else, Captain Parker knew that Thaddeus could handle a musket better than any man in all of Suffolk County. He wasn't notably larger than other men, but he was rugged, ruddy, and the flames of his new found passion for the resistance were raging.

    Captain Parker had warned the men that the British would surely send a force of men their way if they caught wind of the stockpile in Concorde, but they didn't think it would be so soon. It would be a few hours before the collum of Red Coats reached Lexington, but Thaddeus was up, dressed, and ready, as soon as he heard the man ride through town shouting, "The British are coming! The British are coming!" He equipped himself with his sharpest skinning knife, three loaded muskets, a loaf of bread, and enough powder and shot to fight for several days, if needed. He tried reading, writing, and sleeping to pass the time, but eventually, he saddled up and rode over to Captain Parker's house to wait. Just before 5 am, without as much as a mumble between them, Captain Paker emerged from his house. They saddled up and made quick time towards the fork in the road just East of Lexington. Men and teenage boys joined them, along the way, until their number swelled to about forty-five. When they arrived, they found another contingency of about thirty men already assembled on The Central Lexington Green. Captain Parker rounded everyone up and began issuing orders to make ready on the green in close order and formation. "It would prove nothing if I were to take on a bear with just my hands," Thaddeus thought to himself. "Perhaps we're waiting to disburse and take cover when the Red Coats arrive?" He wondered to himself. He took a knee and from inside his outer coat, Thaddeus produced several sheets of paper, which were carefully folded inside a leather cover. He gingerly removed a small quill pen and bottle of ink from his sack and hastily jotted down several words on the paper. With just as much care, the pen and papers were safely placed from whence they had come.


   Minutes seemed like weeks, as they waited, but just before sunrise Thaddeus and the other Minutemen could finally see the Redcoats marching towards them on the way to Concorde. They had sent a much larger group of men than had been expected. A crowd of townspeople had gathered near where the Minutemen had assembled to see what, if anything, might happen. As the British drew closer, the two sides exchanged loud insults. While marching in step and moving into the left fork in the main road, the British continued launching foul words and ill-will at the colonists. It was obvious that the Minutemen were still struggling to find enough courage to confront the finest fighting force on the planet, but this was their opportunity. The British stopped and held their typical tight formation, as they turned and faced the Minutemen. "Where are you going!?", asked the town blacksmith, Levi Meade, as Thaddeus knelt and slowly began crawling in the tall grass. "I didn't come here to throw words,"  Thaddeus said as he continued to slither in the knee-high grass. The tension was tangible. For a few moments, the well trained, well equipped, and well-fed British "Rum Swine", as Thaddeus called them, stood in their vivid red coats, black tricorn hats with muskets and bayonets at the ready. In front of them at a distance of about eighty yards was a rag-tag gaggle of under trained and under equipped business owners, taxpayers, and idealistic colonists. The future hung in the balance, as the question of whether or not the colonials would answer the call to action was heavy on the minds of everyone. As though hunting wild game, Thaddeus crept to within 40 yards of the British. His actions were seen by some as cowardly and out of order, but Thaddeus simply wanted to get close enough to get off an accurate shot or two. With neither warning nor word from Captain Parker, Thaddeus let his flint fall and set off a chain of events that is sending ripples around the world even to this day. His shot took off the ear of an unsuspecting Redcoat and was swiftly answered by a furious and precise volley of musket shot from the British that dropped fifteen Minutemen. The colonists returned fire and wounded two Redcoats. Thaddeus produced one of his pre-loaded muskets, and carefully placed a shot in the upper torso of a British soldier, scoring the first kill for the colonies in what would soon become an all out fight for freedom. Emboldened by their courage and action, other colonists joined the ranks of the Minutemen. The Redcoats turned and continued marching to Concorde. Along the way, Minutemen hid behind trees and in ditches and peppered the British with musket shot. The British reached Concorde and destroyed or took all of their fighting materials, but the message was clear. The colonists had reached the tipping point and were ready and willing to fight.


   Later that evening, Thaddeus put back a few pints at Mr. Samuel Adam's Public House, quietly wondering what his sweet Lydia would think of what he'd done that day. She was the fair daughter of, Francis Bernard, the British Governor of the Province of Massachusetts Bay. Through business dealings in Boston, he'd become acquainted with her and her father back in 1769. She could have easily been a play pretty for the who's-who in Boston, but that was against her new found sense of independence and industry. Against her father's better wishes, Lydia worked at a large horse stable, grooming, cleaning, and caring for horses. Thaddeus never failed to see her whenever he was in Boston and they routinely exchanged letters until her father ordered her to stop. To continue seeing and exchanging letters with Lydia, Thaddeus took work riding a route in Benjamin Franklin's colonial mail delivery service, where he shuttled mail between Cambridge, Waltham, and Lexington. He, Mr. Franklin, and a few others were hastily relieved in early 1774 for "distributing antagonistic publications" and he hadn't seen nor heard from her since. Thaddeus finished off his pint, made several more entries on the folded papers that he always kept with him, then returned home. He was uninjured but physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. It had been a long and monumental day and no one had a clue what the next day had in store for the colonists and their budding rebellion.


   Capitalizing on the momentum and the swiftly galvanizing resolve, preparations began immediately to assemble a meaningful force of men from all over the colonies to mount an attack and prevent the British from occupying the hills overlooking Boston.  Captain Parker tapped Thaddeus to lead a company of men, which he promptly and respectfully declined. "Captain Parker, I'm honored that my name came to mind as a suitable leader of this unit, but I believe I would serve the cause better while among the men and not in charge of them". After a few moments of pondering, Captain Parker answered, "I appreciate your honesty Thaddeus, and on second thought I believe you're correct. Having these men see your courage and bravery in the midst of battle would certainly better serve the greater good. So it shall be".  On June 17, 1775, Thaddeus found himself with a little over one thousand armed colonial soldiers, who were ready to March to Boston and take the fight to the Red Coats. Instead of setting up earthworks on Bunker Hill, as planned, they made preparations on Breed's Hill, which was a little closer to Boston. As the men built defensive positions, pre-loaded their muskets, and sharpened their knives, a small figure emerged from a nearby crowd of civilians, who had gathered to watch the battle. Despite the oversized outer garment and head covering, Thaddeus recognized her immediately and made quick time to greet her. She threw her arms open and they embraced for a short moment. She handed him a letter as her lip quivered, "Be careful today Thaddeus. I want to see you again when all of this fighting is over". Just then the first wave of British soldiers began marching towards the rebel positions. "Go! Please get behind the crowd and I will come find you today when this is over", he said as her hand slipped out of his.


    Though shot was scarce for the rebels, a few sessions of aiming practice made an enormous difference. The British sought to push the colonists from their positions by throwing superior numbers at them, but that worked against them. The Rum Swine carried the day, but lost three times the number of men as the colonial soldiers. Thaddeus had been grazed just below the knee during the battle and lost a fair amount of blood. Bandaged and hobbling, Thaddeus searched and searched for sweet Lydia, but she was not to be found. He was loaded onto a wagon for the wounded and while riding back to Lexington, once again pulled out his important papers and wrote, as best he could with all of the bouncing and jostling. His leg continued to bleed through his wrappings, and he grew increasingly weaker. Off in the distance, he could see the smoky haze hanging over the battlefield and he a sense of pride washed over him. Though he wouldn't live to see it, the British withdrew from Boston a short time after the Battle of Bunker Hill. Struggling now to maintain consciousness, Thaddeus summoned a nearby soldier to call Captain Parker to the wagon. He cautiously wrapped his papers back in their leather cover and waited. Soon enough, Captain Parker rode up to the wagon and came alongside Thaddeus. "John, these papers," he said while stretching to reach him and fighting to speak. "You didn't know this sir, but I write songs. I beg you to pass these papers along to my sweet Lydia. You'll find her in the stables just outside of Cambridge. Only she will know what to do with them." It will be done", John said as he took the papers from Thaddeus. "You started this fight Thaddeus, and I will endeavor with all that is in me to see it through."


    Given the importance of the delivery, Captain Parker sent Major Tom to deliver the papers and let Thaddeus's sweet Lydia know that he passed away after fighting ever so valiantly. Through her tears, Lydia told Major Tom that she left the battle that day after seeing Thaddeus get shot in the leg. She simply couldn't bear to watch any longer and returned to the stables. Though she had never seen them, Thaddeus had, in fact, told her about his papers and that he liked to write down ideas for songs. She took the papers and climbed up into the loft in the stable. She carefully unfolded his papers and softly read aloud...


Fight For Your Right To Party-    beer swilling and song singing at the pub
Living On A Prayer -                    alone in the woods tracking a lion 
Another Day In Paradise -           seeing the beauty of The Maker's creation
Welcome To The Jungle -             when i took james hunting Moose in New Hampshire
Summer of 69 -                             when I met my dear sweet Lydia
We're Not Going To Take It -        frequent cry of the angry mob in Lexington
Please Don't Go -                        when sweet Lydia had to return to Boston
Are You Getting It -                      talking with stubborn people
Here I Go Again -                        another day delivering mail
Rebel Yell -                                  battle cry
Lord, I Hope This Day is Good   prayer before leaving to fight
More Than A Feeling -               marching to Boston with the men!
Three Times a Lady -                  seeing Lydia just before Bunker Hill
Don't Stop Believing -                we lost a battle today, but the war can be ours!


Carefully, she refolded the papers, sat back and smiled from the inside out. She knew exactly what to do with them. Over the course of her life, Lydia put words to his songs and when her days were over, the papers were passed along again...

Perspective at the Pier

     "I said, 'NO ONIONS!' Her words were razor sharp and launched at the woman behind the counter with unprovoked ill-will and the obvious intent to insult or injure. She oozed impatience and indignation that her food hadn't been prepared to order the first time. Seemingly immune to the vibes fired her way, Ruby quickly and politely handed her another dog without onions, "Here you go. I've got you all fixed up." It was Ruby's second day working at Ben's Beach Dogs, which was within eyesight of the Tybee Island Pier. Her new coworkers looked at Ruby in amazement that she didn't even acknowledge the woman's attitude. Only God and Ruby knew the storms she had been through to be where she was, and this uptight customer gazing at her haughtily was a soft breeze. "And what should I do with the one you messed up?!".........

   Just two days before, Ruby had worked the last day of a thirty-year run at The Lucky Lanes in North Augusta. To call it a run down Bowling dive was an enormous compliment. It was the favored hang out of an aging and aimless rabble of regulars, all of whom she had served and endured for three decades. After running away from home at sixteen, Ruby needed income and unfortunately, The Lucky Lanes was hiring that day. Regardless of their age, every one of the regulars had hit on Ruby at least once or twice over the past thirty years. Playfully now, they still tested her from time to time, but she had long since mastered the art of shredding them with sarcasm and clever wit. As if trapped in a lost era, The Lucky Lanes decor was unchanged from its original design back in 1977. A good many lights were out, a light coat of snack bar grease covered every surface but the bowling balls, and a decades-old stagnant cloud of smoke hung in the air. The sounds from '77 still bounced off the gray cave walls. Bowling balls crashing into pins, the cling-cling-clang from the same old pinball games, and from now and then a loud whoop and holler from a lucky bowler. For years she had stared into the hanging clouds of cigarette smoke daydreaming about dressing nicely, putting her hair up, and working on something important in an office downtown. She was a hard worker and plenty smart, but never quite figured out how to add school to her long days and years of working and raising a son.

   Her boy was twenty-seven now and his overexposure to The Lucky Lanes clientele and atmosphere had shaped him into just what the world didn't need another one of. A self-serving, uninspired, excuse making jerk.  The closest thing to a father or grandfather he'd known were the beer guzzling daily regulars at The Lucky Lanes. After years of waiting for him to snap out of it and show some signs of decency and responsibility, Ruby was ready. Not really sure for what, but she knew she was ready for new scenery and a new chapter, and for the first time in her life, Ruby believed that she had the pen in her hand to write that chapter. She'd never seen the beach except in her high school classmates facebook pictures. It looked beautiful and she desperately wanted to go there.

   She spent months and all her cell phone data studying beaches in South Carolina, Georgia, and down into Florida, but the beach near Savannah, called Tybee Island, seemed to be exactly what she was looking for. Of course, it was impossible for her to drive there to look for work, so Ruby called and called and called for weeks and weeks looking for anything. Her dream of dressing up and working in an office turned into living and working on Tybee Island. She began scraping and saving every penny, as she slowly began turning her dream into reality. One she got a call from Ben of Ben's Beach Dogs on Tybee Island. He wanted to do a phone interview. Her heart raced and she barely contain her excitement. After several minutes on the phone, Ben told her that she sounded like exactly what they were looking for and he wanted her to start right away. Her mind raced, while they spoke. "I have no place to stay.., what if I don't have enough money saved?... what if he doesn't like me?..." She stretched the cord from the snack bar phone and stepped into the pantry to finish their conversation. Ben mentioned that he had a tiny loft apartment above the store if she was interested. A rare tear of joy crawled out of her eye and slowly rolled down her cheek and rested on her quivering lips, as she tightly clutched the phone and told Ben with gutsy conviction, "I'm on the way."

     She immediately took off her apron and found the owner. "Larry, I forgot to put in my two-week notice two weeks ago, so... I'm really sorry, but today is my last day."  Hearing her own words gave her, even more, self-confidence and determination, and she finally began to see her new chapter coming to life. After hearing of her plan, Larry gave Ruby her final check, wished her well, and at 10:03 am, Ruby turned and walked out the doors of The Lucky Lanes for the last time and without even a second look, she drove to her run down rental house to throw her things together. It was here and it was NOW. Opportunity was knocking and she was hell bent on answering it. Months and months of yard sales and Goodwill donations left Ruby with little more than a pillow, some clothes, and a few pictures, pots, and pans, all of which fit into two small overnight bags, which she could easily manage. She pulled the taped bible verse off the bathroom mirror (Deut 31:6) and put in her purse, took one more look around, then closed the door. She was gone. Ruby stopped at the Circle K and for the first time ever, completely filled her gas tank. By 11:00 am Ruby was loaded up, filled up, and headed out. Her Rand McNally map and some snacks rode shotgun with her, as she pulled onto  I-20 West Bound with all of her windows down. She was scared, but she had never felt so alive. The countryside was beautiful as the miles rolled by. She made her way through Augusta, Wrens, and then Louisville. It was just south of Swainsboro that years and years of neglect began to catch up with her old Grand Prix. It was badly out of alignment and had been shaking for miles, and now it was to running hot too. She slowed down to 45 mph, turned on her emergency flashers, and kept pushing towards Tybee.

    East Bound on I-16 and still creeping along at 45 mph, cars and big trucks flew by her one after the other. Some blowing their horns. The temperature gage was now well past the red "H" and steam was rolling out from under the hood. The Metter exit, which was only four miles ahead, became her short term goal. But it wasn't meant to be. She'd been giggling to herself and wondering which would happen first, the wheels wobble off or the motor lock up. Well, she got her answer about three miles outside of Metter when the motor made a clunk noise then went eerily silent. She put it into neutral and without power steering wrestled the car into the emergency lane rolled as far as it would roll before coming to a complete stop. With little hesitation, she pulled her hair back into a rubber band, grabbed her two bags, and left the car right where it sat. Key in the ignition, windows down, and a mixture of white steam and smoke billowing out from under the hood. There's was no time for towing and repairs for a car she realized that she wouldn't need in her new home. She'd left it set out on foot. 'I'll use the car repair money on a bus ticket to Savannah and a beach bicycle when I get to Tybee. As she began walking, she quickly missed the breeze that had been blowing through the car windows. It was hot. It was South Georgia July hot and much hotter than she imagined it would be if it absolutely came to this, but she was on a mission. Three became two, two became one, then she found herself walking up the exit ramp at Metter. Her shirt, hair, and jeans were drenched in sweat and she felt very weak. She spotted a convenience store called Cliftons just across the interstate, where she planned to cool off and figure out the rest of her journey. She caught a glimpse of herself as she opened the glass doors. She was quite a sight and got several odd looks, as she walked around in the store clinging to her two pieces of luggage, which contained everything she owned. The kind old woman at the register told her there weren't any bus or trains stations within forty or fifty miles. Ruby bought a large water and walked back outside to see what she come up with. As she walked, the lady and her husband met eyes and nodded at one another.

   Ruby was deeply bewildered now and slowly melted down into the sidewalk beside her bags. She thought to herself, "I probably look homeless and desperate." Then she realized that homeless and desperate perfectly described her current situation. She reminded herself that the entire reason for any of this was to improve her situation and this was just a stop along the way. A stop that she knew one day she'd look back on. Ruby's thoughts raced, as she told herself over and over. "This is not how this chapter ends, this is not how this chapter ends, this is not how this chapter ends." Despite her fierce independence and will to push on, her body simply wasn't in any shape to even consider walking the remaining eighty miles. she sat there as a steady flow of traveling vacationers came and went to the fuel pumps. They were loaded down with beach chairs, beach umbrellas, jet skis, coolers, and pulling boats. Finally she'd had enough. "Ok., I have money and I can pay someone to take me the rest of the way", she thought. But after approaching over forty motorists, it was only truck drivers that showed any interest in giving her a ride and she knew she was too weak to fight if she happened to get in a truck with the wrong man. Just then the sweet old lady from behind the counter came up to her, Ruby assumed to shew her away from the store. "Jimmy is pulling our car around and we want, I mean, we are taking you to Tybee." she said with an intense, but warm gaze. "That is awfully nice ma'am, but honestly I can't let you do that", Ruby said as she pushed up to her feet to meet the lady's eyes. "Now you listen here young lady, Jimmy and I sit here all day long ringing up customers, but it's people in predicaments like yours that we look for, that we live for, that make us feel useful for Him," she said sternly and honestly. "Jimmy and I lost our daughter in a car accident a long time ago and as far as I'm concerned, you're our little girl today. Jimmy and I are going to buy you a good lunch, and we're going to take you to Tybee and we're going to get you all situated. I'm sorry honey, but there's nothing you can do or say that will change our minds."

   Ruby was numb. It was completely against her nature to accept help from anyone because they usually just wanted something in return, but she could tell that by accepting their help that she was helping them. Besides, she was going to pay them even if she had to tuck the money in the back seat of their car. They got to know each other a little better over a good home style meal and around 5pm Ruby was back on I-16 in the back seat of their car. She pulled out her pillow and laid down in the back seat and pretended to go to sleep. She buried her face and quietly cried. She cried old tears. Old tears from wounds had festered for decades and needed to be healed. She was physically and emotionally drained and slept soundly for twenty or thirty minutes. She woke up feeling completely revived and thought to herself, "I'm so glad I'm doing this. I'm so proud of myself." In no time, they were driving down Bay Street in Savannah then slowly heading out the causeway to Tybee. They reached Ben's Beach Dogs close to 6:30 and the warm salty breeze and the beach atmosphere welcomed her. She met and quickly apologized to Ben for her appearance but politely and sincerely asked if he needed her to start working right away. "Look, you've been traveling all day and must be exhausted", he said with a warm smile. "It's really not much, but there's a tiny loft apartment above the shop. It's all yours if you want to stay there. I'll see you in the morning around 9 and we'll show you the ropes." Jimmy took her bags up to her room and tucked a $100 bill into one of them. Ruby hugged Linda & Jimmy and they said their goodbyes. Ruby was now all by herself in this new world. She didn't bother going to the apartment but slowly made her way towards the beach. Her dirty hair blew in the ocean air and she looked like hell, but her face was beaming with utter joy, as she walked out to the end of the pier, which she had only seen on the internet. She'd only been gone for several hours, but thoughts of Larry and the old codgers back at The Lucky Lanes were quickly fading. She traded in her blue jeans and worn out "The Lucky Lanes" shirt for a bright sun dress and a beach shell barrette for her hair. The next morning she walked the beach at sunrise and then to work at 9 am feeling like a completely new woman. A woman with the ink pen in her hand writing a new chapter.


   .... The woman barked at Ruby again, "I SAID.., what should I do with this one that YOU messed up?" while shaking the dog with onions. Ruby calmly looked at her with a smile, "Honey, I'm sorry you're having a rough day. That was in on me."

Chapter Two

“She’s A Beaut, she’s a Beaut, she’s a blind, deaf, mute!” he sang loud and obnoxiously, as he stood at the Captain’s wheel pushing the throttle handle up almost to the very top. The entire boat vibrated, and the props vigorously churned the water, as they made the final push on the massive ‘COSCO Development’ container ship. For the last few hours they’d guided and wrestled her up the Savannah River to the dock and massive cranes at the Garden City Port. Ike’s radio crackled with the all clear signal from the skipper of the COSCO and Ike motioned to his first mate, “Sack”. In a few minutes, Ike had his Tugboat headed towards the Talmadge Bridge in route to his mooring at Fig Island. As he passed under the bridge, he checked his watch again. “Sack, when we get Bessie tied in, go ahead and fire up the skiff.” Sack smiled as he looked back, “Yes sir. You cuttin’ it close again ain’t you?” With a steady forward gaze, Ike replied, “Looks that way.” They stood side by side and soaked in the predawn view of the river street lights reflecting off the glassy river. Their 9-5 shift had come to an end, but Ike’s day was just getting under way.  As Ike went below deck to finish shutting down the massive twin Volvo Diesels, Sack started up the outboard on the 20’ Carolina Skiff. Ike never slowed down as he walked from Bessie, up the dock, and right onto the skiff. He walked with intention and purpose. Time was short. “She needs some TLC. See you tonight at seven thirty. I’ll bring supper.” Ike paused for a moment. “Sack, you know, we haven’t talked a good while. You still holding strong?” Sack replied with confidence, while standing on the dock holding the untied line from the bow of the Skiff, “I am. I’m better now than I’ve ever been.” With that Ike nodded, smiled, and pushed the throttle forward. Ike was headed further down river. He checked his watch and just as he suspected, seconds were precious.     

  Immediately after high school, Ike left the family farm in Plainville, Kansas and headed to the coast. He made it to Galveston, where he worked as a deckhand on a shrimp boat. It was demanding work, but growing up on a big farm had prepared Ike for the daily demands of life on a shrimp boat. He had helped deliver calves, walked barefoot through many fresh cow patties, and routinely axed, plucked, and boiled chicken for supper. But his stomach wasn’t keen to the tossing and rolling of the Gulf’s swells. It took him a solid year of being sea-sick every day before he finally got his sea legs. Ike lived on his boss’s shrimp boat to save money to pay for college classes and after five long years of shrimping and studying, Ike earned a degree in Marine Transportation from Texas A&M Maritime Academy. His family was excited and devastated at the same time. They knew he was bound for the vast open waters and ports around the world, but they also knew that his face would rarely be seen in Plainville perhaps ever again. According to plan, Ike landed work with a large container shipping company. He traveled the seven seas and saw many incredible sights and met many interesting people, he soon learned in the ports of Singapore, Hamburg, Rotterdam, New York, and Sydney that he was his own worst enemy. Alcohol, cards, and local women were his favorite recipe. But no matter how he mixed them the outcome was always the same. An ugly shipwreck. His long-term goal was to reach the rank of Merchant Marine Captain and pilot his own container ship. However, he spent his energy, money, and time on frequent barroom brawls, bail money, and the plastic smiles from the girl of the day. He wasted close to ten years before he literally found himself on a fishing boat just off the coast of Manilla. Still drunk from a long night in town, Ike had dozed off and fallen overboard. He broke his arm in the fall and damn near drowned in the wake of the ship, but it was exactly what he needed. Ike had to pay for a flight to Shanghai to meet up with the ship, the skipper, and have a little sit down with some corporation executives, where he begged and pleaded for one final chance. He did a lot of thinking and self-assessing while waiting for his ship to come in. No thanks to church folks, Ike had become well acquainted with his Maker and was convinced that it was Him who gently nudged him into the Pacific. That chapter was behind and he was wide awake now. He’d wasted so much precious time, but his dream was well within reach. He buckled down and got serious. Once fully focused, it took Ike just two years to earn his Upper Tonnage Captain’s license. In June of 1987 Ike began working for Maersk and took the helm of his first ship, The Maersk Palermo. She was a large container ship with a gross tonnage of 33,000 tons, that hauled containers between The Netherlands and Canada. Over the next thirty years, the North Atlantic provided many difficult nautical challenges and many long cold lonely journeys, as he plowed the waters of the North Atlantic and plowed his earnings into the bank. He had achieved his goal and been very successful, but there was something more. When Ike became fully vested in the company stock plan, he began making a new plan. A plan that would take him back to warmer waters. Of all the ports he’d seen around the world, it was Savannah, Georgia that charmed and intrigued him. In due time, Ike retired from Maersk, bought a tugboat named Bessie in Boston, then bumped along the coast until he arrived in Savannah, where he’d operated his tugboat company for the past three years.

  Ike cleared Fort Pulaski then eased up Lazaretto Creek to the fishing dock at CoCo’s, where he tied off, grabbed his Beach Cruiser, and began pushing peddles. “They can’t build the back-water dock soon enough!”, Ike thought as he kept a brisk pace, while periodically glancing at his watch. He made his way to the lighthouse, through the public beach access, and onto the beach in good time. He glanced at his watch and time was no longer an issue. Towards the end of the previous summer, Ike began a Beach Porter Service, which served ten of the largest hotels and condos on the island. His company provided delivery and set up services for vacationers in need of help carrying and setting up tents/umbrellas, or to bring them ice during the day, if needed. His normal routine was to nap on the Tug for a few hours after his shift ended then hit Tybee around 10 to meet his employees and make sure all of the service requests were filled. A few weeks ago, Ike came over early to sleep on the beach and catch the sunrise. That’s when he saw her. A fresh flower in her sandy brown hair gently waved in the breeze, as she rode by. She was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a light red flowered beach shirt that also gently waved in the breeze. To top it all off she wore a smile, but not just any smile. Her smile was a smile of peace, confidence, and sincerity. He chuckled to himself, “I suppose she thinks I’m a homeless bum laying out here on a towel.” She hadn’t even noticed him. She wasn’t even aware that she was smiling. She’d done that almost every day since she got to Tybee. 

Into The Woods

   Without the slightest effort, the words began rolling off my tongue seasoned lightly with sarcasm and served with a condescending tone. As silly as attacking Russia in the dead of Winter, one of my teenage boys openly lamented about having to go work in the heat. As I wove a tapestry of parental wisdom for my boys, my mind drifted back to a day in the back of the archives. A day I will never forget. It was a...


   ... hot muggy morning shortly after sunrise on a late June day in 1980. My brother and I stood on the side of an extremely desolate dirt road in rural Wilkinson County, Georgia. My Def Leppard t-shirt was already as wet with sweat as my boots were with dew from the knee high grass. Sweat dripped off my unbrushed mullet, as well as the tip of my nose, as we stood waiting patiently for our instructions. My Great Uncle Willis produced a crumpled napkin from the dirty floorboard of his old pickup, onto which he scribbled a crude rhombus. He pointed to the lines on the napkin and in his deep, commanding, and humbly Southern voice, instructed us, ..."Boys, follow this fence line, here, follow it South all the way to the corner post. You'll see a great big Sweet Gum tree down in there. The corner post is just past that tree. The line turns East from there. Follow it all the way back up and you'll hit this very road several miles from here. I expect it will be about lunch time when you reach the road. I'll pick you up there and we'll go grab some chicken from Maebob's. Now, there's been a good bit of rain these past few days so it might be a bit soggy in the low spots." My older brother and I grabbed our tools from the back of his pick up and within a minute or two the sound of his Chevy had faded into the distance and the constant buzzing of the cicadas was all we could hear. We stood there for a moment, as the depth of our isolation soaked in. This was the third week of our first "real" job. My brother and I were marking property lines on my Uncle's timber tracts in Middle Georgia. Uncle Willis was truly a larger than life figure. An accomplished attorney, hunter, farmer, fisherman, story teller, WWII veteran, and long-serving Superior Court Clerk. He was a strong, but a gentle soul. His presence, like his voice, was commanding yet reassuring. He spoke deliberately and with authority.

   Having only one daughter and being a man's man, he was noticeably pleased to have the backs and shoulders of my brother and me for the summer, and our job was quite simple, but far from easy. Our tools consisted of orange spray paint, a two handled bark scraper, and a 2' x 2' piece of metal flashing with a 12" diameter hole cut in the center. Our job was to would follow the property line and every 100 feet or so scrape a spot of outward facing bark from a tree on or near the line, place the flashing over the tree, and then paint an orange circle on the bare spot of the trunk. Simple enough. I was thirteen and my brother fourteen, as we set off into the woods without a cell phone, pistol, hunting knife, or even a canteen of water. We both wore knee-high hard-plastic wrap-around snake leguns to protect us from snake bites, however, they also trapped heat making it even hotter, if that were possible.

    Methodically we made our way through the briars and thickets exchanging few words. Our arms were streaked with scabs from thorns and bushes we had pushed through over the past few weeks. As young teenagers, both of us were slowly figuring out who we were, but it was fairly clear that we were remarkably different from each other and those differences had manifested into rowdy fistfights, as of late. My brother was off the charts brilliant and that morning he was eager to tell me every minute detail about each character and the storyline, in the Leo Tolstoy book he was currently reading. I feigned interest as best I could, while entertaining thoughts of a cute girl from Vidalia I had met, skated with, and lured into the corner at the All-Night skate a few days earlier. No, we weren't on the same page, hell, we weren't even in the same chapter. We slowly made our way along the Southern border of the property line, following what was left of an old rusty fence. The Loblolly pine straw was thick on the high ground, but after a mile or so, it gave way to decades-old decomposing layers of oak, sweet gum, and elm leaves, as the property line began sloping downward towards the creek. The shade from the hardwood canopy was a welcome reprieve from the relentless sun, which had scorched our necks and arms, on the Southern line. "Soggy my ass!", my brother muttered as an expansive swamp began coming into view ahead. The handiwork of a few industrious beavers coupled with heavy rains had backed up the creek and flooded the entire creek basin. The old fence went right through the middle of the swamp, and we both knew that veering off course was simply not an option. With little hesitation, we entered the swamp and continued tracking the fence line. After just a few steps the water was above our snake leguns and within fifty feet we were waist deep as we pushed forward. The water was dark and dank with a pungent stink of algae and rotting organic material. We pressed on, all the while stumbling against and stepping over underwater limbs and logs, which was extremely unsettling.

   At some point, while in waist-deep swamp sludge, we lost the submerged fence line, however, we managed to spot a massive Sweet Gum tree, which we rightly concluded was the one close to the corner post. We reached the Sweet Gum, which was on higher ground, marked a few more trees, then turned ninety degrees and headed East, which continued right back through the middle of the swamp. After only a few steps, the spongy ground dropped off several feet and we waded forward with tools and paint held high. In no time, we were all the way up to our necks and although neither of us said a word, we both realized that an unpleasant encounter with an alligator or a snake could dramatically change the outcome of the day.  My heart was racing, as I closely scanned the thick water for the slightest ripple. I held the bark scraper high and on the ready, in the event, it had to be used to ward off some savage swamp creature. The situation was dicey now, but there was no way either of us was going to turn back and face Uncle Willis and report that the job was unfinished. After about the length of two football fields, we could finally see dry land and soon the ground slowly sloped upward, as we made our way toward the edge of the swamp. The nasty sludge had cooled us off a bit, but now our soaked jeans and boots were heavy, and we still had a good bit of ground to cover before we met up for lunch.  We stood there for a few minutes and caught our breath and sighed heavily, as water poured and dripped off of us. The swamp was rough, it had been scary, but it was behind us now.

    My focus returned to my two teenage sons, who were still standing there looking at me and politely listening to me ramble on and on about when I was a kid. They stood their dressed and ready to walk out the door to go to work, where they served as lifeguards at a community swimming pool. Side by side they stood, just like my brother and I had done so many years ago. They had cell phones, Gatorade, sunscreen, lunch, and a few books and no, they weren't covered in nasty swamp water. I teetered on the brink of extending my lecture when it hit me. I was neck deep and scared in nasty swamp water and now they carefully watch over clean water to make sure everyone is safe and having fun. More importantly, they work together, play together, and get along with each other quite well. They're definitely better off than I was, in many ways, and that's been the plan for years. I thought to myself, "Shut up Greg, shake their hands, and wish them well, as they head out the door." Their challenges in life, their swamps, will be difficult, but vastly different from the ones I encountered. One thing I know is that they will encounter swamps. Like every parent that cares, my hope is that when each of my kids finds themselves deep in the woods neck-deep in a swamp that they will face it, learn from it, and keep pressing forward to boldly face.... the next swamp that life has in store for them.